ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WALL.
Old Mr. Sommerville got out of his little brougham at Mrs. Meredith’s
door. He was a wealthy old man, of whom nobody knew very much, except
that he had made his money in India, and that he lived in cosy bachelor
chambers, with everything extremely comfortable about him, and knew
everybody, and was fond of good things, the pleasures of the table, as
old-fashioned people said, and indeed all other pleasures within the
reach of a respectable old person of sixty-five. He kept a neat little
brougham, and occasionally mounted a strong, steady cob, with a coat
like satin, looking much better fed than his master did, who was always
a meagre old gentleman, notwithstanding his good living. Mr.
Sommerville was the confidential friend of the absent Mr. Meredith, whom
nobody, not even his own children, knew. As he had advanced in
prosperity, it was through old Sommerville’s hands that his family were
allowed to share the advantage of his increasing income, and the boys
had learned to know that it was he who reported concerning them to their
father, and received communications from their tutors. The unknown Mr.
Meredith did nothing to discredit his wife; but he kept this constant
check over her. It had often been galling enough to her; but she was a
sweet-tempered woman, used to accepting the evil with the good, and she
had wisely put up with the curb. She disarmed Mr. Sommerville by her
gentleness and sweetness, by throwing her house open to him, and
inviting the scrutiny which she might have defied, had she been of a
different disposition. Sommerville had not been unworthy of the
confidence placed in him. He had kept up a certain appearance of
investigation. All their lives long the boys had been accustomed to
connect his appearance with a lecture of more than usual seriousness
from their mother; but she had the good sense never to say anything to
connect the old man’s name with the reprimand or warning. All that she
said was, ‘Your father will not like to hear that you are idle,
disobedient, unruly,’ as the case might be; therefore, it was not from
her they learned that Sommerville meant special scrutiny and
fault-finding. But since they had been grown up, Oswald and Edward had
themselves supplied the thread of connection. Even this, however, had
not made them dislike their old friend. At one moment of especial
wickedness Oswald, indeed, had designated their father’s deputy as the
Spy; but this was simply a spark of malicious boyhood, struck out in a
moment of resentment, and did not permanently affect their minds, though
the title lasted. The Spy was, on the whole, friendly and
indulgent--sometimes even he got them out of small scrapes, and it was
he who persuaded the mother that furtive cigars and other precocious
masculinities were not criminal. So that altogether, notwithstanding his
ominous name, he was not unpopular in the house. It was but lately that
he had taken to coming to those almost daily receptions, which was so
principal a feature in Mrs. Meredith’s existence. There he would sit and
watch her proceedings, her sympathetic talks, the audiences she gave,
and all the little acts of adoration performed before her, with not
unkindly eyes. She was a kind of gentle impostor, a natural humbug, to
old Sommerville; but he laughed softly to himself as he thus
characterised her, and did not like her less. Never, during all these
years, amid all this popularity, had she given him occasion for a word
of serious warning. Amid all the admiration and semi-worship she had
received, the kind but watchful Spy had found no harm in her; but now,
at last, here was something which called for his interference. To see
him arrive at that hour in the morning was alarming in itself to Mrs.
Meredith. She met him with her usual kind smile, but with an earnest
look of inquiry.
‘Is anything the matter?’ she said.
‘Send the boy away,’ said Mr. Sommerville, in an undertone.
It was Edward who was in the room, and his mother found a commission for
him with tremulous haste; for the distant Meredith was not always
reasonable in his requirements, and of late had written impatiently
about the coming out of one of his sons--a calamity which their mother
with all her might was endeavouring to stave off and postpone. She
thought her husband’s friend must bring still more urgent orders, and
her heart began to beat.
‘I wish you would go and tell Cara that I hope she will come to the
Sympsons with me this afternoon, Edward,’ she said.
And Edward, full of the thought of his brother’s happiness, and loth yet
eager to see if Cara was happy in this new development of affairs,
obeyed reluctantly, but still with a secret alacrity. She was left alone
with the mentor, who had so often brought her advice or semi-reproof.
‘You have something to tell me? Oh, Mr. Sommerville, what is it?’ she
cried.
‘It is nothing very bad. You must not be alarmed--there is no ill news,’
he said.
The anxious mother looked at him with a wistful entreaty in her eyes.
Ill news was not what she feared. When a woman has had neither
companionship nor help from her husband for a dozen years or so,
naturally her sensitiveness of anxiety about him gets modified, and it
is to be feared that she would have taken information of Mr. Meredith’s
serious illness, for instance, more easily than the summons which she
feared for one of her boys. She watched every movement of her visitor’s
face with anxious interest.
‘Edward cannot go till the settled time. You know that,’ she said,
instinctively following the leading of her own thoughts.
‘It is not Edward that I have come to speak of; it is neither of the
boys.’
‘Ah!’ said Mrs. Meredith, with a sigh of involuntary relief; and she
turned to him with cheerful ease and interest, delivered from her chief
fear. This evident ignorance of any other cause for animadversion moved
the old Spy in spite of himself.
‘What I am going to say to you, my dear lady, is not exactly from
Meredith--though he has heard of the subject, and wishes me to say
something. I hope you will believe there is no harm meant, and that what
I do, I do from the best feeling.’
‘I have never doubted your kind feeling, Mr. Sommerville; but you half
frighten me,’ she said, with a smile. ‘If it is not the boys, what can
there be to be so grave about? Tell me quickly, please.’
Mr. Sommerville cleared his throat. He put his hat upon the head of his
cane, and twirled it about. It did not often happen to the old Scotch
nabob to be embarrassed; but he was so now.
‘You’ll understand, my dear lady, that in what I say I’m solely actuated
by the thought of your good.’
‘How you alarm me!’ said Mrs. Meredith. ‘It is something, then, very
disagreeable?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve no doubt it will be disagreeable. Medicines are seldom
sweet to the palate. Mrs. Meredith, I will out with it at once, not to
keep you in suspense.’
Here, however, he paused to take out his handkerchief, and blew his nose
with a very resounding utterance. After he had finished this operation
he resumed:
‘I don’t presume to teach a lady of your sense what is her duty; and I
don’t need to tell you that the world exercises a great supervision over
women who, from whatever cause, are left alone.’
‘What have I done?’ cried Mrs. Meredith, half frightened, half laughing.
‘I must have made some mistake, or you would not speak so.’
‘I doubt if it could be called a mistake; perhaps it would be better to
say a misapprehension. Mrs. Meredith, there is one of your friends who
pays you a visit every day.’
‘Several,’ she said, relieved. ‘You know how kind people are to me.
Instead of supervision, as you say, I get a great deal of sympathy----’
Mr. Sommerville waved his hand, as if to ward off her explanation. ‘I am
speaking of one person,’ he said: ‘a man--who is here every evening of
his life, or I’m mistaken--your neighbour, Mr. Beresford, next door.’
‘Mr. Beresford!’ she said, with a thrill of disagreeable surprise; and
there came to her instantaneously one of those sudden realisations of
things that might be thought or said, such as sometimes overwhelm the
unsuspecting soul at the most inappropriate moment; her colour rose in
spite of herself.
‘Just Mr. Beresford. He means no harm and you mean no harm; but he
should be put a stop to, my dear lady. You gave me your word you would
not be angry. But, madam, you’re a married lady, and your husband is at
a distance. It’s not for your credit or his good that he should visit
you every night.’
‘Mr. Sommerville! stop, please! I cannot let you talk so--or anyone.’
‘But you must, my dear lady, unless you want everybody to talk, and in a
very different spirit. The world is a wicked world, and takes many
things into its head. You’re a very attractive woman still, though
you’re no longer in your first youth----’
‘Mr. Sommerville, what you say is very disagreeable to me,’ said Mrs.
Meredith, offended. ‘Poor Mr. Beresford! since he lost his wife he has
been miserable. Nobody ever mourned more truly; and now, when he is
trying to learn a little resignation, a little patience----’
‘He should not learn those virtues, madam, at your expense.’
‘At my expense!’ she said, with sparkling eyes; ‘at what expense to me?
I allow him to come and sit with me when he has no one at home to bear
him company. I allow him----’
‘I thought his daughter had come to keep him company.’
‘Poor Cara! she is a sweet child; but, at seventeen, what can she know
of his troubles?’
‘Softly, softly,’ said Mr. Sommerville; ‘one plea is enough at a time.
If Mr. Beresford is without a companion, it does not matter that his
daughter is only seventeen; and whatever her age may be, if she is there
he cannot be without companionship. My dear lady, be reasonable. If he
has a child grown up, or nearly so, he should stay at home. A great many
of us have not even that inducement,’ said the old man, who was an old
bachelor; ‘but no kind lady opens her doors to us.’ He looked at her
sharply with his keen eyes; and she felt, with intense annoyance, that
she was getting agitated and excited in spite of herself.
‘Mr. Sommerville,’ she said, with some dignity, ‘if anyone has been
misrepresenting my friendship for Mr. Beresford, I cannot help that. It
is wicked as well as unkind; for I think I have been of use to him. I
think I have helped him to see that he cannot abandon his life. I don’t
mean to defend myself. I have not done anything to be found fault with;
friendship----’
‘Is a delusion,’ said the old man. ‘Friendship between a man and a
woman! There is no sense in it. I don’t believe a word of it. Meaning no
harm to you, my dear lady. You don’t mean any harm; but if you talk to
me of friendship!’
‘Then I had better say nothing,’ she answered quickly. ‘My husband’s
representative--if you call yourself so--has no right to treat me with
rudeness. I have nothing more to say.’
‘My dear lady,’ said old Mr. Sommerville, ‘if I have appeared rude I am
unpardonable. But you’ll forgive me? I mean nothing but your good. And
all I want is a little prudence--the ordinary precautions.’
‘I will none of them!’ she said, with a flush of indignation. ‘I have
nothing to be afraid of, and I will not pretend to be prudent, as you
call it. Let the world think or say what it pleases--it is nothing to
me.’
Then there was a pause, and Mrs. Meredith betook herself to her work--a
woman’s safety-valve, and laboured as if for a wager, while the old
plenipotentiary sat opposite to her, confounded and abashed, as she
thought. But Mr. Sommerville was too old and experienced to be much
abashed by anything. He sat silent, collecting his forces for a renewed
attack. That was all. He had a sincere friendship for her in his way,
and was as anxious to prevent scandal as any father could have been;
and now it occurred to him that he had begun at the wrong end, as he
said. Women were kittle cattle. He had failed when he dwelt upon the
danger to herself. Perhaps he might succeed better if he represented the
danger to _him_.
‘I have made a mistake,’ said the hypocritical old man. ‘It can do no
harm to you, all that has come and gone. I was thinking of my own
selfish kind that give most weight to what affects themselves, and I am
rightly punished. A lady _sans reproche_ like yourself may well be _sans
peur_. But that is not the whole question, my dear madam. There is the
man to be considered.’
When he said this she raised her eyes, which had been fixed on her work,
and looked at him with some anxiety, which was so much gained.
‘You will not doubt my word when I say there’s a great difference
between men and women,’ said the old diplomatist. ‘What is innocent for
one is often very dangerous for the other, and _vice versâ_: you will
not deny that.’
Then he made a pause, and looking at her for reply, received a sign of
assent to his vague proposition, which indeed was safe enough.
‘How can you tell that Mr. Beresford receives as pure benevolence all
the kindness you show him? It is very unusual kindness. You are kind to
everybody, madam, above the ordinary level; and human creatures are
curious--they think it is their merit that makes you good to them, not
your own bounty.’
She did not make any reply, but continued to look at him. Her attention
at least was secured.
‘If I were to tell you the instances of this that have come under my own
observation! I have known a poor creature who got much kindness in a
house on account of his defects and deficiencies, and because everybody
was sorry for him; who gave it out, if you’ll believe me, and really
thought, that what his kind friends wanted was to marry him to the
daughter of the house! It’s not uncommon, and I dare say, without going
further, that you can remember things--which perhaps you have laughed
at----’
‘All this has nothing to do with Mr. Beresford,’ she said, quietly, but
with a flush of rising offence.
‘No, no.’ He made a hesitating answer and looked at her. Mrs. Meredith
fell into the snare.
‘If he has misunderstood my sympathy for his troubles, if he has
ventured to suppose----’
‘Cara has gone out with her aunt,’ said Edward, coming in hastily; ‘but
there is surely something wrong in the house. Mr. Beresford called me
into his room, looking very much distressed. He told me to tell you that
he thought of leaving home directly; then changed his mind, and said I
was not to tell you.’
‘Why _do_ you tell me then?’ cried his mother, with impatience. ‘What is
it to me where he is going? Am I always to be worried with other
people’s troubles? I think I have plenty of my own without that.’
Edward looked at her with great surprise. Such outbreaks of impatience
from his gentle mother were almost unknown to him. ‘He looks very ill,’
he said: ‘very much disturbed: something must have happened. Why should
not I tell you? Are you not interested in our old friend? Then something
very extraordinary _has_ happened, I suppose?’
‘Oh, my boy,’ cried Mrs. Meredith, in her excitement, ‘that is what Mr.
Sommerville has come about. He says poor James Beresford comes too often
here. He says I am too kind to him, and that people will talk, and he
himself thinks---- Ah!’ she cried suddenly, ‘what am I saying to the
boy?’
Edward went up to her hurriedly and put his arm round her, and thus
standing looked round defiant at the meddler. Oswald, too, entered the
room at this moment. The hour for luncheon approached, and naturally
called these young men, still in the first bloom of their fine natural
appetites, from all corners of the house. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.
But he had another verse of his poem in his head which he was in great
haste to write down, and he crossed over to the writing-table in the
back drawing-room, and did not wait for any reply. Edward, on the
contrary, put the white shield of his own youthfulness at once in front
of his mother, and indignant met the foe.
‘People have talked a long time, I suppose,’ said Edward, ‘that there
was nobody so kind as my mother; and I suppose because you have trained
us, mamma, we don’t understand what it means to be too kind. You do,
sir?’ cried the young man with generous impertinence; ‘you think it is
possible to be too innocent--too good?’
‘Yes, you young idiot!’ cried the old man, jumping up in a momentary
fury. Then he cooled down and reseated himself with a laugh. ‘There is
the bell for lunch,’ he said; ‘and I don’t mean to be cheated out of the
luncheon, which, of course, you will give me, by the freaks of these
puppies of yours, madam. But Oswald is a philosopher; he takes it easy,’
he added, looking keenly at the placid indifference of the elder son.
‘Oswald takes everything easy,’ said Mrs. Meredith, with a sigh. And
they went downstairs to luncheon, and no man could have been more
cheerful, more agreeable than the old Indian. He told them a hundred
stories, and paid Mrs. Meredith at least a score of compliments. ‘This
indulgence will put it out of my power to be at your levée this
afternoon,’ he said; ‘but there will be plenty of worshippers without
me. I think the neglected women in this town--and no doubt there’s
many--should bring a prosecution against ladies like you, Mrs. Meredith,
that charm more than your share; and both sexes alike, men and women. I
hear but one chorus, “There’s nobody so delightful as Mrs. Meredith,”
wherever I go.’
‘We are all proud of your approbation,’ said Oswald, with much
solemnity: he was always light-hearted, and had no desire to inquire
particularly into the commotion of which he had been a witness. But
Edward kept his eyes upon his mother, who was pale with the excitement
she had come through. What that excitement meant the young man had very
little idea. Something had disturbed her, which was enough for her son;
and, curiously enough, something had disturbed the neighbours too, whom
Edward accepted without criticism as we accept people whom we have known
all our lives. He was curious, and rather anxious, wondering what it
might be.
But as for Mrs. Meredith, the idea of communicating to her sons even the
suggestion that she could be spoken of with levity, or criticised as a
woman, appalled her when she thought of it. She had cried out, appealing
to the boys in her agitation, but the moment after felt that she could
bear anything rather than make them aware that anyone had ventured upon
a word to her on such subjects. She exerted herself to be as vivacious
as her visitor; and as vivacity was not in her way, the little forced
gaiety of her manner attracted the attention of her sons more than the
greatest seriousness would have done. Even Oswald was roused to observe
this curious change. ‘What has happened?’ he said to his brother. He
thought the Spy had been finding fault with the expenditure of the
household, and thought with alarm of his own bills, which had a way of
coming upon him as a surprise when he least expected them. It was almost
the only thing that could have roused him to interest, for Oswald felt
the things that affected Oswald to be of more importance than anything
else could be. As for Edward, he awaited somewhat tremulously the
disclosure which he expected after Mr. Sommerville’s departure. But Mrs.
Meredith avoided both of them in the commotion of her feelings. She shut
herself up in her own room to ponder the question, and, as was natural,
her proud impulse of resistance yielded to reflection. Her heart ached a
good deal for poor Beresford, a little for herself. She, too, would miss
something. Something would be gone out of her life which was good and
pleasant. Her heart gave a little sob, a sudden ache came into her
being. Was there harm in it? she asked herself, aghast. Altogether the
day was not a pleasant one for Mrs. Meredith. It seemed to plunge her
back into those agitations of youth from which surely middle age ought
to deliver a woman. It wronged her in her own eyes, making even her
generous temper a shame to her. Had she been too good: as he said--too
kind? an accusation which is hurtful, and means something like insult to
a woman, though to no other creature. Too kind! No expression of
contempt, no insinuated slander can be more stinging than this
imputation of having been too kind. Had she been too kind to her
sorrowful neighbour? had she led him to believe that her kindness was
something more than kindness? She, whose special distinction it was to
be kind, whose daily court was established on no other foundation, whose
kindness was the breath of her nostrils; was this quality, of which she
had come to be modestly conscious, and of which, perhaps, she was a
little proud, to be the instrument of her humiliation? She was not a
happy wife, nor indeed a wife at all, except in distant and not very
pleasant recollection, and in the fact that she had a watchful husband,
at the end of the world, keeping guard over her. Was it possible that
she had given occasion for his interference, laid herself open to his
scorn? It seemed to the poor woman as if heaven and earth had leagued
against her. Too kind; suspected by the jealous man who watched her,
despised by the ungrateful man by whom her tender generosity had been
misinterpreted! She sent down a message to Cara that she was not going
out. She sent word to her visitors that she had a headache. She saw
nobody all day long. Too kind! The accusation stung in the tenderest
point, and was more than she could bear.