POOR WALTER!
When Walter, in ungovernable excitement, trouble, and impatience, rushed
out of the house in the morning, leaving old Crockford to make he knew
not what revelations to his father, he had no idea either what he was
going to do, or how long it might be before he returned home. It might
have been that he was leaving the Hook--his birthplace, the only home he
had ever known--for years. He might never see all these familiar things
again--the pale river winding round the garden, the poplar-tree, thin
and naked, in the wind, the little multitude in the dining-room making a
hum and murmur of voices as he darted past. In his imagination he saw so
clearly that breakfast-table--his mother dividing to each of the
children their proper share, Ally and Anne, and little Molly, with her
spoon, making flourishes, and calling, “Fader, fader!” He saw them all
with the distinctness of inward vision as he darted away, though his
mind was full of another image. The pang with which, even in the heat
of his flight, he realized that he was going away, lay in the background
of his heart, as that picture was in the background of his imagination;
foremost was the idea of seeing _her_ at once, of telling her that all
was over here, and that he was ready to fly to the end of the world if
she would but come with him, and that all should be as she pleased. He
had forgotten the suggestion of last night about the oath which he would
have to take as to his age. Nothing was apparent to him except that his
secret was betrayed, that all was over, that _she_ alone remained to
him, and that nothing now stood between him and her. He rushed up the
hill to the cottage, feeling that reserves and concealments were no
longer necessary, that the moment of decision was come, and that there
must be no more delay. He would not wait any longer patrolling about the
house till she should see him from a window or hear his signal. He went
up to the cottage door and knocked loudly. He must see her, and that
without a moment’s delay.
It seemed to Walter that he stood a long time knocking at the cottage
door. He heard the sound of many goings and comings within, so that it
was not because they were absent that he was not admitted. At last the
door was opened suddenly by old Mrs. Crockford, who was deaf, and who
made no answer to his demand except by shaking her head and repeating
the quite unnecessary explanation that she was hard of hearing, backed
by many courtesies and inquiries for the family.
“My master’s out, Mr. Walter--Crockford’s not in, sir; he’s gone to
work, as he allays does. Shall I send him, sir, to the ’ouse when he
comes in to ’is dinner?” she said, with many bobs and hopes as how her
ladyship and all the family were well.
Whether this was all she knew, or whether the old woman was astute, and
brought her infirmity to the aid of her wits, he could not tell.
“I want to see your niece,” he said--“your niece--your niece Emmy: I
want to see Emmy,” without eliciting any further reply than, “My
master’s out, Mr. Walter, and I’m a little ’ard of ’earing, sir.”
He raised his voice so that _she_ must have heard him, and surely,
surely, in the condition in which things were, ought to have answered
him! But perhaps she was anxious to keep up appearances still. He said,
in his loudest voice, “I am leaving home; I must see her;” but even this
produced no response: and at last he was obliged to go away, feeling as
if all the machinery of life had come to a stand-still, and that nothing
remained for him to do. He had abandoned one existence, but the other
did not take him up. He roamed about, for he scarcely knew how long,
till the wintery sun was high in the sky, then came back, and, in the
audacity of despair--for so he felt it--knocked again, this time softly,
disguising his impatience, at the cottage door. He had acted wisely, it
appeared, for she herself opened to him this time, receding from the
door with a startled cry when she saw who it was. But this time he would
not be put off. He followed her into the little room in front, which was
a kind of parlor, adorned by the taste of Martha and her mother, cold,
with its little fire-place decked out in cut paper, and the blind drawn
down to protect it from the sun. He caught sight of a box, which seemed
to be half packed, and which she closed hastily and pushed away.
She turned upon him when he had followed inside this room, with an angry
aspect that made poor Walter tremble. “Why do you hunt me down like
this?” she cried; “couldn’t you see I didn’t want you when you came this
morning pushing your way into the house? Though it’s a cottage, still
it’s my castle if I want to be private here!”
“Emmy!” cried the youth, with the keenest pang of misery in his voice.
“Why do you call out my name like that? You objected to what I told you
last night. Go away now. I don’t want to have anything to say to a man
that objects to my plans as if I didn’t know what’s right and what’s
wrong!”
“I object to nothing,” said the boy. “You sent me away from you, you
gave me no time to think. And now my father knows everything, and I have
left home; I shall never go back any more.”
“Left home! And how does your father know everything? And what is there
to know?”
“Nothing!” cried Walter--“nothing, except that I am yours, heart and
soul--except that I desire nothing, think of nothing, but you. And they
had never heard of you before!”
She closed the door and pushed a chair toward him. “How did they know
about me?--what do they know now? Was it you that told them? And what do
they think?” she cried, with a slight breathlessness that told of
excitement.
Poor Walter was glad to sit down, he was faint and weary; that rush
out-of-doors into the frosty air without any breakfast, which had
affected the imaginations of his family so much, had told on him. He
felt that there was no strength in him, and that he was glad to rest.
“It was old Crockford who told them,” he said. “He came in upon me this
morning like a--like a wolf: and my father of course heard, and came to
see what it was.”
“Oh,” she said, in a tone of disappointment, not without contempt in it,
“so it was not you! I thought perhaps, being so overwhelmed by what I
said, you had gone right off and told your mother, as a good boy should.
So it was only old Crockford? and I gave you the credit! But I might
have known,” she added, with a laugh, “you had not the courage for
that!”
“Courage! I did not think of it,” he said. “It did not seem a thing to
tell them. How was I to do it? And Crockford came--I don’t know what
for--to forbid me the house.”
“No; but to drive me out of it!” she said, with a look which he did not
understand. “So you hadn’t the courage,” she said. “You have not much
courage, Mr. Walter Penton, to be such a fine young man. You come here
night after night, and you pretend to be fond of me. But when it comes
to the point you daren’t say to your father and mother straight out,
‘Here’s a girl I’m in love with, and I want to marry her. I’ll do it as
soon as I’m old enough, whether you like it or not; but if you were
nice, and paid a little attention to her, it would be better for us
all.’ That is what I should have said in your place. But you hadn’t the
heart, no more than you’d have had the heart to run a little risk about
your age and say you were six months older than you are. That’s like a
man! You expect a girl to run every risk, to trust herself to you and
her whole life; but to do anything that risks your own precious person,
oh, no! You have not the heart of a mouse; you have not the courage for
that!”
She spoke with so much vehemence, her eyes flashing, the color rising in
her cheeks, that Walter could not say a word in his defense--and,
besides, what was there to say? So far was he from having the courage
to broach the subject in his own person, that when it had been begun by
Crockford he had not been able to bear it, but had rushed away. He sat
silent while she thus burst forth upon him, gazing at her as she towered
over him in her indignation. He had seldom seen her in daylight, never
so close, and never in this state of animation and passion. His heart
was wrung, but his imagination was on fire. She was a sort of
warrior-maiden--a Britomart, a Clorinda. Her eyes blazed. Her lip, which
was so full of expression, quivered with energy. To think that any one
should dare to think her beneath them!--of a lower sphere!--which was
what he supposed his own family would do when they knew; whereas she was
a kind of goddess--a creature made of fire and flame. To brave his
father, with her standing by to back him; to deceive a registrar--about
a miserable matter of age--six months more or less--what did these
matter? What did anything matter in comparison with her?--in comparison
with pleasing her, with doing what she wished to be done? He was a
little afraid of her as she stood there, setting the very atmosphere on
fire. If she ever belonged to him, became his familiar in every act of
his life, might there not arise many moments in which he should be
afraid of what she might think or say? This thought penetrated him
underneath the fervor of admiration in his soul, but it did not daunt
him or make him pause.
He said, “It is true I did not tell my father first. It did not come
into my head. I can’t be sure now that it’s the thing to do. But when
Crockford said what he did I told him it was so. It is the first time,”
said Walter, with a little emotion, “that I ever set myself against my
father. It may come easier afterward, but it’s something to do it the
first time. Perhaps you’ve never done it, though you are braver than I.”
She laughed loudly with a contempt that hurt him.
“Never done it! Never done anything else, you mean! I never got on with
my mother since I was a baby; and father, I never had any--at least I
never saw him. Well! so you spoke up boldly, and said--what did you
say?”
“Oh, don’t bother me!” he cried. “How can I tell what I said? And now
I’ve come away. I have left home, Emmy. I am ready to go with you,
dear, anywhere--if you like, to the end of the world.”
“I’ve no wish for that,” she said, with a softer laugh. “I’m going to
London; that’s quite enough for me.”
“Well,” cried the lad, “I’ll go with you there; and all can be
settled--everything--as you will. It can be nothing wrong that is done
for you.”
“Oh, you’re thinking of the license again,” she said; “never mind that.
I’ve been thinking too; and you can’t have your money till you’re
twenty-one, don’t you know? Swearing will do you no good there--they
want certificates and all sorts of things. And of course you can’t go to
the end of the world, or even to London, without any money. So you must
just wait and see what happens. Perhaps something will take place before
then that will clear you altogether from me.”
He listened to the first part of this with mingled calm and alarm. To
wait these six months, could he have seen her every day, would not have
disturbed Walter much, notwithstanding the blaze of boyish passion which
had lighted up all the world to him. The idea of a new life, an entire
revolution of all the circumstances round him, and the tremendous
seriousness of marriage, had given him a thrill of almost alarm. It was
a plunge which he was ready to take, and yet which appalled him. And
when she said that he could not have his money till he was twenty-one, a
sensation half of annoyance, yet more than half of content, came over
his soul. He could bear it well enough if only he could see her every
day: but when she added that threat about the possibility of something
happening, Walter’s heart jumped up again in his breast.
“What can happen?” he said. “Dear, nothing shall happen. If you are
going to London I’ll go too--I must be near where you are--I’ve no home
to go back to. London will be the best; it’s like the deep sea,
everybody says. Nobody will find me there.”
“You must not be too sure of that. Sir Edward Penton’s son could be
found anywhere. They will put your arrival in the papers, don’t you
know? ‘At Mivart’s, Mr. Walter Penton, from the family seat.’” She broke
off with a laugh. Walter, gazing at her, was entirely unaware what she
meant. The fashionable intelligence of the newspapers, though his mother
might possibly give an eye to it, was a blank to him; and when she met
his serious impassioned look, the girl herself was affected by it. It
was so completely sincere and true that her trifling nature was
impressed in spite of everything. She despised him in many ways, though
she was not without a certain liking for him. She was contemptuous of
his ignorance, of the self-abandonment which made him ready to follow
her wherever she went, even of his passion for herself. Emmy was very
philosophical, nay, a little cynical in her views. She was ready to say
and believe that there were many prettier girls than herself within
Walter’s reach, and the idea that he cared for anything but her
prettiness did not occur to this frank young woman. But the look of
absolute sincerity in the poor boy’s eyes touched her in spite of
herself. She put her hands on his shoulders with a momentary mute
caress, which meant sudden appreciation, sudden admiration, like that
with which an elder sister might have regarded the generous impulse of a
boy: then withdrew laughing from the closer approach which Walter,
blushing to his hair, and springing to his feet, ventured upon in
response. “No, no,” she cried, “run away now. You can come back later;
I’m very busy, I’ve got my packing to look after, and a hundred things
to do--there’s a dear boy, run away now.”
“I am not a boy, at least not to you,” he cried, “not to you; you must
not send me away.”
“But I must, and I do. How can I get my things ready with you hanging
about? Run away, run away, do; and you can come back later, after it’s
dark--not till after it’s dark. And then--and then--” she said.
He obeyed her after awhile, moved by the vague beatitude of that
anticipation. “And then--” Nothing but the highest honor and tenderness
was in the young man’s thoughts. He did not know indeed what to do when
he should reach London with that companion, where he could take her, how
arrange matters for her perfect security and welfare until the moment
when he should be able to make her his wife. But somehow, either by her
superior knowledge, or by that unfailing force of pure and honest
purpose which Walter felt must always find the right way, this should be
done. He went away from her cheered and inspired. But when he had got
out of sight of the cottage he was not clear what to do for the long
interval that must elapse; home he could not go--where should he go? He
thought over the question with the icy blast in his face as he turned
toward the east. And then he came to a sudden resolution, not indeed
consciously inspired by Emmy, but which came from her practical impulse.
In another mood, at another stage, her suggestion about his money might
have shocked and startled him. It seemed now only a proof of her
superior wisdom and good sense, the perfection of mind which he felt to
be in her as well as the sweetness of manner and speech, the feeling,
the sentiment, all the fine qualities for which he gave her credit, and
for which he adored her, not only for the beauty in which alone she
believed. And if he was about to do this bold and splendid thing, to
carry off the woman he loved, and marry her by whatever means--and are
not all means sanctified by love?--surely, certainly, whatever else
might be necessary, he would want money. Having made up his mind on this
point, Walter buttoned his coat, and set off for Reading like an arrow
from a bow. There he managed to dine with great appetite, which would
have been a comfort to his mother had she known it, and had an interview
with Mr. Rochford, the solicitor, on the subject of the money which had
been left to him (as he preferred to think) by old Sir Walter, the
result of which was that he got with much ease a sum of fifty pounds (to
Walter a fortune in itself), with which in his pocket he walked back
with a tremendous sense of guilty elation, excitement, and trouble. He
lingered on the road until after dark, as she had said, until, as he
remembered so acutely, the hour of the evening meal at home, when the
family would be all gathering, and every one asking, Where is Wat? He
had rebelled before against the coercion of that family meal. This time
it drew him with a kind of lingering desire which he resisted, he who
before had half despised himself for obeying the habit and necessity of
it. He went to his old post under the hedge, not knowing whether Emmy
wished her departure with him to be known. For himself he did not care.
If everybody he knew were to appear, father and mother, and all the
authorities to whom he had ever been subject, he would have taken her
hand and led her away before their faces. So he said to himself as he
waited in the cold, half indignant, at that wonderful moment of his
fate, that any concealment should be necessary. The cottage was all
dark; there was not even a light in the upper window, such as was
sometimes there, to make him aware that she looked for him. Not a
glimmer of light and not a sound. The cottage seemed like a place of the
dead. It seemed to him so much more silent than usual that he took
fright after awhile, and this, in addition to his feeling that the time
for secrecy was over, emboldened him in his impatience. He went up to
the cottage door and knocked repeatedly more and more loudly after
awhile, with a sensation of alarm. Was it possible that old deaf Mrs.
Crockford was alone in the house? He had time to get into a perfect
fever of apprehension before he heard a heavy step coming from behind,
and the door was opened to him by Crockford himself, who filled up the
whole of the little passage. The old man had a candle in his hand.
“What, is it you, Mr. Walter?” he cried, astonished. “Where is she?”
said Walter. “What have you done with her? Will you tell her I am here?”
He could not speak of her familiarly by her name to this man. But
Crockford had no such delicacy; he stared Walter in the face, looking at
him across the flame of the candle, which waved and flickered in the
night air.
“Emmy!” he said. “Why, Mr. Walter, she’s gone hours ago!”
“Gone! Where has she gone? You’ve driven her away. Some one has been
here and driven her away!”
“Ay, Mr. Walter! The fly at the Penton Arms as she ordered herself to
catch the two o’clock train; that’s what drove her away, and thankful we
was to be quit of her; and so should you be, my young gentleman, if you
was wise. She’s a little--”
“Hold your tongue!” cried Walter. “Who has driven her away? Is it my
father?--is it--Some one has been here to interfere. Silence! If you
were not an old man I’d knock you down.”
“Silence, and asking me a dozen questions? That’s consistent, that is!
There’s been nobody here--not a soul. She’s gone as she intended. She
told my old woman as soon as she heard I’d been down at the house. I
didn’t believe her, but she’s kept her word. All the better for you, Mr.
Walter, if you only could see it; all the better, sir. She’s not the
same as you think. She’s--”
“Silence!” cried Walter again. “I don’t believe she has gone away at
all; you are making up a story; you are trying to deceive me!”
At this old Crockford opened the door wider and bid him enter, and
Walter, with eyes which were hot and painful, as if the blood had got
into them, stared in, not knowing what he did. He had no desire to
investigate. He knew well enough that it was true. She had sent him out
of the way and then she had gone. She had not thought him worth the
trouble. She had wanted to get rid of him. This sudden blow awoke no
angry flush of pride, as it ought to have done. He felt no blame of her
in his mind; instead, he asked himself what he had done to disgust her
with him. It must be something he had done. He had disgusted her with
his folly--with his hesitation about transgressing any puritanical
habits of thought for her sake: and then by his talk about his home. He
remembered her flash of disappointment, of contempt, when he had owned
that it was not he who had told his father. Of course she had despised
him, how could he think otherwise? She was ready to trust herself to
him, and he had not been strong enough to make the least sacrifice for
her. He turned and went away from Crockford’s door without a word.
And after that he did not know very well how he got through the weary
hours. He walked to the railway station and prowled all about with a
forlorn sort of hope that she might have missed her train. And then
quite suddenly it occurred to him, having nothing else to do, that he
might go home. He went, as has been seen, to his room in the dark, and
sent his mother away with an entreaty to be left alone. He was not
touched by his mother’s voice, or her touch or blessing. He was
impatient of them, his mind being full of other things. His mind,
indeed, was full of Emmy--full to bursting. It might be well for him
that she was gone, if he could have thought so. He half agreed to that
in his soul. But he would not think so. Had he carried her off
triumphantly his mind would have been full of a hundred tremors, but to
lose her now was more than he could bear. He lay thinking it all over,
longing for the morning, in the dark, without candle or any other
comfort, sleeping now and then, waking only to a keener consciousness.
And then he became aware by some change in the chill, for there was none
in the light, that it was morning. He got up in the dark--he had not
undressed, but had been lying on the bed with the coverlet drawn over
him in his morning clothes. It was very cold and blank, the skies all
gloom, the river showing one pale gleam and no more. He got up as
quietly as he could and stole down-stairs and opened stealthily the
house door. No one was stirring, not even the servants, though in so
full a house they were always early. The fresh morning air blew in his
face and refreshed him. He felt his fifty pounds in his pocket. He
scarcely thought of the misery he would leave behind him. Long enough,
he said to himself, he had been bound by the family, now his own life
was in question, and he must act for himself. There was a train at half
past six which he could just catch. How different it was from his night
drive so short a time ago! Then he was acting reluctantly for others,
now willingly for himself. The cold air blew in his face with a dash of
rain in it. He shut the gate quietly not to make a noise, but never
looked back.