THE FINAL BLOW.
What does it matter what a mother says? especially when she is a
powdered and pomaded woman like Mrs. Sam Crockford, altogether unable to
comprehend, much less interpret, the fair and brilliant creature who is
her daughter. How strange that anything so sweet and delightful as Emmy
should come from such a woman--one from whom the heart recoiled, who was
offensive to every sense, with those white, unwholesome, greasy hands,
the powder, the scent, the masses of false hair, the still falser and
more dreadful smile. Walter said to himself as he left her with that
nausea which always overwhelmed him at the sight of her, that he would
not take what she said as having anything to do with Emmy. No; her
existence was a sort of an offense to Emmy; it might, if that were
possible, throw a cloud over her perfection, it might make a superficial
admirer pause to think, could she ever in her young beauty come to be
like that? A superficial admirer, Walter said to himself--not, of
course, a true lover such as he was, to whom the suggestion was odious
and abominable. Like that! oh, never, never! for Emmy had soul, she had
heart in her loveliness; never could the actress have resembled her,
never could she resemble the actress. He wondered if that woman could be
her mother. Such people stole children, they got hold of them in strange
ways. Emmy might have been taken in her childhood from some poor mother
of a very different kind. She might have strayed away from her home and
been found by vagrants: anything rather than believe that she was that
woman’s daughter, who, to crown all her artificialities, was mercenary
too. Or even if it might really be so, what did it matter? is there not
often no resemblance between the mother and the child, the mother
elderly, faded, meretricious, trying hard to keep up an antiquated
display of dreadful charms, seductions that filled the mind with
loathing; the daughter, oh, so different, so young and fresh, so full of
youth and sweetness and everything that is delightful, everything that
is most fascinating. When he thought of Emmy the young man’s heart,
which had been so outraged, grew soft again. If it came to a decision,
how very different would Emmy’s deliverance be. Yet Emmy had discouraged
him too, she had thought of secondary things. She had been sorry that he
should lose anything for her sake, he who was so ready to lose all. She
had even scoffed a little sweetly at his fortune, the ten thousand
pounds, which would not, she declared, be more than four hundred a year.
Four hundred a year would be plenty, Walter thought; they could live
somewhere quietly in the depths of the country enjoying each other’s
society, desiring nothing else to make them happy. Would Emmy care for
that? she who so loved London. A number of people loved London so, did
not know what to do out of it, people who were the very best, the most
highly endowed of all, poets, philosophers--it was no reproach to her
that she should be among that number. He was not one of them himself,
but then he was, he knew, a dull fellow, a rustic. Poor Walter went
about the streets all day thinking these thoughts. He knew he was not so
clever as she was; but yet they had always understood each other: not
like that dreadful woman whom nothing could make him understand. He
would not accept her decision whatever she said--he would not believe
her even--probably what she had said about his father was untrue; how
should his father have got there? No, no, it was not true, any more than
it was true that Emmy had permitted her mother to interfere. There was
some one else whom the old woman preferred, he said, miserably, to
himself, and that was the entire cause of it, not that Emmy meant to
cast him off--oh no, no!
But it was two or three days after this before he succeeded in seeing
her. Either there was a conspiracy on her mother’s part, into which she,
guileless, fell, or else the mother had acquired an ascendency over her,
and was able to curb the natural instincts, to restrain the sweeter
impulses of her daughter. That it could be Emmy’s fault he would not
allow. He haunted the place morning and evening, and on Saturday
afternoon, which had been his moment of bliss. It was on that day that
he met her at last. He met her hurrying out, dressed as she usually was
when he was allowed to take her to the country or to make some
expedition with her. She had just stopped to call out something before
closing the door, about the hour of her return--he thought he heard her
say nine o’clock, and it was little past noon. She was going somewhere,
then, but not with him. He turned after her as she went lightly along,
with the easy skimming step which he had so often compared to every
poetic movement under heaven. It filled him with despair to see it now,
and to feel that she was going along like this, upon some other
expedition, not in his company, though she must know to what darkness of
despondence and solitude she was leaving him. “Emmy,” he cried, hurrying
after her. He thought she started a little, but only quickened her pace.
She was not, however, to escape him so--that was a vain expectation on
her part. He quickened his pace too, and came up to her, close to her,
and caught at her elbow in his eagerness and impatience. She turned
round upon him with a face very unlike that which had so often smiled
upon the foolish boy. She plucked her arm away from his touch. “Oh,” she
said, with a tone of annoyance, “you here!”
“Where should I be, Emmy, but where you are? You were going to send for
me, to meet me--”
She looked at him with impatience. “No,” she said, “I wasn’t going to do
anything of the kind; I have got something very different to do.”
“I have always been ready to do whatever you wanted,” he said, “to go
where you pleased, and you know this has been my reward--this Saturday
afternoon, after waiting, waiting, day by day--”
“Who wanted you to wait? Mr. Penton, that was your doing. You must
understand that I’m not going to be made a slave to you.”
“A slave,” cried the poor boy, “to me!”
“Well, what is it better? I can’t move a step but you are at my heels.
What I’ve always held by is doing what I like and going where I like. I
never could put up with bondage and propriety like some people; but you
dog my steps, you watch everything I do--”
“Emmy!”
“Well, is that all you have to say? Emmy! yes, that’s my name; but you
can’t crush me by saying ‘Emmy!’ to me,” she said, with a little
breathless gasp, as of one who had seized the opportunity to work
herself up into a fit of calculated impatience. She stopped here,
perhaps moved by his pale face, and ended by a little laugh of ridicule.
“Well, that’s natural enough, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what is natural,” he said. “I have thrown off all that.
Emmy, are you going to abandon me after all?”
“After all!--after what? I suppose you mean after all the great things
you’ve done for me? What has it been, Mr. Penton? You’ve followed me
here, you’ve watched me that I couldn’t take a step, or speak a word.
No, I am not going with you any more. You must just make up your mind to
it, Mr. Walter Penton. I’ve got other things in hand. I’ve
other--I’ve--well, let us be vulgar,” she cried, with a wild little
laugh, “I’ve got other fish to fry.”
The poor young fellow kept his eyes fixed upon her--eyes large with
dismay and trouble.
“You are not going with me anymore! You can’t mean it!--you don’t mean
it, Emmy!”
“But I do. It’s been all nonsense and romance and folly. I didn’t mind
just for amusement. But do you think I am going to let you, with next to
nothing, and expectations--expectations! what could your expectations
be?--your father may live for a century! Do you think I’m going to let
you stand in my way, and keep me from what’s better? No--and no again
and again. I mean nothing of the sort. I mean what’s best for myself. I
am not going with you any more.”
“Not going with me!” he said, in a voice of misery: “then what is to
become of me?--what am I to do?”
“Oh, you’ll do a hundred things,” she said, tapping him on the arm; “go
home, for one thing, and make your peace. It’s far better for you. It’s
been folly for you as well as me. Go and take care of your ten thousand
pounds. Ten thousand pounds! What do you think of as much as that a
year? Take care of it, and you’ll get a nice little income out of it,
just enough for a young man about town. And don’t be tyrannized over by
your people, and don’t let any one say a word about marrying. You’re too
young to be married. I’m your only real friend, Walter. Yes, I am. I
tell you, don’t think of marrying--why should you marry?--but just have
your fling and get a little fun while you can. That’s my last advice to
you.”
He walked on with her mechanically, not able to speak, until she got
impatient of the silent figure stalking by her side, struck dumb with
youthful passion and misery.
She stopped suddenly and confronted him with hasty determination.
“You’re not,” she said, “coming another step with me!”
“Where am I to go? what am I to do: I have lived,” he cried, “only for
you!”
“Then it’s time to stop that!” she said. “Go away--go clean away; it
will--it will damage me if you’re seen with me! Now there, that’s the
truth! I was so silly as to allow it for your sake before, now I’ve
learned better. Mr. Penton, it will be harming me if you come another
step. Now, do you understand?”
Did he understand? He stopped, and gazed at her with his blank face. “It
will be harming you! But you belong to me, you are going to be my wife!”
“No, no, no!” she cried; “that is all folly: I never meant it. Good-bye,
and for Heaven’s sake go away, go away!”
She gave an alarmed glance round toward the end of the street. It seemed
to Walter that he too saw something vaguely--a tali spidery outline, a
high phaeton, or something of the sort. She broke into a little run
suddenly, waving her hand to him. “Good-bye!” she cried; “good-bye; go
away!” and left him standing stupefied with wonder, with incredulous
conviction, if such words can be put together. He felt in the depths of
his heart that she had abandoned him, but he could not believe it. No,
he could not believe it, though he knew it was true. A sort of instinct
of chivalry lingered in the poor lad’s heart, wrung and bleeding as it
was. He could not harm her, he could not spy on her, he could not
interfere with her will, whatever she might do to him. He turned his
back upon the spidery tall phaeton. If that was the thing that was to
carry her away from him he would not spy, he would not put himself in
her way. So long as she did what she liked best! He turned with his
heart bleeding, yet half stupefied with trouble, and walked away.
Poor Walter walked and walked all the rest of the afternoon; he did not
know where he went or how, his mind was stupid with suffering. And then
came Sunday, when without her the blank was more complete than on any
other day. He had not the heart even to seek another interview. On
Sunday afternoon he went past the house, and the high phaeton stood at
the door. What more could be said? And yet another day or two passed, he
did not know how many, before Mab stopped the little brougham in which
she was driving and called to him in the street as he went mooning along
with his head down in dull and helpless despondency.
“Mr. Penton! Mr. Penton!” The little soft voice calling him roused
Walter from the stupor of his despair. He knew nobody in town. It was a
wonder to him that any one should know him--should take the trouble to
call him. And then Mab’s little fresh face stabbed him with innocent
cheerful looks. He was not learned enough to know that these innocent
looks knew a great deal, and suspected much more harm than existed, in
their precocious society knowledge.
Mab was bent upon doing what she could to bring him back, and she fully
realized all the difficulty; but she looked like a child delighted to
see her country acquaintance.
“And oh, how is Lady Penton?” she cried.
“My mother?” gasped Walter, taken altogether by surprise.
Then Mab told him that little story about Lady Penton’s health. “She
will of course make light of it when she writes,” said the artful little
girl. “But oh, she looks so ill and so pale!” (So she does, the little
romancer said to herself in her heart; it is quite, quite true!) “Oh,
Mr. Penton, do make her see the doctor! do make her take care of
herself! You could do it better than any one--because you know the
others don’t notice the great, great change; they see her every day.”
“I will!” cried poor Wat. “Thank you--thank you a thousand times for
telling me!”
It gave him a reason for going home, and he did so want a reason, poor
boy! His own wretchedness did not seem cause enough; and how was he ever
to be forgiven for what he had done? But his mother! He would not wait
to think, he would not let himself consider the matter. His mother! And
what if she should die! Death had never entered that happy house. It
seemed to him the most horrible of all possibilities. He did not even
pause to go back to his hotel. Oh, how glad he was of the compulsion,
to be thus sent home, to have a reason for going! He went flying,
without taking time for thought.
And when Lady Penton threw herself upon him, calling “Wat, WAT,” with
that great outcry, he forgot all about his wrong-doing and his need of
pardon. He caught her in his arms and cried, “Mother, are you
ill?--Mother, are you better?” as if there were no other trouble or
anxiety but this in the world.
“Oh, Wat! oh, Wat!” she cried, unable on her side to think of anything
but that he had come back and she had him in her arms again: and for a
minute or two no more was said. Then he led her tenderly back to a chair
and placed her in it, and knelt down beside her.
“Mother, you have been ill--”
“No; oh, no, my dear.” And then she remembered Mab’s little alarm (dear
little Mab! if it should be her doing). “At least,” she said, “my
dearest boy, there is nothing the matter with me that the sight of you
will not cure.”
“Oh, mother,” he cried, “that you should have to say that, that I should
have been the cause--”
“Hush, hush,” she said, pressing him to her; “it is all over, Wat, my
own boy. You have come home.”
She asked him no questions, she did not even say that he was forgiven:
and the youth’s heart swelled high. “I think I have been mad,” he said.
But she only replied, kissing him, “My own boy, you have come home.” And
what more was there to be said.
This transport all passed in the dark, with no light in the room except
the paleness of twilight in the windows, the dull glow from the fire,
which was an ease and softening to the meeting. And then with the
lighting of the cheerful lamps the knowledge spread through the
house--Wat has come home.
“Already!” cried Ally, with a flush of radiant joy that was more than
for her brother.
“Already,” Sir Edward said, with a frown that belied the sudden ease of
his heart. To say what that relief was is beyond the power of words. The
dark book-room, where he sat with his head in his hands and all the
world dark round him, suddenly became light. A load was lifted from his
shoulders and from his soul; his mind was freed as from chains. But
after that first blessed release and relief a sensation of humiliation,
almost of resentment, came into his mind. “Already,” he said. He had
tramped about London for days and days and found nothing. Rochford had
gone and seen and overcome the same day.
“Edward,” said Lady Penton, who, though so still, so tremulous after the
prodigal’s return, had yet felt the other anxiety spring up as soon as
the first was laid, “I am sorry for Mr. Rochford. I fear he was making
this the foundation for a great many hopes. He expected to find Walter
and bring him home, and thus gain our favor for--something else.”
“Well,” said Sir Edward with his frown, “it is astonishing to me how
he’s done it. It looks like collusion. I suppose it’s only a piece of
luck, a great piece of luck.”
“He has not done it at all,” said Lady Penton, “Wat has not so much as
seen him. He has had nothing to do with it at all.”
The cloud rolled off Sir Edward’s brow: he gave expression to the
delightful relief of his mind in a low laugh.
“I thought,” he said, “nothing would come of it, he was so cock-sure. I
thought from the first nothing would come of it: but of course you were
all a great deal wiser than I. So he came home of himself when he was
tired? Let me see the boy.”