Kingcote’s abode was in one of the principal streets of Norwich.
The shop was narrow but ran back some distance, and above it were
two storeys for dwelling; to reach the house door you went up a yard,
beneath an archway, the side entrance to a respectable public-house
being opposite. The name of Gabriel had been left undisturbed along the
top of the shopfront; above it, in fresh gilt letters, was the name of
the present tradesman; a small “late” connected the two.
In the rear of the shop, a small dark room, with windows of which
the lower half was in ground glass, served during the day-time as
counting-house; after business hours it became the private sitting-room
of Mr. Billimore. It was to Mr. Billimore that Gabriel referred, when he
spoke in terms of confidence of the assistant who had so long been his
father’s right-hand man. He was middle-aged, rather above six feet in
stature, and entirely bald; not a hair remained upon his head. He had,
however, a thin moustache, reddish mixed with gray, and a goat-beard
beneath his chin; the chin itself, for some strange reason, he carefully
shaved. His cheeks were marked with healthful ruddiness, and he had
eyes which twinkled with a pleasant and kindly humour. When he met
a customer, he stood with bowed head, performing the action of
hand-washing; when discussing a matter with his employer, he invariably
took his handkerchief from the breast-pocket of his coat, and polished
his head with it, as if the act implied a seemly combination of
self-respect and deference. Never was a worthier assistant, never a more
capable. His knowledge of the outsides of books was considerable; his
acquaintance with them as literature was such as might be gained by
a complete perusal each Sunday morning of _The Athenoum_. In the
pleasantest manner possible, he set to work from the first day to
instruct Kingcote in the details of shopkeeping; without a smile of
presumption he answered questions which Kingcote himself put with a
half-ashamed laugh; his seriousness and honesty were beyond suspicion.
Mr. Billimore had a bedroom at the top of the house; breakfast, mid-day
dinner, and tea, he took with the family; his supper, consisting of
bread and cheese and a pint of beer, was, in accordance with immemorial
usage, laid for him in the counting-house at nine o’clock. Kingcote
wondered much what his assistant did with himself during his free
hours, for no acquaintance ever came to see him, and his excursions were
limited to a walk before breakfast on Sunday morning, and another
after supper on the same day. If Kingcote went by chance through the
counting-house after the shop was closed, he found Mr. Billimore sitting
with a glass of beer at his elbow, a churchwarden pipe between his
lips, either musing or reading some periodical. The pipe and glass were
invariable; the assistant had the habit at Sunday dinner of pouring out
his second tumbler of ale just before the meal ended, and carrying it
with him into his own quarters, that the afternoon tobacco might not be
unmoistened. That he suffered no ennui was demonstrable, for it was no
uncommon thing to hear him laughing by himself, a remarkable laugh, half
a crow and half a scream. When Kingcote heard the sound for the first
time, he had apprehensions that Mr. Billimore was unwell; discovering
the truth, he was annoyed by the thought that it was himself and his
inaptitude that occasioned the assistant’s mirth. This, however, he
was soon convinced was equally a mistake, and he and Mary derived not
a little amusement from these grotesque outbursts of solitary
mirth; occasionally they could hear them even when seated in their
drawing-room, which was immediately above the shop. It only remained
to suppose that Mr. Billimore was a philosopher of the school of
Democritus, a conclusion not perhaps wide of the mark.
By the end of his first three months, King-cote was acquiescent in his
life, even contented with it. The customers who had been in the habit
of using the shop still came, for Mr. Billimore’s continued presence was
reassuring, and the little that was seen of the new proprietor was not
repellent; there was every likelihood that the business would still be
what it had been. It was a week or two before Kingcote broke himself to
the habit of remaining at the counter when a purchaser entered, but even
this grew to be very simple, and quite in the order of things. With the
bookselling proper was joined a stationery business, and perhaps on the
whole it was a little harder to sell a newspaper or a quire of note,
or a bottle of gum, than to take an order for a volume or part with one
from the shelves; still, no mortal is above satisfaction in receiving
cash payment, part whereof is calculable profit, and the very till soon
began to be more than endurable in our friend’s eyes.
The trial was when acquaintances of old time presented themselves to
claim recognition. There were not more than half-a-dozen who did so, and
two or three of these were not, in the end, unwelcome. They were worthy
people of the middle-class provincial sort, full of natural curiosity,
but also not lacking kindliness. Their curiosity Kingcote satisfied only
in broad terms, and perhaps the fixed melancholy of his face prevented
the grosser kind of inquisitiveness. He let it be known that his sister
kept house for him, and that she was a widow, but it was some time
before any one called to see Mary. The circumstances of her marriage
were remembered, and created prejudice; there had not been wanting those
who, at the time, hinted at worse things than a mere elopement, and now
such points were rediscussed with the relish of a provincial appetite
which has only limited diet. Still, even Mary was in the end accepted.
The first lady who called upon her no doubt suppressed a hesitation
for the sake of getting a glimpse of the domestic interior; one or two
others justified themselves by the precedent. There followed invitations
to heavy tea, and it was made known to Kingcote that he would be welcome
here or there at supper. For his sisters sake he obliged himself to go
wherever he was sought. He might not enjoy the conversation at these
houses, but in future he must have that or none, and to keep up
pretences would savour of the ludicrous. He was a shopkeeper, and likely
to remain one to the end of his days. Nor did he in truth repine.
He rested. From his illness there had remained a good deal of physical
weakness; it was more apparent now than it had been during the late
months of the past year. He had no longer a desire to take walks, and
indeed seldom left the house for such a purpose; when at leisure, he sat
with a book, and it was a trouble to stir from his chair. His appearance
was that of a man ten years beyond his own age; always grave, he had
only to sit in silence for a quarter of an hour to fall into a dreamy
state of absent-mindedness; as often as not he turned the pages of his
book without knowledge of what he seemed to be reading. This was not the
same thing as unhappiness; his mood was emphatically one of contentment.
He interested himself in the details of his business, and was in nothing
neglectful. Only it was all done without active pleasure; his life
remained joyless.
“What are those lines you are repeating, Bernard?” his sister asked him
one evening, when he had turned from the finished supper, to take up a
magazine.
“Did I say them aloud?” he asked. Then he quoted:
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were
more
Than to walk all day like the Sultan of old in a garden of
spice.
“I am not far from that end,” he added then went on with his reading.
There was truth in what he said, and he would not have exchanged his
state for one more active, even though it had been an activity that
promised happiness. For in happiness he had no faith. It did exist on
earth--in the form of sleep; all other bliss he held to be illusion.
Heights to which he had once looked up with envious eyes, he did not
now contemplate; if a glimpse of them arrested him, he hurriedly turned
away, pained by a sudden sense of unrest. The thought of exertion was
intolerable. His reading was no longer study, but mere pastime in idle
pages; books which demanded thought or suggested a high and energetic
ideal, he put aside. This habit of mind, at first involuntary, he was
beginning to take consciously for his direction; it preserved to him an
even calm, which was now the most desirable of things.
“Do not tell me of your work,” he wrote to Gabriel in London. “It will
seem unfriendly that I should not wish to Hear of it, but your progress
and achievements I take for granted; they are the essence of the
distinction between your world and my own. When you say you have done
this, and are planning that, it disturbs me, I know not how; I neither
act nor plan, and hope never again to do either. Formerly, when I should
gladly have heard these details, you kept them from me; pray do so
now. The change in yourself which this new habit implies, I believe I
understand. There is a joyful tone in all you write, formerly never
to be found. You are less severe, more human. Naturally so; success is
before you, and the anxious toil of your years of poverty is at an end.
I, too, have ceased to fear poverty--thanks to you--but I dread the
more anything that can give a shock to my placid materialism. I dread
awakenings of sympathy, I dread discontent, I dread the ideal.”
Whereto Clement Gabriel took occasion to reply:
“My friend, you are in a bad way. Fortunately you are young; there is
hope for you in the years that bring the philosophic mind. Allow me to
suggest that your present mind contains as little of the philosophic as
it well could. I will not for the present trouble you about my doings.
We will talk over them when you have recovered your interest in the
things which alone are worth living for.”
So the days moved on. Towards the end of the first week in June,
Kingcote exhibited a slight return of restlessness; he complained, when
Mary questioned him, that he could not sleep; it was nothing, it would
pass. It did not, however, pass immediately. For ten days the trouble
of mind or body rather grew than diminished; the old dislike of society
showed itself, and at length he seemed to be shrinking from his daily
occupations. Mr. Billimore, who was observant, noticed that he displayed
much anxiety to take the letters from the postman, when the latter came
into the shop each morning, and that an examination of the batch seemed
always to occasion him some disappointment. But the trouble did in the
end prove transitory. A day or two of headache, which kept him to
his room, led back to the ordinary routine of life. Business received
attention in the usual way, and his impassive countenance was
restored....
A week later, there came to the shop a messenger from a hotel, with
a note addressed to Mr. Kingcote. He was at that moment in the house;
knowing he would appear speedily, Mr. Billimore laid the note on his
master’s desk in the counting-house. Within a few minutes Kingcote
entered, and took up the envelope carelessly. He dropped it again as if
it had burnt him.
Mr. Billimore was advancing to explain by whom the note had been left.
Kingcote’s face struck him as so singular, that he retired into the shop
without having spoken.
Had he still power to feel this? That terrible sinking at the heart
which had once been so common an experience had again come upon him. He
had to sit down; his limbs would not support him. His face was hot, his
mouth all at once parched; his hands shook as if they never could regain
their steadiness.
When he opened the envelope, he found two lines:
“If you could come to see me here before five o’clock, I should be glad.
I have a private room; ask for me by name.
“Isabel Clarendon.”
It was now two in the afternoon. Kingcote, after consulting his
watch, went upstairs to his bedroom. There he paced up and down for
half-an-hour. On recovering from the shock of agitation which was
incompatible with thought of any kind, his first sentiment was one of
anger. He had thought that the time for this was gone by; the assurance
of it had been a new beginning of calm. What right had she to disturb
him? As she was in the town, she doubtless knew what his position was;
probably she had heard that from Mr. Vissian long ago. What inspiration
save of woman’s cruelty could have led to this summons? He had forgotten
her; she had gone from his life; was he never to be secure from a
renewal of that intolerable anguish, anguish even physical, which she
had it in her power to inflict upon him?
Nay, she had worse power than that. From the long-sealed chambers of his
heart came a low cry as of reawakening life, life which would fain
be free again. The sweat stood on his forehead as he crushed down the
tenderness, the passion which he had thought dead. The sight of her
handwriting, after so long, had given back to him the dreadful power of
seeing herself, her features, her beautiful form. He flung himself by
the bedside, and smothered his face; the striving of the old spirit drew
groans from him.
What, what was he to her, or she to him? What conceivable circumstances
could render possible the realisation of that mad dream, of which he had
well-nigh died? It was imbecility to flatter himself with the fancy that
she loved him; but, if he could believe it, if she proved it to him----.
Had all his suffering been mere frantic jealousy? Had he misunderstood?
Had time proved to her that his love was worth more than the pleasures
the world could give her? Had it grown within her soul, whilst he had
sunk to brutish indifference?
At first it had seemed possible to refuse to see her; would it not
be fair reprisal for all that he had borne at her hands? Would it not
gratify his pride to coldly tell her that he saw no good end to be
gained by a personal interview? It needed another than himself to act
upon such a thought. Already he was preparing to go and see her. He
threw water upon his face to cool its burning. The fear now had become
lest his delay in answering her summons should have led her to conclude
that he would not answer it. With haste which only heightened his
nervousness, he completed his preparations, and went downstairs.
Fortunately he met no one; he could take his hat and leave by the
house-door unobserved.
The walk to the hotel was short. On reaching the entrance he had to turn
aside and go a little further on, that he might be able to use his voice
and present any appearance but that of a man under stress of violent
emotion. Between the door of the hotel and the private room to which
he was conducted, he knew nothing but the pain which came from the
throbbing at his temples and the rush of blood in his ears.
She stood at the farther end of the room, a dark object to him. She wore
a summer travelling dress, but of that he could take no note; her face
alone came out of the confused mist, and he saw that it was pale and
agitated. There was no joy in it; that he knew at once. None of the
old sweetness dwelt in her eyes and about her lips. She was austere,
fear-stricken.
“You have kept me long,” were her first words, and as she spoke them her
hand pressed upon her bosom. “I thought you would come at once.”
The sound of her speaking had the effect of a cold hand upon his
forehead. He saw with clear vision; the throbbing at his temples allayed
itself.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “Why have you sent for me?”
With perfect consciousness he made his tone as gentle as he could. His
words did not seem to himself spontaneous; these were prompted to him
from within, and she repeated them as if playing a part.
Isabel came nearer, and held to him the photograph he had returned her.
Since sending the note, she had stood there with it in her hand; it was
bent.
“Will you take it back again?” she asked. He saw her throat swell; she
seemed to swallow something before she spoke.
He did not move to take it.
“You wish,” he replied, “to be a shopkeeper’s wife?”
With no smile he said it; yet it cost him an effort. Again it was the
repetition of prompted words.
“I thought you had perhaps heard,” Isabel said, letting her hand fall
again, and speaking quickly, still with that swelling of the throat.
“Ada refuses to take what is hers by law. She has given it back to me.”
Kingcote’s eyes held themselves fixed upon her face. The silence seemed
to be long; he was conscious of prolonging it purposely. He saw her put
her hand upon the table and lean heavily on it.
“Will you answer me?” she uttered in an agitated whisper.
“Surely it is needless to answer in words,” he said at length. “Why have
you come to offer me that which you know I cannot accept?”
The evil spirit stirred in his breast, and, with scarcely a pause, he
continued vehemently:
“Why did you not spare both of us this? Do you think so basely of me?
Cannot I read in your face that you believed it to be your duty to make
this offer to me, at whatever cost to yourself? You are conscious
that your unkindness drove me to part from you in frenzy, and what has
happened seemed to impose a necessity of restoring to me a piece of good
fortune which I had thrown away. And you have feared lest I should take
you at your word! If you had ever loved me you would know me better.”
Her head bowed itself before his violence; he could scarcely catch the
words when she said:
“I did love you.”
“For a day--for an hour; I believe it. You gave me your love in
recklessness. It was a fatal gift.”
“I think you should not reproach me,” she said, in the same faint voice.
“I gave you the one love of my life. I would have married you then. It
would have been truer kindness to take me--to have given me something to
live for. My love would not have failed you.”
For an instant he could have implored what fate had written
unattainable. He knew the unreality of the vision that tempted him, and
could not have uttered the words his tongue half-formed. But the mood
showed itself in gentler speech.
“I have no right to speak so harshly. The last words we shall ever say
to each other must not be unkind. If I did not still love you it would
be easier to speak smooth things.”
Her tears were falling.
“If you still love me,” she said brokenly, “it is your right to take me,
whatever seems to hinder.” She held forth her hands, but without looking
up. “Your voice is the highest leading that I know. Oh, are you not
strong enough? Can you not bend me to your will?”
A sob stayed her, but there came another cry:
“If I were young!”
Kingcote quivered, then fell to his knees, holding the hands she had
outstretched.
“Say good-bye to me in the kind voice I once knew!” He spoke in hoarse,
choked accents. “Say it kindly, that it may be a sacred memory whilst I
live, and a hope in death!”
She did utter the word, but in such a passion of weeping that it fell
upon his ears like a moan. Then he kissed both her hands, and broke
away....
“The tragedy,” Kingcote had once said, “is not where two who love each
other die for the sake of their love; but where love itself dies, blown
upon by the cold breath of the world, and those who loved live on with
hearts made sepulchres.”...
Here is a letter which came to Kingcote from Mr. Vissian some six months
later:
“Methinks, my friend, I have grounds of complaint against you. Though I
have submitted to your judgment three conjectural emendations which, in
my poor thinking, do not lack propriety, you fail even to acknowledge
the receipt of them. I trust this does not signify any incapacity to
write; for you are of those whom I would rather challenge for unkindness
than pity for mischance. I should--taking the more probable view of
the case--scarcely have written again thus soon, but that I have sundry
items of news to communicate, one of which concerns me nearly. Learn,
then, that at the end of the year I surrender my present living, on
the ground that another and a better has been offered me. When I say
‘better,’ I mean in the worldly sense; that, I fear, my usual way of
speaking will have made you too ready to take for granted. I shall in
future be nearer to you by a matter of fifty miles, my new parish being
that of S----------.
“There will be a necessity for keeping a curate, as the work is much more
considerable than what has here been my share. It is in no spirit of
levity that I express my hope of being able to adapt my energies to
the larger sphere. It is possible that I have occasionally been remiss,
owing to the manifold temptations of pursuits which my graver judgment
often condemns as incompatible with my duties.
“I should hardly have consented to leave Winstoke were it not for an
event which has weakened the tie which bound me to the spot. I refer to
the final departure from Knightswell of that gracious lady whom I have
so long regarded with affectionate reverence, and whom my wife truly
loves. Mrs. Clarendon is Mrs. Clarendon no longer; she has just married
a wealthy and, I doubt not, worthy gentleman, her cousin Mr. Asquith,
who takes her to live in another part of England. Knightswell is to be
sold. The marriage was celebrated privately in London. I am glad I was
not asked to officiate; it would have been painful to me. The old name
has come to mean so much in my ears; I should but grudgingly have aided
in its casting off.
“Now here be news. Moreover, I have it in charge from Mrs. Vissian to
say unto you, that, as a final test of your good will to us, we invite
you to visit us in our new home not later than the end of January. That
you can come, I am convinced, and in very truth we want to see you.
“I must not forget to add that I have just received from Miss Warren a
weekly paper containing a poem by herself, and, it seems to me, one of
striking merit. After the unprecedented act of generosity which this
young lady has performed, I am disposed to regard everything she writes
as the outcome of a very noble nature, and to study it in a serious
spirit. I am very anxious to know her better, personally, for I have
always grievously misjudged her. I do not think she will refuse to come
and spend a few days with us in the spring. Would it not be agreeable to
you to renew your acquaintance with her at some time?”
THE END.