THE CONCERT
The effect of Raymond's attitude on Sabina's mind proved very serious.
It awoke in her first anger and then dismay. She was a woman of fine
feeling and quick perception. Love and ambition had pointed the same
road, and the hero, being, as it seemed, without guile, had convinced
her that she might believe every word that he spoke and trust everything
that he did. She had never contemplated any sacrifice before marriage,
and, indeed, when it came, the consummation of their worship proved no
sacrifice to her, but an added joy. Less than many a married woman had
she mourned the surrender, for in her eyes it made all things complete
between them and bound them inseparably with the golden links of love
and honour.
When, therefore, upon this perfect union, sinister light from without
had broken, she felt it no great thing to ask Raymond that their
betrothal should be known. Reason and justice demanded it. She did not
for an instant suppose that he would hesitate, but rather expected him
to blame his own blindness in delay. But finding he desired further
postponement, she was struck with consternation that rose to wrath; and
when he persisted, she became alarmed and now only considered what best
she might do for her own sake. Her work suffered and her friends
perceived that all was not well with her. With the shortening days and
bad weather, the meetings with Raymond became more difficult to pursue
and she saw less of him. They had patched their quarrel and were
friendly enough, but the perfect understanding had departed. They
preserved a common ground and she did not mention subjects likely to
annoy him. He appeared to be working steadily, seldom came into the
shops and was more reserved to everybody in the Mill.
Sabina had not yet spoken to her mother, though many times tempted to do
so. Her loyalty proved strong in the time of trial; but the greater the
strain on herself, the greater the strain on her love for the man. She
told herself that no such cruel imposition should have been placed upon
her; and she could not fail closely to question the need for it. Why did
Raymond demand continued silence even in the face of offences put upon
her by her neighbours? How could he endure to hear that people had been
rude to her, and uttered coarse jests in her hearing aimed only at her
ear? Would a man who loved her, as she deserved to be loved, suffer
this? Then fear grew. With her he was always kind--kind and considerate
in every matter but the vital matter. Yet there were differences. The
future, in which he had delighted to revel, bored him now, and when she
spoke of it, he let the matter drop. He was on good terms with his
brother for the moment, and appeared to be winning an increasing
interest in his business to the exclusion of other affairs. He would
become animated on the subject of Sabina's work, rather than the subject
of Sabina. He stabbed her unconsciously with many little shafts of
speech, yet knew not that he was doing so. He grew more grave and
self-controlled in their relations. Her personal touch began to lose
power and waken his answering fire less often. It was then that she
found herself with child, and knowing that despite much to cause
concern, Raymond was still himself, she rejoiced, since this fact must
terminate his wavering and establish her future. Here at least was an
event beyond his power to evade. He loved her and had promised to wed
her. He was a man who might be weak, but had never explicitly behaved in
a manner to make her tremble for such a situation as the present.
Procrastination ceased to be possible. What now had happened must
demand instant recognition of her rights, and that given, she assured
herself the future held no terrors. Now he must marry her, or contradict
his own record as a gentleman and a man of honour.
Yet she told him with a tremor and, until the last moment, could not
banish from her heart the shadow of fear. He had never spoken of this
possibility, or taken it into account, and she felt, seeing his silence,
that it would be a shock.
The news came to him as they walked from the Mill on a Saturday when the
works closed at noon. He was on his way to Bridport and she went beside
him for a mile through the lanes.
For a moment he said nothing, then, seeing the road empty, he put his
arms round her and kissed her.
"You clever girl!" he said.
"Don't tell me you're sorry, for God's sake, or I shall go and drown
myself," she answered. Her face was anxious and she looked haggard in
the cold light of a sunless, winter day. But a genuine, generous emotion
had touched him, and with it woke pangs of remorse and contrition. He
knew very well what she had been suffering mentally on his account, and
he knew that the frightened voice in which she told him the news and the
trembling mouth and the tear in her eyes ought not to have been there.
Every fine feeling in the man and every honest instinct was aroused. For
the moment he felt glad that no further delay was possible. His
self-respect had already suffered; but now life offered him swift means
to regain it. He did not, however, think of himself while his arms were
round her; he thought of her and her only, while they remained together.
"'Sorry'?" he said. "Can you think I'm sorry? I'm only sorry that I
didn't do something sooner and marry you before this happened, Sabina.
Good Lord--it throws a lot of light. I swear it does. I'm glad--I'm
honestly glad--and you must be glad and proud and happy and all the
rest of it. We'll be married in a month. And you must tell your mother
we're engaged to-day; and I'll tell my people. Don't you worry. Damn me,
I've been worrying you a lot lately; but it was only because I couldn't
see straight. Now I do and I'll soon atone."
She wept with thankful heart and begged him to turn with her and tell
Mrs. Dinnett himself. But that he would not do.
"It will save time if I go on to Bridport and let Aunt Jenny hear about
it. Of course the youngster is our affair and nobody need know about
that. But we must be married in a jiffey and--you must give notice at
the mill to-day. Go back now and tell Best."
"How wonderful you are!" she said. "And yet I feared you might be savage
about it."
"More shame to me that you should have feared it," he answered; "for
that means that I haven't been sporting. But you shall never be
frightened of me again, Sabina. To see you frightened hurts me like
hell. If ever you are again, it will be your fault, not mine."
She left him very happy and a great cloud seemed to fall off her life as
she returned to the village. She blamed herself for ever doubting him.
Her love rose from its smothered fires. She soared to great heights and
dreamed of doing mighty things for Raymond. Straight home to her mother
she went and told Mrs. Dinnett of her engagement and swiftly approaching
marriage. The light had broken on her darkness at last and she welcomed
the child as a blessed forerunner of good. The coming life had already
made her love it.
Meantime Raymond preserved his cheerful spirit for a season. But
existence never looked the same out of Sabina's presence and before he
had reached Bridport, his mood changed. He recognised very acutely his
duty and not a thought stirred in him to escape it; but what for a
little while had appeared more than duty and promised to end mean doubts
and fears for ever, began now to present itself under other aspects.
The joy of a child and a wife and a home faded. For what sort of a home
could he establish? He leaned to the hope that Daniel might prove
generous under the circumstances and believed that his aunt might throw
her weight on his side and urge his brother to make adequate provision;
but these reflections galled him unspeakably, for they were sordid. They
argued weakness in him. He must come as a beggar and eat humble pie; he
must for ever sacrifice his independence and, with it, everything that
had made life worth living. The more he thought upon it, the more he
began to hate the necessity of taking this story to his relations.
Better men than he had lived in poverty and risen from humble
beginnings. It struck him that if he went his own way, redoubled his
official energies and asked for nothing more on the strength of his
marriage, his own self-respect would be preserved as well as the respect
of his aunt and brother. He pictured himself as a hero, yet knew that
what he contemplated was merely the conduct of an honest man.
The thought of approaching anybody with his intentions grew more
distasteful, and by the time he reached Bridport, he had determined not
to mention the matter, at any rate until the following day. So great a
thing demanded more consideration than he could give it for the moment,
because his whole future depended on the manner in which he broke it to
his people. It was true that the circumstances admitted of no serious
delay; Sabina must, of course, be considered before everything; but
twenty-four hours would make no difference to her, while it might make
all the difference to him.
He reduced the courses of action to two. Either he would announce that
he was going to be married immediately as a fact accomplished; or he
would invite his aunt's sympathies, use diplomacy and win her to his
side with a view to approaching Daniel. Daniel appeared the danger,
because it was quite certain that he would strongly disapprove of
Raymond's marriage. This certainty induced another element of doubt.
For suppose, far from seeking to help Raymond with his new
responsibilities, Daniel took the opposite course and threatened to
punish him for any such stupidity? Suppose that his brother, from a
personal standpoint, objected and backed his objection with a definite
assurance that Raymond must leave the mill if he took this step? The
only way out of that would be to tell Daniel that he was compromised and
must wed Sabina for honour. But Raymond felt that he would rather die
than make any such confession. His whole soul rose with loathing at the
thought of telling the truth to one so frozen and unsympathetic.
Moreover there was not only himself to be considered, but Sabina. What
chance would she have of ever winning Daniel to acknowledge and respect
her if the facts came to his ears?
Raymond thought himself into a tangle and found a spirit of great
depression settling upon him. But, at last, he decided to sleep on the
situation. He did not go home, but turned his steps to 'The Tiger,' ate
his luncheon and drank heartily with it.
Then he went to see a boxer, who was training with Mr. Gurd, and
presently when Neddy Motyer appeared, he turned into the billiard room
and there killed some hours before the time of the smoking concert.
He imbibed the intensely male atmosphere of 'The Tiger' with a good deal
of satisfaction; but surging up into the forefront of his mind came
every moment the truth concerning himself and his future. It made him
bitter. For some reason he could not guess, he found himself playing
billiards very much above his form. Neddy was full of admiration.
"By Jove, you've come on thirty in a hundred," he said. "If you only
gave a fair amount of time to it, you'd soon beat anybody here but
Waldron."
"My sporting days are practically over," answered Raymond. "I've got to
face real life now, and as soon as you begin to do that, you find sport
sinks under the horizon a bit. I thought I should miss it a lot, but I
shan't."
"If anybody else said that, I should think it was the fox who had lost
his brush talking," replied Neddy; "but I suppose you mean it. Only
you'll find, if you chuck sport, you'll soon be no good. Even as it is,
going into the works has put you back a lot. I doubt if you could do a
hundred in eleven seconds now."
"There are more important things than doing a hundred in eleven
seconds--or even time, either, for that matter."
"You won't chuck football, anyway? You'll be fast enough for outside
right for year's yet if you watch yourself."
"Damned easy to say 'watch yourself.' Yes, I shall play footer a bit
longer if they want me, I suppose."
Arthur Waldron dropped in a few minutes later.
He was glad to see Raymond.
"Good," he said. "I thought you were putting in a blameless evening with
your people."
"No, I'm putting in a blameless evening here."
"He's playing enormous billiards, Waldron," declared Motyer. "I suppose
you've been keeping him at it. He's come on miles."
"He didn't learn with me, anyway. It's not once in a blue moon that he
plays at North Hill. But if he's come on, so much the better."
They played, but Raymond's form had deserted him. Waldron was much
better than the average amateur and now he gave Raymond fifty in two
hundred and beat him by as much. They dined together presently, and Job
Legg, who often lent a hand at 'The Tiger' on moments of extra pressure,
waited upon them.
"How's your uncle, Job?" asked Arthur Waldron, who was familiar with Mr.
Legg, and not seldom visited 'The Seven Stars,' when Estelle came with
him to Bridport.
"He's a goner, sir. I'm off to the funeral on Monday."
"Hope the will was all right?"
"Quite all right, sir, thank you, sir."
"Then you'll leave, no doubt, and what will Missis Northover do then?"
Legg smiled.
"It's hid in the future, sir," he answered.
A comedian, who was going to perform at the smoking concert, came in
with Mr. Gurd, and the innkeeper introduced him to Neddy and Raymond. He
joined them and added an element of great hilarity to the meal. He
abounded in good stories, and understood horse-racing as well as Neddy
Motyer himself. Neddy now called himself a 'gentleman backer,' but
admitted that, so far, it had not proved a lucrative profession.
Their talk ranged over sport and athletics. They buzzed one against the
other, and not even the humour of the comic man was proof against the
seriousness of Arthur Waldron, who demonstrated, as always, that
England's greatness had sprung from the pursuit of masculine pastimes.
The breed of horses and the breed of men alike depended upon sport. The
Empire, in Mr. Waldron's judgment, had arisen from this sublime
foundation.
"It reaches from the highest to the lowest," he declared. "The puppy
that plays most is the one that always turns into the best dog."
The smoking concert, held in Mr. Gurd's large dining-room, went the way
of such things with complete success. The boxing was of the best, and
the local lad, Tim Chick, performed with credit against his experienced
antagonist. All the comic man's songs aimed at the folly of marriage and
the horrors of domesticity. He seemed to be singing at Raymond, who
roared with the rest and hated the humourist all the time. The young man
grew uneasy and morose before the finish, drank too much whiskey, and
felt glad to get into the cold night air when all was over.
And then there happened to him a challenge very unexpected, for Waldron,
as they walked back together through the night-hidden lanes, chose the
opportunity to speak of Raymond's private affairs.
"You can't accuse me of wanting to stick my nose into other people's
business, can you, Ray? And you can't fairly say that you've ever found
me taking too much upon myself or anything of that sort."
"No; you're unique in that respect."
"Well, then, you mustn't be savage if I'm personal. You know me jolly
well and you know that you're about the closest friend I've got. And if
you weren't a friend and a great deal to me, I shouldn't speak."
"Go ahead--I can guess. There's only one topic in Bridetown, apparently.
No doubt you've seen me in the company of Sabina Dinnett?"
"I haven't, I can honestly say. But Estelle is very keen about the mill
girls. She wants to do all sorts of fine things for them; and she's
specially friendly with Missis Dinnett's daughter. And she's heard
things that puzzled her young ears naturally, and she told me that some
people say you're being too kind to Sabina and other people say you're
treating her hardly. Of course, that puzzled Estelle, clever though she
is; but, as a man of the world, I saw what it meant and that kindness
may really be cruelty in the long run. You'll forgive me, won't you?"
"Of course, my dear chap. If one lives in a hole like Bridetown, one
must expect one's affairs to be common property."
"And if they are, what does it matter as long as they are all
straightforward? I never care a button what anybody says about me,
because I know they can't say anything true that is up against me; and
as to lies, they don't matter."
"And d'you think I care what they say about me?"
"Rather not. Only if a girl is involved, then the case is altered. I'm
not a saint; but--"
"When anybody says they're not a saint, you know they're going to begin
to preach, Arthur."
Waldron did not answer for a minute. He stopped and lighted his pipe. To
Raymond, Sabina appeared unmeasurably distant at this midnight hour.
His volatile mind was quick to take colour from the last experience, and
in the aura of the smoking concert, woman looked a slight and inferior
thing; marriage, a folly; domestic life, a jest.
Waldron spoke again.
"You won't catch me preaching. I only venture to say that in a little
place like this, it's a mistake to be identified with a girl beneath you
in every way. It won't hurt you, and if she was a common girl and given
to playing about, it wouldn't hurt her; but the Dinnetts are different.
However, you know a great deal more about her than I do, and if you tell
me she's not all she seems and you're not the first and won't be the
last, then, of course I'm wrong and enough said. But if she's all right
and all she's thought to be, and all Estelle thinks her--for Estelle's a
jolly good student of character--then, frankly, I don't think it's
sporting of you to do what you're doing."
The word 'sporting' summed the situation from Waldron's point of view
and he said no more.
Raymond grew milder.
"She's all Estelle thinks her. I have a great admiration for her. She's
amazingly clever and refined. In fact, I never saw any girl a patch on
her in my life."
"Well then, what follows? Surely she ought to be respected in every
way."
"I do respect her."
"Then it's up to you to treat her as you'd treat anybody of your own
class, and take care that nothing you do throws any shadow on her. And,
of course, you know it. I'm not suggesting for a second you don't. I'm
only suggesting that what would be quite all right with a girl in your
own set, isn't exactly fair to Sabina--her position in the world being
what it is."
It was on Raymond's tongue to declare his engagement; but he did not. He
had banished Sabina for that night and the subject irked him. The
justice of Waldron's criticism also irked him; but he acknowledged it.
"Thank you," he answered. "It's jolly good of you to say these things,
Arthur, because they're not in your line, and I know you hate them. But
you're dead right. I dare say I'll tell you something that will astonish
you before long. But I'm not doing anything to be ashamed of. I haven't
made any mistake; and if I had, I shouldn't shirk the payment."
"You can't, my dear chap. A mistake has always got to be paid for in
full--often with interest added. As a sportsman you know that, and it
holds all through life in my experience."
"I shan't make one. But if I do, I'm quite prepared to pay the cost."
"We all say that till the bill comes along. Better avoid the mistake,
and I'm glad you're going to."
Far away from the scrub on North Hill came a sharp, weird sound.
"Hark!" said Waldron. "That's a dog fox! I hope the beggar's caught a
rabbit."