CONFUSION
Mr. Churchouse was standing in his porch, when a postman brought him a
parcel. It was a book, and Ernest displayed mild interest.
"What should that be, I wonder?" he said. Then he asked a question.
"Have you seen Bert, the newspaper boy? For the second morning he
disappoints me."
But Bert himself appeared at the same moment and the postman went his
way.
"No newspaper on Saturday--how was that?" asked Mr. Churchouse.
"I was dreadful ill and my mother wouldn't let me go outdoors,"
explained the boy. "I asked Neddy Prichard to go down to the baker's and
get it for you; but he wouldn't."
"Then I say no more, except to hope you're better."
"It's my froat," explained Bert, a sturdy, flaxen youngster of ten.
"One more point I should like to raise while you are here. Have you
noticed that garden chair in the porch?"
"Yes, I have, and wondered why 'twas left there."
"Wonder no more, Bert. It is there that you may put the paper upon it,
rather than fling the news on a dirty door-mat."
"Fancy!" said Bert. "I never!"
"Bear it in mind henceforth, and, if you will delay a moment, I will
give you some black currant lozenges for your throat."
A big black cat stood by his master listening to this conversation and
Bert now referred to him.
"Would thicky cat sclow me?" he asked.
"No, Bert--have no fear of Peter Grim," answered Mr. Churchouse. "His
looks belie him. He has a forbidding face but a friendly heart."
"He looks cruel fierce."
"He does, but though a great sportsman, he has a most amiable nature."
Having ministered to Bert, Mr. Churchouse retired with his book and
paper. Then came Mary Dinnett, red-eyed and in some agitation. But for a
moment he did not observe her trouble. He had opened his parcel and
revealed a volume bound in withered calf and bearing signs of age and
harsh treatment.
"A work I have long coveted--it is again 'a well-wisher,' Missis
Dinnett, who has sent it to me. There is much kindness in the world
still."
But Mrs. Dinnett was too preoccupied with her own affairs to feel
interest in Ernest's pleasant little experience. By nature pessimistic,
original doubts, when she heard of Sabina's engagement, were now
confirmed and she felt certain that her daughter would never become
young Ironsyde's wife. Regardless of the girl's injunction to silence,
and feeling that both for herself and Sabina this disaster might alter
the course of their lives and bring her own hairs with sorrow to the
grave, Mary now took the first opportunity to relate the facts to Mr.
Churchouse. They created in him emotions of such deep concern that
neither his book nor his newspaper were opened on the day of the
announcement.
Mrs. Dinnett rambled through her disastrous recital, declared that for
her own part, she had already accepted the horror of it and was prepared
to face the worst that could happen, and went so far as to predict what
Ernest himself would probably do, now that the scandal had reached his
ears. She was distraught and for the moment appeared almost to revel in
the accumulated horrors of the situation.
She told the story of promise and betrayal and summed up with one
agonised prophecy.
"And now you'll cast her out--you'll turn upon us and throw us out--I
know you will."
"'Cast her out'? Good God of Mercy! Who am I to cast anybody out, Missis
Dinnett? Shall an elderly and faulty fellow creature rise in judgment at
the weakness of youth? What have I done in the past to lead you to any
such conclusion? I feel very certain, indeed, that you are permitting
yourself a debauch of misery--wallowing in it, Mary Dinnett--as
misguided wretches often wallow in drink out of an unmanly despair at
their own human weakness. Fortify yourself! Approach the question on a
higher plane. Remember no sparrow falls to the ground without the
cognisance of its Creator! As for Sabina, I love her and have devoted
many hours to her education. I also love Raymond Ironsyde--for his own
sake as well as his family's. I am perfectly certain that you exaggerate
the facts. Such a thing is quite incredible. Shall I quarrel with a
gracious flower because a wandering bee has set a seed? He may be an
inconsiderate and greedy bee--but--"
Mr. Churchouse broke off, conscious that his simile would land him in
difficulties.
"No," he said, "we must not pursue this subject on a pagan or poetical
basis. We are dealing with two young Christians, Missis Dinnett--a man
and a woman of good nurture and high principle. I will never
believe--not if he said it himself--that Raymond Ironsyde would commit
any such unheard-of outrage. You say that he has promised to marry her.
That is enough for me. The son of Henry Ironsyde will keep his promise.
Be sure of that. For the moment leave the rest in my hands. Exercise
discretion, and pray, pray keep silence about it. I do trust that nobody
has heard anything. Publicity might complicate the situation seriously."
As a matter of fact Mrs. Dinnett had told everything to her bosom
friend--a woman who dwelt in a cottage one hundred yards from 'The
Magnolias.' She did not mention this, however.
"If you say there's hope, I'll try to believe it," she answered. "The
man came here last night and Sabina wouldn't see him, and God knows
what'll be the next thing."
"Leave the next thing to me."
"She's given notice at the works. He told her to."
"Of course--quite properly. Now calm down and fetch me my walking
boots."
In half an hour Ernest was on his way to Bridport. As Sabina, before
him, his instinct led to Miss Ironsyde and he felt that the facts might
best be imparted to her. If anybody had influence with Raymond, it was
she. His tone of confidence before Mrs. Dinnett had been partly assumed,
however. His sympathies were chiefly with Sabina, for she was no
ordinary mill hand; she had enjoyed his tuition and possessed native
gifts worthy of admiration. But she was as excitable as her mother, and
if this vital matter went awry, there could be no doubt that her life
must be spoiled.
Mr. Churchouse managed to get a lift on his way from a friendly farmer,
and he arrived at Bridport Town Hall soon after ten o'clock. While
driving he put the matter from his mind for a time, and his acquaintance
started other trains of thought. One of them, more agreeable to a man of
his temperament than the matter in hand, still occupied his mind when he
stood before Jenny Ironsyde.
"You!" she said. "I had an idea you never came into the world till
afternoon."
"Seldom--seldom. I drove a good part of the way with Farmer Gate, and he
made a curious remark. He said that a certain person might as well be
dead for all the good he was. Now what constitutes life? I've been
asking myself that."
"It's certainly difficult to decide about some people, whether they're
alive or dead. Some make you doubt if they ever were alive."
"A good many certainly don't know they're born; and plenty don't know
they're dead," he declared.
"To be in your grave is not necessarily to be dead, and to be in your
shop, or office, needn't mean that you're alive," admitted the lady.
"Quite so. Who doesn't know dead people personally, and go to tea with
them, and hear their bones rattle? And whose spirit doesn't meet in
their thoughts, or works, the dead who are still living?"
"Most true, I'm sure; but you didn't come to tell me that?"
"No; yet it has set me wondering whether, perhaps, I am dead--at any
rate deader than I need be."
"We are probably all deader than we need be."
"But to-day there has burst into my life a very wakening thing. It may
have been sent. For mystery is everywhere, and what's looking
exceedingly bad for those involved, may be good for me. And yet, one can
hardly claim to win goodness out of the threatened misfortunes to those
who are dear to one."
"What's the matter? Something's happened, or you wouldn't come to see me
so early."
"Something has happened," he answered, "and one turns to you in times of
stress, just as one used to turn to your dear brother, Henry. You have
character, shrewdness and decision."
Miss Ironsyde saw light.
"You've come for Raymond," she said.
"Now how did you divine that? But, as a matter of fact, I've come for
somebody else. A very serious thing has happened and if we older
heads--"
"Who told you about it?"
"This morning, an hour ago, it was broken to me by Sabina's mother."
"Tell me just what she told you, Ernest."
He obeyed and described the interview exactly.
"I cannot understand that, for Sabina saw me last night and explained
the situation. I impressed upon her the importance of keeping the matter
as secret as possible for the present."
"Nevertheless Mary Dinnett told me. She is a very impulsive person--so
is Sabina; but in Sabina's case there is brain power to control impulse;
in her mother's case there is none."
"I'm much annoyed," declared Miss Ironsyde--"not of course, that you
should know, but that there should be talking. Please go home and tell
them both to be quiet. This chattering is most dangerous and may defeat
everything. Last night I wrote to Raymond directing him to come and see
me immediately. I did not tell him why; but I told him it was urgent. I
made the strongest appeal possible. When you arrived, I thought it was
he. He should have been here an hour ago."
"If he is coming, I will go," answered Ernest. "I don't wish to meet him
at present. He has done very wrongly--wickedly, in fact. The question is
whether marriage with Sabina--"
"There is no question about that in my opinion," declared the lady. "I
am a student of character, and had she been a different sort of girl--.
But even as it is I suspend judgment until I have seen Raymond. It is
quite impossible, however, after hearing her, to see what excuse he can
offer."
"She is a very superior girl indeed, and very clever and refined. I
always hoped she would marry a schoolmaster, or somebody with cultured
tastes. But her great and unusual beauty doubtless attracted Raymond."
"I think you'd better go home, Ernest. I'll write to you after I've seen
the boy. Do command silence from both of them. I'm very angry and very
distressed, but really nothing can be done till we hear him. My
sympathy is entirely with Sabina. Let her go on with her life for a day
or two and--"
"She's changed her life and left the Mill. I understand Raymond told her
to do so."
"That is a good sign, I suppose. If she's done that, the whole affair
must soon be known. But we talk in the dark."
Mr. Churchouse departed, forgot his anxieties in a second-hand book shop
and presently returned home.
But he saw nothing of Raymond on the way; and Miss Ironsyde waited in
vain for her nephew's arrival. He did not come, and her letter, instead
of bringing him immediately as she expected, led to a very different
course of action on his part.
For, taken with Sabina's refusal to see him, he guessed correctly at
what had inspired it. Sabina had threatened more than once in the past
to visit Miss Ironsyde and he had forbidden her to do so. Now he knew
from her mother why she had gone, and while not surprised, he clutched
at the incident and very quickly worked it into a tremendous grievance
against the unlucky girl. His intelligence told him that he could not
fairly resent her attempt to win a powerful friend at this crisis in her
fortunes; but his own inclinations and growing passion for liberty
fastened on it and made him see a possible vantage point. He worked
himself up into a false indignation. He knew it was false, yet he
persevered in it, as though it were real, and acted as though it were
real.
He tore up his aunt's letter and ignored it.
Instead of going to Bridport, he went to his office and worked as usual.
At dinner time he expected Sabina, but she did not come and he heard
from Mr. Best that she was not at the works.
"She came in here and gave notice on Saturday afternoon," said the
foreman, shortly, and turned away from Raymond even as he spoke.
Then the young man remembered that he had bade Sabina do this. His
anger increased, for now everybody must soon hear of what had happened.
In a sort of subconscious way he felt glad, despite his irritation, at
the turn of events, for they might reconcile him with his conscience and
help to save the situation in the long run.