CLASH OF OPINIONS
Mr. Job Legg, with a persistence inspired by private purpose, continued
to impress upon Nelly Northover the radical truth that in this world you
cannot have anything for nothing. He varied the precept sometimes, and
reminded her that we must not hope to have our cake and eat it too; and
closer relations with Richard Gurd served to impress upon Mrs. Northover
the value of these verities. Nor did she resent them from Mr. Legg. He
had preserved an attitude of manly resignation under his supreme
disappointment. He was patient, uncomplaining and self-controlled. He
did not immediately give notice of departure, but, for the present,
continued to do his duty with customary thoroughness. He showed himself
a most tactful man. New virtues were manifested in the light of the
misfortune that had overtaken him. Affliction and reverse seemed to make
him shine the brighter. Nelly could hardly understand it. Had she not
regarded his character as one of obvious simplicity and incapable of
guile, she might have felt suspicious of any male who behaved with such
exemplary distinction under the circumstances.
It was, of course, clear that the mistress of 'The Seven Stars' could
not become Mr. Gurd's partner and continue to reign over her own
constellation as of old. Yet Nelly did not readily accept a fact so
obvious, even under Mr. Legg's reiterated admonitions. She felt
wayward--almost wilful about it: and there came an evening when Richard
dropped in for his usual half hour of courting to find her in such a
frame of mind. Humour on his part had saved the situation; but he lacked
humour, and while Nelly, even as she spoke, knew she was talking
nonsense and only waited his reminder of the inevitable in a friendly
spirit, yet, when the reminder came, it was couched in words so forcible
and so direct, that for a parlous moment her own sense of humour broke
down.
The initial error was Mr. Gurd's. The elasticity of youth, both mental
and physical, had departed from him, and he took her remarks, uttered
more in mischief than in earnest, with too much gravity, not perceiving
that Nelly herself was in a woman's mood and merely uttering absurdities
that he might contradict her. She was ready enough to climb down from
her impossible attitude; but Richard abruptly threw her down; which
unchivalrous action wounded Mrs. Northover to the quick and begat in her
an obstinate and rebellious determination to climb up again.
"I'm looking on ahead," she began, while they sat in her parlour
together. "This is a great upheaval, Richard, and I'm just beginning to
feel how great. I'm wondering all manner of things. Will you be so happy
and comfortable along with me, at 'The Seven Stars,' as you are at 'The
Tiger'? You must put that to yourself, you know."
It was so absurd an assumption, that she expected his laughter; and if
he had laughed and answered with inspiration, no harm could have come of
it. But Richard felt annoyed rather than amused. The suggestion seemed
to show that Mrs. Northover was a fool--the last thing he bargained for.
He exhibited contempt. Indeed, he snorted in a manner almost insulting.
"Woman comes to man, I believe, not man to woman," he said.
"That is so," she admitted with a touch of colour in her cheeks at his
attitude, "but you must think all round it--which you haven't done yet,
seemingly."
Then Richard laughed--too late; for a laugh may lose all its value if
the right moment be missed.
"Where's the fun?" she asked. "I thought, of course, that you'd be
business-like as well as lover-like and would see 'The Seven Stars' had
got more to it than 'The Tiger.'"
Even now the situation might have been saved. The very immensity of her
claim rendered it ridiculous; but Richard was too astonished to guess an
utterance so hyperbolic had been made to offer him an easy victory.
"You thought that, Nelly? 'The Seven Stars' more to it than 'The
Tiger'?"
"Surely!"
"Because you get a few tea-parties and old women at nine-pence a head on
your little bit of grass?"
A counter so terrific destroyed the last glimmering hope of a peaceful
situation, and Mrs. Northover perceived this first.
"It's war then?" she said. "So perhaps you'll tell me what you mean by
my little bit of grass. Not the finest pleasure gardens in Bridport, I
suppose?"
"Be damned if this ain't the funniest thing I've ever heard," he
answered.
"You never was one to see a joke, we all know; and if that's the
funniest thing you ever heard, you ain't heard many. And you'll forgive
me, please, if I tell you there's nothing funny in my speaking about my
pleasure gardens, though it does sound a bit funny to hear 'em called 'a
bit of grass' by a man that's got nothing but a few apple trees, past
bearing, and a strip of potatoes and weeds, and a fowl-run. But, as
you've got no use for a garden, perhaps you'll remember the inn yard,
and how many hosses you can put up, and how many I can."
"It's the number of hosses that comes--not the number you put up," he
answered; "and if you want to tell me you've often obliged with a spare
space in your yard, perhaps I may remind you that you generally got
quite as good as you gave. But be that as it will, the point lies in
one simple question, and I ask you if you really thought, as a woman
nearer sixty than fifty and with credit for sense, that I was going to
chuck 'The Tiger' and coming over to your shop. Did you really think
that?"
Not for an instant had she thought it; but the time was inappropriate
for saying so. She might have confessed the truth in the past; she might
confess the truth in the future; she was not going to do so at present.
He should have a stab for his stab.
"You've often told me I was the sensiblest woman in Dorset, Richard, and
being that, I naturally thought you'd drop your bar-loafers' place and
come over to me--and glad to come."
"Good God!" he said, and stared at her with open nostrils, from which
indignant air exploded in gusts.
She began to make peace from that moment, feeling that the limit had
been reached. Indeed she was rather anxious. The thrust appeared to be
mortal. Mr. Gurd rolled in his chair, and after his oath, could find no
further words.
She declared sorrow.
"There--forgive me--I didn't mean to say that. 'Tis a crying shame to
see two old people dressing one another down this way. I'm sorry if I
hurt your feelings, but don't forget you've properly trampled on mine.
My pleasure grounds are my lifeblood you might say; and you knew it."
"You needn't apologise now. 'The Tiger' a bar-loafers' place! The centre
of all high-class sport in the district a bar-loafers' place! Well,
well! No wonder you thought I'd be glad to come and live at 'The Seven
Stars'!"
"I didn't really," she confessed. "I knew very well you wouldn't; but I
had to say it. The words just flashed out. And if I'd remembered a joke
was nothing to you, I might have thought twice."
"I laughed, however."
"Yes, you laughed, I grant--what you can do in that direction, which
ain't much."
Mr. Gurd rose to his full height.
"Well, that lets me out," he said. "We'd better turn this over in a
forgiving spirit; and since you say you're sorry, I won't be behind you,
though my words was whips to your scorpions and you can't deny it."
"We'll meet again in a week," said Mrs. Northover.
"Make it a fortnight," he suggested.
"No--say a month," she answered--"or six weeks."
Then it was Richard's turn to feel the future in danger. But he had no
intention to eat humble pie that evening.
"A month then. But one point I wish to make bitter clear, Nelly. If you
marry me, you come to 'The Tiger.'"
"So it seems."
"Yes--bar-loafers, or no bar-loafers."
"I'll bear it in mind, Richard."
The leave-taking lacked affection and they parted with full hearts. Each
was smarting under consciousness of the other's failure in nice feeling;
each was amazed as at a revelation. Richard kept his mouth shut
concerning this interview, for he was proud and did not like to confess
even to himself that he stood on the verge of disaster; but Mrs.
Northover held a familiar within her gates, and she did not hesitate to
lay the course of the adventure before Job Legg.
"The world is full of surprises," said Nelly, "and you never know, when
you begin talking, where the gift of speech will land you. And if you're
dealing with a man who can't take a bit of fun and can't keep his eyes
on his tongue and his temper at the same time, trouble will often
happen."
She told the story with honesty and did not exaggerate; but Mr. Legg
supported her and held that such a self-respecting woman could have done
and said no less. He declared that Richard Gurd had brought the
misfortune on himself, and feared that the innkeeper's display revealed
a poor understanding of female nature.
"It isn't as if you was a difficult and notorious sort of woman,"
explained Job; "for then the man might have reason on his side; but to
misunderstand you and overlook your playful touch--that shows he's got a
low order of brain; because you always speak clearly. Your word is as
good as your bond and none can question your judgment."
He proceeded to examine the argument earnestly and had just proved that
Mrs. Northover was well within her right to set 'The Seven Stars' above
'The Tiger,' when Raymond Ironsyde entered.
He returned from dining with his aunt, and an interview now concluded
was of very painful and far-reaching significance. For they had not
agreed, and Miss Ironsyde proved no more able to convince her nephew
than was he, to make her see his purpose combined truest wisdom and
humanity.
They talked after dinner and she invited him to justify his conduct if
he could, before hearing her opinions and intentions. He replied at once
and she found his arguments and reasons all arrayed and ready to his
tongue. He spoke clearly and stated his case in very lucid language; but
he irritated her by showing that his mind was entirely closed to
argument and that he was not prepared to be influenced in any sort of
way. Her power had vanished now and she saw how only her power, not her
persuasion, had won Raymond before his brother's death. He spoke with
utmost plainness and did not spare himself in the least.
"I've been wrong," he said, "but I'm going to try and be right in the
future. I did a foolish thing and fell in love with a good and clever
girl. Once in love, of course, everything was bent and deflected to be
seen through that medium and I believed that nothing else mattered or
ever would. Then came the sequel, and being powerless to resist, I was
going to marry. For some cowardly reason I funked poverty, and the
thought of escaping it made me agree to marry Sabina, knowing all the
time it must prove a failure. That was my second big mistake, and the
third was asking her to come and live with me without marrying her. I
suggested that, because I wanted her and felt very keen about the child.
I ought not to have thought of such a thing. It wasn't fair to her--I
quite see that."
"Can anything be fair to her short of marriage?"
"Not from her point of view, Aunt Jenny."
"And what other point of view, in keeping with honour and religion,
exists?"
"As to religion, I'm without it and so much the freer. I don't want to
pretend anything I don't feel. I shall always be very sorry, indeed, for
what I did; but I'm not going to wreck my life by marrying Sabina."
"What about her life?"
"If she will trust her life to me, I shall do all in my power to make it
a happy and easy life. I want the child to be a success. I know it will
grow up a reproach to me and all that sort of thing in the opinion of
many people; but that won't trouble me half as much as my own regrets.
I've not done anything that puts me beyond the, pale of humanity--nor
has Sabina; and if she can keep her nerve and go on with her life, it
ought to be all right for her, presently."
"A very cynical attitude and I wish I could change it, Raymond. You've
lost your self-respect and you know you've done a wrong thing. Can't you
see that you'll always suffer it if you take no steps to right it? You
are a man of feeling, and power can't lessen your feeling. Every time
you see that child, you will know that you have brought a living soul
into the world cruelly handicapped by your deliberate will."
"That's not a fair argument," he answered. "If our rotten laws handicap
the baby, it will be my object to nullify the handicap to the best of my
ability. The laws won't come between me and my child, any more than they
came between me and my passion. I'm not the sort to hide behind the mean
English law of the natural child. But I'm not going to let that law
bully me into marriage with Sabina. I've got to think of myself as well
as other people. I won't say, what's true--that if Sabina married me she
wouldn't be happy in the long run; but I will say that I know I
shouldn't be, and I'm not prepared to pay any penalty whatever for what
I did, beyond the penalty of my own regrets."
"If you rule religion out and think you can escape and keep your honour,
I don't know what to say," she answered. "For my part I believe Sabina
would make you a very good and loving wife. And don't fancy, if you
refuse her what faithfully you promised her, she will be content with
less."
"That's her look out. You won't be wise, Aunt Jenny, to influence her
against a fair and generous offer. I want her to live a good life, and I
don't want our past love-making to ruin that life, or our child to ruin
that life. If she's going to pose as a martyr, I can't help it. That's
the side of her that wrecked the show, as a matter of fact, and made it
very clear to me that we shouldn't be a happy married couple."
"Self-preservation is a law of nature. She only did what any girl would
have done in trying to find friends to save her from threatened
disaster."
"Well, I dare say it was natural to her to take that line, and it was
equally natural to me to resent it. At any rate we know where we stand
now. Tell me if there's anything else."
"I only warn you that she will accept no benefits of any kind from you,
Raymond. And who shall blame her?"
"That's entirely her affair, of course. I can't do more than admit my
responsibilities and declare my interest in her future."
"She will throw your interest back in your face and teach her child to
despise you, as she does."
"How d'you know that, Aunt Jenny?"
"Because she's a proud woman. And because she would lose the friendship
of all proud women and clean thinking men if she condoned what you
intend to do. It's horrible to see you turned from a simple, stupid, but
honourable boy, into a hard, selfish, irreligious man--and all the
result of being rich. I should never have thought it could have made
such a dreadful difference so quickly. But I have not changed, Raymond.
And I tell you this: if you don't marry Sabina; if you don't see that
only so can you hold up your head as an honest man and a respectable
member of society, worthy of your class and your family, then, I, for
one, can have no more to do with you. I mean it."
"I'm sorry you say that. You've been my guardian angel in a way and I've
a million things to thank you for from my childhood. It would be a great
grief to me, Aunt Jenny, if you allowed a difference of opinion to make
you take such a line. I hope you'll think differently."
"I shall not," she said. "I have not told you this on the spur of the
moment, or before I had thought it out very fully and very painfully.
But if you do this outrageous thing, I will never be your aunt any more,
Raymond, and never wish to see you again as long as I live. You know me;
I'm not hysterical, or silly, or even sentimental; but I'm jealous for
your father's name--and your brother's. You know where duty and honour
and solemn obligation point. There is no reason whatever why you should
shirk your duty, or sully your honour; but if you do, I decline to have
any further dealings with you."
He rose to go.
"That's definite and clear. Good-bye, Aunt Jenny."
"Good-bye," she said. "And may God guide you to recall that 'good-bye,'
nephew."
Then he went back to 'The Seven Stars,' and wondered as he walked, how
the new outlook had shrunk up this old woman too, and made one, who
bulked so largely in his life of old, now appear as of no account
whatever. He was heartily sorry she should have taken so unreasonable a
course; but he grieved more for her sake than his own. She was growing
old. She would lack his company in the time to come, and her heart was
too warm to endure this alienation without much pain.
He suspected that if Sabina's future course of action satisfied Miss
Ironsyde, she would be friendly to her and the child and, in time,
possibly win some pleasure from them.