‘Deeper and deeper still.’
It was a lovely Sunday afternoon on which Myles took his way to
Stonegate. He found Adrienne alone. She said her uncle was taking his
afternoon airing in his bath-chair in the garden, and did not wish to
be disturbed; his old servant, Brandon, was with him.
‘But sit down,’ she continued, ‘and we can have a talk.’
With that she picked up her knitting and began to work.
‘You will talk,’ said Myles, ‘if you keep your promise. You promised to
tell me about yourself.’
‘Do you really want to hear that?’
‘I came on purpose.’
‘Well, I will tell it you, and I hope it will have the effect I intend.’
‘What effect is that?’
‘You are determined to look upon me (I have seen it, so don’t be at the
trouble of denying it) as something fine and delicate, and unused to
roughness and hardship.’
‘Yes, one can see plainly enough that you are that.’
‘Can one? Well, I’ll begin my story, and you shall learn how
appearances may deceive.’
Adrienne related well. She did not exaggerate; there was nothing
strained, no striving after effect; but there was colour, pathos, life,
in her tale, and a subtle poetry thrown over all, by her way of looking
at things.
Myles, in listening, felt as if he were actually wandering with her on
that nomadic life she spoke of; through the great foreign capitals, and
the country villages, and the towns, big and little; to be sojourning
with her in the gay, feverish watering-places; to survey the distant,
rose-tinted Alps. He utterly forgot where he was, and knew only her and
her life.
There had been two brothers, she told him, of whom her father was the
younger, and her uncle the elder. Kith and kin, they had none, and
their patrimony was small. Both were gifted, but in different ways.
Adrian, her father, was artist to the marrow of his bones. Richard,
her uncle, had also some taste for art, but more of the analytical and
critical than of the synthetic description; he had been, moreover,
at one time, a practical man of business, and had made money--he was
not rich, but thoroughly independent. Her father had had the gift of
spending, not of making. The brothers had parted early. Adrian, as soon
as he was his own master, had said farewell to home, and had gone,
first to Germany, there to study the music which his soul loved, and
which had beautified his otherwise weary, disappointed life.
Some time was spent in Germany; then two or three years in
miscellaneous and somewhat aimless travel; then back again to Germany,
to music, and to love. The fair, clever, and penniless daughter of a
poor professor and man of science won his heart, as he hers, and they
married.
With marriage came the feeling of an insufficiency of means, and the
desire to augment them led him into business speculations of a nature
which he did not in the least understand: the bubble burst, and Adrian
Blisset found himself a ruined man in less than a year after his
marriage. Adrienne’s mother died at her birth; the girl had never known
that holy bond, however much she might have longed for it. Her father
chose to lay part of the cause of his wife’s death to the anxiety
induced by his extravagance and folly--moreover, he had adored her, and
from the hour of her death he had been a changed man. He had his own
living and that of his child to gain, but he settled nowhere. His life
became nomadic. He and the little one did not sojourn long in the tents
of any particular tribe. Scarce a city or a town of any importance in
Europe, but had sheltered the unconscious head of the infant, or been
trodden by the child’s uncertain feet, or by the sedate step of the
maiden, careworn before her time, while she knew intimately many an
out-of-the-way nook, unnamed by Murray, Bradshaw, or Baedeker, amongst
Italian hills, deep in the sunny lands of France, Thüringian woods and
slopes, or sleepy red-roofed Rhenish hamlets.
A restless ghost drove the musician with his child and his violin
hither and thither, never permitting him to stay long in any one place
and gather substance; but ever, so soon as the novelty had worn off,
seeming to drive him forth on a fresh search after--what? Adrienne had
learnt at an early age to ask herself that question, and sorrowfully to
give up the answer.
Sometimes he was in funds, when he showered all kinds of presents upon
her, and called her his dear child, his _Herzallerliebste_; but oftener
they were plunged in poverty, sore, sordid, dreadful poverty. His moods
varied distressingly, from kindness that had in it something fitful and
sinister, up to the dark melancholy silence which was his most frequent
humour. He was proud, and his pride was of a touchy and intractable
kind; it offended men of business, and estranged friends and pupils.
Adrienne had had many teachers and many strange lessons, and the whole
had combined into a varied and truly most unconventional education.
Her father had lavished musical training upon her. At Florence, where
they stayed a whole year, longer than anywhere else, she had wandered
about with a kind-hearted old artist, who led her about with him to
the great galleries, and showed her the grandest pictures, and made
her know the beautiful buildings, till she had imbibed the undying
loveliness of such masterpieces as Giotto’s Campanile, or Michael
Angelo’s Duomo, and had discovered that her favourite thing in Florence
was the ‘Pensiero’ Medici of the last-named artist.
‘You remind me of him,’ she added, suddenly looking at Myles. And she
had sat, at thirteen years of age, for a picture of ‘Gravity.’
‘Was that what he called you?’ asked Myles.
‘Yes. Gravity, or Sedateness was his name for me--and it suited me.’
She had had to part from her good old friend, and that had cost her the
pain which parting brings to those who know they will not meet again.
In Paris, Adrienne had had lessons in democracy from a young universal
genius, whose talents were too vast to stoop to any ordinary walk of
life. He lived in a garret, and planned schemes of a perfect republic.
Adrienne had not felt much grief on parting from him.
A monstrous learned professor, who lived at Bonn, in a _Schlafrock_,
slippers, and spectacles, had taught her a little store of Greek and
Latin. But her greatest teacher had been a strange, absent-looking
professor, in Berlin--a man of literature and philosophy, who had been
very fond of her, and had given her freely of his very best. Her uncle,
Mr. Blisset, looked upon this as a providential circumstance, for he
found when she came to him, that he had no tyro to deal with, but one
already instructed in philosophy and its terminology.
Two years ago her father had died; and just before his death she had
learnt for the first time that they possessed any relation in the
world. She had received a letter to give to her uncle. She fulfilled
the behest, and that was how she first met Mr. Blisset.
‘And what did he say? How did he receive you?’ asked Myles, eagerly.
‘I was chilled,’ said she, ‘as I sat opposite to him and saw his pale,
impassive face, and watched how he raised his eyes now and then from
that letter. He gave me no reply that night; told me nothing; did not
intimate whether he were pleased or displeased to see me, but ordered a
room to be prepared for me; and the next day he told me that my father
had asked him in his letter to give me a shelter until I was able to
find some employment by which I could support myself. My uncle said
that if I could endure to live buried alive with an old man, and work
hard at a sedentary employment, he would give me a home and pay me a
certain sum every year. I accepted his proposal gratefully, and have
never repented it; and I trust he never will, either.’
There spoke the true Adrienne Blisset.
‘And you are happy here?’
‘As happy as I expect to be. It is a great thing not to be miserable.’
‘That’s what our rulers appear to think we working-men ought to feel,’
said Myles, sardonically, his thoughts for the moment flying off at a
tangent.
‘Are you bitter against your rulers?’ asked Adrienne, tranquilly.
‘I am bitter against some of them--a pampered set of rich men, who
never had a care in their lives, but don’t mind how many other people
have to bear. There are some, now--Bright, and Cobden, and the
like--for them I’d die. There’s that in their faces which says they
have not a mean thought, nor a desire but for our good; but the most
of them’--he shrugged his shoulders--‘those lily-handed politicians
who call themselves Radicals in these days, and plan how to prevent a
working-man from getting his beer, but have half a dozen sorts of wine
at their own tables, and go mincing about at public meetings, talking
lightly of trials that would make them cringe if they had to face them;
talking about “supply and demand” and how to improve the conditions
of the lower orders--isn’t that the phrase? Much they know about the
lower orders, and how to improve them! They don’t know what ails them
yet.’
He laughed sarcastically.
‘It is true, they are a somewhat emasculate type,’ said she; ‘but
I don’t see what right you have to blame them much. It is the
working-man’s own fault that they can do no more for him.’
‘His own fault!’ he echoed incredulously.
‘Now don’t eat me up, please! I wonder if you and I differ essentially
in first principles on this subject. You have thought about it, haven’t
you?’
‘Ay, I have. I’ve plenty of reason to think about it, when I see such
fellows as Frederick Spenceley and young Mallory living on the fat of
the land, without having lifted a finger to get it, or proved by a
single act that they merited it.’
‘Mr. Mallory,’ said Adrienne, slowly, ‘you say you have seen him: has
he come home?’
‘No. I meant to speak figuratively. I don’t see him; but I know it is
so. If I don’t know him, I know the likes of him----’
‘But--but what about him?’ she asked, still with the same slowness and
a kind of hesitation. ‘What has he done wrong?’
‘He has done nothing; that’s what he has done wrong,’ said Myles.
‘Well, he’s coming home soon; we shall see how he breasts the
storm--for we are in for a storm, sooner or later. But don’t you think,
Miss Blisset, it must make a man think to see these contrasts--a man
who has the least bit of a power of thought?’
‘No doubt. And what conclusion have you come to in the matter?’
‘The conclusion that it’s a crying injustice.’
‘To whom?’
‘To--well, to put it broadly, we’ll say to the working-man--but I mean
to those in general, who work very hard, and get very little.’
‘In what way?’
‘Miss Blisset! Where is the justice of fellows like that having that
money without either rhyme or reason; and of fellows like----’
‘You,’ suggested Adrienne, demurely.
‘I don’t mean me in particular, but my class in general, earning from
thirty to sixty shillings a week--the very best paid of us--in payment
for hours and hours of close, hard work.’
‘I suppose it is not the work you object to?’
‘No. I like work. I should be lost without my work.’
‘The property which those young men enjoy has been earned with trouble
as great, or probably, from an intellectual point of view, greater than
your weekly wages.’
‘But not by them.’
‘Suppose it had been earned by you, and you wished to leave it to your
only son, whom you had educated with a view to his inheriting it, and
the law stepped in and said you should not, but should leave it amongst
a number of working-people whom you had never seen or heard of--how
would you like that?’
‘But that is an exaggerated view of the case.’
‘I don’t see it. I don’t believe you have ever considered the subject
fairly. And answer me this; suppose the average working-man became
possessed of that money, or of part of it--_money which he had not
earned_--money which had become his by a lucky chance: do you think his
use of it would be worse, or as good as, or better, than the use made
of it by those two of whom we are speaking? Do you think it would do
him a real and permanent good: increase his self-respect, lessen his
self-indulgence, make him steadier, soberer, more inwardly dignified,
worthy, and honourable?’
She was looking earnestly at him, and Myles frowned, the words driven
back from his lips. Did he know one man amongst his fellow-workman on
whom the possession of such money would have such an effect? Would it
have such an effect upon himself? The generalities of the writers who
cried up the working-man and his wrongs seemed suddenly to grow small,
and to shrink into the background.
‘Oh,’ went on Adrienne, ‘I don’t think you working-men know in the
least how noble your work intrinsically is. You only see that others
are outwardly better off than you, and you clamorously demand a share
of that wealth. You don’t see how disastrous to your best interests
such an acquisition would be.’
Myles had started up, feeling terribly humiliated.
‘You think so ill of us!’ he exclaimed. ‘You could come and see us
yesterday, and talk to my sister as if she had been your sister--and
now you reproach us in this way. Good-bye!’
‘Stop!’ said she, laying her hand upon his arm, and looking earnestly
into his face. ‘How wild and impatient you are! Think a moment! It is
not of _you_ I am speaking. Do you know any other working-man to whom I
could speak in this way?’
She paused. It was true. Perhaps Harry Ashworth might hear those words
and bear them--he knew of no other who would do so; and while he was
stung and tortured by what she said, he felt a bitter consciousness
that it was true. But he stood still, and waited to hear the end.
‘I am speaking to you with a purpose,’ Adrienne went on in the same
tone, low and quiet, but full of vehemence. ‘Since that night when you
stepped forward in my defence, I have thought much about you--very
much. I have studied you, and you do not know how well-used I am to
studying people. The more I have studied you, the more I have felt that
you were both generous and high-minded--and terribly hot-tempered,’
she added, with a smile, which Myles thought must have charmed the
temper of a ravening wolf. ‘Just think what you, a workman, might do
by setting an example to your fellow-workmen. Take the right side. You
are too good for the commonplace career of an ordinary “intelligent
working-man,” for a blind submission to trade-union rules, and for
an obstinate resistance to your masters, just because they are your
masters, or because your union bids you resist them. Don’t be a
tool; use your reason; consider the why and wherefore of things. Be
answerable to your conscience alone for all you say and do. Help to
show your fellows that all improvement in their condition must arise
actively from within, not be received passively from without--you know
that, and own it, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Myles, quickly, folding his arms and leaning against the
mantelpiece, his eyes fixed upon her, as she stood before him, with her
head a little thrown back; her eyes alight, looking beautiful in her
energy and excitement.
‘I wish,’ she said, ‘I often wish that I were a working-woman, like
your sister. I would show you what I meant; how toil could be ennobled.’
She paused. Myles’s heart was beating wildly. Something, whether God or
devil he had no time to think, hurried quick words from his lips; in a
voice as low, as vehement as her own had been, he said,
‘Do you? And suppose it ever came to the point? Suppose some day some
working-man came to you, and told you he loved you; that he could see
how toil might be ennobled, if you would help him to do it--there would
be an end of your philosophy. You would think of the cottage to live
in, the floors to scrub, the rough neighbours, the coarse common life,
the children to tend, and make, and mend, and sew for; and if you could
get over that, there would be the man himself--a great rough fellow--a
workman, not a gentleman, a man of rough speech, like--like our sort.
You would have to work for him, too; to cook, and sew, and wash for
him; to obey him--_you_. When he said, “Do this,” you must do it, and
when he called, “Come here!” you must go to him. That’s the way amongst
us working-people. What about the ennobling of toil _then_?’
He spoke jeeringly, and hated himself for doing so; and listened for
her answer in a state of wild, if silent, excitement.
Her hands had dropped, her eyes had sunk, her face was burning; she
turned away. If he could have trusted himself to move or speak, he
would have fallen upon his knees and begged her pardon.
‘Oh, Myles!’ said she, at last, in a very low voice. He bit his lip
till the blood came, at that sound; the most maddening in its mingled
sweetness and bitterness, he had ever heard. ‘I suppose I gave you the
right to say that,’ she said, ‘and to demand an answer too. You put
it tersely, certainly. As you speak, I can see the very life rising
before me that you picture.’
‘And yourself in it!’ said he, still with a sneer, though he would have
given the world to ask her to forgive him.
‘No. You forget something,’ she replied, walking to the window, while
he still leaned against the mantelpiece. ‘You made it all hard and
sordid. You forgot the very “ennobling” that began the discussion.
I _could_ fancy myself in such a home--a working-man’s wife--but to
become that, I must love that man; and in the life you described there
was no love. The man I loved, be he workman or prince, must be a
gentleman--not a brute.’
‘Ah! and supposing you met this working-man--or whoever he might be?’
suggested Myles, in a calm, restrained kind of voice.
‘If I met him, and if I loved him, and he loved me, and asked me to
marry him, I would say “yes;” and I would love him, and serve him
faithfully to the end of my life.’
The words fell softly and gently, almost timorously, as if she
hesitated to speak of such a thing; and yet with a certain gentle
firmness which said that they were no sentimental verbiage, but
expressed the steadfast feeling of a steadfast heart. But each word
was like a drop of liquid fire in the young man’s veins. She seemed
suddenly to be close beside him--a possibility, a thing he might
dream of--and fifty thousand times higher and farther off, and more
impossible to him than ever. How could _he_ ever hope to bend that
heart to love him? The very thought was insanity.
He mastered his emotion, and walked up to her. She turned, but did not
look at him.
‘I beg your pardon, most humbly,’ said he.
‘It is granted freely. I dare say it has been good for me; it has
reduced my vague theories to the language of common sense. I had no
right to reproach you with the faults of your class, and expect nothing
but milk and honey from your lips in return. We understand each other.
Oh, but yours is a biting tongue! It cuts like a knife.’
‘It forgot itself when it turned against _you_. But, remember, your
words had roused me. You made me blush for my own “vague theories,” as
you call them. If you could not have said what you did, to any other
workman, do you suppose I could have spoken so to any other young lady?’
‘No, no. I suppose not,’ said she, but her face was still downcast. The
glance which he at last received wavered almost timidly. She resumed
her seat and her work, saying, ‘And you will think of what I have said?’
‘I will--seriously. I believe you are right, but the thing was too
wonderful for me. I could not attain unto it--all at once.’
The conversation was turned, as if by one consent, to books. Adrienne’s
heart was beating unwontedly fast; her knight had not only surprised,
but somewhat subdued her; delighting her at the same time. He was no
tool; he could turn upon her, and he had the front of a ruler. That
glance and that voice were not to be forgotten. She thrilled as she
remembered them. She was glad he had not gone; the sensation that he
was still there was pleasurable, with a strange potency of strength.
The door opened, and Mr. Blisset was wheeled in, and a servant brought
afternoon tea. Then Mr. Blisset began to talk, and Myles to listen.
Mr. Blisset had some of his niece’s conversational power. The time
flew insensibly, till supper was announced. Myles rose, fearing he had
intruded too long.
‘No,’ said Mr. Blisset. ‘Stay, unless you are tired, and my niece will
give us some music.’
He looked at her, and she said, ‘Yes, do stay!’ And Myles stayed.
That evening Adrienne sang some songs. She finished with ‘_Neue Liebe
neues Leben_,’ and Myles went home with its last passionate words
ringing in his ears:
‘_Liebe, Liebe, lass’ mich los!_’
Would it ever ‘let him loose,’ that love which had sprung up so
suddenly and strongly, making every other feeling weak in the glow of
its might and strength?