A FALSE STEP IN GOOD FAITH
The day after that unfortunate fracas at the mills was Christmas
Day. It will easily be understood that to Roger it did not this year
form the most cheerful occasion imaginable. He had seen Ada on the
evening of the twenty-fourth, and some kind of a reconciliation had
then been patched up between them, but one which set Roger thinking,
and made him feel that many differences of opinion might be less
disastrous than such a making up of a quarrel. It had not been
spontaneous; it had been largely due to the intervention of Mr.
Dixon, who was very indignant with his daughter for what he called
‘making such an exhibition of herself.’ He condemned Otho Askam in
no measured terms, but his blame of Ada and her ‘want of sense’ was
almost as strong. He wanted to know where she meant to draw the line
in her folly. He added that she was doing her character no good by
such ‘carryings on,’ and uttered a dark hint as to the implacable
nature of his wrath should she ever in the future disgrace, or as he
expressed it, ‘lower herself’ in any way whatsoever.
During the paternal admonitions Mrs. Dixon maintained an ominous
silence. As has been before said, she did not favour Roger’s
pretensions, and had always looked to her daughter to marry
well;—not what Mr. Dixon considered to be well, but what she, his
consort, understood by the term. On returning from the concert, and
finding that Ada had gone to her room, her mother had repaired
thither, and had extracted from the girl an account of every word
uttered throughout the evening, by herself, Otho, Miss Wynter, and
Roger. She had not said much, save some strong expressions
condemnatory of Roger’s behaviour, which she characterised as
‘tyrannical,’ ‘impudent,’ ‘masterful,’ and ‘odious,’ and expressed
indignation that her daughter should be forced to do the bidding of
such a man. But at the recital of Otho’s attentions there was an
expression in her face which Ada did not interpret as one of
displeasure.
By Mr. Dixon’s orders the young woman had received her betrothed
with outward friendliness, though she declined with quiet,
persistent obstinacy, to say she was sorry for what had happened.
Reconciliations made to order are apt to carry about them a very
strong flavour of their artificial nature and origin, and this
particular reconciliation bore the stamp of unreality very plainly
to be read.
On going in on Christmas Eve, Roger was, for once, not at all sorry
to find that the Dixons had friends with them. Mr. Dixon received
him heartily, Ada demurely, Mrs. Dixon coldly, scarcely speaking to
him at all. There was a miserable constraint and unreality about
everything. Roger felt it a relief to himself, and had a bitter
conviction that it was also one to Ada, when he had to tell her that
he had promised Mr. Johnson to take all the organist’s duty on the
following day, in order that that official might take a holiday and
visit some friends. His time would, therefore, be so much taken up
that he would not be able to call and see her before service. She
heard his excuse with indifference, and Roger went to bed that
night, and arose also on the following morning, with a heavy problem
agitating his mind. How was he to treat her? What was he to do with
this wilful creature whom he loved so much, and who had succeeded in
making their mutual relations so miserable and so embarrassed? For
it was he who had been sinned against, as he very well knew, and
though in his tenderness he was ready to condone that, and would
have eagerly made an effort after any reconciliation that should
have reality in it, yet the sense of duty and of the fitness of
things stepped in, and told him that to let a condition of things be
initiated in which the woman was to be humoured even when wrong, and
the man was to beg forgiveness for all misunderstandings, whether
caused by himself or not, was simple madness. Yet how he was to
institute anything more reasonable, he did not see, unless Ada were
brought to see that she had behaved badly, of which truth not the
most glimmering consciousness seemed to have been afforded her.
With this trouble in his mind he went to church on Christmas
morning, and tried, almost unconsciously, to find a solution to his
difficulties in the language spoken to him by his music. To a
certain extent he found what he wanted; he received soothing, and
that alone was a help to counsel. It was not the first time that
music had come to him with healing on her wings; most likely it
would not be the last.
Seated up in the organ-loft, and looking into the mirror in front of
him, he could see, not only the vicar and his curate, but a good
many of the congregation too,—all diminished, reversed in position,
moving up and down silently, rising and sitting down again like
automata or dream-creatures. His sight was keen and long. He could
identify a good many of those who came in, and amongst them he saw
Ada and her father and mother. Ada, he perceived, was not so
prostrate under the shock of their quarrel as to have neglected the
claims of Christmas Day to be considered a _fête_ day in matters of
toilette. She was dressed gaily, and he saw a pretty face, looking
prettier still in the framework of a smart and becoming new bonnet.
It was a fresh, sweet face, seen thus in repose, and at a distance,
and his heart yearned towards its owner, and he tried to put out of
his mind the ugly recollection of the same face turned upwards
towards Otho Askam, with a smile, and afterwards looking at him,
cross, distorted, pouting.
Whether the music inspired him, or the sight of Ada, he knew not,
but there flashed suddenly into his mind the recollection that he
must most likely soon lose sight of her, for a considerable time at
any rate, and with this recollection the conviction that that was
the best thing that could possibly happen to them both. Separation
for a season would, he argued, teach them both to look upon things
with less prejudiced eyes. She would miss him, and want him, and he
would learn to be less indignant at what had happened between them.
As he came to this conclusion, which he hugged as a conviction,
because it presented to him a way out of his difficulty with regard
to the most judicious course to take with Ada, he perceived Gilbert
Langstroth walking up the aisle behind Eleanor Askam, and they went
together to the great square pew belonging to Thorsgarth. Roger
began to wonder if Michael was right in thinking there might be
something between them. Then he saw the choir and parsons coming in,
and he wound up his voluntary, and the service began. When it was
over, he played the congregation out to the music of a quick
movement from a sonata of Beethoven—a passage full of storm and
stress; of pain, struggle, and striving. And as the wild and noble
music pealed out, some of his pain and unrest passed away with it.
When he had left the church, and got into the churchyard, it was
almost empty. One or two groups still lingered in conversation. Ada
and her parents were not amongst them, but Roger was surprised to
see Gilbert and Miss Askam still there. She looked very pale, he
noticed, and grave, but also very beautiful in her dark brown velvet
and furs. He raised his hat, and was passing on, but Gilbert stepped
forward, and to Roger’s bewildered amazement, accosted him.
‘I have been waiting for you,’ said he. ‘I want a word with you, if
you can spare a moment; and Miss Askam desires me to present you to
her;’ and he turned from one to the other.
Again Roger’s hat came off, and he could not find it in his heart to
look with anything but gentleness upon this sad young face, in which
he, like Michael, had begun to perceive a nobility and firmness of
expression beneath the mere beauty of outline, which expression
attracted him whether he would or no. She only said a very few words
to him, quietly and simply.
‘I wished to make your acquaintance. I have heard much about you
from Dr. Rowntree, and from my friend, Mrs. Johnson.’
To which Roger gravely replied that he was highly honoured, and had
heard also of Miss Askam from the same friends. He perfectly
appreciated the spirit which dictated this advance from her.
‘She would repair the wrong, if she could. Poor thing! She might as
well try to sweep back the ocean with a besom.’
Then Gilbert said to him, ‘I had no opportunity of speaking to you
the other morning, but I want to do so particularly. I have business
to discuss with you. Will you meet me to-morrow morning in the
reading-room in the town—say at twelve, or earlier if you like?’
‘Certainly. Twelve will suit me perfectly. It will no doubt be
better that we should have a little talk.’
‘Thank you. I shall be punctual,’ said Gilbert, with the air of a
man who is much obliged.
They parted, and Roger took his way to Mr. Dixon’s, where he had
been bidden some time ago, to dine and spend the day; not because he
felt any sudden desire for their society, or they for his, but
because it was Christmas, and it is the proper thing to go and make
merry with your friends and relations at that season. He had to go
out once more to play at the evening service, except for which
interval he spent most of his time in the company of his betrothed
and her parents, with what results may be imagined. Ada was no more
gracious, no more penitent to-day, than she had been yesterday.
Roger’s conviction that a temporary separation would be good for the
spiritual welfare of both became stronger. He imparted his idea to
Mr. Dixon, in a private conversation with him, stating his reasons,
and Mr. Dixon entirely agreed with him. They both brought heavy
broadsides of common sense to bear upon the question, and neither of
them could do more; neither of them could have understood, if some
scatter-brained person had stepped forward, and assured them that to
settle a question of that kind it was most desirable that to common
sense should be joined a little of the much rarer and more precious
quality of imagination. They saw facts, and they grappled with them
in the very best way in which they knew how; and they were at one in
the opinion that Ada, if left to herself a little, might come to a
better mind.
On the following day, at noon, punctual to his appointment, Roger
repaired to the reading-room in the town. There was no one there; it
was holiday time, and people were otherwise amusing themselves. As
he waited for Gilbert he could not but reflect how it was they came
to meet thus.
‘He knows I wouldn’t set my foot inside Thorsgarth, and he knows,
too, that he need never again darken the door of his brother; so we
have to sneak into a public room, where there is neutral ground. It
is an odious state of things, and I shall be glad to be out of it.’
He had not long to wait. Gilbert arrived directly afterwards, and
looked pleased to see him.
‘I am much obliged to you for coming,’ began Gilbert. ‘It gives me
hopes that I shall be successful in my errand.’
‘I thought you would want to know how the books stand and so on, for
the benefit of my successor, when he arrives.’
‘Of course that will be necessary, but it is not what I came about
to-day. I won’t waste words in telling you how annoyed, and more
than annoyed I have been—I may say mortified and disgusted, at what
has just taken place. I know the value of your services, and that
this is no fitting recompense for them.’
‘I don’t know about the value of my services, but I feel as if I had
been rubbed the wrong way, and that by no means gently,’ said Roger.
‘Of course. And you will naturally be unwilling to remain without a
situation longer than is necessary.’
‘Naturally. I have done nothing about it yet, because nobody wants
to hear about such things at Christmas-time; but I thought of
advertising, or perhaps writing to my former employers directly.’
‘Yes, of course you could do that. But I have it on my conscience
that it was to oblige me and to do me a service that you left those
former employers, and it must be my business not to let you suffer
for that.’
‘You are very kind,’ said Roger, perfectly appreciating the unusual
nature of this long memory. ‘Very kind, you are; but I don’t see how
any one could hold you responsible for what has happened, or
consider it your fault if a man whom I have had to do with is such a
blackguard, and shows his blackguardism in such an offensive manner
that I have to leave him. I’ve had my wages for more than six years,
and——’
‘You have done a great deal more than that. You have stuck to the
affair from the beginning, and worked it through good and bad, till
from a doubtful venture you have made it into a profitable business.
Any common foreman might have stayed in his place and taken his
wages. You have been something different. But there is no need to
beat about the bush. I have a proposal to make to you. I have had a
fair measure of success in the business in which I am engaged. I
think of finally settling accounts with Mr. Askam, who has never
cared for business of that kind. I shall pay him the remainder of
the capital and interest still owing to him, and continue to work
the mills on my own account; and I thought that under those
circumstances you might consent to remain, since you would have the
entire management of the concern, and of course a share in the
profits, and would have absolutely nothing further to do with Otho
Askam. What do you say to it?’
The proposition took Roger by surprise, and embarrassed him at the
same time, for it made his decision concerning the separation of Ada
and himself seem less than before the only reasonable one to come
to. But he was not a man who came to such decisions in a moment of
carelessness or impatience, and, having once arrived at them he was
hard to move. At first there was a strong feeling of temptation,—the
sensation that Gilbert’s proposal put an end to all difficulties,
and made his way clear before him. This, which was the natural
feeling, he immediately began to distrust, chiefly because of his
previous resolution to leave Bradstane, and after a few moments of
rapid thought decided that to make things clear and right between
him and Ada, he would make any sacrifice; and if this was the
sacrifice required—the giving up of this opening—why, the more
promptly and rapidly it was accomplished the better.
‘This is what I never expected,’ he at last said, slowly, ‘and it is
very tempting.’
‘That means, that it does not tempt you, but the reverse; is it not
so?’
‘No; it does tempt me very much. But there are private
reasons—reasons which I can’t quite explain to you, which I am
afraid will prevent it.’
‘If you say that, I suppose I must not press you. But I am very
sorry, if you think you cannot do as I wish. There are several
reasons why I wished it very much, apart from the one that you are
far better suited to the post than any one else I could possibly
find. One is, that if you had accepted, there would have been no
further settlements required, since I know you so well;—no question
of references, or recommendations from other persons.’
‘Yes, I understand that.’
‘But, if you do not come to me, but take another situation, you will
have to refer to your former employer, who, in name at any rate, has
been Mr. Askam.’
‘Well, and what can Mr. Askam say of me that is not creditable?’
‘Nothing—with truth. But you are aware that he is unscrupulous and
extremely vindictive.’
‘But there is such a thing as an action for defamation of character,
if people tell lies about you. I have not the slightest fear of any
such thing. He may dislike me, but he is not quite mad, and he
simply dare not do it.’
‘I fear you do not know him so well as I do. “Daring” has simply
nothing to do with it. He is not a man who dares or dares not. He is
a creature who yields to every impulse of anger or passion, as
blindly and unquestioningly, almost, as when he was a child. He has
got an intense hatred for you now, because you have thwarted and
spoken plainly to him, and he is now capable of committing any folly
in order to punish you. What I wished to say is this, that if you
will allow me, I will do all in my power to see you placed as soon
as possible in a situation at least as good as the one which, from
no fault of yours, you are forced to leave. And if I am the first to
hear of such an opening, I will at once communicate with you; if you
are the first, all I ask of you is, that you will write to me, and
not to Mr. Askam, for references. Then I shall be able to see that
justice is done, and that no scandal takes place.’
Roger yielded to the honest impulse which arose in him, to lay aside
all suspicion, and thank Gilbert heartily and unaffectedly.
‘I don’t pretend it is not a matter of importance to me,’ he said,
‘for it is; and I am thankful to be helped forward a bit. I feel
very grateful to you.’
‘You won’t take a few days, then, to consider my proposal about the
works here?’ said Gilbert, looking almost wistfully at him.
Roger shook his head slowly.
‘I think it is better not,’ said he. ‘I have considered my whole
situation carefully since Friday night, and I am perfectly certain
that I am best out of Bradstane for a time, both for my own sake,
and for that of those most bound up with me. And when I settle down,
it would be as well that it should not be here, but somewhere else.’
‘Very well. I shall not attempt to alter your decision now. We must
see about another situation as speedily as possible.’
There was a little pause, during which Roger thought some rather
puzzled thoughts. He could not understand Gilbert—that was very
natural—and he owned that the character of the other man was a
problem to which he had not the key. He felt the charm of manner
which years of growth and cultivation had developed in Gilbert, and
which is a thing not to be described in so many words. He understood
also that Gilbert was acting the part now of a gentleman, an
honourable man, and a friend. He gathered that Gilbert disliked and
abhorred the conduct of Otho Askam, and his character. That was a
group of characteristics which went harmoniously together. What he
could not understand, in his simplicity and straightforwardness, was
that this same man should still be the friend, adviser, visitor,
companion of Askam, whose whole conduct was so indecent and brutal;
and that in past days he should have descended to the very base
intrigue which he had undoubtedly conducted, with regard to the
disposal of his father’s property. That intrigue, when discovered,
had alienated his brother from him for ever; and, reflected Roger,
suddenly, whose money was it with which Gilbert proposed to carry on
the working of the Townend Mills? There had never been a word said
about the two thousand pounds which Michael had rejected, but which
Gilbert had probably manipulated all these years. This wonder
started up suddenly in his mind, and with all his disposition to
think well of the man who was so readily and so ungrudgingly
stepping to his aid, Roger could not stifle those other voices,
which spoke of another phase in the said man’s character.
His thoughts on the subject, though this was the drift of them, were
not thus orderly and formulated. They ran vaguely and ramblingly
through his mind, in and out of one another, uncertain and
shapeless.
Suddenly Gilbert observed—
‘I was present at the concert in the schoolroom the other night, and
I saw what happened there.’
‘Ay; along with the rest of the world,’ said Roger, writhing under
the recollection of it.
‘Yes; and you must excuse me for mentioning it. I feel it a duty, I
may say. There is no harm in your leaving Bradstane under the
present circumstances; but there might have been, but for something
that has taken place since the concert. But for this, I should have
told you plainly, as a friend, that you would do foolishly to go
away, and leave your _fiancée_ exposed to the possibility of
receiving further attentions from Otho Askam. It would have been by
no means an impossible contingency. Now, I am glad to say, there is
no danger of it.’
‘Indeed; and pray to what fortunate circumstance am I indebted for
such immunity?’
‘Just to this, that after the concert he saw Miss Wynter home,
proposed to her, and was accepted. He had accomplished his purpose
of frightening and subduing her, though it seems to me that in order
to clinch his victory he had to go farther than he intended.’
‘She has got him at last, then,’ said Roger with contempt. ‘And now
I think of it, that will be an advantage to me, for she can never
have anything more to say to my little girl, and there will be an
end to an intimacy which I have always detested.’
‘Yes, you are right to be glad of that. Hers is not a friendship I
should desire for any woman in whom I was interested.’
‘The wicked always gain their ends,’ said Roger, unguardedly. ‘I did
hope she would never succeed in catching him, so far as I hoped
anything about it.’
‘She is not so fortunate, even from her point of view, as you
suppose,’ said Gilbert, tranquilly. ‘She has certainly got what she
aimed at, but sadly deteriorated from what it was when she first
began to scheme for it, and with it she has got a lot of other
things thrown in, which she could well have dispensed with. If she
were any one else I should feel sorry for her.’
‘You say that what she schemed for is deteriorated; now, excuse my
saying it, but how is it that you too cling to that man? That is a
thing which I have been wondering ever since you came here this
year.’
Gilbert’s face changed a little.
‘I suppose it must be unaccountable to many another, as well as to
you,’ he said. ‘I can only say that it is because he was true to me,
in his way, long ago, when I had other hopes and other ambitions
than I have now. He was not afraid to declare that he was my friend,
and that whoever spoke against me, insulted him. It would conduce
greatly to my comfort and peace of mind, if I could forget that; but
I cannot. So my relations to him are defined, not by my present
opinion of him, but by his conduct towards me in former days. Other
things happened at that time; I know it is useless to speak to you
of it, but he stood my friend when no one else would have done. Otho
Askam is my Old Man of the Sea. We all have one of some kind, and it
seems to me that the best thing to do with them is to carry them
quietly as long as one’s strength holds out.’
‘You say it is useless to speak to me of that past time. But, since
we have got so far below the surface in our talk, there is one thing
I would like to tell you, without any prejudice to my friendship
with Michael. You sent a note to him one day.’
‘Yes.’
‘He gave it to me to read at the time.’
‘Yes?’
‘I urged him to take a day to consider the matter, and I have always
felt that you were wronged by his refusing to do so. But his own
wrongs at that time were so incomparably greater than yours, and his
heart was so broken, that I have always condoned the fault, though I
was sorry for it. Now you know all.’
‘I am glad you have told me. His heart was so broken, you say,’ said
Gilbert, speaking with an evident effort. ‘I did not dare to think
of anything connected with him, then. He—is he—do you think it would
be a breach of confidence to let me know something of his
circumstances?’
‘I am afraid he would think so. He does not even know I am meeting
you.’
‘Ah! Say nothing then. But—his engagement with Miss Wynter. Surely
he cannot regret now that it was broken off?’
‘I don’t suppose he does. That did not make the blow at the time
less hard.’
‘No, no! I should have fancied somehow that he would have married
some one else. But he has not.’
‘No, he has not.’
‘Do you think he has ever cared to?’
‘He never had, up to a little while ago.’
‘And now you think he does?’
‘No, I don’t. I think he has been so well disciplined by what he has
gone through that it would take a great deal to make him really want
to marry any one. He can’t help admiring beautiful things, but he
won’t do anything so disastrous as to fall in love with the lady I
am thinking of. And besides, I know nothing about his feelings,
really. He does not wear his heart upon his sleeve—now.’
‘No. Of course I look upon all this as said in confidence; and I
think that for the present we have settled all we had to do.’
‘Yes, quite, I think. And I assure you I am much obliged to you.’
‘Not at all. I am glad to have had the talk. You have my London
address, I think.’
‘Yes. How long do you remain here?’
‘Only a few days more.’
They exchanged good mornings, and separated. Roger, going home, was
very thoughtful. He knew he had taken a momentous step in refusing
to remain in Bradstane. He believed it was the best step that was
open to him, and he took it. It is what men have to do on their way
through life. Steps of some kind we have to take, though each one
may be fraught with consequences which we cannot foresee, and which
we can only appreciate after we have lost all power in the matter.
We can look on, in these after days, at the results of our actions;
it is permitted to us to rejoice in the fruits of our conduct, or,
as often as not, to repine over the same, or to beat our breasts and
wish we had never been born,—but not to alter by so much as a
hair’s-breadth, the direction of the road opened out long ago by our
own deed.