‘THOSE ARE THE KILLING GRIEFS WHICH DARE NOT SPEAK.’
BY slow degrees Beatrix arrived at an understanding of her position.
People in Little Yafford believed her guilty of her father’s murder.
The idea was horrible, and she would have fled, but pride came to
her rescue, and she stayed, defying all the slanderous tongues and
cold cruel eyes in the village, from the judicial discourse and pale
gray orbs of Miss Coyle, to the lively comments and little red-brown
rat-like optics of Mr. Tudway. She met cold looks and averted heads
at the church door, where she had been wont to find herself saluted
with nods and becks, and a world of sympathy and friendliness. Now
and then she encountered a startling glance, as of wonder that she
should dare to enter the church. Even Mrs. Dulcimer was cold, and
seemed embarrassed by Beatrix’s presence, though affecting all the old
cordiality. But the Vicar was full of kindness, and tried to make up
for everybody else’s cruelty. His charity was not of the officious kind
which forces itself upon people who do not want it, but it was that
stronger and wider charity which is inexhaustible for those who do.
He had let Beatrix come and go as she pleased hitherto, and had never
pressed her to remain. Now he took her under his wing, brought her from
the Water House to the Vicarage on his arm, and let the whole village
see that he was not ashamed of his ward.
‘Mr. Dulcimer always cared too much for the fleshpots of Egypt,’ said
Mrs. Coyle. ‘Miss Harefield’s money blinds him to her character. A sad
thing to see a minister of the gospel so devoted to worldly things.’
One day, stung by the disapproving look of a face that passed her in
the village street, Beatrix made a sudden appeal to Miss Scales.
‘What does it all mean?’ she asked, in an agitated voice. ‘Why do these
people give me such horrible looks--or pretend not to see me? I don’t
want their friendship. They are nothing in the world to me. But I can’t
endure to live in an atmosphere of dislike. What does it mean?’
‘My dear Beatrix, I had rather you did not ask me,’ Miss Scales
answered, stiffly.
Her manner had been gaining stiffness ever since her return from
Devonshire. A deeply bordered letter had come to announce the aunt’s
death, and a week after there had come another letter in a blue
envelope, from a local solicitor who had drawn the old lady’s will, to
inform Miss Scales that her aunt had appointed her sole executrix and
residuary legatee. There was a legacy to the faithful old servant--a
little sum in consols to provide for puss and pug--ancient favourites
who had quarrelled daily for the last fifteen years--and all the rest
went to Miss Scales. She was now a lady of property like her pupil,
with an unencumbered estate of nearly two hundred a year.
‘It would have been quite two hundred,’ said Miss Scales, ‘if it
hadn’t been for the money in consols left to Martha. I think my aunt
might have left me to provide for Martha and Floss and Fido. I should
have taken care they never wanted anything.’
‘Perhaps they would rather be able to take care of themselves,’ Beatrix
had replied, a speech which was not agreeable to Miss Scales.
‘But I must ask you,’ said Beatrix, as she drove her pony carriage up
the moorland road. ‘Whom else can I ask? Have I so many friends ready
to give me information? You must answer me.’
‘I do not recognise any obligation to do so unless I choose, Beatrix,’
Miss Scales replied, severely. ‘The question you put is a very painful
one. I cannot deny that there is an unpleasant feeling about you in
people’s minds. Your purchasing laudanum at different shops--forgive me
if I say in an underhand and crafty manner----’
‘They would not have given me enough at one shop,’ interrupted Beatrix,
‘and I was almost mad for want of sleep.’
‘My dear, I am not finding fault with you. God forbid that I should
judge you. But, altogether, the circumstance was most unfortunate,
and it has had a painful effect upon people’s minds. I am not sure,
Beatrix, that it would not be well for you to leave Little Yafford.’
‘What! run away from these people because they are cruel enough to
believe this hideous thing?’ cried Beatrix, passionately. ‘No, that is
a thing I will never do. I will live here till my hair is gray, rather
than let them think their false judgment has driven me away.’
‘Well, Beatrix, I am very sorry,’ said Miss Scales. ‘I think a tour in
Switzerland--or a residence in Hanover--where you might acquire the
German language with the best accent--would be good for you in every
way. And, perhaps, before you came back something would transpire to
convince people they had misjudged you. However, you must do as you
please, of course. I have no authority. Mr. Dulcimer is your guardian.
So long as he is satisfied I cannot complain. And now, my dear, with
regard to myself, I have been wishing to mention it for some time, but
I did not like to say anything while your papa’s death was so recent.
I am going to leave you, and settle in Devonshire.’
Beatrix was petrified. She had considered Miss Scales as much a fixture
as the old eight-day clock in the hall--nay, as the Water House
itself, or as the massive old bridge with its single arch, which had
spanned the river ever since the time of the Romans. Miss Scales was
tiresome, and given to much preaching, and to the use of Johnsonian
locutions, without the correctness of Johnson. She easily degenerated
into a nuisance, but Beatrix was used to her, and regarded her as a
part of life. Such fondness as grows out of time and custom, Beatrix
had for Miss Scales, though not the affection that springs from merit
and sweetness in the object of it. That Miss Scales could wish to
remove herself permanently from the Water House was of all things most
startling. It was as if the cedar on the lawn had uprooted itself and
walked away to shade some other garden.
‘Leave me!’ cried Beatrix, pale with surprise. ‘You can’t really mean
it.’
‘Indeed, my dear, I do. My dearest aunt Judson has left me a nice
little independence--and at my age you would hardly expect a person to
go on working.’
‘There need be no work,’ said Beatrix, eagerly. ‘I need not trouble you
any more with my studies. I can read to myself instead of to you. It
will make no difference. You can have all your mornings free.’
‘You cannot suppose that, so long as I remained with you, I could
neglect the improvement of your mind, Beatrix,’ severely exclaimed
Miss Scales, fully believing in her own style of grinding--quite forty
years behind the spirit of the age--as an improving process. ‘No, my
dear, that is not the consideration. I want to live in my own house.
Dear aunt Judson has left me a _bijou_ cottage at Exmouth, and all her
beautiful furniture, and I feel it a duty I owe to myself, after all
these years of scholastic toil, to settle down. I shall be on the spot
to see after Floss and Fido, whom I should not like to leave to the
care of a hireling, however well provided for.’
This was a stray javelin flung at the faithful servant, to whom Mrs.
Judson had left five hundred pounds in consols.
‘Oh, very well, Miss Scales, if you like Floss and Fido better than
me,’ said Beatrix, proudly, giving the reins a little shake that sent
Puck into a canter.
‘Beatrix, are you trying to murder me?’ cried the terrified Miss
Scales. ‘Stop that pony this instant, or I’ll take the reins out of
your hands.’
‘If you do that we shall certainly be in the ditch. There, Puck is
quiet enough now.’
‘As to my liking Floss and Fido better than you,’ pursued Miss Scales
with her judicial air, when Puck had resumed his accustomed trot,
‘that is a very unfair way of putting it. I have my own happiness to
consider.’
‘Yes,’ said Beatrix, ‘that seems the first consideration with
everybody.’
‘If we cannot discuss this question without temper, Beatrix----’
remonstrated Miss Scales.
‘We cannot. At least, I cannot,’ answered Beatrix, quickly. ‘You have
lived with me ever since I can remember. Yes, one of the first things I
can remember is standing at your knee on a hot summer morning droning
over a selection of the psalms, in words of one syllable. That psalm
about the wicked man and a green bay tree, for instance. I never see
a bay tree without remembering how hard it was to learn to read. You
have lived with me ever since I was in my cradle, and yet you talk of
leaving me as coolly as if it were nothing to you.’
‘My dear Beatrix, the parting will be very painful to me; but it would
be more painful to remain.’
‘Why?’ asked Beatrix, fiercely.
‘Because I could not bear to see people look coldly upon you. I could
not live in a house under such a cloud as that which overshadows your
house.’
‘I see,’ cried Beatrix, her face hardening. ‘You believe what these
people believe.’
‘I have not said that.’
‘No, you would not dare to say it. But you are wicked enough to think
it--you who have known me all my life. This ends everything between us.’
‘I should think so,’ said Miss Scales. ‘I shall pack my trunks
to-night, and leave Little Yafford the first thing to-morrow morning.’
‘It will be best so,’ replied Beatrix, and she turned Puck with a
suddenness that swung the chaise round in a manner to make Miss Scales
a second time in fear of her life.
Beatrix drove home in silence, went straight to her own room, and shut
herself in there. Her own maid, Mary, carried her up some tea, and
she sent a message to Miss Scales excusing herself from going down to
dinner on the ground of a headache. Had she said a heartache it would
have been the truth.
Miss Scales ate her dinner in sullen state, meditating her life of
independence with Floss and Fido. She asked Peacock to order a fly
for her at a quarter past seven next morning, in time to catch the
quarter-past eight London train at Great Yafford. She devoted the
evening to packing her trunks, weeding out a few scarecrow odds and
ends of finery from the garden of her wardrobe as a parting bequest to
Mary. She left the Water House in the early winter gray, without having
seen Beatrix. Peacock handed her an envelope at the last moment, which
she opened presently in the fly. It contained no word of farewell, only
bank-notes for the current quarter’s salary.
This was the first absolute desertion. Beatrix felt it heavily. She
had been wounded at Bella Scratchell’s keeping aloof from her, as she
had done since her visit ended. She was more deeply wounded by Miss
Scales’s abandonment.
Before the day was out she was to receive another and much heavier
blow. A letter was brought her, late in the evening, from Cyril
Culverhouse. It was only the second letter she had ever received from
him, but she could have sworn to his handwriting if it had been shown
her among a thousand. There is no expert keener-eyed in these things
than love.
‘At last!’ she said to herself, with a great wave of joy drowning her
heart.
That the letter might bring evil tidings never occurred to her. It was
like the leaflet in the beak of the dove. It meant that the dark days
were ended, and the glad world was beginning to smile upon her again.
The letter was long, but she had not read many lines before despair
seized her. She uttered no cry or groan. She sat with the letter held
tightly in her convulsed hand, devouring the cruel words.
‘MY DEAREST AND ONLY BELOVED,--Before leaving this place I write to
explain my conduct of the last six weeks, which must have seemed cold
and unworthy, and to explain my course in the future, which may offend
her for whom I would sacrifice most things rather than offend. I have
made up my mind to leave Little Yafford. I have made up my mind never
to marry. Reasons which I cannot enter upon have urged me to this
resolution. I have loved you deeply, fondly, with an unmeasured and
absorbing love, but I have schooled myself to surrender the hope of a
happiness which made life very fair and sweet, and which I once deemed
not incompatible with my calling and the duties that belong to it.
Forgive me, Beatrix, for the pain this letter may cause you--forgive
me for the part I have had in your life. Had Providence willed for me
to find you unshackled and poor we might have been happy. As it is, I
am assured that only misery, remorse, and regret would follow our union.
May God bless you. May He pardon and pity you, in all your need of
pardon and pity. The best of us need both at His hands. I take up
my pilgrim’s staff, with a heavy heart, and go my way, cheered by no
promise in the future, sustained only by the hope of doing some good
work among my fellow-men before I die.
Oh, Beatrix, if you could know how my heart yearns towards you--how my
whole being is rent as I write this cold farewell--you would pity me as
I pity you--for I have need of all your pity.
I will write no more. Words are no balm for a real and lasting sorrow.
Farewell, Beatrix, and whatever you may think of me, believe at least
that you are the only woman I have ever loved--the only woman I can
ever love.
Yours in deepest sorrow,
CYRIL CULVERHOUSE.’
This ended all. It was very clear to her that her lover thought as
Little Yafford thought. In his eyes too she was a guilty wretch, for
whom he could feel nothing but pity.
‘He was the only creature who ever really loved me since my mother
died,’ she thought, ‘and now he has deserted me.’