suspicious eye told him, to the same clay as that out of which the
landlady is modelled, only circumstances had not developed in her the
pugnacity and acridity of the class. In herself, she was an
uninteresting person, whom only the love and respect of her daughters
could invest with any favour. But those daughters were both charming.
His prejudice against Salome was gone completely, that against Janet
almost gone. As his suspicions of Salome left, his dislike of Janet
faded simultaneously. He had conceived a mistrust of Salome because he
had conceived an aversion against Janet; now that he began to like
Salome, this liking influenced his regard for the sister.
The society of his aunt was no gain to Philip. He disapproved of her
lack of principle and disliked her selfishness. The tone of her mind
and talk were repugnant to him, and Lambert and he would never become
friends, because the cement of common interests was lacking.
Philip discovered himself not infrequently during the day looking at the
office clock, and wishing that worktime were over; not that he wearied
of his work, but that he was impatient to be home and have a chance of a
word with Salome. When he returned from the factory, if he did not meet
her in the hall, or on the stairs, or see her in the garden, he was
disappointed. It was remarkable how many wants he discovered that
necessitated a descent to Mrs. Cusworth's apartments, and how, when he
entered and found that one of the daughters was present, his visit was
prolonged, and the conversation was not confined to his immediate
necessity. If on his entering, the tea-table was covered, he was easily
persuaded to remain for a cup. His reserve, his coldness, did not
wholly desert him, except when he was alone with Salome, when her
freshness and frankness exercised on him a relaxing fascination; all his
restraint fell away at once, and he became natural, talkative, and
cheerful.
'The fact of the matter is,' said Philip, 'I have been lifting the veil
to you that covers furnished lodging-house life, and exposing my
wretchedness to enlist your sympathy because I am about to ask a
considerable favour.'
'I am sure we need no persuasion to do what we can for you.'
'It is this. If your mother would not object, I should like to have my
meals with you all, just as my uncle was wont. Having everything served
in my room recalls my past with too great intensity. I have heard of a
prisoner who had spent many years in the Bastille, that in after-life,
when free, he could not endure to hear the clink of fireirons. It
recalled to him his chains. If there be things at which my soul revolts
it is steak, chops, cutlets.'
'Oh! it would indeed be a pleasure to us--such a pleasure!' and Salome's
face told Philip that what she spoke she felt; the colour deepened in
her cheeks, and the dimples formed at the corners of her mouth.
'And now,' she said, still with the smile on her face, playing about her
lips; 'and now, Mr. Pennycomequick, you will not be angry if I ask you a
favour.'
'I angry!'
'Must I enlist your sympathy first of all, and inveigle you into
promising before you know what the request is I am about to make? I
might tell you that a young girl like me has a little absurd pride in
her, and that it is generous of a man to respect it, let it stand, and
not knock it over.'
'What is the favour? I am too cautious--have been too long in a
lawyer's office to undertake anything the particulars and nature of
which I do not know.'
'It is this, Mr. Pennycomequick. I want you not to say another word
about your kind and liberal offer to me. I will not accept it, not on
any account, because I have no right to it. So that is granted.'
'Miss Cusworth, I will not hear of this.' Philip's face darkened,
though not a muscle moved. 'Why do you ask this of me? What is the
meaning of your refusal?'
'I will not take that to which I have no right,' she replied firmly.
'You have a right,' answered Philip, somewhat sharply. 'You know as
well as I do that my uncle intended to provide for you, at least as he
did for Mrs. Baynes. It was not his wish that you should be left
without proper provision.'
'I know nothing of the sort. What he put into my hands was merely an
evidence that he had at one time purposed to do an unfair thing, and
that he repented of it in time.'
'Miss Cusworth, that cancelled will still remains to me a mystery, and I
do not see how I shall ever come to an understanding of how it was that
the signature was gone. From your account my uncle----'
'Never mind going over that question again. As you say, an
understanding of the mystery will never be reached. Allow it to remain
unattempted. I am content.'
'But, Miss Cusworth, we do not offer you a handsome, but a moderate
provision.'
'You cannot force me to take what I refuse to receive. Who was that
king to whom molten gold was offered? He shut his teeth against the
draught. So do I. I clench mine and you cannot force them open.'
'What is the meaning of this? Why do you refuse to have my uncle's
wishes carried out? You put us in an invidious position.'
Salome had shut her mouth. She shook her head. The pretty dimples were
in her cheeks. Her colour had deepened.
'Someone has been talking to you,' said Philip. 'I know there has. Who
was it?'
Salome again shook her head, with a provoking smile dappling and
dimpling her face; but seeing that Philip was seriously annoyed, it
faded, and she broke silence.
'There is a real favour you can do us, Mr. Pennycomequick, if you will.'
'What is that?' asked Philip. His ease and cheerfulness were gone. He
was angry, for he was convinced that Mrs. Sidebottom had said something
to the girl which had induced her to refuse the offer.
'It is this--mamma had all her money matters managed for her by dear Mr.
Pennycomequick. She did not consult us about them, and we knew and know
nothing about her property. I do not know how much she has, and in what
investment it is. She did not, I believe, understand much about these
affairs herself, she trusted all to the management of Mr.
Pennycomequick. He was so clever, so kind, and he did everything for
her without giving her trouble. But now that he is gone, I fancy she is
worried and bewildered about these things. She does not understand
them, and she has been fretting recently because she supposes that she
has encountered a great loss. But that is impossible. She has touched
nothing since Mr. Pennycomequick died, and what he had invested for her
must certainly have been invested securely. It is not conceivable that
she has lost since his death. I have been puzzling my head about the
matter, and I suspect that some of her vouchers have got among Mr.
Pennycomequick's papers, and she fancies they are lost to her. It is of
course possible as he kept the management of her little moneys, that
some of her securities may have been taken with his. If you would kindly
look into this matter for her, I am sure she will be thankful, and
so--without saying--will I. If you can disabuse her mind of the idea
that she has met with heavy losses, you will relieve her of a great,
haunting trouble.'
'I will do this cheerfully. But this does not affect the
obligation----'
'My teeth are set again. But--see! you offered to carry down my
glasses, and you have not done so. You have, moreover, hindered me in my
work.'
The house-door bell was rung.
'My aunt,' muttered Philip. 'I know the touch of her hand on knocker or
bell-pull. I am beginning to entertain towards her some of the feelings
I had towards my landladies in the old unregenerate lodging-house days.
Confound her! Why should she come now?'
*CHAPTER XXII.*
*YES OR NO?*
Philip was right. He had recognised the ring of Mrs. Sidebottom. As
soon as the door was opened her voice was audible, and Philip used a
strong expression, which only wanted raising another stage to convert it
into an oath.
Salome caught up a couple of hyacinth glasses and resumed her
interrupted occupation; and Philip went to the window to remove a
spring-nail that incommoded him. There are certain voices which, when
coming unexpectedly on the ear, make the conscience feel guilty, though
it may be free from fault. Such was that of Mrs. Sidebottom. If Philip
had been studying his Bible instead of talking to Salome, when he heard
her, he would have felt as though he had been caught reading an improper
French novel; and if Salome had been engaged in making preserves in the
kitchen, she would have been conscious of inner horror and remorse as
though she had been concocting poison. The reason of this is that those
who hear the voice know that the owner of the voice is certain, whatever
they do, to believe them to be guilty of some impropriety; and they are
frightened, not at what they have done, but at what they may be supposed
to have done.
'I suppose that Mr. Pennycomequick is in his room,' said Mrs.
Sidebottom, passing on, to the servant who had admitted her. 'It is not
his time to be at the office.'
She ascended the stairs to the study door, and in so doing passed
Salome, who bowed, and was not sorry to be unable to respond to the
proffered hand, having both of her own engaged, carrying glasses.
Philip heard his aunt enter the study, after a premonitory rap, and
remained where he was, hoping that as she did not find him in his room
she would conclude he was out, and retire. But Mrs. Sidebottom was not
a person to be evaded thus; and after having looked round the room and
called at his bedroom door, she came out on the landing and entered the
drawing-room, when she discovered him, penknife in hand, removing his
spring-nail.
'Oh!' she said, with an eye on the bulbs and flower-glasses. 'Adam and
Eve in Paradise.'
'To whom entered the mischief-maker,' said Philip, promptly turning upon
her.
'Not complimentary, Philip.'
'You brought it on yourself.'
'It takes two to pick a quarrel,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, 'and I am in the
most amiable mood to-day. By the way, you might have inquired about my
health this morning, for you knew I was not well yesterday. As you had
not the grace to do so, I have come to announce to you that I am
better.'
'I did not suppose that you had been seriously ill.'
'Not seriously ill, but indisposed. I nearly fainted in church last
night, as I told you; but you were otherwise occupied than in listening
to me. Now, I want to know, Philip, what was that rigmarole about
something or someone seen in the dark?'
'There was no rigmarole, as you call it.'
'Oh! do not pick faults in my language. You know what I mean. What was
the excuse made by Miss Cusworth for taking your arm?'
'Miss Cusworth did not take my arm.'
'Because you had not the wit to offer it; and yet the hint given was
broad enough.'
'I am busy,' said Philip, in a tone of exasperation. His aunt's manner
angered him, so that he could not speak or act with courtesy towards
her.
'Oh yes. Busy planting forget-me-not and love in a mist. Come, do not
be cross. What was the meaning of that exclamation? I want to know,
for I also saw someone standing by the lamp-post, looking on.'
'I will tell you, and then, perhaps, you will be satisfied, Aunt Louisa.
And when satisfied, I trust you will no longer detain me from my
business.'
Then Philip shortly and plainly narrated to his aunt what had happened.
He did so because he thought it possible, just possible, that she might
be able to explain the apparition.
She was surprised and disconcerted by what she heard, but not for long.
'Who has the garden key?' she inquired.
'My uncle had one on his bunch.'
'And that bunch is in your possession?'
'Yes, and has not been out of it. It is locked up in my bureau.'
'Very well, then, the fellow did not get in by that means. Had anyone
else a key?'
'Yes, Mrs. Cusworth.'
'And is there a third?'
'No; that is all.'
'Where was Mrs. Cusworth's key on the night in question?'
'I did not inquire. It was unnecessary.'
'Not at all unnecessary. If the man did not obtain access by your key,
he did that of by the housekeeper.'
'This is preposterous,' said Philip irritably. 'You have made no
allowance for another contingency--that the door may have been left
unlocked and ajar by the gardener, when last at work.'
'That will not do. The gardener has not been about the place for a
fortnight or three weeks. You say that the servants may have allowed a
friend to take the pick of Jeremiah's clothes. That explains nothing:
for it does not account for the garden door being unlocked, though it
might for the house door being left open. Why should not the Cusworths
have needy relatives and hangers-on as well as the servant girls? Needy
relatives smelling of beer, with patched small clothes and pimply faces,
who fly about with the bats, and to whom the cast-off clothing, the good
hat and warm overcoat, would be a boon. Who are these Cusworths?
Whence have they come? Out of as great an uncertainty as this
mysterious figure. They are creations out of nothing, like the
universe, but not, like it, to be pronounced very good. Now, Philip, is
not my solution of the riddle the only logical one?'
'This is enough on the subject,' said Philip, especially chafed because
his aunt's explanation really was the simplest, and yet was one which he
was unwilling to allow. 'You charge high-minded, honourable people
with----'
'I charge them with doing no harm,' interrupted Mrs. Sidebottom. 'The
clothes were laid out to be distributed to the needy; and Mrs. Cusworth
was given the disposal of them. If she chose to favour a relative, who
is to blame her? Not I. She would probably not care to have the sort
of relative who would touch his cap for Jeremiah's old suits, come
openly to the door in the blaze of day, and before the eyes of the
giggling maids. No doubt she said to the moulting relative, "Come in
the dark; help yourself to new plumage, but do not discredit us by
proclaiming kinship."'
Philip was too angry to answer his aunt. To change the subject he said,
'Miss Cusworth has refused to receive anything from us. That some
influence has been brought to bear on her to induce this, I have no
doubt, and I have as little doubt as to whose influence was exerted.'
He looked fixedly at his aunt.
'I am glad she has had the grace to do so,' answered Mrs. Sidebottom
cheerily. 'No, Philip, you need not drive your eyes into me, as if they
were bradawls. I can quite understand that she has told you all, and
laid the blame on me. I do not deny my part in the transaction. I am
not ashamed of it; on the contrary, I glory in it. You were on the
threshold of a great folly, that jeopardized the firm of Pennycomequick,
and my allowance out of it as well. I have stepped in to stop you. I
had my own interests to look after. I have saved you four thousand
pounds, which you could not afford to lose. Am not I an aunt whose
favour is worth cultivating; an aunt who deserves to be treated with
elementary politeness?'
Then Philip's anger boiled up.
'We see everything through opposite ends of the telescope. What is
infinitely small to me and far away, is to you present and immense; and
what to me is close at hand and overwhelming, is quite beyond your
horizon. To my view of things we are committing a moral wrong when
technically right. How that will was cancelled, and by whom, will
probably never be known; but nothing in the world will persuade me that
Uncle Jeremiah swung from one extremity of liberality to Miss Cusworth,
coupled with injustice to us, to the other extreme of generosity to us
and absolute neglect of her. Such a thing could not be. He would turn
in his grave if he thought that she, an innocent, defenceless girl, was
to be left in this heartless, criminal manner, without a penny in the
world, contrary to his wishes.'
'Why did he not make another will, if he wished it so much?'
'Upon my word,' said Philip angrily, 'I would give up my share readily
to have Uncle Jeremiah back, and know the rights of the matter of the
will.' He stood looking at his aunt with eyes that were full of anger,
and the arteries in his temples dark and swollen. 'I shall take care,'
he said, 'that she is not defrauded of what is her due.'
Then he left the room, and slung the door after him with violence, and
certainly with discourtesy. Never before had he lost his self-control
as he had lost it in Mrs. Sidebottom's presence on this occasion, but
before he had reached the foot of the staircase he had recovered his
cold and formal manner.
As he saw Salome come from the cupboard where she was arranging the
hyacinths, he bade her in an imperious manner attend him into the
breakfast-room, and she obeyed readily, supposing he had some domestic
order to give.
'Shut the door, please,' he said. The anger raised by Mrs. Sidebottom
affected his address and behaviour to Salome. A sea that has been
lashed into fury beats indiscriminately against every object, rock or
sand-bank. He stationed himself with his back to the window, and signed
to the girl to face him.
'Miss Cusworth,' he said, putting his hands behind him, as though he
were standing before the hearth and not at a window, 'my aunt has
imposed on your ignorance, has taken a wicked advantage of your
generosity, in persuading you to decline the offer that was made you.'
'I decline it from personal motives, uninfluenced by her.'
'Do you mean to tell me she has not been meddling in the matter? I know
better.'
'I do not deny that she spoke to me yesterday, but her words did not
prompt, they only served to confirm the resolution already arrived at.'
'But I will not allow you to refuse. You shall have the money.'
'I never withdraw a word once given,' said Salome, with equal decision.
'Then you shall take a share in the mill--be a partner.'
'I cannot,' she said hastily, with a rush of colour. 'Indeed this is
impossible.'
'Why so?'
'It cannot be. I will not go back from my word.'
'I have my conscience, that speaks imperiously,' said Philip. 'I
cannot, I will not be driven by your obstinacy to act dishonourably,
unjustly.'
Salome said nothing. She was startled by his vehemence, by his
roughness of manner, so unlike what she had experienced from him.
'Very well,' said he hurriedly. 'You shall take me, and with me my
share of the mill, and so satisfy every scruple. That, I trust, will
content you as it does me.'
The girl was frightened, and looked up suddenly to see if he meant what
he said. His back was toward the window. Had he occupied a reverse
position she would have seen that his eyes were not kindled with the
glow of love, that he spoke in anger, and to satisfy his conscience, not
because he had made up his mind that she, Salome, was the only woman
that could make him happy.
The Rabbis say that the first man was made male-female, and was parted
asunder, and that the perfect man is only to be found in the union of
the two severed halves. So each half wanders about the world seeking
its mate, and gets attached to wrong halves, and this is the occasion of
much misery; only where the right organic sections coalesce is there
perfect harmony.
It did not seem as if Philip and Salome were the two halves gravitating
towards each other, for the attraction was small, and the thrust
together came from without--was due, in fact, to the uninviting hand of
Mrs. Sidebottom.
'Come,' said he, 'I wait for an answer. I see no other way of getting
out of our difficulties. What I now propose will assure to you and your
mother a right in this house, and Mrs. Sidebottom will be able to obtain
admission only by your permission. Do you see? I cannot, without a
moral wound and breakdown of my self-respect, accept a share of the mill
without indemnifying you, according to what I believe to have been the
intentions of my uncle. You refuse to take anything to which you have
not a right. Accept me, and you have all that has fallen to me.'
Certainly Philip's proposal was not made in a tender manner. He
probably perceived that it was unusual and inappropriate, for he added
in a quieter tone, 'Rely on it, that I will do my utmost to make you
happy; and I believe firmly that with you at my side my happiness will
be complete. I am a strictly conscientious man, and I will
conscientiously give you all the love, respect, and forbearance that a
wife has a right to demand.'
'You must give me time to consider,' said Salome timidly.
'Not ten minutes,' answered Philip hastily. 'I want an answer at once.
That woman upstairs--I mean my aunt--I--I particularly wish to knock her
down with the news that she is checkmated.'
Again Salome looked up at him, trying to form her decision by his face,
by the expression of his eyes, but she could not see whether real love
streamed out of them such as certainly did not find utterance by the
tongue.
Her heart was beating fast. Did she love him? She liked him. She
looked up to him. Some of the old regard which had been lavished on the
uncle devolved on Philip with the inheritance, as his by right, as the
representative of the house. Salome had been accustomed all her life to
have recourse to old Mr. Pennycomequick in all doubt, in every trouble
to look to him as a guide, to lean on him as a stay, to fly to him as a
protector. And now that she was friendless she felt the need of
someone, strong, trustworthy and kind, to whom she could have recourse
as she had of old to Mr. Pennycomequick. Mrs. Sidebottom had been
hostile, but Philip had been friendly. Salome recognised in him a
scrupulously upright mind, and with a girlish ignorance of realities,
invested him with a halo of goodness and heroism, which were not his
due. There was in him considerable self-reliance; he was not a vain, a
conceited man; but he was a man who knew his own mind and resolutely
held to his opinion--that Salome saw, or believed she saw; and female
weakness is always inclined to be attracted by strength.
Moreover, her sister Janet had been strong in expressing her disapproval
of Philip, her dislike of his formal ways, his wooden manner, his want
of that ease and polish which she had come in France to exact of every
man as essential. Salome had combated the ridicule, the detraction,
with which her sister spoke of Philip, and had become his champion in
her little family circle.
'I think--I really think,' said Salome, 'that you must give me time to
consider what you have said.' She moved to leave the room.
'No,' answered he,' you shall not go. I must have my answer in a Yes or
a No, at once. Come, give me your hand.'
She hesitated. It was a little wanting in consideration for her, thus
to press for an immediate answer. He had promised to show her the
forbearance due to a wife, he was hardly showing her that due to a girl
at the most critical moment of her life. She stood steeped in thought,
and alternate flushes of colour and pauses of pallor showed the changes
of feeling in her heart.
Philip so far respected her hesitation that he kept silence, but he was
not inclined to suffer the hesitation to continue long.
Love, Philip had never felt, nor had Salome; but Philip was conscious of
pleasure in the society of the girl, of feeling an interest in her such
as he entertained for no one else. He respected and admired her. He
was aware that she exerted over him a softening, humanizing influence,
such as was exercised over him by no one else.
Presently, doubtfully, as if she were putting forth her fingers to touch
what might scorch her, Salome extended her right hand.
'Is that yes?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'And,' said he, 'I have your assurance that you never go back from your
word. Now,' there recurred his mind at that moment his aunt's sneer
about his lack of wit in not offering Salome his arm; 'and now,' he
said, 'let us go together and tell my aunt that you take all my share,
along with me. Let me offer you--my arm.'
*CHAPTER XXIII.*
*EARLE SCHOFIELD.*
Philip Pennycomequick entered the hall, with Salome on his arm, but she
instantly disengaged her hand as she saw Mrs. Sidebottom, and was
conscious that there was something grotesque in her appearance hooked on
to Philip.
As to Philip, he had been so long exposed to the petrifying drip of
legal routine, unrelieved by any softening influences, that he was
rapidly approaching fossilization.
A bird's wing, a harebell, left to the uncounteracted effect of silex in
suspense, in time becomes stone, and the drudgery of office and the
sordid experience of lodging-house life had encrusted Philip, and
stiffened him in mind and manner. He had the feelings of a gentleman,
but none of that ease which springs out of social intercourse; because
he had been excluded from intercourse with those of his class, men and
women, through the pecuniary straits in which his father had been for
many years.
When, therefore, Philip proposed to Salome, he knew no better than to
offer her his arm, as if to conduct her to dinner, or convey her through
a crowd from the opera.