A lassitude descended upon him. Things that had always seemed easy
began to seem difficult; little bits of extra work that used to be
full of pleasure now brought a fatigue that he felt he must evade;
interests that he had allowed to widen without limit all at once
contracted and shrank to nothing.
He surprised Mavis by telling her that he had resigned his membership
of the District Council. During the last winter he had retired from
the fire brigade, and Mavis thoroughly approved of this retirement;
but she thought it rather a pity that he should cease to be a
councilor. She had always liked the sound of his official designation.
Councilor Dale sounded so very grand.
The fire brigade had proved a disappointment to him. Since its
enrollment he and his men had often been useful at minor
conflagrations, of ricks, cottage thatch, and kitchen flues; but they
had never been given a chance of really distinguishing themselves.
They had saved no lives, nor met with any perilous risks. However, the
captain's retirement was made the occasion of showing the regard and
respect in which Mr. Dale was held by the whole neighborhood. Secretly
subscriptions had been collected for the purpose of giving Mr. Dale a
testimonial, and at a very large meeting in the Rodchurch Schoolroom,
it was presented by one of the most important local gentlemen. "Mr.
Dale," said Sir Reginald, "our worthy vicar has mentioned the fact
that I have come here to-night at some slight personal inconvenience;
but I can assure you that if the inconvenience had been very much
greater I should have come all the same." (Considerable cheering.)
"And in handing you this inscribed watch and accompanying chain, I
desire to assure you on behalf of all here"--and so on. Dale, for his
part, said that "had he guessed this testimonial was on foot, he might
have been tempted to burk it, because he could not have
conscientiously countenanced it. But now accepting it, although he did
not desire it, he felt quite overcome by it. Nevertheless he would
ever value it." (Loud and prolonged cheers.) The record of all these
proceedings, faithfully set forth in the _Rodhaven District Courier_,
formed the proudest and finest snippet in Mavis' bulging scrap album;
and brought moisture to her eyes each time that she examined it anew.
"I was never more pleased," she said, "than when I knew you wouldn't
ever have to wear your fire helmet again; but now I'm wondering if you
won't _miss_ the Council."
"No, Mav, I shan't miss it."
"One thing I'm sure of--they'll miss _you_."
"They'll get on very well without me, my dear." And then he told her
that he was not quite the man he had been. "I'm not so greedy nowadays
for every opportunity of spouting out my opinions; and I've come to
think one's private work is enough, without putting public work on top
of it. You'll understand, I don't mean that I want to fold my hands
and sit quiet for the rest of my days. But I do seem to feel the need
of taking things a little lighter than I used to do."
This explanation was more than sufficient for Mavis; she
sympathetically praised him for his wisdom in dropping the silly old
useless Council.
But it was later this evening, or perhaps one evening a little
afterward, when something he said set her thoughts moving so fast that
they rushed on from sympathy to apprehensive anxiety.
He spoke with unusual kindness about her family, and asked if she had
suffered any real discomfort because of his having forbidden
intercourse with all the Petherick relations. She said "No." Then he
said he had been actuated by the best intentions; and he further added
that all his experience of the world led him to believe that one got
on a great deal better by one's self than if chocked up with uncles
and cousins and aunts. "So I should hope, Mav, that you'd never now
feel the wish to mend what I took the decision of breaking. I mean,
especially as your people have mostly scattered and gone from these
parts, that you'd never, however you were situated, wish to hunt them
all out and bring them back to your doors again." Mavis dutifully and
honestly said that her own experience had led her to similar
conclusions. She thought that relatives were often more trouble than
they were worth, and she promised never to attempt a regathering of
the scattered Petherick clan.
"You know," he said, "if anything happened to me, you'd be all right.
I have made my will long ago. There's a copy of it in there," and he
pointed to the lower part of the bureau; "while th' instrument itself
lies snug in Mr. Cleaver's safe, over at Manninglea."
"Oh, for goodness' sake, don't speak of it. I can't bear even to hear
the word." And then, taking alarm, she said he must be feeling really
ill, or such things as wills would never have come into his head.
"Tell me the truth, dear. Tell me what you do feel--truly." And she
asked him all sorts of questions about his health, begging him to
consult a doctor without a day's delay.
"Only a bit tired, Mav--and that's what I never used to feel."
"No, you never did. And I don't at all understand it."
"It's quite natural, my dear."
"Not natural to you."
Then he took her hand, pressed it affectionately, and laughed in his
old jolly way. "My dear, it's nothing--just an excuse for slacking off
now and then. Remember, Mav, I am not a chicken. I shall be fifty
before th' end of this year."
He convinced her that there was no cause for her anxiety; and only too
happy not to have to be anxious, she thought no more of this strange
thing that her untiring Will now sometimes knew what tiredness meant.
But his lassitude increased. He uttered no further hints about it to
anybody; he endeavored to conceal it; he refused to admit its extent
even to himself. On certain days to think made him weary, to be active
and bustling was an impossibility. Instinct seemed to whisper that he
was passing through still another phase, that presently he would be
all right again--just as vigorous and energetic as in the past; and
that meanwhile he should not flog and spur himself, but just rest
patiently until all his force returned to him.
Since to do anything was a severe effort, he had better do nothing. He
ceased to bother about Billy's schooling. He postponed making his
harvest arrangements; he forgot to answer a letter asking for an
estimate, and one Thursday he omitted to wind the clocks. He tried to
let his beard grow, in order to escape the trouble of shaving. It grew
during three days; but the effect was so disfiguring--a stiff stubble
of gray, hiding his fine strong chin, and spreading high on his
bronzed cheeks--that Norah and Mavis implored him to desist. Even
Ethel the housemaid ventured to say how very glad she felt when he
shaved again.
The month of May was hot and enervating; the month of June was wet and
depressing. Day after day the rain beat threateningly against the
windows, and night after night it dripped with a melancholy patter
from the eaves. On three successive Sundays Dale considered the rain
an adequate excuse for not going to chapel. He and Norah had a very
short informal service within sound and within smell of the roast beef
that was being cooked close by in the kitchen, and afterward he
meditatively read the Bible to himself while Norah laid the cloth for
dinner.
He had said that he did not want to fold his hands and sit quiet for
the remainder of his existence; but that was precisely what he desired
to do for the moment. He allowed Norah to relieve him of more and more
of his office duties, and he idly watched her as she stood bending her
neck over the tall desk or sat stooping her back and squaring her
elbows at the writing-table. And still sitting himself, he would
maintain long desultory conversations with her about nothing in
particular when, having completed the tasks that he had entrusted to
her, she moved here and there about the office tidying up for the
night.
Thus on an evening toward the end of June he talked to her about love
and the married state. It had been raining all day long, and though no
rain fell at the moment, one felt that more was coming. The air was
saturated with moisture; heavy odors of sodden vegetation crept
through the open window; and one saw a mist like steam beginning to
rise from the fields beyond the roadway. Mr. Furnival, the new pastor,
had just passed by; and it was his appearance that started the
conversation.
"He is a conscientious talented young man," said Dale; "and with
experience he will ripen. At present he seems to me deficient in
sympathy."
"Yes, so he does," said Norah, as she opened the desk drawer.
"He hasn't the knack of putting himself in the place of other people.
There's something cold and cheerless in his preaching--I don't say as
if he didn't feel it all himself, but as if he hadn't yet caught the
knack of imparting his feelings to others."
"No more he has," said Norah, putting away her papers.
"Between you and me and the post," said Dale, "I don't like him."
"No more do I."
"What! Don't you like Mr. Furnival either?"
Norah shook her head and said "No" emphatically.
"But he is handsome, Norah. I call him undoubtedly a handsome man.
And they tell me that the girls are falling in love with him."
Norah laughed, and said that, if Mr. Dale had been correctly informed,
she was sorry for the taste of the girls.
"Then you don't admire his looks, Norah?"
"It rather surprises me, because I should have thought he was just the
sort of person to attract and fascinate the other sex--a bachelor too,
without ties, able to take advantage of any success in that line that
came his way. I mean, of course, by offering marriage to the party who
fancied him."
Norah said again that she thought nothing of Mr. Furnival's alleged
handsomeness. She considered him a namby-pamby.
"You are young still. Perhaps I oughtn't to talk like this--putting
nonsense in your head. But it'll come there sure enough of its own
accord. Your turn will come. You'll fall in love one day, Norah."
Norah, putting the big account-books back on the shelf over the desk,
did not answer.
"You've never fallen in love yet, have you?"
Norah would not answer.
"Ah, well." Dale got up from his chair, and stretched himself. "But
you'll have to marry some day, you know."
"Oh, no, I shan't."
"Oh, yes, my dear, you will. That's a thing there's no harm for girls
to think of, because it's what they've got to prepare themselves for."
And Dale delivered a serious little homily on the duties and pleasures
of wedlock, and concluded by telling Norah that when she had chosen
an honest proper sort of young fellow, neither himself nor Mrs. Dale
would stand in the way of her future happiness. "Yes, my dear, you'll
leave us then; and we shall miss you greatly--both of us will miss you
very greatly, but we shan't either of us consider that. And you
mustn't consider it yourself. It's nature--quite proper and correct
that under those circumstances you should leave us."
"Never," said Norah. "Never--unless you send me away;" and stooping
her head on her arms, she began to cry.
"Oh, my dear, don't cry," said Dale bruskly. "What in the name of
reason is there to cry about?"
"Then say you won't send me away," sobbed Norah. "Promise me you won't
do that."
"Of course I won't," said Dale, in the same brusk tone. "That is,
unless I'm morally certain that--"
"No, no--never."
"Oh, don't be silly. Dry your eyes, and be sensible;" and Dale,
plunging his hands in his pockets, hurried out of the office.
He walked as far as the Baptist Chapel, and straight back again; and
before he got home he made a solemn resolution to rouse himself from
the idle lethargic state into which he felt himself slipping deeper
and deeper. Thinking about business and other matters, he decided now
that the odd weariness which he had been experiencing must be
struggled with, and not submitted to. There was no sense in calmly
accepting such a mental and bodily condition. It might be different if
there was anything organically wrong with him; but he was really as
strong and fit as ever--only a bit tired; but he thought with scorn of
the folly of allowing dark days and foul weather to influence one's
spirits or one's capacity for effort. That sort of rubbish is well
enough for rich old maids who go about the world with a maid, a
hot-water bottle, and a poll parrot; but it is degrading and
undignified in a successful business man who has a wife and two
children to work for, whether the sun shines or the sky is overcast.
At supper he told Mavis that he was going to make a long round of it
next day, starting early, and riding far to pay several calls that
were overdue. He added that he would not require Norah's assistance in
the office, either to-morrow or for some time to come.
"I fear me," he said, "that I've been selfish, and abused the
privilege of taking her away to act as secretary, and thereby thrown
more on you."
"Not a bit," said Mavis. "Take her just as long as she makes herself
useful."
"She has done fine," said Dale, "and lifted a lot off my shoulders.
But now I feel I'm all clear, and I restore her to her proper place
and duties."
Mavis, if aware of the fact, would have thought it curious that Dale
had spoken to Norah of falling in love, because she herself was at
this time worried by thoughts of such possibilities with regard to the
girl. She noticed various changes in Norah's manner and deportment.
Norah, although Dale said she worked well enough for him in the
office, showed a perceptible slackness at her household tasks. She
seemed to have lost interest, especially in all kitchen work; she was
often careless in dusting and cleaning the parlor, and had done one or
two very clumsy things--such as breaking tea-cups when washing up--as
if her wits had gone wool-gathering instead of being concentrated on
the job in hand. Her temper, too, was not so even and agreeable as it
ought to have been. She was distinctly irritable once or twice to the
children, when they were trying to play with her as of old, and not,
as she declared, wilfully teasing her. And once or twice when she was
reproved, there had come some nasty little flashes of rebellion.
Mavis, seeking any reason for this slight deterioration of conduct and
steadiness, wondered if Norah by chance had a little secret love
affair up her sleeve. That would account for everything. But if so,
who could it be who was upsetting her? Girls, even at what matrons
call the silly age, can not give scope to their silliness without
opportunities; and there were no visitors to the house, and certainly
none of the men in the yard, who could conceivably be carrying on with
her.
Then the suspicions of Mavis were aroused by discovering that Norah
was at her old tricks again. If you sent her as messenger of charity
to one of the cottages, and more still if you gave her an hour or two
for herself, she went stealing off into the forbidden woods. She had
been seen doing it twice, and, as Mavis suspected, had done it often
without being seen. She knew that she wasn't allowed to do it. There
was the plain house-rule that neither she nor Ethel were ever to leave
the roads when they were out alone. Yet she broke the rule; and Mavis
now suspected that she did not break this rule in order to pick wild
flowers and look at green leaves but to meet a sweetheart.
Mavis, thinking about it, was at once angry and apprehensive. A fine
thing for all of them, if the little fool came to trouble and disgrace
that way. She would not immediately bother Dale about it; but she
promptly tackled Norah, roundly accused her of improper behavior,
expressed a firm conviction that she was playing the fool with some
young man, and threatened to lay the whole matter before the master.
"D'you understand, Norah? We won't put up with it--not for a moment.
We're not going to let you make yourself the talk of the place and
bring us to shame into the bargain."
Norah, alternately flushing and turning pale, defended herself with
vigor. She was indignant not with the threats, but with the suspicion.
She swore that she had never for one instant thought of a young man,
much less spoken to or made appointments with a young man; and that
she had broken the house-rule simply because she found it almost
impossible to keep it. She had always loved wandering about under the
trees: she used to go there all alone as a baby, and she thought it
unreasonable that she might not go there alone as a grown-up person.
Norah's indignant tone suggested complete innocence, and Mavis felt
relieved in mind, but yet not quite sure whether the girl was really
telling the truth.
She indirectly returned to the charge on the following Sunday, when
Norah was about to start for her afternoon out.
"Norah, I want a word with you."
The girl came back along the flagged path to the kitchen door.
"It's just this, Norah. You'll please to remember what I've told you,
and act accordingly."
Norah turned her head and answered over her shoulder, rather sullenly,
as Mavis thought.
"All right. I remember."
"Don't answer me like that," said Mavis sharply. "And please to
remember your manners, and look at people when you speak to them."
"All right," said Norah again, and, as Mavis judged, very sullenly
this time.
"Look you here, young lady," she said, with increasing warmth. "I'm
not going to stand any of your nonsense--and of that I give you fair
warning. Now you just answer me in a seemly manner and tell me exactly
where you are going this afternoon, or I'll send you straight back
into the house to take off your finery and not go out at all."
Dale, close by in the little sitting-room, heard his wife's voice
raised thus angrily, closed the book that was lying open on his knees,
and came to the window.
"What's wrong, Mav?"
"It's Norah offering me her sauce, and I won't put up with it."
Dale, with the book in his hand, came out through the kitchen, and
stood by Mavis on the stone flags.
"Norah," he said seriously, "you must always be good, and do whatever
Mrs. Dale tells you."
"Yes, but that's just what she doesn't do;" and Mavis explained that,
in spite of repeated orders, Norah had several times gone mooning off
into the woods all by herself. "So now I'm reminding her, and asking
where she means to go this afternoon."
Norah, with her eyes on the flags, said that she would go to
Rodchurch.
"Very good," said Mavis. "Then now you've answered, you may go."
When Norah had disappeared round the corner of the house, Mavis
talked to her husband apologetically and confidentially.
"Will, dear, I'm sorry I disturbed you when you were reading;" and
glancing at the book in his hand, she felt ashamed of her recent
warmth. "I couldn't help blowing her up, and I'll tell you why." Then
she spoke of the necessity of keeping a sharp eye and a firm hand on a
girl of Norah's age and attractions; and she further mentioned her
suspicion, now almost entirely allayed, of some secret carryings-on.
"Oh, I don't think there's anything of that sort," said Dale. "No, I
may say I'm morally sure Norah isn't deceiving you there."
"I'm glad you think so. Yes, it's what I think myself. I should have
bowled her out if there'd been anything going on. But, Will, there's
other dangers for her--worse dangers."
"What dangers, Mavis?"
"Well, all the lads naturally are looking at her. Norah has come on
faster than you may have noticed. I don't want her to mix herself up
with any of those louts that hang about the Cross Roads."
"No."
"And she'll come across them for certain if she gets trapesing through
the trees like she does. There's her brothers would bring them
together. Besides, it isn't _safe_--at her age. You know yourself
what's always been said of it."
"Quite so," said Dale. "You are wise, Mavis--very wise to be watchful
and careful."
Then he returned to the sitting-room, settled himself again in the
porter's chair, and reopened his book at the place where he had been
interrupted.
It was the New Testament; and just now, while reading the twenty-first
chapter of Saint Matthew, he had enjoyed a clear vision of Christ's
entry into Jerusalem. Making his picture from materials supplied by an
article in the _People's Encyclopedia_, he seemed to be able to see
the ancient city and its exotic life as the Redeemer and the disciples
must have seen it on that memorable day. Here were the narrow streets
and the crowded market-places; the towers and domes; the strangely
garbed traders, laden camels, gorgeous Roman soldiers, brown-faced
priests, black-bodied slaves; sunlit hills high above one, distant
faintly blue mountains far ahead of one--a thronged labyrinth of
shadow and light, of noise and confusion, of pomp and squalor.
But the picture was gone, the dream was broken, the hope was darkened.
He tried to bring it all back again, and failed utterly. He could not
think of Christ riding into Jerusalem; he could only think of Norah
walking along the road to Rodchurch.