Mrs. Trevanion remained for some time in London, where she was joined
reluctantly, after a few days, by Edmund. This young man had not been
educated on the level of Highcourt. He had been sent to a cheap school.
He had never known any relations, nor had any culture of the affections
to refine his nature. From his school, as soon as he was old enough, he
had been transferred to an office in Liverpool, where all the
temptations and attractions of the great town had burst upon him without
defence. Many young men have to support this ordeal, and even for those
who do not come through it without scathe, it is yet possible to do so
without ruinous loss and depreciation. But in that case the aberration
must be but temporary, and there must be a higher ideal behind to defend
the mind against that extinction of all belief in what is good which is
the most horrible result of vicious living. Whether Edmund fell into the
absolute depths of vice at all it is not necessary to inquire. He fell
into debt, and into unlawful ways of making up for his debts. When
discovery was not to be staved off any longer he had fled, not even then
touched with any compunction or shame, but with a strong certainty that
the matter against him would never be allowed to come to a public issue,
it being so necessary to the credit of the family that his relations
with Highcourt should never be made known to the world. It was with this
certainty that he had come to the village near Highcourt at the
beginning of Mr. Trevanion’s last illness. To prevent him from bursting
into her husband’s presence, and bringing on one of the attacks which
sapped his strength, Mrs. Trevanion had yielded to his demands on her,
and, as these increased daily, had exposed herself to remark and
scandal, and, as it proved, to ruin and shame. Did she think of that as
he sat opposite to her at the table, affording reluctantly the
information she insisted upon, betraying by almost every word a mind so
much out of tune with hers that the bond which connected them seemed
impossible? If she did think of this it was with the bitterest
self-reproach, rather than any complaint of him. “Poor boy,” she said to
herself, with her heart bleeding. She had informed him of the
circumstances under which she had left home, but without a word of blame
or intimation that the fault was his, and received what were really his
reproaches on this matter silently, with only that heart-breaking smile
in her eyes, which meant indulgence unbounded, forgiveness beforehand of
anything he might do or say. When Russell, breathing hatred and
hostility, came across her path, it was with the same sentiment that
Madam had succored the woman who had played so miserable a part in the
catastrophe. The whole history of the event was so terrible that she
could bear no comment upon it. Even Jane did not venture to speak to her
of the past. She was calm, almost cheerful, in what she was doing at the
moment, and she had a great deal to do.
The first step she took was one which Edmund opposed with all his might,
with a hundred arguments more or less valid, and a mixture of terror and
temerity which it humiliated her to be a witness of. He was ready to
abandon all possibility of after-safety or of recovery of character, to
fly as a criminal to the ends of the earth, or to keep in hiding in
holes and corners, liable to be seized upon at any moment; but to take
any step to atone for what he had done, to restore the money, or attempt
to recover the position of a man innocent, or at least forgiven, were
suggestions that filled him with passion. He declared that such an
attempt would be ineffectual, that it would end by landing him in
prison, that it was madness to think she could do anything. She! so
entirely ignorant of business as she was. He ended, indeed, by
denouncing her as his certain ruin, when, in spite of all these
arguments, she set out for Liverpool, and left him in a paroxysm of
angry terror, forgetting both respect and civility in the passion of
opposition. Madam Trevanion did not shrink from this any more than from
the other fits of passion to which she had been exposed in her life. She
went to Liverpool alone, without even the company and support of Jane.
And there she found her mission not without difficulty. But the aspect
of the woman to whom fate had done its worst, who was not conscious of
the insignificant pain of a rebuff from a stranger, she who had borne
every anguish that could be inflicted upon a woman, had an impressive
influence which in the end triumphed over everything opposed to her. She
told the young man’s story with a composure from which it was impossible
to divine what her own share in it was, but with a pathos which touched
the heart of the master, who was not a hard man, and who knew the
dangers of such a youth better than she did. In the end she was
permitted to pay the money, and to release the culprit from all further
danger. Her success in this gave her a certain hope. As she returned her
mind went forward with something like a recollection of its old
elasticity, to what was at least a possibility in the future. Thus made
free, and with all the capacities of youth in him, might not some
softening and melting of the young man’s nature be hoped for--some
development of natural affection, some enlargement of life? She said to
herself that it might be so. He was not bad nor cruel--he was only
unaccustomed to love and care, careless, untrained to any higher
existence, unawakened to any better ideal. As she travelled back to
London she said to herself that he must have repented his passion, that
some compunction must have moved him, even, perhaps, some wish to atone.
“He will come to meet me,” she said to herself, with a forlorn movement
of anticipation in her mind. She felt so sure as she thought of this
expedient, by which he might show a wish to please her without bending
his pride to confess himself in the wrong, that when she arrived and,
amid the crowds at the railway, saw no one, her heart sank a little. But
in a moment she recovered, saying to herself, “Poor boy! why should he
come?” He had never been used to render such attentions. He was uneasy
in the new companionship, to which he was unaccustomed. Perhaps, indeed,
he was ashamed, wounded, mortified, by the poor part he played in it. To
owe his deliverance even to her might be humiliating to his pride. Poor
boy! Thus she explained and softened everything to herself.
But Mrs. Trevanion found herself now the subject of a succession of
surprises very strange to her. She was brought into intimate contact
with a nature she did not understand, and had to learn the very alphabet
of a language unknown to her, and study impulses which left all her
experience of human nature behind, and were absolutely new. When he
understood that he was free, that everything against him was wiped off,
that he was in a position superior to anything he had ever dreamed of,
without need to work or deny himself, his superficial despair gave way
to a burst of pleasure and self-congratulation. Even then he was on his
guard not to receive with too much satisfaction the advantages of which
he had in a moment become possessed, lest perhaps he should miss
something more that might be coming. The unbounded delight which filled
him when he found himself in London, with money in his pocket, and
freedom, showed itself, indeed, in every look; but he still kept a wary
eye upon the possibilities of the future, and would not allow that what
he possessed was above his requirements or hopes. And when he perceived
that the preparations for a further journey were by no means
interrupted, and that Mrs. Trevanion’s plan was still to go abroad, his
disappointment and vexation were not to be controlled.
“What should you go abroad for?” he said. “We’re far better in London.
There is everything in London that can be desired. It is the right place
for a young fellow like me. I have never had any pleasure in my life,
nor the means of seeing anything. And here, the moment I have something
in my power, you want to rush away.”
“There is a great deal to see on the other side of the Channel, Edmund.”
“I dare say--among foreigners whose language one doesn’t know a word of.
And what is it, after all? Scenery, or pictures, and that sort of thing.
Whereas what I want to see is life.”
She looked at him with a strange understanding of all that she would
have desired to ignore, knowing what he meant by some incredible pang of
inspiration, though she had neither any natural acquaintance with such a
strain of thought nor any desire to divine it. “There is life
everywhere,” she said, “and I think it will be very good for you,
Edmund. You are not very strong, and there are so many things to learn.”
“I see. You think, as I am, that I am not much credit to you, Mrs.
Trevanion, of Highcourt. But there might be different opinions about
that.” Offence brought a flush of color to his cheek. “Miss Trevanion,
of Highcourt, was not so difficult to please,” he added, with a laugh of
vanity. “She showed no particular objections to me; but you have ruined
me there, I suppose, once for all.”
This attack left her speechless. She could not for the moment reply, but
only looked at him with that appeal in her eyes, to which, in the
assurance not only of his egotism, but of his total unacquaintance with
what was going on in her mind, her motives and ways of thinking, he was
utterly insensible. This, however, was only the first of many arguments
on the subject which filled those painful days. When he saw that the
preparations still went on, Edmund’s disgust was great.
“I see Jane is still going on packing,” he said. “You don’t mind, then,
that I can’t bear it? What should you drag me away for? I am quite happy
here.”
“My dear,” she said, “you were complaining yourself that you have not
anything to do. You have no friends here.”
“Nor anywhere,” said Edmund; “and whose fault is that?”
“Perhaps it is my fault. But that does not alter the fact, Edmund. If I
say that I am sorry, that is little, but still it does not mend it. In
Italy everything will amuse you.”
“Nothing will amuse me,” said the young man. “I tell you I don’t care
for scenery. What I want to see is life.”
“In travelling,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “you often make friends, and you
see how the people of other countries live, and you learn--”
“I don’t want to learn,” he cried abruptly. “You are always harping upon
that. It is too late to go to school at my age. If I have no education
you must put up with it, for it is your fault. And what I want is to
stay here. London is the place to learn life and everything. And if you
tell me that you couldn’t get me plenty of friends, if you chose to
exert yourself, I don’t believe you. It’s because you won’t, not because
you can’t.”
“Edmund!”
“Oh, don’t contradict me, for I know better. There is one thing I want
above all others, and I know you mean to go against me in that. If you
stay here quiet, you know very well they will come to town like
everybody else, for the season, and then you can introduce me. She knows
me already. The last time she saw me she colored up. She knew very well
what I was after. This has always been in my mind since the first time I
saw her with you. She is fond of you. She will be glad enough to come,
if it is even on the sly--”
He was very quick to see when he had gone wrong, and the little cry that
came from her lips, the look that came over her face, warned him a
moment too late. He “colored up,” as he said, crimson to the eyes, and
endeavored with an uneasy laugh to account for his slip. “The expression
may be vulgar,” he said, “but everybody uses it. And that’s about what
it would come to, I suppose.”
“You mistake me altogether, Edmund,” she said. “I will not see any one
on the sly, as you say; and especially not-- Don’t wound me by suggesting
what is impossible. If I had not known that I had no alternative, can
you suppose I should have left them at all?”
“That’s a different matter; you were obliged to do that; but nobody
could prevent you meeting them in the streets, seeing them as they pass,
saying ‘How do you do?’ introducing a relation--”
She rose up, and began to pace about the room in great agitation. “Don’t
say any more, don’t torture me like this,” she said. “Can you not
understand how you are tearing me to pieces? If I were to do what you
say, I should be dishonest, false both to the living and the dead. And
it would be better to be at the end of the world than to be near them in
a continual fever, watching, scheming, for a word. Oh, no! no!” she
said, wringing her hands, “do not let me be tempted beyond my strength.
Edmund, for my sake, if for no other, let us go away.”
He looked at her with a sort of cynical observation, as she walked up
and down the room with hurried steps at first, then calming gradually.
He repeated slowly, with a half laugh, “For your sake? But I thought
everything now was to be for my sake. And it is my turn; you can’t deny
that.”
Mrs. Trevanion gave him a piteous look. It was true that it was his
turn; and it was true that she had said all should be for him in her
changed life. He had her at an advantage; a fact which to her finer
nature seemed the strongest reason for generous treatment, but not to
his.
“It is all very well to speak,” he continued; “but if you really mean
well by me, introduce me to Rosalind. That would be the making of me.
She is a fine girl, and she has money; and she would be just as
pleased--”
She stopped him, after various efforts, almost by force, seizing his
arm. “There are some things,” she said, “that I cannot bear. This is one
of them. I will not have her name brought in--not even her name--”
“Why not? What’s in her name more than another? A rose, don’t you know,
by any other name--” he said, with a forced laugh. But he was alarmed by
Mrs. Trevanion’s look, and the clutch which in her passion she had taken
of his arm. After all, his new life was dependent upon her, and it might
be expedient not to go too far.
This interlude left her trembling and full of agitation. She did not
sleep all night, but moved about the room, in her dingy London lodging,
scarcely able to keep still. A panic had seized hold upon her. She sent
for him in the morning as soon as he had left his room, which was not
early; and even he observed the havoc made in her already worn face by
the night. She told him that she had resolved to start next day. “I did
not perceive,” she said, “all the dangers of staying, till you pointed
them out to me. If I am to be honest, if I am to keep any one’s esteem,
I must go away.”
“I don’t see it,” he said, somewhat sullenly. “It’s all your fancy. When
a person’s in hiding, he’s safer in London than anywhere else.”
“I am not in hiding,” she said, hastily, with a sense of mingled
irritation and despair. For what words could be used which he would
understand, which would convey to him any conception of what she meant?
They were like two people speaking different languages, incapable of
communicating to each other anything that did not lie upon the surface
of their lives. When he perceived at last how much in earnest she was,
how utterly resolved not to remain, he yielded, but without either grace
or good humor. He had not force enough in himself to resist when it came
to a distinct issue. Thus they departed together into the world
unknown--two beings absolutely bound to each other, each with no one
else in the world to turn to, and yet with no understanding of each
other, not knowing the very alphabet of each other’s thoughts.