THAT MAN.
'It is the last time--'tis the last!'--SCOTT.
Sundays were the ever-recurring centres of work and interests to the
little circle in St. Ambrose's Road. To them the church services and
the various classes and schools were the great objects and excitements
of the week. A certain measure of hopeful effort and varying success
is what gives zest to life, and the purer and higher the aim, and the
more unmixed the motives, the greater the happiness achieved by the
'something attempted, something done.'
Setting apart actual spiritual devotion, the altar vases, purchased by
a contribution of careful savings, and adorned with the Monks Horton
lilies, backed by ferns from the same quarter; the surplices made by
the ladies themselves, the chants they had practised, the hymns they
had taught, could not but be much more interesting to them than if they
had been mere lookers on. Every cross on the markers, every flower on
the altar cloth was the work of one or other of them; everything in the
church was an achievement, and choir boys, school children, Bible
classes, every member of the regular congregation, had some special
interest; nay, every irregular member or visitor might be a convert in
time--if not a present sympathiser, and at the very least might swell
the offertory that was destined to so many needs of the struggling
district.
Thus it was with some curiosity mingled with self-reproach that Nuttie,
while singing her Benedictus among the tuneful shop-girls, to whom she
was bound to set an example, became aware of yesterday's first-class
traveller lounging, as far as the rows of chairs would permit, in the
aisle, and, as she thought, staring hard at her mother. It was well
that Mrs. Egremont's invariable custom was never to lift her eyes from
her book or her harmonium, or she surely must have been disconcerted,
her daughter thought, by the eyes that must have found her out, under
her little black net bonnet and veil, as the most beautiful woman in
church,--as she certainly was,--even that fine good-for-nothing
gentleman thinking so. Nuttie would add his glances to the glories of
her lovely mother!
And she did so, with triumph in her tone of reprobation, as she trotted
off, after the early dinner, to her share of Sunday-school work as
usual under Miss Nugent's wing. It began with a children's service,
and then ensued, in rooms at the factory, lent by Mr. Dutton, the
teaching that was to supply the omissions of the Board School; the
establishment of a voluntary one being the next ambition of St.
Ambrose's.
Coming home from their labours, in the fervent discussion of their
scholars, and exchanging remarks and greetings with the other teachers
of various calibres, the friends reached their own road, and there, to
their amazement, beheld Miss Headworth.
'Yes, it really is!' cried Nuttie. 'We can't be too late? No--there's
no bell! Aunt Ursel! What has brought you out? What's the matter?
Where's mother?'
'In the house. My dear,' catching hold of her, and speaking
breathlessly, 'I came out to prepare you. He is come--your father--'
'Where?' cried Nuttie, rather wildly.
'He is in the drawing-room with your mother. I said I would send you.'
Poor Miss Headworth gasped with agitation. 'Oh! where's Mr.
Dutton--not that anything can be done--'
'Is it _that man_?' asked Nuttie, and getting no answer, 'I know it is!
Oh Aunt Ursel, how could you leave her with him? I must go and protect
her. Gerard--come. No, go and fetch Mr. Dutton.'
'Hush! hush, Nuttie,' cried her aunt, grasping her. 'You know nothing
about it. Wait here till I can tell you.'
'Come in here, dear Miss Headworth,' said Mary, gently drawing her arm
into hers, for the poor old lady could hardly stand for trembling, and
bidding Gerard open the door of her own house with the latch-key.
She took them into the dining-room, so as not to disturb her mother,
sent Gerard off after Mr. Dutton in the very uttermost astonishment and
bewilderment, and set Miss Headworth down in an easy-chair, where she
recovered herself, under Mary's soothing care, enough to tell her story
in spite of Nuttie's exclamations. 'Wait! wait, Nuttie! You mustn't
burst in on them so! No, you need not be afraid. Don't be a silly
child! He won't hurt her! Oh no! They are quite delighted to meet.'
'Delighted to meet?' said Nuttie, as if transfixed.
'Yes,' said her aunt. 'Oh yes, I always knew the poor child cared for
him and tried to believe in him all along. He only had to say the
word.'
'I wouldn't,' cried the girl, her eyes flashing. 'Why didn't you ask
him how he could desert her and leave her?'
'My dear! how can one come between husband and wife? Oh, my poor
Alice!'
'How was it, how did they meet, dear Miss Headworth?' asked Mary,
administering the wine she had been pouring out.
'You hadn't been gone half an hour, Alice was reading to me, and I was
just dozing, when in came Louisa. "A gentleman to see Mrs. Egremont,"
she said, and there he was just behind. We rose up--she did not know
him at once, but he just said "Edda, my little Edda, sweeter than ever,
I knew you at once," or something of that sort, and she gave one little
cry of "I knew you would come," and sprang right into his arms.
I--well, I meant to make him understand how he had treated her, but
just as I began "Sir"--he came at me with his hand outstretched--'
'You didn't take it, aunt, I hope?' cried Nuttie.
'My dear, when you see him, you will know how impossible it is. He
_has_ that high-bred manner it is as if he were conferring a favour.
"Miss Headworth, I conclude," said he, "a lady to whom I owe more than
I can express." Just as if I had done it for his sake.' Miss Nugent
felt this open expression dangerous on account of the daughter, and she
looked her consternation at Mr. Dutton, who had quietly entered,
ruthlessly shutting Gerard Godfrey out with only such a word of
explanation as could be given on the way.
'Then he comes with--with favourable intentions,' said Mary, putting as
much admonition as she could into her voice.
'Oh! no doubt of that,' said Miss Headworth, drawing herself together.
'He spoke of the long separation,--said he had never been able to find
her, till the strange chance of his nephew stumbling on her at Abbots
Norton.'
'That is--possib--probably true,' said Mr. Dutton.
'It can't be,' broke in Nuttie. 'He never troubled himself about it
till his nephew found the papers. You said so, Aunt Ursel! He is a
dreadful traitor of a man, just like Marmion, or Theseus, or Lancelot,
and now he is telling lies about it! Don't look at me. Aunt Ursel,
they are lies, and I _will_ say it, and he took in poor dear mother
once, and now he is taking her in again, and I can't bear that he
should be my father!'
It was so entirely true, yet so shocking to hear from her mouth, that
all three stood aghast, as she stood with heaving chest, crimson
cheeks, and big tears in her eyes. Miss Headworth only muttered, 'Oh,
my poor child, you mustn't!'
Mr. Dutton prevented another passionate outburst by his tone of grave,
gentle authority. 'Listen a moment, Ursula,' he said. 'It is
unhappily true that this man has acted in an unjustifiable way towards
your mother and yourself. But there are, no doubt, many more excuses
for him than you know of, and as I found a few years ago that the
people at Dieppe had lost the address that had been left with them, he
must have found no traces of your mother there. You cannot understand
the difficulties that may have been in his way. And there is no use,
quite the contrary, in making the worst of him. He has found your
mother out, and it seems that he claims her affectionately, and she
forgives and welcomes him--out of the sweet tenderness of her heart.'
'She may--but I can't,' murmured Nuttie.
'That is not a fit thing for a daughter, nor a Christian, to say,' Mr.
Dutton sternly said.
''Tis not for myself--'tis for her,--'objected Nuttie.
'That's nonsense; a mere excuse,' he returned. 'You have nothing at
all to forgive, since he did not know you were in existence. And as to
your mother, whom you say you put first, what greater grief or pain can
you give her than by showing enmity and resentment against her husband,
when she, the really injured person, loves and forgives?'
'He's a bad man. If she goes back to him, I know he will make her
unhappy--'
'You don't know any such thing, but you do know that your opposition
will make her unhappy. Remember, there's no choice in the matter. He
has legal rights over you both, and since he shows himself ready (as I
understand from Miss Headworth that he is) to give her and you your
proper position, you have nothing to do but to be thankful. I think
myself that it is a great subject of thankfulness that your mother can
return so freely without any bitterness. It is the blessing of such as
she--'
Nuttie stood pouting, but more thoughtful and less violent, as she
said, 'How can I be thankful? I don't want position or anything. I
only want him to let my--my own mother, and aunt, and me alone.'
'Child, you are talking of what you do not understand. You must not
waste any more time in argument. Your mother has sent for you, and it
is your duty to go and let her introduce you to your father. I have
little doubt that you will find him very unlike all your imagination
represents him, but let that be as it may, the fifth Commandment does
not say, "Honour only thy good father," but, "Honour thy father." Come
now, put on your gloves--get her hat right, if you please, Miss Mary.
There--now, come along, be a reasonable creature, and a good girl, and
do not give unnecessary pain and vexation to your mother.' He gave her
his arm, and led her away.
'Well done, Mr. Dutton!' exclaimed Miss Nugent.
'Poor Mr. Dutton!' All Aunt Ursel's discretion could not suppress that
sigh, but Mary prudently let it pass unnoticed, only honouring in her
heart the unselfishness and self-restraint of the man whose long,
patient, unspoken hopes had just received a death-blow.
'Oh, Mary! I never thought it would have been like this!' cried the
poor old lady. 'I ought not to have spoken as I did before the child,
but I was so taken by surprise! Alice turned to him just as if he had
been the most faithful, loving husband in the world. She is believing
every word he says.'
'It is very happy for her that she can,' pleaded Mary.
'So it is, yes, but--when one knows what he is, and what she is! Oh,
Mr. Dutton, is the poor child gone in?'
'Yes, I saw her safe into the room. She was very near running off up
the stairs,' said Mr. Dutton. 'But I daresay she is fascinated by this
time. That sort of man has great power over women.'
'Nuttie is hardly a woman yet,' said Miss Nugent.
'No, but there must be a strong reaction, when she sees something
unlike her compound of Marmion and Theseus.'
'I suppose there is no question but that they must go with him!' said
Miss Headworth wistfully.
'Assuredly. You say he--this Egremont--was affectionate,' said Mr.
Dutton quietly, but Mary saw his fingers white with his tight clenching
of the bar of the chair.
'Oh yes, warmly affectionate, delighted to find her prettier than ever,
poor dear; I suppose he meant it. Heaven forgive me, if I am judging
him too hardly, but I verily believe he went to church to reconnoitre,
and see whether she pleased his fancy--'
'And do you understand,' added Mr. Dutton, 'that he is prepared to do
her full justice, and introduce her to his family and friends as his
wife, on equal terms? Otherwise, even if she were unwilling to stand
up for herself, it would be the duty of her friends to make some
stipulations.'
'I am pretty sure that he does,' said the aunt; 'I did not stay long
when I saw that I was not wanted, but I heard him say something about
his having a home for her now, and her cutting out the Redcastle
ladies.'
'Besides, there is the nephew, Mr. Mark Egremont,' said Mary. 'He will
take care of her.'
'Yes,' said Mr. Dutton. 'It appears to be all right. At any rate,
there can be no grounds for interference on our part.'
Mr. Dutton took his leave with these words, wringing Miss Headworth's
hand in mute sympathy, and she, poor old lady, when he was gone, fairly
collapsed into bitter weeping over the uncertain future of those whom
she had loved as her own children, and who now must leave her desolate.
Mary did her best with comfort and sympathy, and presently took her to
share her griefs and fears with gentle old Mrs. Nugent.