One morning Gertrude got a letter from her father:
“My Dear Gerty: I have just received a bill for L110 from Madame Smith
for your dresses. May I ask you how long this sort of thing is to go
on? I need not tell you that I have not the means to support you in such
extravagance. I am, as you know, always anxious that you should go about
in a style worthy of your position, but unless you can manage without
calling on me to pay away hundreds of pounds every season to Madame
Smith, you had better give up society and stay at home. I positively
cannot afford it. As far as I can see, going into society has not done
you much good. I had to raise L500 last month on Franklands; and it is
too bad if I must raise more to pay your dressmaker. You might at least
employ some civil person, or one whose charges are moderate. Madame
Smith tells me that she will not wait any longer, and charges L50 for a
single dress. I hope you fully understand that there must be an end to
this.
“I hear from your mother that young Erskine is with you at Brandon’s. I
do not think much of him. He is not well off, nor likely to get on, as
he has taken to poetry and so forth. I am told also that a man named
Trefusis visits at the Beeches a good deal now. He must be a fool, for
he contested the last Birmingham election, and came out at the foot of
the poll with thirty-two votes through calling himself a Social Democrat
or some such foreign rubbish, instead of saying out like a man that he
was a Radical. I suppose the name stuck in his throat, for his mother
was one of the Howards of Breconcastle; so he has good blood in him,
though his father was nobody. I wish he had your bills to pay; he could
buy and sell me ten times over, after all my twenty-five years’ service.
“As I am thinking of getting something done to the house, I had rather
you did not come back this month, if you can possibly hold on at
Brandon’s. Remember me to him, and give our kind regards to his wife. I
should be obliged if you would gather some hemlock leaves and send them
to me. I want them for my ointment; the stuff the chemists sell is no
good. Your mother’s eyes are bad again; and your brother Berkeley has
been gambling, and seems to think I ought to pay his debts for him. I
am greatly worried over it all, and I hope that, until you have settled
yourself, you will be more reasonable, and not run these everlasting
bills upon me. You are enjoying yourself out of reach of all the
unpleasantness; but it bears hardly upon
“Your affectionate father,
“C.B. LINDSAY.”
A faint sketch of the lines Time intended to engrave on Gertrude’s brow
appeared there as she read the letter; but she hastened to give the
admiral’s kind regards to her host and hostess, and discussed her
mother’s health feelingly with them. After breakfast she went to the
library, and wrote her reply:
“BRANDON BEECHES,
“Tuesday.
“Dear Papa: Considering that it is more than three years since you
paid Madame Smith last, and that then her bill, which included my court
dress, was only L150, I cannot see how I could possibly have been more
economical, unless you expect me to go in rags. I am sorry that Madame
Smith has asked for the money at such an inconvenient time, but when I
begged you to pay her something in March last year you told me to keep
her quiet by giving her a good order. I am not surprised at her not
being very civil, as she has plenty of tradesmen’s daughters among her
customers who pay her more than L300 a year for their dresses. I am
wearing a skirt at present which I got two years ago.
“Sir Charles is going to town on Thursday; he will bring you the
hemlock. Tell mamma that there is an old woman here who knows some
wonderful cure for sore eyes. She will not tell what the ingredients
are, but it cures everyone, and there is no use in giving an oculist two
guineas for telling us that reading in bed is bad for the eyes, when
we know perfectly well that mamma will not give up doing it. If you pay
Berkeley’s debts, do not forget that he owes me L3.
“Another schoolfellow of mine is staying here now, and I think that Mr.
Trefusis will have the pleasure of paying her bills some day. He is a
great pet of Lady Brandon’s. Sir Charles was angry at first because she
invited him here, and we were all surprised at it. The man has a bad
reputation, and headed a mob that threw down the walls of the park; and
we hardly thought he would be cool enough to come after that. But he
does not seem to care whether we want him or not; and he comes when he
likes. As he talks cleverly, we find him a godsend in this dull place.
It is really not such a paradise as you seem to think, but you need not
be afraid of my returning any sooner than I can help.
“Your affectionate daughter,
“Gertrude Lindsay.”
When Gertrude had closed this letter, and torn up her father’s, she
thought little more about either. They might have made her unhappy had
they found her happy, but as hopeless discontent was her normal state,
and enjoyment but a rare accident, recriminatory passages with
her father only put her into a bad humor, and did not in the least
disappoint or humiliate her.
For the sake of exercise, she resolved to carry her letter to the
village post office and return along the Riverside Road, whereby she had
seen hemlock growing. She took care to go out unobserved, lest Agatha
should volunteer to walk with her, or Jane declare her intention of
driving to the post office in the afternoon, and sulk for the rest of
the day unless the trip to the village were postponed until then. She
took with her, as a protection against tramps, a big St. Bernard dog
named Max. This animal, which was young and enthusiastic, had taken a
strong fancy to her, and had expressed it frankly and boisterously; and
she, whose affections had been starved in her home and in society, had
encouraged him with more kindness than she had ever shown to any human
being.
In the village, having posted her letter, she turned towards a lane that
led to the Riverside Road. Max, unaware of her reason for choosing the
longest way home, remonstrated by halting in the middle of the lane,
wagging his tail rapidly, and uttering gruff barks.
“Don’t be stupid, sir,” said Gertrude impatiently. “I am going this
way.”
Max, apparently understanding, rushed after her, passed her, and
disappeared in a cloud of dust raised by his effort to check himself
when he had left her far enough behind. When he came back she kissed
his nose, and ran a race with him until she too was panting, and had
to stand still to recover her breath, whilst he bounded about, barking
ferociously. She had not for many years enjoyed such a frolic, and the
thought of this presently brought tears to her eyes. Rather peevishly
she bade Max be quiet, walked slowly to cool herself, and put up her
sunshade to avert freckles.
The sun was now at the meridian. On a slope to Gertrude’s right hand,
Sallust’s House, with its cinnamon-colored walls and yellow frieze, gave
a foreign air to the otherwise very English landscape. She passed by
without remembering who lived there. Further down, on some waste land
separated from the road by a dry ditch and a low mud wall, a cluster of
hemlocks, nearly six feet high, poisoned the air with their odor. She
crossed the ditch, took a pair of gardening gloves from her plaited
straw hand-basket, and busied herself with the hemlock leaves, pulling
the tender ones, separating them from the stalk, and filling the basket
with the web. She forgot Max until an impression of dead silence, as
if the earth had stopped, caused her to look round in vague dread.
Trefusis, with his hand abandoned to the dog, who was trying how much of
it he could cram into his mouth, was standing within a few yards of her,
watching her intently. Gertrude turned pale, and came out hastily from
among the bushes. Then she had a strange sensation as if something
had happened high above her head. There was a threatening growl, a
commanding exclamation, and an unaccountable pause, at the expiration
of which she found herself supine on the sward, with her parasol between
her eyes and the sun. A sudden scoop of Max’s wet warm tongue in her
right ear startled her into activity. She sat up, and saw Trefusis
on his knees at her side holding the parasol with an unconcerned
expression, whilst Max was snuffing at her in restless anxiety opposite.
“I must go home,” she said. “I must go home instantly.”
“Not at all,” said Trefusis, soothingly. “They have just sent word to
say that everything is settled satisfactorily and that you need not
come.”
“Have they?” she said faintly. Then she lay down again, and it seemed to
her that a very long time elapsed. Suddenly recollecting that Trefusis
had supported her gently with his hand to prevent her falling back too
rudely, she rose again, and this time got upon her feet with his help.
“I must go home,” she said again. “It is a matter of life or death.”
“No, no,” he said softly. “It is all right. You may depend on me.”
She looked at him earnestly. He had taken her hand to steady her, for
she was swaying a little. “Are you sure,” she said, grasping his arm.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Absolutely certain. You know I am always right, do you not?”
“Yes, oh, yes; you have always been true to me. You--” Here her senses
came back with a rush. Dropping his hand as if it had become red hot,
she said sharply, “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know,” he said, resuming his indifferent manner with a laugh.
“Are you better? Let me drive you to the Beeches. My stable is within a
stone’s throw; I can get a trap out in ten minutes.”
“No, thank you,” said Gertrude haughtily. “I do not wish to drive.” She
paused, and added in some bewilderment, “What has happened?”
“You fainted, and--”
“I did not faint,” said Gertrude indignantly. “I never fainted in my
life.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Trefusis. I did not.”
“You shall judge for yourself. I was coming through this field when
I saw you gathering hemlock. Hemlock is interesting on account of
Socrates, and you were interesting as a young lady gathering poison. So
I stopped to look on. Presently you came out from among the bushes as if
you had seen a snake there. Then you fell into my arms--which led me
to suppose that you had fainted--and Max, concluding that it was all my
fault, nearly sprang at my throat. You were overpowered by the scent of
the water-hemlock, which you must have been inhaling for ten minutes or
more.”
“I did not know that there was any danger,” said Gertrude, crestfallen.
“I felt very tired when I came to. That was why I lay so long the second
time. I really could not help it.”
“You did not lie very long.”
“Not when I first fell; that was only a few seconds, I know. But I must
have lain there nearly ten minutes after I recovered.”
“You were nearly a minute insensible when you first fell, and when you
recovered you only rested for about one second. After that you raved,
and I invented suitable answers until you suddenly asked me what I was
talking about.”
Gertrude reddened a little as the possibility of her having raved
indiscreetly occurred to her. “It was very silly of me to faint,” she
said.
“You could not help it; you are only human. I shall walk with you to the
Beeches.”
“Thank you; I will not trouble you,” she said quickly.
He shook his head. “I do not know how long the effect of that abominable
water-weed may last,” he said, “and I dare not leave you to walk alone.
If you prefer it I can send you in a trap with my gardener, but I had
rather accompany you myself.”
“You are giving yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble. I will
walk. I am quite well again and need no assistance.”
They started without another word. Gertrude had to concentrate all her
energy to conceal from him that she was giddy. Numbness and lassitude
crept upon her, and she was beginning to hope that she was only dreaming
it all when he roused her by saying,
“Take my arm.”
“No, thank you.”
“Do not be so senselessly obstinate. You will have to lean on the
hedge for support if you refuse my help. I am sorry I did not insist on
getting the trap.”
Gertrude had not been spoken to in this tone since her childhood. “I am
perfectly well,” she said sharply. “You are really very officious.”
“You are not perfectly well, and you know it. However, if you make
a brave struggle, you will probably be able to walk home without my
assistance, and the effort may do you good.”
“You are very rude,” she said peremptorily.
“I know it,” he replied calmly. “You will find three classes of men
polite to you--slaves, men who think much of their manners and nothing
of you, and your lovers. I am none of these, and therefore give you back
your ill manners with interest. Why do you resist your good angel by
suppressing those natural and sincere impulses which come to you often
enough, and sometimes bring a look into your face that might tame a
bear--a look which you hasten to extinguish as a thief darkens his
lantern at the sound of a footstep.”
“Mr. Trefusis, I am not accustomed to be lectured.”
“That is why I lecture you. I felt curious to see how your good
breeding, by which I think you set some store, would serve you in
entirely novel circumstances--those of a man speaking his mind to you,
for instance. What is the result of my experiment? Instead of rebuking
me with the sweetness and dignity which I could not, in spite of my past
observation, help expecting from you, you churlishly repel my offer of
the assistance you need, tell me that I am very rude, very officious,
and, in short, do what you can to make my position disagreeable and
humiliating.”
She looked at him haughtily, but his expression was void of offence or
fear, and he continued, unanswered.
“I would bear all this from a working woman without remonstrance, for
she would owe me no graces of manner or morals. But you are a lady.
That means that many have starved and drudged in uncleanly discomfort
in order that you may have white and unbroken hands, fine garments, and
exquisite manners--that you may be a living fountain of those influences
that soften our natures and lives. When such a costly thing as a lady
breaks down at the first touch of a firm hand, I feel justified in
complaining.”
Gertrude walked on quickly, and said between her teeth, “I don’t want to
hear any of your absurd views, Mr. Trefusis.”
He laughed. “My unfortunate views!” he said. “Whenever I make an
inconvenient remark it is always set aside as an expression of certain
dangerous crazes with which I am supposed to be afflicted. When I point
out to Sir Charles that one of his favorite artists has not accurately
observed something before attempting to draw it, he replies, ‘You know
our views differ on these things, Trefusis.’ When I told Miss Wylie’s
guardian that his emigration scheme was little better than a fraud, he
said, ‘You must excuse me, but I cannot enter into your peculiar views.’
One of my views at present is that Miss Lindsay is more amiable under
the influence of hemlock than under that of the social system which has
made her so unhappy.”
“Well!” exclaimed Gertrude, outraged. Then, after a pause, “I was under
the impression that I had accepted the escort of a gentleman.” Then,
after another pause, Trefusis being quite undisturbed, “How do you know
that I am unhappy?”
“By a certain defect in your countenance, which lacks the crowning
beauty of happiness; and a certain defect in your voice which will never
disappear until you learn to love or pity those to whom you speak.”
“You are wrong,” said Gertrude, with calm disdain. “You do not
understand me in the least. I am particularly attached to my friends.”
“Then I have never seen you in their company.”
“You are still wrong.”
“Then how can you speak as you do, look as you do, act as you do?”
“What do you mean? HOW do I look and act?”
“Like one of the railings of Belgrave Square, cursed with consciousness
of itself, fears of the judgment of the other railings, and doubts
of their fitness to stand in the same row with it. You are cold,
mistrustful, cruel to nervous or clumsy people, and more afraid of
the criticisms of those with whom you dance and dine than of your
conscience. All of which prevents you from looking like an angel.”
“Thank you. Do you consider paying compliments the perfection of
gentlemanly behavior?”
“Have I been paying you many? That last remark of mine was not meant
as one. On my honor, the angels will not disappoint me if they are no
lovelier than you should be if you had that look in your face and that
tone in your voice I spoke of just now. It can hardly displease you to
hear that. If I were particularly handsome myself, I should like to be
told so.”
“I am sorry I cannot tell you so.”
“Oh! Ha! ha! What a retort, Miss Lindsay! You are not sorry either; you
are rather glad.”
Gertrude knew it, and was angry with herself, not because her retort
was false, but because she thought it unladylike. “You have no right to
annoy me,” she exclaimed, in spite of herself.
“None whatever,” he said, humbly. “If I have done so, forgive me before
we part. I will go no further with you; Max will give the alarm if you
faint in the avenue, which I don’t think you are likely to do, as you
have forgotten all about the hemlock.”
“Oh, how maddening!” she cried. “I have left my basket behind.”
“Never mind; I will find it and have it filled and sent to you.”
“Thank you. I am sorry to trouble you.”
“Not at all. I hope you do not want the hemlock to help you to get rid
of the burden of life.”
“Nonsense. I want it for my father, who uses it for medicine.”
“I will bring it myself to-morrow. Is that soon enough?”
“Quite. I am in no hurry. Thank you, Mr. Trefusis. Good-bye.”
She gave him her hand, and even smiled a little, and then hurried away.
He stood watching her as she passed along the avenue under the beeches.
Once, when she came into a band of sunlight at a gap in the trees, she
made so pretty a figure in her spring dress of violet and white that
his eyes kindled as he gazed. He took out his note-book, and entered her
name and the date, with a brief memorandum.
“I have thawed her,” he said to himself as he put up his book. “She
shall learn a lesson or two to hand on to her children before I have
done with her. A trifle underbred, too, or she would not insist so much
on her breeding. Henrietta used to wear a dress like that. I am glad to
see that there is no danger of her taking to me personally.”
He turned away, and saw a crone passing, bending beneath a bundle of
sticks. He eyed it curiously; and she scowled at him and hurried on.
“Hallo,” he said.
She continued for a few steps, but her courage failed her and she
stopped.
“You are Mrs. Hickling, I think?”
“Yes, please your worship.”
“You are the woman who carried away an old wooden gate that lay on Sir
Charles Brandon’s land last winter and used it for firewood. You were
imprisoned for seven days for it.”
“You may send me there again if you like,” she retorted, in a cracked
voice, as she turned at bay. “But the Lord will make me even with you
some day. Cursed be them that oppress the poor and needy; it is one of
the seven deadly sins.”
“Those green laths on your back are the remainder of my garden gate,”
he said. “You took the first half last Saturday. Next time you want fuel
come to the house and ask for coals, and let my gates alone. I suppose
you can enjoy a fire without stealing the combustibles. Stow pay me for
my gate by telling me something I want to know.”
“And a kind gentleman too, sir; blessings.”
“What is the hemlock good for?”
“The hemlock, kind gentleman? For the evil, sir, to be sure.”
“Scrofulous ulcers!” he exclaimed, recoiling. “The father of that
beautiful girl!” He turned homeward, and trudged along with his
head bent, muttering, “All rotten to the bone. Oh, civilization!
civilization! civilization!”