CIRCUMSTANCE
Dagworthy was absent not quite a fortnight, and he returned looking
anything but the better for his holiday. The wholesome colour of his
cheeks had changed almost to sallowness those who met him in Dunfield
looked at him with surprise and asked what illness he had been
suffering. At the mill, they did not welcome his re-appearance; his
temper was worse than it had been since the ever-memorable week which
witnessed his prosecution for assault and battery. At home, the servants
did their best to keep out of his way, warned by Mrs. Jenkins. She, good
woman, had been rash enough to bring the child into the dining-room
whilst Dagworthy was refreshing himself with a biscuit and a glass of
wine upon his arrival; in a minute or two she retreated in high wrath.
'Let him dom me, if he loikes,' she went away exclaiming; 'ah'm ovver
auld to care much abaht such fond tantrums; but when he gets agaate o'
dommin his awn barn, it fair maaks my teeth dither ageean. The lad's aht
on his 'eead.'
That was seven o'clock in the evening. He dined an hour later, and when
it was dark left the house. Between then and midnight he was constantly
in and out, and Mrs. Jenkins, who was kept up by her fears that 't'
master' was seriously unwell, made at length another attempt to face
him. She knocked at the door of the sitting-room, having heard him enter
a minute or two before; no answer was vouchsafed, so she made bold to
open the door. Dagworthy was sitting with his head upon the table, his
arms stretched out; he appeared to be asleep.
'Mr. Richard!' she said softly. 'Mr. Richard!'
He looked up. 'Well? What is it?'
'Yo' scahr'd me; ah thowt summat 'ad come to yo'. What's wrong wi' yo',
Mr. Richard? You look as if you could hardly he'd your heead up.'
To her surprise he spoke quite calmly.
'Yes, I've got a bit of a headache. Get me some hot water, will you?
I'll have some brandy and go to bed.'
She began to advise other remedies, but Dagworthy speedily checked her.
'Get me some hot water, I tell you, and go to bed yourself. What are you
doing up at this hour?'
He went to business at the usual time next morning, and it seemed as if
the worst had blown over; at home he was sullen, but not violent.
The third day after his return, on entering his office at the mill, he
found Hood taking down one of a row of old ledgers which stood there
upon a shelf.
'What are you doing?' he asked abruptly, at the same time turning his
back upon the clerk.
Hood explained that he was under the necessity of searching through the
accounts for several years, to throw light upon a certain transaction
which was giving trouble.
'All right,' was the reply, as Dagworthy took his keys out to open his
desk.
A quarter of an hour later, he entered the room where Hood was busy over
the ledger. A second clerk was seated there, and him Dagworthy summoned
to the office, where he had need of him. Presently Hood came to replace
the ledger he had examined, and took away the succeeding volume. A few
minutes later Dagworthy said to the clerk who sat with him--
'I shall have to go away for an hour or so. I'm expecting a telegram
from Legge Brothers; if it doesn't come before twelve o'clock, you or
Hood must go to Hebsworth. It had better be Hood; you finish what you're
at. If there's no telegram, he must take the twelve-thirteen, and give
this note here to Mr. Andrew Legge; there'll be an answer. Mind you see
to this.'
At the moment when Dagworthy's tread sounded on the stairs, Mr. Hood was
on the point of making a singular discovery. In turning a page of the
ledger, he came upon an envelope, old and yellow, which had evidently
been shut up in the hook for several years; it was without address and
unsealed. He was going to lay it aside, when his fingers told him that
it contained something; the enclosure proved to be a ten-pound note,
also old and patched together in the manner of notes that have been sent
half at a time.
'Now I wonder how that got left there?' Hood mused. 'There's been rare
searching for that, I'll be bound. Here's something to put our friend
into a better temper.'
He turned the note over once or twice, tried in vain to decipher a
scribbled endorsement, then restored it to the envelope. With the letter
in his hand, he went to the office.
'Mr. Dagworthy out?' he asked of his fellow-clerk on looking round.
The clerk was a facetious youth. He rose from his seat, seized a ruler,
and began a species of sword-play about Hood's head, keeping up a
grotesque dance the while. Hood bore it with his wonted patience,
smiling faintly.
'Mr. Dagworthy out?' he repeated, as soon as he was free from
apprehension of a chance crack on the crown.
'He is, my boy. And what's more, there's a chance of your having a spree
in Hebsworth. Go down on your knees and pray that no telegram from Foot
Brothers--I mean, Legge--arrives during the next five-and-twenty
minutes.'
'Why?'
'If not, you're to takee this notee to Brother Andrew
Leggee,--comprenez? The boss was going to send me, but he altered his
mind, worse luck.'
'Twelve-thirteen?' asked Hood.
'Yes. And now if you're in the mind, I'll box you for half a
dollar--what say?'
He squared himself in pugilistic attitude, and found amusement in
delivering terrific blows which just stopped short of Hood's prominent
features. The latter beat a retreat.
Twelve o'clock struck, and no telegram had arrived; neither had
Dagworthy returned to the mill. Hood was indisposed to leave the
envelope to be given by other hands; he might as well have the advantage
of such pleasure as the discovery would no doubt excite. So he put it
safely in his pocket-book, and hastened to catch the train, taking with
him the paper of sandwiches which represented his dinner. These he would
eat on the way to Hebsworth.
It was a journey of ten miles, lying at first over green fields, with a
colliery vomiting blackness here and there, then through a region of
blight and squalor, finally over acres of smoke-fouled streets, amid the
roar of machinery; a journey that would have crushed the heart in one
fresh from the breath of heaven on sunny pastures. It was a slow train,
and there were half a dozen stoppages. Hood began to eat his sandwiches
at a point where the train was delayed for a few minutes by an adverse
signal; a coal-pit was close by, and the smoke from the chimney blew in
at the carriage windows, giving a special flavour to the bread and meat.
There was a drunken soldier in the same compartment, who was being
baited by a couple of cattle-drovers with racy vernacular not to be
rendered by the pen. Hood munched his smoky sandwich, and with his sad
eyes watched the great wheel of the colliery revolve, and the trucks
rise and descend. The train moved on again. The banter between the other
three passengers was taking an angry turn; to escape the foul language
as far as possible, Hood kept his head at the window. Of a sudden the
drunken soldier was pushed against him, and before he could raise his
hands, his hat had flown off on the breeze.
He turned round with angry remonstrance. The soldier had fallen back on
to the seat, and was grinning inanely; the drovers were enjoying the
joke beyond measure.
'Theer, lad!' one of them cried. 'Tha's doon it nah! Tha'll a' to buy
him a new 'at for his 'eead, soon as we get i'to Hebs'orth.'
''Appen he's got no brass,' suggested the other, guffawing.
It was the case; the soldier had a copper or two at most. The drovers of
course held themselves free of responsibility. Hood felt in his own
pocket; but he was well aware that a shilling and three-halfpence was
all he carried with him--save the bank-note in his pocket-book. Yet it
was impossible to go through Hebsworth with uncovered head, or to
present himself hatless at the office of Legge Brothers. Already the
train was slackening speed to enter the station. Would any hatter trust
him, on his representing whence he came? He feared not. Not the least
part of his trouble was the thought of having to buy a new hat at all;
such an expense was ill to be borne just now. Of course--he said to
himself, with dreary fatalism--a mishap is sure to come at the worst
time. It was the experience of his life.
Hood was a shy man; it was misery to have attention drawn to himself as
it naturally would be as soon as he stepped out on to the platform. But
there was no help; with a last angry look at the drunken soldier, he
nerved himself to face the ordeal. As he walked hurriedly out of the
crowd, the cry 'Cab, sir?' fell upon his ears. Impossible to say how he
brought himself to such a pitch of recklessness, but in a moment he was
seated in a hansom, having bidden the driver take him to the nearest
hatter's. The agony of embarrassment has driven shy men to strange
audacities, but who ever dared more than this? _He would be compelled to
change the note_!
Whatever might be the cause, whether it was the sudden sense of refuge
from observation, or the long unknown pleasure of riding in a cab, as he
sped along the streets he grew almost merry; at length he positively
laughed at the adventure which had befallen him. It mattered nothing
whether he gave Dagworthy the money in a note or in change, and, on
being told the story, his employer might even feel disposed to pay for
the hat. He _would_ pay for the hat! By the time the cab drew up, Hood
had convinced himself of this. He was in better spirits than he had been
for many a day.
'Can you change me a ten-pound note?' were his first words to the
hatter. 'If you can't, I must go elsewhere; I have nothing smaller.'
The salesman hesitated.
'You want a silk hat?'
'Yes, but not an expensive one.'
A pen was brought, and Hood was requested to endorse the note. What
security--under the circumstances--such a proceeding could give, the
hatter best knew; he appeared satisfied, and counted out his sovereigns.
Hood paid the cabman, and walked off briskly towards the office of Legge
Brothers.
He stopped in the middle of the pavement as if a shot had struck him.
Supposing Dagworthy had no recollection of a ten-pound note having been
lost, nor of any note having been lost; and supposing it occurred to him
that he, Hood, had in reality found a larger sum, had invented the story
of the lost hat, and was returning a portion only of his discovery, to
gain the credit of honesty? Such an idea could only possess the brain of
a man whose life had been a struggle amid the chicaneries and
despicabilities of commerce; who knew that a man's word was never
trusted where there could enter the slightest suspicion of an advantage
to himself in lying; whose daily terror had been lest some error, some
luckless chance, should put him within the nets of criminality. It is
the deepest curse of such a life as his that it directs the imagination
in channels of meanness, and preoccupies the thought with sordid fears.
What would it avail him, in the present instance, to call the shopman to
witness? The note, ten to one, would be paid away, and here also a man's
word was worth nothing. But Dagworthy might merely think such an
accusation: ay, that would be the worst. To lie henceforth under
suspicion of dishonesty: that meant, to lose his place before long, on
some pretence.
And he felt that, in spite of absolute sincerity, he could not stand
before Dagworthy and tell his tale with the face and voice of an honest
man,--felt it with a horrible certainty. In a man of Hood's character,
this state of mind was perfectly natural. Not only was he weakly
constructed, but his incessant ill-fortune had done him that last wrong
which social hardship can inflict upon the individual, it, had
undermined his self-respect. Having been so often treated like a dog, he
had come to expect such treatment, and, what was worse, but feebly to
resent it. He had lost the conscious dignity of manhood; nay, had
perhaps never possessed it, for his battle had begun at so early an age.
The sense that he was wretchedly poor, and the knowledge that poverty is
the mother of degradation, made him at any moment a self-convicted
criminal; accused, however wrongly, it was inevitable that his face
should be against him. To go to Dagworthy with sovereigns in his hand,
and this story upon his lips, would be to invite suspicion by every
strongest sign of guilt.
I am representing the poor fellow's thoughts and feelings. Whether or
not Dagworthy would really entertain such a suspicion is quite another
matter. For the first time in his life, Hood had used for his own
purposes money which did not belong to him; he did it under the pressure
of circumstances, and had not time to reflect till the act was
irrevocable. Then this horror came upon him. Forgetting his errand, he
drew aside into a quieter street, and struggled with his anguish. Do you
laugh at him for his imbecility? Try first to understand him.
But his business must be performed; with trembling limbs he hurried
onwards, and at length reached the office of Legge Brothers. The member
of the firm to whom the note which he bore was addressed had but a few
minutes ago left the place; he would return within an hour. How could
the time be spent? He began to wander aimlessly about the streets. In
passing a spot where scaffolding was erected before new buildings, the
wish entered his mind that something might fall and crush him. He
thought of such an end as a blessed relief.
A hand was laid upon his shoulder, and at the touch his heart leaped as
though it would burst his side. He turned and, with starting eyes,
glared at the man before him, a perfect stranger, he thought.
'Is it? Or isn't it? Hood, or his ghost?'
The man who spoke was of the shabbiest appearance, wearing an almost
napless high hat, a coloured linen shirt which should have been at the
laundress's, no neck-tie, a frock-coat with only one button, low shoes
terribly down at heel; for all that, the most jovial-looking man,
red-nosed, laughing. At length Hood was capable of recognising him.
'Cheeseman! Well, who on earth would have expected to meet you!'
'I've followed you half along the street; couldn't be sure. Afraid I
startled you at last, old friend.'
They had known each other as young men, and it was now ten years at
least since they had met. They were companions in ill-hap, the
difference between them being that Cheeseman bore the buffets of the
world with imperturbable good humour; but then he had neither wife nor
child, kith nor kin. He had tried his luck in all parts of England and
in several other countries; casual wards had known him, and he had
gained a supper by fiddling in the streets. Many a beginning had he
made, but none led to anything; he seemed, in truth, to enjoy a
haphazard existence. If Cheeseman had possessed literary skill, the
story of his life from his own hand would have been invaluable; it is a
misfortune that the men who are richest in 'material' are those who
would never dream of using it.
They were passing a public-house; Cheeseman caught his friend by the arm
and, in spite of resistance, drew him in.
'Two threes of gin hot,' was his order. 'The old drink, Hood, my boy;
the drink that has saved me from despair a thousand times. How many
times have you and I kept up each other's pecker over a three of gin!
You don't look well; you've wanted old Cheeseman to cheer you up. Things
bad? Why, damn it, of course things are bad; when were they anything
else with you and me, eh? Your wife, how is she? Remember me to her,
will you? She never took to me, but never mind that. And the little
girl? How's the little girl? Alive and well, please God?'
'Rather more than a little girl now,' returned Hood. 'And doing well,
I'm glad to say. She's a governess; has an excellent place in London.'
'You don't say so? I never was so glad to hear anything in my life! Ah,
but Hood, you're leaving me behind, old friend; with the little girl
doing so well you can't call yourself a poor devil; you can't, upon my
soul! I ought to have married; yes, I should ha' married long ago; it
'ud a' been the making of me. It's the sole speculation, I do believe,
that I haven't tried. Ah, but I've got something before me now! What say
you to a patent fire-escape that any man can carry round his waist? Upon
my soul, I've got it! I'm going to London about it as soon as I can get
my fare; and that I shall have to-morrow, please God.'
'What brings you to Hebsworth?'
'I don't care much to talk about it in a public place,' replied
Cheeseman, with caution which contrasted comically with his loud tone
hitherto. 'Only a little matter, but--Well, we'll say nothing about it;
I may communicate with you some day. And you? Do you live here?'
Hood gave an account of his position. Under the influence of the glass
of spirits, and of the real pleasure it gave him to see one of the very
few men he had ever called friend, he had cast aside his cares for the
moment. They went forth presently from the bar, and, after a few paces,
Cheeseman took his friend by the coat collar and drew him aside, as if
to impart a matter of consequence.
'Two threes of gin!' he said, with a roll of the eye which gave his face
a singularly humorous expression. 'That's sixpence. A tanner, Hood, was
the last coin I possessed. It was to have purchased dinner, a beefsteak
pudding, with cabbage and potatoes; but what o' that? When you and I
meet, we drink to old times; there's no getting out of that.'
Hood laughed, for once in a really natural way. His usual abstemiousness
made the gin potent.
'Why,' he said, 'I confess to feeling hungry myself; I've only had a
sandwich. Come along; we'll have dinner together.'
'You mean it, old friend?' cried the other, with irrepressible delight.
'Of course I mean it. You don't think I'll let you spend your last coin,
and send you off dinnerless? Things are bad, but not quite as bad as
that. I'm as hungry as a hunter; where is there an eating-house?'
They found one at a little distance.
'It must be beefsteak pudding, Hood,' whispered Cheeseman, as they
entered. 'I've set my heart on that. Whatever else you like, but a
beefsteak pudding to start with.'
The article was procurable, smoking, juicy. Cheeseman made an incision,
then laid down his knife and gloated over his plate.
'Hood,' he said, with much solemnity, 'you've done me many a kindness,
old friend, but this caps all. I'm bound to you for life and death. I
should have wandered about these streets a starving man.'
The other laughed still; he had a fit of laughter on him; he had not
laughed so since he was young.
'Stout-and-mild is my drink, Hood,' remarked Cheeseman, suggestively.
'It has body, and I need the support.'
They each had a pint, served in the native pewter. When Cheeseman had
taken a deep draught he leaned forward across the table.
'Hood, I don't forget it; never you believe that I forget it, however
appearances may be against me?'
'Forget what?--give me the mustard, as soon as you can spare it; ha,
ha!'
'That ten-pound note!'
Hood dropped his knife and fork.
'What on earth's up? You look just like you did when I clapped you o'
the shoulder. Your nerves are out of order, old friend.'
'Why, so they are. I know now what you mean; I couldn't for the life of
me think what you were talking about.'
'Don't think I forget it,' pursued the other, after a mouthful.
'It's twelve years last Easter since you lent me that ten-pound note,
and it's been on my conscience ever since. But I shall repay it; never
you fear but I'll repay it. Did I mention a fire-escape that any man can
wear round his waist? Hush! wait a month or two. Let me make a note of
your address whilst I think of it. This pudding's hot, but it's a fault
on the right side, and time 'll mend it. You wouldn't mind, I daresay,
being my agent for Dunfield--for the fire-escape, you know? I'll
communicate with you, don't fear.'
A hot meal in the middle of the day was a luxury long unknown to Hood.
Now and again the thought of what he was doing flashed across him, but
mere bodily solace made his conscience dull. As the meal proceeded he
even began to justify himself. Was he never to know an hour's enjoyment?
Was his life to be unbroken hardship? What if he had borrowed a few
shillings without leave; somehow difficulties would be got over; why, at
the very worst, Emily would gladly lend him a pound. He began to talk of
Emily, to praise her, to wax warm in the recounting of her goodness, her
affection. What man living had so clever and so loving a daughter!
'It's what I said, Hood,' put in Cheeseman, with a shake of the head.
'You've left me behind. You've got into smooth water. The old
partnership of ill-luck is broken up. Well, well! I ought to have
married. It's been my one mistake in life.'
'Why, it's none too late yet,' cried Hood, merrily.
'None too late! Powers defend us! What have I got to marry on?'
'But the fire-escape?'
'Yes, yes, to be sure; the fire-escape! Well, we'll see; wait till
things are set going. Perhaps you're right; perhaps it isn't too late.
And, Hood--'
'Well?'
'You couldn't manage one single half-crown piece, could you? To be sure
there's always an archway to be found, when night comes on, but I can't
pretend to like it. I always try to manage a bed at least once a
week--no, no, not if there's the least difficulty. Times are hard, I
know. I'd rather say not another word about it.'
'Nonsense; take the half-crown and have done with it, Why, you've
cheered me up many a half-crownsworth; I feel better than I did. Don't I
look it? I feel as if I'd some warmth in my body. What say you,
Cheeseman? _One_ half-pint more?'
'Come, come, old friend; that's speaking feelingly. You shouldn't try me
in that way, you know. I shouldn't like to suggest a pint, with a scrap
of cheese. Eh? No, no; follow your own counsel, boy; half a pint be it.'
But the suggestion was accepted. Then at length it occurred to Hood that
time must be wearing away; he spoke of the obligation he was under to
finish his business and return to Dunfield as soon as possible.
Cheeseman declared himself the last man to stand in the way of business.
They left the eating-house and walked together part of the way to the
office of Legge Brothers.
'Old friend, I'm grateful to you,' said Cheeseman, when at length they
parted. 'I've got your address, and you shall hear from me; I've a
notion it won't be so long before we meet again. In any case it's
another day to look back upon; I little thought of it when I spent
twopence-halfpenny on my breakfast this morning and left sixpence for
dinner. It's a rum world, eh, Hood? Good-bye, and God bless you!'
Hood hurried on to the office, received his reply, and proceeded to the
station. He had more than half an hour to wait for a train. He took a
seat in the waiting-room, and began to examine the money in his pocket,
to ascertain exactly the sum he would have to replace. The deficit
amounted to a little less than eighteen shillings. After all, it was
very unlikely that Dagworthy would offer to bear the expense of the lost
hat. Say that a pound had to be restored.
He was in the comfortable mood, following upon unusual indulgence of the
appetite, in which the mind handles in a free and easy way the thoughts
it is wont to entertain with unquestionable gravity; when it has, as it
were, a slippery hold on the facts of life, and constructs a subjective
world of genial accommodations. A pound to restore; on the other hand,
nine pounds in pocket. The sight of the sovereigns was working upon his
imagination, already touched to a warmer life than was its habit. Nine
pounds would go a long way towards solving the financial difficulties of
the year; it would considerably more than replace the lacking rent of
the house in Barnhill; would replace it, and pay as well the increased
rent of the house at Banbrigg for twelve months to come. Looked at in
this way, the money became a great temptation.
His wife--how explain to her such a windfall? For it was of course
impossible to use it secretly. There was a way, seemingly of fate's
providing. If only he could bring himself to the lie direct and
shameless.
After all, a lie that would injure no mortal. As far as Dagworthy was
concerned, the money had long since become the property of nobody;
Dagworthy did not even know that this sum existed; if ever missed, it
must have been put out of mind long ago. And very possibly it had never
belonged to Dagworthy; some cashier or other clerk might just as well
have lost it. Hood played with these speculations. He did not put to
himself the plain alternative: Shall I keep the money, or shall I give
it up? He merely let a series of reflections pass over his mind, as he
lay back on the cushioned seat, experiencing an agreeable drowsiness. At
the moment of finding the note, he would have handed it over to his
employer without a thought; it would perhaps not even have occurred to
him to regret that it was not his own. But during the last three hours a
singular chain of circumstances had led to this result: it was just as
possible as not that Hood would keep the coins in his pocket and say
nothing about them.
It was time to go to the train. Almost with the first moving of the
carriages he fell into a doze. A sense of mental uneasiness roused him
now and then, but only for a few moments together; he slumbered on till
Dunfield was reached.
At the entrance to the mill he was in fierce conflict with himself. As
is usually the case in like circumstances, the sleepy journey had
resulted in bodily uneasiness; he had a slight headache, was thirsty,
felt indisposed to return to work. When he had all but crossed the
threshold, he turned sharply back, and entered a little public-house a
few yards away; an extraordinary thing for him to do, but he felt that a
small glass of spirits would help him to quieter nerves, or at all
events would sustain his unusual exhilaration till the interview with
Dagworthy was over. At the very door of the office he had not decided
whether it should be silence or restitution.
'That you, Hood?' Dagworthy asked, looking up from a letter he was
writing. 'Been rather a long time, haven't you?'
The tone was unusually indulgent. Hood felt an accession of confidence;
he explained naturally the cause of his delay.
'All right,' was the reply, as Dagworthy took the note which his
correspondent had sent.
Hood was in his own room, and--the money was still in his pocket....
He did not set out to walk home with his usual cheerfulness that
evening. His headache had grown worse, and he wished, wished at every
step he took, that the lie he had to tell to his wife was over and done
with. There was no repentance of the decision which, it seemed on
looking back, he had arrived at involuntarily. The coin which made his
pocket heavy meant joy to those at home, and, if he got it wrongfully,
the wrong was so dubious, so shadowy, that it vanished in comparison
with the good that would be done. It was not--he said to himself--as if
he had committed a theft to dissipate the proceeds, like that young
fellow who ran away from the Dunfield and County Bank some months ago,
and was caught in London with disreputable associates. Here was a
ten-pound note lying, one might say, by the very roadside, and it would
save a family from privation. Abstractly, it was wrong; yes, it was
wrong; but would abstract right feed him and pay his rent for the year
to come? Hood had reached this stage in his self-examination; he
strengthened himself by protest against the order of things. His
headache nursed the tendency to an active discontent, to which, as a
rule, his temperament did not lend itself.
But there remained the telling of the lie. How he wished that Emily were
not at home! To lie before Emily, that was the hardest part of his
self-imposed task. He could not respect his wife, but before Emily,
since her earliest companionship with him, he had watched his words
scrupulously; as a little girl she had so impressed him with the purity
of her heart that his love for her had been the nearest approach he ever
knew to the spirit of worship; and since her attainment of mental and
moral independence, his reverence for' her had not been unmixed with
awe. When her eyes met his, he felt the presence of a nature
indefinitely nobler than his own; not seldom he marvelled in his dim way
that such a one called him father. Could he ever after this day approach
her with the old confidence? Nay, he feared her. His belief in her
insight was almost a superstition. Would she not read the falsehood upon
his face?
Strange state of mind; at one and the same time he wished that he had
thought of Emily sooner, and was glad that he had not. That weight in
his pocket was after all a joyous one, and to have been conscious of
Emily as he now was, might--would--have made him by so much a poorer
man.
She, as usual, was at the door to meet him, her face even ladder than
its wont, for this morning there had been at the post-office a letter
from Switzerland. How she loved that old name of Helvetia, printed on
the stamps! Wilfrid wrote with ever fuller assurance that his father's
mind was growing well-disposed, and Emily knew that he would not tell
her other than the honest truth. For Wilfrid's scrupulous honesty she
would have vouched as--for her father's.
'You look dreadfully worn out,' she said, as Hood bent his head in
entering.
'I am, dear. I have been to Hebsworth, among other things.'
'Then I hope you had dinner there?'
He laughed.
'I should think I had!'
It was one of Mrs. Hood's bad days; she refused to leave the kitchen.
Emily had tried to cheer her during the afternoon, but in vain. There
had been a misunderstanding with the next-door neighbour, that lady
having expressed herself rather decidedly with regard to an incursion
made into her premises by the Hoods' cat.
'She speaks to me as if I was a mere working-woman,' Mrs. Hood
exclaimed, when Emily endeavoured to soothe her. 'Well, and what else am
I, indeed? There was a time when no one would have ventured to speak
so.'
'Mother, how can you be troubled by what such a woman says?'
'Yes, I know I am in the wrong, Emily; you always make me see that.'
So Emily had retreated to the upper room, and Mrs. Hood, resenting
neglect more even than contradiction, was resolved to sit in the kitchen
till bedtime.
Hood was glad when he heard of this.
'If you'll pour out my tea, Emily,' he said in an undertone, 'I'll go
and speak to mother for a few moments. I have news that will please
her.'
He went into the kitchen and, in silence, began to count sovereigns down
upon the table, just behind his wife, who sat over some sewing and had
not yet spoken. At the ring of each coin his heart throbbed painfully.
He fully realised, for the first time, what he had done.
At the ring of the fifth sovereign Mrs. Hood turned her head.
'What's that?' she asked snappishly.
He went on counting till the nine were displayed.
'What is it?' she repeated. 'Why do you fidget me so?'
'You'd never guess,' Hood answered, laughing hoarsely. 'I had to go to
Hebsworth to-day, and who ever do you think I met there? Why, old
Cheeseman.'
He paused.
'And he--no, I'll never believe he paid his debt!' said his wife, with
bitter congratulation. For years the name of Cheeseman had been gall
upon her tongue; even now she had not entirely ceased to allude to him,
when she wished to throw especial force of sarcasm into a reminiscence
of her earlier days. A woman's powers in the direction of envenomed
memory are terrible.
'You have said it,' was Hood's reply under his breath. 'It was
providential. What did I do, but go and lose my hat out of the window of
the train--had it knocked off by a drunken fellow, in fact. But for this
money I should have gone about Hebsworth bareheaded, and come home so,
too.'
'A new hat! There's a pretty penny gone! Well, it's too much to hope
that any good luck should come without bad at the same time.'
'Well, now you won't fret so much about the rent, Jane?'
He laid his hand upon her shoulder. It was a movement of tenderness such
as had not come to him for years; he felt the need of sympathy; he could
have begged her to give him a kind look. But she had resumed her sewing;
her fingers were not quite steady, that was all.
He left the money on the table and went to Emily in the sitting-room.
She was sitting at the table waiting for him with her kindly eyes.
'And what has the wise woman been doing all day?' he asked, trying in
vain to overcome that terrible fluttering at his side which caught his
breath and made him feel weak.
They talked for some minutes, then footsteps were heard approaching from
the kitchen. Mrs. Hood entered with her sewing--she always took the very
coarsest for such days as this--and sat at a little distance from the
table. As the conversation had nothing to do with Cheeseman's debt, she
grew impatient.
'Have you told Emily?' she asked.
'No, I haven't. You shall do that.'
Hood tried to eat the while; the morsels became like sawdust in his
mouth, and all but choked him. He tried to laugh; the silence which
followed his effort was ghastly to him.
'You see, it never does to believe too ill of a man,' he said, when he
found Emily's look upon him.
Mrs. Hood grew mere at her ease, and, to his relief, began to talk
freely. Emily tortured him by observing that he had no appetite. He
excused himself by telling of his dinner in Hebsworth, and, as soon as
possible, left the table. He went upstairs and hoped to find solitude
for a time in the garret.
Emily joined him, however, before long. At her entrance he caught up the
first bottle his hand fell upon, and seemed to be examining it.
'What is that?' Emily asked, noticing his intentness, which in reality
had no meaning.
'This? Oh, cyanide of potassium. I was looking--no, it's nothing. Will
you read me something for half an hour, Emily?'
By this means he would avoid talking, and he knew that the girl was
always delighted by the request. She generally read poetry of a kind she
thought might touch him, longing to establish more of intellectual
sympathy between him and herself. So she did to-night. Hood scarcely
followed after the first line; he became lost in feverish brooding. When
she laid the volume down, he looked up and held out his hand to her.
She, at all events, would not disregard his caress; indeed, Emily took
the hand and kissed it.
Then began one of the more intimate conversations which sometimes took
place between them. Emily was driven now and then to endeavour to make
clear to him her inner life, to speak of her ideals, her intellectual
convictions. He listened always with an air of deep humility, very
touching in a parent before a child. Her meaning was often dark to his
sight, but he strove hard to comprehend, and every word she uttered had
for him a gospel sanction. To-night his thoughts strayed; her voice was
nothing but the reproach of his own soul; the high or tender words were
but an emphasis of condemnation, reiterated, pitiless. She was speaking
thus out of her noble heart to him--him, the miserable hypocrite; he
pretended to listen and to approve. His being was a loathed burden.
If she had spoken thus last night, surely her voice would have dwelt
with him through the hour of temptation. Oh, could it not be morning
again, and the day yet to live? The clock below wheezed out nine strokes
as if in answer.