THE FINAL INTERVIEW
On six days of the week, Mrs. Hood, to do her justice, made no show of
piety to the powers whose ordering of life her tongue incessantly
accused; if her mode of Sabbatical observance was bitter, the
explanation was to be sought in the mere force of habit dating from
childhood, and had, indeed, a pathetic significance to one sufficiently
disengaged from the sphere of her acerbity to be able to judge fairly
such manifestations of character. A rigid veto upon all things secular,
a preoccupied severity of visage, a way of speaking which suggested
difficult tolerance of injury, an ostentation of discomfort in bodily
inactivity--these were but traditions of happier times; to keep her
Sunday thus was to remind herself of days when the outward functions of
respectability did in truth correspond to self-respect; and it is
probable that often enough, poor woman, the bitterness was not only on
her face. As a young girl in her mother's home she had learnt that the
Christian Sabbath was to be distinguished by absence of joy, and as she
sat through these interminable afternoons, on her lap a sour little book
which she did not read, the easy-chair abandoned for one which hurt her
back, the very cat not allowed to enter the room lest it should gambol,
here on the verge of years which touch the head with grey, her life must
have seemed to her a weary pilgrimage to a goal of discontent. How far
away was girlish laughter, how far the blossoming of hope which should
attain no fruitage, and, alas, how far the warm season of the heart, the
woman's heart that loved and trusted, that joyed in a newborn babe, and
thought not of the day when the babe, in growing to womanhood, should
have journeyed such lengths upon a road where the mother might not
follow.
Neither Hood nor his daughter went to church; the former generally spent
the morning in his garret, the latter helped herself against the
depression which the consciousness of the day engendered by playing
music which respect would have compelled her to refrain from had her
mother been present. The music was occasionally heard by an acquaintance
who for some reason happened to be abroad in church time, and Mrs. Hood
was duly informed of the sad things done in her absence, but she had the
good sense to forbid herself interference with Emily's mode of spending
the Sunday. She could not understand it, but her husband's indifference
to religion had taught her to endure, and, in truth, her own zeal, as I
have said, was not of active colour. Discussion on such subjects there
had never been. Her daughter, she had learnt to concede, was strangely
other than herself; Emily was old enough to have regard for her own
hereafter.
Breakfast on Sunday was an hour later than on other days, and was always
a very silent meal. On the day which we have now reached it was perhaps
more silent than usual. Hood had a newspaper before him on the table;
his wife wore the wonted Sabbath absentness, suggestive of a fear lest
she should be late for church; Emily made a show of eating, but the same
diminutive slice of bread-and-butter lasted her to the end of the meal.
She was suffering from a slight feverishness, and her eyes, unclosed
throughout the night, were heavy with a pressure which was not of
conscious fatigue. Having helped in clearing the table and ordering the
kitchen, she was going upstairs when her mother spoke to her for the
first time.
'I see you've still got your headache,' Mrs. Hood said, with
plaintiveness which was not condolence.
'I shall go out a little, before dinner-time,' was the reply.
Her mother dismally admitted the wisdom of the proposal, and Emily went
to her room. Before long the bell of the chapel-of-ease opposite began
its summoning, a single querulous bell, jerked with irregular rapidity.
The bells of Pendal church sent forth a more kindly bidding, but their
music was marred by the harsh clanging so near at hand, Emily heard and
did not hear. When she had done housemaid's office in her room, she sat
propping her hot brows, waiting for her mother's descent in readiness
for church. At the sound of the opening and closing bedroom door, she
rose and accompanied her mother to the parlour. Mrs. Hood was in her
usual nervous hurry, giving a survey to each room before departure,
uttering a hasty word or two, then away with constricted features.
The girl ascended again, and, as soon as the chapel bell had ceased its
last notes of ill-tempered iteration, began to attire herself hastily
for walking. When ready, she unlocked a drawer and took from it an
envelope, of heavy contents, which lay ready to her hand. Then she
paused for a moment and listened. Above there was a light footfall,
passing constantly hither and thither. Leaving the room with caution,
she passed downstairs noiselessly and quitted the house by the back
door, whence by a circuit she gained the road. Her walk was towards the
Heath. As soon as she entered upon it, she proceeded rapidly--so
rapidly, indeed, that before long she had to check herself and take
breath. No sun shone, and the air was very still and warm; to her it
seemed oppressive. Over Dunfield hung a vast pile of purple cloud,
against which the wreaths of mill smoke, slighter than on week-days, lay
with a dead whiteness. The Heath was solitary; a rabbit now and then
started from a brake, and here and there grazed sheep. Emily had her
eyes upon the ground, save when she looked rapidly ahead to measure the
upward distance she had still to toil over.
On reaching the quarry, she stayed her feet. The speed at which she had
come, and an agitation which was increasing, made breathing so difficult
that she turned a few paces aside, and sat down upon a rough block of
stone, long since quarried and left unused. Just before her was a small
patch of marshy ground, long grass growing about a little pool. A rook
had alighted on the margin, and was pecking about. Presently it rose on
its heavy wings; she watched it flap athwart the dun sky. Then her eye
fell on a little yellow flower near her feet, a flower she did not know.
She plucked and examined it, then let it drop carelessly from her hand.
The air was growing brown; a storm threatened. She looked about her with
a hasty fear, then resumed her walk to the upper part of the Heath.
Beaching the smooth sward, she made straight across it for Dagworthy's
house.
Crossing the garden, she was just at the front door, when it was opened,
and by Dagworthy himself. His eyes fell before her.
'Will you come this way?' he said, indistinctly.
He led into the large sitting-room where he had previously entertained
Emily and her father. As soon as he had closed the door, he took eager
steps towards her.
'You have come,' he said. 'Something told me you would come this
morning. I've watched at the window for you.'
The assurance of victory had softened him. His voice was like that of
one who greets a loving mistress. His gaze clung to her.
'I have come to bring you this!' Emily replied, putting upon the table
the heavy envelope. 'It is the money we owe you.'
Dagworthy laughed, but his eyes were gathering trouble.
'You owe me nothing,' he said, affecting easiness.
'How do you mean that?' Emily gave him a direct look. Her manner had now
nothing of fear, nor even the diffidence with which she had formerly
addressed him. She spoke with a certain remoteness, as if her business
with him were formal. The lines of her mouth were hard; her heavy lids
only half raised themselves.
'I mean that you owe nothing of this kind,' he answered, rather
confusedly. His confidence was less marked; her look overcame his.
'Not ten pounds?'
'Well, _you_ don't.' He added, 'Whose is this money?'
'It is my own; I have earned it.'
'Does your father know you are paying it?'
He does not. I was not likely to speak to him of what you told me. There
is the debt, Mr. Dagworthy; we have paid it, and now I will leave you.
He examined her. Even yet he could not be sure that he understood. In
admitting her, he had taken it for granted that she could come with but
one purpose. It was but the confirmation of the certain hope in which he
had lived through the night. Was the girl a simpleton? Had she got it
into her head that repayment in this way discharged his hold upon her
father? It was possible; women are so ludicrously ignorant of affairs.
He smiled, though darkly.
'Why have you brought this money?' he asked.
She was already moving nearer to the door. He put himself in her way.
'What good do you imagine this is?'
'None, perhaps. I pay it because I wish to.'
'And--is it your notion that this puts your father straight? Do you
think this is a way out of his difficulty?'
'I have not thought that. But it was only to restore the money that I
came.'
There was silence.
'Have you forgotten,' he asked, half wonderingly, half with quiet
menace, 'what I said to you yesterday?'
'You see my answer,' said Emily, pointing hastily to the table. 'I owe
you that, but I can give you nothing more.' Her voice quivered, as she
continued, 'What you said to me yesterday was said without thought, or
only with evil thoughts. Since then you have had hours of reflection. It
is not in your power--it would be in the power of no man who is not
utterly base and wicked--to repeat such words this morning. Mr.
Dagworthy, I believe in the affection you have professed for me; feeling
that, you are incapable of dastardly cruelty. I will not believe your
tongue against yourself. In a moment of self-forgetfulness you spoke
words which you will regret through your life, for they were inhuman,
and were spoken to a defenceless girl. After hearing them, I cannot beg
your mercy for my father but you know that misfortune which strikes him
falls also upon me. You have done me the greatest wrong that man can do
to woman; you owe me what reparation is in your power.'
She had not thought to speak thus. Since daylight dawned her heart had
felt too numb, too dead; barely to tell him that she had no answer to
his words was the purpose with which she had set out. The moment
prompted her utterance, and words came without reflection. It was a
noble speech, and nobly delivered; the voice was uncertain at times, but
it betrayed no weakness of resolve, no dread of what might follow. The
last sentences were spoken with a dignity which rebuked rather than
supplicated. Dagworthy's head bowed as he listened.
He came nearer.
'Do you think me,' he asked, under his breath, 'a mere ignorant lout,
who has to be shamed before he knows what's manly and what isn't? Do you
think because I'm a manufacturer, and the son of one, that I've no
thought or feeling above my trade? I know as well as you can tell me,
though you speak with words I couldn't command, that I'm doing a mean
and a vile thing--there; hear me say it, Emily Hood. But it's not a
cruel thing. I want to compel you to do what, in a few years, you'll be
glad of. I want you to accept love such as no other man can give you,
and with it the command of pretty well everything you can wish for. I
want to be a slave at your feet, with no other work in life than finding
out your desires and satisfying them. You're not to be tempted with
money, and I don't try to; but I value the money because it will give me
power to show my love. And mind what I say ask yourself if it isn't
true. If you hadn't been engaged already, you'd have listened to me; I
feel that power in myself; I know I should have made you care for me by
loving you as desperately as I do. I wouldn't have let you refuse
me--you hear, Emily? Emily! Emily! Emily!--it does me good to call you
by your name--I haven't done so before to-day, have I, Emily? Not a
cruel thing, because I offer you more than any man living can, more of
that for which you care most, the life a highly educated woman can
appreciate. You shall travel where you will; you shall buy books and
pictures, and all else to your heart's content; and, after all, you
shall love me. That's a bold word, but I tell you I feel the power in me
to win your love. I'm not hateful to you, even now; you can't really
despise me, for you know that whatever I do is for no mean purpose.
There is no woman living like you, and to make you my wife I am prepared
to do anything, however vile it seems. Some day you'll forgive it all,
because some day you'll love me!'
It was speaking as he had never yet done. He assumed that his end was
won, and something of the triumph of passion endued his words with a
joyous fervour. Very possibly there was truth in much that he said, for
he spoke with the intense conviction which fulfils prophecies. But the
only effect was to force Emily back upon her cold defiance.
'I am in your house, Mr. Dagworthy,' she said, 'and you can compel me to
hear whatever you choose to say. But I have no other answer than that
you know. I wish to leave you.'
His flushed eagerness could not at once adapt itself to another tone.
'No, you don't wish to leave me. You want to see that I am a man of my
word, that I mean what I say, and am not afraid to stick to it. Emily,
you don't leave me till you have promised to be my wife. You're a noble
girl. You wouldn't be frightened into yielding. And it isn't that way I
want to have you. You're more now in my eyes than ever. It shall be love
for love. Emily, you will marry me?'
What resources of passion the man was exhibiting! By forethought he
could have devised no word of these speeches which he uttered with such
vigour; it was not he who spoke, but the very Love God within him. He
asked the last question with a voice subdued in tenderness; his eyes had
a softer fire.
Emily gave her answer.
'I would not marry you, though you stood to kill me if I refused.'
No bravado, no unmeasured vehemence of tone, but spoken as it would have
been had the very weapon of death gleamed in his hand.
He knew that this was final.
'So you are willing that your father shall be put into the dock at the
police-court to-morrow morning?'
'If you can do that, it must be so.'
'If I _can_? You know very well I have the power to, and you ought to
know by now that I stick at nothing. Go home and think about it.'
It is useless. I have thought. If you think still to make me yield by
this fear, it is better that you should act at once. I will tell you If
I were free, if I had the power to give myself to you in marriage, it
would make your threat of no more avail. I love my father; to you I
cannot say more than that; but though I would give my life to save his
from ruin, I could not give--my father would not wish me, oh never!--my
woman's honour. You will find it hard to understand me, for you seem not
to know the meaning of such words.'
She closed with stern bitterness, compelled to it by the tone of his
last bidding. A glorious beauty flashed in her face. Alas, Wilfrid Athel
would never know the pride of seeing thus the woman he knew so noble.
But Wilfrid was in her heart; his soul allied itself with hers and gave
her double strength. Dagworthy had wrought for her that which in the
night's conflict she could not bring about by her own force; knowing, in
the face of utter despair, the whole depth of the love with which she
held to her father, she could yet speak his doom with calmness, with
clear intelligence that the sacrifice she was asked to make was
disproportionate to the disaster threatened.
He answered with cold decision.
'It's you who don't know me. I've nothing more to say to you; you are at
liberty to go. To-morrow your father will be before the magistrates.'
Emily moved to the door. The sound of the words had blanched her lips.
She felt that, if she would keep hold upon her bodily strength, she must
breathe the outer air.
'Look here, I say,' he exclaimed, stepping to the table. 'Take the
money. I've nothing to do with that.'
She made a motion with her hand, but hastened still and escaped. Once in
the garden she all but ran, thinking she heard his footsteps in pursuit,
and smitten with that sudden terror which comes sometimes when a danger
is escaped. But she had gained the Heath, and it was certain now that he
had not tried to overtake her, a glance back showed her that no one was
in sight. She walked rapidly on, though her heart seemed about to burst,
walked without pausing till she had reached the quarry. Here she sat on
the same stone as before. She was in dread of fainting; the anguish of
her leaping blood was intolerable; she had neither sight nor hearing.
But the crisis of suffering passed; she let her head fall forward and
buried it upon her lap.
Perhaps for ten minutes she remained thus, then a great crash from the
near heavens caused her to look up. It was raining, had rained since she
sat there, though she had not known it. In the little pool before her
great drops splashed and made a miniature tempest. The yellow flower she
had plucked lay close by, and was beaten by the rain. It lightened
vividly, and there followed heavier thunder than before.
She wished to shed tears--tears were choking her, but would not rise and
shed themselves; she could only sob, aloud, hysterically. The words
'Father' and 'Wilfrid' broke from her lips several times. Was there
red-hot metal poured upon her forehead?
It cost her a great effort to rise and walk homewards. The rain streamed
down, but she could no longer hasten. Still she reached the house before
her mother's return from church, and she was glad of that.