NEWS AND COMMENTS
As a man who took the world as he found it, and on the whole found it
well worth accepting on such terms, Mr. Athel was not likely to allow
his annoyance with Wilfrid to threaten the habitual excellence of his
digestion. His disappointment was real enough. When of a sudden Wilfrid
had announced that he could not accompany the family party to
Switzerland, Mr. Athel was saved from undignified irresolution by a
hearty outburst of temper, which saw him well over the Straits before it
gave way to the natural reaction, under the influence of which he called
himself a blockhead. He had, beyond a doubt, precipitated the marriage,
when postponement was the only thing he really cared about. To abuse
himself was one thing, the privilege which an Englishman is ready enough
to exercise; to have his thoughts uttered to him by his sister with
feminine neatness and candour was quite another matter. Mrs. Rossall had
in vain attempted to stem the flood of wrath rushing Channelwards.
Overcome, she clad herself in meaning silence, until her brother, too
ingenuous man, was compelled to return to the subject himself, and,
towards the end of the journey, rashly gave utterance to half a wish
that he had not left 'that young fool' behind. Mrs. Rossall, herself a
little too impetuous when triumph was no longer doubtful, made such
pointed remarks on the neglect of good advice that the ire which was
cooling shot forth flame in another direction. Brother and sister
arrived at Geneva in something less than perfect amity. Their real
affection for each other was quite capable of bearing not infrequently
the strain of irritability on both sides. A day of mutual causticities
had well prepared the ground for the return of good temper, when the
arrival of Wilfrid, by astonishing both, hastened their complete
reconciliation. Wilfrid was mysterious; for a week he kept his counsel,
and behaved as if nothing unusual had happened. By that time Mr. Athel's
patience had reached its limit; he requested to be told how matters
stood. Wilfrid, determined not to compromise his dignity by speaking
first, but glad enough when his father broached the topic, related the
story of his visit to Dunfield. Possibly he laid needless emphasis on
Emily's unselfish prudence.
'I fail to see the striking meritoriousness of all that,' Mr. Athel
observed, put into a good humour by the result, and consequently
allowing himself a little captiousness. 'It merely means that she
behaved as any woman who respected herself would under the
circumstances. Your own behaviour, on the other hand--well, let it
pass.'
'I don't see that I could have acted otherwise,' said Wilfrid, too
contented to care about arguing the point.
'You of course saw her parents?'
Wilfrid had given no detailed account of the way in which his interview
with Emily had been obtained. He mentioned it now, his father listening
with the frowning smile of a man who judges such puerilities from the
standpoint of comfortable middle age.
The tone between them returned before long to the friendliness never
previously interrupted. Mr. Athel shortly wrote a letter to Mr.
Baxendale of Dunfield, whom he only knew by name as Beatrice Redwing's
uncle, and begged for private information regarding Emily's family. He
received a courteous reply, the details not of course wholly palatable,
but confirmatory of the modest hopes he had entertained. This reply he
showed to his sister. Mrs. Rossall raised her eyebrows resignedly, and
returned the letter in silence.
'What one expected, I suppose?' said Mr. Athel.
'I suppose so. Mr. Baxendale probably thinks the man has been applying
for a position in your pantry.'
'Well, I was obliged, you know, to hint at my reasons for seeking
information.'
'You did? Then Beatrice knows all about it by this time. As well that
way as any other, I suppose.'
'We shall have to take the matter like reasonable beings, Edith,' said
her brother, a trifle annoyed by her failure to countenance him.
'Yes; but you seem anxious that I should rejoice. That would not be very
reasonable.'
Something warned Mr. Athel that he had better abstain from rejoinder. He
pursed his lips and walked away.
Wilfrid had not spoken of the subject to his aunt since the disclosure
at The Firs, and Mrs. Rossall was offended by his silence at least as
much as by the prospect of his marrying Miss Hood. Clearly he regarded
the matter as no concern of hers, whereas a woman claims by natural
right a share in the matrimonial projects of all her male relatives with
whom she is on a footing of intimacy. Perhaps the main cause of her
displeasure in the first instance had been the fact that things should
have got to such a pass without her having as much as suspected the
imminence of danger; she regarded Emily as one that had outwitted her.
Dearly would she have liked to be able to meet her brother with the
assertion that she had suspected it all along; the impossibility of
doing so--not from conscientious scruples, but because in that case it
would clearly have been her duty to speak--exasperated her
disappointment at the frustration of the match she desired. Now that she
was getting used to the state of things, Wilfrid's behaviour to her
became the chief ground of her offence. It seemed to her that at least
he owed some kind of apology for the distress he had naturally caused
her; in truth she would have liked him to undertake the task of winning
her over to his side. Between her and her nephew there had never existed
a warm confidence, and Wilfrid's present attitude was too much a
confirmation of the feeling she had experienced now and then, that his
affection was qualified with just a little contempt. She was not, she
knew, a strong-minded woman, and on that very account cared more for the
special dominion of her sex. Since Wilfrid had ceased to be a
hobbledehoy, it would have become him to put a little more of the
courtier into his manner towards her. For are there not countries in
which their degree of kin is no bar to matrimony? Mrs. Rossall was of
the women who like the flavour of respectful worship in all men who are
neither father, brother, nor son. Wilfrid had fallen short of this, and
hence the affectation with which she had persisted in regarding him as a
schoolboy. His latest exploits were vastly more interesting to her than
anything he had done in academic spheres, and she suffered a sense of
exclusion in seeing him so determined to disregard her opinion.
She persuaded him to row her cut one evening on a lake by which they
were spending a few days. Wilfrid, suspecting that she aimed at a
_tete-a-tete_, proposed that his father should accompany them. Mrs.
Rossall overruled the suggestion.
'How wonderfully you are picking up,' she said, after watching him pull
for a few minutes. 'Do you know, Wilf, your tendency is to stoutness; in
a few years you will be portly, if you live too sedentary a life.'
He looked annoyed, and by so doing gratified her. She proceeded.
'What do you think I overheard one of our spectacled friends say this
morning--"_Sehen Sie mal_,"--you were walking at a little
distance--"_da haben Sie das Muster des englischen Aristokraten_. _O,
der gute, schlichte Junge_!"'
Wilfrid had been working up his German. He stopped rowing, red with
vexation.
'That is a malicious invention,' he declared.
'Nothing of the kind! The truth of the remark struck me.'
'I am obliged to you.'
'But, my dear boy, what is there to be offended at? The man envied you
with all his heart; and it is delightful to see you begin to look so
smooth about the cheeks.'
'I am neither an aristocrat, nor _schlicht_!'
'An aristocrat to the core. I never knew any one so sensitive on points
of personal dignity, so intolerant of difference of opinion in others,
so narrowly self-willed! Did you imagine yourself to have the air of a
hero of romance, of the intense school?'
Wilfrid looked into her eyes and laughed.
'That is your way of saying that you think my recent behaviour
incongruous. You wish to impress upon me how absurd I look from the
outside?'
'It is my way of saying that I am sorry for you.'
He laughed again.
'Then the English aristocrat is an object of your pity?'
'Certainly; when he gets into a false position.'
'Ah!--well, suppose we talk of something else. Look at the moon rising
over that shoulder of the hill.'
'That, by way of proving that you are romantic. No, we won't talk of
something else. What news have you from England?'
'None,' he replied, regarding the gleaming drops that fell from his
suspended oar.
'And you are troubled that the post brings you nothing?'
'How do you know?'
'Your emotions are on the surface.'
He made no reply.
'Ah!' Mrs. Rossall sighed, 'what a pity you are so independent. I often
think a man's majority ought to come ten years later than it does. Most
of you are mere boys till thirty at least, and you go and do things that
you repent all the rest of your lives. Dare you promise to come to me in
ten years and tell me with complete frankness what you think of--a
certain step?'
He smiled scornfully.
'Certainly; let us register the undertaking.'
After pausing a moment, he continued with an outburst of vehemence--a
characteristic of Wilfrid's speech.
'You illustrate a thought I have often had about women. The majority of
you, at all events as you get into the world, have no kind of faith in
anything but sordid motives. You are cynical beyond anything men can
pretend to; you scoff at every suggestion of idealism. I suppose it is
that which makes us feel the conversation of most women of refinement so
intolerably full of hypocrisies. Having cast away all faith, you cannot
dispense with the show of it; the traditions of your sex must be
supported. You laugh in your sleeves at the very things which are
supposed to constitute your claims to worship; you are worldly to the
core. Men are very Quixotes compared with you; even if they put on
cynicism for show, they are ashamed of it within themselves. With you,
fine feeling is the affectation. I have felt it again and again. Explain
it now; defend yourself, if you can. Show me that I am wrong, and I will
thank you heartily.'
'My word, what an arraignment!' cried Mrs. Rossall, between amusement at
his boldness and another feeling which warmed her cheeks a little. 'But
let us pass from broad accusation to particulars. I illustrate all these
shocking things--poor me! How do I illustrate them?'
'In the whole of your attitude towards myself of late. You pooh-pooh my
feelings, you refuse to regard me as anything but a donkey, you prophesy
that in a year or two I shall repent having made a disinterested
marriage. I observe the difference between your point of view and my
father's. The worst of it is you are sincere: the circumstances of the
case do not call upon you for an expression of graceful sentiments, and
you are not ashamed to show me how meanly you regard all that is highest
and purest in life.'
'Shall I explain it? Women are very quick to get at realities, to see
below the surface in conduct and profession. We become, you say, worldly
as soon as we get into the world. Precisely because we have to be so
wide awake to protect ourselves. We instinctively know the difference
between the ring of false and true, and as we hear the false so much the
oftener Your charge against us of want of real feeling is the result of
your ignorance of women; you don't see below the surface.'
'Well now, apply all this to the present instance. What has your insight
discerned in my proposed marriage to cause you to regard it as a piece
of folly?'
'Simply this. You ally yourself with some one from a class beneath your
own. Such marriages very, very seldom prove anything but miserable, and
_always_ bring a great many troubles. You will say that Miss Hood is
raised by education above the class in which she was born; but no doubt
she has relatives, and they can't be entirely got rid of. However, that
isn't the point I lay most stress on.'
'Well?'
'I am quite sure you will make her miserable. You are marrying too
young. Your character is not fixed. In a few years, before that, you
will want to get rid of her.'
'Well, that is at all events intelligible. And your grounds for the
belief?'
'You are inconstant, and you are ambitious. You might marry a woman from
a class higher than your own, and when it is too late you will
understand what you have lost.'
'Worldly advantages, precisely.'
'And how if your keen appreciation of worldly advantages results in your
wife's unhappiness?'
'I deny the keen appreciation, in your sense.'
'Of course you do. Come to me in ten years and tell me your opinion of
women's ways of thinking.'
This was the significant part of their conversation. Wilfrid came to
land confirmed in his views; Mrs. Rossall, with the satisfaction of
having prophesied uncomfortable things.
She had a letter on the following morning on which she recognised
Beatrice Redwing's bend. To her surprise, the stamp was of Dunfield. It
proved that Beatrice was on a visit to the Baxendales. Her mother, prior
to going to the Isle of Wight, had decided to accept an invitation to a
house in the midland counties which Beatrice did not greatly care to
visit; so the latter had used the opportunity to respond to a summons
from her friends in the north, whom she had not seen for four years.
Beatrice replied to a letter from Mrs. Rossall which had been forwarded
to her.
After breakfast, Mrs. Rossall took her brother aside, and pointed out to
him a paragraph in Beatrice's letter. It ran thus:--
'A very shocking thing has happened, which I suppose I may mention, as
you will necessarily hear of it soon. Miss Hood's father has committed
suicide, poisoned himself; he was found dead on a common just outside
the town. Nobody seems to know any reason, unless it was trouble of a
pecuniary kind. Miss Hood is seriously ill. The Baxendales send daily to
make inquiries, and I am afraid the latest news is anything but hopeful.
She was to have dined with us here the day after her father's death.'
There was no further comment; the writer went on to speak of certain
peculiarities in the mode of conducting service at St. Luke's church.
Mr. Athel read, and, in his manner, whistled low. His sister looked
interrogation.
'I suppose we shall have to tell him,' said the former. 'Probably he has
no means of hearing.'
'I suppose we must. He has been anxious at not receiving letters he
expected.'
'How do you know?'
'I had a talk with him last night.'
'Ah, so I thought. The deuce take it! Of course he'll pack off on the
moment. What on earth can have induced the man to poison himself?'
Such a proceeding was so at variance with Mr. Athel's views of life that
it made him seriously uncomfortable. It suggested criminality, or at
least lunacy, both such very unpleasant things to be even remotely
connected with. Poverty he could pardon, but suicide was really
disreputable. From the philosophic resignation to which he had attained,
he fell back into petulance, always easier to him than grave protest.
'The deuce take it!' he repeated.
Mrs. Rossall pointed to the words reporting Emily's condition at the
time of writing.
'That was more than two days ago,' she said meaningly.
'H'm!' went her brother.
'Will you tell him?'
'I suppose I must. Yes, it is hardly allowable even to postpone it.
Where is he?'
Wilfrid was found in the hotel garden.
'Your aunt has had a letter from Beatrice,' Mr. Athel began, with the
awkwardness of a comfortable Englishman called upon to break bad news.
'She is staying in Dunfield.'
'Indeed?'
'There's something in the letter you ought to know.'
Wilfrid looked anxiously.
'It appears that Miss Hood's father has--don't let it be a shock to
you--has just died, and died, in fact, by his own hands.'
'Has killed himself?' Wilfrid exclaimed, turning pale.
'Yes, I am sorry to say that is the report. Miss Hood is naturally
suffering from--from the shocking occurrence.'
'She is ill?' Wilfrid asked, when he had examined his father's face for
a moment.
'Yes, I am afraid she is. Beatrice gives no details.'
'You are not keeping anything from me?'
'Indeed, nothing. The words are that she is ill, and, it is feared,
seriously.'
'I must go at once.'
It was said with quiet decision. Wilfrid consulted his watch, and walked
rapidly to the hotel. He had to wait a couple of hours, however, before
he could start on his journey, and he spent the time by himself. His
father felt he could be of no use, and Mrs. Rossall found a difficulty
in approaching her nephew under such circumstances.
'You will telegraph?' Mr. Athel said, at the station, by way of
expressing himself sympathetically.
The train moved away; and the long, miserable hours of travelling had to
be lived through. Wilfrid's thoughts were all the more anxious from his
ignorance of the dead man's position and history. Even yet Emily had
said very little of her parents in writing to him; he imagined all
manner of wretched things to connect her silence with this catastrophe.
His fears on her own account were not excessive; the state of vigorous
health into which he had grown during late weeks perhaps helped him to
avoid thoughts of a desperate kind. It was bad enough that she lay ill,
and from such a cause; he feared nothing worse than illness. But his
uneasiness increased as time went on; the travelling seemed intolerably
tardy. He had to decide what his course would be on reaching Dunfield,
and decision was not easy. To go straight to the house might result in
painful embarrassments; it would at all events be better first to make
inquiries elsewhere. Could he have recourse to Beatrice? At first the
suggestion did not recommend itself, but nothing better came into his
mind, and, as his impatience grew, the obstacles seemed so trifling that
he overlooked them. He remembered that the address of the Baxendales was
unknown to him; but it could easily be discovered. Yes, he would go
straight to Beatrice.
Reaching London at ten o'clock in the morning, he drove directly to
King's Cross, and pursued his journey northwards. Though worn with
fatigue, excitement would not allow him more than a snatch of sleep now
and then. When at length he stepped out at Dunfield, he was in sorry
plight. He went to an hotel, refreshed himself as well as he could, and
made inquiry about the Baxendales' address. At four o'clock he presented
himself at the house, and sent in a card to Beatrice.
The Baxendales lived in St. Luke's, which we already know as the
fashionable quarter of Dunfield. Their house stood by itself, with high
walls about it, enclosing a garden; at the door were stone pillars, the
lower half painted a dull red. It seemed the abode of solid people, not
troubled with scruples of taste. It was with surprise that Wilfrid found
himself in a room abundantly supplied with books and furnished in
library fashion. His state of mind notwithstanding, he glanced along a
few shelves, discovering yet more unexpected things, to wit,
philosophical works. Unfortunately the corners of the room showed busts
of certain modern English statesmen: but one looks for weaknesses
everywhere.
Beatrice entered, rustling in a light, shimmery dress. Her face
expressed embarrassment rather than surprise; after the first exchange
of glances, she avoided his eager look. Her hand had lain but coldly in
his. Wilfrid, face to face with her, found more difficulty in speaking
than he had anticipated.
'I have come directly from Switzerland,' he began. 'You mentioned in a
letter to my aunt that--'
His hesitation of a moment was relieved by Beatrice.
'You mean Miss Hood's illness,' she said, looking down at her hands,
which were lightly clasped on her lap.
'Yes. I wish for news. I thought it likely you might know--'
Probably it was the effect of his weariness; he could not speak in his
usual straightforward way; hesitancy, to his own annoyance, made gaps
and pauses in his sentences.
'We heard this morning,' Beatrice said, looking past his face to the
window, 'that she is better. The danger seems to be over.'
'There has been danger?'
'The day before yesterday she was given up.'
'So ill as that.' Wilfrid spoke half to himself, and indeed it cost him
an effort to make his voice louder. He began, 'Can you tell me--' and
again paused.
'Have you heard nothing from any other quarter?' Beatrice asked, after a
silence of almost a minute.
He looked at her, wondering what she knew of his relations to Emily. It
was clear that his interest occasioned her no surprise.
'I came away immediately on hearing what your letter contained. There is
no one else with whom I could communicate. I hesitated to go to the
house, not knowing--Will you tell me what you know of this horrible
event?'
Beatrice stroked one hand with the other, and seemed to constrain
herself to lock up and to speak.
'I myself know nothing but the fact of Mr. Hood's death. It took place
some ten days ago, on Monday of last week. I arrived here on the
Wednesday.'
'Of course there was an inquest--with what results?'
'None, beyond the verdict of suicide. No definite cause could be
discovered. It is said that he suffered from very narrow means. His body
was found by Mr. Dagworthy.'
'Who is Mr. Dagworthy?'
'I thought you probably knew,' returned Beatrice, glancing quickly at
him. 'He was employed by Mr. Dagworthy as clerk in a manufactory. He had
just left for his summer holiday.'
'What evidence did his employer give?'
'He only stated that Mr. Hood had been perfectly regular and
satisfactory at his work.'
'Then in truth it is a mystery?'
'Mr. Baxendale thinks that there had been a long struggle with poverty,
quite enough to account for the end.'
Wilfrid sat in gloomy silence. He was picturing what Emily must have
endured, and reproaching himself for not having claimed a right to her
entire confidence, when it was in his power to make that hard path
smooth, and to avert this fearful misery. Looking up at length, he met
the girl's eyes.
'I need not explain myself to you, Beatrice,' he said, finding at last a
natural tone, and calling her by her Christian name because he had much
need of friendly sympathy. 'You appear to know why I have come.'
She answered rather hurriedly.
'I should not have known but for something that Mrs. Baxendale told me.
Mr. Athel wrote a short time ago to ask for information about
them--about the Hoods.'
'He wrote?'
Wilfrid heard it with a little surprise, but without concern.
'Do you know whether Mrs. Hood is alone--with her?' he went on to ask.
'I believe so.'
'And she is better?' He added quickly, 'Has she proper attendance? Have
any friends been of aid?'
'The Baxendales have shown much kindness. My aunt saw her yesterday.'
'Will it be long before she is able to leave her room, do you know?'
'I am not able to say. Mrs. Baxendale hopes you will go upstairs and see
her; she can tell you more. Will you go?'
'But is she alone? I can't talk with people.'
'Yes, she is alone, quite.'
He rose. The girl's eyes fixed themselves on him again, and she said:
'You look dreadfully tired.'
'I have not slept, I think, since I left Thun.'
'You left them all well?' Beatrice asked, with a change in her voice,
from anxious interest which would have veiled itself, to the tone of one
discharging a formal politeness.
Wilfrid replied with a brief affirmative, and they ascended the stairs
together to a large and rather dim drawing-room, with a scent of earth
and vegetation arising from the great number of growing plants arranged
about it. Beatrice presented her friend to Mrs. Baxendale, and at once
withdrew.
The lady with whom Wilfrid found himself talking was tall and finely
made, not very graceful in her bearing, and with a large face, the
singular kindness of which speedily overcame the first sense of
dissatisfaction at its plainness. She wore a little cap of lace, and
from her matronly costume breathed a pleasant freshness, akin to the
activity of her flame. Having taken the young man's hand at greeting,
she held it in both her own, and with large, grey eyes examined his face
shrewdly. Yet neither the action nor the gaze was embarrassing to
Wilfrid he felt, on the contrary, something wonderfully soothing in the
pressure of the warm, firm hands, and in her look an invitation to the
repose of confidence which was new in his experience of women--an
experience not extensive, by the bye, though his characteristic
generalisations seemed to claim the opposite. He submitted from the
first moment to an influence maternal in its spirit, an influence which
his life had lacked, and which can perhaps only be fully appreciated
either in mature reflection upon a past made sacred by death, or on a
meeting such as this, when the heart is open to the helpfulness of
disinterested sympathy. Mrs. Baxendale's countenance was grave enough to
suit the sad thoughts with which she sought to commune, yet showed an
under-smile, suggesting the consolation held in store by one much at
home in the world's sorrows. As she smiled, each of her cheeks dimpled
softly, and Wilfrid could not help noticing the marvellous purity of her
complexion, as well as the excellent white teeth just visible between
her lips.
'So you have come all the way from Switzerland,' she said, leading him
to a chair, and seating herself by him. Her voice had a touch of
masculine quality, even as her shape and features, but it chained
attention, and impressed as the utterance of a large and strong nature.
'You are tired, too, with travel; I can see that. When did you reach
Dunfield?'
'Half an hour ago.'
'And you came here at once. Beatrice and I were on the point of going to
Hebsworth this afternoon; I rejoice that we did not. I'm continually
afraid lest she should find the house dull. My husband and myself are
alone. My eldest girl was married three months ago, my younger one is
just gone to Germany, and my son is spending half a year in the United
States; the mother finds herself a little forsaken. It was really more
than kind of Beatrice to come and bury herself with me for a week or
two.'
She passed by tactful transition to the matter in hand.
'Wasn't it a strange link that she should meet Miss Hood at your house!
She has been so saddened. I never yet knew any one who could talk with
Emily without feeling deep interest in her. My daughter Louisa, I am
convinced, will never forget what she owes to her teacher She and my
youngest child used to be Miss Hood's pupils--perhaps you have heard?
My own Emily--she is dead--was passionately fond of her namesake; she
talked of her among the last words she ever spoke, poor little mite.'
'Miss Redwing tells me you saw her yesterday,' Wilfrid said.
'Yes, for the first time.'
'Was she conscious?'
'Quite. But I was afraid to talk to her more than a minute or two; even
that excited her too much. I fear you must not let her know yet of your
presence.'
'I am glad I knew nothing of this till the worst was over. From the way
in which she spoke of her father I should have feared horrible things.
Did you know him with any intimacy?'
'Only slightly, I am sorry to say. The poor man seems to have had a very
hard life; it is clear to me that sheer difficulty in making ends meet
drove him out of his senses. Are you a student of political economy?'
she asked suddenly, looking into Wilfrid's face with a peculiar smile.
'I am not. Why do you ask?'
'It is the one subject on which my husband and I hold no truce. Mr.
Baxendale makes it one of his pet studies, whilst I should like to make
a bonfire of every volume containing such cruel nonsense. You must know,
Mr. Athel, that I have an evil reputation in Dunfield; my views are held
dangerous; they call me a socialist. Mr. Baxendale, when particularly
angry, offers to hire the hall in the Corn Exchange, that I may say my
say and henceforth spare him at home. Now think of this poor man. He had
a clerkship in a mill, and received a salary of disgraceful smallness;
he never knew what it was to be free of anxiety. The laws of political
economy will have it so, says my husband; if Mr. Hood refused, there
were fifty other men ready to take the place. He couldn't have lived at
all, it seems, but that he owned a house in another town, which brought
him a few pounds a year. I can't talk of such things with patience.
Here's my husband offering himself as a Liberal candidate for Dunfield
at the election coming on. I say to him: What are you going to do if you
get into Parliament? Are you going to talk political economy, and make
believe that everything is right, when it's as wrong as can be? If so, I
say, you'd better save your money for other purposes, and stay where you
are. He tells me my views are impracticable; then, I say, so much the
worse for the world, and so much the more shame for every rich man who
finds excuses for such a state of things. It is dreadful to think of
what those poor people must have gone through. They were so perfectly
quiet under it that no one gave a thought to their position. When Emily
used to come here day after day, I've often suspected she didn't have
enough to eat, yet it was impossible for me to ask questions, it would
have been called prying into things that didn't concern me.'
'She has told me for how much kindness she is indebted to you,' Wilfrid
said, with gratitude.
'Pooh! What could I do? Oh, don't we live absurdly artificial lives? Now
why should a family who, through no fault of their own, are in the most
wretched straits, shut themselves up and hide it like a disgrace? Don't
you think we hold a great many very nonsensical ideas about self-respect
and independence and so on? If I were in want, I know two or three
people to whom I should forthwith go and ask for succour; if they
thought the worse of me for it, I should tell them they ought to be
ashamed of themselves. We act, indeed, as if we ourselves had made the
world and were bound to pretend it an admirable piece of work, without a
screw loose anywhere. I always say the world's about as bad a place as
one could well imagine, at all events for most people who live in it,
and that it's our plain duty to help each other without grimacings. The
death of this poor man has distressed me more than I can tell you; it
does seem such a monstrously cruel thing. There's his employer, a man
called Dagworthy, who never knew what it was to be without
luxuries,--I'm not in the habit of listening to scandal, but I believe
there's a great deal of truth in certain stories told about his
selfishness and want of feeling. I consider Mr. Dagworthy this poor
man's murderer; it was his bounden duty to see that a man in his
employment was paid enough to live upon,--and Mr. Hood was not. Imagine
what suffering must have brought about such an end as this. A sad
case,--say people. I call it a case of crime that enjoys impunity.'
Wilfrid listened gloomily. The broad question stirred him to no strong
feeling, but the more he heard the more passionate was his longing to
bear Emily away from the scenes of such a past. With what devotion would
he mould his life to the one task of healing her memory! Yet he knew it
must be very long before her heart could recover from the all but deadly
wound it had received. A feeling which one may not call jealousy,--that
were too inhuman,--but still one of the million forms which jealousy
assumes to torture us, drove him to ask himself what the effect of such
a crisis in her life might be on Emily's love for him. There would
always remain in her inmost soul one profound sadness in which he had no
part, and which by its existence would impugn the supremacy of that bond
which united him and her.
'How does Mrs. Hood bear it?' he asked, when he found Mrs. Baxendale
again examining his face.
'I think Emily's illness has been her great help,--poor creatures that
we are, needing one great grief to balance another. But she seems in a
very weak state; I didn't like her look yesterday.'
'Will you describe her to me?' asked Wilfrid.
'She is not the kind of mother you would give to Emily. I'm afraid her
miserable life has told upon her greatly, both in mind and body.'
'Emily never spoke of her, though so often of her father.'
'That is what I should have expected. Still, you must not think her
quite unworthy. She speaks as an educated woman, and is certainly very
devoted.'
'What of her present position? She must be in extreme difficulties.'
'No, she wants nothing for the present. Friends have been very anxious
to help her. That's what I say,--only let your misery drive you out of
the world, and people will find out all at once how very easily they
might have saved you. A hundredth part of the interest that has been
shown in the family since poor Mr. Hood's death would have found endless
ways of making his life very different. All sorts of people have
suddenly discovered that he really was a very deserving man, and that
something ought long since to have been done for him. I don't know what
has been told you of his history. He was once in independent business; I
don't know exactly what. It was only utter failure that drove him to the
miserable clerkship. How admirable it was of a man in such circumstances
to have his daughter so well educated!'
Wilfrid smiled.
'Emily,' he said with gentle fervour, 'would have found her own way.'
'Ah, don't depreciate his care!' Mrs. Baxendale urged. 'You'll find out
by degrees what a great deal of heathen doubt there is in me; among
other things, I am impressed by the power of circumstances. Emily would
always have been a remarkable girl, no doubt; but, without her
education, you and I should not have been talking about her like this,
even if we had known her. We can't dispense with these aids; that's
where I feel the cruelty of depriving people of chances. Men and women
go to their graves in wretchedness who might have done noble things with
an extra pound a week to live upon. It does not sound lofty doctrine,
does it? But I have vast faith in the extra pound a week. Emily had the
advantage of it, however it was managed. I don't like to think of her as
she might have been without it. What was it Beatrice called me
yesterday? A materialist; yes, a materialist. It was a reproach, though
she said it in the kindest way; I took it as a compliment. We can't get
out of the world of material; how long will the mind support itself on
an insufficient supply of dry bread?'
Wilfrid's intellectual sympathies were being aroused by his new friend's
original way of talking. He began to feel a keen satisfaction at having
her near him in these troubles.
'Do you think,' he asked, returning to his immediate needs, 'that I
might write to her?'
'Not yet; you mustn't think of it yet.'
'Does Mrs. Hood--' he hesitated. 'Do you think Emily has told her
mother--has spoken to her of me?'
Mrs. Baxendale looked surprised. 'I can't say; I took it for granted.'
'I wonder why she was reluctant to do so?' Wilfrid said, already
speaking with complete freedom. 'Her father cannot have known; it would
have relieved his worst anxieties; he would surely never have been
driven to such things.'
'No; I think not. The poor girl will feel that, I fear. I suppose one
can get a glimpse of her reasons for keeping silence?' She gave Wilfrid
a friendly glance as she spoke.
'How glad I am,' he exclaimed, 'to be able to talk to you! I should have
been in the utmost difficulties. Think of my position if I had been
without a friend in the town. Then, indeed, but for Miss Redwing I
should have heard nothing even yet.'
'She wrote to you?'
'Not to me; she mentioned the matter in a letter to my aunt, Mrs.
Rossall.'
'Did Beatrice--you let me question?--did she know?'
'Only, she says, in consequence of a letter my father addressed to Mr.
Baxendale.'
The lady smiled again.
'I ask because Beatrice is now and then a little mysterious to me. I
spoke to her of that letter in the full belief that she must have
knowledge of the circumstances. She denied it, yet, I thought, as if it
were a matter of conscience to do so.'
'I think it more than likely that my aunt had written to her on the
subject. And yet--no; she would not have denied it to you. That would
be unlike her.'
'Yes, I think it would.'
Mrs. Baxendale mused. Before she spoke again a servant entered the room
with tea.
'You will be glad of a cup, I am sure,' said the lady. 'And now, what do
you propose to do? Shall you return to London?'
'Oh, no! I shall stay in Dunfield till I am able to see her.'
'Very well. In that case you will not refuse our hospitality. The longer
you stay the better pleased I shall be.'
She would hear of no difficulties.
'I wouldn't ask you,' she said, 'if I were not able to promise you any
degree of privacy you like. A sitting-room is at your disposal--begging
to be occupied since my boy Charlie went away. My husband is over head
and ears in electioneering business, foolish man, and I can't tell you
how I feel the need of someone to talk to on other subjects than the
manufacture of votes. Where is your luggage?'
Wilfrid named the hotel.
'It shall be fetched. And now I'll ask my niece to come and pour out tea
for us.'
With the entrance of Beatrice the conversation naturally took a
different turn. She heard with becoming interest of Wilfrid's
establishment as a guest, and, after a little talk of Mrs. Rossall and
the twins, led to the subject of certain 'revivalist' meetings then
being held in Dunfield, an occasion of welcome excitement to such of the
inhabitants as could not absorb themselves in politics. Mrs. Baxendale
seemed to regard the religious movement dispassionately, and related a
story she had from her husband of a certain prominent townsman driven to
such a pass by his wife's perpetual absence from home on revivalist
expeditions, that he at length fairly turned the key on her in her
bedroom, and through the keyhole bade her stay there till she had
remembered her domestic duties. He was that night publicly prayed for at
a great meeting in the Corn Exchange as one who, not content with losing
his own soul, did his best to hold back others from the way of grace.
Beatrice affected to pay no heed to this anecdote.
'What is your side in politics?' she asked Wilfrid. 'Here we are all
either Blues or Yellows.'
'What do they represent?' Wilfrid inquired.
'Oh, you shouldn't ask that,' said Mrs. Baxendale. 'Yellow is yellow,
and Blue, blue; nothing else in the world. I think it an excellent idea
to use colours. Liberal and Conservative suggest ideas; names,
therefore, quite out of place in Dunfield politics--or any other
politics, I dare say, if the truth were known. My husband is a Yellow.
It pleases him to call himself a Liberal, or else a Radical. He may have
been a few months ago; now he's a mere Yellow. I tell him he's in
serious danger of depriving himself of two joys; in another month a
cloudless sky and the open sea will he detestable to him.'
'But what are you, Mr. Athel?' Beatrice asked. 'A Liberal or a
Conservative? I should really find it hard to guess.'
'In a Yellow house,' he replied, 'I am certainly Yellow.'
'Beatrice is far from being so complaisant,' said Mrs. Baxendale. 'She
detests our advanced views.'
'Rather, I know nothing of them,' the girl replied. The quiet air with
which she expressed her indifference evinced a measure of spiritual
pride rather in excess of that she was wont to show. Indeed, her manner
throughout the conversation was a little distant to both her companions.
If she jested with Wilfrid it was with the idleness of one condescending
to subjects below the plane of her interests. To her aunt she was rather
courteous than affectionate.
Whilst they still sat over tea, Mr. Baxendale came in. Like his wife, he
was of liberal proportions, and he had a face full of practical
sagacity; if anything, he looked too wide awake, a fault of shrewd men,
constitutionally active, whose imagination plays little part in their
lives. He wore an open frock-coat, with much expanse of shirt-front. The
fore part of his head was bald, and the hair on each side was brushed
forward over his ears in a manner which gave him a singular appearance.
His bearing was lacking in self-possession; each of his remarks was
followed by a short laugh, deprecatory, apologetic. It seemed impossible
to him to remain in a state of bodily repose, even with a cup of tea in
his hand he paced the room. Constantly he consulted his watch--not that
he had any special concern with the hour, but from a mere habit of
nervousness.
He welcomed the visitor with warmth, at the same time obviously
suppressing a smile of other than merely polite significance: then he
began at once to speak of electioneering matters, and did so, pacing the
carpet, for the next half hour. Wilfrid listened with such show of
interest as he could command; his thoughts were elsewhere, and weariness
was beginning to oppress him.
Shortly after dinner fatigue passed the point at which it could be
struggled against. Long waking, the harassment of fears at length
consoled, and the exhaustion consequent upon his journey, besieged him
with invincible drowsiness. Mrs. Baxendale, observing it, begged him to
discard ceremony and go to rest. Gladly he suffered himself to be led to
his room; once there, he could not note the objects about him; the very
effort of taking off his clothes was almost beyond his strength. Sleep
was binding his brows with oblivion, and relaxing every joint. His
dearest concerns were nothing to him; with a wave of the hand he would
have resigned an eternity of love; cry to him blood-chilling horrors,
and his eyelids would make no sign. The feather-softness moulded itself
to his limbs; the pillows pressed a yielding coolness to his cheek; his
senses failed amid faint fresh odours. Blessed state! How enviable above
all waking joys the impotence which makes us lords of darkness, the
silence which suffers not to reach our ears so much as an echo of the
farce of life.