MRS. BAXENDALE'S QUESTS
A servant went to Banbrigg each morning for tidings; Emily, so the
report said, moved steadily towards recovery. On the second day after
Wilfrid's arrival Mrs. Baxendale took him with her in the brougham, and
let him wait for her whilst she made a call upon Mrs. Hood; Wilfrid saw
an upper window of which the blind was down against the sun, and would
gladly have lingered within sight of it. Beatrice had excused herself
from accompanying the two.
'I believe,' Mrs. Baxendale said on the way, 'she has gone to some
special service at St. Luke's.' She was mistaken, though Beatrice had in
truth been diligent at such services of late. 'Now there,' she added,
'is a kind of infatuation I find it difficult even to understand. How
can a girl of her sense and education waste her time in that way? Don't
think I have no religious belief, Mr. Athel; I'm not strong-minded
enough for that. But this deliberate working of oneself into a state of
nervous excitement seems to me, to speak plainly, indecent. Dr. Wardle,
with whom I chat rather wickedly now and then, tells me the revivals are
quite a windfall, subsequently, to him and his brethren. And, do you
know, I begin to see bad results even in my niece. I certainly wouldn't
have had her down just at this time if I had suspected her leanings that
way. Didn't you notice how absent she was last night, and again at
breakfast this morning? All revival, I assure you.'
'It's the want of a serious interest in life,' remarked Wilfrid,
remembering, with a smile, a certain conversation between Beatrice and
himself.
'Then it's so inconsistent,' continued the lady, 'for--you won't abuse
my confidence--a more worldly girl I never knew. In her heart I am
convinced she thinks nothing so important as the doings of fashionable
society. She asked me, the first day she was here, how I lived
without--what was it? I quite forget, but some paper or other which is
full of what they call fashionable intelligence. "My dear," I said, "I
know none of those people, and care not one grain of salt about their
flutterings hither and thither, their marryings and givings ill
marriage, their dresses and their--never mind what." And what do you
think she answered? "But you will care when my name begins to be
mentioned." And she went off with--just so much--toss of the head; you
know how Beatrice does it. Well, I suppose she really does to me an
honour by coming down to my poor dull house; no doubt she's very
brilliant in the world I know nothing about. I suppose you have seen her
at her best? She won't waste her graces upon me, wise girl; only
the--you know the movement--when I've shown my ignorance now and then.
Did you ever dance with her?'
'Oh, yes; frequently.'
'I should like to see her in a ball-room. Certainly there are few girls
more handsome; I suppose that is admitted?'
'Certainly; she queens it everywhere.'
'And her singing is lovely! Do you know a thought I often have? When I
hear her singing it seems to me as if she were not quite the same person
as at other times; she affects me, I can't quite tell you how; it's a
sort of disenchantment to talk to her immediately afterwards.'
Wilfrid liked Mrs. Baxendale the more, the more he talked with her; in a
day or two the confidence between them was as complete as if their
acquaintance had been life-long. With her husband, too, he came to be on
an excellent footing. Mr. Baxendale got him into the library when the
ladies retired for the night, and expatiated for hours on the details of
his electoral campaign. At first Wilfrid found the subject tedious, but
the energy and bright intelligence of the man ended by stirring his
interest in a remarkable way. It was new to Wilfrid to be in converse
with such a strenuously practical mind; the element of ambition in him,
of less noble ambition which had had its share in urging him to academic
triumphs, was moved by sympathetic touches; he came to understand the
enthusiasm which possessed the Liberal candidate, began to be concerned
for his success, to feel the stirrings of party spirit. He aided
Baxendale in drawing up certain addresses for circulation, and learned
the difference between literary elegance and the tact which gets at the
ear of the multitude. A vulgar man could not have moved him in this way,
and Baxendale was in truth anything but vulgar. Through his life he had
been, on a small scale, a ruler of men, and had ruled with conspicuous
success, yet he had preserved a native sincerity and wrought under the
guidance of an ideal. Like all men who are worth anything, either in
public or private, he possessed a keen sense of humour, and was too
awake to the ludicrous aspects of charlatanry to fall into the pits it
offered on every band. His misfortune was the difficulty with which he
uttered himself; even when he got over his nervousness, words came to
him only in a rough-and-tumble fashion; he sputtered and fumed and beat
his forehead for phrases, then ended with a hearty laugh at his own
inarticulateness, Something like this was his talk in the library of
nights:
'There's a man called Rapley, an old-clothes dealer--fellow I can't get
hold of. He's hanging midway--what do you call it?--trimming, with an
eye to the best bargain. Invaluable, if only I could get him, but a
scoundrel. Wants pay, you know; do anything for pay; win the election
for me without a doubt, if only I pay him; every blackguard in Dunfield
hand and glove with him. Now pay I won't, yet I'm bound to get that man.
Talked to him yesterday for two hours and thirty-five minutes by the
parish church clock, just over his shop--I mean the clock is. The fellow
hasn't a conviction, yet he can talk you blue; if I had his powers of
speech--there it is I fail, you see. I have to address a meeting
tomorrow; Rapley 'll be up at me, and turn me inside out. He'd do as
much for the other man, if only I'd pay him. That isn't my idea; I'm
going to win the election clean-handed; satisfaction in looking back on
an honest piece of work; what? I'll have another talk with him
to-morrow. Now look at this map of the town; I've coloured it with much
care. There you see the stronghold of the Blues. I'm working that
district street by street--a sort of moral invasion. No humbug; I set my
face against humbug. If a man's a rogue, or a sot, or a dirty rascal, I
won't shake hands with him and pretend--you know--respect, friendship,
how are your wife and children, so on. He's a vote, and I've only to
deal with him as a vote. Can he see that two and two make four? Good;
I'm at him by that side. There are my principles; what have you to urge
against them? He urges damned absurdities. Good; I _prove_ to him that
they are damned absurdities.'
At times Wilfrid managed to lead the talk to other subjects, such as
were suggested by the books around the room. Baxendale had read not a
little, and entirely in the spheres of fact and speculation. Political
economy and all that appertained to it was his speciality, but he was
remarkably strong in metaphysics. Wilfrid had flattered himself that he
was tolerably familiar with the highways of philosophy, but Baxendale
made him feel his ignorance. The man had, for instance, read Kant with
extraordinary thoroughness, and discussed him precisely as he did his
electioneering difficulties; the problems of consciousness he attacked
with hard-headed, methodical patience, with intelligence, moreover,
which was seldom at fault. Everything that bore the appearance of a knot
to be unravelled had for him an immense attraction. In mere mental
calculation his power was amazing. He took Wilfrid over his manufactory
one day, and explained to him certain complicated pieces of machinery;
the description was not so lucid as it might have been, owing to lack of
words, but it manifested the completest understanding of things which to
his companion were as hard as the riddle of the universe. His modesty,
withal, was excessive; to Wilfrid's humane culture he deferred at all
times; for all the learning which lay outside his own sphere he had
boundless reverence. Wilfrid's gain by him was not only of a pleasant
personal acquaintance; the intercourse extended his views, and in
particular gave direction to much that had hitherto been vague
potentiality in his character. In more than one sense this visit to
Dunfield was to prove a turning point in his life.
Beatrice, in the meantime, held herself apart; Wilfrid had never before
felt himself so little at ease in her presence. It was as though the
short time which had elapsed since their last meeting had effected a
permanent change in their mutual relations. Previously their intercourse
had gone as far in familiarity as was possible if it were not to take
quite a new colour; now all at once this past seemed to go for nothing.
Beatrice was the active source of change. She was deliberately--he could
not doubt it--extending the distance between them, annulling bygone
intimacy, shifting into ineffective remoteness all manner of common
associations. Things she would formerly have understood at a half-word
she now affected to need to have explained to her. He was 'Mr. Athel' to
an extent he had never been before; and even of his relatives she spoke
with a diminished familiarity. She emphasised at every moment the
characteristics which were alien to his sympathies, talked of the
'revival' _ad nauseam_, or changed with alarming suddenness from that to
topics of excessive frivolousness. Wilfrid little by little ceased to
converse with her, in the real sense of the word; he even felt
uncomfortable in her presence. And Mrs. Baxendale had clear eyes for at
all events the outward features of the situation.
On the fifth day of Wilfrid's presence in the house, Beatrice took the
opportunity of being alone with her aunt to observe that she must go
southwards by a certain train next morning.
'Oh, surely not!' protested Mrs. Baxendale. 'I can't spare you yet. And
your mother is still in Berkshire.'
'Yes, but that makes no difference to me, you know,' said Beatrice. 'I'm
often at home by myself. Indeed I must go to-morrow.'
'Won't you stay if I beg you? It's four years since you were here, and
who knows how long it will be before I entrap you again. You've already
threatened me, you know, with the peerage, and I'm very sure you won't
deign to honour me when that day comes. Now, there's a good girl--to the
end of the week at least.'
It seemed as though Beatrice would persist.
'Now, if it were not such an unlikely thing,' said her aunt, 'I should
be disposed to think it was Mr. Athel who is driving you away.'
'Mr. Athel!' the girl exclaimed, almost haughtily, and with a flush
which disappeared as rapidly as it came, leaving the lovely face with a
touch of exquisite paleness.
'I mean,' said Mrs. Baxendale quickly, averting her honest eyes, 'that I
fear he has offended you.'
'How can Mr. Athel have offended me?' Beatrice asked, with a certain
severity.
'I thought perhaps--a remark he made last night on the revival.'
Mrs. Baxendale felt ill at ease. Her first sentence had been
inconsiderate; she knew it as soon as it was uttered, and indeed did not
quite see what could have induced her to make such a remark. She had not
the habit of nice conversation which endows with complete command of the
tongue. But her wits had, as you see, come to her rescue.
'Mr. Athel's opinions on that subject are not likely to offend me,'
Beatrice replied, with the shadow of a smile.
'I am so afraid lest he should suspect anything of the kind. I am sure
it would grieve him dreadfully.'
The girl laughed outright, though not with much joyousness.
'Mr. Athel be grieved for such a cause! My dear aunt, you don't know
him. He's as little sensitive as any man could be. Why, he holds it a
duty to abuse people who do things he counts foolish.'
'You exaggerate,' returned her aunt, with a smile.
Beatrice continued, vivaciously.
'Oh, you don't know him as well as I do. We used to be always
wrangling--in the days of my simplicity. I have been marvelling at his
forbearance; it would have been nothing wonderful if he had called me an
idiot. Frankness of that kind is the mark of his friendship--haven't
you found that out? Hasn't he taken occasion yet to inform you that your
life is conducted on an utterly mistaken principle, that you are shallow
and inefficient, that you are worse than useless in the world, and
ought, if properly constituted, to be a torment to yourself? None of
these things he has said? Oh, then you are not admitted to Mr. Athel's
intimacy; you are not of the inner circle.'
She spoke with a kind of reckless gaiety, a mocking merriment which her
rich voice and command of facial expression made very effective. It
startled her hearer, who, when the girl ceased, took one of her hands
and patted it kindly.
'Why then,' she said, 'I have been altogether mistaken; for I did really
think he had offended you. But now I'm sure you'll stay--won't you?'
'Rather than you should think I run away from Mr. Athel's high
censure--certainly.'
Then she became silent, and shortly left the room. Mrs. Baxendale sat by
herself musing.
She was a woman given to thoughtfulness, for all that she used her
tongue freely when with those she liked. She did not greatly seek such
society as Dunfield had to offer, and partly on that account, partly
owing to alarms excited by her caustic comments on matters of popular
interest, the ladies of the town left her abundance of leisure. She used
it well. Though not a highly-educated woman, she read constantly, and
books of a solid kind. Society in Dunfield had its book club, and Mrs.
Baxendale enjoyed the advantage of choosing literature which her
fellow-members were very willing to let her keep as long as she liked.
Beatrice derived much amusement from her aunt's method of reading.
Beatrice, with the run of Mr. Mudie's catalogues, would have
half-a-dozen volumes in her lap at the same time, and as often as not
get through them--_tant bien que mal_--in the same day. But to the
provincial lady a book was a solid and serious affair. To read a chapter
was to have provided matter for a day's reflection; the marker was put
at the place where reading had ceased, and the book was not re-opened
till previous matter had been thoroughly digested and assimilated. It
was a slow method, but not without its advantages, I assure you.
Perhaps to relieve her worthy aunt of any lingering anxiousness,
Beatrice, throughout the day, wore an appearance of much contentment,
and to Wilfrid was especially condescending, even talking with him
freely on a subject quite unconnected with her pet interests. That
evening two gentlemen, politicians, dined at the house; Beatrice, under
cover of their loud discussions in the drawing-room, exchanged certain
remarks with Wilfrid.
'My aunt was so good as to apologise to me on your behalf this morning,'
she began.
'Apologise? What have I been guilty of?'
'Oh, nothing. She doesn't appreciate the freemasonry between us. It
occurred to her that your remarks on my--well, my predilections, might
have troubled me. Judge how amused I was!'
She did not look at him from the first, and appeared to be examining,
even whilst she spoke, a book of prints.
'I sincerely hope,' Wilfrid replied, 'that I have uttered no thoughtless
piece of rudeness. If I have, I beg you to forgive me.'
She glanced at him. He appeared to speak seriously, and it was the kind
of speech he would never have dreamed of making to her in former days,
at all events in this tone.
'You know perfectly well,' she answered, with slow voice, bending to
look more closely at a page, 'that you never said anything to me which
could call for apology.'
'I am not so sure of that,' Wilfrid replied, smiling.
'Then take my assurance now,' said Beatrice, closing her book, and
rising to move towards her aunt. As she went, she cast a look back, a
look of curious blankness, as if into vacancy.
She sang shortly after, and the souls of the politicians were stirred
within them. For Wilfrid, he lay back with his eyes closed, his heart
borne on the flood of music to that pale-windowed room of sickness,
whose occupant must needs be so sadly pale. The security he felt in the
knowledge that Emily grew better daily made him able to talk cheerfully
and behave like one without preoccupation, but Emily in truth was never
out of his mind. He lived towards the day when he should kneel at her
feet, and feel once more upon his forehead those cold, pure lips. And
that day, as he believed, was now very near.
To her aunt's secret surprise, Beatrice allowed the end of the week to
come and go without any allusion to the subject of departure. It was all
the more strange, seeing that the girl's show of easy friendliness with
Wilfrid had not lasted beyond the day; she had become as distant and
self-centred as before. But on the morning of the following Tuesday, as
Mrs. Baxendale sat reading not long after breakfast, Beatrice entered
the room in her light travelling garb, and came forward, buttoning her
glove.
'You are going out?' Mrs. Baxendale asked, with some misgiving.
'Yes--to London. They are calling a cab. You know how I dislike
preparatory miseries.'
Her aunt kept astonished silence. She looked at the girl, then down at
her book.
'Well,' she said at length, 'it only remains to me to remember the old
proverb. But when is the train? Are you off this moment?'
'The train leaves in five-and-twenty minutes. May I disturb uncle, do
you think?'
'Ah, now I understand why you asked if he would be at home through the
morning. I'll go and fetch him.'
She went quickly to the library. Mr. Baxendale sat there alone.
'Beatrice is going,' she said, coming behind his chair. 'Will you come
and say good-bye?'
Mr. Baxendale jumped up.
'Going? Leaving?'
His wife nodded.
'Why? What is it? You haven't quarrelled with her about the
prayer-meetings?'
'No. It's a fancy of hers, that's all. Come along; she's only twenty
minutes to catch the train.'
When they reached the drawing-room, Beatrice was not there. Upon Mrs.
Baxendale's withdrawal she had gone to Wilfrid's door and knocked at it.
Wilfrid was pacing about in thought. It surprised him to see who his
visitor was; yet more, when she advanced to him with her hand extended,
saying a simple 'Good-bye.'
'Good-bye? Wherefore?'
Her attire explained. Beatrice possessed the beauty of form and face
which makes profit of any costume; in the light-brown cape, and hat to
match, her tall, lithe figure had a womanly dignity which suited well
with the unsmiling expressiveness of her countenance. The 'good-bye' was
uttered briefly and without emphasis, as one uses any insignificant form
of speech.
Wilfrid resolved at once to accept her whim; after all, it was but
another instance of frequent eccentricities.
'Who is going to the station with you?' he asked.
'No one. I hate partings on the platform.'
She moved away almost as far as the door, then turned again.
'You will be in town before going back to Oxford?'
Wilfrid hesitated.
'Oh, never mind,' she said; and was gone.
Ten minutes later Wilfrid went to the drawing-room. Mr. and Mrs.
Baxendale were talking together; they became silent as he entered.
'Has Miss Redwing gone?' he asked.
'She took leave of you, didn't she?' replied the lady.
'Yes. But it was So unprepared for, I half thought it might be a joke.'
'Oh, she's fond of these surprises,' Mrs. Baxendale said, in a tone of
good-natured allowance. 'On the whole I sympathise with her; I myself
prefer not to linger over such occasions.'
Later in the day Mrs. Baxendale drove out to Banbrigg, this time alone.
On her return, she sought Wilfrid and found him in his room. There was
concern on her face.
'I have heard something very painful from Mrs. Hood,' she began. 'It
seems that Emily is in ignorance of her father's death.'
Wilfrid looked at her in astonishment.
'I told you,' Mrs. Baxendale pursued, 'that she had not been altogether
well just before it happened, but it now appears that the dreadful
incident of her entering the room just when the body was brought in must
have taken place when she was delirious. The poor woman has had no
suspicion of that; but it is proved by Emily's questions, now that she
begins to talk. Of course it makes a new anxiety. Mrs. Hood has not
dared to hint at the truth, but it cannot be concealed for long.'
'But this is most extraordinary,' Wilfrid exclaimed, 'What, then, was
the origin of her illness?'
'That is the mystery. Mrs. Hood's memory seems to be confused, but I got
her to allow that the feverish symptoms were declared even the night
before the death was known. I hardly like to hint it, but it really
seemed to me as if she were keeping something back. One moment she said
that Emily had been made ill by anxiety at her father's lateness in
coming home that night, and the next she seemed, for some reason,
unwilling to admit that it was so. The poor woman is in a sad, sad
state, and no wonder. She wishes that somebody else might tell Emily the
truth; but surely it will come most easily from her.'
Wilfrid was deeply distressed.
'It is the very worst that still remains,' he said, 'and we thought the
worst was over. What does the doctor say? Can she bear it yet? It is
impossible to let her continue in ignorance.'
It was at length decided that Mrs. Baxendale should visit the doctor,
and hear his opinion. She had got into her mind a certain distrust of
Mrs. Hood, and even doubted whether Emily ought to be left in her hands
during convalescence; there was clearly no want of devotion on the
mother's part, but it appeared to Mrs. Baxendale that the poor woman had
been overtaxed, and was herself on the point of illness, perhaps of
mental failure. From going well things had suddenly taken an anxious
turn.