THE CYNIC BRINGS NEWS OF GINTY
It is the middle of October, and autumn is manifested on every side.
It makes me rather sad, for bound up with these marvellous sunset tints
which ravish the eye there is decay and death. The woods are carpeted
in russet and gold; the green of the fields is dull and faded; every
breath of wind helps to strip the trees a little barer; and as though
Nature could not, unaided, work destruction fast enough, the hand of
man is stretched forth to strip the glowing bracken from the moors, and
great gaps on the hillsides tell of his handiwork.
I know, of course, that Nature is kindly and beneficent, and that death
in this connection is a misnomer. I know that after the falling leaf
and the bare branch and twig there will come the glory of spring, the
glory of bursting bud and fragrant flower; but though that mitigates
the feeling of sadness it does not entirely dispel it. The flowers and
the foliage, the heather and the bracken have been my companions during
these sunny days of summer, and it is hard to lose them, though only
for a while.
And when I look on dear old Mother Hubbard, as she sits quietly by the
fire, with her needles clicking ever more slowly, and the calm of a
peaceful eventide deepening upon her face, my heart sinks within me,
and I dare not look forward to the wintry months that lie ahead. What
Windyridge will be to me when her sun sinks behind the hill I will not
try to realise. I attempt to be cheerful, but my words mock me and my
laugh rings hollow, and she, good soul, reads me through and through.
I know I do not deceive her, and my Inner Self warns me that one of
these days the motherkin will have it out with me and make me face
realities, and I stand in dread of that hour.
The squire, on the other hand, looks far better than when he came home.
He is still feeble, and he has his bad days, but the light in his eyes
is not the light of sunset. Dr. Trempest means to be convincing,
though he is merely vague when he assures the squire that he will
"outlive some of us yet." I am glad he is better, for I cannot be with
him as much as I should if Mother Hubbard did not claim my devotion.
I had tea with him and the Cynic on Sunday afternoon when some of her
chapel friends were keeping Mother Hubbard company.
The Cynic was in the garden when I reached the Hall, and he told me
that the squire was asleep in the library, so we drew two deck-chairs
into the sunshine and sat down for an hour on the lawn.
He lit a cigarette, clasped his hands behind his head, and began:
"Well, I suppose you will want to know what is being done in the City
of Destruction from which you fled so precipitately. I have not
noticed any tendency on your part to stop your ears to its sounds,
though you may not hanker after its fleshpots."
"Do not be horrid," I replied; "and if you are going to be cynical I
will go in and chat with the housekeeper. I am not particularly
anxious to know what is happening in your City of Destruction."
He elevated his eyebrows. "Miss Fleming, for instance?" he queried.
"Of course I shall be glad to hear of Rose. I always am. And that
reminds me that her letters are few and unsatisfactory. Have you seen
anything of her since the holidays?"
"Yes," he replied, "we have met several times; once at the house of a
mutual friend, once at Olympia, and I believe twice at the theatre."
"Do people 'meet' at the theatre?" I inquired.
"They do if they arrange to do so, and keep their appointments," he
replied provokingly. "I am fortunate in being acquainted with some of
Miss Fleming's friends. I am sorry her letters leave something to be
desired, but you need not be uneasy; she herself is as lively and
fascinating as ever."
I should have liked to ask him who the friends were, for Rose has never
mentioned them, and she had none who could possibly have been in the
Cynic's set in the old days; but friends can generally be found when
the occasion demands them. I said nothing, of course, and he looked at
me quizzically.
"Your comments," he remarked, "if I may quote, are 'few and
unsatisfactory.'"
It was true, but he need not have noticed it. The fact is, I had
nothing to say at the moment. That being the case there was plainly
nothing for it but to abuse _him_.
"You are the Cynic to-day," I said, "and I foresee that you are going
to sharpen your wit upon poor me. But I am not in the mood. You see,
it is Sunday, and in Windyridge we are subdued and not brilliant on
Sundays."
Perhaps his ear caught the weariness in my voice, for I was feeling
tired and depressed; at any rate his tone changed immediately.
"I saw at once you were off colour," he said, "and I was making a
clumsy attempt to buck you up; but, seriously, have you no questions
you wish to ask me about the old place?"
"I should like to know how matters are progressing with you," I said.
"I often wonder what the world thinks of your pronunciation."
"The world knows nothing of it. I have never mentioned what I have
done to anyone but you, and I do not propose to do so. As for
myself--but what makes you wonder? Are you afraid I may have repented?"
"No," I replied, "you will never repent, you are not that sort. Not
for one moment have I doubted your steadfastness."
"Thank you," he said simply; and then, after a moment's pause:
"I don't think it is anything to my credit. If I had been differently
constituted the sacrifice would have entailed suffering, even if it had
not proved too great for me. It was a lot of money, and if money is in
any sense a man's god it must hurt him to lose so much. My god may be
equally base, but it is not golden. In that respect I am like those
ancient Athenians of whom Plato speaks, who 'bare lightly the burden of
gold and of possessions,' though I fear I am not like them in despising
all things except virtue. Besides, even now I am not exactly poor, for
I have a good income."
"I have thirty shillings a week on the average," I interposed, "and I
consider myself quite well to do."
"Exactly," he replied; "you and I take pleasure in our work for its own
sake, and we are each paid, I suppose, fair value for what we do.
Having food and clothing and a roof to shelter us we have all that is
necessary, but we have luxuries thrown in--true friendships, for
instance, which money cannot purchase. In my own case I am hoping to
be quite wealthy if things turn out as I am beginning to dare to
expect."
"I am glad to hear it," I said; "I am sure you deserve to succeed, and
I trust you will be very happy in the possession of wealth when your
expectation is realised."
He laughed, but with some constraint, I thought, and then said:
"We shall have to go in presently, Miss Holden, and before we do so,
and whilst we are not likely to be interrupted, I have something to say
to you which I find it difficult to mention."
I believe the colour left my face, and I know my stupid heart lost
control of its beats again. His voice was so grave that I felt sure he
had some communication to make which I should not relish, though I
could not guess at its nature. I controlled myself with an effort, and
encouraged him to proceed with an inquiring "Oh?"
He looked down at his boots for a moment and then continued:
"If it had not been for this I should not have come here this week-end,
but I wanted to tell you what I have done, and to give you a message
from one in whom you are interested. I have hesitated because I fear
it may give you pain, though in one way it does not concern you in the
slightest degree."
Why anything should give me pain which did not concern me was puzzling,
and I wished the man would get to the story and skip the introduction.
I never could bear to have news "broken gently" to me, it always seems
like a mere prolongation of the agony; but I did not dare to interrupt.
"I had to be in attendance at the Central Criminal Court last Tuesday,"
he continued; "and the case in which I was interested was delayed by
one in which the prisoner on trial was a young fellow whom you know."
It was very silly of me, but the revulsion of feeling was so great that
I nearly cried, though goodness only knows what I had been expecting.
The Cynic saw my emotion and mistook it for sympathy.
"I was afraid it would trouble you," he said kindly, "but you must not
worry about it.
"The charge was quite an ordinary one and I had scarcely listened to
the case at all, for my mind was occupied with what was to follow, but
I heard sufficient to know that the man was one of a gang of sharpers,
and that he had been caught red-handed whilst his companions had
escaped. He had no one to defend him, but the judge nominated a junior
who was present to be his counsel, and the lad did his best for him.
But the youth had been in trouble before, and it was likely to go hard
with him. All at once my neighbour nudged me: 'He's meaning you,
Derwent,' he said.
"'What's that?' I asked.
"'I have just asked the prisoner if he has anyone who can speak to his
character, and he says you know him slightly,' said the recorder with a
smile.
"'To the best of my knowledge I never saw the man in my life before,' I
replied.
"'Yes, you have, Mr. Derwent,' the prisoner said in a low voice--and
you will understand what silence there was in the court--'you have seen
me working at Windyridge 'All, sir, afore I sank to this. You
remember, sir, I was allus known as Ginty.'"
I started, and the Cynic continued: "I looked at him closely then, and
saw that it was indeed he, Ginty, ten years older than he was a year
ago: haggard, seamed with lines of care, unkempt, but, unless I am
mistaken, not altogether hardened.
"I turned to the recorder. 'I do know the prisoner, sir,' I said, 'but
I did not recognise him, and therefore I have not paid attention to the
case;' and as briefly as I could I told the court how he had been led
astray. It was you, Miss Holden, who described it all so graphically,
you may remember, and I repeated the story as you told it, and I
pleaded hard for the young chap. He got off with three months, which
was less than might have been expected."
"Poor Ginty!" I interrupted. "I wonder if his mother will hear of it.
I suppose news of that kind rarely filters through the walls of a
workhouse?"
"No walls are impervious to bad news," he replied, "but Ginty's concern
was less for his mother than for his sweetheart, Sarah Ann. At bottom
I believe Ginty is penitent, and would like to break with the rogues
who have led him on; but the poor beggar is weak-willed, and the easy
prey of his blustering companions. I managed to get an interview with
him, and he wished me to ask you to tell the girl everything, and to
beg her to pity and forgive him; and he promises to turn over a new
leaf, and will marry her eventually if she is willing."
"Sarah Ann must not be told at present," I replied; "she is far from
well, and the shock might be too much for her. She is a highly
emotional girl, who would go into violent hysterics incontinently."
"Well," he said, "I can leave the matter to your discretion. I have
fulfilled my promise, and I am sure you will do what is best. Would it
be possible to tell the girl's mother?--if she has a mother."
"She has a mother," I answered, "but she is a woman entirely destitute
of tact. To tell her would be to publish the news to the whole
village, and to have it conveyed to Sarah Ann in the crudest manner
conceivable. I think it will be best to hold back the message until I
have a fitting opportunity of delivering it to the girl herself. But
believe me, the present time is most inopportune."
"I do believe you," he said, "and I suppose it is hardly likely that
information will reach the village in any other way. 'Ill news flies
fast,' but the case was too insignificant to be reported in the
provincial papers. Anyhow, we must take the risk, and you can deliver
your soul of the message when you think fit. I am sorry to have laid
this burden upon you."
"I accept it willingly," I said, "and am glad that I can be of service
to these poor young folk."
I had a pleasant evening with the squire and the Cynic, both of whom
were at their best in discussing disendowments, in regard to which they
held opposite views. The squire showed the possession of a wealth of
knowledge which aroused my admiration, and he was so courteous in
argument, so magnanimous and altogether gentlemanly, that I could have
hugged him for very pride; but I am bound to say that I think the Cynic
had the best of it. He is just as generous and courtly as the squire,
and he is absolutely sure of his facts and figures; but when he does
corner his opponent he does not gloat over him. In my judgment--and I
am sure I am impartial, for I like them both so much--he was more
convincing than the squire; but then I don't think I ever met a more
convincing speaker. Of course I have met very few good speakers, but I
doubt if there are many to surpass Mr. Derwent.
He took me home about ten o'clock, and I saw that the village had got
some new excitement, but the Cynic's presence barred me from
participating in it. At the cottage, however, I learned everything,
for a gossip had, as usual, hastened to tell Mother Hubbard the news,
and she was still discussing it on my arrival, though my invalid ought
to have been in bed.
Nobody in Windyridge takes a Sunday newspaper, but a visitor from
Airlee had left a _News of the World_ at Smiddles's, and after his
departure Smiddles had glanced down its columns and found a report of
Ginty's trial and sentence. Mrs. Smiddles, bursting with importance,
hurried off to impart the information to Sar'-Ann's mother. Sar'-Ann's
mother, as might have been anticipated, had expressed her opinion of
Ginty's moral character in loud and emphatic language which echoed
round the village and awakened a like response.
I closed the door wearily on the woman and went to bed, for it was too
late to see Sar'-Ann that night. I wish I had made the endeavour now,
for with the morning there came news that distressed me terribly.
Sar'-Ann's baby had been born at midnight, and poor Sar'-Ann was dead!