Maud Trevor was a genuine woman, and kept her accounts with the aid of
six purses. One was an ancient housewife of her grandmother's, which
used to be equipped with silk and thread and needles and buttons, and
from a secret place yielded to the third generation a bank note
of value. This capacious receptacle was evidently intended for the
household exchequer, whose transactions were innumerable, and whose
monthly budget depended for success on an unfailing supply of copper.
Another had come from her mother, and was of obsolete design--a bag
closed at both extremities, with a long narrow slit in the middle, and
two rings which compressed the gold into one end and the silver into the
other. This was marked out by Providence for charity, since it made
no provision for pennies, and laid a handicap of inconvenience on
threepenny bits. It retained a subtle trace of an old-fashioned scent
her mother loved, and recalled her mother going out on some errand of
mercy--a St Clare in her sacrifices and devotion. Purse three descended
from her father, and was an incarnation of business--made of chamois
leather with a steel clasp that closed with a click, having three
compartments within, one of which had its own clasp and was reserved for
gold. In this bank Maud kept the funds of a clothing society, whose
more masterly bargains ran sometimes into farthings, and she was always
haunted with anxiety lest a new farthing and a half-sovereign should
some day change places. A pretty little purse with ivory sides and
silver hinges--a birthday gift of her girlhood--was large enough to hold
her dress allowance, which Trevor had fixed at a most generous rate when
he had barely four hundred a year, and had since forgotten to increase.
One in sealskin had been a gift of engagement days, and held the savings
of the year against birthday and Christmas presents--whose contents were
the subject of many calculations. A cast-off purse of Trevor's had been
devoted to Bertie, and from its resources came one way or other all he
needed; but it happened that number six was constantly reinforced from
the purse with the ivory sides.
Saturday afternoon was sacred to book-keeping, and Maud used her bed
as a table for this critical operation, partly because it was so much
larger than an escritoire, but chiefly because you could empty the
purses into little pools with steep protecting banks. Of course if one
sat down hurriedly there was great danger of amalgamation, with quite
hopeless consequences; and Trevor held over Maud's head the chance of
his making this mistake. It was his way, before he grew too busy, to
watch till the anxious face would suddenly brighten and a rapid change
be made in the pools--the household contributing something to presents
and the dress purse to Bertie, while private and public charity would
accommodate each other with change. Caresses were strictly forbidden
in those times of abstruse calculation, and the Evil One who stands at
every man's elbow once tempted Trevor to roll the counterpane into a
bundle--purses, money, and all--but Maud, when he confessed, said that
no human being would be allowed to fall into such wickedness.
Trevor was obliged to open her wardrobe, fourteen days after the
funeral, and the first thing he lighted upon was the purses. They lay
in a row on an old account-book--a motley set indeed--but so absurd and
tricky a spirit is pathos, they affected him more swiftly than the
sight of a portrait Was ever any one so faithful and conscientious, so
self-forgetful and kind, so capable also and clever in her own sphere?
Latterly he had sneered at the purses, and once, being vexed at
something in a letter, he had told Maud she ought to have done with that
folly and keep her accounts like an educated woman. “A girl of twelve
would be ashamed.”... What a merciless power memory wields. She only
drooped her head,... it was on the sealskin purse the tear fell, and at
once he saw the bend of the Wye at Tintern where he had surprised her
with the gift of that purse. He was moved to kiss away that tear, but
his heart hardened. Why could she not be like the women he knew?...
Well, he would not be troubled any longer with her simple ways... he
could do as he pleased now with the purses.... A bitter madness of grief
took possession of him, and he arranged them on the bed.
One was empty, the present purse, and he understood... the dress purse,
of course, a little silver only... the rest had gone that he might have
something beautiful.... He knew that it must be done sooner or later,
and to-day was best, for his heart could be no sorer.... Yes, here they
were, the ungiven gifts. For every person, from himself to the nurse;
all wrapped in soft white paper and ready in good time.... She used to
arrange everything on Christmas Eve... this year he had intended to stay
at Cannes,... there would just have been Bertie and his mother, now...
But he must open it--an inkstand for his study in solid brass, with pens
and other things complete--he noted every detail as if to estimate its
value. It came back to him how she had cunningly questioned him about
his needs before he left for Cannes, till he grew impatient. “Don't
bother me about ink-bottles,” Yes, the very words, and others... the
secret writing of memory came out in this fire of sorrow. “Why won't
women understand that a man can't answer questions about trifles when
he has work on hand?” He could swear to the words, and he knew how Maud
looked, although he did not see.
“Don't go away; you promised that you would sit beside me when I
worked--hinder me? I suppose you are bidding for a kiss; you know the
sight of your face inspires me.”... That was ten years ago... he might
have borne with her presence a little longer.... She never would come
again... he would have no interruptions of that kind....
Her gloves, sixes--what a perfect hand it was (smoothes out the glove).
His memory brings up a dinner table. Mrs. Chatterby gives her opinion on
Meredith's last novel, and helps herself to salt--he sees a disgusting
hand, with stumpy fingers, and, for impudence, a street arab of a thumb.
A vulgar little woman through and through, and yet because she picked up
scraps from the monthlies, and had the trick of catch-words, people paid
her court And he had sometimes thought, but he knew better to-day... of
all things in the world a glove is the surest symbol. Mended, too, very
neatly... that he might have his hansoms.
It was the last thing he ever could have imagined, and yet it must be
a diary--Maud's diary! Turns over the leaves, and catches that woman's
name against whom he has suddenly taken a violent dislike.
“January 25. Was at Mrs. Chatterby's--how strange one does not say
anything of her husband--yet he is the nicer of the two--and I think
it will be better not to go again to dinner. One can always make some
excuse that will not be quite untrue.
“'The dinner is in honour of Mr. Fynical, who is leaving his College and
coming to live in London, to do literary work.' as Mrs. Chatterby has
been explaining for weeks, 'and to give tone to the weeklies.'
“'The younger men are quite devoted to him, and we ought all to be so
thankful that he is to be within reach. His touch reminds one of,'--I
don't know the French writer, but she does not always give the same
name. 'We hope to see a great deal of him. So delightfully cynical, you
know, and hates the bourgeoisie.'
“I was terrified lest I should sit next Mr. Fynical, but Mrs. Chatterby
was merciful, and gave me Janie Godfrey's father. Edward says that he
is a very able man, and will be Lord Chancellor some day, but he is so
quiet and modest, that one feels quite at home with him. Last summer he
was yachting on the west coast of Scotland, and he described the sunset
over the Skye hills; and I tried to give him a Devonshire sunrise. We
both forgot where we were, and then Mrs. Chatterby asked me quite loud,
so that every one looked, what I thought of 'Smudges.'
“The dinner-table seemed to wait for my answer, and I wish that the
book had never come from the library, but I said that I had sent it back
because it seemed so bitter and cruel, and one ought to read books which
showed the noble side of life.
“'You are one of the old-fashioned women,' she replied. 'You believe in
a novel for the young person,' with a smile that hurt me, and I told
her that I had been brought up on Sir Walter Scott I was trying to say
something about his purity and chivalry, when I caught Mr. Fynical's
eye, and blushed red. If I had only been silent,--for I'm afraid every
one was laughing, and Edward did not say one word to me all the way
home.
“February 20. Another ordeal, but not so unfortunate as the last. The
Browne-Smythes are very kind friends, but I do think they are too much
concerned about having clever people at their house. One evening Mrs.
Browne-Smythe said she was happy because nothing had been talked about
except translations of Homer. A certain guest was so miserable on that
occasion that I begged Edward to leave me at home this time, but he said
it would not be Greek again. It was science, however, and when we came
in Mrs. Browne-Smythe was telling a very learned-looking person that she
simply lived for fossils. A young lady beside me was talking about
gases to a nervous man, who grew quite red, and tried to escape behind
a table. I think she was wrong in her words, and he was too polite to
correct her. To my horror, he was obliged to take me in to dinner, and
there never could have been two people more deserving of pity, for I was
terrified of his knowledge, and he was afraid of my ignorance. We sat
in perfect silence till a fatherly old man, quite like a farmer, on my
left, began to talk to me so pleasantly that I described our country
people, and was really sorry when the ladies had to leave. Edward says
that he is one of the greatest discoverers in the world, and has all
kinds of honours. We became so friendly that he has promised to take tea
with me, and I think he does not despise my simplicity. How I long to be
cleverer for Edward's sake, for I'm sure he must be ashamed of me among
those brilliant women. I cannot blame him: I am proud of my husband.
“May 15. I am quite discouraged, and have resolved never to go to any
charitable committee again. Miss Tabitha Primmer used shameful language
at the Magdalene meeting to-day, and Mrs. Wood-Ruler showed me that
I had broken Law 43 by giving a poor girl personal aid. It seems
presumptuous on my part to criticise such able and diligent workers, but
my mother never spoke about certain subjects, and it is agony for me to
discuss them. When the vicar insisted on Sunday that thoughtful women
were required for Christian service to-day, and that we must read up all
kinds of books and know all kinds of painful things, my heart sank. It
does not seem as if there was any place left for simple folk like me.
Perhaps it would be better to give up going out altogether, and live for
Edward and Bertie. I can always do something for them, and their love
will be enough reward.
“Nov. 30 I have not slept all night, for I made a dreadful mistake about
a new book that every one is reading, and Edward was so angry. He did
not mean all he said, but he never called me a fool before. Perhaps he
is right, and it is hard on him, who is so bright Sometimes I wish-” And
then there was no writing, only a tear mark....
Afterwards he opened the letters that had come since her death, and this
is what he read:
“My dear Trevor,--
“The intelligence of Mrs. Trevor's death has given me a great shock of
regret, and you will allow me to express my sympathy. Many men not given
to enthusiasm had told me of her face and goodness, and before I had
seen your wife I knew she was a very perfect type of womanliness The few
times I met her, Mrs. Trevor cast a certain spell over me--the nameless
grace of the former days--and I felt myself unworthy in her presence.
Once when a silly woman referred to one of the most miserable examples
of decadent fiction, your wife spoke so nobly of true literature that I
was moved to thank her, but I gathered from her face that this would not
be acceptable. It seemed to me that the mask had fallen from a beautiful
soul, and one man at least, in whom there is too little reverence, took
the shoes from off his feet. Pardon me if I have exceeded, and
“Believe me,
“Yours faithfully,
“Bernard Fynical.”
The next was from the F.R.S.
“My dear Sir,--
“It is quite wrong for me, a stranger, to intrude on your grief, but I
am compelled to tell you that an old fellow who only spoke to your wife
once, had to wipe his spectacles over the _Times_ this morning. It came
about this way. The lady I had taken in to dinner at the Browne-Smythes
gabbled about science till I lost my temper, and told her it would be a
good thing if women would keep to their own sphere. Your wife was on
the other side, and I turned to her in despair. She delighted me by
confessing utter ignorance of my subject, and then she won my heart
by some of the loveliest stories of peasant life in Devonshire I ever
heard, so full of insight and delicacy. If the parsons preached like
that I would be in church next Sunday. She put me in mind of a sister I
lost long ago--who had the same low, soft voice and honest, trusty eyes.
When she found I was a lonely man, your wife had pity on me, and asked
me to call on her. But I had to go to America, and only returned two
days ago. I intended to wish her a Happy New Year, but it's too late.
I cannot get you out of my mind, and I thought it might comfort you to
know how a fossil like myself was melted by that kind heart “Believe me,
my dear sir,
“Your obedient servant,
“Archibald Gilmore.”
The third was also from a man, but this time a lad in rooms whom Trevor
had seen at the house.
“Dear Mr. Trevor,--
“You perhaps know that Mrs. Trevor allowed me to spend an hour with her
of an evening, when I felt downhearted or had any trouble, but no one
will ever know how much she did for me. When I came up to London
my faith began to go, and I saw that in a short time I would be an
Agnostic. This did not trouble me so much on my own account as my
mother's, who is dead, and made me promise something on her death-bed.
So I bought books and heard sermons on unbelief till I was quite sick of
the whole business. Mrs. Trevor took me to hear your own clergyman,
who did not help me one bit, for he was too clever and logical; but you
remember I came home with you, and after you had gone to your study I
told Mrs. Trevor my difficulties, and she did me more good than all the
books. She never argued nor preached, but when I was with her one felt
that religion was a reality, and that she knew more about it than any
one I had met since I lost my mother. It is a shame to trouble you with
my story when you are in such sorrow, and no one need tell you how noble
a woman Mrs. Trevor was; but I could not help letting you know that her
goodness has saved one young fellow at least from infidelity and worse.
“You will not mind my having sent a cross to put on the coffin; it was
all I could do.
“Yours gratefully,
“George Benson.”
There was neither beginning nor end to the fourth letter, but it was
written in a lady's hand.
“I am a clergyman's daughter, who left her father's house, and went
astray. I have been in the Inferno, and have seen what I read in _Dante_
while I was innocent One day the old rectory rose up before my eyes--the
roses hanging over my bedroom window; the birds flying in and out
the ivy; my father on the lawn, aged and broken through my sin--and I
resolved that my womanhood should no longer be dragged in the mire. My
home was closed years ago, I had no friends, so I went in my desperation
to a certain Institute, and told my case to a matron. She was not
unkindly, but the committee were awful, without either sympathy or
manners; and when an unmarried woman wished to pry into the details of
my degradation--but I can't tell a man the shame they would have put
upon me--my heart turned to flint, and I left the place. I would have
gone back to my life and perished had it not been for one woman who
followed me out, and asked me to go home with her for afternoon tea. Had
she said one word about my past, I had flung myself away; but because
she spoke to me as if I were still in the rectory, I could not refuse.
Mrs. Trevor never once mentioned my sin, and she saved my soul. I am now
a nurse in one of the hospitals, and full of peace. As long as I live
I shall lay white flowers on her grave, who surely was the wisest and
tenderest of women.” Trevor's fortitude was failing fast before this
weight of unconscious condemnation, and he was only able to read one
more--an amazing production, that had cost the writer great pains.
“Honoured Sir,--
“Bill says as it's tyking too much on the likes o' me to be addressing
you on your missus' death, but it's not her husband that will despise
a pore working woman oo's lost her best friend. When Bill 'ad the
rumatiks, and couldn't do no work, and Byby was a-growing that thin you
could see thro' 'im, Mrs. Byles says to me, 'Mrs. 'Awkes, you goes to
the Society for the Horganisation of Female Toilers.' Says I, 'Wot is
that?' and she declares, 'It's a set of ladies oo wants to'elp women
to work, and they 'ill see you gets it' So I goes, and I saw a set
of ladies sitting at a table, and they looks at me; and one with
spectacles, and a vice like an 'and-saw, arsks me, 'Wot's yer name?'
and ''Ow old are you?' and ''Ow many children have you?' and 'Are your
'abits temperate?' And then she says, 'If you pay a shilling we 'ill
put your nyme down for work has an unskilled worker.' 'I 'avn't got a
shilling, and Byby's dyin' for want of food.' 'This ain't a Poor 'ouse,'
says she; 'this is a Booro.' When I wos a-going down the stairs, a lady
comes after me. 'Don't cry, Mrs. 'Awkes,' for she had picked up my name.
'I've some charring for you, and we'ill go to get something for Byby.'
If ever there wos a hangel in a sealskin jacket and a plain little
bonnet, but the true lady hall hover, 'er name was Mrs. Trevor. Bill, he
looked up from that day, and wos on his keb in a week, and little Jim is
the biggest byby in the court. Mrs. Trevor never rested till I got three
hoffices to clean, to say nothing of 'elping at cleanings and parties in
'ouses. She wos that kind, too, and free, when she'd come hin with noos
of some hoffice. 'We're horganisin' you, Missus 'Awkes, just splendid,'
with the prettiest bit smile. Bill, he used to say, ''Er 'usband's a
proud man, for I never saw the like o' her for a downright lady in 'er
wys'--and 'e knows, does Bill, being a kebman. When I told 'im he wos
that bad that'e never put a match to 'is pipe the'ole night 'Mariar,'
'e says to me, 'you an' me 'as seen some think of her, but you bet nobody
knew what a saint she wos 'xcept 'er 'usband.'”...
Trevor could read no more, for it had dawned at last upon him that
Christ had lived with him for more than ten years, and his eyes had been
holden.