CHAPTER IX.
‘THOSE ARE THE KILLING GRIEFS WHICH DARE NOT SPEAK.’
Byslow degrees Beatrix arrived at an understanding of her position. People in Little Yafford believed her guilty of her father’s murder. The idea was horrible, and she would have fled, but pride came to her rescue, and she stayed, defying all the slanderous tongues and cold cruel eyes in the village, from the judicial discourse and pale gray orbs of Miss Coyle, to the lively comments and little red-brown rat-like optics of Mr. Tudway. She met cold looks and averted heads at the church door, where she had been wont to find herself saluted with nods and becks, and a world of sympathy and friendliness. Now and then she encountered a startling glance, as of wonder that she should dare to enter the church. Even Mrs. Dulcimer was cold, and seemed embarrassed byBeatrix’s presence, though affecting all the old cordiality. But the Vicar was full of kindness, and tried to make up for everybody else’s cruelty. His charity was not of the officious kind which forces itself upon people who do not want it, but it was that stronger and wider charity which is inexhaustible for those who do. He had let Beatrix come and go as she pleased hitherto, and had never pressed her to remain. Now he took her under his wing, brought her from the Water House to the Vicarage on his arm, and let the whole village see that he was not ashamed of his ward.
‘Mr. Dulcimer always cared too much for the fleshpots of Egypt,’ said Mrs. Coyle. ‘Miss Harefield’s money blinds him to her character. A sad thing to see a minister of the gospel so devoted to worldly things.’
One day, stung by the disapproving look of a face that passed her in the village street, Beatrix made a sudden appeal to Miss Scales.
‘What does it all mean?’ she asked, in an agitated voice. ‘Why do these people give mesuch horrible looks—or pretend not to see me? I don’t want their friendship. They are nothing in the world to me. But I can’t endure to live in an atmosphere of dislike. What does it mean?’
‘My dear Beatrix, I had rather you did not ask me,’ Miss Scales answered, stiffly.
Her manner had been gaining stiffness ever since her return from Devonshire. A deeply bordered letter had come to announce the aunt’s death, and a week after there had come another letter in a blue envelope, from a local solicitor who had drawn the old lady’s will, to inform Miss Scales that her aunt had appointed her sole executrix and residuary legatee. There was a legacy to the faithful old servant—a little sum in consols to provide for puss and pug—ancient favourites who had quarrelled daily for the last fifteen years—and all the rest went to Miss Scales. She was now a lady of property like her pupil, with an unencumbered estate of nearly two hundred a year.
‘It would have been quite two hundred,’ saidMiss Scales, ‘if it hadn’t been for the money in consols left to Martha. I think my aunt might have left me to provide for Martha and Floss and Fido. I should have taken care they never wanted anything.’
‘Perhaps they would rather be able to take care of themselves,’ Beatrix had replied, a speech which was not agreeable to Miss Scales.
‘But I must ask you,’ said Beatrix, as she drove her pony carriage up the moorland road. ‘Whom else can I ask? Have I so many friends ready to give me information? You must answer me.’
‘I do not recognise any obligation to do so unless I choose, Beatrix,’ Miss Scales replied, severely. ‘The question you put is a very painful one. I cannot deny that there is an unpleasant feeling about you in people’s minds. Your purchasing laudanum at different shops—forgive me if I say in an underhand and crafty manner——’
‘They would not have given me enough at one shop,’ interrupted Beatrix, ‘and I was almost mad for want of sleep.’
‘My dear, I am not finding fault with you. Godforbid that I should judge you. But, altogether, the circumstance was most unfortunate, and it has had a painful effect upon people’s minds. I am not sure, Beatrix, that it would not be well for you to leave Little Yafford.’
‘What! run away from these people because they are cruel enough to believe this hideous thing?’ cried Beatrix, passionately. ‘No, that is a thing I will never do. I will live here till my hair is gray, rather than let them think their false judgment has driven me away.’
‘Well, Beatrix, I am very sorry,’ said Miss Scales. ‘I think a tour in Switzerland—or a residence in Hanover—where you might acquire the German language with the best accent—would be good for you in every way. And, perhaps, before you came back something would transpire to convince people they had misjudged you. However, you must do as you please, of course. I have no authority. Mr. Dulcimer is your guardian. So long as he is satisfied I cannot complain. And now, my dear, with regard to myself, I have been wishing to mention it for some time, but I did not like to say anythingwhile your papa’s death was so recent. I am going to leave you, and settle in Devonshire.’
Beatrix was petrified. She had considered Miss Scales as much a fixture as the old eight-day clock in the hall—nay, as the Water House itself, or as the massive old bridge with its single arch, which had spanned the river ever since the time of the Romans. Miss Scales was tiresome, and given to much preaching, and to the use of Johnsonian locutions, without the correctness of Johnson. She easily degenerated into a nuisance, but Beatrix was used to her, and regarded her as a part of life. Such fondness as grows out of time and custom, Beatrix had for Miss Scales, though not the affection that springs from merit and sweetness in the object of it. That Miss Scales could wish to remove herself permanently from the Water House was of all things most startling. It was as if the cedar on the lawn had uprooted itself and walked away to shade some other garden.
‘Leave me!’ cried Beatrix, pale with surprise. ‘You can’t really mean it.’
‘Indeed, my dear, I do. My dearest auntJudson has left me a nice little independence—and at my age you would hardly expect a person to go on working.’
‘There need be no work,’ said Beatrix, eagerly. ‘I need not trouble you any more with my studies. I can read to myself instead of to you. It will make no difference. You can have all your mornings free.’
‘You cannot suppose that, so long as I remained with you, I could neglect the improvement of your mind, Beatrix,’ severely exclaimed Miss Scales, fully believing in her own style of grinding—quite forty years behind the spirit of the age—as an improving process. ‘No, my dear, that is not the consideration. I want to live in my own house. Dear aunt Judson has left me abijoucottage at Exmouth, and all her beautiful furniture, and I feel it a duty I owe to myself, after all these years of scholastic toil, to settle down. I shall be on the spot to see after Floss and Fido, whom I should not like to leave to the care of a hireling, however well provided for.’
This was a stray javelin flung at the faithful servant, to whom Mrs. Judson had left five hundred pounds in consols.
‘Oh, very well, Miss Scales, if you like Floss and Fido better than me,’ said Beatrix, proudly, giving the reins a little shake that sent Puck into a canter.
‘Beatrix, are you trying to murder me?’ cried the terrified Miss Scales. ‘Stop that pony this instant, or I’ll take the reins out of your hands.’
‘If you do that we shall certainly be in the ditch. There, Puck is quiet enough now.’
‘As to my liking Floss and Fido better than you,’ pursued Miss Scales with her judicial air, when Puck had resumed his accustomed trot, ‘that is a very unfair way of putting it. I have my own happiness to consider.’
‘Yes,’ said Beatrix, ‘that seems the first consideration with everybody.’
‘If we cannot discuss this question without temper, Beatrix——’ remonstrated Miss Scales.
‘We cannot. At least, I cannot,’ answered Beatrix, quickly. ‘You have lived with me ever since I can remember. Yes, one of the first things I can remember is standing at your knee on a hot summer morning droning over a selection of the psalms, in words of one syllable. That psalm about the wickedman and a green bay tree, for instance. I never see a bay tree without remembering how hard it was to learn to read. You have lived with me ever since I was in my cradle, and yet you talk of leaving me as coolly as if it were nothing to you.’
‘My dear Beatrix, the parting will be very painful to me; but it would be more painful to remain.’
‘Why?’ asked Beatrix, fiercely.
‘Because I could not bear to see people look coldly upon you. I could not live in a house under such a cloud as that which overshadows your house.’
‘I see,’ cried Beatrix, her face hardening. ‘You believe what these people believe.’
‘I have not said that.’
‘No, you would not dare to say it. But you are wicked enough to think it—you who have known me all my life. This ends everything between us.’
‘I should think so,’ said Miss Scales. ‘I shall pack my trunks to-night, and leave Little Yafford the first thing to-morrow morning.’
‘It will be best so,’ replied Beatrix, and she turned Puck with a suddenness that swung the chaiseround in a manner to make Miss Scales a second time in fear of her life.
Beatrix drove home in silence, went straight to her own room, and shut herself in there. Her own maid, Mary, carried her up some tea, and she sent a message to Miss Scales excusing herself from going down to dinner on the ground of a headache. Had she said a heartache it would have been the truth.
Miss Scalesateher dinner in sullen state, meditating her life of independence with Floss and Fido. She asked Peacock to order a fly for her at a quarter past seven next morning, in time to catch the quarter-past eight London train at Great Yafford. She devoted the evening to packing her trunks, weeding out a few scarecrow odds and ends of finery from the garden of her wardrobe as a parting bequest to Mary. She left the Water House in the early winter gray, without having seen Beatrix. Peacock handed her an envelope at the last moment, which she opened presently in the fly. It contained no word of farewell, only bank-notes for the current quarter’s salary.
This was the first absolute desertion. Beatrixfelt it heavily. She had been wounded at Bella Scratchell’s keeping aloof from her, as she had done since her visit ended. She was more deeply wounded by Miss Scales’s abandonment.
Before the day was out she was to receive another and much heavier blow. A letter was brought her, late in the evening, from Cyril Culverhouse. It was only the second letter she had ever received from him, but she could have sworn to his handwriting if it had been shown her among a thousand. There is no expert keener-eyed in these things than love.
‘At last!’ she said to herself, with a great wave of joy drowning her heart.
That the letter might bring evil tidings never occurred to her. It was like the leaflet in the beak of the dove. It meant that the dark days were ended, and the glad world was beginning to smile upon her again. The letter was long, but she had not read many lines before despair seized her. She uttered no cry or groan. She sat with the letter held tightly in her convulsed hand, devouring the cruel words.
‘My dearest and only Beloved,—Before leaving this place I write to explain my conduct of the last six weeks, which must have seemed cold and unworthy, and to explain my course in the future, which may offend her for whom I would sacrifice most things rather than offend. I have made up my mind to leave Little Yafford. I have made up my mind never to marry. Reasons which I cannot enter upon have urged me to this resolution. I have loved you deeply, fondly, with an unmeasured and absorbing love, but I have schooled myself to surrender the hope of a happiness which made life very fair and sweet, and which I once deemed not incompatible with my calling and the duties that belong to it.Forgive me, Beatrix, for the pain this letter may cause you—forgive me for the part I have had in your life. Had Providence willed for me to find you unshackled and poor we might have been happy. As it is, I am assured that only misery, remorse, and regret would follow our union.May God bless you. May He pardon and pity you, in all your need of pardon and pity. The bestof us need both at His hands. I take up my pilgrim’s staff, with a heavy heart, and go my way, cheered by no promise in the future, sustained only by the hope of doing some good work among my fellow-men before I die.Oh, Beatrix, if you could know how my heart yearns towards you—how my whole being is rent as I write this cold farewell—you would pity me as I pity you—for I have need of all your pity.I will write no more. Words are no balm for a real and lasting sorrow.Farewell, Beatrix, and whatever you may think of me, believe at least that you are the only woman I have ever loved—the only woman I can ever love.Yours in deepest sorrow,Cyril Culverhouse.’
‘My dearest and only Beloved,—Before leaving this place I write to explain my conduct of the last six weeks, which must have seemed cold and unworthy, and to explain my course in the future, which may offend her for whom I would sacrifice most things rather than offend. I have made up my mind to leave Little Yafford. I have made up my mind never to marry. Reasons which I cannot enter upon have urged me to this resolution. I have loved you deeply, fondly, with an unmeasured and absorbing love, but I have schooled myself to surrender the hope of a happiness which made life very fair and sweet, and which I once deemed not incompatible with my calling and the duties that belong to it.
Forgive me, Beatrix, for the pain this letter may cause you—forgive me for the part I have had in your life. Had Providence willed for me to find you unshackled and poor we might have been happy. As it is, I am assured that only misery, remorse, and regret would follow our union.
May God bless you. May He pardon and pity you, in all your need of pardon and pity. The bestof us need both at His hands. I take up my pilgrim’s staff, with a heavy heart, and go my way, cheered by no promise in the future, sustained only by the hope of doing some good work among my fellow-men before I die.
Oh, Beatrix, if you could know how my heart yearns towards you—how my whole being is rent as I write this cold farewell—you would pity me as I pity you—for I have need of all your pity.
I will write no more. Words are no balm for a real and lasting sorrow.
Farewell, Beatrix, and whatever you may think of me, believe at least that you are the only woman I have ever loved—the only woman I can ever love.
Yours in deepest sorrow,Cyril Culverhouse.’
This ended all. It was very clear to her that her lover thought as Little Yafford thought. In his eyes too she was a guilty wretch, for whom he could feel nothing but pity.
‘He was the only creature who ever really loved me since my mother died,’ she thought, ‘and now he has deserted me.’