One morning late in June, Hubert Eldon passed through the gates of Wanley Manor and walked towards the village. It was the first time since his illness that he had left the grounds on foot. He was very thin, and had an absent, troubled look; the natural cheerfulness of youth’s convalescence seemed altogether lacking in him.
From a rising point of the road, winding between the Manor and Wanley, a good view of the valley offered itself; here Hubert paused, leaning a little on his stick, and let his eyes dwell upon the prospect. A year ago he had stood here and enjoyed the sweep of meadows between Stanbury Hill and the wooded slope opposite, the orchard-patches, the flocks along the margin of the little river. To-day he viewed a very different scene. Building of various kinds was in progress in the heart of the vale; a great massive chimney was rising to completion, and about it stood a number of sheds. Beyond was to be seen the commencement of a street of small houses, promising infinite ugliness in a little space; the soil over a considerable area was torn up and trodden into mud. A number of men were at work; carts and waggons and trucks were moving about. In truth, the benighted valley was waking up and donning the true nineteenth-century livery.
The young man’s face, hitherto thoughtfully sad, changed to an expression of bitterness; he muttered what seemed to be angry and contemptuous words, then averted his eyes and walked on. He entered the village street and passed along it for some distance, his fixed gaze appearing studiously to avoid the people who stood about or walked by him. There was a spot of warm colour on his cheeks; he held himself very upright and had a painfully self-conscious air.
He stopped before a dwelling-house, rang the bell, and made inquiry whether Mr. Mutimer was at home. The reply being affirmative, he followed the servant up to the first floor. His name was announced at the door of a sitting-room, and he entered.
Two men were conversing in the room. One sat at the table with a sheet of paper before him, sketching a rough diagram and scribbling notes; this was Richard Mutimer. He was dressed in a light tweed suit; his fair moustache and beard were trimmed, and the hand which rested on the table was no longer that of a daily-grimed mechanic. His linen was admirably starched; altogether he had a very fresh and cool appearance. His companion was astride on a chair, his arms resting on the back, a pipe in his mouth. This man was somewhat older than Mutimer; his countenance indicated shrewdness and knowledge of the world. He was dark and well-featured, his glossy black hair was parted in the middle, his moustache of the cut called imperial, his beard short and peaked. He wore a canvas jacket, a white waistcoat and knickerbockers; at his throat a blue necktie fluttered loose. When Hubert’s name was announced by the servant, this gentleman stopped midway in a sentence, took his pipe from his lips, and looked to the door with curiosity.
Mutimer rose and addressed his visitor easily indeed, but not discourteously.
‘How do you do, Mr. Eldon? I’m glad to see that you are so much better. Will you sit down? I think you know Mr. Rodman, at all events by name?’
Hubert assented by gesture. He had come prepared for disagreeable things in this his first meeting with Mutimer, but the honour of an introduction to the latter’s friends had not been included in his anticipations. Mr. Rodman had risen and bowed slightly. His smile carried a disagreeable suggestion from which Mutimer’s behaviour was altogether free; he rather seemed to enjoy the situation.
For a moment there was silence and embarrassment. Richard overcame the difficulty.
‘Come and dine with me to-night, will you?’ he said to Rodman. ‘Here, take this plan with you, and think it over.’
‘Pray don’t let me interfere with your business,’ interposed Hubert, with scrupulous politeness. ‘I could see you later, Mr. Mutimer.’
‘No, no; Rodman and I have done for the present,’ said Mutimer, cheerfully. ‘By-the-by,’ he added, as his right-hand man moved to the door, ‘don’t forget to drop a line to Slater and Smith. And, I say, if Hogg turns up before two o’clock, send him here; I’ll be down with you by half-past.’
Mr. Rodman gave an ‘All right,’ nodded to Hubert, who paid no attention, and took his departure.
‘You’ve had a long pull of it,’ Richard began, as he took his chair again, and threw his legs into an easy position. ‘Shall I close the windows? Maybe you don’t like the draught.’
‘Thank you; I feel no draught.’
The working man had the advantage as yet. Hubert in vain tried to be at ease, whilst Mutimer was quite himself, and not ungraceful in his assumption of equality. For one thing, Hubert could not avoid a comparison between his own wasted frame and the other’s splendid physique; it heightened the feeling of antagonism which possessed him in advance, and provoked the haughtiness he had resolved to guard against. The very lineaments of the men foretold mutual antipathy. Hubert’s extreme delicacy of feature was the outward expression of a character so compact of subtleties and refinements, of high prejudice and jealous sensibility, of spiritual egoism and all-pervading fastidiousness, that it was impossible for him not to regard with repugnance a man who represented the combative principle, even the triumph, of the uncultured classes. He was no hidebound aristocrat; the liberal tendencies of his intellect led him to scorn the pageantry of long-descended fools as strongly as he did the blind image-breaking of the mob; but in a case of personal relations temperament carried it over judgment in a very high-handed way. Youth and disappointment weighed in the scale of unreason. Mutimer, on the other hand, though fortune helped him to forbearance, saw, or believed he saw, the very essence of all he most hated in this proud-eyed representative of a county family. His own rough-sculptured comeliness corresponded to the vigour and practicality and zeal of a nature which cared nothing for form and all for substance; the essentials of life were to him the only things in life, instead of, as to Hubert Eldon, the mere brute foundation of an artistic super structure. Richard read clearly enough the sentiments with which his visitor approached him; who that is the object of contempt does not readily perceive it? His way of revenging himself was to emphasise a tone of good fellowship, to make it evident how well he could afford to neglect privileged insolence. In his heart he triumphed over the disinherited aristocrat; outwardly he was civil, even friendly.
Hubert had made this call with a special purpose.
‘I am charged by Mrs. Eldon,’ he began, ‘to thank you for the courtesy you have shown her during my illness. My own thanks likewise I hope you will accept. We have caused you, I fear, much inconvenience.’
Richard found himself envying the form and tone of this deliverance; he gathered his beard in his hands and gave it a tug.
‘Not a bit of it,’ he replied. ‘I am very comfortable here. A bedroom and a place for work, that’s about all I want.’
Hubert barely smiled. He wondered whether the mention of work was meant to suggest comparisons. He hastened to add—
‘On Monday we hope to leave the Manor.’
‘No need whatever for hurry,’ observed Mutimer, good-humouredly. ‘Please tell Mrs. Eldon that I hope she will take her own time.’ On reflection this seemed rather an ill-chosen phrase; he bettered it. ‘I should be very sorry if she inconvenienced herself on my account.’
‘Confound the fellow’s impudence!’ was Hubert’s mental comment. ‘He plays the forbearing landlord.’
His spoken reply was: ‘It is very kind of you. I foresee no difficulty in completing the removal on Monday.’
In view of Mutimer’s self-command, Hubert began to be aware that his own constraint might carry the air of petty resentment Fear of that drove him upon a topic he would rather have left alone.
‘You are changing the appearance of the valley,’ he said, veiling by his tone the irony which was evident in his choice of words.
Richard glanced at him, then walked to the window, with his hands in his pockets, and gave himself the pleasure of a glimpse of the furnace-chimney above the opposite houses. He laughed.
‘I hope to change it a good deal more. In a year or two you won’t know the place.’
‘I fear not.’
Mutimer glanced again at his visitor.
‘Why do you fear?’ he asked, with less command of his voice.
‘I of course understand your point of view. Personally, I prefer nature.’
Hubert endeavoured to smile, that his personal preferences might lose something of their edge.
‘You prefer nature,’ Mutimer repeated, coming back to his chair, on the seat of which he rested a foot. ‘Well, I can’t say that I do. The Wanley Iron Works will soon mean bread to several hundred families; how many would the grass support?’
‘To be sure,’ assented Hubert, still smiling.
‘You are aware,’ Mutimer proceeded to ask, ‘that this is not a speculation for my own profit?’
‘I have heard something of your scheme. I trust it will be appreciated.’
‘I dare say it will be—by those who care anything about the welfare of the people.’
Eldon rose; he could not trust himself to continue the dialogue. He had expected to meet a man of coarser grain; Mutimer’s intelligence made impossible the civil condescension which would have served with a boor, and Hubert found the temptation to pointed utterance all the stronger for the dangers it involved.
‘I will drop you a note,’ he said, ‘to let you know as soon as the house is empty.’
‘Thank you.’
They had not shaken hands at meeting, nor did they now. Each felt relieved when out of the other’s sight.
Hubert turned out of the street into a road which would lead him to the church, whence there was a field-path back to the Manor. Walking with his eyes on the ground he did not perceive the tall, dark figure that approached him as he drew near to the churchyard gate. Mr. Wyvern had been conducting a burial; he had just left the vestry and was on his way to the vicarage, which stood five minutes’ walk from the church. Himself unperceived, he scrutinised the young man until he stood face to face with him; his deep-voiced greeting caused Hubert to look up’ with a start.
‘I’m very glad to see you walking,’ said the clergyman.
He took Hubert’s hand and held it paternally in both his own. Eldon seemed affected with a sudden surprise; as he met the large gaze his look showed embarrassment.
‘You remember me?’ Mr. Wyvern remarked, his wonted solemnity lightened by the gleam of a brief smile. Looking closely into his face was like examining a map in relief; you saw heights and plains, the intersection of multitudinous valleys, river-courses with their tributaries. It was the visage of a man of thought and character. His eyes spoke of late hours and the lamp; beneath each was a heavy pocket of skin, wrinkling at its juncture with the cheek. His teeth were those of an incessant smoker, and, in truth, you could seldom come near him without detecting the odour of tobacco. Despite the amplitude of his proportions, there was nothing ponderous about him; the great head was finely formed, and his limbs must at one time have been as graceful as they were muscular.
‘Is this accident,’ Hubert asked; ‘or did you know me at the time?’
‘Accident, pure accident. Will you walk to the vicarage with me?’
They paced side by side.
‘Mrs. Eldon profits by the pleasant weather, I trust?’ the vicar observed, with grave courtesy.
‘Thank you, I think she does. I shall be glad when she is settled in her new home.’
They approached the door of the vicarage in silence. Entering Mr. Wyvern led the way to his study. When he had taken a seat, he appeared to forget himself for a moment, and played with the end of his bean.
Hubert showed impatient curiosity.
‘You found me there by chance that morning?’ he began.
The clergyman returned to the present. His elbows on either arm of his round chair, he sat leaning forward, thoughtfully gazing at his companion.
‘By chance,’ he replied. ‘I sleep badly; so it happened that I was abroad shortly after daybreak. I was near the edge of the wood when I heard a pistol-shot. I waited for the second.’
‘We fired together,’ Hubert remarked.
‘Ah! It seemed to me one report. Well, as I stood listening, there came out from among the trees a man who seemed in a hurry. He was startled at finding himself face to face with me, but didn’t stop; he said something rapidly in French that I failed to catch, pointed back into the wood, and hastened off.’
‘We had no witnesses,’ put in Hubert; ‘and both aimed our best. I wonder he sent you to look for me.’
‘A momentary weakness, no doubt,’ rejoined the vicar drily. I made my way among the trees and found you lying there, unconscious. I made some attempt to stop the blood-flow, then picked you up; it seemed better, on the whole, than leaving you on the wet grass an indefinite time. Your overcoat was on the ground; as I took hold of it, two letters fell from the pocket. I made no scruple about reading the addresses, and was astonished to find that one was to Mrs. Eldon, at Wanley Manor, Wanley being the place where I was about to live on my return to England. I took it for granted that you were Mrs. Eldon’s son. The other letter, as you know, was to a lady at a hotel in the town.’
Hubert nodded.
‘And you went to her as soon as you left me?’
‘After hearing from the doctor that there was no immediate danger.—The letters, I suppose, would have announced your death?’
Hubert again inclined his head. The imperturbable gravity of the speaker had the effect of imposing self-command on the young man; whose sensitive cheeks showed what was going on within.
‘Will you tell me of your interview with her?’ he asked.
‘It was of the briefest; my French is not fluent.’
‘But she speaks English well.’
‘Probably her distress led her to give preference to her native tongue. She was anxious to go to you immediately, and I told her where you lay. I made inquiries next day, and found that she was still giving you her care. As you were doing well, and I had to be moving homewards, I thought it better to leave without seeing you again. The innkeeper had directions to telegraph to me if there was a change for the worse.’
‘My pocket-book saved me,’ remarked Hubert, touching his side.
Mr. Wyvern drew in his lips.
‘Came between that ready-stamped letter and Wanley Manor,’ was his comment.
There was a brief silence.
‘You allow me a question?’ the vicar resumed. ‘It is with reference to the French lady.’
‘I think you have every right to question me.’
‘Oh no! It does not concern the events prior to your—accident.’ Mr. Wyvern savoured the word. ‘How long did she remain in attendance upon you?’
‘A short time—two day—I did not need—’
Mr. Wyvern motioned with his hand, kindly.
‘Then I was not mistaken,’ he said, averting his eyes for the first time, ‘in thinking that I saw her in Paris.’
‘In Paris?’ Hubert repeated, with a poor affectation of indifference.
‘I made a short stay before crossing. I had business at a bank one day; as I stood before the counter a gentleman entered and took a place beside me. A second look assured me that he was the man who met me at the edge of the wood that morning. I suppose he remembered me, for he looked away and moved from me. I left the bank, and found an open carriage waiting at the door. In it sat the lady of whom we speak. I took a turn along the pavement and back again. The Frenchman entered the carriage; they drove away.’
Hubert’s eyes were veiled; he breathed through his nostrils. Again there was silence.
‘Mr. Eldon,’ resumed the vicar, ‘I was a man of the world before I became a Churchman; you will notice that I affect no professional tone in speaking with you, and it is because I know that anything of the kind would only alienate you. It appeared to me that chance had made me aware of something it might concern you to hear. I know nothing of the circumstances of the case, merely offer you the facts.’
‘I thank you,’ was Hubert’s reply in an undertone.
‘It impressed me, that letter ready stamped for Wanley Manor. I thought of it again after the meeting in Paris.’
‘I understand you. Of course I could explain the necessity. It would be useless.’
‘Quite. But experience is not, or should not be, useless, especially when commented on by one who has very much of it behind him.’
Hubert stood up. His mind was in a feverishly active state, seeming to follow several lines of thought simultaneously. Among other things, he was wondering how it was that throughout this conversation he had been so entirely passive. He had never found himself under the influence of so strong a personality, exerted too in such a strangely quiet way.
‘What are your plans—your own plans?’ Mr. Wyvern inquired.
‘I have none.’
‘Forgive me;—there will be no material difficulties?’
‘None; I have four hundred a year.’
‘You have not graduated yet, I believe?’
‘No. But I hardly think I can go back to school.’
‘Perhaps not. Well, turn things over. I should like to hear from you.’
‘You shall.’
Hubert continued his walk to the Manor. Before the entrance stood two large furniture-vans; the doorway was littered with materials of packing, and the hall was full of objects in disorder, footsteps made a hollow resonance in all parts of the house, for everywhere the long wonted conditions of sound were disturbed. The library was already dismantled; here he could close the door and walk about without fear of intrusion. He would have preferred to remain in the open air, but a summer shower had just begun as he reached the house. He could not sit still; the bare floor of the large room met his needs.
His mind’s eye pictured a face which a few months ago had power to lead him whither it willed, which had in fact led him through strange scenes, as far from the beaten road of a college curriculum as well could be. It was a face of foreign type, Jewish possibly, most unlike that ideal of womanly charm kept in view by one who seeks peace and the heart’s home. Hubert had entertained no thought of either. The romance which most young men are content to enjoy in printed pages he had acted out in his life. He had lived through a glorious madness, as unlike the vulgar oat-sowing of the average young man of wealth as the latest valse on a street-organ is unlike a passionate dream of Chopin. However unworthy the object of his frenzy—and perhaps one were as worthy as another—the pursuit had borne him through an atmosphere of fire, tempering him for life, marking him for ever from plodders of the dusty highway. A reckless passion is a patent of nobility. Whatever existence had in store for him henceforth, Hubert could feel that he had lived.
An hour’s communing with memory was brought to an end by the ringing of the luncheon-bell. Since his illness Hubert had taken meals with his mother in her own sitting-room. Thither he now repaired.
Mrs. Eldon had grown older in appearance since that evening of her son’s return. Of course she had discovered the cause of his illness, and the incessant torment of a great fear had been added to what she suffered from the estrangement between the boy and herself. Her own bodily weakness had not permitted her to nurse him; she had passed days and nights in anguish of expectancy. At one time it had been life or death. If he died, what life would be hers through the brief delay to which she could look forward?
Once more she had him by her side, but the moral distance between them was nothing lessened. Mrs. Eldon’s pride would not allow her to resume the conversation which had ended so hopelessly for her, and she interpreted Hubert’s silence in the saddest sense. Now they were about to be parted again. A house had been taken for her at Agworth, three miles away; in her state of health she could not quit the neighbourhood of the few old friends whom she still saw. But Hubert would necessarily go into the world to seek some kind of career. No hope shone for her in the prospect.
Whilst the servant waited on them at luncheon, mother and son exchanged few words. Afterwards, Mrs. Eldon had her chair moved to the window, where she could see the garden greenery.
‘I called on Mr. Mutimer,’ Hubert said, standing near her. Through the meal he had cast frequent glances at her pale, nobly-lined countenance, as if something had led him to occupy his thoughts with her. He looked at her in the same way now.
‘Did you? How did he impress you?’
‘He is not quite the man I had expected; more civilised. I should suppose he is the better kind of artisan. He talks with a good deal of the working-class accent, of course, but not like a wholly uneducated man.’
‘His letter, you remember, was anything but illiterate. I feel I ought to ask him to come and see me before we leave.’
‘The correspondence surely suffices.’
‘You expressed my thanks?’
‘Conscientiously.’
‘I see you found the interview rather difficult, Hubert.’
‘How could it be otherwise? The man is well enough, of his kind, but the kind is detestable.’
‘Did he try to convert you to Socialism?’ asked his mother, smiling in her sad way.
‘I imagine he discerned the hopelessness of such an under taking. We had a little passage of arms,—quite within the bounds of civility. Shall I tell you how I felt in talking with him? I seemed to be holding a dialogue with the twentieth century, and you may think what that means.’
‘Ah, it’s a long way off, Hubert.’
‘I wish it were farther. The man was openly exultant; he stood for Demos grasping the sceptre. I am glad, mother, that you leave Wanley before the air is poisoned.’
‘Mr. Mutimer does not see that side of the question?’
‘Not he! Do you imagine the twentieth century will leave one green spot on the earth’s surface?’
‘My dear, it will always be necessary to grow grass and corn.’
‘By no means; depend upon it. Such things will be cultivated by chemical processes. There will not be one inch left to nature; the very oceans will somehow be tamed, the snow-mountains will be levelled. And with nature will perish art. What has a hungry Demos to do with the beautiful?’
Mrs. Eldon sighed gently.
‘I shall not see it.’
Her eyes dreamed upon the soft-swaying boughs of a young chestnut. Hubert was watching her face; its look and the meaning implied in her words touched him profoundly.
‘Mother!’ he said under his breath.
‘My dear?’
He drew nearer to her and just stroked with his fingers the silver lines which marked the hair on either side of her brows. He could see that she trembled and that her lips set themselves in hard self-conquest.
‘What do you wish me to do when we have left the Manor?’
His own voice was hurried between two quiverings of the throat; his mother’s only whispered in reply.
‘That is for your own consideration, Hubert.’
‘With your counsel, mother.’
‘My counsel?’
‘I ask it I will follow it. I wish to be guided by you.’
He knelt by her, and his mother pressed his head against her bosom.
Later, she asked—
‘Did you call also on the Walthams?’
He shook his head.
‘Should you not do so, dear?
‘I think that must be later.’
The subject was not pursued.
The next day was Saturday. In the afternoon Hubert took a walk which had been his favourite one ever since he could remember, every step of the way associated with recollections of childhood, boyhood, or youth. It was along the lane which began in a farmyard close by the Manor and climbed with many turnings to the top of Stanbury Hill. This was ever the first route re-examined by his brother Godfrey and himself on their return from school at holiday-time. It was a rare region for bird-nesting, so seldom was it trodden save by a few farm-labourers at early morning or when the day’s work was over. Hubert passed with a glance of recognition the bramble in which he had found his first spink’s nest, the shadowed mossy bank whence had fluttered the hapless wren just when the approach of two prowling youngsters should have bidden her keep close. Boys on the egg-trail are not wont to pay much attention to the features of the country; but Hubert remembered that at a certain meadow-gate he had always rested for a moment to view the valley, some mute presage of things unimagined stirring at his heart. Was it even then nineteenth century? Not for him, seeing that the life of each of us reproduces the successive ages of the world. Belwick, roaring a few miles away, was but an isolated black patch on the earth’s beauty, not, as he now understood it, a malignant cancer-spot, spreading day by day, corrupting, an augury of death. In those days it had seemed fast in the order of things that Wanley Manor should be his home through life; how otherwise? Was it not the abiding-place of the Eldons from of old? Who had ever hinted at revolution? He knew now that revolution had been at work from an earlier time than that; whilst he played and rambled with his brother the framework of their life was crumbling about them. Belwick was already throwing a shadow upon Wanley. And now behold! he stood at the old gate, rested his hands where they had been wont to rest, turned his eyes in the familiar direction; no longer a mere shadow, there was Belwick itself.
His heart was hot with outraged affection, with injured pride. On the scarcely closed grave of that passion which had flamed through so brief a life sprang up the flower of natural tenderness, infinitely sweet and precious. For the first time he was fully conscious of what it meant to quit Wanley for ever; the past revealed itself to him, lovelier and more loved because parted from him by so hopeless a gulf. Hubert was not old enough to rate experience at its true value, to acquiesce in the law which wills that the day must perish before we can enjoy to the full its light and odour. He could only feel his loss, and rebel against the fate which had ordained it.
He had climbed but half-way up the hill; from this point onwards there was no view till the summit was reached, for the lane proceeded between high banks and hedges. To gain the very highest point he had presently to quit the road by a stile and skirt the edge of a small rising meadow, at the top of which was an old cow-house with a few trees growing about it. Thence one had the finest prospect in the county.
He reached the stone shed, looked back for a moment over Wanley, then walked round to the other side. As he turned the corner of the building his eye was startled by the unexpected gleam of a white dress. A girl stood there; she was viewing the landscape through a field-glass, and thus remained unaware of his approach on the grass. He stayed his step and observed her with eyes of recognition. Her attitude, both hands raised to hold the glass, displayed to perfection the virginal outline of her white-robed form. She wore a straw hat of the plain masculine fashion; her brown hair was plaited in a great circle behind her head, not one tendril loosed from the mass; a white collar closely circled her neck; her waist was bound with a red girdle. All was grace and purity; the very folds towards the bottom of her dress hung in sculpturesque smoothness; the form of her half-seen foot bowed the herbage with lightest pressure. From the boughs above there fell upon her a dancing network of shadow.
Hubert only half smiled; he stood with his hands joined behind him, his eyes fixed upon her face, waiting for her to turn But several moments passed and she was still intent on the landscape. He spoke.
‘Will you let me look?’
Her hands fell, all but dropping the glass; still, she did not start with unbecoming shrug as most people do, the instinctive movement of guarding against a stroke; the falling of her arms was the only abrupt motion, her head turning in the direction of the speaker with a grace as spontaneous as that we see in a fawn that glances back before flight.
‘Oh, Mr. Eldon! How silently you have come!’
The wild rose of her cheeks made rivalry for an instant with the richer garden blooms, and the subsiding warmth left a pearly translucency as of a lily petal against the light.
She held her hand to him, delicately gloved, warm; the whole of it was hidden within Hubert’s clasp.
‘What were you looking at so attentively?’ he asked.
‘At Agworth station,’ replied Adela, turning her eyes again in that quarter. ‘My brother’s train ought to be in by now, I think. He comes home every Saturday.’
‘Does he?’
Hubert spoke without thought, his look resting upon the maiden’s red girdle.
‘I am glad that you are well again,’ Adela said with natural kindness. ‘You have had a long illness.’
‘Yes; it has been a tiresome affair. Is Mrs. Waltham well?’
‘Quite, thank you.’
‘And your brother?’
‘Alfred never had anything the matter with him in his life, I believe,’ she answered, with a laugh.
‘Fortunate fellow! Will you lend me the glass?’
She held it to him, and at the same moment her straying eye caught a glimpse of white smoke, far off.
‘There comes the train!’ she exclaimed. ‘You will be able to see it between these two hills.’
Hubert looked and returned the glass to her, but she did not make use of it.
‘Does he walk over from Agworth?’ was Hubert’s next question.
‘Yes. It does him good after a week of Belwick.’
‘There will soon be little difference between Belwick and Wanley,’ rejoined Hubert, drily.
Adela glanced at him; there was sympathy and sorrow in the look.
‘I knew it would grieve you,’ she said.
‘And what is your own feeling? Do you rejoice in the change as a sign of progress?’
‘Indeed, no. I am very, very sorry to have our beautiful valley so spoilt. It is only—’
Hubert eyed her with sudden sharpness of scrutiny; the look seemed to check her words.
‘Only what?’ he asked. ‘You find compensations?’
‘My brother won’t hear of such regrets,’ she continued with a little embarrassment ‘He insists on the good that will be done by the change.’
‘From such a proprietor as I should have been to a man of Mr. Mutimer’s activity. To be sure, that is one point of view.’
Adela blushed.
‘That is not my meaning, Mr. Eldon, as you know. I was speaking of the change without regard to who brings it about. And I was not giving my own opinion; Alfred’s is always on the side of the working people; he seems to forget everybody else in his zeal for their interests. And then, the works are going to be quite a new kind of undertaking. You have heard of Mr. Mutimer’s plans of course?’
‘I have an idea of them.’
‘You think them mistaken?’
‘No. I would rather say they don’t interest me. That seems to disappoint you, Miss Waltham. Probably you are interested in them?’
At the sound of her own name thus formally interjected, Adela just raised her eyes from their reflective gaze on the near landscape; then she became yet more thoughtful.
‘Yes, I think I am,’ she replied, with deliberation. ‘The principle seems a just one. Devotion to a really unselfish cause is rare, I am afraid.’
‘You have met Mr. Mutimer?
‘Once. My brother made his acquaintance, and he called on us.’
‘Did he explain his scheme to you in detail?’
‘Not himself. Alfred has told me all about it. He, of course, is delighted with it; he has joined what he calls the Union.’
‘Are you going to join?’ Hubert asked, smiling.
‘I? I doubt whether they would have me.’
She laughed silverly, her throat tremulous, like that of a bird that sings. How significant the laugh was! the music of how pure a freshet of life!
‘All the members, I presume,’ said Hubert, ‘are to be speedily enriched from the Wanley Mines and Iron Works?’
It was jokingly uttered, but Adela replied with some earnestness, as if to remove a false impression.
‘Oh, that is quite a mistake. Mr. Eldon. There is no question of anyone being enriched, least of all Mr. Mutimer himself. The workmen will receive just payment, not mere starvation wages, but whatever profit there is will be devoted to the propaganda.’
‘Propaganda! Starvation wages! Ah, I see you have gone deeply into these matters. How strangely that word sounds on your lips—propaganda!’
Adela reddened.
‘Why strangely, Mr. Eldon?’
‘One associates it with such very different speakers; it has such a terrible canting sound. I hope you will not get into the habit of using it—for your own sake.’
‘I am not likely to use it much. I suppose I have heard it so often from Alfred lately. Please don’t think,’ she added rather hastily, ‘that I have become a Socialist. Indeed, I dislike the name; I find it implies so many things that I could never approve of.’
Her way of speaking the last sentence would have amused a dispassionate critic, it was so distinctively the tone of Puritan maidenhood. From lips like Adela’s it is delicious to hear such moral babbling. Oh, the gravity of conviction in a white-souled English girl of eighteen! Do you not hear her say those words: ‘things that I could never approve of’?
As her companion did not immediately reply, she again raised the field-glass to her eyes and swept the prospect.
‘Can you see your brother on the road?’ Hubert inquired.
‘No, not yet. There is a trap driving this way. Why, Alfred sitting in it! Oh, it is Mr. Mutimer’s trap I see. He must have met Alfred at the station and have given him a ride.’
‘Evidently they are great friends,’ commented Eldon.
Adela did not reply. After gazing a little longer, she said—
‘He will be home before I can get there.’
She screwed up the glasses and turned as if to take leave. But Hubert prepared to walk by her side, and together they reached the lane.
‘Now I am going to run down the hill,’ Adela said, laughing. ‘I can’t ask you to join in such childishness, and I suppose you are not going this way, either?’
‘No, I am walking back to the Manor,’ the other replied soberly. ‘We had better say good-bye. On Monday we shall leave Wanley, my mother and I.’
‘On Monday?’
The girl became graver.
‘But only to go to Agworth?’ she added.
‘I shall not remain at Agworth. I am going to London.’
‘To—to study?’
‘Something or other, I don’t quite know what. Good-bye!’
‘Won’t you come to say good-bye to us—to mother?’
‘Shall you be at home to-morrow afternoon, about four o’clock say?’
‘Oh, yes; the very time.’
‘Then I will come to say good-bye.’
‘In that case we needn’t say it now, need we? It is only good afternoon.’
She began to walk down the lane.
‘I thought you were going to run,’ cried Hubert.
She looked back, and her silver laugh made chorus with the joyous refrain of a yellow-hammer, piping behind the hedge. Till the turn of the road she continued walking, then Hubert had a glimpse of white folds waving in the act of flight, and she was beyond his vision.
Adela reached the house door at the very moment that Mutimer’s trap drove up. She had run nearly all the way down the hill, and her soberer pace during the last ten minutes had not quite reduced the flush in her cheeks. Mutimer raised his hat with muchaplombbefore he had pulled up his horse, and his look stayed on her whilst Alfred Waltham was descending and taking leave.
‘I was lucky enough to overtake your brother in Agworth,’ he said.
‘Ah, you have deprived him of what he calls his constitutional,’ laughed Adela.
‘Have I? Well, it isn’t often I’m here over Saturday, so he can generally feel safe.’
The hat was again aired, and Richard drove away to the Wheatsheaf Inn, where he kept his horse at present.
Brother and sister went together into the parlour, where Mrs. Waltham immediately joined them, having descended from an upper room.
‘So Mr. Mutimer drove you home!’ she exclaimed, with the interest which provincial ladies, lacking scope for their energies, will display in very small incidents.
‘Yes. By the way, I’ve asked him to come and have dinner with us to-morrow. He hadn’t any special reason for going to town, and was uncertain whether to do so or not, so I thought I might as well have him here.’
Mr. Alfred always spoke in a somewhat emphatic first person singular when domestic arrangements were under, discussion; occasionally the habit led to a passing unpleasantness of tone between himself and Mrs. Waltham. In the present instance, however, nothing of the kind was to be feared; his mother smiled very graciously.
‘I’m glad you thought of it,’ she said. ‘It would have been very lonely for him in his lodgings.’
Neither of the two happened to be regarding Adela, or they would have seen a look of dismay flit across her countenance and pass into one of annoyance. When the talk had gone on for a few minutes Adela interposed a question.
‘Will Mr. Mutimer stay for tea also, do you think, Alfred?’
‘Oh, of course; why shouldn’t he?’
It is the country habit; Adela might have known what answer she would receive. She got out of the difficulty by means of a little disingenuousness.
‘He won’t want us to talk about Socialism all the time, will he?’
‘Of course not, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Waltham. ‘Why, it will be Sunday.’ 4
Alfred shouted in mirthful scorn.
‘Well, that’s one of the finest things I’ve heard for a long time, mother! It’ll be Sunday, andthereforewe are not to talk about improving the lot of the human race. Ye gods!’
Mrs. Waltham was puzzled for an instant, but the Puritan assurance did not fail her.
‘Yes, but that is only improvement of their bodies, Alfred—food and clothing. The six days are for that you know.’
‘Mother, mother, you will kill me! You are so uncommonly funny! I wonder your friends haven’t long ago found some way of doing without bodies altogether. Now, I pray you, do not talk nonsense. Surelythatis forbidden on the Sabbath, if only the Jewish one.’
‘Mother is quite right, Alfred,’ remarked Adela, with quiet affimativeness, as soon as her voice could be heard. ‘Your Socialism is earthly; we have to think of other things besides bodily comforts.’
‘Who said we hadn’t?’ cried her brother. ‘But I take leave to inform you that you won’t get much spiritual excellence out of a man who lives a harder life than the nigger-slaves. If you women could only put aside your theories and look a little at obstinate facts! You’re all of a piece. Which of you was it that talked the other day about getting the vicar to pray for rain? Ho, ho, ho! Just the same kind of thing.’
Alfred’s combativeness had grown markedly since his making acquaintance with Mutimer. He had never excelled in the suaver virtues, and now the whole of the time he spent at home was devoted to vociferous railing at capitalists, priests, and women, his mother and sister serving for illustrations of the vices prevalent in the last-mentioned class. In talking he always paced the room, hands in pockets, and at times fairly stammered in his endeavour to hit upon sufficiently trenchant epithets or comparisons. When reasoning failed with his auditors, he had recourse to volleys of contemptuous laughter. At times he lost his temper, muttered words such as ‘fools!’—‘idiots!’ and flung out into the open air. It looked as if the present evening was to be a stormy one. Adela noted the presage and allowed herself a protestin limine.
‘Alfred, I do hope you won’t go on in this way whilst Letty is here. You mayn’t think it, but you pain her very much.’
‘Pain her! It’s her education. She’s had none yet, no more than you have. It’s time you both began to learn.’
It being close upon the hour for tea, the young lady of whom there was question was heard to ring the door-bell. We have already had a passing glimpse of her, but since then she has been honoured by becoming Alfred’s affianced. Letty Tew fulfilled all the conditions desirable in one called to so trying a destiny. She was a pretty, supple, sweet-mannered girl, and, as is the case with such girls, found it possible to worship a man whom in consistency she must have deemed the most condemnable of heretics. She and Adela were close friends; Adela indeed, had no other friend in the nearer sense. The two were made of very different fibre, but that had not as yet distinctly shown.
Adela’s reproof was not wholly without effect; her brother got through the evening without proceeding to his extremest truculence, still the conversation was entirely of his leading, consequently not a little argumentative. He had brought home, as he always did on Saturday, a batch of ultra periodicals, among them the ‘Fiery Cross,’ and his own eloquence was supplemented by the reading of excerpts from these lively columns. It was a combat of three to one, but the majority did little beyond throwing up hands at anything particularly outrageous. Adela said much less than usual. ‘I tell you what it is, you three!’ Alfred cried, at a certain climax of enthusiasm, addressing the ladies with characteristic courtesy, ‘we’ll found a branch of the Union in Wanley; I mean, in our particular circle of thickheads. Then, as soon as Mutimer’s settlement gets going, we can coalesce. Now you two girls give next week to going round and soliciting subscriptions for the “Fiery Cross.” People have had time to get over the first scare, and you know they can’t refuse such as you. Quarterly, one-and-eightpence, including postage.’
‘But, my dear Alfred,’ cried Adela, ‘remember that Letty and I arenotSocialists!’
‘Letty is, because I expect it of her, and you can’t refuse to keep her in countenance.’
The girls laughed merrily at this anticipated lordship; but Letty said presently—
‘I believe father will take the paper if I ask him. One is better than nothing, isn’t it, Alfred?’
‘Good. We book Stephen Tew, Esquire.’
‘But surely you mustn’t call him Esquire?’ suggested Adela.
‘Oh, he is yet unregenerate; let him keep his baubles.’
‘How are the regenerate designated?’
‘Comrade, we prefer.’
‘Also applied to women?’
‘Well, I suppose not. As the word hasn’t a feminine, call yourselves plain Letty Tew and Adela Waltham, without meaningless prefix.’
‘What nonsense you are talking, Alfred!’ remarked his mother. ‘As if everybody in Wanley could address young ladies by their Christian names!’
In this way did Alfred begin the ‘propaganda’ at home. Already the village was much occupied with the vague new doctrines represented by the name of Richard Mutimer; the parlour of the Wheatsheaf was loud of evenings with extraordinary debate, and gossips of a higher station had at length found a topic which promised to be inexhaustible. Of course the vicar was eagerly sounded as to his views. Mr. Wyvern preserved an attitude of scrupulous neutrality, contenting himself with correction of palpable absurdities in the stories going about. ‘But surely you are not a Socialist, Mr. Wyvern?’ cried Mrs. Mewling, after doing her best to pump the reverend gentleman, and discovering nothing. ‘I am a Christian, madam,’ was the reply, ‘and have nothing to do with economic doctrines.’ Mrs. Mewling spread the phrase ‘economic doctrines,’ shaking her head upon the adjective, which was interpreted by her hearers as condemnatory in significance. The half-dozen shopkeepers were disposed to secret jubilation; it was probable that, in consequence of the doings in the valley, trade would look up. Mutimer himself was a centre of interest such as Wanley had never known. When he walked down the street the news that he was visible seemed to spread like wildfire; every house had its gazers. Excepting the case of the Walthams, he had not as yet sought to make personal acquaintances, appearing rather to avoid opportunities. On the whole it seemed likely that he would be popular. The little group of mothers with marriageable daughters waited eagerly for the day when, by establishing himself at the Manor, he would throw off the present semi-incognito, and become the recognised head of Wanley society. He would discover the necessity of having a lady to share his honours and preside at his table. Persistent inquiry seemed to have settled the fact that he was not married already. To be sure, there were awesome rumours that Socialists repudiated laws divine and human in matrimonial affairs, but the more sanguine were inclined to regard this as calumny, their charity finding a support in their personal ambitions. The interest formerly attaching to the Eldons had altogether vanished. Mrs. Eldon and her son were now mere obstacles to be got rid of as quickly as possible. It was the general opinion that Hubert Eldon’s illness was purposely protracted, to suit his mother’s convenience. Until Mutimer’s arrival there had been much talk about Hubert; whether owing to Dr. Mann’s indiscretion or through the servants at the Manor, it had become known that the young man was suffering from a bullet-wound, and the story circulated by Mrs. Mewling led gossips to suppose that he had been murderously assailed in that land of notorious profligacy known to Wanley as ‘abroad.’ That, however, was now become an old story. Wanley was anxious for the Eldons to go their way, and leave the stage clear.
Everyone of course was aware that Mutimer spent his Sundays in London (a circumstance, it was admitted, not altogether reassuring to the ladies with marriageable daughters), and his unwonted appearance in the village on the evening of the present Saturday excited universal comment. Would he appear at church next morning? There was a general directing of eyes to the Manor pew. This pew had not been occupied since the fateful Sunday when, at the conclusion of the morning service, old Mr. Mutimer was discovered to have breathed his last. It was a notable object in the dim little church, having a wooden canopy supported on four slim oak pillars with vermicular moulding. From pillar to pillar hung dark curtains, so that when these were drawn the interior of the pew was entirely protected from observation. Even on the brightest days its occupants were veiled in gloom. To-day the curtains remained drawn as usual, and Richard Mutimer disappointed the congregation. Wanley had obtained assurance on one point—Socialism involved Atheism.
Then it came to pass that someone saw Mutimer approach the Walthams’ house just before dinner time; saw him, moreover, ring and enter. A couple of hours, and the ominous event was everywhere being discussed. Well, well, it was not difficult to see whatthatmeant. Trust Mrs. Waltham for shrewd generalship. Adela Waltham had been formerly talked of in connection with young Eldon; but Eldon was now out of the question, and behold his successor, in a double sense! Mrs. Mewling surrendered her Sunday afternoon nap and flew from house to house—of course in time for the dessert wine at each. Her cry washaro! Really, this was sharp practice on Mrs. Waltham’s part; it was stealing a march before the commencement of the game. Did there not exist a tacit understanding that movements were postponed until Mutimer’s occupation of the Manor? Adela was a very nice young girl, to be sure, a very nice girl indeed, but one must confess that she had her eyes open. Would it not be well for united Wanley to let her know its opinion of such doings?
In the meantime Richard was enjoying himself, with as little thought of the Wanley gossips as of—shall we say, the old curtained pew in Wanley Church? He was perfectly aware that the Walthams did not represent the highest gentility, that there was a considerable interval, for example, between Mrs. Waltham and Mrs. Westlake; but the fact remained that he had never yet been on intimate terms with a family so refined. Radical revolutionist though he was, he had none of the grossness or obstinacy which would have denied to thebourgeoishousehold any advantage over those of his own class. At dinner he found himself behaving circumspectly. He knew already that the cultivated taste objects to the use of a table-knife save for purposes of cutting; on the whole he saw grounds for the objection. He knew, moreover, that manducation and the absorption of fluids must be performed without audible gusto; the knowledge cost him some self-criticism. But there were numerous minor points of convention on which he was not so clear; it had never occurred to him, for instance, that civilisation demands the breaking of bread, that, in the absence of silver, a fork must suffice for the dissection of fish, that a napkin is a graceful auxiliary in the process of a meal and not rather an embarrassing superfluity of furtive application. Like a wise man, he did not talk much during dinner, devoting his mind to observation. Of one thing he speedily became aware, namely, that Mr. Alfred Waltham was so very much in his own house that it was not wholly safe to regard his demeanour as exemplary. Another point well certified was that if any person in the world could be pointed to as an unassailable pattern of comely behaviour that person was Mr. Alfred Waltham’s sister. Richard observed Adela as closely as good manners would allow.
Talking little as yet—the young man at the head of the table gave others every facility for silence—Richard could occupy his thought in many directions. Among other things, he instituted a comparison between the young lady who sat opposite to him and someone—not a young lady, it is true, but of the same sex and about the same age. He tried to imagine Emma Vine seated at this table; the effort resulted in a disagreeable warmth in the lobes of his ears. Yes, but—he attacked himself—not Emma Vine dressed as he was accustomed to see her; suppose her possessed of all Adela Waltham’s exterior advantages. As his imagination was working on the hint, Adela herself addressed a question to him. He looked up, he let her voice repeat itself in inward echo. His ears were still more disagreeably warm.
It was a lovely day—warm enough to dine with the windows open. The faintest air seemed to waft sunlight from corner to corner of the room; numberless birds sang on the near boughs and hedges; the flowers on the table were like a careless gift of gold-hearted prodigal summer. Richard transferred himself in spirit to a certain square on the borders of Hoxton and Islington, within scent of the Regent’s Canal. The house there was now inhabited by Emma and her sisters; they also would be at dinner. Suppose he had the choice: there or here? Adela addressed to him another question. The square vanished into space.
How often he had spoken scornfully of that word ‘lady’! Were not all of the sex women? What need for that hateful distinction? Richard tried another experiment with his imagination. ‘I had dinner with some people called Waltham last Sunday. The old woman I didn’t much care about; but there was a young woman—’ Well, why not? On the other hand, suppose Emma Vine called at his lodgings. ‘A young woman called this morning, sir—’ Well, why not?
Dessert was on the table. He saw Adela’s fingers take an orange, her other hand holding a little fruit-knife. Now, who could have imagined that the simple paring of an orange could be achieved at once with such consummate grace and so naturally? In Richard’s country they first bite off a fraction of the skin, then dig away with what of finger-nail may be available. He knew someone who would assuredly proceed in that way.
Metamorphosis! Richard Mutimer speculates on asthetic problems.
‘You, gentlemen, I dare say will be wicked enough to smoke,’ remarked Mrs. Waltham, as she rose from the table.
‘I tell you what we shall be wicked enough to do, mother,’ exclaimed Alfred. ‘We shall have two cups of coffee brought out into the garden, and spare your furniture!’
‘Very well, my son. Yourtwocups evidently mean that Adela and I are not invited to the garden.’
‘Nothing of the kind. But I know you always go to sleep, and Adela doesn’t like tobacco smoke.’
‘I go to sleep, Alfred! You know very well that I have a very different occupation for my Sunday afternoons.’
‘I really don’t care anything about smoking,’ observed Mutimer, with a glance at Adela.
‘Oh, you certainly shall not deprive yourself on my account, Mr. Mutimer,’ said the girl, good-naturedly. ‘I hope soon to come out into the garden, and I am not at all sure that my objection to tobacco is serious.’
Ah, if Mrs. Mewling could have heard that speech! Mrs. Mewling’s age was something less than fifty; probably she had had time to forget how a young girl such as Adela speaks in pure frankness and never looks back to muse over a double meaning.
It was nearly three o’clock. Adela compared her watch with the sitting-room clock, and, the gentlemen having retired, moved about the room with a look of uneasiness. Her mother stood at the window, seemingly regarding the sky, in reality occupying her thoughts with things much nearer. She turned and found Adela looking at her.
‘I want just to run over and speak to Letty,’ Adela said. ‘I shall very soon be back.’
‘Very well, dear,’ replied her mother, scanning her face absently. ‘But don’t let them keep you.’
Adela quickly fetched her hat and left the house. It was her habit to walk at a good pace, always with the same airy movement, as though her feet only in appearance pressed the ground. On the way she again consulted her watch, and it caused her to flit still faster. Arrived at the abode of the Tews, she fortunately found Letty in the garden, sitting with two younger sisters, one a child of five years. Miss Tew was reading aloud to them, her book being ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ At the sight of Adela the youngest of the three slipped down from her seat and ran to meet her with laughter and shaking of curls.
‘Carry me round! carry me round!’ cried the little one.
For it was Adela’s habit to snatch up the flaxen little maiden, seat her upon her shoulder, and trot merrily round a circular path in the garden. But the sister next in age, whose thirteenth year had developed deep convictions, interposed sharply—
‘Eva, don’t be naughty! Isn’t it Sunday?’
The little one, saved on the very brink of iniquity, turned away in confusion and stood with a finger in her mouth.
‘I’ll come and carry you round to-morrow, Eva,’ said the visitor, stooping to kiss the reluctant face. Then, turning to the admonitress, ‘Jessie, will you read a little? I want just to speak to Letty.’
Miss Jessie took the volume, made her countenance yet sterner, and, having drawn Eva to her side, began to read in measured tones, reproducing as well as she could the enunciation of the pulpit. Adela beckoned to her friend, and the two walked apart.
‘I’m in such a fix,’ she began, speaking hurriedly, ‘and there isn’t a minute to lose. Mr. Mutimer has been having dinner with us; Alfred invited him. And I expect Mr. Eldon to come about four o’clock. I met him yesterday on the Hill; he came up just as I was looking out for Alfred with the glass, and I asked him if he wouldn’t come and say good-bye to mother this afternoon. Of course I’d no idea that Mr. Mutimer would come to dinner; he always goes away for Sunday. Isn’t it dreadfully awkward?’
‘You think he wouldn’t like to meet Mr. Mutimer?’ asked Letty, savouring the gravity of the situation.
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t. He spoke about him yesterday. Of course he didn’t say anything against Mr. Mutimer, but I could tell from his way of speaking. And then it’s quite natural, isn’t it? I’m really afraid. He’ll think it so unkind of me. I told him we should be alone, and I shan’t be able to explain. Isn’t it tiresome?’
‘It is, really! But of course Mr. Eldon will understand. To think that it should happen just this day!’
An idea flashed across Miss Tew’s mind.
‘Couldn’t you be at the door when he comes, and just—just say, you know, that you’re sorry, that you knew nothing about Mr. Mutimer coming?’
‘I’ve thought of something else,’ returned Adela, lowering her voice, as if to impart a project of doubtful propriety. ‘Suppose I walk towards the Manor and—and meet him on the way, before he gets very far? Then I could save him the annoyance, couldn’t I, dear?’
Letty widened her eyes. The idea was splendid, but—
‘You don’t think, dear, that it might be a little—that you might find it—?’
Adela reddened.
‘It is only a piece of kindness. Mr. Eldon will understand, I’m sure. He asked me so particularly if we should be alone. I really feel it a duty. Don’t you think I may go? I must decide at once.’
Letty hesitated.
‘If you really advise me not to—’ pursued Adela. ‘But I’m sure I shall be glad when it’s done.’
‘Then go, dear. Yes, I would go if I were you.’
Adela now faltered.
‘You really would go, in my place?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure I should. You see, it isn’t as if it was Mr. Mutimer you were going to meet.’
‘Oh, no, no That would be impossible.’
‘He will be very grateful,’ murmured Letty, without looking up.
‘If I go, it must be at once.’
‘Your mother doesn’t know he was coming?’
‘No. I don’t know why I haven’t told her, really. I suppose we were talking so much of other things last night. And then I only got home just as Alfred did, and he said at once that he had invited Mr. Mutimer. Yes, I will go. Perhaps I’ll come and see you again after church.’
Letty went back to ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ Her sister Jessie enjoyed the sound of her own voice, and did not offer to surrender the book, so she sat by little Eva’s side and resumed her Sunday face.
Adela took the road for the Manor, resisting the impulse to cast glances on either side as she passed the houses at the end of the village. She felt it to be more than likely that eyes were observing her, as it was an unusual time for her to be abroad, and the direction of her walk pointed unmistakably to one destination. But she made no account of secrecy; her errand was perfectly simple and with an object that no one could censure. If people tattled, they alone were to blame. For the first time she experienced a little resentment of the public criticism which was so rife in Wanley, and the experience was useful—one of those inappreciable aids to independence which act by cumulative stress on a character capable of development and softly mould its outlines.
She passed the church, then the vicarage, and entered the hedgeway which by a long curve led to the Manor. She was slackening her pace, not wishing to approach too near to the house, when she at length saw Hubert Eldon walking towards her. He advanced with a look which was not exactly indifferent yet showed no surprise; the smile only came to his face when he was near enough to speak.
‘I have come to meet you,’ Adela began, with frankness which cost her a little agitation of breath. ‘I am so very sorry to have misled you yesterday. As soon as I reached home, I found that my brother had invited Mr. Mutimer for to-day. I thought it would be best if I came and told you that—that we were not quite alone, as I said we should be.’