Alice dropped her eyes and shook her pretty head slowly.
‘I can’t give any promise of that kind,’ she replied under her breath.
‘You hate me? I’m a disagreeable beast to you? I’m a low—’
‘Oh dear, don’t say such things, Mr. Keene! The idea! I don’t dislike you a bit; but of course that’s a different thing—’
He held out his hand sadly, dashing the other over his eyes.
‘Good-bye, I don’t think I can come again. I’ve abused confidence. When your brother hears of it—. But no matter, I’m only a—a sort of crossing-sweeper in your eyes.’
Alice’s laugh rang merrily.
‘What things you do call yourself! Now, don’t go off like that, Mr. Keene. To begin with, my brother won’t hear anything about it—’
‘You mean that? You are so noble, so forgiving? Pooh, as if I didn’t know you were! Upon my soul, I’d run from here to South Kensington, like the ragamuffins after the cabs with luggage, only just to get a smile from you. Oh, Miss Mutimer—oh!’
‘Mr. Keene, I can’t say yes, and I don’t like to be so unkind to you as to say no. You’ll let that do for the present, won’t you?’
‘Bless your bright eyes, of course I will! If I don’t love you for your own sake, I’m the wretchedest turnip-snatcher in London. Good-bye, Princess!’
‘Who taught you to call me that?’
‘Taught me? It was only a word that came naturally to my lips.’
Curiously, this was quite true. It impressed Alice Maud, and she thought of Mr. Keene for at least five minutes continuously after his departure.
She was extravagantly gay as they drove in a four-wheeled cab to the station next morning. Mr. Keene made no advances. He sat respectfully on the seat opposite her, with a travelling bag on his knees, and sighed occasionally. When she had secured her seat in the railway carriage he brought her sandwiches, buns, and sweetmeats enough for a voyage to New York. Alice waved her hand to him as the train moved away.
She reached Agworth at one o’clock; Richard had been pacing the platform impatiently for twenty minutes. Porters were eager to do his bidding, and his instructions to them were suavely imperative.
‘They know me,’ he remarked to Alice, with his air of satisfaction. ‘I suppose you’re half frozen? I’ve got a foot-warmer in the trap.’
The carriage promised to Adela was a luxury Richard had not ventured to allow himself. Alice mounted to a seat by his side, and he drove off.
‘Why on earth did you come second-class?’ he asked, after examining her attire with approval.
‘Ought it to have been first? It really seemed such a lot of money, Dick, when I came to look at the fares.’
‘Yes, it ought to have been first. In London things don’t matter, but here I’m known, you see. Did mother go to the station with you?’
‘No, Mr. Keene did.’
‘Keene, eh?’ He bent his brows a moment.
‘I hope he behaves himself?’
‘I’m sure he’s very gentlemanly.’
‘Yes, you ought to have come first-class. A princess riding second’ll never do. You look well, old girl? Glad to come, eh?’
‘Well, guess! And is this your own horse and trap, Dick?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Who was that man? He touched his hat to you.’
Mutimer glanced back carelessly.
‘I’m sure I don’t know. Most people touch their hats to me about here.’
It was an ideal winter day. A feathering of snow had fallen at dawn, and now the clear, cold sun made it sparkle far and wide. The horse’s tread rang on the frozen highway. A breeze from the north-west chased the blood to healthsome leaping, and caught the breath like an unexpected kiss. The colour was high on Alice’s fair cheeks; she laughed with delight.
‘Oh, Dick, what a thing it is to be rich! And you do look such a gentleman; it’s those gloves, I think.’
‘Now we’re going into the village,’ Mutimer said presently. ‘Don’t look about you too much, and don’t seem to be asking questions. Everybody ‘ll be at the windows.’
Between the end of the village street and the gates of the Manor, Mutimer gave his sister hasty directions as to her behaviour before the servants.
‘Put on just a bit of the princess,’ he said. ‘Not too much, you know, but just enough to show that it isn’t the first time in your life that you’ve been waited on. Don’t always give a ‘thank you;’ one every now and then’ll do. I wouldn’t smile too much or look pleased, whatever you see. Keep that all till we’re alone together. We shall have lunch at once; I’ll do most of the talking whilst the servants are about; you just answer quietly.’
These instructions were interesting, but not altogether indispensable; Alice Maud had by this time a very pretty notion of how to conduct herself in the presence of menials. The trying moment was on entering the house; it was very hard indeed not to utter her astonishment and delight at the dimensions of the hall and the handsome staircase. This point safely passed, she resigned herself to splendour, and was conducted to her room in a sort of romantic vision. The Manor satisfied her idea of the ancestral mansion so frequently described or alluded to in the fiction of her earlier years. If her mind had just now reverted to Mr. Keene, which of course it did not, she would have smiled very royally indeed.
When she entered the drawing-room, clad in that best gown which her brother had needlessly requested her to bring, and saw that Richard was standing on the hearth-rug quite alone, she could no longer contain herself, but bounded towards him like a young fawn, and threw her arms on his neck.
‘Oh, Dick,’ she whispered, ‘what a thing it is to be rich! How ever did we live so long in the old way! If I had to go back to it now I should die of misery.’
‘Let’s have a look at you,’ he returned, holding her at arm’s length. ‘Yes, I think that’ll about do. Now mind you don’t let them see that you’re excited about it. Sit down here and pretend to be a bit tired. They may come and say lunch is ready any moment.’
‘Dick, I never felt so good in my life! I should like to go about the streets and give sovereigns to everybody I met.’
Richard laughed loudly.
‘Well, well, there’s better ways than that. I’ve been giving a good many sovereigns for a long time now. I’m only sorry you weren’t here when we opened the Hall.’
‘But you haven’t told me why you sent for me now.’
‘All right, we’ve got to have a long talk presently. It isn’t all as jolly as you think, but I can’t help that.’
‘Why, what can be wrong, Dick?’
‘Never mind; it’ll all come out in time.’
Alice came back upon certain reflections which had occupied her earlier in the morning; they kept her busy through luncheon. Whilst she ate, Richard observed her closely; on the whole he could not perceive a great difference between her manners and Adela’s. Difference there was, but in details to which Mutimer was not very sensitive. He kept up talk about the works for the most part, and described certain difficulties concerning rights of way which had of late arisen in the vicinity of the industrial settlement.
‘I think you shall come and sit with me in the library,’ he said as they rose from table. And he gave orders that coffee should be served to them in that room.
The library did not as yet quite justify its name. There was only one bookcase, and not more than fifty volumes stood on its shelves. But a large writing-table was well covered with papers. There were no pictures on the walls, a lack which was noticeable throughout the house. The effect was a certain severity; there was no air of home in the spacious chambers; the walls seemed to frown upon their master, the hearths were cold to him as to an intruding alien. Perhaps Alice felt something of this; on entering the library she shivered a little, and went to warm her hands at the fire.
‘Sit in this deep chair,’ said her brother. ‘I’ll have a cigarette. How’s mother?’
‘Well, she hasn’t been quite herself,’ Alice replied, gazing into the fire. ‘She can’t get to feel at home, that’s the truth of it. She goes. very often to the old house.’
‘Goes very often to the old house, does she?’
He repeated the words mechanically, watching smoke that issued from his lips. ‘Suppose she’ll get all right in time.’
When the coffee arrived a decanter of cognac accompanied it. Richard had got into the habit of using the latter rather freely of late. He needed a stimulant in view of the conversation that was before him. The conversation was difficult to begin. For a quarter of an hour he strayed over subjects, each of which, he thought, might bring him to the point. A question from Alice eventually gave him the requisite impulse.
‘What’s the bad news you’ve got to tell me, Dick?’ she asked shyly.
‘Bad news? Why, yes, I suppose it is bad, and it’s no use pretending anything else. I’ve brought you down here just to tell it you. Somebody must know first, and it had better be somebody who’ll listen patiently, and perhaps help me to get over it. I don’t know quite how you’ll take it, Alice. For anything I can tell you may get up and be off, and have nothing more to do with me.’
‘Why, what ever can it be, Dick? Don’t talk nonsense. You’re not afraid ofme, I should think.’
‘Yes, I am a bit afraid of you, old girl. It isn’t a nice thing to tell you, and there’s the long and short of it. I’m hanged if I know how to begin.’
He laughed in an irresolute way. Trying to light a new cigarette from the remnants of the one he had smoked, his hands shook. Then he had recourse again to cognac.
Alice was drumming with her foot on the floor. She sat forward, her arms crossed upon her lap. Her eyes were still on the fire.
‘Is it anything about Emma, Dick?’ she asked, after a disconcerting silence.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Hadn’t you better tell me at once? It isn’t at all nice to feel like this.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you. I can’t marry Emma; I’m going to marry someone else.’
Alice was prepared, but the plain words caused her a moment’s consternation.
‘Oh, what ever will they all say, Dick?’ she exclaimed in a low voice.
‘That’s bad enough, to be sure, but I think more about Emma herself. I feel ashamed of myself, and that’s the plain truth. Of course I shall always give her and her sisters all the money they want to live upon, but that isn’t altogether a way out. If only I could have hinted something to her before now. I’ve let it go on so long. I’m going to be married in a fortnight.’
He could not look Alice in the face, nor she him. His shame made him angry; he flung the half-smoked cigarette violently into the fire-place, and began to walk about the room. Alice was speaking, but he did not heed her, and continued with impatient loudness.
‘Who the devil could imagine what was going to happen? Look here, Alice; if it hadn’t been for mother, I shouldn’t have engaged myself to Emma. I shouldn’t have cared much in the old kind of life; she’d have suited me very well. You can say all the good about her you like, I know it’ll be true. It’s a cursed shame to treat her in this way, I don’t need telling that. But it wouldn’t do as things are; why, you can see for yourself—would it now? And that’s only half the question: I’m going to marry somebody I do really care for. What’s the good of keeping my word to Emma, only to be miserable myself and make her the same? It’s the hardest thing ever happened to a man. Of course I shall be blackguarded right and left. Do I deserve it now? Can I help it?’
It was not quite consistent with the tone in which he had begun, but it had the force of a genuine utterance. To this Richard had worked himself in fretting over his position; he was the real sufferer, though decency compelled him to pretend it was not so. He had come to think of Emma almost angrily; she was a clog on him, and all the more irritating because he knew that his brute strength, if only he might exert it, could sweep her into nothingness at a blow. The quietness with which Alice accepted his revelation encouraged him in self-defence. He talked on for several minutes, walking about and swaying his arms, as if in this way he could literally shake himself free of moral obligations. Then, finding his throat dry, he had recourse to cognac, and Alice could at length speak.
‘You haven’t told me, Dick, who it is you’re going to marry.’
‘A lady called Miss Waltham—Adela Waltham. She lives here in Wanley.’
‘Does she know about Emma?’
The question was simply put, but it seemed to affect Richard very disagreeably.
‘No, of course she doesn’t. What would be the use?’
He threw himself into a chair, crossed his feet, and kept silence.
‘I’m very sorry for Emma,’ murmured his sister.
Richard said nothing.
‘How shall you tell her, Dick?’
‘I can’t tell her!’ he replied, throwing out an arm. ‘How is it likely I can tell her?’
‘And Jane’s so dreadfully bad,’ continued Alice in the undertone. ‘She’s always saying she cares for nothing but to see Emma married. Whatshallwe do? And everything seemed so first-rate. Suppose she summonses you, Dick?’
The noble and dignified legal process whereby maidens right themselves naturally came into Alice’s thoughts. Her brother scouted the suggestion.
‘Emma’s not that kind of girl. Besides, I’ve told you I shall always send her money. She’ll find another husband before long. Lots of men ‘ud be only too glad to marry her.’
Alice was not satisfied with her brother. The practical aspects of the rupture she could consider leniently, but the tone he assumed was jarring to her instincts. Though nothing like a warm friendship existed between her and Emma, she sympathised, in a way impossible to Richard, with the sorrows of the abandoned girl. She was conscious of what her judgment would be if another man had acted thus; and though this was not so much a matter of consciousness, she felt that Richard might have spoken in a way more calculated to aid her in taking his side. She wished, in fact, to see only his advantage, and was very much tempted to see everything but that.
‘But you can’t keep her in the dark any longer,’ she urged. ‘Why, it’s cruel!’
‘I can’t tell her,’ he repeated monotonously.
Alice drew in her feet. It symbolised retiring within her defences. She saw what he was aiming at, and felt not at all disposed to pleasure him. There was a long silence; Alice was determined not to be the first to break it.
‘You refuse to help me?’ Richard asked at length, between his teeth.
‘I think it would be every bit as bad for me as for you,’ she replied.
‘That you can’t think,’ he argued. ‘She can’t blame you; you’ve only to say I’ve behaved like a blackguard, and you’re out of it.’
‘And when do you mean to tell mother?’
‘She’ll have to hear of it from other people. I can’t tell her.’
Richard had a suspicion that he was irretrievably ruining himself in his sister’s opinion, and it did not improve his temper. It was a foretaste of the wider obloquy to come upon him, possibly as hard to bear as any condemnation to which he had exposed himself. He shook himself out of the chair.
‘Well, that’s all I’ve got to tell you. Perhaps you’d better think over it. I don’t want to keep you away from home longer than you care to stay. There’s a train at a few minutes after nine in the morning.’
He shuffled for a few moments about the writing-table, then went from the room.
Alice was unhappy. The reaction from her previous high spirits, as soon as it had fully come about, brought her even to tears. She cried silently, and, to do the girl justice, at least half her sorrow was on Emma’s account. Presently she rose and began to walk about the room; she went to the window, and looked out on to the white garden. The sky beyond the thin boughs was dusking; the wind, which sang so merrily a few hours ago, had fallen to sobbing.
It was too wretched to remain alone; she resolved to go into the drawing-room; perhaps her brother was there. As she approached the door somebody knocked on the outside, then there entered a dark man of spruce appearance, who drew back a step as soon as he saw her.
‘Pray excuse me,’ he said, with an air of politeness. ‘I supposed I should find Mr. Mutimer here.’
‘I think he’s in the house,’ Alice replied.
Richard appeared as they were speaking.
‘What is it, Rodman?’ he asked abruptly, passing into the library.
‘I’ll go to the drawing-room,’ Alice said, and left the men together.
In half an hour Richard again joined her. He seemed in a better frame of mind, for he came in humming. Alice, having glanced at him, averted her face again and kept silence. She felt a hand smoothing her hair. Her brother, leaning over the back of her seat, whispered to her,—
‘You’ll help me, Princess?’
She did not answer.
‘You won’t be hard, Alice? It’s a wretched business, and I don’t know what I shall do if you throw me over. I can’t do without you, old girl.’
‘I can’t tell mother, Dick. You know very well what it’ll be. I daren’t do that.’
But even that task Alice at last took upon herself, after another half-hour’s discussion. Alas! she would never again feel towards her brother as before this necessity fell upon her. Her life had undergone that impoverishment which is so dangerous to elementary natures, the loss of an ideal.
‘You’ll let me stay over to-morrow?’ she said. ‘There’s nothing very pleasant to go back to, and I don’t see that a day ‘ll matter.’
‘You can stay if you wish. I’m going to take you to have tea with Adela now. If you stay we’ll have her to dinner to-morrow.’
‘I wonder whether we shall get along?’ Alice mused.
‘I don’t see why not. You’ll get lots of things from her, little notions of all kinds.’
This is always a more or less dangerous form of recommendation, even in talking to one’s sister. To suggest that Adela would benefit by the acquaintance would have been a far more politic procedure.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ Alice inquired, still depressed by the scene she had gone through.
‘Oh, there’s nothing wrong. It’s only that you’ll see differences at first; from the people you’ve been used to, I mean. But I think you’ll have to go and get your things on; it’s nearly five.’
In Alice’s rising from her chair there was nothing of the elasticity that had marked her before luncheon. Before moving away she spoke a thought that was troubling her.
‘Suppose mother tries to stop it?’
Richard looked to the ground moodily.
‘I meant to tell you,’ he said. ‘You’d better say that I’m already married.’
‘You’re giving me a nice job,’ was the girl’s murmured rejoinder.
‘Well, it’s as good as true. And it doesn’t make the job any worse.’
As is wont to be the case when two persons come to mutual understanding on a piece of baseness, the tone of brother and sister had suffered in the course of their dialogue. At first meeting they had both kept a certain watch upon their lips, feeling that their position demanded it; a moral limpness was evident in them by this time.
They set forth to walk to the Walthams’. Exercise in the keen air, together with the sense of novelty in her surroundings, restored Alice’s good humour before the house was reached. She gazed with astonishment at the infernal glare over New Wanley. Her brother explained the sight to her with gusto.
‘It used to be all fields and gardens over there,’ he said. ‘See what money and energy can do! You shall go over the works in the morning. Perhaps Adela will go with us, then we can take her back to the Manor.’
‘Why do they call the house that, Dick?’ Alice inquired. ‘Is it because people who live there are supposed to have good manners?’
‘May be, for anything I know,’ was the capitalist’s reply. ‘Only it’s spelt different, you know. I say, Alice, you must be careful about your spelling; there were mistakes in your last letter. Won’t do, you know, to make mistakes if you write to Adela.’
Alice gave a little shrug of impatience. Immediately after, they stopped at the threshold sacred to all genteel accomplishments—so Alice would have phrased it if she could have fully expressed her feeling—and they speedily entered the sitting-room, where the table was already laid for tea. Mrs. Waltham and her daughter rose to welcome them.
‘We knew of your arrival,’ said the former, bestowing on Alice a maternal salute. ‘Not many things happen in Wanley that all the village doesn’t hear of, do they, Mr. Mutimer? Of course we expected you to tea.’
Adela and her future sister-in-law kissed each other. Adela was silent, but she smiled.
‘You’ll take your things off, my dear?’ Mrs. Waltham continued. ‘Will you go upstairs with Miss Mutimer, Adela?’
But for Mrs. Waltham’s persistent geniality the hour which followed would have shown many lapses of conversation. Alice appreciated at once those ‘differences’ at which her brother had hinted, and her present frame of mind was not quite consistent with patient humility. Naturally, she suffered much from self-consciousness; Mrs. Waltham annoyed her by too frequent observation, Adela by seeming indifference. The delicacy of the latter was made perhaps a little excessive by strain of feelings. Alice at once came to the conclusion that Dick’s future wife was cold and supercilious. She was not predisposed to like Adela. The circumstances were in a number of ways unfavourable. Even had there not existed the very natural resentment at the painful task which this young lady had indirectly imposed upon her, it was not in Alice’s blood and breeding to take kindly at once to a girl of a class above her own. Alice had warm affections; as a lady’s maid she might very conceivably have attached herself with much devotion to an indulgent mistress, but in the present case too much was asked of her, Richard was proud of his sister; he saw her at length seated where he had so often imagined her, and in his eyes she bore herself well. He glanced often at Adela, hoping for a return glance of congratulation; when it failed to come, he consoled himself with the reflection that such silent interchange of sentiments at table would be ill manners. In his very heart he believed that of the two maidens his sister was the better featured. Adela and Alice sat over against each other; their contrasted appearances were a chapter of social history. Mark the difference between Adela’s gently closed lips, every muscle under control; and Alice’s, which could never quite close without forming a saucy pout or a self-conscious primness. Contrast the foreheads; on the one hand that tenderly shadowed curve of brow, on the other the surface which always seemed to catch too much of the light, which moved irregularly with the arches above the eyes. The grave modesty of the one face, the now petulant, now abashed, now vacant expression of the other. Richard in his heart preferred the type he had 80 long been familiar with; a state of feeling of course in no way inconsistent with the emotions excited in him by continual observation of Adela.
The two returned to the Manor at half-past seven, Alice rising with evident relief when he gave the signal. It was agreed that the latter part of the next morning should be spent in going over the works. Adela was very willing to be of the party.
‘They haven’t much money, have they?’ was Alice’s first question as soon as she got away from the door.
‘No, they are not rich,’ replied the brother. ‘You got on very nicely, old girl.’
‘Why shouldn’t I? You talk as if I didn’t know how to behave myself, Dick.’
‘No, I don’t. I say that you did behave yourself.’
‘Yes, and you were surprised at it.’
‘I wasn’t at all. What do you think of her?’
‘She doesn’t say much.’
‘No, she’s always very quiet. It’s her way.’
‘Yes.’
The monosyllable meant more than Richard gathered from it. They walked on in silence, and were met presently by a gentleman who was coming along the village street at a sharp pace. A lamp discovered Mr. Willis Rodman. Richard stopped.
‘Seen to that little business?’ he asked, in a cheerful voice.
‘Yes,’ was Rodman’s reply. ‘We shall hear from Agworth in the morning.’
‘All right.—Alice, this is Mr. Rodman.—My sister, Rodman.’
Richard’s right-hand man performed civilities with decidedly more finish than Richard himself had at command.
‘I am very happy to meet Miss Mutimer. I hope we shall have the pleasure of showing her New Wanley to-morrow.’
‘She and Miss Waltham will walk down in the morning. Good night, Rodman. Cold, eh?’
‘Why didn’t you introduce him this afternoon?’ Alice asked as she walked on.
‘I didn’t think of it—I was bothered.’
‘He seems very gentlemanly.’
‘Oh, Rodman’s seen a deal of life. He’s a useful fellow—gets through work in a wonderful way.’
‘Butishe a gentleman? I mean, was he once?’
Richard laughed.
‘I suppose you mean, had he ever money? No, he’s made himself what he is.’
Tea having supplied the place of the more substantial evening meal, Richard and his sister had supper about ten o’clock. Alice drank champagne; a few bottles remained from those dedicated to the recent festival, and Mutimer felt the necessity of explaining the presence in his house of a luxury which to his class is more than anything associated with the bloated aristocracy. Alice drank it for the first time in her life, and her spirits grew as light as the foam upon her glass. Brother and sister were quietly confidential as midnight drew near.
‘Shall you bring her to London?’ Alice inquired, without previous mention of Adela.
‘For a week, I think. We shall go to an hotel, of course. She’s never seen London since she was a child.’
‘She won’t come to Highbury?’
‘No. I shall avoid that somehow. You’ll have to come and see us at the hotel. We’ll go to the theatre together one night.’
‘What about ‘Arry?’
‘I don’t know. I shall think about it.’
Digesting much at his ease, Richard naturally became dreamful.
‘I may have to take a house for a time now and then,’ he said.
‘In London?’
He nodded.
‘I mustn’t forget you, you see, Princess. Of course you’ll come here sometimes, but that’s not much good. In London I dare say I can get you to know some of the right kind of people. I want Adela to be thick with the Westlakes; then your chance’ll come. See, old woman?’
Alice, too, dreamed.
‘I wonder you don’t want me to marry a Socialist working man,’ she said presently, as if twitting him playfully.
‘You don’t understand. One of the things we aim at is to remove the distinction between classes. I want you to marry one of those they call gentlemen. And you shall too, Alice!’
‘Well, but I’m not a working girl now, Dick.’
He laughed, and said it was time to go to bed.
The same evening conversation continued to a late hour between Hubert Eldon and his mother. Hubert was returning to London the next morning.
Yesterday there had come to him two letters from Wanley, both addressed in female hand. He knew Adela’s writing from her signature in the ‘Christian Year,’ and hastily opened the letter which came from her. The sight of the returned sonnets checked the eager flow of his blood; he was prepared for what he afterwards read.
‘Then let her meet her fate,’—so ran his thoughts when he had perused the cold note, unassociable with the Adela he imagined in its bald formality. ‘Only life can teach her.’
The other letter he suspected to be from Letty Tew, as it was.
‘DEAR MR. ELDON,—I cannot help writing a line to you, lest you should think that I did not keep my promise in the way you understood it. I did indeed. You will hear from her; she preferred to write herself, and perhaps it was better; I should only have had painful things to say. I wish to ask you to have no unkind or unjust thoughts; I scarcely think you could have. Please do not trouble to answer this, but believe me, yours sincerely,
‘L. TEW.’
‘Good little girl!’ he said to himself, smiling sadly. ‘I feel sure she did her best.’
But his pride was asserting itself, always restive under provocation. To rival with a man like Mutimer! Better that the severance with old days should be complete.
He talked it all over very frankly with his mother, who felt that her son’s destiny was not easily foreseen.
‘And what do you propose to do, Hubert?’ she asked, when they spoke of the future.
‘To study, principally art. In a fortnight I go to Rome.’
Mrs. Eldon had gone thither thirty years ago.
‘Think of me in my chair sometimes,’ she said, touching his hands with her wan fingers.
Alice reached home again on Christmas Eve. It was snowing; she came in chilled and looking miserable. Mrs. Mutimer met her in the hall, passed her, and looked out at the open door, then turned with a few white flecks on her gown.
‘Where’s Dick?
‘He couldn’t come,’ replied the girl briefly, and ran up to her room.
‘Arry was spending the evening with friends. Since tea-time the old woman had never ceased moving from room to room, up and down stairs. She had got out an old pair of Richard’s slippers, and had put them before the dining-room fire to warm. She had made a bed for Richard, and had a fire burning in the chamber. She had made arrangements for her eldest son’s supper. No word had come from Wanley, but she held to the conviction that this night would see Richard in London.
Alice came down and declared that she was very hungry. Her mother went to the kitchen to order a meal, which in the end she prepared with her own hands. She seemed to have a difficulty in addressing any one. Whilst Alice ate in silence, Mrs. Mutimer kept going in and out of the room; when the girl rose from the table, she stood before her and asked:
‘Why couldn’t he come?’
Alice went to the fireplace, knelt down, and spread her hands to the blaze. Her mother approached her again.
‘Won’t you give me no answer, Alice?’
‘He couldn’t come, mother. Something important is keeping him.’
‘Something important? And why did he want you there?’
Alice rose to her feet, made one false beginning, then spoke to the point.
‘Dick’s married, mother.’
The old woman’s eyes seemed to grow small in her wrinkled face, as if directing themselves with effort upon something minute. They looked straight into the eyes of her daughter, but had a more distant focus. The fixed gaze continued for nearly a minute.
‘What are you talking about, girl?’ she said at length, in a strange, rattling voice. ‘Why, I’ve seen Emma this very morning. Do you think she wouldn’t ‘a told me if she’d been a wife?’
Alice was frightened by the look and the voice.
‘Mother, it isn’t Emma at all. It’s someone at Wanley. We can’t help it, mother. It’s no use taking on. Now sit down and make yourself quiet. It isn’t our fault.’
Mrs. Mutimer smiled in a grim way, then laughed—a most unmusical laugh.
‘Now what’s the good o’ joking in that kind o’ way? That’s like your father, that is; he’d often come ‘ome an’ tell me sich things as never was, an’ expect me to believe ‘em. An’ I used to purtend I did, jist to please him. But I’m too old for that kind o’ jokin’.—Alice, where’s Dick? How long’ll it be before he’s here? Where did he leave you?’
‘Now do just sit down, mother; here, in this chair. Just sit quiet for a little, do.’
Mrs. Mutimer pushed aside the girl’s hand; her face had become grave again.
‘Let me be, child. And I tell you I have seen Emma to-day. Do you think she wouldn’t ‘a told me if things o’ that kind was goin’ on?’
‘Emma knows nothing about it, mother. He hasn’t told any one. He got me to come because he couldn’t tell it himself. It was as much a surprise to me as to you, and I think it’s very cruel of him. But it’s over, and we can’t help it. I shall have to tell Emma, I suppose, and a nice thing too!’
The old woman had begun to quiver; her hands shook by her sides, her very features trembled with gathering indignation.
‘Dick has gone an’ done this?’ she stammered. ‘He’s gone an’ broke his given word? He’s deceived that girl as trusted to him an’ couldn’t help herself?’
‘Now, mother, don’t take on so! You’re going to make yourself ill. It can’t be helped. He says he shall send Emma money just the same.’
‘Money! There you’ve hit the word; it’s money as ‘as ruined him, and as ‘ll be the ruin of us all. Send her money! What does the man think she’s made of? Is all his feelings got as hard as money? and does he think the same of every one else? If I know Emma, she’ll throw his money in his face. I knew what ‘ud come of it, don’t tell me I didn’t. That very night as he come ‘ome an’ told me what had ‘appened, there was a cold shiver run over me. I told him as it was the worst news ever come into our ‘ouse, and now see if I wasn’t right! He was angry with me ‘cause I said it, an’ who’s a right to be angry now? It’s my belief as money’s the curse o’ this world; I never knew a trouble yet as didn’t somehow come of it, either ‘cause there was too little or else too much. And Dick’s gone an’ done this? And him with all his preachin’ about rights and wrongs an’ what not! Him as was always a-cryin’ down the rich folks ‘cause they hadn’t no feelin’ for the poor! What feeling’shehad, I’d like to know? It’s him as is rich now, an’ where’s the difference ‘tween him and them as he called names? No feelin’ for the poor! An’ what’s Emma Vine? Poor enough by now. There’s Jane as can’t have not a week more to live, an’ she a-nursin’ her night an’ day. He’ll give her money!—has he got the face to say it? Nay, don’t talk to me, girl; I’ll say what I think if it’s the last I speak in this world. Don’t let him come to me! Never a word again shall he have from me as long as I live. He’s disgraced himself, an’ me his mother, an’ his father in the grave. A poor girl as couldn’t help herself, as trusted him an’ wouldn’t hear not a word against him, for all he kep’ away from her in her trouble. I’d a fear o’ this, but I wouldn’t believe it of Dick; I wouldn’t believe it of a son o’ mine. An’ ‘Arry ‘ll go the same way. It’s all the money, an a curse go with all the money as ever was made! An’ you too, Alice, wi’ your fine dresses, an’ your piannerin’, an’ your faldedals. But I warn you, my girl. There ‘ll no good come of it. I warn you, Alice! You’re ashamed o’ your own mother—oh, I’ve seen it! But it’s a mercy if you’re not a disgrace to her. I’m thankful as I was always poor; I might ‘a been tempted i’ the same way.’
The dogma of a rude nature full of secret forces found utterance at length under the scourge of a resentment of very mingled quality. Let half be put to the various forms of disinterested feeling, at least half was due to personal exasperation. The whole change that her life had perforce undergone was an outrage upon the stubbornness of uninstructed habit; the old woman could see nothing but evil omens in a revolution which cost her bodily discomfort and the misery of a mind perplexed amid alien conditions. She was prepared for evil; for months she had brooded over every sign which seemed to foretell its approach; the egoism of the unconscious had made it plain to her that the world must suffer in a state of things which so grievously affected herself. Maternal solicitude kept her restlessly swaying between apprehension for her children and injury in the thought of their estrangement from her. And now at length a bitter shame added itself to her torments. She was shamed in her pride as a mother, shamed before the girl for whom she nourished a deep affection. Emma’s injuries she felt charged upon herself; she would never dare to stand before her again. Her moral code, as much a part of her as the sap of the plant and as little the result of conscious absorption, declared itself on the side of all these rushing impulses; she was borne blindly on an exhaustless flux of words. After vain attempts to make herself heard, Alice turned away and sat sullenly waiting for the outburst to spend itself. Herself comparatively unaffected by the feelings strongest in her mother, this ear-afflicting clamour altogether checked her sympathy, and in a great measure overcame those personal reasons which had made her annoyed with Richard. She found herself taking his side, even knew something of his impatience with Emma and her sorrows. When it came to rebukes and charges against herself her impatience grew active. She stood up again and endeavoured to make herself heard.
‘What’s the good of going on like this, mother? Just because you’re angry, that’s no reason you should call us all the names you can turn your tongue to. It’s over and done with, and there’s an end of it. I don’t know what you mean about disgracing you; I think you might wait till the time comes. I don’t see what I’ve done as you can complain of.’
‘No, of course you don’t,’ pursued her mother bitterly. ‘It’s the money as prevents you from seeing it. Them as was good enough for you before you haven’t a word to say to now; a man as works honestly for his living you make no account of. Well, well, you must go your own way—’
‘What is it you want, mother? You don’t expect me to look no higher than when I hadn’t a penny but what I worked for? I’ve no patience with you. You ought to be glad—’
‘You haven’t no patience, of course you haven’t. And I’m to be glad when a son of mine does things as he deserves to be sent to prison for! I don’t understand that kind o’ gladness. But mind what I say; do what you like with your money, I’ll have no more part in it. If I had as much as ten shillings a week of my own, I’d go and live by myself, and leave you to take your own way. But I tell you what Icando, and what I will. I’ll have no more servants a-waitin’ onme; I wasn’t never used to it, and I’m too old to begin. I go to my own bedroom upstairs, and there I live, and there ‘ll be nobody go into that room but myself. I’ll get my bits o’ meals from the kitchen. ‘Tain’t much as I want, thank goodness, an’ it won’t be missed. I’ll have no more doin’s with servants, understand that; an’ if I can’t be left alone i’ my own room, I’ll go an’ find a room where I can, an’ I’ll find some way of earnin’ what little I want. It’s your own house, and you’ll do what you like in it. There’s the keys, I’ve done with ‘em; an’ here’s the money too, I’m glad to be rid of it. An’ you’ll just tell Dick. I ain’t one as says what I don’t mean, nor never was, as that you know. You take your way, an’ I’ll take mine. An’ now may be I’ll get a night’s sleep, the first I’ve had under this roof.’
As she spoke she took from her pockets the house keys, and from her purse the money she used for current expenses, and threw all together on to the table. Alice had turned to the fireplace, and she stood so for a long time after her mother had left the room. Then she took the keys and the money, consulted her watch, and in a few minutes was walking from the house to a neighbouring cab-stand.
She drove to Wilton Square. Inspecting the front of the house before knocking at the door, she saw a light in the kitchen and a dimmer gleam at an upper window. It was Mrs. Clay who opened to her.
‘Is Emma in?’ Alice inquired as she shook hands rather coldly.
‘She’s sitting with Jane. I’ll tell her. There’s no fire except in the kitchen,’ Kate added, in a tone which implied that doubtless her visitor was above taking a seat downstairs.
‘I’ll go down,’ Alice replied, with just a touch of condescension. ‘I want to speak a word or two with Emma, that’s all.’
Kate left her to descend the stairs, and went to inform her sister. Emma was not long in appearing; the hue of her face was troubled, for she had deceived herself with the belief that it was Richard who knocked at the door. What more natural than for him to have come on Christmas Eve? She approached Alice with a wistful look, not venturing to utter any question, only hoping that some good news might have been brought her. Long watching in the sick room had given her own complexion the tint of ill-health; her eyelids were swollen and heavy; the brown hair upon her temples seemed to droop in languor. You would have noticed that her tread was very soft, as if she still were moving in the room above.
‘How’s Jane?’ Alice began by asking. She could not quite look the other in the face, and did not know how to begin her disclosure.
‘No better,’ Emma gave answer, shaking her head. Her voice, too, was suppressed; it was weeks since she had spoken otherwise.
‘I am so sorry, Emma. Are you in a hurry to go up again?’
‘No. Kate will sit there a little.’
‘You look very poorly yourself. It must be very trying for you.’
‘I don’t feel it,’ Emma said, with a pale smile. ‘She gives no trouble. It’s only her weakness now; the pain has almost gone.’
‘But then she must be getting better.’
Emma shook her head, looking aside. As Alice kept silence, she continued:
‘I was glad to hear you’d gone to see Richard. He wouldn’t—I was afraid he mightn’t have time to get here for Christmas.’
There was a question in the words, a timorously expectant question. Emma had learnt the sad lesson of hope deferred, always to meet discouragement halfway. It is thus one seeks to propitiate the evil powers, to turn the edge of their blows by meekness.
‘No, he couldn’t come,’ said Alice.
She had a muff on her left hand, and was turning it round and round with the other. Emma had not asked her to sit down, merely because of the inward agitation which absorbed her.
‘He’s quite well?’
‘Oh yes, quite well.’
Again Alice paused. Emma’s heart was beating painfully. She knew now that Richard’s sister had not come on an ordinary visit; she felt that the call to Wanley had had some special significance. Alice did not ordinarily behave in this hesitating way.
‘Did—did he send me a message?’
‘Yes.’
But even now Alice could not speak. She found a way of leading up to the catastrophe.
‘Oh, mother has been going on so, Emma! What do you think? She won’t have anything to do with the house any longer. She’s given me the keys and all the money she had, and she’s going to live just in her bedroom. She says she’ll get her food from the kitchen herself, and she won’t have a thing done for her by any one. I’m sure she means it; I never saw her in such a state. She says if she’d ever so little money of her own, she’d leave the house altogether. She’s been telling me I’ve no feeling, and that I’m going to the bad, that I shall live to disgrace her, and I can’t tell you what. Everything is so miserable! She says it’s all the money, and that she knew from the first how it would be. And I’m afraid some of what she says is true, I am indeed, Emma. But things happen in a way you could never think. I half wish myself the money had never come. It’s making us all miserable.’
Emma listened, expecting from phrase to phrase some word which would be to her a terrible enlightenment But Alice had ceased, and the word still unspoken.
‘You say he sent me a message?’
She did not ask directly the cause of Mrs. Mutimer’s anger. Instinct told her that to hear the message would explain all else.
‘Emma, I’m afraid to tell you. You’ll blameme, like mother did.’
‘I shan’t blame you, Alice. Will you please tell me the message?’
Emma’s lips seemed to speak without her volition. The rest o her face was fixed and cold.
‘He’s married, Emma.’
‘He asked you to tell me?’
Alice was surprised at the self-restraint proved by so quiet an interrogation.
‘Yes, he did. Emma, I’m so, so sorry! If only you’ll believe I’m sorry, Emma! Hemademe come and tell you. He said if I didn’t you’d have to find out by chance, because he couldn’t for shame tell you himself. And he couldn’t tell mother neither. I’ve had it all to do. If you knew what I’ve gone through with mother! It’s very hard that other people should suffer so much just on his account. I am really sorry for you, Emma.’
‘Who is it he’s married?’ Emma asked. Probably all the last speech had been but a vague murmur to her ears.
‘Some one at Wanley.’
‘A lady?’
‘Yes, I suppose she’s a lady.’
‘You didn’t see her, then?’
‘Yes, I saw her. I don’t like her.’
Poor Alice meant this to be soothing. Emma knew it, and smiled.
‘I don’t think she cares much after all,’ Alice said to herself.
‘But was that the message?’
‘Only to tell you of it, Emma. There was something else,’ she added immediately; ‘not exactly a message, but he told me, and I dare say he thought I should let you know. He said that of course you were to have the money still as usual.’
Over the listener’s face came a cloud, a deep, turbid red. It was not anger, but shame which rose from the depths of her being. Her head sank; she turned and walked aside.
‘You’re not angry withme, Emma?’
‘Not angry at all, Alice,’ was the reply in a monotone.
‘I must say good-bye now. I hope you won t take on much. And I hope Jane ‘ll soon be better.’
‘Thank you. I must go up to her; she doesn’t like me to be away long.’
Alice went before up the kitchen stairs, the dark, narrow stairs which now seemed to her so poverty-stricken. Emma did not speak, but pressed her hand at the door.
Kate stood above her on the first landing, and, as Emma came up, whispered:
‘Has he come?’
‘Something has hindered him.’ And Emma added, ‘He couldn’t help it.’
‘Well, then, I think he ought to have helped it,’ said the other tartly. ‘When does he mean to come, I’d like to know?’
‘It’s uncertain.’
Emma passed into the sick-room. Her sister followed her with eyes of ill-content, then returned to the kitchen.
Jane lay against pillows. Red light from the fire played over her face, which was wasted beyond recognition. She looked a handmaiden of Death.
The atmosphere of the room was warm and sickly. A small green-shaded lamp stood by the looking-glass in front of the window; it cast a disk of light below, and on the ceiling concentric rings of light and shade, which flickered ceaselessly, and were at times all but obliterated in a gleam from the fireplace. A kettle sang on the trivet.
The sick girl’s hands lay on the counterpane; one of them moved as Emma came to the bedside, and rested when the warmer fingers clasped it. There was eager inquiry in the sunken eyes; her hand tried to raise itself, but in vain.
‘What did Alice say?’ she asked, in quick feeble tones. ‘Is he coming?’
‘Not for Christmas, I’m afraid, dear. He’s still very busy.’
‘But he sent you a message?’
‘Yes. He would have come if he could.’
‘Did you tell Alice I wanted to see her? Why didn’t she come up? Why did she stay such a short time?’
‘She couldn’t stay to-night, Jane. Are you easy still, love?’
‘Oh, I did so want to see her. Why couldn’t she stop, Emma? It wasn’t kind of her to go without seeing me. I’d have made time if it had been her as was lying in bed. And he doesn’t even answer what I wrote to him. It was such work to write—I couldn’t now; and he might have answered.’
‘He very seldom writes to any one, you know, Jane. He has so little time.’
‘Little time! I have less, Emma, and he must know that. It’s unkind of him. What did Alice tell you? Why did he want her to go there? Tell me everything.’
Emma felt the sunken eyes burning her with their eager look. She hesitated, pretended to think of something that had to be done, and the eyes burned more and more. Jane made repeated efforts to raise herself, as if to get a fuller view of her sister’s face.
‘Shall I move you?’ Emma asked. ‘Would you like another pillow?’
‘No, no,’ was the impatient answer. ‘Don’t go away from me; don’t take your hand away. I want to know all that Alice said. You haven’t any secrets from me, Emmy. Whydoeshe stay away so long? It seems years since he came to see you. It’s wrong of him. There’s no business ought to keep him away all this time. Look at me, and tell me what she said.’
‘Only that he hadn’t time. Dear, you mustn’t excite yourself so. Isn’t it all right, Jane, as long as I don’t mind it?’
‘Why do you look away from me? No, it isn’t all right. Oh, I can’t rest, I can’t lie here! Why haven’t I strength to go and say to him what I want to say? I thought it was him when the knock came. When Kate told me it wasn’t, I felt as if my heart was sinking down; and I don’t seem to have no tears left to cry. It ‘ud ease me a little if I could. And nowyou’rebeginning to have secrets. Emmy!’
It was a cry of anguish. The mention of tears had brought them to Emma’s eyes, for they lurked very near the surface, and Jane had seen the firelight touch on a moist cheek. For an instant she raised herself from the pillows. Emma folded soft arms about her and pressed her cheek against the heat which consumed her sister’s.
‘Emmy, I must know,’ wailed the sick girl. ‘Is it what I’ve been afraid of? No, not that! Is it the worst of all? You must tell me now. You don’t love me if you keep away the truth. I can’t have anything between you and me.’
A dry sob choked her; she gasped for breath. Emma, fearful lest the very life was escaping from her embrace, drew away and looked in anguish. Her involuntary tears had ceased, but she could no longer practise deception. The cost to Jane was greater perhaps than if she knew the truth. At least their souls must be united ere it was too late.
‘The truth, Emmy!’
‘I will tell it you, darling,’ she replied, with quiet sadness. ‘It’s for him that I’m sorry. I never thought anything could tempt him to break his word. Think of it in the same way as I do, dear-sister; don’t be sorry for me, but for him.’
‘He’s never coming? He won’t marry you?’
‘He’s already married, Jane. Alice came to tell me.’
Again she would have raised herself, but this time there was no strength. Not even her arms could she lift from the coverlets. But Emma saw the vain effort, raised the thin arms, put them about her neck, and held her sister to her heart as if for eternity.
‘Darling, darling, it isn’t hard to bear. I care for nothing but your love. Live for my sake, dearest dear; I have forgotten every one and everything but you. It’s so much better. I couldn’t have changed my life so; I was never meant to be rich. It seems unkind of him, but in a little time we shall see it was best. Only you, Janey; you have my whole heart, and I’m so glad to feel it is so. Live, and I’ll give every minute of my life to loving you, poor sufferer.’
Jane could not breathe sound into the words she would have spoken. She lay with her eyes watching the fire-play on the ceiling. Her respiration was quick and feeble.
Mutimer’s name was not mentioned by either again that night, by one of them never again. Such silence was his punishment.
Kate entered the room a little before midnight. She saw one of Jane’s hands raised to impose silence. Emma, still sitting by the bedside, slept; her head rested on the pillows. The sick had become the watcher.
‘She’d better go to bed,’ Kate whispered. ‘I’ll wake her.’
‘No, no You needn’t stay, Kate. I don’t want anything. Let her sleep as she is.’
The elder sister left the room. Then Jane approached her head to that of the sleeper, softly, softly, and her arm stole across Emma’s bosom and rested on her farther shoulder. The fire burned with little whispering tongues of flame; the circles of light and shade quivered above the lamp. Abroad the snow fell and froze upon the ground.
Three days later Alice Mutimer, as she sat at breakfast, was told that a visitor named Mrs. Clay desired to see her. It was nearly ten o’clock; Alice had no passion for early rising, and since her mother’s retirement from the common table she breakfasted alone at any hour which seemed good to her. ‘Arry always—or nearly always—left the house at eight o’clock.
Mrs. Clay was introduced into the dining-room. Alice received her with an anxious face, for she was anticipating trouble from the house in Wilton Square. But the trouble was other than she had in mind.
‘Jane died at four o’clock this morning,’ the visitor began, without agitation, in the quick, unsympathetic voice which she always used when her equanimity was in any way disturbed. ‘Emma hasn’t closed her eyes for two days and nights, and now I shouldn’t wonder if she’s going to be ill herself. I made her lie down, and then came out just to ask you to write to your brother. Surely he’ll come now. I don’t know what to do about the burying; we ought to have some one to help us. I expected your mother would be coming to see us, but she’s kept away all at once. Will you write to Dick?’
Alice was concerned to perceive that Kate was still unenlightened.
‘Did Emma know you were coming?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I suppose she did. But it’s hard to get her to attend to anything. I’ve left her alone, ‘cause there wasn’t any one I could fetch at once. Will you write to-day?’
‘Yes, I’ll see to it,’ said Alice. ‘Have some breakfast, will you?’
‘Well, I don’t mind just a cup o’ coffee. It’s very cold, and I had to walk a long way before I could get a ‘bus.’
Whilst Kate refreshed herself, Alice played nervously with her tea-spoon, trying to make up her mind what must be done. The situation was complicated with many miseries, but Alice had experienced a growth of independence since her return from Wanley. All she had seen and heard whilst with her brother had an effect upon her in the afterthought, and her mother’s abrupt surrender into her hands of the household control gave her, when she had time to realise it, a sense of increased importance not at all disagreeable. Already she had hired a capable servant in addition to the scrubby maid-of-all-work who had sufficed for Mrs. Mutimer, and it was her intention that henceforth domestic arrangements should be established on quite another basis.
‘I’ll telegraph to Dick,’ she said, presently. ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll see that everything’s done properly.’
‘But won’t he come himself?’
‘We shall see.’
‘Is your mother in?’
‘She’s not very well; I don’t think I must disturb her with bad news. Tell Emma I’m very sorry, will you? I do hope she isn’t going to be ill. You must see that she gets rest now. Was it sudden?’ she added, showing in her face how little disposed she was to dwell on such gloomy subjects as death and burial.
‘She was wandering all yesterday. I don’t think she knew anything after eight o’clock last night. She went off in a sleep.’
When the visitor had gone, Alice drove to the nearest telegraph office and despatched a message to her brother, giving the news and asking what should be done. By three o’clock in the afternoon no reply had yet arrived; but shortly after Mr. Keene presented himself at the house. Alice had not seen him since her return. He bowed to her with extreme gravity, and spoke in a subdued voice.
‘I grieve that I have lost time, Miss Mutimer. Important business had taken me from home, and on my return I found a telegram from Wanley. Your brother directs me to wait upon you at once, on a very sad subject, I fear. He instructs me to purchase a grave in Manor Park Cemetery. No near relative, I trust?’
‘No, only a friend,’ Alice replied. ‘You’ve heard me speak of a girl called Emma Vine. It’s a sister of hers. She died this morning, and they want help about the funeral.’
‘Precisely, precisely. You know with what zeal I hasten to perform your’—a slight emphasis on this word—‘brother’s pleasure, be the business what it may. I’ll see about it at once. I was to say to you that your brother would be in town this evening.’
‘Oh, very well. But you needn’t look so gloomy, you know, Mr. Keene. I’m very sorry, but then she’s been ill for a very long time, and it’s really almost a relief—to her sisters, I mean.’
‘I trust you enjoyed your visit to Wanley, Miss Mutimer?’ said Keene, still preserving his very respectful tone and bearing.
‘Oh yes, thanks. I dare say I shall go there again before very long. No doubt you’ll be glad to hear that.’
‘I will try to be, Miss Mutimer. I trust that your pleasure is my first consideration in life.’
Alice was, to speak vulgarly, practising on Mr. Keene. He was her first visitor since she had entered upon rule, and she had a double satisfaction in subduing him with airs and graces. She did not trouble to reflect that under the circumstances he might think her rather heartless, and indeed hypocrisy was not one of her failings. Hernaiveteconstituted such charm as she possessed; in the absence of any deep qualities it might be deemed a virtue, for it was inconsistent with serious deception.
‘I suppose you mean you’d really much rather I stayed here?’
Keene eyed her with observation. He himself had slight depth for a man doomed to live by his wits, and he was under the disadvantage of really feeling something of what he said. He was not a rascal by predilection; merely driven that way by the forces which in our social state abundantly make for rascality.
‘Miss Mutimer,’ he replied, with a stage sigh, ‘why do you tempt my weakness? I am on my honour; I am endeavouring to earn your good opinion. Spare me!’
‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no harm in you, Mr. Keene. I suppose you’d better go and see after your—your business.’
‘You are right. I go at once, Princess. I may call you Princess?’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. Of course only when there’s no one else in the room.’