She could not sit through the service, yet to leave the church she would have to walk the whole length of the aisle. What did it matter? It would very soon be known why she had gone away, and to face for a moment the wonder of Sunday-clad villagers is not a grave trial. Adela opened the pew door and quitted the church, the parchment held beneath her mantle.
As she issued from the porch the sun smote warm upon her face; it encouraged a feeling of gladness which had followed her astonishment. She had discovered the tenor of the will; it affected her with a sudden joy, undisturbed at first by any reflection. The thought of self was slow in coming, and had not power to trouble her greatly even when she faced it. Befall herself what might, she held against her heart a power which was the utmost limit of that heart’s desire. So vast, so undreamt, so mysteriously given to her, that it seemed preternatural. Her weakness was become strength; with a single word she could work changes such as it had seemed no human agency could bring about.
To her, to her it had been given! What was all her suffering, crowned with power like this?
She durst not take the will from beneath her mantle, though burning to reassure herself of its contents. Not till she was locked in her room. If any one met her as she entered the house, her excuse would be that she did not feel well.
But as she hurried toward the Manor, she all at once found herself face to face with her brother. Alfred was having a ramble, rather glad to get out of hearing of the baby this Sunday morning.
‘Hollo, what’s up?’ was his exclamation.
Adela feared lest her face had betrayed her. She was conscious that her look could not be that of illness.
‘I am obliged to go home,’ she said, ‘I have forgotten something.’
‘I should have thought you’d rather have let the house burn down than scutter away in this profane fashion. All right, I won’t stop you.’
She hesitated, tempted to give some hint. But before she could speak, Alfred continued:
‘So Mutimer’s going to throw it up.’
‘What?’ she asked in surprise.
He nodded towards New Wanley.
‘Throw it up?’
‘So I understand. Don’t mention that I said anything; I supposed you knew.’
‘I knew nothing. You mean that he is going to abandon the works?’
‘Something of the kind, I fancy. I don’t know that it’s decided, but that fellow Rodman—well, time enough to talk about it. It’s a pity, that’s all I can say. Still, if he’s really losing—’
‘Losing? But he never expected to make money.’
‘No, but I fancy he’s beginning to see things in a different light. I tell you what it is, Adela; I can’t stand that fellow Rodman. I’ve got an idea he’s up to something. Don’t let him lead Mutimer by the nose, that’s all. But this isn’t Sunday talk. Youngster rather obstreperous this morning.’
Adela had no desire to question further: she let her brother pass on, and continued her own walk at a more moderate pace.
Alfred’s words put her in mind of considerations to which in her excitement she had given no thought. New Wanley was no longer her husband’s property, and the great Socialist undertaking must come to an end. In spite of her personal feeling, she could not view with indifference the failure of an attempt which she had trained herself to regard as nobly planned, and full of importance to the world at large. Though she no longer saw Mutimer’s character in the same light as when first she bent her nature to his direction, she still would have attributed to him a higher grief than the merely self-regarding; she had never suspected him of insincerity in his public zeal. Mutimer had been scrupulous to avoid any utterance which might betray half-heartedness; in his sullen fits of late he had even made it a reproach against her that she cared little for his own deepest interests. To his wife last of all he would have confessed a failing in his enthusiasm: jealousy had made him discourteous, had lowered the tone of his intercourse with her; but to figure as a hero in her eyes was no less, nay more, than ever a leading motive in his life. But if what Alfred said was true, Adela saw that in this also she had deceived herself: the man whose very heart was in a great cause would sacrifice everything, and fight on to the uttermost verge of hope. There was no longer room for regret on his account.
On reaching the Manor gates she feared to walk straight up to the house; she felt that, if she met her husband, she could not command her face, and her tongue would falter. She took a path which led round to the gardens in the rear. She had remembered a little summer-house which stood beyond the kitchen-garden, in a spot sure to be solitary at this hour. There she could read the will attentively, and fix her resolution before entering the house.
Trees and bushes screened her. She neared the summerhouse, and was at the very door before she perceived that it was occupied. There sat ‘Arry and a kitchenmaid, very close to each other, chatting confidentially. ‘Arry looked up, and something as near a blush as he was capable of came to his face. The kitchen damsel followed the direction of his eyes, and was terror-stricken.
Adela hastened away. An unspeakable loathing turned her heart. She scarcely wondered, but pressed the parchment closer, and joyed in the thought that she would so soon be free of this tainted air.
She no longer hesitated to enter, and was fortunate enough to reach her room without meeting any one. She locked the door, then unfolded the will and began to peruse it with care.
The testator devised the whole of his real estate to Hubert Eldon; to Hubert also he bequeathed his personal property, subject to certain charges. These were—first, the payment of a legacy of one thousand pounds to Mrs. Eldon; secondly, of a legacy of five hundred pounds to Mr. Yottle, the solicitor; thirdly, of an annuity of one hundred and seven pounds to the testator’s great-nephew, Richard Mutimer, such sum being the yearly product of a specified investment. The annuity was to extend to the life of Richard’s widow, should he leave one; but power was given to the trustee to make over to Richard Mutimer, or to his widow, any part or the whole of the invested capital, if he felt satisfied that to do so would be for the annuitant’s benefit. ‘It is not my wish’—these words followed the directions—‘to put the said Richard Mutimer above the need of supporting himself by honest work, but only to aid him to make use of the abilities which I understand he possesses, and to become a credit to the class to which he belongs.’
The executors were Hubert Eldon himself and the lawyer Mr. Yottle.
A man of the world brought face to face with startling revelations of this kind naturally turns at once to thought of technicalities, evasions, compromises. Adela’s simpler mind fixed itself upon the plain sense of the will; that meant restitution to the uttermost farthing. For more than two years Hubert Eldon had been kept out of his possessions; others had been using them, and lavishly. Would it be possible for her husband to restore? He must have expended great sums, and of his own he had not a penny.
Thought for herself came last. Mutimer must abandon Wanley, and whither he went, thither must she go also. Their income would be a hundred and seven pounds. Her husband became once more a working man. Doubtless he would return to London; their home would be a poor one, like that of ordinary working folk.
How would he bear it? How would he take this fromher?
Fear crept insidiously about her heart, though she fought to banish it. It was a fear of the instinct, clinging to trifles in the memory, feeding upon tones, glances, the impressions of forgotten moments. She was conscious that here at length was the crucial test of her husband’s nature, and in spite of every generous impulse she dreaded the issue. To that dread she durst not abandon herself; to let it grow even for an instant cost her a sensation of faintness, a desire to flee for cover to those who would naturally protect her. To give up all—and to Hubert Eldon! She recalled his voice when the other day he spoke of Hubert. He had not since recurred to the subject, but his manner still bore the significance with which that conversation had invested it. No dream of suspicions on his part had come to her, but it was enough that something had happened to intensify his dislike of Hubert. Of her many fears, here was one which couched dark and shapeless in the background.
A feeble woman would have chosen anyone—her mother, her brother—rather than Mutimer himself for the first participant in such a discovery. Adela was not feeble, and the very danger, though it might chill her senses, nerved her soul. Was she not making him too ignoble? Was she not herself responsible for much of the strangeness in his behaviour of late? The question she had once asked herself, whether he loved her, she could not answer doubtfully; was it not his love that had set her icily against him? If she could not render him love in return, that was the wrong she did him, the sin she had committed in becoming his wife. Adela by this time knew too well that, in her threefold vows, love had of right the foremost place; honour and obedience could not exist without love. Her wrong was involuntary, none the less she owed him such reparation as was possible; she must keep her mind open to his better qualities. A man might fall, yet not be irredeemably base. Oh, that she had never known of that poor girl in London! Base, doubly and trebly base, had been his behaviour there, for one ill deed had drawn others after it. But his repentance, his humiliation, must have been deep, and of the kind which strengthens against ill-doing in the future.
It had to be done, and had better be done quickly. Adela went to her boudoir and rang the bell. The servant who came told her that Mutimer was in the house. She summoned him.
It was five minutes before he appeared. He was preoccupied, though not gloomily so.
‘I thought you were at church,’ he said, regarding her absently.
‘I came away—because I found something—this!’
She had hoped to speak with calmness, but the interval of waiting had agitated her, and the fear which no effort could allay struck her heart as he entered. She held the parchment to him.
‘What is it?’ he asked, his attention gradually awakened by surprise. He did not move forward to meet her extended hand.
‘You will see—it is the will that we thought was destroyed—old Mr. Mutimer’s will.’
She rose and brought it to him. He looked at her with a sceptical smile, which was involuntary, and lingered on his face even after he had begun to read the document.
Adela seated herself again; she had scarcely power to stand. There was a long silence.
‘Where did you find this?’ Mutimer inquired at length. His tone astonished her; it was almost indifferent. But he did not raise his eyes.
She explained. It was needless, she thought, to give a reason for her search in the lower cupboard; but the first thing that occurred to Mutimer was to demand such reason.
A moment’s hesitation; then:
‘A piece of money rolled down behind the shelf on which the books are; there is a gap at the back. I suppose that is how the will fell down.’
His eye was now steadily fixed upon her, coldly scrutinising, as one regards a suspected stranger. Adela was made wretched by the inevitable falsehood. She felt herself reddening under his gaze.
He seemed to fall into absent-mindedness, then re-read the document. Then he took out his watch.
‘The people are out of church. Come and show me where it was.’
With a deep sense of relief she went away to put on her bonnet. To escape for a moment was what she needed, and the self-command of his voice seemed to assure her against her worst fears. She felt grateful to him for preserving his dignity. The future lost one of its terrors if only she could respect him.
They walked side by side to the church in silence: Mutimer had put the will into his pocket. At the wicket he paused.
‘Will Wyvern be in there?’
The question was answered by the appearance of the vicar himself, who just then came forth from the front doorway. He approached them, with a hope that Adela had not been obliged to leave through indisposition.
‘A little faintness,’ Mutimer was quick to reply. ‘We are going to look for something she dropped in the pew.’
Mr. Wyvern passed on. Only the pew-opener was moving about the aisles. She looked with surprise at the pair as they entered.
‘Tell her the same,’ Mutimer commanded, under his breath.
The old woman was of course ready with offers of assistance, but a word from Richard sufficed to keep her away.
The examination was quickly made, and they returned as they had come, without exchanging a word on the way. They went upstairs again to the boudoir.
‘Sit down,’ Mutimer said briefly.
He himself continued to stand, again examining the will.
‘I should think,’ he began slowly, ‘it’s as likely as not that this is a forgery.’
‘A forgery? But who could have—’
Her voice failed.
‘He’s not likely to have run the risk himself, I suppose,’ Mutimer pursued, with a quiet sneer, ‘but no doubt there are people who would benefit by it.’
Adela had an impulse of indignation. It showed intself in her cold, steady reply.
‘The will was thick with dust. It has been lying there a long time.’
‘Of course. They wouldn’t bungle over an important thing like this.’
He was once more scrutinising her. The suspicion was a genuine one, and involved even more than Adela could imagine. If there had been a plot, such plot assuredly included the discoverer of the document. Could he in his heart charge Adela with that? There were two voices at his ear, and of equal persuasiveness. Even to look into her face did not silence the calumnious whispering. Her beauty was fuel to his jealousy, and his jealousy alone made the supposition of her guilt for a moment tenable. It was on his lips to accuse her, to ease himself with savage innuendoes, those ‘easy things to understand’ which come naturally from such a man in such a situation. But to do that would be to break with her for ever, and the voice that urged her innocence would not let him incur such risk. The loss of his possessions was a calamity so great that as yet he could not realise its possibility; the loss of his wife impressed his imagination more immediately, and was in this moment the more active fear.
He was in the strange position of a man who finds all at once that hedarenot believe that which he has been trying his best to believe. If Adela were guilty of plotting with Eldon, it meant that he himself was the object of her utter hatred, a hideous thought to entertain. It threw him back upon her innocence. Egoism had to do the work of the finer moral perceptions.
‘Isn’t it rather strange,’ he said, not this time sneeringly, but seeking for support against his intolerable suspicions, ‘that you never moved those buffets before?’
‘I never had need of them.’
‘And that hole has never been cleaned out?’
‘Never; clearly never.’
She had risen to her feet, impelled by a glimmering of the thought in which he examined her. What she next said came from her without premeditation. Her tongue seemed to speak independently of her will.
‘One thing I have said that was not true. It was not money that slipped down, but my ring. I had taken it off and laid it on the Prayer-book.’
‘Your ring?’ he repeated, with cold surprise. ‘Do you always take your ring off in church, then?’
As soon as the words were spoken she had gone deadly pale. Was it well to say that? Must there follow yet more explanation? She with difficulty overcame an impulse to speak on and disclose all her mind, the same kind of impulse she had known several times of late. Sheer dread this time prevailed. The eyes that were upon her concealed fire; what madness tempted her to provoke its outburst?
‘I have never done so before,’ she replied confusedly.
‘Why to-day, then?’
She did not answer.
‘And why did you tell—why did you say it was money?’
‘I can’t explain that,’ she answered, her head bowed. ‘I took off the ring thoughtlessly; it is rather loose; my finger is thinner than it used to be.’
On the track of cunning Mutimer’s mind was keen enough; only amid the complexities of such motives as sway a pure heart in trouble was he quite at a loss. This confession of untruthfulness might on the face of it have spoken in Adela’s favour; but his very understanding of that made him seek for subtle treachery. She saw he suspected her; was it not good policy to seem perfectly frank, even if such frankness for the moment gave a strengthening to suspicion? What devilish ingenuity might after all be concealed in this woman, whom he had taken for simplicity itself!
The first bell for luncheon disturbed his reflections.
‘Please sit down,’ he said, pointing to the chair. ‘We can’t end our talk just yet.’
She obeyed him, glad again to rest her trembling limbs.
‘If you suspect it to be a forgery,’ she said, when she had waited in vain for him to speak further, ‘the best way of deciding is to go at once to Mr. Yottle. He will remember; it was he drew up the will.’
He flashed a glance at her.
‘I’m perfectly aware of that. If this is forged, the lawyer has of course given his help. He would be glad to see me.’
Again the suspicion was genuine. Mutimer felt himself hedged in; every avenue of escape to which his thoughts turned was closed in advance. There was no one he would not now have suspected. The full meaning of his position was growing upon him; it made a ferment in his mind.
‘Mr. Yottle!’ Adela exclaimed in astonishment. ‘You think it possible that he—Oh, that is folly!’
Yes, it was folly; her voice assured him of it, proclaiming at the same time the folly of his whole doubt. It was falling to pieces, and, as it fell, disclosing the image of his fate, inexorable, inconceivable.
He stood for more than five minutes in silence. Then he drew a little nearer to her, and asked in an unsteady voice:
‘Are you glad of this?’
‘Glad of it?’ she repeated under her breath.
‘Yes; shall you be glad to see me lose everything?’
‘You cannot wish to keep what belongs to others. In that sense I think we ought to be glad that the will is found.’
She spoke so coldly that he drew away from her again. The second bell rang.
‘They had better have lunch without us,’ he said.
He rang and bade the servant ask Mr. and Mrs. Rodman to lunch alone. Then he returned to an earlier point of the discussion.
‘You say it was thick with dust?’
‘It was. I believe the lower cupboard has never been open since Mr. Mutimer’s death.’
‘Why should he take a will to church with him?’
Adela shook her head.
‘If he did,’ Mutimer pursued, ‘I suppose it was to think over the new one he was going to make. You know, of course, that he never intendedthisto be his will?’
‘We do not know what his last thoughts may have been,’ Adela replied, in a low voice but firmly.
‘Yes, I think we do. I mean to say, we are quite sure he meant to alterthis. Yottle was expecting the new will.’
‘Death took him before he could make it. He left this.’
Her quiet opposition was breath to the fire of his jealousy. He could no longer maintain his voice of argument.
‘It just means this: you won’t hear anything against the will, and you’re glad of it.’
‘Your loss is mine.’
He looked at her and again drew nearer.
‘It’s not very likely that you’ll stay to share it.’
‘Stay?’ She watched his movements with apprehension. ‘How can I separate my future from yours?’
He desired to touch her, to give some sign of his mastery, whether tenderly or with rude force mattered little.
‘It’s easy to say that, but we know it doesn’t mean much.’
His tongue stammered. As Adela rose and tried to move apart, he caught her arm roughly, then her waist, and kissed her several times about the face. Released, she sank back upon the chair, pale, tern fled; her breath caught with voiceless sobs. Mutimer turned away and leaned his arms upon the mantelpiece. His body trembled.
Neither could count the minutes that followed. An inexplicable shame kept Mutimer silent and motionless. Adela, when the shock of repugnance had passed over, almost forgot the subject of their conversation in vain endeavours to understand this man in whose power she was. His passion was mysterious, revolting—impossible for her to reconcile with his usual bearing, with his character as she understood it. It was more than a year since he had mingled his talk to her with any such sign of affection, and her feeling was one of outrage. What protection had she? The caresses had followed upon an insult, and were themselves brutal, degrading. It was a realisation of one of those half-formed fears which had so long haunted her in his presence.
What would life be with him, away from the protections of a wealthy home, when circumstances would have made him once more the London artisan, and in doing so would have added harshness to his natural temper; when he would no longer find it worth while to preserve the semblance of gentle breeding? Was there strength in her to endure that?
Presently he turned, and she heard him speak her name. She raised her eyes with a half-smile of abashment. He approached and took her hand.
‘Have you thought what this means to me?’ he asked, in a much softer voice.
‘I know it must be very hard.’
‘I don’t mean in that way. I’m not thinking of the change back to poverty. It’s my work in New Wanley; my splendid opportunity of helping on Socialism. Think, just when everything is fairly started! You can’t feel it as I do, I suppose. You haven’t the same interest in the work. I hoped once you would have had.’
Adela remembered what her brother had said, but she could not allude to it. To question was useless. She thought of a previous occasion on which he had justified himself when accused.
He still held her hand.
‘Which would do the most good with this money, he or I?’
‘We cannot ask that question.’
‘Yes, we can. We ought to. At all events,Iought to. Think what it means. In my hands the money is used for the good of a suffering class, for the good of the whole country in the end. He would just spend it on himself, like other rich men. It isn’t every day that a man of my principles gets the means of putting them into practice. Eldon is well enough off; long ago he’s made up his mind to the loss of Wanley. It’s like robbing poor people just to give money where it isn’t wanted.’
She withdrew her hand, saying coldly:
‘I can understand your looking at it in this way. But we can’t help it.’
‘Why can’t we?’ His voice grew disagreeable in its effort to be insinuating. ‘It seems to me that we can and ought to help it. It would be quite different if you and I had just been enjoying ourselves and thinking of no one else.’ He thought it a skilful stroke to unite their names thus. ‘We haven’t done anything of the kind; we’ve denied ourselves all sorts of things just to be able to spend more on New Wanley. You know what I’ve always said, that I hold the money in trust for the Union. Isn’t it true? I don’t feel justified in giving it up. The end is too important. The good of thousands, of hundreds of thousands, is at stake.’
Adela looked him in the face searchingly.
‘But how can we help it? There is the will.’
Mutimer met her eyes.
‘No one knows of it but ourselves, Adela.’
It was not indignation that her look expressed, but at first a kind of shocked surprise and then profound trouble. It was with difficulty that she found words.
‘You are not speaking in earnest?’
‘I am!’ he exclaimed, almost hopefully. ‘In downright earnest. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ He said it because he felt that her gaze was breeding shame in him. ‘It isn’t for myself, it’s for the cause, for the good of my fellowmen. Don’t say anything till you’ve thought. Look, Adela, you’re not hardhearted, and you know how it used to pain you to read of the poor wretches who can’t earn enough to keep themselves alive. It’s for their sake. If they could be here and know of this, they’d go down on their knees to you. Youcan’trob them of a chance! It’s like snatching a bit of bread out of their mouths when they’re dying of hunger.’
The fervour with which he pleaded went far to convince himself; for the moment he lost sight of everything but the necessity of persuading Adela, and his zeal could scarcely have been greater had he been actuated by the purest unselfishness. He was speaking as Adela had never heard him speak, with modulations of the voice which were almost sentimental, like one pleading for love. In his heart he despaired of removing her scruples, but he overcame this with vehement entreaty. A true instinct forbade him to touch on her own interests; he had not lived so long with Adela without attaining some perception of the nobler ways of thought. But as often as he raised his eyes to hers he saw the futility of all his words. Her direct gaze at length brought him to unwilling silence.
‘Would you then,’ Adela asked gravely, ‘destroy this will?’
‘Yes.’
The monosyllable was all he cared to reply.
‘I can scarcely believe you. Such a thing is impossible. You could not do it.’
‘It’s my duty to do it.’
‘This is unworthy of you. It is a crime, in law and in conscience. How can you so deceive yourself? After such an act as that, whatever you did would be worthless, vain.’
‘Why?’
‘Because no one can do great work of the kind you aim at unless he is himself guided by the strictest honour. Every word you spoke would be a falsehood. Oh, can’t you see that, as plainly as the light of day? The results of your work! Why, nothing you could possibly do with all this money would be one-half as good as to let everyone know that you honourably gave it up when it was in your power dishonestly to keep it! Oh, surelythatis the kind of example that the world needs! What causes all the misery but dishonesty and selfishness? If you do away with that, you gain all you are working for. The example! You should prize the opportunity. You are deceiving yourself; it is a temptation that you are yielding to. Think a moment; you will see that I am right. You cannot do a thing so unworthy of yourself.’
He stood for a moment doggedly, then replied:
‘I can and I shall do it.’
‘Never!’ Adela rose and faced him. ‘You shall listen to me till you understand. You, who pride yourself on your high motives! For your own sake scorn this temptation. Let me take the will away. I will put it somewhere till to-morrow. You will see clearly by then. I know how dreadful this loss seems to you, but you must be stronger.’
He stood between her and the table on which the parchment lay, and waved her back as she approached. Adela’s voice trembled, but there was not a note in it that he could resent.
‘You wrong yourself, and you are cruel to me. How could I live with you if you did such a thing? How could I remain in this house when it was no longer yours? It is impossible, a thousand times impossible. Youcannotmean it! If you do this in spite of everything I can say, you are more cruel than if you raised your hand and struck me. You make my life a shame; you dishonour and degrade me.’
‘That’s all nonsense,’ he replied sullenly, the jealous motive possessing him again at the sight of her gleaming eyes. ‘It’s you who don’t understand, and just because you have no sympathy with my work. Any one would think you cared for nothing but to take the money from me, just to—’
Even in his access of spiteful anger he checked himself, and dropped to another tone.
‘I take all the responsibility. You have nothing to do with it. What seems right to me, I shall do. I am your husband, and you’ve no voice in a thing like this.’
‘No voice? Have I no right to save you from ruin? Must a wife stand by and see her husband commit a crime? Have you no duty to me? What becomes of our married life if you rob me of all respect for you?’
‘I tell you I am doing it with a good motive. If you were a thorough Socialist, you would respect me all the more. This money was made out of overworked—’
He was laying his hand on the will; she sprang forward and grasped his arm.
‘Richard, give it to me!’
‘No, I shall not.’
He had satisfied himself that if the will was actually destroyed she would acquiesce in silence; the shame she spoke of would constrain her. He pushed her away without violence, and moved towards the door. But her muteness caused him to turn and regard her. She was leaning forward, her lips parted, her eyes fixed in despair.
‘Richard!’
‘Well?’
‘Are you trying me?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you believe that I should let you do that and help you to hide it?’
‘You will come to see that I was right, and be glad that I paid no heed to you.’
‘Then you don’t know me. Though you are my husband I would make public what you had done. Nothing should silence me. Do you drive me to that?’
The absence of passion in her voice impressed him far more than violence could have done. Her countenance had changed from pleading to scorn.
He stood uncertain.
‘Now indeed,’ Adela continued, ‘I am doing what no woman should have to do.’ Her voice became bitter. ‘I have not a man’s strength; I can only threaten you with shame which will fall more heavily on myself.’
‘Your word against mine,’ he muttered, trying to smile.
‘You could defend yourself by declaring me infamous?’
Did he know the meaning of that flash across her face? Only when the words were uttered did their full significance strike Adela herself.
‘You could defend yourself by saying that I lied against you?’
He regarded her from beneath his eyebrows as she repeated the question. In the silence which followed he seated himself on the chair nearest to him. Adela too sat down.
For more than a quarter of an hour they remained thus, no word exchanged. Then Adela rose and approached her husband.
‘If I order the carriage,’ she said softly, ‘will you come with me at once to Belwick?’
He gave no answer. He was sitting with his legs crossed, the will held over his knee.
‘I am sorry you have this trial,’ she continued, ‘deeply sorry. But you have won, I know you have won!’
He turned his eyes in a direction away from her, hesitated, rose.
‘Get your things on.’
He was going to the door.
‘Richard!’
She held her hand for the parchment.
‘You can’t trust me to the bottom of the stairs?’ he asked bitterly.
She all but laughed with glad confidence.
‘Oh, I will trust you!’
Adela and her husband did not return from Belwick till eight o’clock in the evening. In the first place Mr. Yottle had to be sent for from a friend’s house in the country, where he was spending Sunday; then there was long waiting for a train back to Agworth. The Rodmans, much puzzled to account for the disorder, postponed dinner. Adela, however, dined alone, and but slightly, though she had not eaten since breakfast. Then fatigue overcame her. She slept an unbroken sleep till sunrise.
On going down next morning she found ‘Arry alone in the dining-room; he was standing at the window with hands in pocket, and, after a glance round, averted his face again, a low growl his only answer to her morning salutation. Mr. Rodman was the next to appear. He shook hands as usual. In his ‘I hope you are well?’ there was an accent of respectful sympathy. Personally, he seemed in his ordinary spirits. He proceeded to talk of trifles, but in such a tone as he might have used had there been grave sickness in the house. And presently, with yet lower voice and a smile of good-humoured resignation, he said—
‘Our journey, I fear, must be postponed.’
Adela smiled, not quite in the same way, and briefly assented.
‘Alice is not very well,’ Rodman then remarked. ‘I advised her to have breakfast upstairs. I trust you excuse her?’
Mutimer made his appearance. He just nodded round, and asked, as he seated himself at table—
‘Who’s been letting Freeman loose? He’s running about the garden.’
The dog furnished a topic for a few minutes’ conversation, then there was all but unbroken silence to the end of the meal. Richard’s face expressed nothing in particular, unless it were a bad night. Rodman kept up his smile, and, eating little himself, devoted himself to polite waiting upon Adela. When he rose from the table, Richard said to his brother—
‘You’ll go down as usual. I shall be at the office in half-an-hour.’
Adela presently went to the drawing-room. She was surprised to find Alice sitting there. Mrs. Rodman had clearly not enjoyed the unbroken rest which gave Adela her appearance of freshness and calm; her eyes were swollen and red, her lips hung like those of a fretful child that has tired itself with sobbing, her hair was carelessly rolled up, her attire slatternly. She sat in sullen disorder. Seeing Adela, she dropped her eyes, and her lips drew themselves together. Adela hesitated to approach her, but was moved to do so by sheer pity.
‘I’m afraid you’ve had a bad night,’ she said kindly.
‘Yes, I suppose I have,’ was the ungracious reply.
Adela stood before her for a moment, but could find nothing else to say. She was turning when Alice looked up, her red eyes almost glaring, her breast shaken with uncontrollable passion.
‘I think you might have had some consideration,’ she exclaimed. ‘If you didn’t care to speak a word for yourself, you might have thought about others. What are we to do, I. should like to know?’
Adela was struck with consternation. She had been prepared for petulant bewailing, but a vehement outburst of this kind was the last thing she could have foreseen, above all to have it directed against herself.
‘What do you mean, Alice?’ she said with pained surprise.
‘Why, it’s all your doing, I suppose,’ the other pursued, in the same voice. ‘What right had you to let him go off in that way without saying a word to us? If the truth was known, I expect you were at the bottom of it; he wouldn’t have been such a fool, whatever he says. What right had you, I’d like to know?’
Adela calmed herself as she listened. Her surprise at the attack was modified and turned into another channel by Alice’s words.
‘Has Richard told you what passed between us?’ she inquired. It cost her nothing to speak with unmoved utterance; the difficulty was not to seem too indifferent.
‘He’s told us as much as he thought fit. His duty! I like that! As if you couldn’t have stopped him, if you’d chosen! You might have thought of other people.’
‘Did he tell you that I tried to stop him?’ Adela asked, with the same quietness of interrogation.
‘Why, did you?’ cried Alice, looking up scornfully.
‘No.’
‘Of course not! Talk about duty! I should think that was plain enough duty. I only wish he’d come to me with his talk about duty. It’s a duty to rob people, I suppose? Oh, I understandhimwell enough. It’s an easy way of getting out of his difficulties; as well lose his money this way as any other. He always thinks of himself first, trust him! He’ll go down to New Wanley and make a speech, no doubt, and show off—with his duty and all the rest of it! What’s going to become of me? You’d no right to let him go before telling us.’
‘You would have advised him to say nothing about the will?’
‘Advised him!’ she laughed angrily. ‘I’d have seen if I couldn’t do something more than advise.’
‘I fear you wouldn’t have succeeded in making your brother act dishonourably,’ Adela replied.
It was the first sarcasm that had ever passed her lips, and as soon as it was spoken she turned to leave the room, fearful lest she might say things which would afterwards degrade her in her own eyes. Her body quivered. As she reached the door Rodman opened it and entered. He bowed to let her pass, searching her face the while.
When she was gone he approached to Alice, whom he had at once observed:
‘What have you been up to?’ he asked sternly.
Her head was bent before him, and she gave no answer.
‘Can’t you speak? What’s made her look like that? Have you been quarrelling with her?’
‘Quarrelling?’
‘You know what I mean well enough. Just tell me what you said. I thought I told you to stay upstairs? What’s been going on?’
‘I told her she ought to have let us know,’ replied Alice, timorous, but affecting the look and voice of a spoilt child.
‘Then you’ve made a fool of yourself!’ he exclaimed with subdued violence. ‘You’ve got to learn that when I tell you to do a thing you do it—or I’ll know the reason why! You’d no business to come out of your room. Now you’ll just find her and apologise. You understand? You’ll go and beg her pardon at once.’
Alice raised her eyes in wretched bewilderment.
‘Beg her pardon?’ she faltered. ‘Oh, how can I? Why, what harm have I done, Willis? I’m sure I shan’t beg her pardon.’
‘You won’t? If you talk to me in that way you shall go down on your knees before her. You won’t?’
His voice had such concentrated savagery in its suppression that Alice shrank back in terror.
‘Willis! How can you speak so! What have I done?’
‘You’ve made a confounded fool of yourself, and most likely spoilt the last chance you had, if you want to know. In future, when I say a thing understand that I mean it; I don’t give orders for nothing. Go and find her and beg her pardon. I’ll wait here till you’ve done it.’
‘But Ican’t! Willis, you won’t force me to do that? I’d rather die than humble myself to her.’
‘Do you hear me?’
She stood up, almost driven to bay. Her eyes were wet, her poor, crumpled prettiness made a deplorable spectacle.
‘I can’t, I can’t! Why are you so unkind to me? I have only said what any one would. I hate her! My lips won’t speak the words. You’ve no right to ask me to do such a thing.’
Her wrist was caught in a clutch that seemed to crush the muscles, and she was flung back on to the chair. Terror would not let the scream pass her lips: she lay with open mouth and staring eyes.
Rodman looked at her for an instant, then seemed to master his fury and laughed.
‘That doesn’t improve your beauty. Now, no crying out before you’re hurt. There’s no harm done. Only you’ve to learn that I mean what I say, that’s all. Now I haven’t hurt you, so don’t pretend.’
‘Oh, youhavehurt me!’ she sobbed wretchedly, with her fingers round her injured wrist. ‘I never thought you could be so cruel. Oh, my hand! What harm have I done? And you used to say you’d never be unkind to me, never! Oh, how miserable I am! Is this how you’re going to treat me? As if I could help it! Willis, you won’t begin to be cruel? Oh, my hand!’
‘Let me look at it. Pooh, what’s amiss?’ He spoke all at once in his usual good-natured voice. ‘Now go and find Adela, whilst I wait here.’
‘You’re going to force me to do that?’
‘You’re going to do it. Now don’t make me angry again.’
She rose, frightened again by his look. She took a step or two, then turned back to him.
‘If I do this, will you be kind to me, the same as before?’
‘Of course I will. You don’t take me for a brute?’
She held her bruised wrist to him.
‘Will you—will you kiss it well again?’
The way in which she said it was as nearly pathetic as anything from poor Alice could be. Her misery was so profound, and this childish forgiveness of an outrage was so true a demonstration of womanly tenderness which her character would not allow to be noble. Her husband laughed rather uneasily, and did her bidding with an ill grace. But yet she could not go.
‘You’ll promise never to speak—’
‘Yes, yes, of course I promise. Come back to me. Mind, shall know how you did it.’
‘But why? What is she to us?’
‘I’ll tell you afterwards.’
There was a dawning of jealousy in her eyes.
‘I don’t think you ought to make your wife lower herself—’
His brow darkened.
‘Will you do as I tell you?’
She moved towards the door, stopped to dry her wet cheeks, half looked round. What she saw sped her on her way.
Adela was just descending the stairs, dressed to go out. Alice let her go past without speaking, but followed her through the hall and into the garden. Adela turned, saying gently—
‘Do you wish to speak to me?’
‘I’m sorry I said those things. I didn’t mean it. I don’t think it was your fault.’
The other smiled; then in that voice which Stella had spoken of as full of forgiveness—
‘No, it is not my fault, Alice. It couldn’t be otherwise.’
‘Don’t think of it another moment.’
Alice would gladly have retreated, but durst not omit what seemed to her the essential because the bitterest words.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘No, no!’ exclaimed Adela quickly. ‘Go and lie down a little; you look so tired. Try not to be unhappy, your husband will not let harm come to you.’
Alice returned to the house, hating her sister-in-law with a perfect hatred.
The hated one took her way into Wanley. She had no pleasant mission—that of letting her mother and Letty know what had happened. The latter she found in the garden behind the house dancing her baby-boy up and down in the sunlight. Letty did not look very matronly, it must be confessed; but what she lacked in mature dignity was made up in blue-eyed and warm-checked happiness. At the sight of Adela she gave a cry of joy.
‘Why, mother’s just getting ready to go and say good-bye to you. As soon as she comes down and takes this little rogue I shall just slip my own things on. We didn’t think you’d come here.’
‘We’re not going to-day,’ Adela replied, playing with the baby’s face.
‘Not going?’
‘Business prevents Richard.’
‘How you frightened us by leaving church yesterday! I was on my way to ask about you, but Mr. Wyvern met me and said there was nothing the matter. And you went to Agworth, didn’t you?’
‘To Belwick. We had to see Mr. Yottle, the solicitor.’
Mrs. Waltham issued from the house, and explanations were again demanded.
‘Could you give baby to the nurse for a few minutes?’ Adela asked Letty. ‘I should like to speak to you and mother quietly.’
The arrangement was effected and all three went into the sitting-room. There Adela explained in simple words all that had come to pass; emotionless herself, but the cause of utter dismay in her hearers. When she ceased there was blank silence.
Mrs. Waltham was the first to find her voice.
‘But surely Mr. Eldon won’t take everything from you? I don’t think he has the power to—it wouldn’t be just; there must be surely some kind of provision in the law for such a thing. What did Mr. Yottle say?’
‘Only that Mr. Eldon could recover the whole estate.’
‘The estate!’ exclaimed Mrs. Waltham eagerly. ‘But not the money?’
Adela smiled.
‘The estate includes the money, mother. It means everything.’
‘Oh, Adela!’ sighed Letty, who sat with her hands on her lap, bewildered.
‘But surely not Mrs. Rodman’s settlement?’ cried the elder lady, who was rapidly surveying the whole situation.
‘Everything,’ affirmed Adela.
‘But what an extraordinary, what an unheard-of thing! Such injustice I never knew! Oh, but Mr. Eldon is a gentleman—he can never exact his legal rights to the full extent. He has too much delicacy of feeling for that.’ Adela glanced at her mother with a curious openness of look—the expression which by apparent negation of feeling reveals feeling of special significance. Mrs. Waltham caught the glance and checked her flow of speech.
‘Oh, he could never do that!’ she murmured the next moment, in a lower key, clasping her hands together upon her knees. ‘I am sure he wouldn’t.’
‘You must remember, mother,’ remarked Adela with reserve, ‘that Mr. Eldon’s disposition cannot affect us.’
‘My dear child, what I meant was this: it is impossible for him to go to law with your husband to recover the uttermost farthing. How are you to restore money that is long since spent? and it isn’t as if it had been spent in the ordinary way—it has been devoted to public purposes. Mr. Eldon will of course take all these things into consideration. And really one must say that it is very strange for a wealthy man to leave his property entirely to strangers.’
‘Not entirely,’ put in Adela rather absently.
‘A hundred and seven pounds a year!’ exclaimed her mother protestingly. ‘My dear love, whatcanbe done with such a paltry sum as that!’
‘We must do a good deal with it, dear mother. It will be all we have to depend upon until Richard finds—finds some position.’
‘But you are not going to leave the Manor at once?’
‘As soon as ever we can. I don’t know what arrangement my husband is making. We shall see Mr. Yottle again to-morrow.’
‘Adela, this is positively shocking! It seems incredible I never thought such things could happen. No wonder you looked white when you went out of church. How little I imagined! But you know you can come here at any moment. You can sleep with me, or we’ll have another bed put up in the room. Oh, dear; oh, dear! It will take me a long time to understand it. Your husband could not possibly object to your living here till he found you a suitable home. WhatwillAlfred say? Oh, you must certainly come here. I shan’t have a moment’s’ rest if you go away somewhere whilst things are in this dreadful state.’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ Adela replied with a reassuring smile. ‘It might very well have happened that we had nothing at all, not even the hundred pounds; but a wife can’t run away for reasons of that kind—can she, Letty?’
Letty gazed with her eyes of loving pity, and sighed, ‘I suppose not, dear.’
Adela sat with them for only a few minutes more. She did not feel able to chat at length on a crisis such as this, and the tone of her mother’s sympathy was not soothing to her. Mrs. Waltham had begun to put a handkerchief to her eyes.
‘You mustn’t take it to heart,’ Adela said as she bent and kissed her cheek. ‘You can’t think how little it troubles me—on my own account. Letty, I look to you to keep mother cheerful. Only think what numbers of poor creatures would dance for joy if they had a hundred a year left them! We must be philosophers, you see. I couldn’t shed a tear if I tried ever so hard. Good-bye, dear mother!’
Mrs. Waltham did not rise, but Letty followed her friend into the hall. She had been very silent and undemonstrative; now she embraced Adela tenderly. There was still something of the old diffidence in her manner, but the effect of her motherhood was discernible. Adela was childless—a circumstance in itself provocative of a gentle sense of protection in Letty’s heart.
‘You’ll let us see you every day, darling?’
‘As often as I can, Letty. Don’t let mother get low-spirited. There’s nothing to grieve about.’
Letty returned to the sitting-room; Mrs. Waltham was still pressing the handkerchief on this cheek and that alternately.
‘How wonderful she is!’ Letty exclaimed. ‘I feel as if I could never again fret over little troubles.’
‘Adela has a strong character,’ assented the mother with mournful pride.
Letty, unable to sit long without her baby, fetched it from the nurse’s arms. The infant’s luncheon-hour had arrived, and the nourishment was still of Letty’s own providing. It was strange to see on her face the slow triumph of this ineffable bliss over the grief occasioned by the recent conversation. Mrs. Waltham had floated into a stream of talk.
‘Now, what a strange thing it is!’ she observed, after many other reflections, and when the sound of her own voice had had time to soothe. ‘On the very morning of the wedding I had the most singular misgiving, a feeling I couldn’t explain. One would almost think I had foreseen this very thing. And you know very well, my dear, that the marriage troubled me in many ways. It was notthematch for Adela, but then—. Adela, as you say, has a strong character; she is not very easy to reason with. I tried to make both sides of the question clear to her. But then her prejudice against Mr. Eldon was very strong, and how naturally, poor child! Young people don’t like to trust to time; they think everything must be done quickly. If she had been one to marry for reasons of interest it might look like a punishment; but then it was so far otherwise. How much better it would have been to wait a few years! One really never knows what is going to happen. Young people really ought to trust others’ experience.’
Letty was only lending half an ear. The general character of her mother-in-law’s monologues did not encourage much attention. She was conscious of a little surprise, even now and then of a mild indignation; but the baby sucking at her breast lulled her into a sweet maternal apathy. She could only sigh from time to time and wonder whether it was a good thing or the contrary that Adela had no baby in her trials.