She was seated, gazing at the view. Not till he came quite near did Harvey recognise her, and until he stopped she did not glance in his direction. Thus he was able to observe her for a moment, and noticed that she looked anything but well; one would have thought her overworked, or oppressed by some trouble. She did not see what her eyes were fixed upon, and her features had a dreaming tenderness of expression which made them more interesting, more nearly beautiful, than when they were controlled by her striving will. When Harvey paused beside her she gave him a startled smile, but was at once herself again.
'Do you care for that?' he asked, indicating the landscape.
'I can't be enthusiastic about it.'
'Nor I. A bit of ploughed field in the midlands gives me more pleasure.'
'It was beautiful once.'
'Yes; before London breathed upon it.—Do you remember the view from Cam Bodvean?'
'Oh, indeed I do! The larches are coming out now.'
'And the gorse shines, and the sea is blue, and the mountains rise one behind the other!—Did you talk about it with Mr. Thistlewood? I found that he knew all that country.'
'We spoke of it,' replied Mrs. Abbott, taking a step forward.
'An interesting man, don't you think?'
Harvey glanced at her, remembering the odd suggestion he had heard from Alma; and in truth it seemed that his inquiry caused her some embarrassment.
'Yes, very interesting,' answered his companion quietly, as she walked on.
'You had met him before–?'
'He always comes to the Langlands' at Christmas.' She added in another voice, 'I was glad to hear from Hughie yesterday that all was well at home.'
They sauntered along the path. Harvey described the walk he had had this morning. Mrs. Abbott said that the bright day had tempted her to an unusual distance; she had come, of course, by train, and must now think of turning back towards the station.
'Let me go so far with you,' said Harvey. 'What is your report of the boy? He gives you no trouble, I hope?'
She replied in detail, with the conscientiousness which always appeared in her when speaking of her work. It was not the tone of one who delights in teaching; there was no spontaneity, no enthusiasm; but every word gave proof of how seriously she regarded the duties she had undertaken. And she was not without pride in her success. The little school had grown, so that it now became a question whether she should decline pupils or engage an assistant teacher.
'You are resolved to go on with the infantry?' said Rolfe, smiling.
'The little ones—yes. I begin to feel some confidence with them; I don't think I'm in danger of going far wrong. But I shouldn't have the least faith in myself, now, with older children.—Of course I have Minnie Wager. She'll soon be eleven, you know. I do my best with her.'
'Mrs. Langland says you have done wonders.'
'Minnie will never learn much from books; I feel pretty sure of that. But'—she laughed—'everyone has a strong point, if it can be discovered, and I really think I have found Minnie's at last. It was quite by chance. The other day I was teaching my maid to make pastry, and Minnie happened to stand by. Afterwards, she begged me to let her try her hand at it, and I did, and the result was surprising. For the very first time she had found something that she enjoyed doing. She went to it with zeal, and learnt in no time. Since then she has made tarts, and puddings, and cake–'
Harvey broke into laughter. It was an odd thing that the employment he had suggested for this girl, in his talk at Greystone, should prove to be her genuine vocation.
'Don't you think it's as well to encourage her?' said Mrs. Abbott.
'By all manner of means! I think it's a magnificent discovery. I should give her the utmost encouragement. Let her learn cookery in all its branches, steadily and seriously.'
'It may solve the problem of her future. She might get employment in one of the schools of cookery.'
'Never again be uneasy about her,' cried Rolfe delightedly. 'She is provided for. She will grow old with honour, love, obedience, troops of friends!—A culinary genius! Why, it's the one thing the world is groaning and clamouring for. Let her burn her school-books. Sacrifice everything to her Art.—You have rejoiced me with this news.'
Slenderly endowed on the side of humour, Mary Abbott could not feel sure whether he was really pleased or not; he had to repeat to her, with all gravity, that he no longer felt anxious on the girl's account.
'For my own part,' said Mary, 'I would rather see her a good cook in a lady's kitchen, if it came to that, than leading a foolish life at some so-called genteel occupation.'
'So would any one who has common-sense.—And her brother; I don't think we can go wrong about him. The reports from school are satisfactory; they show that he loathes everything but games and fighting. At fifteen they'll take him on a training ship.—I wonder whether their father's alive or dead?'
'It is to be hoped they'll never see him again.'
Harvey was smiling—at a thought which he did not communicate.
'You say you wouldn't trust yourself to teach older children. You mean, of course, that you feel much the difficulty of the whole thing—of all systems of education.'
'Yes. And I dare say it's nothing but foolish presumption when I fancy I can teach babies.'
'You have at all events a method,' said Harvey, 'and it seems to be a very good one. For the teaching of children after they can read and write, there seems to be no method at all. The old classical education was fairly consistent, but it exists no longer. Nothing has taken its place. Muddle, experiment, and waste of lives—too awful to think about. We're savages yet in the matter of education. Somebody said to me once: "Well, but look at the results; they're not so bad." Great heavens! not so bad—when the supreme concern of mankind is to perfect their instruments of slaughter! Not so bad—when the gaol and the gallows are taken as a matter of course! Not so bad—when huge filthy cities are packed with multitudes who have no escape from toil and hunger but in a wretched death! Not so bad—when all but every man's life is one long blunder, the result of ignorance and unruled passions!'
Mrs. Abbott showed a warm assent.
'People don't think or care anything about education. Seriously, I suppose it has less place in the thoughts of most men and women than any other business of life?'
'Undoubtedly,' said Rolfe. 'And one is thought a pedant and a bore if one ever speaks of it. It's as much against good manners as to begin talking about religion. But a pedant must relieve his mind sometimes. I'm so glad I met you today; I wanted to hear what you thought about the boy.'
For the rest of the way, they talked of lighter things; or rather, Rolfe talked and his companion listened. Nothing more difficult than easy chat between a well-to-do person of abundant leisure and one whose days are absorbed in the earning of a bare livelihood. Mary Abbott had very little matter for conversation beyond the circle of her pursuits; there was an extraordinary change in her since the days of her married life, when she had prided herself on talking well, or even brilliantly. Harvey could not help a feeling of compassion as she walked at his side. For all his admiration of her self-conquest, and of the tasks to which she had devoted herself, he would have liked to free her from the daily mill. She was young yet, and should taste of joy before the years began to darken about her. But these are the thoughts that must not be uttered. To show pity is to insult. A merry nod to the friend who staggers on beneath his burden; and, even at his last gasp, the friend shall try to nod merrily back again.
He took leave of her at the station, saying that he meant to walk by the river homeward. A foolish scruple, which would never have occurred to him but for Alma's jealousy.
When he reached his house at about four o'clock, he felt very tired; it was a long time since he had walked so far. Using his latch-key to enter, he crossed the hall to the study without seeing anyone or hearing a sound. There was a letter on his table. As he opened it, and began to read, the door—which he had left ajar—was pushed softly open; there entered Hughie, unusually silent, and with a strange look in his bright eyes.
'Father—Louie says that baby is dead.'
Harvey's hand fell. He stared, stricken mute.
'Father—I don't want baby to be dead! Don't let baby be dead!'
The child's voice shook, and tears came into his eyes. Without a word, Rolfe hastened from the room and up the stairs. As he reached the landing, a wail of grief sounded from somewhere near; could that be Alma's voice? In a moment he had knocked at her door. He durst not turn the handle; the beating of his heart shook him in every limb. The door opened, and the nurse showed her face. A hurried whisper; the baby had died two hours ago, in convulsions.
Alma's voice sounded again.
'Who is that?—Harvey—oh, come, come to me! My little baby is dead!'
He sat alone with her for an hour. He scarcely knew her for his wife, so unlike herself had she become under the stress of passionate woe; her face drawn in anguish, yet illumined as he had never seen it; her voice moving on a range of notes which it had never sounded. The little body lay pressed against her bosom; she would not let it be taken from her. Consolation was idle. Harvey tried to speak the thought which was his first and last as he looked at the still, waxen face; the thought of thankfulness, that this poor feeble little being was saved from life; but he feared to seem unfeeling. Alma could not yet be comforted. The sight of the last pitiful struggles had pierced her to the heart; she told of it over and over again, in words and tones profoundly touching.
The doctor had been here, and would return in the evening. It was Alma now who had to be cared for; her state might easily become dangerous.
When Harvey went downstairs again, he met Hughie and his nurse in the hall. The little boy ran to him.
'Mayn't I come to you, Father? Louie says I mustn't come.'
'Yes, yes; come, dear.'
In the library he sat down, and took Hughie upon his knee, and pressed the soft little cheek against his own. Without mention of baby, the child asked at once if his father would not read to him as usual.
'I don't think I can tonight, Hughie.'
'Why not, Father? Because baby is dead?'
'Yes. And Mother is very poorly. I must go upstairs again soon.'
'Is Mother going to be dead?' asked the child, with curiosity rather than fear.
'No! No!'
'But—but if mother went there, she could fetch baby back again.'
'Went where?'
Hughie made a vague upward gesture.
'Louie says baby is gone up into the sky.'
Perhaps it was best so. What else can one say to a little child of four years old? Harvey Rolfe had no choice but to repeat what seemed good to Louie the nursemaid. But he could refrain from saying more.
Alma was in a fever by night-time. There followed days and days of misery; any one hour of which, as Rolfe told himself, outbalanced all the good and joy that can at best be hoped for in threescore years and ten. But Alma clung to life. Harvey had thought she would ask for her little son, and expend upon him the love called forth by her dead baby; she seemed, however, to care even less for Hughie than before. And, after all, the bitter experience had made little change in her.
CHAPTER 7
Since the removal from Pinner, Rolfe had forgotten his anxieties with regard to money. Expenses were reduced; not very greatly, but to a point which made all the difference between just exceeding his income and living just within it. He had not tried to economise, and would scarcely have known how to begin; it was the change in Alma's mode of life that brought about this fortunate result. With infinite satisfaction he dismissed from his mind the most hateful of all worries.
It looked, too, as if the business in Westminster Bridge Road might eventually give a substantial return for the money he had invested in it. Through the winter, naturally, little trade was done; but with springtime things began to look brisk and hopeful. Harvey had applied himself seriously to learning the details of the business; he was no longer a mere looker-on, but could hold practical counsel with his partner, make useful suggestions, and help in carrying them out.
In the sixth month after her father's decease, Rolfe enjoyed the privilege of becoming acquainted with Miss Winter. Morphew took him one afternoon to the house at Earl's Court, where the widow and her daughter were still living, the prospect of Henrietta's marriage having made it not worth while for them to change their abode in the interim. With much curiosity, with not a little mistrust, Harvey entered the presence of these ladies, whose names and circumstances had been so familiar to him for years. Henrietta proved to be very unlike the image he had formed of her. Anticipating weakness, conventionality, and some affectation, he was surprised to meet a lady of simple, grave manners; nervous at first, but soon perfectly self-possessed; by no means talkative, but manifesting in every word a well-informed mind and a habit of reflection. It astonished him that such a man as Cecil Morphew should have discovered his ideal in Henrietta Winter; it perplexed him yet more that Cecil's attachment should have been reciprocated.
Mrs. Winter was a very ordinary person; rather pretentious, rather too fluent of speech, inclined to fretfulness, and probably of trying temper. Having for many years lived much beyond his means (in the manner so often described by Morphew), Mr. Winter had left his family as good as unprovided for. There was money to be divided between mother and daughter, but so small a sum that it could not be regarded as a source of income. To the widow was bequeathed furniture; to Henrietta, a library of two thousand volumes; finally, the testator directed that the sum of five hundred pounds should be spent on a window of stained glass (concerning which full particulars were given), to be set up, in memory of himself, in the church he had been wont to honour with his pious attendance. This item of her husband's will had so embittered Mrs. Winter, that she hardly ever spoke of him; if obliged to do so, it was with cold severity that she uttered his name. Immediately, she withdrew all opposition to Henrietta's marriage with the man she had considered so objectionable; she would not have been sorry had her daughter chosen to be married with the least possible delay. As for the future, of course she must live in her daughter's house; together, they must make what they could of their small capital, and hope that Cecil's business would prosper.
Harvey had been acquainted with these facts since Mr. Winter's death. Bearing them in mind as he talked with Henrietta, and exerting his powers of observation to the utmost, he still found himself as far as ever from a definite opinion as to the wisdom of the coming marriage. That Mrs. Winter would be a great obstacle to happiness admitted of no doubt; but Henrietta herself might or might not prove equal to the change of circumstances. Evidently one of her characteristics was an extreme conscientiousness; it explained, perhaps, her long inability to decide between the claims of parents and lover. Her tastes in literature threw some light upon the troubles which had beset her; she was a student of George Eliot, and spoke of the ethical problems with which that author is mainly concerned, in a way suggestive of self-revelation. Conversing for the first time with Morphew's friend, and finding him sufficiently intelligent, she might desire to offer some indirect explanation of the course she had followed. Harvey could not question her sincerity, but she seemed to him a trifle morbid. It might be natural reaction, in a temper such as hers, against the monstrous egotism by which her life had been subdued and shadowed. She inclined to mystical views; mentioned Christina Rossetti as one of her favourites; cared little or nothing for the louder interests of the time. Impossible to detect the colour of her thoughts with regard to Cecil; she spoke of him gravely and gently, but without the least perceptible emotion. Harvey noticed her when Morphew was saying goodbye; her smile was sweet, and perhaps tender, but even then she seemed to be debating with herself some point of conscience. Perhaps Cecil had pressed her hand rather too fervently?
The friends walked away in silence along the dim-lighted street, between monotonous rows of high sombre houses, each with its pillared portico which looked like the entrance to a tomb. Glancing about him with a sense of depression, Harvey wondered that any mortal could fix his pride on the fact of residence in such a hard, cold, ugly wilderness.
'Has she altered much since you first knew her?' he asked at length.
'A good deal,' answered the other. 'Yes, a good deal. She used to laugh sometimes; now she never does. She was always quiet—always looked at things seriously—but it was different. You think her gloomy?'
'No, no; not gloomy. It's all natural enough. Her life wants a little sunlight, that's all.'
For the rest, he could speak with sincere admiration, and Cecil heard him delightedly.
The choice of a dwelling was a most difficult matter. As it must be quite a small house, the remoter suburbs could alone supply what was wanted; Morphew spent every Saturday and Sunday in wearisome exploration. Mrs. Winter, though in theory she accepted the necessity of cheapness, shrank from every practical suggestion declaring it impossible to live in such places as Cecil requested her to look at. She had an ideal of the 'nice little house,' and was as likely to discover it in London's suburbs as to become possessed once more of the considerable fortune which she and her husband had squandered in mean extravagance. Morphew had already come to the conclusion, and Henrietta agreed with him, that their future home must be chosen without regard to Mrs. Winter's impracticable ideas. And the sooner the better, in her own interests; for it was plain that so long as she continued in the old house she would thoughtlessly waste her means. The end of the twelvemonth, at latest, must see them all in their new home.
But meanwhile fate was preparing a new trial for Henrietta's much-disciplined conscience.
On a Saturday afternoon, when the crisis of Alma's illness was over, Harvey received a telegram summoning him to Westminster Bridge Road. "Come if you possibly can. Or I must come to you." Only yesterday he had been with Morphew for a couple of hours, and all seemed well; Cecil thought he had found the house that would suit him; he was in jubilant spirits, laughing, singing, more boylike than ever. Suspecting new obstructiveness on the part of Mrs. Winter, Harvey went to town in an impatient mood. He found the shop closed, as usual at this hour on Saturday, and rang the house-door bell. Morphew himself replied, with a countenance which made known forthwith that something extraordinary had happened; eyes red and swollen, cheeks puffy, colourless, smeared.
"Well?"
Cecil clutched at his hand, and drew him in. They went upstairs to the office, where all was quiet.
"Rolfe, if I hadn't had you to send for, I should have been dead by now. There's poison enough in this place. It has tempted me fearfully."
"What, is it?" asked the other, in a not very sympathetic voice. His own troubles of the past month made mere love-miseries seem artificial.
"I shall have to tell you what I wanted to tell you long ago. If I had, most likely this would never have happened.–It's all over with me, Rolfe. I wish to God you had let me die in that hotel at Brussels.–She has been told something about me, and there's an end of everything. She sent for me this morning. I never thought she could be so pitiless.–The kind of thing that a man thinks nothing of. And herself the cause of it, if only I had dared to tell her so!"
'The old story, I suppose,' said Harvey. 'Some other woman?'
'I was very near telling you, that day you came to my beastly garret in Chelsea; do you remember? It was the worst time with me then—except when you found me in Brussels. I'd been gambling again; you knew that. I wanted money for something I felt ashamed to speak of.—You know the awful misery I used to suffer about Henrietta. I was often enough nearly mad with—what is one to call it? Why isn't there a decent name for the agony men go through at that age? I simply couldn't live alone any longer—I couldn't; and only a fool and a hypocrite would pretend to blame me. A man, that is; women seem to be made different.—Oh, there's nothing to tell. The same thing happens a hundred times every day in London. A girl wandering about in the Park—quarrel at home—all the rest of it. A good many lies on her side; a good deal of selfishness on mine. I happened to have money just then. And just when I had no money—about the time you met me—a child was born. She said it was mine; anyway, I had to be responsible. Of course I had long ago repented of behaving so badly to Henrietta. But no woman can understand, and it's impossible to explain to them. You're a beast and a villain, and there's an end of it.'
'And how has this become known to Miss Winter?' Harvey inquired, seeing that Morphew lost himself in gloom.
'You might almost guess it; these things always happen in the same way. You've heard me speak of a fellow called Driffel—no? I thought I might have mentioned him. He got to know the girl. He and I were at a music-hall one night, and she met us; and I heard, soon after, that she was living with him. It didn't last long. She got ill, and wrote to me from Westminster Hospital; and I was foolish enough to give her money again, off and on, up to only a few months ago. She talked about living a respectable life, and so on, and I couldn't refuse to help her. But I found out it was all humbug, and of course I stopped. Then she began to hunt me, Out of spite. And she heard from someone—Driffel, as likely as not—all about Henrietta; and yesterday Henrietta had a letter from her. This morning I was sent for, to explain myself.'
'At one time, then, you had lost sight of her altogether?'
'She has always had money from me, more or less regularly, except at the time that Driffel kept her. But there has been nothing else between us, since that first year. I kept up payments on account of the child, and she was cheating me in that too. Of course she put out the baby to nurse, and I understood it lived on; but the truth was it died after a month or two—starved to death, no doubt. I only learnt that, by taking a good deal of trouble, when she was with Driffel.'
'Starved to death at a month or two old,' murmured Rolfe. 'The best thing for it, no doubt.'
'It's worse than anything I have done,' said Morphew, miserably. 'I think more of it now than I did at the time. A cruel, vile thing!'
'And you told Miss Winter everything?'
'Everything that can be spoken about. The plain truth of the story. The letter was a lie from beginning to end, of course. It made me out a heartless scoundrel. I had been the ruin of the girl—a helpless innocent; and now, after all these years, wanted to cut her adrift, not caring what became of her. My defence seemed to Henrietta no defence at all. The fact that there had been such an episode in my life was quite sufficient. Everything must be at an end between us, at once and for ever. She could not live with me, knowing this. No one should learn the cause; not even her mother; but I must never see her again. And so I came away, meaning to end my life. It wasn't cowardice that prevented me; only the thought that she would be mixed up in it, and suffer more than I had made her already.'
Voice and look constrained Harvey to believe this. He spoke more sympathetically.
'It's better that it happened before than after.'
'I've tried to think that, but I can't. Afterwards, I could have made her believe me and forgive me.'
'That seems to me more than doubtful.'
'But why should it have happened at all?' cried Cecil, in the tone of despairing bitterness. 'Did I deserve it? Haven't I behaved better, more kindly, than most men would have done? Isn't it just because I was too good-natured that this has come on me?'
'I myself readily take that view,' answered Rolfe. 'But I can perfectly understand why Miss Winter doesn't.'
'So can I—so can I,' groaned Cecil. 'It's in her nature. And do you suppose I haven't cursed myself for deceiving her? The thought has made me miserable, often enough. I never dreamt she would get to know of it; but it weighed upon me all the same. Yet who was the cause of it, really and truly? I'm glad I could keep myself from saying all I thought. She wouldn't have understood; I should only have looked more brutal in her eyes. But if she had married me when she might have done! There was the wrong that led to everything else.'
Harvey nodded and muttered.
'At one and twenty she might have taken her own way. I wasn't a penniless adventurer. My name is as good as hers. We could have lived well enough on my income, until I found a way of increasing it, as I should have done. Girls don't know what they are doing when they make men wait year after year. No one can tell them. But I begged—I prayed to her—I said all I dared. It was her cursed father and mother! If I had had three thousand, instead of three hundred, a year, they would have rushed her into marriage. No! we must have a big house, like their own, and a troop of thieving servants, or we were eternally disgraced. How I got the money didn't matter, so long as I got it. And she hadn't courage—she thought it wrong to defy them. As if the wrong wasn't in giving way to such a base superstition! I believe she has seen that since her father's death. And now–'
He broke down, shaking and choking in an agony of sobs. Harvey could only lay a kind hand upon him; there was no verbal comfort to offer. Presently Cecil talked on again, and so they sat together as twilight passed into darkness. Rolfe would gladly have taken the poor fellow home with him, out of solitude with its miseries and dangers, but Cecil refused. Eventually they walked westward for a few miles; then Morphew, with a promise to see his friend next day, turned back into the crowd.