Beatrice entered, rustling in a light, shimmery dress. Her face expressed embarrassment rather than surprise; after the first exchange of glances, she avoided his eager look. Her hand had lain but coldly in his. Wilfrid, face to face with her, found more difficulty in speaking than he had anticipated.
‘I have come directly from Switzerland,’ he began. ‘You mentioned in a letter to my aunt that—’
His hesitation of a moment was relieved by Beatrice.
‘You mean Miss Hood’s illness,’ she said, looking down at her hands, which were lightly clasped on her lap.
‘Yes. I wish for news. I thought it likely you might know—’
Probably it was the effect of his weariness; he could not speak in his usual straightforward way; hesitancy, to his own annoyance, made gaps and pauses in his sentences.
‘We heard this morning,’ Beatrice said, looking past his face to the window, ‘that she is better. The danger seems to be over.’
‘There has been danger?’
‘The day before yesterday she was given up.’
‘So ill as that.’ Wilfrid spoke half to himself, and indeed it cost him an effort to make his voice louder. He began, ‘Can you tell me—’ and again paused.
‘Have you heard nothing from any other quarter?’ Beatrice asked, after a silence of almost a minute.
He looked at her, wondering what she knew of his relations to Emily. It was clear that his interest occasioned her no surprise.
‘I came away immediately on hearing what your letter contained. There is no one else with whom I could communicate. I hesitated to go to the house, not knowing—Will you tell me what you know of this horrible event?’
Beatrice stroked one hand with the other, and seemed to constrain herself to lock up and to speak.
‘I myself know nothing but the fact of Mr. Hood’s death. It took place some ten days ago, on Monday of last week. I arrived here on the Wednesday.’
‘Of course there was an inquest—with what results?’
‘None, beyond the verdict of suicide. No definite cause could be discovered. It is said that he suffered from very narrow means. His body was found by Mr. Dagworthy.’
‘Who is Mr. Dagworthy?’
‘I thought you probably knew,’ returned Beatrice, glancing quickly at him. ‘He was employed by Mr. Dagworthy as clerk in a manufactory. He had just left for his summer holiday.’
‘What evidence did his employer give?’
‘He only stated that Mr. Hood had been perfectly regular and satisfactory at his work.’
‘Then in truth it is a mystery?’
‘Mr. Baxendale thinks that there had been a long struggle with poverty, quite enough to account for the end.’
Wilfrid sat in gloomy silence. He was picturing what Emily must have endured, and reproaching himself for not having claimed a right to her entire confidence, when it was in his power to make that hard path smooth, and to avert this fearful misery. Looking up at length, he met the girl’s eyes.
‘I need not explain myself to you, Beatrice,’ he said, finding at last a natural tone, and calling her by her Christian name because he had much need of friendly sympathy. ‘You appear to know why I have come.’
She answered rather hurriedly.
‘I should not have known but for something that Mrs. Baxendale told me. Mr. Athel wrote a short time ago to ask for information about them—about the Hoods.’
‘He wrote?’
Wilfrid heard it with a little surprise, but without concern.
‘Do you know whether Mrs. Hood is alone—with her?’ he went on to ask.
‘I believe so.’
‘And she is better?’ He added quickly, ‘Has she proper attendance? Have any friends been of aid?’
‘The Baxendales have shown much kindness. My aunt saw her yesterday.’
‘Will it be long before she is able to leave her room, do you know?’
‘I am not able to say. Mrs. Baxendale hopes you will go upstairs and see her; she can tell you more. Will you go?’
‘But is she alone? I can’t talk with people.’
‘Yes, she is alone, quite.’
He rose. The girl’s eyes fixed themselves on him again, and she said:
‘You look dreadfully tired.’
‘I have not slept, I think, since I left Thun.’
‘You left them all well?’ Beatrice asked, with a change in her voice, from anxious interest which would have veiled itself, to the tone of one discharging a formal politeness.
Wilfrid replied with a brief affirmative, and they ascended the stairs together to a large and rather dim drawing-room, with a scent of earth and vegetation arising from the great number of growing plants arranged about it. Beatrice presented her friend to Mrs. Baxendale, and at once withdrew.
The lady with whom Wilfrid found himself talking was tall and finely made, not very graceful in her bearing, and with a large face, the singular kindness of which speedily overcame the first sense of dissatisfaction at its plainness. She wore a little cap of lace, and from her matronly costume breathed a pleasant freshness, akin to the activity of her flame. Having taken the young man’s hand at greeting, she held it in both her own, and with large, grey eyes examined his face shrewdly. Yet neither the action nor the gaze was embarrassing to Wilfrid he felt, on the contrary, something wonderfully soothing in the pressure of the warm, firm hands, and in her look an invitation to the repose of confidence which was new in his experience of women—an experience not extensive, by the bye, though his characteristic generalisations seemed to claim the opposite. He submitted from the first moment to an influence maternal in its spirit, an influence which his life had lacked, and which can perhaps only be fully appreciated either in mature reflection upon a past made sacred by death, or on a meeting such as this, when the heart is open to the helpfulness of disinterested sympathy. Mrs. Baxendale’s countenance was grave enough to suit the sad thoughts with which she sought to commune, yet showed an under-smile, suggesting the consolation held in store by one much at home in the world’s sorrows. As she smiled, each of her cheeks dimpled softly, and Wilfrid could not help noticing the marvellous purity of her complexion, as well as the excellent white teeth just visible between her lips.
‘So you have come all the way from Switzerland,’ she said, leading him to a chair, and seating herself by him. Her voice had a touch of masculine quality, even as her shape and features, but it chained attention, and impressed as the utterance of a large and strong nature. ‘You are tired, too, with travel; I can see that. When did you reach Dunfield?’
‘Half an hour ago.’
‘And you came here at once. Beatrice and I were on the point of going to Hebsworth this afternoon; I rejoice that we did not. I’m continually afraid lest she should find the house dull. My husband and myself are alone. My eldest girl was married three months ago, my younger one is just gone to Germany, and my son is spending half a year in the United States; the mother finds herself a little forsaken. It was really more than kind of Beatrice to come and bury herself with me for a week or two.’
She passed by tactful transition to the matter in hand.
‘Wasn’t it a strange link that she should meet Miss Hood at your house! She has been so saddened. I never yet knew any one who could talk with Emily without feeling deep interest in her. My daughter Louisa, I am convinced, will never forget what she owes to her teacher She and my youngest child used to be Miss Hood’s pupils—perhaps you have heard? My own Emily—she is dead—was passionately fond of her namesake; she talked of her among the last words she ever spoke, poor little mite.’
‘Miss Redwing tells me you saw her yesterday,’ Wilfrid said.
‘Yes, for the first time.’
‘Was she conscious?’
‘Quite. But I was afraid to talk to her more than a minute or two; even that excited her too much. I fear you must not let her know yet of your presence.’
‘I am glad I knew nothing of this till the worst was
over. From the way in which she spoke of her father I should have feared horrible things. Did you know him with any intimacy?’
‘Only slightly, I am sorry to say. The poor man seems to have had a very hard life; it is clear to me that sheer difficulty in making ends meet drove him out of his senses. Are you a student of political economy?’ she asked suddenly, looking into Wilfrid’s face with a peculiar smile.
‘I am not. Why do you ask?’
‘It is the one subject on which my husband and I hold no truce. Mr. Baxendale makes it one of his pet studies, whilst I should like to make a bonfire of every volume containing such cruel nonsense. You must know, Mr. Athel, that I have an evil reputation in Dunfield; my views are held dangerous; they call me a socialist. Mr. Baxendale, when particularly angry, offers to hire the hall in the Corn Exchange, that I may say my say and henceforth spare him at home. Now think of this poor man. He had a clerkship in a mill, and received a salary of disgraceful smallness; he never knew what it was to be free of anxiety. The laws of political economy will have it so, says my husband; if Mr. Hood refused, there were fifty other men ready to take the place. He couldn’t have lived at all, it seems, but that he owned a house in another town, which brought him a few pounds a year. I can’t talk of such things with patience. Here’s my husband offering himself as a Liberal candidate for Dunfield at the election coming on. I say to him: What are you going to do if you get into Parliament? Are you going to talk political economy, and make believe that everything is right, when it’s as wrong as can be? If so, I say, you’d better save your money for other purposes, and stay where you are. He tells me my views are impracticable; then, I say, so much the worse for the world, and so much the more shame for every rich man who finds excuses for such a state of things. It is dreadful to think of what those poor people must have gone through. They were so perfectly quiet under it that no one gave a thought to their position. When Emily used to come here day after day, I’ve often suspected she didn’t have enough to eat, yet it was impossible for me to ask questions, it would have been called prying into things that didn’t concern me.’
‘She has told me for how much kindness she is indebted to you,’ Wilfrid said, with gratitude.
‘Pooh! What could I do? Oh, don’t we live absurdly artificial lives? Now why should a family who, through no fault of their own, are in the most wretched straits, shut themselves up and hide it like a disgrace? Don’t you think we hold a great many very nonsensical ideas about self-respect and independence and so on? If I were in want, I know two or three people to whom I should forthwith go and ask for succour; if they thought the worse of me for it, I should tell them they ought to be ashamed of themselves. We act, indeed, as if we ourselves had made the world and were bound to pretend it an admirable piece of work, without a screw loose anywhere. I always say the world’s about as bad a place as one could well imagine, at all events for most people who live in it, and that it’s our plain duty to help each other without grimacings. The death of this poor man has distressed me more than I can tell you; it does seem such a monstrously cruel thing. There’s his employer, a man called Dagworthy, who never knew what it was to be without luxuries,—I’m not in the habit of listening to scandal, but I believe there’s a great deal of truth in certain stories told about his selfishness and want of feeling. I consider Mr. Dagworthy this poor man’s murderer; it was his bounden duty to see that a man in his employment was paid enough to live upon,—and Mr. Hood was not. Imagine what suffering must have brought about such an end as this. A sad case,—say people. I call it a case of crime that enjoys impunity.’
Wilfrid listened gloomily. The broad question stirred him to no strong feeling, but the more he heard the more passionate was his longing to bear Emily away from the scenes of such a past. With what devotion would he mould his life to the one task of healing her memory! Yet he knew it must be very long before her heart could recover from the all but deadly wound it had received. A feeling which one may not call jealousy,—that were too inhuman,—but still one of the million forms which jealousy assumes to torture us, drove him to ask himself what the effect of such a crisis in her life might be on Emily’s love for him. There would always remain in her inmost soul one profound sadness in which he had no part, and which by its existence would impugn the supremacy of that bond which united him and her.
‘How does Mrs. Hood bear it?’ he asked, when he found Mrs. Baxendale again examining his face.
‘I think Emily’s illness has been her great help,—poor creatures that we are, needing one great grief to balance another. But she seems in a very weak state; I didn’t like her look yesterday.’
‘Will you describe her to me?’ asked Wilfrid.
‘She is not the kind of mother you would give to Emily. I’m afraid her miserable life has told upon her greatly, both in mind and body.’
‘Emily never spoke of her, though so often of her father.’
‘That is what I should have expected. Still, you must not think her quite unworthy. She speaks as an educated woman, and is certainly very devoted.’
‘What of her present position? She must be in extreme difficulties.’
‘No, she wants nothing for the present. Friends have been very anxious to help her. That’s what I say,—only let your misery drive you out of the world, and people will find out all at once how very easily they might have saved you. A hundredth part of the interest that has been shown in the family since poor Mr. Hood’s death would have found endless ways of making his life very different. All sorts of people have suddenly discovered that he really was a very deserving man, and that something ought long since to have been done for him. I don’t know what has been told you of his history. He was once in independent business; I don’t know exactly what. It was only utter failure that drove him to the miserable clerkship. How admirable it was of a man in such circumstances to have his daughter so well educated!’
Wilfrid smiled.
‘Emily,’ he said with gentle fervour, ‘would have found her own way.’
‘Ah, don’t depreciate his care!’ Mrs. Baxendale urged. ‘You’ll find out by degrees what a great deal of heathen doubt there is in me; among other things, I am impressed by the power of circumstances. Emily would always have been a remarkable girl, no doubt; but, without her education, you and I should not have been talking about her like this, even if we had known her. We can’t dispense with these aids; that’s where I feel the cruelty of depriving people of chances. Men and women go to their graves in wretchedness who might have done noble things with an extra pound a week to live upon. It does not sound lofty doctrine, does it? But I have vast faith in the extra pound a week. Emily had the advantage of it, however it was managed. I don’t like to think of her as she might have been without it. What was it Beatrice called me yesterday? A materialist; yes, a materialist. It was a reproach, though she said it in the kindest way; I took it as a compliment. We can’t get out of the world of material; how long will the mind support itself on an insufficient supply of dry bread?’
Wilfrid’s intellectual sympathies were being aroused by his new friend’s original way of talking. He began to feel a keen satisfaction at having her near him in these troubles.
‘Do you think,’ he asked, returning to his immediate needs, ‘that I might write to her?’
‘Not yet; you mustn’t think of it yet.’
‘Does Mrs. Hood—’ he hesitated. ‘Do you think Emily has told her mother—has spoken to her of me?’
Mrs. Baxendale looked surprised. ‘I can’t say; I took it for granted.’
‘I wonder why she was reluctant to do so?’ Wilfrid said, already speaking with complete freedom. ‘Her father cannot have known; it would have relieved his worst anxieties; he would surely never have been driven to such things.’
‘No; I think not. The poor girl will feel that, I fear. I suppose one can get a glimpse of her reasons for keeping silence?’ She gave Wilfrid a friendly glance as she spoke.
‘How glad I
am,’ he exclaimed, ‘to be able to talk to you! I should have been in the utmost difficulties. Think of my position if I had been without a friend in the town. Then, indeed, but for Miss Redwing I should have heard nothing even yet.’
‘She wrote to you?’
‘Not to me; she mentioned the matter in a letter to my aunt, Mrs. Rossall.’
‘Did Beatrice—you let me question?—did she know?’
‘Only, she says, in consequence of a letter my father addressed to Mr. Baxendale.’
The lady smiled again.
‘I ask because Beatrice is now and then a little mysterious to me. I spoke to her of that letter in the full belief that she must have knowledge of the circumstances. She denied it, yet, I thought, as if it were a matter of conscience to do so.’
‘I think it more than likely that my aunt had written to her on the subject. And yet—no; she would not have denied it to you. That would be unlike her.’
‘Yes, I think it would.’
Mrs. Baxendale mused. Before she spoke again a servant entered the room with tea.
‘You will be glad of a cup, I am sure,’ said the lady. ‘And now, what do you propose to do? Shall you return to London?’
‘Oh, no! I shall stay in Dunfield till I am able to see her.’
‘Very well. In that case you will not refuse our hospitality. The longer you stay the better pleased I shall be.’
She would hear of no difficulties.
‘I wouldn’t ask you,’ she said, ‘if I were not able to promise you any degree of privacy you like. A sitting-room is at your disposal—begging to be occupied since my boy Charlie went away. My husband is over head and ears in electioneering business, foolish man, and I can’t tell you how I feel the need of someone to talk to on other subjects than the manufacture of votes. Where is your luggage?’
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