'But I don't understand,' cried Grace. 'It's not self-sacrifice to hold my tongue – it's just cowardly. I want to take my punishment; I want to start fair again, so that I can look Paul in the face.'
'My dear, you have an incurable passion for rodomontade. You're really not thinking of Paul in the least; you have merely an ardent desire to make a scene; you wish to be a martyr and abase yourself in due form. Above all, you want to rid yourself of the burden of a somewhat guilty conscience, and to do that you are perfectly indifferent how much you make others suffer. May I suggest that if you're really sorry for what you've done, you can show it best by acting differently in the future; and if you hanker after punishment, you can get as much as ever you want by taking care that no word or deed of yours lets your husband into this rather odious secret.'
Mrs Castillyon looked down, following with her eyes the pattern of the carpet; she thought over all that Miss Ley said.
'I came to you for advice,' she moaned helplessly, 'and you've only made me more undecided than ever.'
'Pardon me,' answered the other, with considerable asperity: 'you came with your mind perfectly made up, for me to approve your disinterestedness; but as I think you uncommonly stupid and selfish, I reserve my applause.'
The result of this conversation was that Mrs Castillyon promised to hold her tongue; but on leaving Old Queen Street to catch the train back to Jeyston, she would have been puzzled to tell whether there was in her mood more of relief or of disappointment.
Mrs Castillyon arrived at Jeyston just in time to dress for dinner, and somewhat tired by her journey, did not notice the gravity which affected the family party; she was accustomed to their dullness, and ate her food silently, wishing the meal were over. When Paul and Bainbridge came into the drawing-room afterwards, with an effort she gave her husband a smile of welcome, and made room for him on the sofa whereon she sat.
'Tell me what it is you wanted to speak about last night,' she said; 'you asked for my advice, and I was too cross to give it you.'
He smiled, but his face quickly regained its serious look.
'It's too late now; I had to decide at once. But I'd better tell you about it.'
'Fetch me my cloak, then, and we'll stroll up and down the terrace; the light tires my eyes, and I hate talking to you always in the presence of other people.'
Paul was only too pleased to do as she suggested, and found it very delightful to wander in the pleasant starlit night; the clouds which had darkened the morning were vanished with the setting sun, and there was a delicate softness in the air. Grace took her husband's arm, and her need for support made him feel very strong and masculine.
'A dreadful thing has happened,' he said, 'and I've been very much upset. You remember Fanny Bridger, who went up to London last year in service? Well, she's come back. It appears that she got into trouble. ...' He hesitated a moment in the discomfort of telling his wife the brutal fact. 'The man deserted her, and she's returned with a baby.'
He felt a tremor pass through his wife, and wished that he had kept his second resolution, to say nothing to her.
'I know you hate to speak of such things, but I must do something. She can't go on living here.' Fanny Bridger's father was an under-gamekeeper on the estate, and his two sons were likewise employed. 'I saw Bridger today, and told him his daughter must be sent away; I can't in my position connive at immorality.'
'But where is she to go?' asked Mrs Castillyon in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper.
'That is no business of mine. The Bridgers have been good servants for many years, and I don't wish to be hard on them. I've told the old man that I'll give him a week to find somewhere for his daughter to go.'
'And if he can't?'
'If he can't, it'll be because he's a stupid and obstinate dolt. He began to make excuses this afternoon; he talked a deal of nonsense about keeping her in his care, and that it would break his heart to send her away, and he couldn't afford to. I thought it was no good mincing matters, so I told him if Fanny wasn't gone for good by Tuesday next I should dismiss him and his two sons.'
Abruptly Mrs Castillyon snatched her arm from his, and a coldness seized her; she was indignant and horrified.
'We'd better go in to your mother, Paul,' she said, knowing to whom this determination of her husband was due. 'We must talk this out at once.'
Surprised at the change in her tone, Castillyon followed his wife, who walked quickly to the drawing-room and flung aside her cloak. She went up to Mrs Castillyon the elder.
'Did you advise Paul that Fanny Bridger should be sent away?' she asked, her eyes flaming with anger.
'Of course I did. She can't stay here, and I'm happy to see that Paul has behaved with spirit. People in our position have to take great care; we must allow no contamination to enter the parish.'
'What d'you think will happen to the wretched girl if we turn her out? The only chance for her is to remain in her family.'
Paul's mother, by no means a patient woman, vastly resented the scornful indignation apparent on Grace's face; she drew herself up, and spoke with tight lips, acidly.
'Perhaps you're not very capable of judging matters of this sort, my dear. You've lived so much in London that I dare say your notions of right and wrong are not quite clear. But, you see, I'm only a country bumpkin. I'm happy to say I think differently from you. I've always been under the impression that there is something to be said for morality. To my mind, Paul has been absurdly lenient in giving them a week. My father would have turned them out bag and baggage in twenty-four hours.'
Grace shuddered at the cruel self-righteousness of that narrow, bigoted face, and then slowly examined Paul, whose eyes were upon her, dreadfully pained because she was angry, but none the less assured of his own rectitude. She pursed her lips, and saying not a word more, went to her room. She felt that nothing could be done then, and made up her mind next morning to visit for herself the unlucky girl. Paul, disturbed because she did not speak to him, was about to follow further to expostulate; but his mother, sharply rapping the table with her fan, prevented him.
'Now, don't run after her, Paul,' she cried peremptorily. 'You behave like a perfect fool, and she just turns you round her little finger. If your wife has no sense of morality, other people have, and you must do your duty, however much Grace dislikes it.'
'I dare say we might manage to find Fanny Bridger some place.'
'I dare say you'll do nothing of the sort, Paul,' she answered. 'The girl's a little wanton. I've known her since she was a child, and she always was. I wonder she had the impudence to come back here, but if you have any sense of decency you won't help her. How d'you suppose you're going to keep people moral if you pamper those who fall? Remember that I have some claims upon you, Paul, and I don't expect my wishes to be entirely disregarded.'
In her domineering way she looked round the room, and it was obvious in every repellent feature – in her narrow lips, in her thin nose and little sharp eyes – that she remembered how absolute was her power over the finances of that house. Paul indeed was the Squire, but the money was hers, if she chose, to leave every penny to Bainbridge. Next day she came in to luncheon in a towering passion.
'I think you should know, Paul, that Grace has been to Bridger's cottage. I don't know how you expect the tenants to have any regard for modesty and decorum if your wife openly favours the most scandalous indecency.'
Grace turned on her mother-in-law with flashing eyes.
'I felt sorry for the girl, and I went to see her. Poor thing! she's in great distress.'
She saw again that little cottage at one of the park gates – a pretty rural place overgrown with ivy, the tiny garden vivid with carefully-tended flowers. Here Bridger was working, a man of middle age, hard-featured and sullen, his face tanned by exposure. He turned his back on her approach, and when she bade good morning answered unwillingly.
'I've come to see Fanny,' said Mrs Castillyon. 'May I go in?'
He fac
ed her with a dark scowl, and for a moment did not answer.
'Can't you leave the girl alone?' he muttered at last huskily.
Mrs Catillyon looked at him doubtfully, but only for a moment. She passed by quickly, and without another word entered the house. Fanny was seated at the table, sewing, and close to her was a cradle. Seeing Grace, she rose nervously, and a painful blush darkened her white cheeks. Once a pretty girl with fresh colours, active and joyful, deep lines of anxiety now gave a haggard look to her eyes. Her cheeks were sunken, and the former trimness of her person had given way to slovenly disorder. She stood before Grace like a culprit, conscience-stricken, and for a moment the visitor, abashed, knew not what to say. Her eyes went to the baby, and Fanny, seeing it, anxiously stepped forward to get between them.
'Was you looking for father, mum?' she asked.
'No; I came to see you. I thought I might be of some use. I want to help you if you'll let me.'
The girl looked down stubbornly, white again to her very lips.
'No, mum, there's nothing I want.'
Facing her, Grace understood that there was something common to them both, for each had loved with her whole soul and each had been very unhappy. Her heart went out strangely to the wretched girl, and it was torture that she could not pierce that barrier of cold hostility. She knew not how to show that she came with no thought of triumphing over her distress, but rather as one poor weak creature to another. She could have cried out that before her Fanny need fear no shame, for herself had fallen lower even than she. The girl stood motionless, waiting for her to go, and Mrs Castillyon's lips quivered in helpless pity.
'Mayn't I look at your baby?' she asked.
Without a word the girl stepped aside, and Mrs Castillyon went to the cradle. The little child opened two large blue eyes and lazily yawned.
'Let me take it in my arms,' she said.
Again the fleeting colour came to Fanny's cheeks as with a softer look she took the baby and gave it to Grace. With curious motherly instinct Grace rocked it, crooning gently, and then she kissed it. Against her will a cry was forced from her.
'Oh, I wish it were mine!'
She looked at Fanny with pitiful longing in her eyes all bright with tears; and her own emotion thawed at length the girl's cold despair, for she buried her face in her hands and burst into passionate weeping. Grace placed the child again in the cradle, and gently leaned over Fanny.
'Don't cry. I dare say we can do something. Do talk to me, and let me see how I can help.'
'No one can help,' she moaned. 'We've got to go in a week; the Squire says so.'
'But I'll try and make him change his mind, and if I can't I'll see that you and the baby are well provided for.'
Fanny shook her head hopelessly.
'Father says if I go he goes, too. Oh, the Squire can't turn us out! What are we to do? We shall starve, all of us. Father's not so young as he was, and he won't get another job so easy, and Jim and Harry have got to go, too.'
'Won't you trust me? I'll do whatever I can. I'm sure he'll let you stay.'
'The Squire's a hard man,' muttered Fanny. 'When he sets his mind to anything he does it.'
And now at luncheon, looking at Paul and his mother, Bain-bridge and Miss Johnston, she felt a bitter enmity against them all because of their narrow cruelty. What did they know of the horrible difficulties of life, when their self-complacency made the way so easy to their feet?
'Fanny Bridger is no worse than anyone else, and she's very unhappy. I'm glad I went to see her, and I've promised to do all I can to help her.'
'Then I wash my hands of you,' cried the elder Mrs Castillyon violently. 'But I can tell you this, that I'm shocked and scandalized that you should be quite dead to all sense of decency, Grace. I think that you should have some regard for your husband's name, and not degrade yourself by pampering an immoral woman.'
'I think it was unwise of you to go to Bridger's cottage,' said Paul gently.
'You're all of you so dreadfully hard. Have you none of you pity or mercy? Have you never done anything in your lives that you regret?'
Mrs Castillyon turned to Grace severely.
'Pray remember that Miss Johnston is a single woman, and unaccustomed to hearing matters of this sort discussed. Paul has been very lenient. If he were more so, it would seem as if he connived at impropriety. It's the duty of people in our position to look after those whom Providence has placed in our care. It's our duty to punish as well as to reward. If Paul has any sense remaining of his responsibilities, he will turn out neck and crop the whole Bridger family.'
'If he does that,' cried Grace, 'I shall go too.'
'Grace!' cried Mr Castillyon, 'what do you mean?'
She looked at him with shining eyes, but did not answer. They were too many against her, and she knew it useless to attempt anything more till next day, when Paul's mother departed. Yet it was almost impossible to hold her tongue, and she was desperately tempted to cry out before them all the story of her own shameful misery.
'Oh, these virtuous people!' she muttered to herself. 'They're never content unless they see us actually roasting in hell! As if hell were needed when every sin brings along with it its own bitter punishment. And they never make excuses for us. They don't know how many temptations we resist for the one we fall to.'
9
BUT Grace found her husband more obstinate than ever before, and though she used every imaginable device he remained unmoved; by turns she was caressing and persuasive, scornful, bitter, and angry, but at length, because of his unperturbed complacency, was seized with indignant wrath. He was a man who prided himself on the accomplishment of every resolve he formed, and his determination once made, that the Bridgers at the end of their week's warning should go, no appeals to his reason or to his emotion would induce him to another mind. Though it hurt him infinitely to thwart his wife, though it was very painful to feel her cold antagonism, his duty seemed to point clearly in one direction, and the suffering it caused made him only more resolute to do it. Paul Castillyon had a very high opinion both of the claims his tenants had upon him and of his great responsibilities towards them; and he never imagined for a moment that their private lives could be no concern of his: on the contrary, convinced that a merciful Providence had given him a trust of much consequence, he was fully prepared to answer for all who were thus committed to his charge; and he took his office so seriously that even in London he was careful to inform himself of the smallest occurences on his estate. To all these people he was a just and not ungenerous master, charitable in their need, sympathetic in their sickness, but arrogated to himself in return full authority over their way of life. In this instance his moral sense was sincerely outraged; the presence of Fanny Bridger appeared a contamination, and with the singular prudery of some men, he could not think of her case without a nausea of disgust. It horrified him somewhat that Grace not only could defend, but even visit her; it seemed to him that a pure woman should feel only disdain for one who had so fallen.
The week passed, and Grace had been able to effect nothing; bitterly disappointed, angry with her husband and with herself, she made up her mind that no pecuniary difficulties should add to Fanny's distress; if she had to go, at least it was possible so to provide that some measure of happiness should not be unattainable. But here she was confronted by Bridger's obstinate determination not to be separated from his daughter; he had got it into his slow brain that the trouble came only because she had gone away, and no argument would convince him that in future little need be feared; somehow, also, he was filled with sullen resentment against the Squire, and, himself no less self-willed, refused to yield one inch. He repeated over and over that if the girl went, he and his sons must go too.
Late in the afternoon of the day before that on which Fanny was to leave for ever the village of her birth, Mrs Castillyon sat moodily in the drawing-room, turning over the pages of a periodical, while Paul, now and then glancing at her anxiously, read with difficulty
a late-published Blue-Book. A servant came in to say that Bridger would like to speak with the Squire. Paul rose to go to him, but Mrs Castillyon begged that he might come there.
'Send him in,' said the Squire.
Bridger entered the room somewhat timidly, and stood at the door cap in hand; it was raining, and the wet of his clothes gave out an unpleasant odour. There was a certain grim savagery about the man, as though his life spent among wild things in the woods had given him a sort of fawnlike spirit of the earth.
'Well, Bridger, what do you want?'
'Please, Squire, I came to know if I was really to go tomorrow?'
'Are you accustomed to hear me say things I don't mean? I told you that if you did not send away your daughter within a week I should dismiss you and your sons from my service.'
The gamekeeper looked down, revolving these words in his mind: even then he could not bring himself to believe that they were spoken in grim earnest; he felt that if only he could make Mr Castillyon understand how impossible was what he asked, he would surely allow him to stay.
'There's nowhere Fanny can go. If I send her away, shell go to the bad altogether.'
'You doubtless know that Mrs Castillyon has promised to provide for her. I have no doubt there are homes for fallen women where she can be looked after.'
'Paul,' cried Grace indignantly, 'how can you say that!'
Bridger stepped forward and faced the Squire; he looked into his eyes with surly indignation.
'I've served you faithfully, man and boy, for forty years, and I was born in that there cottage I live in now. I tell you the girl can't go; she's a good girl in her heart, only she's 'ad a misfortune. If you turn us out, where are we to go? I'm getting on in years, and I shan't find it easy to get another job. It'll mean the workus.'
He could not express himself, nor show in words his sense of the intolerable injustice of this thing; he could only see that the long years of loyal service counted for nothing, and that the future offered cold and want and humiliation. Paul stood over him cold and stern.
Merry Go Round Page 25
