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Demos: A Story of English Socialism

<h2> CHAPTER XII </h2> The New Wanley Lecture Hall had been publicly dedicated to the service of the New Wanley Commonwealth, and only in one respect did the day’s proceedings fall short of Mutimer’s expectations. He had hoped to have all the Waltham family at his luncheon party, but in the event Alfred alone felt himself able to accept the invitation. Mutimer had even nourished the hope that something might happen before that day to allow of Adela’s appearing not merely in the character of a guest, but, as it were, ex officio. By this time he had resolutely forbidden his eyes to stray to the right hand or the left, and kept them directed with hungry, relentless steadiness straight along the path of his desires. He had received no second letter from his mother, nor had Alice anything to report of danger-signals at home; from Emma herself came a letter regularly once a week, a letter of perfect patience, chiefly concerned with her sister’s health. He had made up his mind to declare nothing till the irretrievable step was taken, when reproaches only could befall him; to Alice as little as to any one else had he breathed of his purposes. And he could no longer even take into account the uncertainty of his success; to doubt of that would have been insufferable at the point which he had reached in self-abandonment. Yet day after day saw the postponement of the question which would decide his fate. Between him and Mrs. Waltham the language of allusion was at length put aside; he spoke plainly of his wishes, and sought her encouragement. This was not wanting, but the mother begged for time. Let the day of the ceremony come and go. Richard passed through it in a state of exaltation and anxiety which bordered on fever. Mr. Westlake and his wife came down from London by an early train, and he went over New Wanley with them before luncheon. The luncheon itself did not lack festive vivacity; Richard, in surveying his guests from the head of the board, had feelings not unlike those wherein King Polycrates lulled himself of old; there wanted, in truth, one thing to complete his self-complacence, but an extra glass or two of wine enrubied his imagination, and he already saw Adela’s face smiling to him from the table’s unoccupied end. What was such conquest in comparison with that which fate had accorded him? There was a satisfactory gathering to hear Mr. Westlake’s address; Richard did not fail to note the presence of a few reporters, only it seemed to him that their pencils might have been more active. Here, too, was Adela at length; every time his name was uttered, perforce she heard; every encomium bestowed upon him by the various speakers was to him like a new bud on the tree of hope. After all, why should he feel this humility towards her? What man of prominence, of merit, at all like his own would ever seek her hand? The semblance of chivalry which occasionally stirred within him was, in fact, quite inconsistent with his reasoned view of things; the English working class has, on the whole, as little of that quality as any other people in an elementary stage of civilisation. He was a man, she a woman. A lady, to be sure, but then— After Mutimer, Alfred Waltham had probably more genuine satisfaction in the ceremony than any one else present. Mr. Westlake he was not quite satisfied with; there was a mildness and restraint about the style of the address which to Alfred’s taste smacked of feebleness; he was for Cambyses’ vein. Still it rejoiced him to hear the noble truths of democracy delivered as it were from the bema. To a certain order of intellect the word addressed by the living voice to an attentive assembly is always vastly impressive; when the word coincides with private sentiment it excites enthusiasm. Alfred hated the aristocratic order of things with a rabid hatred. In practice he could be as coarsely overbearing with his social inferiors as that scion of the nobility—existing of course somewhere—who bears the bell for feebleness of the pia mater; but that made him none the less a sound Radical. In thinking of the upper classes he always thought of Hubert Eldon, and that name was scarlet to him. Never trust the thoroughness of the man who is a revolutionist on abstract principles; personal feeling alone goes to the root of the matter. Many were the gentlemen to whom Alfred had the happiness of being introduced in the course of the day. Among others was Mr. Keene the journalist. At the end of a lively conversation Mr. Keene brought out a copy of the ‘Belwick Chronicle,’ that day’s issue. ‘You’ll find a few things of mine here,’ he said. ‘Put it in your pocket, and look at it afterwards. By-the-by, there is a paragraph marked; I meant it for Mutimer. Never mind, give it him when you’ve done with it.’ Alfred bestowed the paper in the breast pocket of his greatcoat, and did not happen to think of it again till late that evening. His discovery of it at length was not the only event of the day which came just too late for the happiness of one with whose fortunes we are concerned. A little after dark, when the bell was ringing which summoned Mutimer’s workpeople to the tea provided for them, Hubert Eldon was approaching the village by the road from Agworth: he was on foot, and had chosen his time in order to enter Wanley unnoticed. His former visit, when he was refused at the Walthams’ door, had been paid at an impulse; he had come down from London by an early train, and did not even call to see his mother at her new house in Agworth. Nor did ho visit her on his way back; he walked straight to the railway station and took the first train townwards. To-day he came in a more leisurely way. It was certain news contained in a letter from his mother which brought him, and with her he spent some hours before starting to walk towards Wanley. ‘I hear,’ Mrs. Eldon had written, ‘from Wanley something which really surprises me. They say that Adela Waltham is going to marry Mr. Mutimer. The match is surely a very strange one. I am only fearful that it is the making of interested people, and that the poor girl herself has not had much voice in deciding her own fate. Oh, this money! Adela was worthy of better things.’ Mrs. Eldon saw her son with surprise, the more so that she divined the cause of his coming. When they had talked for a while, Hubert frankly admitted what it was that had brought him. ‘I must know,’ he said, ‘whether the news from Wanley is true’ ‘But can it concern you, Hubert?’ his mother asked gently. He made no direct reply, but expressed his intention of going over to Wanley. ‘Whom shall you visit, dear?’ ‘Mr. Wyvern.’ ‘The vicar? But you don’t know him personally.’ ‘Yes, I know him pretty well. We write to each other occasionally.’ Mrs. Eldon always practised most reserve when her surprise was greatest—an excellent rule, by-the-by, for general observation. She looked at her son with a half-smile of wonder, but only said ‘Indeed?’ ‘I had made his acquaintance before his coming to Wanley,’ Hubert explained. His mother just bent her head, acquiescent. And with that their conversation on the subject ended. But Hubert received a tender kiss on his cheek when he set forth in the afternoon. To one entering the valley after nightfall the situation of the much-discussed New Wanley could no longer be a source of doubt. Two blast-furnaces sent up their flare and lit luridly the devastated scene. Having glanced in that direction Hubert did his best to keep his eyes averted during the remainder of the walk. He was surprised to see a short passenger train rush by on the private line connecting the works with Agworth station; it was taking away certain visitors who had lingered in New Wanley after the lecture. Knowing nothing of the circumstances, he supposed that general traffic had been commenced. He avoided the village street, and reached the Vicarage by a path through fields. He found the vicar at dinner, though it was only half-past six. The welcome he received was, in Mr. Wyvern’s manner, almost silent; but when he had taken a place at the table he saw satisfaction on his host’s face. The meal was very plain, but the vicar ate with extraordinary appetite; he was one of those men in whom the demands of the stomach seem to be in direct proportion to the activity of the brain. A question Hubert put about the train led to a brief account of what was going on. Mr. Wyvern spoke on the subject with a gravity which was not distinctly ironical, but suggested criticism. They repaired to the study. A volume of Plato was open on the reading-table. ‘Do you remember Socrates’ prayer in the “Phaedrus”?’ said the vicar, bending affectionately over the page. He read a few words of the Greek, then gave a free rendering. ‘Beloved Pan, and all ye other gods who haunt this place, give me beauty in the inward soul; and may the outward and inward be at one. May I esteem the wise alone wealthy, and may I have such abundance of wealth as none but the temperate can carry.’ He paused a moment. ‘Ah, when I came hither I hoped to find Pan undisturbed. Well, well, after all, Hephaestus was one of the gods.’ ‘How I envy you your quiet mind!’ said Hubert. ‘Quiet? Nay, not always so. Just now I am far from at peace. What brings you hither to-day?’ The equivoque was obviated by Mr. Wyvern’s tone. ‘I have heard stories about Adela Waltham. Is there any truth in them?’ ‘I fear so; I fear so.’ ‘That she is really going to marry Mr. Mutimer?’ He tried to speak the name without discourtesy, but his lips writhed after it. ‘I fear she is going to marry him,’ said the vicar deliberately. Hubert held his peace. ‘It troubles me. It angers me,’ said Mr. Wyvern. ‘I am angry with more than one.’ ‘Is there an engagement?’ ‘I am unable to say. Tattle generally gets ahead of fact.’ ‘It is monstrous!’ burst from the young man. ‘They are taking advantage of her innocence. She is a child. Why do they educate girls like that? I should say, how can they leave them so uneducated? In an ideal world it would be all very well, but see what comes of it here? She is walking with her eyes open into horrors and curses, and understands as little of what awaits her as a lamb led to butchery. Do you stand by and say nothing?’ ‘It surprises me that you are so affected,’ remarked the vicar quietly. ‘No doubt. I can’t reason about it. But I know that my life will be hideous if this goes on to the end.’ ‘You are late.’ ‘Yes, I am late. I was in Wanley some weeks ago; I did not tell you of it. I called at their house; they were not at home to me. Yet Adela was sitting at the window. What did that mean? Is her mother so contemptible that my change of fortune leads her to treat me in that way?’ ‘But does no other reason occur to you?’ asked Mr. Wyvern, with grave surprise. ‘Other reason! What other?’ ‘You must remember that gossip is active.’ ‘You mean that they have heard abou—?’ ‘Somehow it had become the common talk of the village very shortly after my arrival here.’ Hubert dropped his eyes in bewilderment. ‘Then they think me unfit to associate with them? She—Adela will look upon me as a vile creature! But it wasn’t so when I saw her immediately after my illness. She talked freely and with just the same friendliness as before.’ ‘Probably she had heard nothing then.’ ‘And her mother only began to poison her mind when it was advantageous to do so?’ Hubert laughed bitterly. ‘Well, there is an end of it,’ he pursued. ‘Yes, I was forgetting all that. Oh, it is quite intelligible; I don’t blame them. By all means let her be preserved from contagion! Pooh! I don’t know my own mind. Old fancies that I used to have somehow got hold of me again If I ever marry, it must be a woman of the world, a woman with brain and heart to judge human nature. It is gone, as if I had never had such a thought. Poor child, to be sure; but that’s all one can say.’ His tone was as far from petulance as could be. Hubert’s emotions were never feebly coloured; his nature ran into extremes, and vehemence of scorn was in him the true voice of injured tenderness. Of humility he knew but little, least of all where his affections were concerned, but there was the ring of noble metal in his self-assertion. He would never consciously act or speak a falsehood, and was intolerant of the lies, petty or great, which conventionality and warped habits of thought encourage in those of weaker personality. ‘Let us be just,’ remarked Mr. Wyvern, his voice sounding rather sepulchral after the outburst of youthful passion. ‘Mrs. Waltham’s point of view is not inconceivable. I, as you know, am not altogether a man of formulas, but I am not sure that my behaviour would greatly differ from hers in her position; I mean as regards yourself.’ ‘Yes, yes; I admit the reasonableness of it,’ said Hubert more calmly, ‘granted that you have to deal with children. But Adela is too old to have no will or understanding. It may be she has both. After all she would scarcely allow herself to be forced into a detestable marriage. Very likely she takes her mother’s practical views.’ ‘There is such a thing as blank indifference in a young girl who has suffered disappointment.’ ‘I could do nothing,’ exclaimed Hubert. ‘That she thinks of me at all, or has ever seriously done so, is the merest supposition. There was nothing binding between us. If she is false to herself, experience and suffering must teach her.’ The vicar mused. ‘Then you go your way untroubled?’ was his next question. ‘If I am strong enough to overcome foolishness.’ ‘And if foolishness persists in asserting itself?’ Hubert kept gloomy silence. ‘Thus much I can say to you of my own knowledge,’ observed Mr. Wyvern with weight. ‘Miss Waltham is not one to speak words lightly. You call her a child, and no doubt her view of the world is childlike; but she is strong in her simplicity. A pledge from her will, or I am much mistaken, bear no two meanings. Her marriage with Mr. Mutimer would be as little pleasing to me as to you, but I cannot see that I have any claim to interpose, or, indeed, power to do so. Is it not the same with yourself?’ ‘No, not quite the same.’ ‘Then you have hope that you might still affect her destiny?’ Hubert did not answer. ‘Do you measure the responsibility you would incur? I fear not, if you have spoken sincerely. Your experience has not been of a kind to aid you in understanding her, and, I warn you, to make her subject to your caprices would be little short of a crime, whether now—heed me—or hereafter.’ ‘Perhaps it is too late,’ murmured Hubert. ‘That may well be, in more senses than one.’ ‘Can you not discover whether she is really engaged?’ ‘If that were the case, I think I should have heard of it.’ ‘If I were allowed to see her! So much at least should be granted me. I should not poison the air she breathes.’ ‘Do you return to Agworth to-night?’ Mr. Wyvern inquired. ‘Yes, I shall walk back.’ ‘Can you come to me again to-morrow evening?’ It was agreed that Hubert should do so. Mr. Wyvern gave no definite promise of aid, but the young man felt that he would do something. ‘The night is fine,’ said the vicar; ‘I will walk half a mile with you.’ They left the Vicarage, and ten yards from the door turned into the path which would enable them to avoid the village street. Not two minutes after their quitting the main road the spot was passed by Adela herself, who was walking towards Mr. Wyvern’s dwelling. On her inquiring for the vicar, she learnt from the servant that he had just left home. She hesitated, and seemed about to ask further questions or leave a message, but at length turned away from the door and retraced her steps slowly and with bent head. She knew not whether to feel glad or sorry that the interview she had come to seek could not immediately take place. This day had been a hard one for Adela. In the morning her mother had spoken to her without disguise or affectation, and had told her of Mutimer’s indirect proposal. Mrs. Waltham went on to assure her that there was no hurry, that Mutimer had consented to refrain from visits for a short time in order that she might take counsel with herself, and that—the mother’s voice trembled on the words—absolute freedom was of course left her to accept or refuse. But Mrs. Waltham could not pause there, though she tried to. She went on to speak of the day’s proceedings. ‘Think what we may, my dear, of Mr. Mutimer’s opinions, no one can deny that he is making a most unselfish use of his wealth. We shall have an opportunity to-day of hearing how it is regarded by those who—who understand such questions.’ Adela implored to be allowed to remain at home instead of attending the lecture, but on this point Mrs. Waltham was inflexible. The girl could not offer resolute opposition in a matter which only involved an hour or two’s endurance. She sat in pale silence. Then her mother broke into tears, bewailed herself as a luckless being, entreated her daughter’s pardon, but in the end was perfectly ready to accept Adela’s self-sacrifice. On her return from New Wanley, Adela sat alone till tea-time, and after that meal again went to her room. She was not one of those girls to whom tears come as a matter of course on any occasion of annoyance or of grief; her bright eyes had seldom been dimmed since childhood, for the lightsomeness of her character threw off trifling troubles almost as soon as they were felt, and of graver afflictions she had hitherto known none since her father’s death. But since the shock she received on that day when her mother revealed Hubert Eldon’s unworthiness, her emotional life had suffered a slow change. Evil, previously known but as a dark mystery shadowing far-off regions, had become the constant preoccupation of her thoughts. Drawing analogies from the story of her faith, she imaged Hubert as the angel who fell from supreme purity to a terrible lordship of perdition. Of his sins she had the dimmest conception; she was told that they were sins of impurity, and her understanding of such could scarcely have been expressed save in the general language of her prayers. Guarded jealously at every moment of her life, the world had made no blur on the fair tablet of her mind; her Eden had suffered no invasion. She could only repeat to herself that her heart had gone dreadfully astray in its fondness, and that, whatsoever it cost her, the old hopes, the strength of which was only now proved, must be utterly uprooted. And knowing that, she wept. Sin was too surely sorrow, though it neared her only in imagination. In a few weeks she seemed to have almost outgrown girlhood; her steps were measured, her smile was seldom and lacked mirth. The revelation would have done so much; the added and growing trouble of Mutimer’s attentions threatened to sink her in melancholy. She would not allow it to be seen more than she could help; cheerful activity in the life of home was one of her moral duties, and she strove hard to sustain it. It was a relief to find herself alone each night, alone with her sickness of heart. The repugnance aroused in her by the thought of becoming Mutimer’s wife was rather instinctive than reasoned. From one point of view, indeed, she deemed it wrong, since it might be entirely the fruit of the love she was forbidden to cherish. Striving to read her conscience, which for years had been with her a daily task and was now become the anguish of every hour, she found it hard to establish valid reasons for steadfastly refusing a man who was her mother’s choice. She read over the marriage service frequently. There stood the promise—to love, to honour, and to obey. Honour and obedience she might render him, but what of love? The question arose, what did love mean? Could there be such a thing as love of an unworthy object? Was she not led astray by the spirit of perverseness which was her heritage? Adela could not bring herself to believe that ‘to love’ in the sense of the marriage service and to ‘be in love’ as her heart understood it were one and the same thing. The Puritanism of her training led her to distrust profoundly those impulses of mere nature. And the circumstances of her own unhappy affection tended to confirm her in this way of thinking. Letty Tew certainly thought otherwise, but was not Letty’s own heart too exclusively occupied by worldly considerations? Yet it said ‘love.’ Perchance that was something which would come after marriage; the promise, observe, concerned the future. But she was not merely indifferent; she shrank from Mutimer. She returned home from the lecture to-day full of dread—dread more active than she had yet known. And it drove her to a step she had timidly contemplated for more than a week. She stole from the house, bent on seeing Mr. Wyvern. She could not confess to him, but she could speak of the conflict between her mother’s will and her own, and beg his advice; perhaps, if he appeared favourable, ask him to intercede with her mother. She had liked Mr. Wyvern from the first meeting with him, and a sense of trust had been nourished by each succeeding conversation. In her agitation she thought it would not be hard to tell him so much of the circumstances as would enable him to judge and counsel. Yet it was with relief, on the whole, that she turned homewards with her object unattained. It would be much better to wait and test herself yet further. Why should she not speak with her mother about that vow she was asked to make? She did not seek solitude again, but joined her mother and Alfred in the sitting-room. Mrs. Waltham made no inquiry about the short absence. Alfred had only just called to mind the newspaper which Mr. Keene had given him; and was unfolding it for perusal. His eye caught a marked paragraph, one of a number under the heading ‘Gossip from Town.’ As he read it he uttered a ‘Hullo!’ of surprise. ‘Well, here’s the latest,’ he continued, looking at his companions with an amused eye. ‘Something about that fellow Eldon in a Belwick newspaper. What do you think?’ Adela kept still and mute. ‘Whatever it is, it cannot interest us, Alfred,’ said Mrs. Waltham, with dignity. ‘We had rather not hear it.’ ‘Well, you shall read it for yourself,’ replied Alfred on a second thought. ‘I think you’d like to know.’ His mother took the paper under protest, and glanced down at the paragraph carelessly. But speedily her attention became closer. ‘An item of intelligence,’ wrote the London gossiper, ‘which I dare say will interest readers in certain parts of—shire. A lady of French extraction who made a name for herself at a leading metropolitan theatre last winter, and who really promises great things in the Thespian art, is back among us from a sojourn on the Continent. She is understood to have spent much labour in the study of a new part, which she is about to introduce to us of the modern Babylon. But Albion, it is whispered, possesses other attractions for her besides appreciative audiences. In brief, though she will of course appear under the old name, she will in reality have changed it for one of another nationality before presenting herself in the radiance of the footlights. The happy man is Mr. Hubert Eldon, late of Wanley Manor. We felicitate Mr. Eldon.’ Mrs. Waltham’s hands trembled as she doubled the sheet: there was a gleam of pleasure on her face. ‘Give me the paper when you have done with it,’ she said. Alfred laughed, and whistled a tune as he continued the perusal of Mr. Keene’s political and social intelligence, on the whole as trustworthy as the style in which it was written was terse and elegant. Adela, finding she could feign indifference no longer, went from the room. ‘Where did you get this?’ Mrs. Waltham asked with eagerness as soon as the girl was gone. ‘From the writer himself,’ Alfred replied, visibly proud of his intimacy with a man of letters. ‘Fellow called Keene. Had a long talk with him.’ ‘About this?’ ‘Oh, no. I’ve only just come across it. But he said he’d marked something for Mutimer. I’m to pass the paper on to him.’ ‘I suppose this is the same woman—?’ ‘No doubt.’ ‘You think it’s true?’ ‘True? Why, of course it is. A newspaper with a reputation to support can’t go printing people’s names at haphazard. Keene’s very thick with all the London actors. He told me some first-class stories about—’ ‘Never mind,’ interposed his mother. ‘Well, to think it should come to this! I’m sure I feel for poor Mrs. Eldon. Really there is no end to her misfortunes.’ ‘Just how such families always end up,’ observed Alfred complacently. ‘No doubt he’ll drink himself to death, or something of that kind, and then we shall have the pleasure of seeing a new tablet in the church, inscribed with manifold virtues; or even a stained-glass window: the last of the Eldons deserves something noteworthy.’ ‘I think it’s hardly a subject for joking, Alfred. It is very, very sad. And to think what a fine handsome boy he used to be! But he was always dreadfully self-willed.’ ‘He was always an impertinent puppy! How he’ll play the swell on his wife’s earnings! Oh, our glorious aristocracy!’ Mrs. Waltham went early to her daughter’s room. Adela was sitting with her Bible before her—had sat so since coming upstairs, yet had not read three consecutive verses. Her face showed no effect of tears, for the heat of a consuming suspense had dried the fountains of woe. ‘I don’t like to occupy your mind with such things, my dear,’ began her mother, ‘but perhaps as a warning I ought to show you the news Alfred spoke of. It pleases Providence that there should be evil in the world, and for our own safety we must sometimes look it in the face, especially we poor women, Adela. Will you read that?’ Adela read. She could not criticise the style, but it affected her as something unclean; Hubert’s very name suffered degradation when used in such a way. Prepared for worse things than that which she saw, no shock of feelings was manifest in her. She returned the paper without speaking. ‘I wanted you to see that my behaviour to Mr. Eldon was not unjustified,’ said her mother. ‘You don’t blame me any longer, dear?’ ‘I have never blamed you, mother.’ ‘It is a sad, sad end to what might have been a life of usefulness and honour. I have thought so often of the parable of the talents; only I fear this case is worse. His poor mother! I wonder if I could write to her! Yet I hardly know how to.’ ‘Is this a—a wicked woman, mother?’ Adela asked falteringly. Mrs. Waltham shook her head and sighed. ‘My love, don’t you see that she is an actress?’ ‘But if all actresses are wicked, how is it that really good people go to the theatre?’ ‘I am afraid they oughtn’t to. The best of us are tempted into thoughtless pleasure. But now I don’t want you to brood over things which it is a sad necessity to have to glance at. Read your chapter, darling, and get to bed.’ To bed—but not to sleep. The child’s imagination was aflame. This scarlet woman, this meteor from hell flashing before the delighted eyes of men, she, then, had bound Hubert for ever in her toils; no release for him now, no ransom to eternity. No instant’s doubt of the news came to Adela; in her eyes imprimatur was the guarantee of truth. She strove to picture the face which had drawn Hubert to his doom. It must be lovely beyond compare. For the first time in her life she knew the agonies of jealousy. She could not shed tears, but in her anguish she fell upon prayer, spoke the words above her breath that they might silence that terrible voice within. Poor lost lamb, crying in the darkness, sending forth such piteous utterance as might create a spirit of love to hear and rescue. Rescue—none. When the fire wasted itself, she tried to find solace in the thought that one source of misery was stopped. Hubert was married, or would be very soon, and if she had sinned in loving him till now, such sin would henceforth be multiplied incalculably; she durst not, as she valued her soul, so much as let his name enter her thoughts. And to guard against it, was there not a means offered her? The doubt as to what love meant was well-nigh solved; or at all events she held it proved that the ‘love’ of the marriage service was something she had never yet felt, something which would follow upon marriage itself. Earthly love had surely led Hubert Eldon to ruin; oh, not that could be demanded of her! What reason had she now to offer against her mother’s desire? Letty’s arguments were vain; they were but as the undisciplined motions of her own heart. Marriage with a worthy man must often have been salvation to a rudderless life; for was it not the ceremony which, after all, constituted the exclusive sanction? Mutimer, it was true, fell sadly short of her ideal of goodness. He was an unbeliever. But might not this very circumstance involve a duty? As his wife, could she not plead with him and bring him to the truth? Would not that be loving him, to make his spiritual good the end of her existence? It was as though a great light shot athwart her darkness. She raised herself in bed, and, as if with her very hands, clung to the inspiration which had been granted her. The light was not abiding, but something of radiance lingered, and that must stead her. Her brother returned to Belwick next morning after an early breakfast. He was in his wonted high spirits, and talked with much satisfaction of the acquaintances he had made on the previous day, while Adela waited upon him. Mrs. Waltham only appeared as he was setting off. Adela sat almost in silence whilst her mother breakfasted. ‘You don’t look well, dear?’ said the latter, coming to the little room upstairs soon after the meal. ‘Yes, I am well, mother. But I want to speak to you.’ Mrs. Waltham seated herself in expectation. ‘Will you tell me why you so much wish me to marry Mr. Mutimer?’ Adela’s tone was quite other than she had hitherto used in conversations of this kind. It was submissive, patiently questioning. ‘You mustn’t misunderstand me,’ replied the mother with some nervousness. ‘The wish, dear, must of course be yours as well. You know that I—that I really have left you to consult your own—’ The sentence was unfinished. ‘But you have tried to persuade me, mother dear,’ pursued the gentle voice. ‘You would not do so if you did not think it for my good.’ Something shot painfully through Mrs. Waltham’s heart. ‘I am sure I have thought so, Adela; really I have thought so. I know there are objections, but no marriage is in every way perfect. I feel so sure of his character—I mean of his character in a worldly sense. And you might do so much to—to show him the true way, might you not, darling? I’m sure his heart is good.’ Mrs. Waltham also was speaking with less confidence than on former occasions. She cast side glances at her daughter’s colourless face. ‘Mother, may I marry without feeling that—that I love him?’ The face was flushed now for a moment. Adela had never spoken that word to anyone; even to Letty she had scarcely murmured it. The effect upon her of hearing it from her own lips was mysterious, awful; the sound did not die with her voice, but trembled in subtle harmonies along the chords of her being. Her mother took the shaken form and drew it to her bosom. ‘If he is your husband, darling, you will find that love grows. It is always so. Have no fear. On his side there is not only love; he respects you deeply; he has told me so.’ ‘And you encourage me to accept him, mother? It is your desire? I am your child, and you can wish nothing that is not for my good. Guide me, mother. It is so hard to judge for myself. You shall decide for me, indeed you shall.’ The mother’s heart was wrung. For a moment she strove to speak the very truth, to utter a word about that love which Adela was resolutely excluding. But the temptation to accept this unhoped surrender proved too strong. She sobbed her answer. ‘Yes, I do wish it, Adela. You will find that I—that I was not wrong.’ ‘Then if he asks me, I will marry him.’ As those words were spoken Mutimer issued from the Manor gates, uncertain whether to go his usual way down to the works or to pay a visit to Mrs. Waltham. The latter purpose prevailed. The evening before, Mr. Willis Rodman had called at the Manor shortly after dinner. He found Mutimer smoking, with coffee at his side, and was speedily making himself comfortable in the same way. Then he drew a newspaper from his pocket. ‘Have you seen the “Belwick Chronicle” of to-day?’ he inquired. ‘Why the deuce should I read such a paper?’ exclaimed Richard, with good-humoured surprise. He was in excellent spirits to-night, the excitement of the day having swept his mind clear of anxieties. ‘There’s something in it, though, that you ought to see.’ He pointed out the paragraph relating to Eldon. ‘Keene’s writing, eh?’ said Mutimer thoughtfully. ‘Yes, he gave me the paper.’ Richard rekindled his cigar with deliberation, and stood for a few moments with one foot on the fender. ‘Who is the woman?’ he then asked. ‘I don’t know her name. Of course it’s the same story continued.’ ‘And concluded.’ ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said the other, smiling and shaking his head. ‘This may or may not be true, I suppose,’ was Richard’s next remark. ‘Oh, I suppose the man hears all that kind of thing. I don’t see any reason to doubt it.’ ‘May I keep the paper?’ ‘Oh, yes. Keene told me, by-the-by, that he gave a copy to young Waltham.’ Mr. Rodman spoke whilst rolling the cigar in his mouth. Mutimer allowed the subject to lapse. There was no impossibility, no improbability even, in the statement made by the newspaper correspondent; yet as Richard thought it over in the night, he could not but regard it as singular that Mr. Keene should be the man to make public such a piece of information so very opportunely. He was far from having admitted the man to his confidence, but between Keene and Rodman, as he was aware, an intimacy had sprung up. It might be that one or the other had thought it worth while to serve him; why should Keene be particular to put a copy of the paper into Alfred Waltham’s hands? Well, he personally knew nothing of the affair. If the news effected anything, so much the better. He hoped it might be trustworthy. Among his correspondence in the morning was a letter from Emma Vine. He opened it last; anyone observing him would have seen with what reluctance he began to read it. ‘My dear Richard,’ it ran, ‘I write to thank you for the money. I would very much rather have had a letter from you, however short a one. It seems long since you wrote a real letter, and I can’t think how long since I have seen you. But I know how full of business you are, dear, and I’m sure you would never come to London without telling me, because if you hadn’t time to come here, I should be only too glad to go to Highbury, if only for one word. We have got some mourning dresses to make for the servants of a lady in Islington, so that is good news. But poor Jane is very bad indeed. She suffers a great deal of pain, and most of all at night, so that she scarcely ever gets more than half-an-hour of sleep at a time, if that. What makes it worse, dear Richard, is that she is so very unhappy. Sometimes she cries nearly through the whole night. I try my best to keep her up, but I’m afraid her weakness has much to do with it. But Kate is very well, I am glad to say, and the children are very well too. Bertie is beginning to learn to read. He often says he would like to see you. Thank you, dearest, for the money and all your kindness, and believe that I shall think of you every minute with much love. From yours ever and ever, ‘EMMA VINE.’ It would be cruel to reproduce Emma’s errors of spelling. Richard had sometimes noted a bad instance with annoyance, but it was not that which made him hurry to the end this morning with lowered brows. When he had finished the letter he crumbled it up and threw it into the fire. It was not heartlessness that made him do so: he dreaded to have these letters brought before his eyes a second time. He was also throwing the envelope aside, when he discovered that it contained yet another slip of paper. The writing on this was not Emma’s: the letters were cramped and not easy to decipher. ‘Dear Richard, come to London and see me. I want to speak to you, I must speak to you. I can’t have very long to live, and I must, must see you. ‘JANE VINE.’ This too he threw into the fire. His lips were hard set, his eyes wide. And almost immediately he prepared to leave the house. It was early, but he felt that he must go to the Walthams’. He had promised Mrs. Waltham to refrain from visiting the house for a week, but that promise it was impossible to keep. Jane’s words were ringing in his ears: he seemed to hear her very voice calling and beseeching. So far from changing his purpose, it impelled him in the course he had chosen. There must and should be an end of this suspense. Mrs. Waltham had just come downstairs from her conversation with Adela, when she saw Mutimer approaching the door. She admitted him herself. Surely Providence was on her side; she felt almost young in her satisfaction. Richard remained in the house about twenty minutes. Then he walked down to the works as usual. Shortly after his departure another visitor presented himself. This was Mr. Wyvern. The vicar’s walk in Hubert’s company the evening before had extended itself from point to point, till the two reached Agworth together. Mr. Wyvern was addicted to night-rambling, and he often covered considerable stretches of country in the hours when other mortals slept. To-night he was in the mood for such exercise; it worked off unwholesome accumulations of thought and feeling, and good counsel often came to him in what the Greeks called the kindly time. He did not hurry on his way back to Wanley, for just at present he was much in need of calm reflection. On his arrival at the Vicarage about eleven o’clock the servant informed him of Miss Waltham’s having called. Mr. Wyvern heard this with pleasure. He thought at first of writing a note to Adela, begging her to come to the Vicarage again, but by the morning he had decided to be himself the visitor. He gathered at once from Mrs. Waltham’s face that events of some agitating kind were in progress. She did not keep him long in uncertainty. Upon his asking if he might speak a few words with Adela, Mrs. Waltham examined him curiously. ‘I am afraid,’ she said, ‘that I must ask you to excuse her this morning, Mr. Wyvern. She is not quite prepared to see anyone at present. In fact,’ she lowered her voice and smiled very graciously, ‘she has just had an—an agitating interview with Mr. Mutimer—she has consented to be his wife.’ ‘In that case I cannot of course trouble her,’ the vicar replied, with gravity which to Mrs. Waltham appeared excessive, rather adapted to news of a death than of a betrothal. The dark searching eyes, too, made her feel uncomfortable. And he did not utter a syllable of the politeness expected on these occasions. ‘What a very shocking thing about Mr. Eldon!’ the lady pursued. ‘You have heard?’ ‘Shocking? Pray, what has happened?’ Hubert had left him in some depression the night before, and for a moment Mr. Wyvern dreaded lest some fatality had become known in Wanley. ‘Ah, you have not heard? It is in this newspaper.’ The vicar examined the column indicated. ‘But,’ he exclaimed, with subdued indignation, ‘this is the merest falsehood!’ ‘A falsehood! Are you sure of that, Mr. Wyvern?’ ‘Perfectly sure. There is no foundation for it whatsoever.’ ‘You don’t say so! I am very glad to hear that, for poor Mrs. Eldon’s sake.’ ‘Could you lend me this newspaper for to-day?’ ‘With pleasure. Really you relieve me, Mr. Wyvern. I had no means of inquiring into the story, of course. But how disgraceful that such a thing should appear in print!’ ‘I am sorry to say, Mrs. Waltham, that the majority of things which appear in print nowadays are more or less disgraceful. However, this may claim prominence, in its way.’ ‘And I may safely contradict it? It will be such a happiness to do so.’ ‘Contradict it by all means, madam. You may cite me as your authority.’ The vicar crushed the sheet into his pocket and strode homewards. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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