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Demos: A Story of English Socialism

<h2> CHAPTER XX </h2> Among the little girls who had received invitations to the tea-party were two named Rendal, the children of the man whose dismissal from New Wanley had been announced by Mutimer. Adela was rather surprised to see them in the garden. They were eight and nine years old respectively, and she noticed that both had a troubled countenance, the elder showing signs of recent tears. She sought them out particularly for kind words during tea-time. After the reading she noticed them standing apart, talking to each other earnestly; she saw also that they frequently glanced at her. It occurred to her that they might wish to say something and had a difficulty in approaching. She went to them, and a question or two soon led the elder girl to disclose that she was indeed desirous of speaking in private. Giving a hand to each, she drew them a little apart. Then both children began to cry, and the elder sobbed out a pitiful story. Their mother was wretchedly ill and had sent them to implore Mrs. Mutimer’s good word that the father might be allowed another chance. It was true he had got drunk—the words sounded terrible to Adela from the young lips—but he vowed that henceforth he would touch no liquor. It was ruin to the family to be sent away; Rendal might not find work for long enough; there would be nothing for it but to go to a Belwick slum as long as their money lasted, and thence to the workhouse. For it was well understood that no man who had worked at New Wanley need apply to the ordinary employers; they would have nothing to do with him. The mother would have come herself, but could not walk the distance. Adela was pierced with compassion. ‘I will do my best,’ she said, as soon as she could trust her voice. ‘I promise you I will do my best.’ She could not say more, and the children evidently hoped she would have been able to grant their father’s pardon forthwith. They had to be content with Adela’s promise, which did not sound very cheerful, but meant more than they could understand. She could not do more than give such a promise, and even as she spoke there was a coldness about her heart. The coldness became a fear when she met her husband on his return from the works. Richard was not in the same good temper as at mid-day. He was annoyed to find Keene in the house—of late he had grown to dislike the journalist very cordially—and he had heard that the Rendal children had been to the party, which enraged him. You remember he accused the man of impudence in addition to the offence of drunkenness. Rendal, foolishly joking in his cups, had urged as extenuation of his own weakness the well-known fact that ‘Arry Mutimer had been seen one evening unmistakably intoxicated in the street of Wanley village. Someone reported these words to Richard, and from that moment it was all over with the Rendals. Adela, in her eagerness to plead, quite forgot (or perhaps she had never known) that with a certain order of men it is never wise to prefer a request immediately before dinner. She was eager, too, to speak at once; a fear, which she would not allow to become definite, drove her upon the undertaking without delay. Meeting Richard on the stairs she begged him to come to her room. ‘What is it?’ he asked with small ceremony, as soon as the door closed behind him. She mastered her voice, and spoke with a sweet clearness of advocacy which should have moved his heart to proud and noble obeisance. Mutimer was not very accessible to such emotions. ‘It’s like the fellow’s impertinence,’ he said, ‘to send his children to you. I’m rather surprised you let them stay after what I had told you. Certainly I shall not overlook it. The thing’s finished I it’s no good talking about it.’ The fear had passed, but the coldness about her heart was more deadly. For a moment it seemed as if she could not bring herself to utter another word; she drew apart, she could not raise her face, which was beautiful in marble pain. But there came a rush of such hot anguish as compelled her to speak again. Something more than the fate of that poor family was at stake. Is not the quality of mercy indispensable to true nobleness? Had she voiced her very thought, Adela would have implored him to exalt himself in her eyes, to do a good deed which cost him some little effort over himself. For she divined with cruel certainty that it was not the principle that made him unyielding. ‘Richard, are you sure that the man has offended before?’ ‘Oh, of course he has. I’ve no doubt of it. I remember feeling uncertain when I admitted him first of all. I didn’t like his look.’ ‘But you have not really had to complain of him before. Your suspicions may be groundless. And he has a good wife, I feel sure of that. The children are very clean and nicely dressed. She will help him to avoid drink in future. It is impossible for him to fail again, now that he knows how dreadful the results will be to his wife and his little girls.’ ‘Pooh! What does he care about them? If I begin letting men off in that way, I shall be laughed at. There’s an end of my authority. Don’t bother your head about them. I must go and get ready for dinner.’ An end of my authority. Yes, was it not the intelligence of her maiden heart returning to her? She had no pang from the mere refusal of a request of hers; Richard had never affected tenderness—not what she understood as tenderness—and she did not expect it of him. The union between them had another basis. But the understanding of his motives was so terribly distinct in her! It had come all at once; it was like the exposure of something dreadful by the sudden raising of a veil. And had she not known what the veil covered? Yet for the poor people’s sake, for his own sake, she must try the woman’s argument. ‘Do you refuse me, Richard? I will be guarantee for him. I promise you he shall not offend again. He shall apologise humbly to you for his—his words. You won’t really refuse me?’ ‘What nonsense! How can you promise for him, Adela? Ask for something reasonable, and you may be sure I shan’t refuse you. The fellow has to go as a warning. It mustn’t be thought we’re only playing at making rules. I can’t talk any more; I shall keep dinner waiting.’ Pride helped her to show a smooth face through the evening, and in the night she conquered herself anew. She expelled those crying children from her mind; she hardened her heart against their coming misery. It was wrong to judge her husband so summarily; nay, she had not judged him, but had given way to a wicked impulse, without leaving herself a moment to view the case. Did he not understand better than she what measures were necessary to the success of his most difficult undertaking? And then was it certain that expulsion meant ruin to the Rendals? Richard would insist on the letter of the regulations, just, as he said, for the example’s sake; but of course he would see that the man was put in the way of getting new employment and did not suffer in the meantime. In the morning she made atonement to her husband. ‘I was wrong in annoying you yesterday,’ she said as she walked with him from the house to the garden gate. ‘In such things you are far better able to judge. You won’t let it trouble you?’ It was a form of asceticism; Adela had a joy in humbling herself and crushing her rebel instincts. She even raised her eyes to interrogate him. On Richard’s face was an uneasy smile, a look of puzzled reflection. It gratified him intensely to hear such words, yet he could not hear them without the suspicions of a vulgar nature brought in contact with nobleness. ‘Well, yes,’ he replied, ‘I think you were a bit too hasty: you’re not practical, you see. It wants a practical man to manage those kind of things.’ The reply was not such as completes the blessedness of pure submission. Adela averted her eyes. Another woman would perchance have sought to assure herself that she was right in crediting him with private benevolence to the family he was compelled to visit so severely. Such a question Adela could not ask. It would have been to betray doubt; she imagined a replying glance which would shame her. To love, to honour, to obey:—many times daily she repeated to herself that threefold vow, and hitherto the first article had most occupied her striving heart. But she must not neglect the second; perhaps it came first in natural order. At the gate Richard nodded to her kindly. ‘Good-bye. Be a good girl.’ What was it that caused a painful flutter at her heart as he spoke so? She did not answer, but watched him for a few moments as he walked away. Did he love her? The question which she had not asked herself for a long time came of that heart-tremor. She had been living so unnatural a life for a newly wedded woman, a life in which the intellect and the moral faculties held morbid predominance. ‘Be a good girl.’ How was it that the simple phrase touched her to emotion quite different in kind from any thing she had known since her marriage, more deeply than any enthusiasm, as with a comfort more sacred than any she had known in prayer? As she turned to go back to the house a dizziness affected her eyes; she had to stand still for a moment. Involuntarily she clasped her hands upon her bosom and looked away into the blue summer sky. Did he love her? She had never asked him that, and all at once she felt a longing to hasten after him and utter the question. Would he know what she meant? Was it the instantaneous reward for having conscientiously striven to honour him? That there should be love on his side had not hitherto seemed of so much importance; probably she had taken it for granted; she had been so preoccupied with her own duties. Yet now it had all at once become of moment that she should know. ‘Be a good girl.’ She repeated the words over and over again, and made much of them. Perhaps she had given him no opportunity, no encouragement, to say all he felt; she knew him to be reserved in many things. As she entered the house the dizziness again troubled her. But it passed as before. Mr. Keene, who had stayed over-night, was waiting to take leave of her; the trap which would carry him to Agworth station had just driven up. Adela surprised the poor journalist by the warmth with which she shook his hand, and the kindness of her farewell. She was not deceived as to the motive of his visit, and just now she allowed herself to feel sympathy for him, though in truth she did not like the man. This morning she could not settle to her work. The dreaming mood was upon her, and she appeared rather to encourage it, seeking a quiet corner of the garden and watching for a whole hour the sun-dappled trunk of a great elm. At times her face seemed itself to be a source of light, so vivid were the thoughts that transformed it Her eyes were moist once or twice, and then no dream of artist-soul ever embodied such passionate loveliness, such holy awe, as came to view upon her countenance. At lunch she was almost silent, but Alice, happening to glance at her, experienced a surprise; she had never seen Adela so beautiful and so calmly bright. After lunch she attired herself for walking, and went to the village to see her mother. Lest Mrs. Waltham should be lonely, it had been arranged that Alfred should come home every evening, instead of once a week. Even thus, Adela had frequently reproached herself for neglecting her mother. Mrs. Waltham, however, enjoyed much content. The material comforts of her life were considerably increased, and she had many things in anticipation. Adela’s unsatisfactory health rendered it advisable that the present year should pass in quietness, but Mrs. Waltham had made up her mind that before long there should be a house in London, with the delights appertaining thereto. She did not feel herself at all too old to enjoy the outside view of a London season; more than that it would probably be difficult to obtain just yet. To-day she was in excellent spirits, and welcomed her daughter exuberantly. ‘You haven’t seen Letty yet?’ she asked. ‘To-day, I mean.’ ‘No. Has she some news for me?’ ‘Alfred has an excellent chance of promotion. That old Wilkinson is dead, and he thinks there’s no doubt he’ll get the place. It would be two hundred and fifty a year.’ ‘That’s good news, indeed.’ Of course it would mean Letty’s immediate marriage. Mrs. Waltham discussed the prospect in detail. No doubt the best and simplest arrangement would be for the pair to live on in the same house. For the present, of course. Alfred was now firm on the commercial ladder, and in a few years his income would doubtless be considerable; then a dwelling of a very different kind could be found. With the wedding, too, she was occupying her thoughts. ‘Yours was not quite what it ought to have been, Adela. I felt it at the time, but then things were done in such a hurry. Of course the church must be decorated. The breakfast you will no doubt arrange to have at the Manor. Letty ought to have a nice, a really nice trousseau; I know you will be kind to her, my dear.’ As Alice had done, Mrs. Waltham noticed before long that Adela was far brighter than usual. She remarked upon it. ‘You begin to look really well, my love. It makes me happy to see you. How much we have to be thankful for! I’ve had a letter this morning from poor Lizzie Henbane; I must show it you. They’re in such misery as never was. Her husband’s business is all gone to nothing, and he is cruelly unkind to her. How thankful we ought to be!’ ‘Surely not for poor Lizzie’s unhappiness!’ said Adela, with a return of her maiden archness. ‘On our own account, my dear. We have had so much to contend against. At one time, just after your poor father’s death, things looked very cheerless: I used to fret dreadfully on your account. But everything, you see, was for the best.’ Adela had something to say and could not find the fitting moment. She first drew her chair a little nearer to her mother. ‘Yes, mother, I am happy,’ she murmured. ‘Silly child! As if I didn’t know best. It’s always the same, but you had the good sense to trust to my experience.’ Adela slipped from her seat and put her arms about her mother. ‘What is it, dear?’ The reply was whispered. Adela’s embrace grew closer; her face was hidden, and all at once she began to sob. ‘Love me, mother! Love me, dear mother!’ Mrs. Waltham beamed with real tenderness. For half an hour they talked as mother and child alone can. Then Adela walked back to the Manor, still dreaming. She did not feel able to call and see Letty. There was an afternoon postal delivery at Wanley, and the postman had just left the Manor as Adela returned. Alice, who for a wonder had been walking in the garden, saw the man going away, and, thinking it possible there might be a letter for her, entered the house to look. Three letters lay on the hall table; two were for Richard, the other was addressed to Mrs. Mutimer. This envelope Alice examined curiously. Whose writing could that be? She certainly knew it; it was a singular hand, stiff, awkward, untrained. Why, it was the writing of Emma’s sister, Kate, Mrs. Clay. Not a doubt of it. Alice had received a note from Mrs. Clay at the time of Jane Vine’s death, and remembered comparing the hand with her own and blessing herself that at all events she wrote with an elegant slope, and not in that hideous upright scrawl. The post-mark? Yes, it was London, E.C. But if Kate addressed a letter to Mrs. Mutimer it must be with sinister design, a design not at all difficult to imagine. Alice had a temptation. To take this letter and either open it herself or give it secretly to her brother? But the servant might somehow make it known that such a letter had arrived. ‘Anything for me, Alice?’ It was Adela’s voice. She had approached unheard; Alice was so intent upon her thoughts. ‘Yes, one letter.’ There was no help for it. Alice glanced at her sister-in-law, and strolled away again into the garden. Adela examined the envelope. She could not conjecture from whom the letter came; certainly from some illiterate person. Was it for her husband? Was not the ‘Mrs.’ a mistake for ‘Mr.’ or perhaps mere ill-writing that deceived the eye? No, the prefix was so very distinct. She opened the envelope where she stood. ‘Mrs. Mutimer, I dare say you don’t know me nor my name, but I write to you because I think it only right as you should know the truth about your husband, and because me and my sister can’t go on any longer as we are. My sister’s name is Emma Vine. She was engaged to be married to Richard M. two years before he knew you, and to the last he put her off with make-believe and promises, though it was easy to see what was meant. And when our sister Jane was on her very death-bed, which she died not a week after he married you, and I know well as it was grief as killed her. And now we haven’t got enough to eat for Emma and me and my two little children, for I am a widow myself. But that isn’t all. Because he found that his friends in Hoxton was crying shame on him, he got it said as Emma had misbehaved herself, which was a cowardly lie, and all to protect himself. And now Emma is that ill she can’t work; it’s come upon her all at once, and what’s going to happen God knows. And his own mother cried shame on him, and wouldn’t live no longer in the big house in Highbury. He offered us money—I will say so much—but Emma was too proud, and wouldn’t hear of it. And then he went giving her a bad name. What do you think of your husband now, Mrs. Mutimer? I don’t expect nothing, but it’s only right you should know. Emma wouldn’t take anything, not if she was dying of starvation, but I’ve got my children to think of. So that’s all I have to say, and I’m glad I’ve said it.—Yours truly, KATE CLAY.’ Adela remained standing for a few moments when she had finished the letter, then went slowly to her room. Alice returned from the garden in a short time. In passing through the hall she looked again at the two letters which remained. Neither of them had a sinister appearance; being addressed to the Manor they probably came from personal friends. She went to the drawing-room and glanced around for Adela, but the room was empty. Richard would not be home for an hour yet; she took up a novel and tried to pass the time so, but she had a difficulty in fixing her attention. In the end she once more left the house, and, after a turn or two on the lawn, strolled out of the gate. She met her brother a hundred yards along the road. The sight of her astonished him. ‘What’s up now, Princess?’ he exclaimed. ‘House on fire? Novels run short?’ ‘Something that I expect you won’t care to hear. Who do you think’s been writing to Adela? Someone in London.’ Richard stayed his foot, and looked at his sister with the eyes which suggested disagreeable possibilities. ‘Who do you mean?’ he asked briefly. ‘Not mother?’ The change in him was very sudden. He had been merry and smiling. ‘No; worse than that. She’s got a letter from Kate.’ ‘From Kate? Emma’s sister?’ he asked in a low voice of surprise which would have been dismay had he not governed himself. ‘I saw it on the hall table; I remember her writing well enough. Just as I was looking at it Adela came in.’ ‘Have you seen her since?’ Alice shook her head. She had this way of saving words. Richard walked on. His first movement of alarm had passed, and now he affected to take the matter with indifference. During the week immediately following his marriage he had been prepared for this very incident; the possibility had been one of the things he faced with a certain recklessness. But impunity had set his mind at ease, and the news in the first instant struck him with a trepidation which a few minutes’ thought greatly allayed. By a mental process familiar enough he at first saw the occurrence as he had seen it in the earlier days of his temptation, when his sense of honour yet gave him frequent trouble; he had to exert himself to recover his present standpoint. At length he smiled. ‘Just like that woman,’ he said, turning half an eye on Alice. ‘If she means trouble, you’ll have it,’ returned the girl sententiously. ‘Well, it’s no doubt over by this time.’ ‘Over? Beginning, I should say,’ remarked Alice, swinging her parasol at a butterfly. They finished their walk to the house in silence, and Richard went at once to his dressing-room. Here he sat down. After all, his mental disquiet was not readily to be dismissed; it even grew as he speculated and viewed likelihoods from all sides. Probably Kate had made a complete disclosure. How would it affect Adela? You must not suppose that his behaviour in the case of the man Rendal had argued disregard for Adela’s opinion of him. Richard was incapable of understanding how it struck his wife, that was all. If he reflected on the matter, no doubt he was very satisfied with himself, feeling that he had displayed a manly resolution and consistency. But the present difficulty was grave. Whatever Adela might say, there could be no doubt as to her thought; she would henceforth—yes, despise him. That cut his thick skin to the quick; his nature was capable of smarting when thus assailed. For he had by no means lost his early reverence for Adela; nay, in a sense it had increased. His primitive ideas on woman had undergone a change since his marriage. Previously he had considered a wife in the light of property; intellectual or moral independence he could not attribute to her. But he had learnt that Adela was by no means his chattel. He still knew diffidence when he was inclined to throw a joke at her, and could not take her hand without involuntary respect—a sensation which occasionally irritated him. A dim inkling of what was meant by woman’s strength and purity had crept into his mind; he knew—in his heart he knew—that he was unworthy to touch her garment. And, to face the whole truth, he all but loved her; that was the meaning of his mingled sentiments with regard to her. A danger of losing her in the material sense would have taught him that better than he as yet knew it; the fear of losing her respect was not attributable solely to his restless egoism. He had wedded her in quite another frame of mind than that in which he now found himself when he thought of her. He cared much for the high opinion of people in general; Adela was all but indispensable to him. When he said, ‘My wife,’ he must have been half-conscious that the word bore a significance different from that he had contemplated. On the lips of those among whom he had grown up the word is desecrated, or for the most part so; it has contemptible, and ridiculous, and vile associations, scarcely ever its true meaning. Formerly he would have laughed at the thought of standing in awe of his wife; nay, he could not have conceived the possibility of such a thing; it would have appeared unnatural, incompatible with the facts of wedded life. Yet he sat here and almost dreaded to enter her presence. A man of more culture might have thought: A woman cannot in her heart be revolted because another has been cast off for her. Mutimer could not reason so far. It would have been reasoning inapplicable to Adela, but from a certain point of view it might have served as a resource. Richard could only accept his instincts. But it was useless to postpone the interview; come of it what would, he must have it over and done with. He could not decide how to speak until he knew what the contents of Kate’s letter were. He was nervously anxious to know. Adela sat in her boudoir, with a book open on her lap. After the first glance on his entering she kept her eyes down. He sauntered up and stood before her in an easy attitude. ‘Who has been writing to you from London?’ he at once asked, abruptly in consequence of the effort to speak without constraint. Adela was not prepared for such a question. She remembered all at once that Alice had seen the letter as it lay on the table. Why had Alice spoken to her brother about it? There could be only one explanation of that, and of his coming thus directly. She raised her eyes for a moment, and a slight shock seemed to affect her. She was unconscious how long she delayed her reply. ‘Can’t you tell me?’ Richard said, with more roughness than he intended. He was suffering, and suffering affected his temper. Adela drew the letter from her pocket and in silence handed it to him. He read it quickly, and, before the end was reached, had promptly chosen his course. ‘What do you think of this?’ was his question, as he folded the letter and rolled it in his hand. He was smiling, and enjoyed complete self-command. ‘I cannot think,’ fell from Adela’s lips. ‘I am waiting for jour words.’ He noticed at length, now he was able to inspect her calmly, that she looked faint, pain-stricken. ‘Alice told me who had written to you,’ Richard pursued, in his frankest tones. ‘It was well she saw the letter; you might have said nothing.’ ‘That would have been very unjust to you,’ said Adela in a low regular voice. ‘I could only have done that if—if I had believed it.’ ‘You don’t altogether believe it, then?’ She looked at him with full eyes and made answer: ‘You are my husband.’ It echoed in his ears; not to many men does it fall to hear those words so spoken. Another would have flung himself at her feet and prayed to her. Mutimer only felt a vast relief, mingled with gratitude. The man all but flattered himself that she had done him justice. ‘Well, you are quite right,’ he spoke. ‘It isn’t true, and if you knew this woman you would understand the whole affair. I dare say you can gather a good deal from the way she writes. It’s true enough that I was engaged to her sister, but it was broken off before I knew you, and for the reasons she says here. I’m not going to talk to you about things of that kind; I dare say you wouldn’t care to hear them. Of course she says I made it all up. Do you think I’m the kind of man to do that?’ Perhaps she did not know that she was gazing at him. The question interrupted her in a train of thought which was going on in her mind even while she listened. She was asking herself why, when they were in London, he had objected to a meeting between her and his mother. He had said his mother was a crotchety old woman who could not make up her mind to the changed circumstances, and was intensely prejudiced against women above her own class. Was that a very convincing description? She had accepted it at the time, but now, after reading this letter—? But could any man speak with that voice and that look, and lie? Her agitation grew intolerable. Answer she must; could she, could she say ‘No’ with truth? Answer she must, for he waited. In the agony of striving for voice there came upon her once more that dizziness of the morning, but in a more severe form. She struggled, felt her breath failing, tried to rise, and fell back unconscious. At the same time Alice was sitting in the drawing-room, in conversation with Mr. Willis Rodman. ‘Arry having been invited for this evening, Rodman was asked with him, as had been the case before. ‘Arry was at present amusing himself in the stables, exchanging sentiments with the groom. Rodman sat near Alice, or rather he knelt upon a chair, so that at any moment he could assume a standing attitude before her. He talked in a low voice. ‘You’ll come out to-night?’ ‘No, not to-night. You must speak to him to-night.’ Rodman mused. ‘Why shouldn’t you?’ resumed the girl eagerly, in a tone as unlike that she used to Mr. Keene as well could be. She was in earnest; her eyes never moved from her companion’s face; her lips trembled. ‘Why should you put it off? I can’t see why we keep it a secret. Dick can’t have a word to say against it; you know he can’t. Tell him to-night after dinner. Do! do!’ Rodman frowned in thought. ‘He won’t like it.’ ‘But why not? I believe he will. He will, he shall, he must! I’m not to depend on him, surely?’ ‘A day or two more, Alice.’ ‘I can’t keep up the shamming!’ she exclaimed. ‘Adela suspects, I feel sure. Whenever you come in I feel that hot and red.’ She laughed and blushed. ‘If you won’t do as I tell you, I’ll give you up, I will indeed!’ Rodman stroked his moustache, smiling. ‘You will, will you?’ ‘See if I don’t. To-night! It must be to-night! Shall I call you a pretty name? it’s only because I couldn’t bear to be found out before you tell him.’ He still stroked his moustache. His handsome face was half amused, half troubled. At last he said: ‘Very well; to-night.’ Shortly after, Mutimer came into the room. ‘Adela isn’t up to the mark,’ he said to Alice. ‘She’d better have dinner by herself, I think; but she’ll join us afterwards.’ Brother and sister exchanged looks. ‘Oh, it’s only a headache or something of the kind,’ he continued. ‘It’ll be all right soon.’ And he began to talk with Rodman cheerfully, so that Alice felt it must really be all right. She drew aside and looked into a novel. Adela did appear after dinner, very pale and silent, but with a smile on her face. There had been no further conversation between her and her husband. She talked a little with ‘Arry, in her usual gentle way, then asked to be allowed to say goodnight. ‘Arry at the same time took his leave, having been privately bidden to do so by his sister. He was glad enough to get away; in the drawing-room his limbs soon began to ache, from inability to sit at his ease. Then Alice withdrew, and the men were left alone. Adela did not go to bed. She suffered from the closeness of the evening and sat by her open windows, trying to read a chapter in the New Testament. About eleven o’clock she had a great desire to walk upon the garden grass for a few minutes before undressing; perhaps it might help her to the sleep she so longed for yet feared she would not obtain. The desire became so strong that she yielded to it, passed quietly downstairs, and out into the still night. She directed her steps to her favourite remote corner. There was but little moonlight, and scarcely a star was visible. When she neared the laburnums behind which she often sat or walked, her ear caught the sound of voices. They came nearer, on the other side of the trees. The first word which she heard distinctly bound her to the spot and forced her to listen. ‘No, I shan’t put it off.’ It was Alice speaking. ‘I know what comes of that kind of thing. I am old enough to be my own mistress.’ ‘You are not twenty-one,’ replied Richard in an annoyed voice. ‘I shall do everything I can to put it off till you are of age. Rodman is a good enough fellow in his place; but it isn’t hard to see why he’s talked you over in this way.’ ‘He hasn’t talked me over!’ cried Alice, passionately. ‘I needn’t have listened if I hadn’t liked.’ ‘You’re a foolish girl, and you want someone to look after you. If you’ll only wait you can make a good marriage. This would be a bad one, in every sense.’ ‘I shall marry him.’ ‘And I shall prevent it. It’s for your own sake, Alice.’ ‘If you try to prevent it—I’ll tell Adela everything about Emma I I’ll tell her the whole plain truth, and I’ll prove it to her. So hinder me if you dare!’ Alice hastened away. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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