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Demos: A Story of English Socialism

<h2> CHAPTER XXXVI </h2> A deep breath of country air. It is springtime, and the valley of Wanley is bursting into green and flowery life, peacefully glad as if the foot of Demos had never come that way. Incredible that the fume of furnaces ever desecrated that fleece-sown sky of tenderest blue, that hammers clanged and engines roared where now the thrush utters his song so joyously. Hubert Eldon has been as good as his word. In all the valley no trace is left of what was called New Wanley. Once more we can climb to the top of Stanbury Hill and enjoy the sense of remoteness and security when we see that dark patch on the horizon, the cloud that hangs over Belwick. Hubert and the vicar of Wanley stood there together one morning in late April, more than a year after the death of Richard Mutimer. Generally there was a strong breeze on this point, but to-day the west was breathing its gentlest, warm upon the cheek. ‘Well, it has gone,’ Hubert said. ‘May will have free playing-ground.’ ‘In one sense,’ replied the vicar, ‘I fear it will never be gone. Its influence on the life of the people in Wanley and in some of the farms about has been graver than you imagine. I find discontent where it was formerly unknown. The typical case is that lad of Bolton’s. They wanted him sadly at home; by this time he would have been helping his unfortunate father. Instead of that he’s the revolutionary oracle of Belwick pot-houses, and appears on an average once a fortnight before the magistrates for being drunk and disorderly.’ ‘Yes, the march of progress has been hastened a little, doubtless,’ said Hubert. ‘I have to content myself with the grass and the trees. Well, I have done all I could, now other people must enjoy the results. Ah, look! there is a van of the Edgeworths’ furniture coming to the Manor. They are happy people! Something like an ideal married couple, and with nothing to do but to wander about the valley and enjoy themselves.’ ‘I am rather surprised you gave them so long a lease,’ remarked Mr. Wyvern. ‘Why not? I shall never live here again. As long as I had work to do it was all right; but to continue to live in that house was impossible. And in twenty years it would be no less impossible. I should fall into a monomania, and one of a very loathsome kind.’ Mr. Wyvern pondered. They walked on a few paces before Hubert again spoke. ‘There was a letter from her in the “Belwick Chronicle” yesterday morning Something on the placard in Agworth station caused me to buy a copy. The Tory paper, it seems, had a leader a day or two ago on Socialism, and took occasion to sneer at Mutimer, not by name, but in an unmistakable way—the old scandal of course. She wrote a letter to the editor, and he courteously paid no attention to it. So she wrote to the “Chronicle.” They print her in large type, and devote a leader to the subject—party capital, of course.’ He ceased on a bitter tone, then, before his companion could reply, added violently: ‘It is hideous to see her name in such places!’ ‘Let us speak freely of this,’ returned Mr. Wyvern. ‘You seem to me to be very unjust. Your personal feeling makes you less acute in judging than I should have expected. Surely her behaviour is very admirable.’ ‘Oh, I am not unjust in that sense. I have never refused to believe in his innocence technically.’ ‘Excuse me, that has nothing to do with the matter. All we have to look at is this. She is herself convinced of his innocence, and therefore makes it her supreme duty to defend his memory. It appears to me that she acts altogether nobly. In spite of all the evidence that was brought on his side, the dastardly spirit of politics has persisted in making Mutimer a sort of historical character, a type of the hypocritical demagogue, to be cited whenever occasion offers. Would it be possible to attach a more evil significance to a man’s name than that which Mutimer bears, and will continue to bear, among certain sections of writing and speechifying vermin? It is a miserable destiny. If every man who achieves notoriety paid for his faults in this way, what sort of reputations would history consist of? I won’t say that it isn’t a good thing, speaking generally, but in the individual case it is terribly hard. Would you have his widow keep silence? That would be the easier thing to do, be sure of it—for her, a thousand times the easier. I regard her as the one entirely noble woman it has been my lot to know. And if you thought calmly you could not speak of her with such impatience.’ Hubert kept silence for a moment. ‘It is all true. Of course it only means that I am savagely jealous. But I cannot—upon my life I cannot—understand her having given her love to such a man as that!’ Mr. Wyvern seemed to regard the landscape. There was a sad smile on his countenance. ‘Let there be an end of it,’ Hubert resumed. ‘I didn’t mean to say anything to you about the letter. Now, we’ll talk of other things. Well, I am going to have a summer among the German galleries; perhaps I shall find peace there. You have let your son know that I am coming?’ The vicar nodded. They continued their walk along the top of the hill. Presently Mr. Wyvern stopped and faced his companion. ‘Are you serious in what you said just now? I mean about her love for Mutimer?’ ‘Serious? Of course I am. Why should you ask such a question?’ ‘Because I find it difficult to distinguish between the things a young man says in jealous pique and the real belief he entertains when he is not throwing savage words about. You have convinced yourself that she loved her husband in the true sense of the word?’ ‘The conviction was forced upon me. Why did she marry him at all? What led her to give herself, heart and soul, to Socialism, she who under ordinary circumstances would have shrunk from that and all other isms? Why should she make it a special entreaty to me to pursue her husband’s work? The zeal for his memory is nothing unanticipated; it issues naturally from her former state of mind.’ ‘Your vehemence,’ replied the vicar, smiling, ‘is sufficient proof that you don’t think it impossible for all these questions to be answered in another sense. I can’t pretend to have read the facts of her life infallibly, but suppose I venture a hint or two, just to give you matter for thought. Why she married him I cannot wholly explain to myself, but remember that she took that step very shortly after being brought to believe that you, my good friend, were utterly unworthy of any true woman’s devotion. Remember, too, her brother’s influence, and—well, her mother’s. Now, on the evening before she accepted Mutimer she called at the Vicarage alone. Unfortunately I was away—was walking with you, in fact. What she desired to say to me I can only conjecture; but it is not impossible that she was driven by the common impulse which sends young girls to their pastor when they are in grievous trouble and without other friends.’ ‘Why did you never tell me of that?’ cried Hubert. ‘Because it would have been useless, and, to tell you the truth, I felt I was in an awkward position, not far from acting indiscreetly. I did go to see her the next morning, but only saw her mother, and heard of the engagement. Adela never spoke to me of her visit.’ ‘But she may have come for quite other reasons. Her subsequent behaviour remains.’ ‘Certainly. Here again I may be altogether wrong, but it seems to me that to a woman of her character there was only one course open. Having become his wife, it behoved her to be loyal, and especially—remember this—it behoved her to put her position beyond doubt in the eyes of others, in the eyes of one, it may be, beyond all. Does that throw no light on your meeting with her in the wood, of which you make so much?’ Hubert’s countenance shone, but only for an instant. ‘Ingenious,’ he replied, good-humouredly. ‘Possibly no more,’ Mr. Wyvern rejoined. ‘Take it as a fanciful sketch of how a woman’s life might be ordered. Such a life would not lack its dignity.’ Neither spoke for a while. ‘You will call on Mrs. Westlake as you pass through London?’ Mr. Wyvern next inquired. ‘Mrs. Westlake?’ the other repeated absently. ‘Yes, I dare say I shall see her.’ ‘Do, by all means.’ They began to descend the hill. The Walthams no longer lived in Wanley. A year ago the necessities of Alfred Waltham’s affairs had led to a change; he and his wife and their two children, together with Mrs. Waltham the dowager, removed to what the auctioneers call a commodious residence on the outskirts of Belwick. Alfred remarked that it was as well not to be so far from civilisation; he pointed out, too, that it was time for him to have an eye to civic dignities, if only a place on the Board of Guardians to begin with. Our friend was not quite so uncompromising in his political and social opinions as formerly. His wife observed that he ceased to subscribe to Socialist papers, and took in a daily of orthodox Liberal tendencies—that is to say, an organ of capitalism. Letty rejoiced at the change, but knew her husband far too well to make any remark upon it. To their house, about three months after her husband’s death, came Adela. The intermediate time she had passed with Stella. All were very glad to have her at Belwick—Letty in particular, who, though a matron with two bouncing boys, still sat at Adela’s feet and deemed her the model of womanhood. Adela was not so sad as they had feared to find her. She kept a great deal to her own room, but was always engaged in study, and seemed to find peace in that way. She was silent in her habits, scarcely ever joining in general conversation; but when Letty could steal an hour from household duties and go to Adela’s room she was always sure of hearing wise and tender words in which her heart delighted. Her pride in Adela was boundless. On the day when the latter first attired herself in modified mourning, Letty, walking with her in the garden, could not refrain from saying how Adela’s dress became her. ‘You are more beautiful every day, dear,’ she added, in spite of a tremor which almost checked her in uttering a compliment which her sister might think too frivolous. But Adela blushed, one would have thought it was with pleasure. Sadness, however, followed, and Letty wondered whether the beautiful face was destined to wear its pallor always. On this same spring morning, when Hubert Eldon was taking leave of Wanley, Mrs. Waltham and Letty were talking of a visit Adela was about to pay to Stella in London. They spoke also of a visitor of their own, or, perhaps, rather of Adela’s, who had been in the house for a fortnight and would return to London on the morrow. This was Alice Mutimer—no longer to be called Mrs. Rodman. Alice had lived with her mother in Wilton Square since her recovery from the illness which for a long time had kept her in ignorance of the double calamity fallen upon her. It was Adela who at length told her that she had no husband, and that her brother Richard was dead. Neither disclosure affected her gravely. The months of mental desolation followed by physical collapse seemed to have exhausted her powers of suffering. For several days she kept to herself and cried a good deal, but she exhibited no bitter grief. It soon became evident that she thought but little of the man who had so grossly wronged her; he was quite gone from her heart Even when she was summoned to give evidence against him in court, she did it without much reluctance, yet also without revengeful feeling; her state was one of enfeebled vitality, she was like a child in all the concerns of life. Rodman went into penal servitude, but it did not distress her, and she never again uttered his name. Adela thought it would be a kindness to invite her to Belwick and Alice at once accepted the invitation. Yet she was not at her ease in the house. She appeared to have forgiven Adela, overcome by the latter’s goodness, but her nature was not of the kind to grow in liberal feeling. Mrs. Waltham the elder she avoided as much as possible. Perhaps Letty best succeeded in conciliating her, for Letty was homely and had the children to help her. ‘I wish I had a child,’ Alice said one day when she sat alone with Letty, and assisted in nursery duties. But at once her cheeks coloured. ‘I suppose you’re ashamed of me for saying that I’m not even a married woman.’ Letty replied, as she well knew how to, very gently and with comfort. ‘I wonder where she goes to when she sets off by herself,’ said Mrs. Waltham this morning. ‘She seems to object to walk with any of us.’ ‘She always comes back in better spirits,’ said Letty. ‘I think the change is doing her good.’ ‘But she won’t be sorry to leave us, my dear, I can see that. To be sure it was like Adela to think of having her here, but I scarcely think it would be advisable for the visit to be repeated. She is not at home with us. And how can it be expected? It’s in her blood, of course; she belongs so distinctly to an inferior class.’ ‘I am so very sorry for her,’ Letty replied. ‘What dreadful things she has gone through!’ ‘Dreadful, indeed, my dear; but after all such things don’t happen to ladies. We must remember that. It isn’t as if you or Adela had suffered in that way. That, of course, would be shocking beyond all words. I can’t think that persons of her class have quite the same feelings.’ ‘Oh, mother!’ Letty protested. And she added, less seriously, ‘You mustn’t let Alfred hear you say such a thing as that.’ ‘I’m glad to say,’ replied Mrs. Waltham, ‘that Alfred has grown much more sensible in his views of late.’ Adela entered the room. Letty was not wrong in saying that she grew more beautiful. Life had few joys for her, save intellectual, but you saw on her countenance the light of freedom. In her manner there was an unconscious dignity which made her position in the house one of recognised superiority; even her mother seldom ventured to chat without reserve in her presence. Alfred drew up in the midst of a tirade if she but seemed about to speak. Yet it was happiness to live with her; where she moved there breathed an air of purity and sweetness. She asked if Alice had returned from her walk. Receiving a reply in the negative, she went out into the garden. ‘Adela looks happy to-day,’ said Letty. ‘That article in the paper has pleased her very much.’ ‘I really hope she won’t do such a thing again,’ remarked Mrs. Waltham, with dignified disapproval. ‘It seems very unlady-like to write letters to the newspapers.’ ‘But it was brave of her.’ ‘To be sure, we must not judge her as we should ordinary people. Still, I am not sure that she is always right. I shall never allow that she did right in paying back that money to those wretches in London. I am sure she wanted it far more than they did. The bloodthirsty creatures!’ Letty shuddered, but would not abandon defence of Adela. ‘Still it was very honourable of her, mother. She understands those things better than we can.’ ‘Perhaps so, my dear,’ said Mrs. Waltham, meaning that her own opinion was not likely to be inferior in justice to that of anyone else. Adela had been in the garden for a few minutes when she saw Alice coming towards her. The poor Princess had a bright look, as if some joyful news had just come to her. Adela met her with a friendly smile. ‘There is someone you used to know,’ Alice said, speaking with embarrassment, and pointing towards the road. ‘You remember Mr. Keene? I met him. He says he wrote that in the “Chronicle.” He would like to speak to you if you’ll let him.’ ‘I shall be glad to,’ Adela replied, with a look of curiosity. They walked to the garden gate. Mr. Keene was just outside; Alice beckoned to him to enter. His appearance was a great improvement on the old days; he had grown a beard, and in his eye you saw the responsible editor. Altogether he seemed to have gained in moral solidity. None the less, his manner of approaching Adela, hat in hand, awoke reminiscences of the footlights. ‘It is a great pleasure to me to see you, Mrs. Mutimer. I trust that my few comments on your admirable letter were of a nature to afford you satisfaction.’ ‘Thank you very much, Mr. Keene,’ Adela replied. ‘You wrote very kindly.’ ‘I am amply rewarded,’ he said, bowing low. ‘And now that I have had my desire, permit me to hasten away. My duty calls me into the town.’ He again bowed low to Adela, smiled a farewell to Alice, and departed. The two walked together in the garden. Adela turned to her companion. ‘I think you knew Mr. Keene a long time ago?’ ‘Yes, a long time. He once asked me to marry him.’ Adela replied only with a look. ‘And he’s asked me again this morning,’ Alice pursued, breaking off a leaf from an elder bush. ‘And you—?’ ‘I didn’t refuse him this time,’ Alice replied with confidence. ‘I am very glad, very glad. He has been faithful to you so long that I am sure he will make you happy.’ Alice no longer concealed her joy. It was almost exultation. Natural enough under the circumstances, poor, disinherited Princess! Once more she felt able to face people; once more she would have a name. She began to talk eagerly. ‘Of course I shall just go back to tell mother, but we are going to be married in three weeks. He has already decided upon a house; we went to see it this morning. I didn’t like to tell you, but I met him for the first time a week ago—quite by chance.’ ‘I’m afraid your mother will be lonely,’ Adela said. ‘Not she! She’d far rather live alone than go anywhere else. And now I shall be able to send her money. It isn’t fair for you to have to find everything.’ ‘I have wanted to ask you,’ Adela said presently, ‘do you ever hear of Harry?’ Alice shook her head. ‘The less we hear the better,’ she replied. ‘He’s gone to the bad, and there’s no help for it.’ It was true; unfortunate victim of prosperity. Next morning Adela and Alice travelled to town together. The former did not go to Wilton Square. On the occasion of Richard’s death she had met Mrs. Mutimer, but the interview had been an extremely difficult one, in spite of the old woman’s endeavour to be courteous. Adela felt herself to be an object of insuperable prejudice. Once again she was bidden sound the depth of the gulf which lies between the educated and the uneducated. The old woman would not give her hand, but made an old-fashioned curtsey, which Adela felt to be half ironical. In speaking of her son she was hard. Pride would not allow her to exhibit the least symptom of the anguish which wrung her heart. She refused to accept any share of the income which was continued to her son’s widow under the Wanley will. Alice, however, had felt no scruple in taking the half which Adela offered her, and by paying her mother for board and lodgings she supplemented the income derived from letting as much of the house as possible. Once more under the roof of her dearest friend, Adela was less preoccupied with the sad past which afflicted her mind with the stress of a duty ever harder to perform. After an hour passed with Stella she could breathe freely the atmosphere of beauty and love. Elsewhere she too often suffered from a sense of self-reproach; between her and the book in which she tried to lose herself there would come importunate visions of woe, of starved faces, of fierce eyes. The comfort she enjoyed, the affection and respect with which she was surrounded, were often burdensome to her conscience. In Stella’s presence all that vanished; listening to Stella’s voice she could lay firm hold on the truth that there is a work in the cause of humanity other than that which goes on so clamorously in lecture halls and at street corners, other than that which is silently performed by faithful hearts and hands in dens of misery and amid the horrors of the lazar-house; the work of those whose soul is taken captive of loveliness, who pursue the spiritual ideal apart from the world’s tumult, and, ever ready to minister in gentle offices, know that they serve best when nearest home. She was far from spiritual arrogance; her natural mood was a profound humility; she deemed herself rather below than above the active toilers, whose sweat was sacred; but life had declared that such toil was not for her, and from Stella she derived the support which enabled her to pursue her path in peace—a path not one with Stella’s. Before that high-throned poet-soul Adela bent in humble reverence. Between Stella and those toilers, however noble and devoted, there could be no question of comparison. She was of those elect whose part it is to inspire faith and hope, of those highest but for whom the world would fall into apathy or lose itself among subordinate motives. Stella never spoke of herself; Adela could not know whether she had ever stood at the severance of ways and made deliberate choice. Probably not, for on her brow was visible to all eyes the seal of election; how could she ever have doubted the leading of that spirit that used her lips for utterance? On the morning after her arrival in London Adela took a long journey by herself to the far East End. Going by omnibus it seemed to her that she was never to reach that street off Bow Road which she had occasion to visit. But at last the conductor bade her descend, and gave her a brief direction The thoroughfare she sought was poor but not squalid she saw with pleasure that the house of which she had the number in mind was, if anything, cleaner and more homelike in appearance than its neighbours. A woman replied to her knock. She asked if Miss Vine was at home. ‘Yes, mum; she’s at ‘ome. Shall I tell her, or will you go up?’ ‘I will go up, thank you. Which room is it?’ ‘Second floor front you’ll find her.’ Adela ascended. Standing at the door she heard the hum of a sewing-machine. It made her heart sink, so clearly did it speak of incessant monotonous labour. She knocked loudly. The machine did not stop, but she was bidden to enter. Emma was at work, one of her sister’s children sitting by her, writing on a slate. She had expected the appearance of the landlady; seeing who the visitor was, she let her hands fall abruptly; an expression of pain passed over her features. Adela went up to her and kissed her forehead, then exchanged a few words with the child. Emma placed a chair for her, but without speaking. The room was much like the other in which the sisters had lived, save that it had a brighter outlook. There were the two beds and the table covered with work. ‘Do you find it better here?’ Adela began by asking. ‘Yes, it is better,’ Emma replied quietly. ‘We manage to get a good deal of work, and it isn’t badly paid.’ The voice was not uncheerful; it had that serenity which comes of duties honestly performed and a life tolerably free from sordid anxiety. More than that could not be said of Emma’s existence. But, such as it was, it depended entirely upon her own effort. Adela, on the evening when she first met her in the room where Mutimer lay dead, had read clearly Emma’s character; she knew that, though it was one of her strongest desires to lighten the burden of this so sorely tried woman, direct aid was not to be dreamt of. She had taken counsel with Stella, Stella with her husband. After much vain seeking they discovered an opportunity of work in this part of the East End. Mr. Westlake made it known to Emma; she acknowledged that it would be better than the over-swarmed neighbourhood in which she was living, and took the advice gratefully. She had hopes, too, that Kate might be got away from her evil companions. And indeed the change had not been without its effect on Mrs. Clay; she worked more steadily, and gave more attention to her children. ‘She’s just gone with the eldest to the hospital,’ Emma replied to a question of Adela’s. ‘He’s got something the matter with his eyes. And this one isn’t at all well. He ought to be at school, only he’s had such a dreadful cough we’re afraid to send him out just yet. They’re neither of them strong, I’m afraid.’ ‘And you—isn’t your health better since you have lived here?’ Adela asked. ‘I think so. But I never ail much as long as I have plenty of work to do.’ ‘I am staying with a friend in London,’ Adela said after a pause. ‘I thought I might come to see you. I hoped you would still be in the same house.’ ‘Yes, we are very comfortable, very,’ Emma replied. ‘I hope we shan’t need to move for a long time; I’m sure we couldn’t do better.’ She added, without raising her eyes: ‘Thank you for coming.’ Adela knew that constraint between them was inevitable; it was enough that Emma spoke with good-will. ‘If ever you should have to move,’ she said, ‘will you let me know where you go? I have written on this paper the address of my mother’s house; I live with her. Will you show me so much friendship?’ Emma glanced at her, and saw a look which recalled to her something she had seen in those eyes before. ‘I will write and tell you if we do move,’ she said. Adela went away with a heart not altogether sad; it was rather as though she had been hearing solemn music, which stirred her soul even while it touched upon the source of tears. It was only on certain days that Stella sat to receive during visitors’ hours. To-day was not one of them; consequently when Hubert Eldon called, about half-past four, the servant came up to the drawing-room to ask if Mrs. Westlake would be at home to him. Adela was in the room; at the mention of the name she rose. ‘I must write a letter before dinner,’ she said. ‘I win go and get it done whilst you are engaged.’ ‘Won’t you stay? Do stay!’ ‘I had much rather not. I don’t feel able to talk with anyone just now.’ She left the room without meeting Stella’s look. The latter said she would receive Mr. Eldon. Adela went to the exquisitely furnished little boudoir, which was now always called her room, and sat down with the resolve to write to her mother on the subjects she had in mind. But her strength of will proved unequal to the task; after writing a word or two with shaking hand she laid down her pen and rested her face upon her hands. A minute or two ago she had been untroubled by a thought which concerned herself; now her blood was hot, and all her being moved at the impulse of a passionate desire. She had never known such a rebellion of her life. In her ears there rang the word ‘Free! free!’ She was free, and the man whom she loved with the love of years, with the first love of maidenhood and the confirmed love of maturity, was but a few yards from her—it might be, had even come here on purpose to meet her. Oh, why was he not poor! Had he but been some struggling artist, scarce able to support the woman of his choice, how would she have stood before him and let him read the tenderness on her face! Hubert’s wealth was doubly hateful. She started from her chair, with difficulty suppressing a cry. Someone had knocked at her door. Perhaps he was already gone; she could not say how long she had sat here. It was Stella. ‘Mr. Eldon wishes to speak to you, dear.’ She caught her friend’s hand and almost crushed it between her own. ‘I can’t see him! Stella, I dare not see him!’ ‘But he says it is purely a matter of business he wishes to speak of,’ said Stella with a pained voice. Adela sank her head in anguish of shame. Stella put an arm about her, fearing she would fall. But in an instant pride had sprung up; Adela freed herself, now deadly pale. ‘I will go.’ She moved mechanically, spoke mechanically the conventional words when she found that somehow she was in his presence. ‘I hope I do not disturb you,’ Hubert said with equal self-control. ‘I was about to address a letter to you before I left England. I did not know that you were here. It is better, perhaps, to do my business by word of mouth, if you will allow me.’ He was very courteous, but she could not distinguish a note in his voice that meant more than courtesy. She prayed him to be seated, and herself took a place on an ottoman. She was able very calmly to regard his face. He leaned forward with his hands together and spoke with his eyes on her. ‘It is with regard to the legacy which is due to you under Mr. Mutimer’s will. You will remember that, as trustee, I have it in my power to make over to you the capital sum which produces the annuity, if there should be reason for doing so. I am about to leave England, perhaps for some few years; I have let the Manor to some friends of mine on a twenty years’ lease. I think I should like to transfer the money to you before I go. It is simpler, better. Will you let me do that, Mrs. Mutimer?’ His words chilled her. His voice seemed harder as he proceeded; it had the ring of metal, of hard cash counted down. What was his object? He wished to have done with her, to utterly abolish all relations between them. It might well be that he was about to marry, and someone abroad, someone who would not care to live in an English country house. Why otherwise should he have let the Manor for so long a period? She felt as she had done long ago, when she heard of that other foreign woman. Cold as ice; not a spark of love in all her being. She replied: ‘Thank you. If you are willing to make that change, perhaps it will be best.’ Hubert, his eyes still on her, imagined he saw pleasure in her face. She might have a project for the use of the money, some Socialist scheme, something perhaps to preserve the memory of her husband. He rose. ‘In that case I will have a deed prepared at once, and you shall be informed when it is ready for signature.’ He said to himself that she could not forgive his refusal of her request that day in the wood. They shook hands, Adela saying: ‘You are still busy with art?’ ‘In my dilettante way,’ he replied smiling. Adela returned to her room, and there remained till the hour of dinner. At the meal she was her ordinary self. Afterwards Mr. Westlake asked her to read in proof an article about to appear in the ‘Beacon’; she did so, and commented upon it with a clear mind. In the course of the evening she told her friends of the arrangement between Mr. Eldon and herself. Two days later she had to call at the solicitor’s office to sign the deed of release. Incidentally she learnt that Hubert was leaving England the same evening. Had she been at home, these days would have been spent in solitude. For the first time she suffered in Stella’s company. All allusion to Hubert was avoided between them. Sometimes she could hardly play her part; sickness of the soul wasted her. It was morning; he was now on the Continent, perhaps already talking with someone he loved. She was ashamed to have so deceived herself; she had feared him, because she believed he loved her, and that by sympathy he might see into her heart. Had it been so, he could not have gone from her in this way. Forgetting her own pride, her own power of dissimulation, she did not believe it possible for him so to disguise tenderness. She would listen to no argument of hope, but crushed her heart with perverse cruelty. The annual payment of money had been a link between him and her; when she signed the deed releasing him, the cold sweat stood on her forehead. She would reason. Of what excellence was he possessed that her life should so abandon itself at his feet? In what had he proved himself generous or capable of the virtues that subdue? Such reasoning led to self-mockery. She was no longer the girl who questioned her heart as to the significance of the vows required in the marriage service; in looking back upon those struggles she could have wept for pity. Love would submit to no analysis; it was of her life; as easy to account for the power of thought. Her soul was bare to her and all its needs. There was no refuge in ascetic resolve, in the self-deceit of spiritual enthusiasm. She could say to herself: You are free to love him; then love and be satisfied. Could she, when a-hungered, look on food, and bid her hunger be appeased by the act of sight? Thus long she had held up, but despair was closing in upon her, and an anguish worse than death. She must leave this house and go where she might surrender herself to misery. There was no friend whose comfort could be other than torment and bitter vanity; such woe as hers only time and weariness could aid. She was rising with the firm purpose of taking leave of Stella when a servant came to her door, announcing that Mr. Eldon desired to see her. She was incredulous, required the servant to repeat the name. Mr. Eldon was in the drawing-room and desired to see her. There must have been some error, some oversight in the legal business. Oh, it was inhuman to torture her in this way! Careless of what her countenance might indicate, she hastened to the drawing-room. She could feign no longer. Let him think what he would, so that he spoke briefly and released her. But as soon as she entered the room she knew that he had not come to talk of business. He was pale and agitated. As he did not speak at once she said: ‘I thought you were gone. I thought you left England last night.’ ‘I meant to do so, but found it impossible. I could not go till I had seen you once more.’ ‘What more have you to say to me?’ She knew that she was speaking recklessly, without a thought for dignity. Her question sounded as if it had been extorted from her by pain. ‘That if I go away from you now and finally, I go without a hope to support my life. You are everything to me. You are offended; you shrink from me. It is what I expected. Years ago, when I loved you without knowing what my love really meant, I flung away every chance in a moment of boyish madness. When I should have consecrated every thought to the hope of winning you, I made myself contemptible in your eyes—worse, I made you loathe me. When it was too late I understood what I had done. Then I loved you as a man loves the one woman whom he supremely reverences, as I love you, and, I believe, shall always love you. I could not go without saying this to you. I am happier in speaking the words than I ever remember to have been in my life before.’ Adela’s bosom heaved, but excess of joy seemed to give her power to deal lightly with the gift that was offered her. ‘Why did you not say this the last time?’ she asked. One would have said, from her tone, that it was a question of the merest curiosity. She did not realise the words that passed her lips. ‘Because the distance between us seemed too great. I began to speak of that money in the thought that it might lead me on. It had the opposite effect. You showed me how cold you could be. It is natural enough. Perhaps your sympathies are too entirely remote; and yet not long ago you talked with me as if your interests could be much the same as mine. I can understand that you suppress that side of your nature. You think me useless in the world. And indeed my life has but one purpose, which is a vain one. I can do nothing but feed my love for you. You have convictions and purposes; you feel that they are opposed to mine. All that is of the intellect; I only live in my passion. We are different and apart.’ ‘Why do you say that, as if you were glad of it?’ ‘Glad? I speak the words that come to my tongue. I say aloud to you what I have been repeating again and again to myself. It is mere despair.’ She drew one step nearer to him. ‘You disregard those differences which you say are only of the intellect, and still love me. Can I not do the same? There was a distance between us, and my ends were other than yours. That is the past; the present is mine to make myself what you would have me. I have no law but your desire—so much I love you.’ How easily said after all! And when he searched her face with eyes on fire with their joy, when he drew her to his heart in passionate triumph, the untruth of years fell from her like a veil, and she had achieved her womanhood. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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