‘So you have come all the way from Switzerland,’ she said, leading him to a chair, and seating herself by him. Her voice had a touch of masculine quality, even as her shape and features, but it chained attention, and impressed as the utterance of a large and strong nature. ‘You are tired, too, with travel; I can see that. When did you reach Dunfield?’
‘Half an hour ago.’
‘And you came here at once. Beatrice and I were on the point of going to Hebsworth this afternoon; I rejoice that we did not. I’m continually afraid lest she should find the house dull. My husband and myself are alone. My eldest girl was married three months ago, my younger one is just gone to Germany, and my son is spending half a year in the United States; the mother finds herself a little forsaken. It was really more than kind of Beatrice to come and bury herself with me for a week or two.’
She passed by tactful transition to the matter in hand.
‘Wasn’t it a strange link that she should meet Miss Hood at your house! She has been so saddened. I never yet knew any one who could talk with Emily without feeling deep interest in her. My daughter Louisa, I am convinced, will never forget what she owes to her teacher She and my youngest child used to be Miss Hood’s pupils—perhaps you have heard? My own Emily—she is dead—was passionately fond of her namesake; she talked of her among the last words she ever spoke, poor little mite.’
‘Miss Redwing tells me you saw her yesterday,’ Wilfrid said.
‘Yes, for the first time.’
‘Was she conscious?’
‘Quite. But I was afraid to talk to her more than a minute or two; even that excited her too much. I fear you must not let her know yet of your presence.’
‘I am glad I knew nothing of this till the worst was over. From the way in which she spoke of her father I should have feared horrible things. Did you know him with any intimacy?’
‘Only slightly, I am sorry to say. The poor man seems to have had a very hard life; it is clear to me that sheer difficulty in making ends meet drove him out of his senses. Are you a student of political economy?’ she asked suddenly, looking into Wilfrid’s face with a peculiar smile.
‘I am not. Why do you ask?’
‘It is the one subject on which my husband and I hold no truce. Mr. Baxendale makes it one of his pet studies, whilst I should like to make a bonfire of every volume containing such cruel nonsense. You must know, Mr. Athel, that I have an evil reputation in Dunfield; my views are held dangerous; they call me a socialist. Mr. Baxendale, when particularly angry, offers to hire the hall in the Corn Exchange, that I may say my say and henceforth spare him at home. Now think of this poor man. He had a clerkship in a mill, and received a salary of disgraceful smallness; he never knew what it was to be free of anxiety. The laws of political economy will have it so, says my husband; if Mr. Hood refused, there were fifty other men ready to take the place. He couldn’t have lived at all, it seems, but that he owned a house in another town, which brought him a few pounds a year. I can’t talk of such things with patience. Here’s my husband offering himself as a Liberal candidate for Dunfield at the election coming on. I say to him: What are you going to do if you get into Parliament? Are you going to talk political economy, and make believe that everything is right, when it’s as wrong as can be? If so, I say, you’d better save your money for other purposes, and stay where you are. He tells me my views are impracticable; then, I say, so much the worse for the world, and so much the more shame for every rich man who finds excuses for such a state of things. It is dreadful to think of what those poor people must have gone through. They were so perfectly quiet under it that no one gave a thought to their position. When Emily used to come here day after day, I’ve often suspected she didn’t have enough to eat, yet it was impossible for me to ask questions, it would have been called prying into things that didn’t concern me.’
‘She has told me for how much kindness she is indebted to you,’ Wilfrid said, with gratitude.
‘Pooh! What could I do? Oh, don’t we live absurdly artificial lives? Now why should a family who, through no fault of their own, are in the most wretched straits, shut themselves up and hide it like a disgrace? Don’t you think we hold a great many very nonsensical ideas about self-respect and independence and so on? If I were in want, I know two or three people to whom I should forthwith go and ask for succour; if they thought the worse of me for it, I should tell them they ought to be ashamed of themselves. We act, indeed, as if we ourselves had made the world and were bound to pretend it an admirable piece of work, without a screw loose anywhere. I always say the world’s about as bad a place as one could well imagine, at all events for most people who live in it, and that it’s our plain duty to help each other without grimacings. The death of this poor man has distressed me more than I can tell you; it does seem such a monstrously cruel thing. There’s his employer, a man called Dagworthy, who never knew what it was to be without luxuries,—I’m not in the habit of listening to scandal, but I believe there’s a great deal of truth in certain stories told about his selfishness and want of feeling. I consider Mr. Dagworthy this poor man’s murderer; it was his bounden duty to see that a man in his employment was paid enough to live upon,—and Mr. Hood was not. Imagine what suffering must have brought about such an end as this. A sad case,—say people. I call it a case of crime that enjoys impunity.’
Wilfrid listened gloomily. The broad question stirred him to no strong feeling, but the more he heard the more passionate was his longing to bear Emily away from the scenes of such a past. With what devotion would he mould his life to the one task of healing her memory! Yet he knew it must be very long before her heart could recover from the all but deadly wound it had received. A feeling which one may not call jealousy,—that were too inhuman,—but still one of the million forms which jealousy assumes to torture us, drove him to ask himself what the effect of such a crisis in her life might be on Emily’s love for him. There would always remain in her inmost soul one profound sadness in which he had no part, and which by its existence would impugn the supremacy of that bond which united him and her.
‘How does Mrs. Hood bear it?’ he asked, when he found Mrs. Baxendale again examining his face.
‘I think Emily’s illness has been her great help,—poor creatures that we are, needing one great grief to balance another. But she seems in a very weak state; I didn’t like her look yesterday.’
‘Will you describe her to me?’ asked Wilfrid.
‘She is not the kind of mother you would give to Emily. I’m afraid her miserable life has told upon her greatly, both in mind and body.’
‘Emily never spoke of her, though so often of her father.’
‘That is what I should have expected. Still, you must not think her quite unworthy. She speaks as an educated woman, and is certainly very devoted.’
‘What of her present position? She must be in extreme difficulties.’