A Life's Morning

by George Gissing

  In another this would have been a shrewd speech. Wilfrid was incapable of conscious artifice of this kind; this appeal, the very strongest he could have made to his father, was urged in all sincerity, and derived its force from that very fact. He possessed not a little of the persuasive genius which goes to make an orator—hereafter to serve him in fields as yet undreamed of—and natural endowment guided his feeling in the way of most impressive utterance. Mr. Athel smiled in spite of himself.

  ‘And what about your aunt?’ he asked. ‘Pray remember that it is only by chance that Miss Hood lives under my roof. Do you imagine your aunt equally unprejudiced?’

  Mr. Athel was, characteristically, rather fond of side-glancings at feminine weaknesses. An opportunity of the kind was wont to mellow his mood.

  ‘To be quite open in the matter,’ Wilfrid replied, ‘I will own that my first idea was to take you alone into my confidence; to ask you to say nothing to Aunt Edith. Miss Hood felt that that would be impossible, and I see that she was right. It would involve deceit which it is not in her nature to practise.’

  ‘You and Miss Hood have discussed us freely,’ observed the father, with a return to his irony.

  ‘I don’t reply to that,’ said Wilfrid, quietly. ‘I think you must give me credit for the usual measure of self-respect; and Miss Hood does not fall short of it.’

  The look which Mr. Athel cast at his son had in it something of pride. He would not trust himself to speak immediately.

  ‘I don’t say,’ he began presently, with balancing of phrase, ‘that your plan is not on the face of it consistent and reasonable. Putting aside for the moment the wretchedly unsatisfactory circumstances which originate it, I suppose it is the plan which naturally suggests itself. But, of course, in practice it is out of the question.’

  ‘You feel sure that aunt would not entertain it?’

  ‘I do. And I don’t see how I could recommend her to do so.’

  Wilfrid reflected.

  ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I have only one alternative. I must give up my intention of returning to Oxford, and marry before the end of the year.’

  The words had to his own ears a somewhat explosive sound. They were uttered, however, and he was glad of it. A purpose thus formulated he would not swerve from. Of that his father too was well aware.

  Mr. Athel rose from his seat, held the rolled-up magazine in both hands behind his back, and took a turn across a few yards of lawn. Wilfrid sat still, leaning forward, watching his father’s shadow. The shadow approached him.

  ‘Wilf, is there no via media? Cannot Miss Hood remain at home for a while? Are you going to throw up your career, and lay in a stock of repentance for the rest of your life?’

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand me, father. I contemplate no career which could possibly be injured even by my immediate marriage. If you mean University honours—I care nothing about them. I would go through the routine just for the sake of completeness; it is her strong wish that I should. But my future, most happily, does not depend on success of that kind. I shall live the life of a student, my end will be self-culture. And Miss Hood is unfortunately not able to remain at home. I say unfortunately, but I should have regarded it as preferable that she should continue in her position with us. You and aunt Edith would come to know her, and the air of a home like ours would, I believe, suit her better than that of her own. There is nothing in her work that might not be performed by any lady.’

  ‘What do you know of her people?’

  ‘Nothing, except that her father has scientific interests. It is plain enough, though, that they cannot be without refinement. No doubt they are poor; we hardly consider that a crime.’

  He rose, as if he considered the interview at an end.

  ‘Look here,’ said Mr. Athel, with a little bluffness, the result of a difficulty in making concessions; ‘if Miss Hood returned to us, as you propose, should you consider it a point of honour to go on with your work at Balliol as if nothing had happened, and to abstain from communication with her of a kind which would make things awkward?’

  ‘Both, undoubtedly. I could very well arrange to keep away from home entirely in the interval.’

  ‘Well, I think we have talked enough for the present. I have no kind of sympathy with your position, pray understand that. I think you have made about as bad a mistake as you could have done. All the same, I will speak of this with your aunt—’

  ‘I think you had better not do that,’ interrupted Wilfrid, ‘I mean with any view of persuading her. I am afraid I can’t very well bring myself to compromises which involve a confession of childish error. It is better I should go my own way.’

  ‘Well, well, of course, if you take the strictly independent attitude—’

  Mr. Athel took another turn on the lawn, his brows bent. It was the first time that there had ever been an approach to serious difference between himself and his son. The paternal instinct was strong in him, and it was inevitable that he should be touched by sympathetic admiration of his past self as revived in Wilfrid’s firm and dignified bearing. He approached the latter again.

  ‘Come to me in the study about ten to-night, will you?’ he said.

  It was the end of the discussion for the present.

  Shortly after dinner, when coffee had been brought to the drawing-room, Wilfrid wandered out to the summer-house. Emily would be home by this time. He thought of her….

  ‘The deuce of it is,’ exclaimed Mr. Athel, conversing with his sister, ‘that it’s so hard to find valid objections. If he had proposed to marry a barmaid, one’s course would be clear, but as it is—’

  Mrs. Rossall had listened in silence to a matter-of-fact disclosure of Wilfrid’s proceedings. In the commencement her attention had marked itself by a slight elevation of the brows; at the end she was cold and rather disdainful. Observation of her face had the result of confirming her brother in the apologetic tone. He was annoyed at perceiving that Edith would justify his prediction.

  ‘I am sorry to hear it, of course,’ were her first words, ‘but I suppose Wilfrid will act as he chooses.’

  ‘Well, but this isn’t all,’ pursued Mr. Athel, laying aside an affectation of half-humorous indulgence which he had assumed. ‘He has urged upon me an extraordinary proposal. His idea is that Miss Hood might continue to hold her position here until he has taken his degree.’

  ‘I am not surprised. You of course told him that such a thing was out of the question?’

  ‘I said that you would probably consider it so.’

  ‘But surely—Do you hold a different view?’

  ‘Really, I hold no views at all. I am not sure that I have got the right focus yet. I know that the plans of a lifetime are upset; I can’t get much beyond that at present.’

  Mrs. Rossall was deeply troubled. She sat with her eyes drooped, her lower lip drawn in.

  ‘Do you refer to any plan in particular?’ she asked next.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

  ‘I am very, very sorry for Beatrice,’ she said, in a subdued voice.

  ‘You think it will–’

  Mrs. Rossall raised her eyebrows a little, and kept her air of pained musing.

  ‘Well, what is to be done?’ resumed her brother, always impatient of mere negatives. ‘He has delivered a sort of ultimatum. In the event of this proposal—as to Miss Hood’s return—being rejected, he marries at once.’

  ‘And then goes back to Balliol?’

  ‘No, simply abandons his career.’

  Mrs. Rossall smiled. It was not in woman’s nature to be uninterested by decision such as this.

  ‘Do you despair of influencing him?’ she asked.

  ‘Entirely. He will not hear of her taking another place in the interval, and it seems there are difficulties in the way of her remaining at home. Of course I see very well the objections on the surface to her coming back—’

  ‘The objections are not on the surface at all, they are fundamental. You are probabl
y not in a position to see the ease as I do. Such a state of things would be ludicrous; we should all be playing parts in a farce. He cannot have made such a proposal to her; she would have shown him at once its absurdity.’

  ‘But the fact of the matter is that she acceded to it,’ said Mr. Athel, with a certain triumph over female infallibility.

  ‘Then I think worse of her than I did, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m not at all sure that you are right in that,’ observed her brother, with an impartial air. ‘Pray tell me your serious opinion of Miss Hood. One begins, naturally, with a suspicion that she has not been altogether passive in this affair. What Wilf says is, of course, nothing to the point; he protests that her attitude has been irreproachable.’

  ‘Especially in making assignations for six o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Well, well, that is merely granting the issue; you are a trifle’ illogical, Edith.’

  ‘No doubt I am. You, on the other hand, seem to be very much of Wilf’s opinion. I am sorry that I can’t do as you wish.’

  ‘Well, we shall not gain anything by giving way to irritation. He must be told how matters stand, and judge for himself.’

  As Mr. Athel was speaking, Wilfrid entered the room. Impatience had overcome him. He knew of course that a discussion was in progress between his father and his aunt, and calm waiting upon other people’s decisions was not in his nature. He came forward and seated himself.

  ‘I gather from your look, aunt,’ he began, when the others did not seem disposed to break silence, ‘that you take my father’s view of what he has been telling you.’

  ‘I am not sure what your father’s view is,’ was Mrs. Rossall’s reply, given very coldly. ‘But I certainly think you have proposed what is impossible.’

  ‘Yes, you are right,’ rejoined Wilfrid, to the surprise of both. ‘The plan was not well considered. Pray think no more of it.’

  ‘What do you substitute?’ his father inquired, after another long silence.

  ‘I cannot say.’ He paused, then continued with some emotion, ‘I would gladly have had your sympathy. Perhaps I fail to see the whole matter in the same light as yourselves, but it seems to me that in the step I have taken there is nothing that should cause lasting difference between us. I involve the family in no kind of disgrace—that, I suppose, you admit?’

  Mrs. Rossall made no answer. Mr. Athel moved uneasily upon his chair, coughed, seemed about to speak, but in the end said nothing.

  ‘I am afraid I shall not be able to leave England with you,’ continued Wilfrid, rising. ‘But that fortunately need cause no change in your plans.’

  Mr. Athel was annoyed at his sister’s behaviour. He had looked to her for mediation; clearly she would offer nothing of the kind. She was wrapping herself in a cloak of offended dignity; she had withdrawn from the debate.

  ‘Come with me to my room,’ he said moving from his chair.

  ‘I think it will be better to have no further discussion, Wilfrid replied firmly, ‘at all events to-night.’

  ‘As you please,’ said his father, shortly.

  He went from the room, and Wilfrid, without further speech to his aunt, presently followed.

  CHAPTER V

  THE SHADOW OF HOME

  The house which was the end of Emily’s journey was situated two miles outside the town of Dunfield, on the high road going southward, just before it enters upon a rising tract of common land known as the Heath. It was one of a row of two-storied dwellings, built of glazed brick, each with a wide projecting window on the right hand of the front door, and with a patch of garden railed in from the road, the row being part of a straggling colony which is called Banbrigg. Immediately opposite these houses stood an ecclesiastical edifice of depressing appearance, stone-built, wholly without ornament, presenting a corner to the highway, a chapel-of-ease for worshippers unable to go as far as Dunfield in the one direction or the village of Pendal in the other. Scattered about were dwelling-houses old and new; the former being cottages of the poorest and dirtiest kind, the latter brick structures of the most unsightly form, evidently aiming at constituting themselves into a thoroughfare, and, in point of fact, already rejoicing in the name of Regent Street. There was a public-house, or rather, as it frankly styled itself in large letters on the window, a dram-shop; and there were two or three places for the sale of very miscellaneous articles, exhibiting the same specimens of discouraging stock throughout the year. At no season, and under no advantage of sky, was Banbrigg a delectable abode. Though within easy reach of country which was not without rural aspects, it was marked too unmistakably with the squalor of a manufacturing district. Its existence impressed one as casual; it was a mere bit of Dunfield got away from the main mass, and having brought its dirt with it. The stretch of road between it and the bridge by which the river was crossed into Dunfield had in its long, hard ugliness something dispiriting. Though hedges bordered it here and there, they were stunted and grimed; though fields were seen on this side and on that, the grass had absorbed too much mill-smoke to exhibit wholesome verdure; it was fed upon by sheep and cows, seemingly turned in to be out of the way till needed for slaughter, and by the sorriest of superannuated horses. The land was blighted by the curse of what we name—using a word as ugly as the thing it represents—industrialism.

  As the cab brought her along this road from Dunfield station, Emily thought of the downs, the woodlands, the fair pastures of Surrey. There was sorrow at her heart, even a vague tormenting fear. It would be hard to find solace in Banbrigg.

  Hither her parents had come to live when she was thirteen years old, her home having previously been in another and a larger manufacturing town. Her father was a man marked for ill-fortune: it pursued him from his entrance into the world, and would inevitably—you read it in his face—hunt him into a sad grave. He was the youngest of a large family; his very birth had been an added misery to a household struggling with want. His education was of the slightest; at twelve years of age he was already supporting himself, or, one would say, keeping himself above the point of starvation; and at three-and-twenty—the age when Wilfrid Athel is entering upon life in the joy of freedom—was ludicrously bankrupt, a petty business he had established being sold up for a debt something short of as many pounds as he had years. He drifted into indefinite mercantile clerkships, an existence possibly preferable to that of the fourth circle of Inferno, and then seemed at length to have fallen upon a piece of good luck, such as, according to a maxim of pathetic optimism wherewith he was wont to cheer himself, must come to every man sooner or later—provided he do not die of hunger whilst it is on the way. He married a schoolmistress, one Miss Martin, who was responsible for the teaching of some twelve or fifteen children of tender age, and who, what was more, owned the house in which she kept school. The result was that James Hood once more established himself in business, or rather in several businesses, vague, indescribable, save by those who are unhappy enough to understand such matters—a commission agency, a life insurance agency and a fire insurance ditto, I know not what. Yet the semblance of prosperity was fleeting. As if connection with him meant failure, his wife’s school, which she had not abandoned (let us employ negative terms in speaking of this pair), began to fall off; ultimately no school was left. It did in truth appear that Miss Martin had suffered something in becoming Mrs. Hood. At her marriage she was five-and-twenty, fairly good-looking, in temper a trifle exigent perhaps, sanguine, and capable of exertion; she could not claim more than superficial instruction, but taught reading and writing with the usual success which attends teachers of these elements. After the birth of her first child, Emily, her moral nature showed an unaccountable weakening; the origin was no doubt physical, but in story-telling we dwell very much on the surface of things; it is not permitted us to describe human nature too accurately. The exigence of her temper became something generally described by a harsher term; she lost her interest in the work which she had unwillingly entrusted for a time to an assistant
; she found the conditions of her life hard. Alas, they grew harder. After Emily, two children were successively born; fate was kind to them, and neither survived infancy. Their mother fell into fretting, into hysteria; some change in her life seemed imperative, and at length she persuaded her husband to quit the town in which they lived, and begin life anew elsewhere. Begin life anew! James Hood was forty years old; he possessed, as the net result of his commercial enterprises, a capital of a hundred and thirty pounds. The house, of course, could be let, and would bring five-and-twenty pounds a year. This it was resolved to do. He had had certain dealings in Dunfield, and in Dunfield he would strike his tent—that is to say, in Banbrigg, whence he walked daily to a little office in the town. Rents were lower in Banbrigg, and it was beyond the range of certain municipal taxings.

  Mrs. Hood possessed still her somewhat genteel furniture. One article was a piano, and upon this she taught Emily her notes. It had been a fairly good piano once, but the keys had become very loose. They were looser than ever, now that Emily tried to play on them, on her return from Surrey.

  Business did not thrive in Dunfield; yet there was more than ever need that it should, for to neglect Emily’s education would be to deal cruelly with the child—she would have nothing else to depend upon in her battle with the world. Poor Emily A feeble, overgrown child, needing fresh air, which she could not get, needing food of a better kind, just as unattainable. Large-eyed, thin-checked Emily; she, too, already in the clutch of the great brute world, the helpless victim of a civilisation which makes its food of those the heart most pities. How well if her last sigh had been drawn in infancy, if she had lain with the little brother and sister in that gaunt, grimy cemetery, under the shadow of mill chimneys! She was reserved for other griefs; for consolations, it is true, but—

  Education she did get, by hook or by crook; there was dire pinching to pay for it, and, too well knowing this, the child strove her utmost to use the opportunities offered her. Each morning going into Dunfield, taking with her some sandwiches that were called dinner, walking home again by tea-time, tired, hungry—ah, hungry No matter the weather, she must walk her couple of miles—it was at least so far to the school. In winter you saw her set forth with her waterproof and umbrella, the too-heavy bag of books on her arm; sometimes the wind and rain beating as if to delay her—they, too, cruel. In summer the hot days tried her perhaps still more; she reached home in the afternoon well-nigh fainting, the books were so heavy. Who would not have felt kindly to her? So gentle she was, so dreadfully shy and timid, her eyes so eager, so full of unconscious pathos. ‘Hood’s little girl,’ said the people on the way who saw her pass daily, and, however completely strangers, they said it with a certain kindness of tone and meaning. A little thing that happened one day—take it as an anecdote. On her way to school she passed some boys who were pelting a most wretched dog, a poor, scraggy beast driven into a corner. Emily, so timid usually she could not raise her eyes before a stranger, stopped, quivering all over, commanded them to cease their brutality, divine compassion become a heroism. The boys somehow did her bidding, and walked on together. Emily stayed behind, opened her bag, threw something for the dog to eat. It was half her dinner.