A Life's Morning

by George Gissing

  In the relation these things have their humorous side; Emily may be excused if she was slow to appreciate it. She knew very well that the crisis meant for her father several days of misery, and perhaps in her youthful energy she was disposed to make too little allowance for her mother, whose life had been so full of hardship, and who even now was suffering from cares and anxieties the worst of which her daughter was not allowed to perceive. After the girl’s early departure to her bedroom the other two sat talking drearily; after one of her headaches Mrs. Hood always dwelt in conversation on the most wretched features of her life, with despairing forecast. Poor woman, there was little of a brighter kind to occupy her thoughts. Two occasions of grave anxiety were at present troubling her, and, though he spoke of them less, her husband in no less a degree. It had just been announced to them that at the ensuing Christmas their rent would be raised, and at the same time the tenant who had for years occupied the house which they owned in the town of Barnhill had given notice of departure. There was a certain grotesqueness in the fact of James Hood being a proprietor of real estate. Twice an attempt had been made to sell the house in question, but no purchaser could be found; the building was in poor repair, was constantly entailing expense to the landlord, and, in the event of its becoming unoccupied, would doubtless wait long for another tenant. This event had come about, or would in a couple of months, and the loss of that five-and-twenty pounds a year would make the difficulty of existence yet more desperate. Once more an attempt at sale must be made, in itself involving outlays which, however petty, could ill be borne; and to sell, even if it could be done, meant a serious loss of income.

  ‘What did it mean, do you think?’ Mrs. Hood asked, recurring to the subject of Dagworthy and his astonishing behaviour. She put the question dispiritedly, not venturing to hope for a solution that would help her to a more cheerful frame of mind.

  Hood scarcely dared to utter the words which came into his mind.

  ‘You remember that they met at the Baxendales’—’

  ‘How did Emily behave?’ the mother next inquired.

  ‘She was very quiet. I don’t think she liked it. We must bear in mind the kind of society she is used to. Young Dagworthy won’t seem of much account to her, I fancy.’

  ‘But he has had a good education, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Pretty good, I suppose. He confessed to us, though, that he couldn’t pronounce French words.’

  ‘It’s quite certain,’ said Mrs. Hood, ‘he wouldn’t have invited you in if you had been alone.’

  ‘Certain enough,’ was the reply, in a tone wholly disinterested. ‘But it must have been just a fancy, a whim. Things of that kind don’t happen nowadays.’

  ‘Not to us, at all events,’ murmured the other dejectedly.

  ‘Well, there must come what will,’ she added, leaning her head back once more, and losing interest in the subject. ‘I hope nothing and expect nothing.’

  Alas, these two sitting together in the dull little room, speaking in disjointed phrases of despondency, exchanging no look, no word of mutual kindness, had they not once loved each other, with the love of youth and hope? Had it not once been enough to sit through long evenings and catch with eagerness each other’s lightest word? Time had robbed them of youth, and the injustice of the world’s order had starved love to less than a shadow of itself, to a more habit of common suffering. Tender memories were buried in the grave of children whom the resources of ever so modest a fortune would have kept alive; the present was a mere struggle to support existence, choking the impulses of affection. One would not murmur at the kindly order of life, whereby passion gives place to gentle habitudes, and the fiery soul of youth tames itself to comely gravity; but that love and joy, the delights of eager sense and of hallowed aspiration, should be smothered in the foul dust of a brute combat for bread, that the stinted energies of early years should change themselves to the blasted hopes of failing manhood in a world made ill by human perverseness, this is not easily—it may be, not well—borne with patience. Put money in thy purse; and again, put money in thy purse; for, as the world is ordered, to lack current coin is to lack the privileges of humanity, and indigence is the death of the soul.

  CHAPTER VI

  A VISITOR BY EXPRESS

  It had been arranged that Emily should receive news from Wilfrid by the first post on Monday morning. Her father left home at half-past eight, and Emily, a little ashamed at so deceiving him, went into the town at the same time on pretence of a desire to share his walk. Taking leave of him as soon as the mill was in sight, she walked towards the post-office. At this early hour there was no one before the counter: she overcame her nervousness and asked for letters. That which she expected was given to her, and at the same time a telegram.

  The sight of the telegram agitated her. Drawing aside, she opened it at once. Wilfrid had despatched it the previous night from London. ‘I shall be in Dunfield at one o’clock tomorrow. Please leave a note for me at the post-office, appointing any place of meeting at any time you like. I shall find the place from your description.’

  The letter, as she could perceive by feeling it, was long; there was no necessity to open it until she reached home. But the note she must write at once. In agitation which would scarcely allow her to reflect, she left the office and sought a small shop where she could procure notepaper. On her way she devised a plan for meeting. In the shop where she made her purchase, she was permitted also to write the note. Having stamped the envelope, she returned to the post-office, and, to make sure that no delay might disappoint Wilfrid, gave the letter into the hands of a clerk, who promised, with a smile, that it should at once be put into the right place. Emily found the smile hard to bear, but fortunately she was unknown.

  Then she set forth homewards. Such news as this, that she would see and speak with Wilfrid in a few hours, set self-command at defiance. Between joy at the thought that even now he was nearing her, and fear of the events which might have led him to such a step, she was swayed in a tumult of emotion. She longed to open the letter, yet felt she could not do so in the public roads. She tried to think whether any ill chance could possibly interpose to prevent her being at the place of meeting; none was to be anticipated, unless, what was very unlikely, her mother should propose to join her afternoon walk. But what could his coming mean? She feared that she understood too well.

  Often she had to check the over-haste of her pace, and the way seemed terribly long, but at length she was at home and close shut in her bedroom. The letter did not aid her to account for his coming; it had been written late on Friday night, but made absolutely no reference to what had passed between Wilfrid and his relations. It was a long and passionate poem of his love, concerned not with outward facts, but with states of feeling. Only at the end he had added a postscript, saying that he should write again on Monday.

  It was difficult to live through the morning. She felt that she must be busy with her hands, and, her mother’s objections notwithstanding, set herself resolutely to active housework. Her anxious feelings in this way toned themselves to mere cheerfulness. She listened with unfailing patience to the lengthily described details of domestic annoyances of which Mrs. Hood’s conversation chiefly consisted, and did her best to infuse into her replies a tone of hopefulness, which might animate without betraying too much. The hours passed over, and at length it was time to set forth. Mrs. Hood showed no desire to leave home. Emily, though foreseeing that she might again be late for tea, did not venture to hint at such a possibility, but started as if for a short walk.

  Not much more than a mile from Banbrigg, in a direction away alike from the Heath and from Dunfield, is the village of Pendal, where stand the remains of an ancient castle. Very slight indeed are these relics, one window and some shapeless masses of defaced masonry being alone exposed; but a hill close beside them is supposed to cover more of the fabric, though history tells not how or when the earth was so heaped up. The circle of the moat is still complete, and generally c
ontains water. Pendal Castle Hill, as the locality is called, is approached by a rustic lane leading from the village; it is enclosed like an ordinary meadow, and shadowed here and there with trees. On Sundays and holidays it is a resort much favoured by Dunfieldians; at other times its solitude is but little interfered with. Knowing this, Emily had appointed the spot for the meeting. She had directed Wilfrid to take a train from Dunfield to Pendal, and had described the walk up to the castle hill.

  He was not before her this time, and there were endless reasons for fear lest she should wait in vain. She remained standing on the inner side of the stile by which the field was entered, and kept her gaze on the point where the lane turned. A long quarter of an hour passed, then of a sudden the expected form appeared.

  There had been no train to Pendal at the right time; he had taken a meal at Dunfield station, and then had found a cab to convey him to the village.

  Wilfrid was very calm, only the gleam of his fine eyes showed his delight at holding her hands again. They walked to the side of the hill remote from the road. Wilfrid looked about him, and remarked that the place was interesting. He seemed in no hurry to speak of what had brought him here; they walked hand in hand, like children. ‘Emily’—and then his name in return, with interchange of looks; was it not enough for some minutes?

  ‘There is a fallen trunk,’ Wilfrid said, pointing to a remoter spot. ‘Shall we sit there?’

  ‘How well it has been managed,’ he exclaimed when they had seated themselves. ‘You remember the fairy tales in which the old woman bids some one go to a certain place and do such and such a thing and something is sure to happen? “And it befell just as the old woman had said.”’

  ‘And I am the old woman. They call her a witch in the stories.’

  ‘A witch, yes; but so young and beautiful. What delight it was to find your letter, dearest! What careful directions! I laughed at your dreadful anxiety to make it quite, quite clear. Won’t you take the glove off? How your hand trembles; no, I will unbutton it myself.’

  He kissed the fingers lightly, and then held them pressed.

  ‘But why have you come all this distance, Wilfrid?’

  ‘Would it not be enough if I said I had come to see you? What distance would be too far for that?’

  ‘But you were to have left England to-day?’

  ‘So I was, but I shall not go—till you go with me, Emily.’

  She looked at him with anxious eyes.

  ‘Well, I will tell you all there is to tell. In the first place, my father and my aunt think that the plan of your returning to teach the little girls is not a very good one.’

  He spoke with perfect cheerfulness, but firmly, as was his wont. Emily’s eyes fell.

  ‘I have felt it myself,’ she said.

  ‘And so have I; so that we are happily all agreed. We talked it all over after you had gone on Friday, and since then I have taken time to make up my mind. I can see that you would be uncomfortable in the house under such conditions; at the same time it is certainly out of the question that you should go elsewhere; and so—come to London and let us be married as soon as the arrangements can be made.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand, Wilfrid. Do you mean that your father approves this?’

  ‘They all went off to-day. He knows, no doubt, what my intention is. In a matter like this I must judge for myself.’

  She was silent, then asked with apprehension, ‘Has it caused trouble?’

  ‘Of the kind which passes as soon as it has been well talked about,’ he answered with a smile; ‘nothing more serious.’

  She could not meet his look.

  ‘And you wish not to return to Oxford?’

  ‘I have done with that. I see now that to go back and play the schoolboy would have been impossible; all that is over and a new life beginning—you will be in readiness to come up as soon as I scud for you?’

  She looked in his face now with pleading.

  ‘It is too hasty, Wilfrid. It was better, far better, that we should wait till next year. Can it be your father’s wish that your marriage should take place in his absence? You know that I have no foolish desires; the more simply everything is done the better it will please me. But I would, I would have it done with your father’s goodwill. I foresaw his objections only too well; they are natural, it could not be otherwise; but I hoped that time would help. Let us wait!’

  She closed both hands on his, and gazed at him steadily.

  ‘I think you must be guided by me, Emily,’ he replied, with his calm self-assertiveness. ‘There is no reason why we should wait. My father is a man who very sensibly accepts the accomplished fact. His own marriage, I may tell you, was an affair of decision in the face of superficial objections, and he will only think the better of me for following his example. You say, and I am sure, that you care nothing for the show of a wedding; if you did, I should not be here at this moment. It is only for that that we need postpone the marriage. I will take rooms till I can find a house and have it made ready for us.’

  Emily kept silence. She had released his hand. There were signs on her face of severe inward conflict.

  ‘Will you let me go and see your parents?’ he asked. ‘Shall our marriage take place here? To me it is the same; I would only be ruled by your choice. May I go home with you now?’

  ‘I would say yes if I could make up my mind to a marriage at once,’ she answered. ‘Dear, let me persuade you.’

  ‘The sound of your words persuades too strongly against their sense, Emily,’ he said tenderly. ‘I will not put off our marriage a day longer than forms make necessary.’

  ‘Wilfrid, let me say what—’

  ‘I have scraps of superstition in my nature,’ he broke in with a half laugh. ‘Fate does not often deal so kindly as in giving you to me; I dare not seem even to hesitate before the gift. It is a test of the worth that is in us. We meet by chance, and we recognise each other; here is the end for which we might have sought a lifetime; we are not worthy of it if we hold back from paltry considerations. I dare not leave you, Emily; everything points to one result—the rejection of the scheme for your return, my father’s free surrender of the decision to myself, the irresistible impulse which has brought me here to you. Did I tell you that I rose in the middle of the night and went to Charing Cross to telegraph? It would have done just as well the first thing in the morning, but I could not rest till the message was sent. I will have no appearances come between us; there shall be no pause till you bear my name and have entered my home; after that, let life do with us what it will.’

  Emily drank in the vehement flow of words with delight and fear. It was this virile eagerness, this force of personality, which had before charmed her thought into passiveness, and made her senses its subject; but a stronger motive of resistance actuated her now. In her humility she could not deem the instant gain of herself to be an equivalent to him for what he would certainly, and what he might perchance, lose. She feared that he had disguised his father’s real displeasure, and she could not reconcile herself to the abrupt overthrow of all the purposes Wilfrid had entertained before he knew her. She strove with all the energy of her own strong character to withstand him for his good.

  ‘Wilfrid, let it at least be postponed till your father’s return. If his mind is what you say, he will by then have fully accepted your views. I respect your father. I owe him consideration; he is prejudiced against me now, and I would gain his goodwill. Just because we are perfectly independent let us have regard for others; better, a thousand times better, that he should be reconciled to our marriage before it takes place than perforce afterwards. Is it for my constancy, or your own, that you fear?’

  ‘I do not doubt your love, and my own is unalterable. I fear circumstances; but what has fear to do with it; I wish to make you my own; the empire of my passion is all-subduing. I will not wait! If you refuse me, I have been mistaken; you do not love me.’

  ‘Those are only words,’ she answered, a proud smile
lighting the trouble of her countenance. ‘You have said that you do not doubt my love, and in your heart you cannot. Answer me one question, Wilfrid: have you made little of your father’s opposition, in order to spare me pain? Is it more serious than you are willing to tell me?’

  The temptation was strong to reply with an affirmative. If she believed his father to be utterly irreconcilable, there could be no excuse for lingering; yet his nobler self prevailed, to her no word of falseness.

  ‘I have told you the truth. His opposition is temporary. When you are my wife he will be to you as to any wife I could have chosen, I am convinced of it.’

  ‘Then more than ever I entreat you to wait, only till his return to England. If you fail then, I will resist no longer. Show him this much respect, dearest; join him abroad now; let him see that you desire his kindness. Is he not disappointed that you mean to break off your career at Oxford? Why should you do that? You promised me—did you not promise me, Wilfrid, that you would go on to the end?’

  ‘I cannot! I have no longer the calmness, no longer the old ambitions,—how trivial they were!’

  ‘And yet there will come a day when you will regret that you left your course unfinished, just because you fell in love with a foolish girl.’

  ‘Do not speak like that, Emily; I hate that way of regarding love! My passion for you is henceforth my life; if it is trifling, so is my whole being, my whole existence. There is no sacrifice possible for me that I should ever regret. Our love is what we choose to make it. Regard it as a foolish pastime, and we are no better than the vulgar crowd—we know how they speak of it. What detestable thoughts your words brought to my mind! Have you not heard men and women, those who have outlived such glimpses of high things as nature ever sent them, making a jest of love in young lives, treating it, from the height of their wisdom forsooth, as a silly dream of boys and girls? If we ever live to speak or think like that, it will indeed be time to have done with the world. Even as I love you now, my heart’s darling, I shall love you when years of intimacy are like some happy journey behind us, and on into the very portal of death. Regret! How paltry all will seem that was not of the essence of our love! And who knows how short our time may be? When the end comes, will it be easy to bear, the thought that we lost one day, one moment of union, out of respect for idle prejudices which vanish as soon as they find themselves ineffectual? Will not the longest life be all too short for us?’