A Life's Morning

by George Gissing

  ‘Where is Beatrice?’ Mrs. Birks asked.

  ‘She will stay with me for a day or two,’ replied Mrs. Baxendale.

  ‘How—how is she?’ inquired Mr. Athel, sympathetically.

  ‘Upset, of course, but not seriously, I hope.’

  ‘Really,’ Mrs. Birks exclaimed, ‘Wilfrid might have had some consideration for other people. Hero are the friendships of a lifetime broken up on his account.’

  ‘I don’t know that that is exactly the point of view,’ remarked her brother, judicially. ‘One doesn’t expect such things to seriously weigh—I mean, of course, when there is reason on the man’s side. What distresses me is the personal recklessness of the step.’

  ‘Perhaps that is not so great as it appears,’ put in Mrs. Baxendale, quietly.

  ‘You defend him?’ exclaimed Mrs. Birks.

  ‘I’m not sure that I should do so, but I want to explain how Beatrice regards it.’

  ‘She defends him?’ cried Mr. Athel.

  ‘Yes, she does. At present there is only one thing I fear for her, and that is a refusal on your part to carry out her wishes. Beatrice has made up her mind that as little trouble as possible shall result. I bring, in fact, the most urgent request from her that you, Mr. Athel, and you, Mrs. Birks, will join in a sort of conspiracy to make things smooth for Wilfrid. She desires—it is no mere whim, I believe her health depends upon it—that no obstacle whatever may be put in the way of Wilfrid’s return to society with his wife. We are to act as though this old engagement had come to an end by mutual agreement, and as approving the marriage. This is my niece’s serious desire.’

  ‘My dear Mrs. Baxendale!’ murmured the listening lady. ‘How very extraordinary! Are you quite sure—’

  ‘Oh, this surely is out of the question,’ broke in her brother. ‘That Beatrice should make such a request is very admirable, but I—uh—I really—’

  Mr. Athel paused, as if expecting and hoping that someone would defeat his objections.

  ‘I admit it sounds rather unreal,’ pursued Mrs. Baxendale, ‘but fortunately I can give you good evidence of her sincerity. She has visited the lady who is now Mrs. Athel, and that with the express purpose of representing herself as nothing more than a friend of Wilfrid’s. You remember she had a slight acquaintance with Miss Hood. After this I don’t see how we can refuse to aid her plan.’

  ‘She visited Miss Hood?’ asked Mrs. Birks, with the mild amazement of a lady who respects her emotions. ‘Does Wilfrid know that?’

  ‘Beatrice asked his permission to go.’

  ‘This is altogether beyond me,’ confessed Mr. Athel, drawing down his waistcoat and taking a turn across the room. Of course, if they have been amusing themselves with a kind of game, well, we have nothing to do but to regret that our invitation to join in it has come rather late. For my own part, I was disposed to take a somewhat more serious view. Of course it’s no good throwing away one’s indignation. I—uh—but what is your own attitude with regard to this proposal, Mrs. Baxendale?’

  ‘I think I must be content to do my niece’s bidding,’ said the lady addressed.

  ‘There’s one thing, it seems to me, being lost sight of,’ came from Mrs. Birks, in the disinterested tone of a person who wishes to deliver with all clearness an unpleasant suggestion. ‘We are very much in the dark as to Miss Hood’s—I should say Mrs. Athel’s—antecedents. You yourself,’ she regarded Mrs. Baxendale, ‘confess that her story is very mysterious. If we are asked to receive her, really—doesn’t this occur to you?’

  At this moment the door opened and amid general silence Beatrice came forward. Mrs. Birks rose quickly and met her. Mrs. Baxendale understood at a glance what had brought her niece here. Agitation had grown insupportable. It was not in Beatrice’s character to lie still whilst others decided matters in which she had supreme interest. The more difficult her position the stronger she found herself to support it. The culmination of the drama could not be acted with her behind the scenes.

  Mrs. Birks, with a whispered word or two, led her to a seat. Beatrice looked at her aunt, then at Mr. Athel. The proud beauty of her face was never more impressive. She smiled as if some pleasant trifle were under discussion.

  ‘I heard your voice as I came in,’ she said to Mrs. Birks, bending towards her gracefully. ‘Were you on my side?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, dear, just then,’ was the reply, given in a corresponding tone of affectionateness.

  ‘You will tell me what you were saying?’

  Mr. Athel looked as uncomfortable as even an English gentleman can in such a situation. Mrs. Baxendale seemed to be finding amusement in observing him. The lady appealed to plucked for a moment at her sleeve.

  ‘May I make a guess?’ Beatrice pursued. ‘It had something to do with the private circumstances of the lady Mr. Wilfrid Athel has married?’

  ‘Yes, Beatrice, it had.’

  ‘Then let me help you over that obstacle, dear Mrs. Birks. I have heard from herself a full explanation of what you are uneasy about, and if I were at liberty to repeat it you would know that she has been dreadfully unhappy and has endured things which would have killed most women, all because of her loyalty and purity of heart. I think I may ask you to give as much effect to my words as if you knew everything. Mrs. Athel is in every respect worthy to become a member of your family.’

  Her voice began to express emotion,

  ‘Mr. Athel, you are not against me? It is so hard to find no sympathy. I have set my heart on this. Perhaps I seem to ask a great deal, but I—have I not some little—’

  ‘My dear Miss Redwing,’ broke in Mr. Athel then, correcting himself, ‘My dear Beatrice, no words could convey the anxiety I feel to be of service to you. You see how difficult it is for me to speak decidedly, but I assure you that I could not possibly act in opposition to your expressed desire. Perhaps it would be better for me to withdraw. I am sure these ladies—’

  His speech hung in mid-air, and he stood nervously tapping his fingers with his eyeglass.

  ‘No, please remain,’ exclaimed Beatrice. ‘Aunt, you are not against me? Mrs. Birks, you won’t refuse to believe what I have told you?’

  The two ladies glanced at each other. In Mrs. Baxendale’s look there was appeal.

  ‘Indeed, I believe you implicitly, my dear Beatrice,’ said Mrs. Birks. ‘My brother is the one to decide. You are mistaken in thinking I oppose your wish. How could I?’

  The last words were very sweetly said. With a smile which did not pass beyond her lips, Beatrice rose from her seat and held her hand to Mr. Athel.

  ‘Then it is understood? When Wilfrid brings his wife to you, you receive her with all kindness. I have your promise?’

  Mr. Athel drew himself up very straight, pressed the offered hand and said:

  ‘It shall be as you wish.’ …

  Beatrice returned with Mrs. Baxendale. Her desire to be alone was respected during the rest of the day. Going to her the last thing at night, her aunt was reassured; weariness had followed upon nervous strain, and the beautiful eyes seemed longing for sleep.

  But in the morning appearances were not so hopeful. The night had after all been a troubled one: Beatrice declined breakfast and, having dressed with effort, lay on a sofa, her eyes closed.

  At noon Mrs. Baxendale came near and said gently:

  ‘Dear, you are not going to be ill?’

  The sufferer stirred a little, looked in her aunt’s face, rose to a sitting position.

  ‘Ill?’ She laughed in a forced way. ‘O, that would never do! Ill after all? Why, that would spoil everything. Are you going out this morning?’

  ‘Certainly not. I should only have done some idle shopping.’

  ‘Then you shall do the shopping, and I will go with you. Yes, yes, I will go! It is the only way. Let us go where we shall see people; I wish to. I will be ready in five minutes.’

  ‘But, Beatrice—.’

  ‘O, don’t fear my looks; you shall see if I betray myself!
Quick, quick,—to Regent Street, Bond Street, where we shall gee people! I shall be ready before you.’

  They set forth, and Beatrice had no illness.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  MID-DAY

  Once more at The Firs. Wilfrid had decided to make this his abode. It was near enough to London to allow of his going backwards and forwards as often as might be necessary; his father’s town house offered the means of change for Emily, and supplied him with a pied-a-terre in time of session. By limiting his attendance at the House as far as decency would allow, he was able to enjoy with small interruption the quiet of his home in Surrey, and a growing certainty that the life of the present Parliament would be short encouraged him in looking forward to the day when politics would no longer exist for him.

  He and Emily established themselves at The Firs towards the end of December, having spent a week with Mr. Athel on their return from the Continent. Emily’s health had improved, but there was no likelihood that she would ever be other than a delicate flower, to be jealously guarded from the sky’s ruder breath by him to whom she was a life within life. Ambition as he formerly understood it had no more meaning for Wilfrid; the fine ardour of his being rejected grosser nourishment and burned in altar-flame towards the passion-pale woman whom he after all called wife. Emily was an unfailing inspiration; by her side the nobler zeal of his youth renewed itself; in the light of her pure soul he saw the world as poetry and strove for that detachment of the intellect which in Emily was a gift of nature.

  She, Emily—Emily Athel, as she joyed to write herself—moved in her new sphere like a spirit humbled by victory over fate. It was a mild winter; the Surrey hills were tender against the brief daylight, and gardens breathed the freshness of evergreens. When the sun trembled over the landscape for a short hour, Emily loved to stray as far as that hollow on the heath where she had sat with Wilfrid years ago, and heard him for the first time speak freely of his aims and his hopes. That spot was sacred; as she stood there beneath the faint blue of the winter sky, all the exquisite sadness of life, the memory of those whom death had led to his kindly haven, the sorrows of newborn love, the dear heartache for woe passed into eternity, touched the deepest fountains of her nature and made dim her eyes. She would not have had life other than it was given to her, for she had learned the secrets of infinite passion in the sunless valleys of despair.

  She rested. In the last few months she had traversed a whole existence; repose was needful that she might assimilate all her new experiences and range in due order the gifts which joy had lavishly heaped upon her. The skies of the south, the murmur of blue seas on shores of glorious name, the shrines of Art, the hallowed scenes where earth’s greatest have loved and wrought, these were no longer a dream with her bodily eyes she had looked upon Greece and Italy, and to have done so was a consecration, it cast a light upon her brows. ‘Talk to me of Rome;’ those were always her words when Wilfrid came to her side in the evening. ‘Talk to me of Rome, as you alone can.’ And as Wilfrid recalled their life in the world’s holy of holies, she closed her eyes for the full rapture of the inner light, and her heart sang praise.

  Wilfrid was awed by his blessedness. There were times when he scarcely dared to take in his own that fine-moulded hand which was the symbol of life made perfect; Emily uttered thoughts which made him fear to profane her purity by his touch. She realised to the uttermost his ideal of womanhood, none the less so that it seemed no child would be born of her to trouble the exclusiveness of their love. He clad her in queenly garments and did homage at her feet. Her beauty was all for him, for though Emily could grace any scene she found no pleasure in society, and the hours of absence from home were to Wilfrid full of anxiety to return. All their plans were for solitude; life was too short for more than the inevitable concessions to the outside world.

  But one morning in February, Emily’s eye fell upon an announcement in the newspaper which excited in her a wish to go up to town. Among the list of singers at a concert to be given that day she had caught the name of Miss Beatrice Redwing. It was Saturday; Wilfrid had no occasion for leaving home and already they had enjoyed in advance the two unbroken days.

  ‘But I should indeed like to hear her,’ Emily said, ‘and she seems to sing so rarely.’

  ‘She has only just returned to England,’ Wilfrid remarked

  They had heard of Beatrice having been in Florence a week or two prior to their own stay there. She was travelling with the Baxendales. Emily was anxious to meet her, and Wilfrid had held out a hope that this might come about in Italy, but circumstances had proved adverse.

  ‘Have you seen her?’ Emily inquired.

  Her husband had not. He seemed at first a little disinclined to go up for the concert, but on Emily’s becoming silent he hastened to give a cheerful acquiescence.

  ‘Couldn’t we see her tomorrow?’ she went on to ask.

  ‘No doubt we can. It’s only the facing of my aunt’s drawing-room on a Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘O, surely that is needless, Wilfrid? Couldn’t we go and see her quietly? She would be at home in the morning, I should think.’

  ‘I should think so. We’ll make inquiries to-night.’

  They left home early in the afternoon and procured tickets on their way from the station to Mr. Athel’s. Their arrival being quite unexpected, they found that Mr. Athel had loft town for a day or two. It was all that Emily needed for the completing of her pleasure; her father-in-law was scrupulously polite in his behaviour to her, but the politeness fell a little short as yet of entire ease, and conversation with him involved effort. She ran a risk of letting Wilfrid perceive the gladness with which she discovered an empty house; he did, in fact, attribute to its true cause the light-heartedness she showed as they sat together at dinner, and smiled to think that he himself shared in the feeling of relief. There were reasons why he could not look forward to the evening with unalloyed happiness, but the unwonted gaiety which shone on Emily’s face, and gave a new melody to her voice, moved him to tenderness and gratitude. He felt that it would be well to listen again to the music of that strong heart whose pain had been his bliss. He overcame his ignoble anxieties and went to the concert as to a sacred office.

  Their seats, owing to lateness in applying for them, were not in the best part of the hall; immediately behind them was the first row of a cheaper section, and two men of indifferent behaviour were seated there within ear-shot; they were discussing the various names upon the programme as if for the enlightenment of their neighbours. When Emily had been sitting for a few minutes, she found that it had been unwise to leave her mantle in the cloak-room; there was a bad draught. Wilfrid went to recover it. Whilst waiting, Emily became aware that the men behind her were talking of Miss Redwing; she listened.

  ‘She’s married, I think, eh?’ said one.

  ‘Was to have been, you mean. Why, wasn’t it you told me the story? O no, it was Drummond. Drummond knows her people, I think.’

  ‘What story, eh?’

  ‘Why, she was to have married a Member of Parliament; what the deuce was his name? Something that reminded me of a race-horse, I remember. Was it Blair? No—Athel! That’s the name.’

  ‘Why didn’t it come off, then?’

  ‘Oh, the honourable member found somebody he liked better.’

  It was not the end of the conversation, but just then the conductor rose in his place and there was ‘hushing.’ Wilfrid returned at the same moment. He noticed that Emily shivered as he put the covering on her shoulders. When he was seated she looked at him so strangely that he asked her in a whisper what was the matter. Emily shook her head and seemed to fix her attention on the music.

  Beatrice Redwing was the third singer to come forward. Whilst she sang Emily frequently looked at her husband. Wilfrid did not notice it, he was absorbed in listening. Towards the end Emily, too, lost thought of everything save the magic with which the air was charged. There was vociferous demand for an encore and Beatrice gave another song.
r />   When the mid-way interval was reached Emily asked her husband if he would leave the hall. She gave no reason and Wilfrid did not question her. When they were in the carriage she said the draught had been too severe. Wilfrid kept silence; he was troubled by inexplicable misgivings.

  Servants hastened to light the drawing-room on their arrival earlier than was expected. Emily threw off her wraps and seated herself near the fire.

  ‘Do you suffer from the chill?’ Wilfrid asked, approaching her as if with diffidence.

  She turned her face to him, gazing with the sadness which was so much more natural to her than the joy of two hours ago.

  ‘It was not the draught that made me come away,’ she said with gentle directness. ‘I must tell you what it was, Wilfrid. I cannot keep any of my thoughts from you.’

  ‘Tell me,’ he murmured, standing by her.

  She related the substance of the conversation she had overheard, always keeping her eyes on him.

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘It is true, Emily.’

  Between him and her there could be no paltry embarrassments. A direct question touching both so deeply could be answered only in one way. If Emily had suffered from a brief distrust, his look and voice, sorrowful but frank as though he faced Omniscience, restored her courage at once. There might be grief henceforth, but it was shared between them.

  He spoke on and made all plain. Then at the last:

  ‘I felt it to be almost impossible that you should net some day know. I could not tell you, perhaps on her account as much as on my own. But now I may say what I had no words for before. She loved me, and I believed that I could return her love. When I met you, how could I marry her? A stranger sees my conduct—you have heard how. It is you who alone can judge me.’

  ‘And she came to me in that way,’ Emily murmured. ‘She could not only lose you, but give her hand to the woman who robbed her!’