From The House of Cobwebs and Other Stories (1906).
It was market day in the little town; at one o’clock a rustic company besieged the table of the Greyhound, lured by savoury odours and the frothing of amber ale. Apart from three frequenters of the ordinary, in a small room prepared for overflow, sat two persons of a different stamp–a middle-aged man, bald, meagre, unimpressive, but wholly respectable in bearing and apparel, and a girl, evidently his daughter, who had the look of the latter twenties, her plain dress harmonising with a subdued charm of feature and a timidity of manner not ungraceful. Whilst waiting for their meal they conversed in an undertone; their brief remarks and ejaculations told of a long morning’s ramble from the seaside resort some miles away; in their quiet fashion they seemed to have enjoyed themselves, and dinner at an inn evidently struck them as something of an escapade. Rather awkwardly the girl arranged a handful of wild flowers which she had gathered, and put them for refreshment into a tumbler of water; when a woman entered with viands, silence fell upon the two; after hesitations and mutual glances, they began to eat with nervous appetite.
Scarcely was their modest confidence restored, when in the doorway sounded a virile voice, gaily humming, and they became aware of a tall young man, red-headed, anything but handsome, flushed and perspiring from the sunny road; his open jacket showed a blue cotton shirt without waistcoat, in his hand was a shabby straw hat, and thick dust covered his boots. One would have judged him a tourist of the noisier class, and his rather loud ‘Good morning!’ as he entered the room seemed a serious menace to privacy; on the other hand, the rapid buttoning of his coat, and the quiet choice of a seat as far as possible from the two guests whom his arrival disturbed, indicated a certain tact. His greeting had met with the merest murmur of reply; their eyes on their plates, father and daughter resolutely disregarded him; yet he ventured to speak again.
‘They’re busy here to-day. Not a seat to be had in the other room.’
It was apologetic in intention, and not rudely spoken. After a moment’s delay the bald, respectable man made a curt response.
‘This room is public, I believe.’
The intruder held his peace. But more than once he glanced at the girl, and after each furtive scrutiny his plain visage manifested some disturbance, a troubled thoughtfulness. His one look at the mute parent was from beneath contemptuous eyebrows.
Very soon another guest appeared, a massive agricultural man, who descended upon a creaking chair and growled a remark about the hot weather. With him the red-haired pedestrian struck into talk. Their topic was beer. Uncommonly good, they agreed, the local brew, and each called for a second pint. What, they asked in concert, would England be without her ale? Shame on the base traffickers who enfeebled or poisoned this noble liquor! And how cool it was–ah! The right sort of cellar! He of the red hair hinted at a third pewter.
These two were still but midway in their stout attack on meat and drink, when father and daughter, having exchanged a few whispers, rose to depart. After leaving the room, the girl remembered that she had left her flowers behind; she durst not return for them, and, knowing her father would dislike to do so, said nothing about the matter.
‘A pity!’ exclaimed Mr. Whiston (that was his respectable name) as they strolled away. ‘It looked at first as if we should have such a nice quiet dinner.’
‘I enjoyed it all the same,’ replied his companion, whose name was Rose.
‘That abominable habit of drinking!’ added Mr. Whiston austerely. He himself had quaffed water, as always. ‘Their ale, indeed! See the coarse, gross creatures it produces!’
He shuddered. Rose, however, seemed less consentient than usual. Her eyes were on the ground; her lips were closed with a certain firmness. When she spoke, it was on quite another subject.
They were Londoners. Mr. Whiston held the position of draughtsman in the office of a geographical publisher; though his income was small, he had always practised a rigid economy, and the possession of a modest private capital put him beyond fear of reverses. Profoundly conscious of social limits, he felt it a subject for gratitude that there was nothing to be ashamed of in his calling, which he might fairly regard as a profession, and he nursed this sense of respectability as much on his daughter’s behalf as on his own. Rose was an only child; her mother had been dead for years; her kinsfolk on both sides laid claim to the title of gentlefolk, but supported it on the narrowest margin of independence. The girl had grown up in an atmosphere unfavourable to mental development, but she had received a fairly good education, and nature had dowered her with intelligence. A sense of her father’s conscientiousness and of his true affection forbade her to criticise openly the principles on which he had directed her life; hence a habit of solitary meditation, which half fostered, yet half opposed, the gentle diffidence of Rose’s character.
Mr. Whiston shrank from society, ceaselessly afraid of receiving less than his due; privately, meanwhile, he deplored the narrowness of the social opportunities granted to his daughter, and was for ever forming schemes for her advantage–schemes which never passed beyond the stage of nervous speculation. They inhabited a little house in a western suburb, a house illumined with every domestic virtue; but scarcely a dozen persons crossed the threshold within a twelvemonth. Rose’s two or three friends were, like herself, mistrustful of the world. One of them had lately married after a very long engagement, and Rose still trembled from the excitement of that occasion, still debated fearfully with herself on the bride’s chances of happiness. Her own marriage was an event so inconceivable that merely to glance at the thought appeared half immodest and wholly irrational.
Every winter Mr. Whiston talked of new places which he and Rose would visit when the holidays came round; every summer he shrank from the thought of adventurous novelty, and ended by proposing a return to the same western seaside-town, to the familiar lodgings. The climate suited neither him nor his daughter, who both needed physical as well as moral bracing; but they only thought of this on finding themselves at home again, with another long year of monotony before them. And it was so good to feel welcome, respected; to receive the smiling reverences of tradesfolk; to talk with just a little well-bred condescension, sure that it would be appreciated. Mr. Whiston savoured these things, and Rose in this respect was not wholly unlike him.
To-day was the last of their vacation. The weather had been magnificent throughout; Rose’s cheeks were more than touched by the sun, greatly to the advantage of her unpretending comeliness. She was a typical English maiden, rather tall, shapely rather than graceful, her head generally bent, her movements always betraying the diffidence of solitary habit. The lips were her finest feature, their perfect outline indicating sweetness without feebleness of character. Such a girl is at her best towards the stroke of thirty. Rose had begun to know herself; she needed only opportunity to act upon her knowledge.
A train would take them back to the seaside. At the railway station Rose seated herself on a shaded part of the platform, whilst her father, who was exceedingly short of sight, peered over publications on the bookstall. Rather tired after her walk, the girl was dreamily tracing a pattern with the point of her parasol, when some one advanced and stood immediately in front of her. Startled, she looked up, and recognised the red-haired stranger of the inn.
‘You left these flowers in a glass of water on the table. I hope I’m not doing a rude thing in asking whether they were left by accident.’
He had the flowers in his hand, their stems carefully protected by a piece of paper. For a moment Rose was incapable of replying; she looked at the speaker; she felt her cheeks burn; in utter embarrassment she said she knew not what.
‘Oh!–thank you! I forgot them. It’s very kind.’
Her hand touched his as she took the bouquet from him. Without another word the man turned and strode away.
Mr. Whiston had seen nothing of this. When he approached, Rose held up the flowers with a laugh.
‘Wasn’t it kind? I forgot them, you know, and some one from the inn came looking for me.’
‘Very good of them, very,’ replied her father graciously. ‘A very nice inn, that. We’ll go again–some day. One likes to encourage such civility; it’s rare nowadays.’
He of the red hair travelled by the same train, though not in the same carriage. Rose caught sight of him at the seaside station. She was vexed with herself for having so scantily acknowledged his kindness; it seemed to her that she had not really thanked him at all; how absurd, at her age, to be incapable of common self-command! At the same time she kept thinking of her father’s phrase, ‘coarse, gross creatures,’ and it vexed her even more than her own ill behaviour. The stranger was certainly not coarse, far from gross. Even his talk about beer (she remembered every word of it) had been amusing rather than offensive. Was he a ‘gentleman’? The question agitated her; it involved so technical a definition, and she felt so doubtful as to the reply. Beyond doubt he had acted in a gentlemanly way; but his voice lacked something. Coarse? Gross? No, no, no! Really, her father was very severe, not to say uncharitable. But perhaps he was thinking of the heavy agricultural man; oh, he must have been!
Of a sudden she felt very weary. At the lodgings she sat down in her bedroom, and gazed through the open window at the sea. A sense of discouragement, hitherto almost unknown, had fallen upon her; it spoilt the blue sky and the soft horizon. She thought rather drearily of the townward journey to-morrow, of her home in the suburbs, of the endless monotony that awaited her. The flowers lay on her lap; she smelt them, dreamed over them. And then–strange incongruity–she thought of beer!
Between tea and supper she and her father rested on the beach. Mr. Whiston was reading. Rose pretended to turn the leaves of a book. Of a sudden, as unexpectedly to herself as to her companion, she broke silence.
‘Don’t you think, father, that we are too much afraid of talking with strangers?’
‘Too much afraid?’
Mr. Whiston was puzzled. He had forgotten all about the incident at the dinner-table.
‘I mean–what harm is there in having a little conversation when one is away from home? At the inn to-day, you know, I can’t help thinking we were rather–perhaps a little too silent.’
‘My dear Rose, did you want to talk about beer?’
She reddened, but answered all the more emphatically.
‘Of course not. But, when the first gentleman came in, wouldn’t it have been natural to exchange a few friendly words? I’m sure he wouldn’t have talked of beer to us’
‘The gentleman? I saw no gentleman, my dear. I suppose he was a small clerk, or something of the sort, and he had no business whatever to address us.’
‘Oh, but he only said good morning, and apologised for sitting at our table. He needn’t have apologised at all.’
‘Precisely. That is just what I mean,’ said Mr. Whiston with self-satisfaction. ‘My dear Rose, if I had been alone, I might perhaps have talked a little, but with you it was impossible. One cannot be too careful. A man like that will take all sorts of liberties. One has to keep such people at a distance.
A moment’s pause, then Rose spoke with unusual decision–
‘I feel quite sure, father, that he would not have taken liberties. It seems to me that he knew quite well how to behave himself.’
Mr. Whiston grew still more puzzled. He closed his book to meditate this new problem.
‘One has to lay down rules,’ fell from him at length, sententiously. ‘Our position, Rose, as I have often explained, is a delicate one. A lady in circumstances such as yours cannot exercise too much caution. Your natural associates are in the world of wealth; unhappily, I cannot make you wealthy. We have to guard our self-respect, my dear child. Really, it is not safe to talk with strangers–least of all at an inn. And you have only to remember that disgusting conversation about beer!’
Rose said no more. Her father pondered a little, felt that he had delivered his soul, and resumed the book.
The next morning they were early at the station to secure good places for the long journey to London. Up to almost the last moment it seemed that they would have a carriage to themselves. Then the door suddenly opened, a bag was flung on to the seat, and after it came a hot, panting man, a red-haired man, recognised immediately by both the travellers.
‘I thought I’d missed it!’ ejaculated the intruder merrily.
Mr. Whiston turned his head away, disgust transforming his countenance. Rose sat motionless, her eyes cast down. And the stranger mopped his forehead in silence.
He glanced at her; he glanced again and again; and Rose was aware of every look. It did not occur to her to feel offended. On the contrary, she fell into a mood of tremulous pleasure, enhanced by every turn of the stranger’s eyes in her direction. At him she did not look, yet she saw him. Was it a coarse face? she asked herself. Plain, perhaps, but decidedly not vulgar. The red hair, she thought, was not disagreeably red; she didn’t dislike that shade of colour. He was humming a tune; it seemed to be his habit, and it argued healthy cheerfulness. Meanwhile Mr. Whiston sat stiffly in his corner, staring at the landscape, a model of respectable muteness.
At the first stop another man entered. This time, unmistakably, a commercial traveller. At once a dialogue sprang up between him and Rufus. The traveller complained that all the smoking compartments were full.
‘Why,’ exclaimed Rufus, with a laugh, ‘that reminds me that I wanted a smoke. I never thought about it till now; jumped in here in a hurry.’
The traveller’s ‘line’ was tobacco; they talked tobacco–Rufus with much gusto. Presently the conversation took a wider scope.
‘I envy you,’ cried Rufus, ‘always travelling about. I’m in a beastly office, and get only a fortnight off once a year. I enjoy it, I can tell you! Time’s up today, worse luck! I’ve a good mind to emigrate. Can you give me a tip about the colonies?’
He talked of how he had spent his holiday. Rose missed not a word, and her blood pulsed in sympathy with the joy of freedom which he expressed. She did not mind his occasional slang; the tone was manly and right-hearted; it evinced a certain simplicity of feeling by no means common in men, whether gentle or other. At a certain moment the girl was impelled to steal a glimpse of his face. After all, was it really so plain? The features seemed to her to have a certain refinement which she had not noticed before.
‘I’m going to try for a smoker,’ said the man of commerce, as the train slackened into a busy station.
Rufus hesitated. His eye wandered.
‘I think I shall stay where I am,’ he ended by saying.
In that same moment, for the first time, Rose met his glance. She saw that his eyes did not at once avert themselves; they had a singular expression, a smile which pleaded pardon for its audacity. And Rose, even whilst turning away, smiled in response.
The train stopped. The commercial traveller alighted. Rose, leaning towards her father, whispered that she was thirsty; would he get her a glass of milk or of lemonade? Though little disposed to rush on such errands, Mr. Whiston had no choice but to comply; he sped at once for the refreshment-room.
And Rose knew what would happen; she knew perfectly. Sitting rigid, her eyes on vacancy, she felt the approach of the young man, who for the moment was alone with her. She saw him at her side: she heard his voice.
‘I can’t help it. I want to speak to you. May I?’
Rose faltered a reply.
‘It was so kind to bring the flowers. I didn’t thank you properly.’
‘It’s now or never,’ pursued the young man in rapid, excited tones. ‘Will you let me tell you my name? Will you tell me yours?’
Rose’s silence consented. The daring Rufus rent a page from a pocket-book, scribbled his name and address, gave it to Rose. He rent out another page, offered it to Rose with the pencil, and in a moment had secured the precious scrap of paper in his pocket. Scarce was the transaction completed when a stranger jumped in. The young man bounded to his own corner, just in time to see the return of Mr. Whiston, glass in hand.
During the rest of the journey Rose was in the strangest state of mind. She did not feel in the least ashamed of herself. It seemed to her that what had happened was wholly natural and simple. The extraordinary thing was that she must sit silent and with cold countenance at the distance of a few feet from a person with whom she ardently desired to converse. Sudden illumination had wholly changed the aspect of life. She seemed to be playing a part in a grotesque comedy rather than living in a world of grave realities. Her father’s dignified silence struck her as intolerably absurd. She could have burst into laughter; at moments she was indignant, irritated, tremulous with the spirit of revolt. She detected a glance of frigid superiority with which Mr. Whiston chanced to survey the other occupants of the compartment. It amazed her. Never had she seen her father in such an alien light. He bent forward and addressed to her some commonplace remark; she barely deigned a reply. Her views of conduct, of character, had undergone an abrupt and extraordinary change. Having justified without shadow of argument her own incredible proceeding, she judged everything and everybody by some new standard, mysteriously attained. She was no longer the Rose Whiston of yesterday. Her old self seemed an object of compassion. She felt an unspeakable happiness, and at the same time an encroaching fear.
The fear predominated; when she grew aware of the streets of London looming on either hand it became a torment, an anguish. Small-folded, crushed within her palm, the piece of paper with its still unread inscription seemed to burn her. Once, twice, thrice she met the look of her friend. He smiled cheerily, bravely, with evident purpose of encouragement. She knew his face better than that of any oldest acquaintance; she saw in it a manly beauty. Only by a great effort of self-control could she refrain from turning aside to unfold and read what he had written. The train slackened speed, stopped. Yes, it was London. She must arise and go. Once more their eyes met. Then, without recollection of any interval, she was on the Metropolitan Railway, moving towards her suburban home.
A severe headache sent her early to bed. Beneath her pillow lay a scrap of paper with a name and address she was not likely to forget. And through the night of broken slumbers Rose suffered a martyrdom. No more self-glorification! All her courage gone, all her new vitality! She saw herself with the old eyes, and was shame-stricken to the very heart.
Whose the fault? Towards dawn she argued it with the bitterness of misery. What a life was hers in this little world of choking respectabilities! Forbidden this, forbidden that; permitted–the pride of ladyhood. And she was not a lady, after all. What lady would have permitted herself to exchange names and addresses with a strange man in a railway carriage–furtively, too, escaping her father’s observation? If not a lady, what was she? It meant the utter failure of her breeding and education. The sole end for which she had lived was frustrate. A common, vulgar young woman–well mated, doubtless, with an impudent clerk, whose noisy talk was of beer and tobacco!
This arrested her. Stung to the defence of her friend, who, clerk though he might be, was neither impudent nor vulgar, she found herself driven back upon self-respect. The battle went on for hours; it exhausted her; it undid all the good effects of sun and sea, and left her flaccid, pale.
‘I’m afraid the journey yesterday was too much for you,’ remarked Mr. Whiston, after observing her as she sat mute the next evening.
‘I shall soon recover,’ Rose answered coldly.
The father meditated with some uneasiness. He had not forgotten Rose’s singular expression of opinion after their dinner at the inn. His affection made him sensitive to changes in the girl’s demeanour. Next summer they must really find a more bracing resort. Yes, yes; clearly Rose needed bracing. But she was always better when the cool days came round.
On the morrow it was his daughter’s turn to feel anxious. Mr. Whiston all at once wore a face of indignant severity. He was absent-minded; he sat at table with scarce a word; he had little nervous movements, and subdued mutterings as of wrath. This continued on a second day, and Rose began to suffer an intolerable agitation. She could not help connecting her father’s strange behaviour with the secret which tormented her heart.
Had something happened? Had her friend seen Mr. Whiston, or written to him?
She had awaited with tremors every arrival of the post. It was probable–more than probable–that he would write to her; but as yet no letter came. A week passed, and no letter came. Her father was himself again; plainly she had mistaken the cause of his perturbation. Ten days, and no letter came.
It was Saturday afternoon. Mr. Whiston reached home at tea-time. The first glance showed his daughter that trouble and anger once more beset him. She trembled, and all but wept, for suspense had overwrought her nerves.
‘I find myself obliged to speak to you on a very disagreeable subject’–thus began Mr. Whiston over the tea-cups–‘a very unpleasant subject indeed. My one consolation is that it will probably settle a little argument we had down at the seaside.’
As his habit was when expressing grave opinions (and Mr. Whiston seldom expressed any other), he made a long pause and ran his fingers through his thin beard. The delay irritated Rose to the last point of endurance.
‘The fact is,’ he proceeded at length, ‘a week ago I received a most extraordinary letter–the most impudent letter I ever read in my life. It came from that noisy, beer-drinking man who intruded upon us at the inn–you remember. He began by explaining who he was, and–if you can believe it–had the impertinence to say that he wished to make my acquaintance! An amazing letter! Naturally, I left it unanswered–the only dignified thing to do. But the fellow wrote again, asking if I had received his proposal. I now replied, briefly and severely, asking him, first, how he came to know my name; secondly, what reason I had given him for supposing that I desired to meet him again. His answer to this was even more outrageous than the first offence. He bluntly informed me that in order to discover my name and address he had followed us home that day from Paddington Station! As if this was not bad enough, he went on to–really, Rose, I feel I must apologise to you, but the fact is I seem to have no choice but to tell you what he said. The fellow tells me, really, that he wants to know me only that he may come to know you! My first idea was to go with this letter to the police. I am not sure that I shan’t do so even yet; most certainly I shall if he writes again. The man may be crazy–he may be dangerous. Who knows but he may come lurking about the house? I felt obliged to warn you of this unpleasant possibility.’
Rose was stirring her tea; also she was smiling. She continued to stir and to smile, without consciousness of either performance.
‘You make light of it?’ exclaimed her father solemnly.
‘O father, of course I am sorry you have had this annoyance.’
So little was there of manifest sorrow in the girl’s tone and countenance that Mr. Whiston gazed at her rather indignantly. His pregnant pause gave birth to one of those admonitory axioms which had hitherto ruled his daughter’s life.
‘My dear, I advise you never to trifle with questions of propriety. Could there possibly be a better illustration of what I have so often said–that in self-defence we are bound to keep strangers at a distance?’
‘Father’
Rose began firmly, but her voice failed.
‘You were going to say, Rose?’
She took her courage in both hands.
‘Will you allow me to see the letters?’
‘Certainly. There can be no objection to that.’
He drew from his pocket the three envelopes, held them to his daughter. With shaking hand Rose unfolded the first letter; it was written in clear commercial character, and was signed ‘Charles James Burroughs.’ When she had read all, the girl said quietly–
‘Are you quite sure, father, that these letters are impertinent?’
Mr. Whiston stopped in the act of finger-combing his beard.
‘What doubt can there be of it?’
‘They seem to me,’ proceeded Rose nervously, ‘to be very respectful and very honest.’
‘My dear, you astound me! Is it respectful to force one’s acquaintance upon an unwilling stranger? I really don’t understand you. Where is your sense of propriety, Rose? A vulgar, noisy fellow, who talks of beer and tobacco–a petty clerk! And he has the audacity to write to me that he wants to–to make friends with my daughter! Respectful? Honest? Really!’
When Mr. Whiston became sufficiently agitated to lose his decorous gravity, he began to splutter, and at such moments he was not impressive. Rose kept her eyes cast down. She felt her strength once more, the strength of a wholly reasonable and half-passionate revolt against that tyrannous propriety which Mr. Whiston worshipped.
‘Father–‘
‘Well, my dear?’
‘There is only one thing I dislike in these letters–and that is a falsehood.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Rose was flushing. Her nerves grew tense; she had wrought herself to a simple audacity which overcame small embarrassments.
‘Mr. Burroughs says that he followed us home from Paddington to discover our address. That is not true. He asked me for my name and address in the train, and gave me his.’
The father gasped.
‘He asked–? You gave–?’
‘It was whilst you were away in the refreshment-room,’ proceeded the girl, with singular self-control, in a voice almost matter-of-fact. ‘I ought to tell you, at the same time, that it was Mr. Burroughs who brought me the flowers from the inn, when I forgot them. You didn’t see him give them to me in the station.’
The father stared.
‘But, Rose, what does all this mean? You–you overwhelm me! Go on, please. What next?’
‘Nothing, father.’
And of a sudden the girl was so beset with confusing emotions that she hurriedly quitted her chair and vanished from the room.
Before Mr. Whiston returned to his geographical drawing on Monday morning, he had held long conversations with Rose, and still longer with himself. Not easily could he perceive the justice of his daughter’s quarrel with propriety; many days were to pass, indeed, before he would consent to do more than make inquiries about Charles James Burroughs, and to permit that aggressive young man to give a fuller account of himself in writing. It was by silence that Rose prevailed. Having defended herself against the charge of immodesty, she declined to urge her own inclination or the rights of Mr. Burroughs; her mute patience did not lack its effect with the scrupulous but tender parent.
‘I am willing to admit, my dear,’ said Mr. Whiston one evening, a propos of nothing at all, ‘that the falsehood in that young man’s letter gave proof of a certain delicacy.’
‘Thank you, father,’ replied Rose, very quietly and simply.
It was next morning that the father posted a formal, proper, self-respecting note of invitation, which bore results.
THE END.
The Scrupulous Father
by George Gissing
From The House of Cobwebs and Other Stories (1906).
It was market day in the little town; at one o’clock a rustic company besieged the table of the Greyhound, lured by savoury odours and the frothing of amber ale. Apart from three frequenters of the ordinary, in a small room prepared for overflow, sat two persons of a different stamp–a middle-aged man, bald, meagre, unimpressive, but wholly respectable in bearing and apparel, and a girl, evidently his daughter, who had the look of the latter twenties, her plain dress harmonising with a subdued charm of feature and a timidity of manner not ungraceful. Whilst waiting for their meal they conversed in an undertone; their brief remarks and ejaculations told of a long morning’s ramble from the seaside resort some miles away; in their quiet fashion they seemed to have enjoyed themselves, and dinner at an inn evidently struck them as something of an escapade. Rather awkwardly the girl arranged a handful of wild flowers which she had gathered, and put them for refreshment into a tumbler of water; when a woman entered with viands, silence fell upon the two; after hesitations and mutual glances, they began to eat with nervous appetite.
Scarcely was their modest confidence restored, when in the doorway sounded a virile voice, gaily humming, and they became aware of a tall young man, red-headed, anything but handsome, flushed and perspiring from the sunny road; his open jacket showed a blue cotton shirt without waistcoat, in his hand was a shabby straw hat, and thick dust covered his boots. One would have judged him a tourist of the noisier class, and his rather loud ‘Good morning!’ as he entered the room seemed a serious menace to privacy; on the other hand, the rapid buttoning of his coat, and the quiet choice of a seat as far as possible from the two guests whom his arrival disturbed, indicated a certain tact. His greeting had met with the merest murmur of reply; their eyes on their plates, father and daughter resolutely disregarded him; yet he ventured to speak again.
‘They’re busy here to-day. Not a seat to be had in the other room.’
It was apologetic in intention, and not rudely spoken. After a moment’s delay the bald, respectable man made a curt response.
‘This room is public, I believe.’
The intruder held his peace. But more than once he glanced at the girl, and after each furtive scrutiny his plain visage manifested some disturbance, a troubled thoughtfulness. His one look at the mute parent was from beneath contemptuous eyebrows.
Very soon another guest appeared, a massive agricultural man, who descended upon a creaking chair and growled a remark about the hot weather. With him the red-haired pedestrian struck into talk. Their topic was beer. Uncommonly good, they agreed, the local brew, and each called for a second pint. What, they asked in concert, would England be without her ale? Shame on the base traffickers who enfeebled or poisoned this noble liquor! And how cool it was–ah! The right sort of cellar! He of the red hair hinted at a third pewter.
These two were still but midway in their stout attack on meat and drink, when father and daughter, having exchanged a few whispers, rose to depart. After leaving the room, the girl remembered that she had left her flowers behind; she durst not return for them, and, knowing her father would dislike to do so, said nothing about the matter.
‘A pity!’ exclaimed Mr. Whiston (that was his respectable name) as they strolled away. ‘It looked at first as if we should have such a nice quiet dinner.’
‘I enjoyed it all the same,’ replied his companion, whose name was Rose.
‘That abominable habit of drinking!’ added Mr. Whiston austerely. He himself had quaffed water, as always. ‘Their ale, indeed! See the coarse, gross creatures it produces!’
He shuddered. Rose, however, seemed less consentient than usual. Her eyes were on the ground; her lips were closed with a certain firmness. When she spoke, it was on quite another subject.
They were Londoners. Mr. Whiston held the position of draughtsman in the office of a geographical publisher; though his income was small, he had always practised a rigid economy, and the possession of a modest private capital put him beyond fear of reverses. Profoundly conscious of social limits, he felt it a subject for gratitude that there was nothing to be ashamed of in his calling, which he might fairly regard as a profession, and he nursed this sense of respectability as much on his daughter’s behalf as on his own. Rose was an only child; her mother had been dead for years; her kinsfolk on both sides laid claim to the title of gentlefolk, but supported it on the narrowest margin of independence. The girl had grown up in an atmosphere unfavourable to mental development, but she had received a fairly good education, and nature had dowered her with intelligence. A sense of her father’s conscientiousness and of his true affection forbade her to criticise openly the principles on which he had directed her life; hence a habit of solitary meditation, which half fostered, yet half opposed, the gentle diffidence of Rose’s character.
Mr. Whiston shrank from society, ceaselessly afraid of receiving less than his due; privately, meanwhile, he deplored the narrowness of the social opportunities granted to his daughter, and was for ever forming schemes for her advantage–schemes which never passed beyond the stage of nervous speculation. They inhabited a little house in a western suburb, a house illumined with every domestic virtue; but scarcely a dozen persons crossed the threshold within a twelvemonth. Rose’s two or three friends were, like herself, mistrustful of the world. One of them had lately married after a very long engagement, and Rose still trembled from the excitement of that occasion, still debated fearfully with herself on the bride’s chances of happiness. Her own marriage was an event so inconceivable that merely to glance at the thought appeared half immodest and wholly irrational.
Every winter Mr. Whiston talked of new places which he and Rose would visit when the holidays came round; every summer he shrank from the thought of adventurous novelty, and ended by proposing a return to the same western seaside-town, to the familiar lodgings. The climate suited neither him nor his daughter, who both needed physical as well as moral bracing; but they only thought of this on finding themselves at home again, with another long year of monotony before them. And it was so good to feel welcome, respected; to receive the smiling reverences of tradesfolk; to talk with just a little well-bred condescension, sure that it would be appreciated. Mr. Whiston savoured these things, and Rose in this respect was not wholly unlike him.
To-day was the last of their vacation. The weather had been magnificent throughout; Rose’s cheeks were more than touched by the sun, greatly to the advantage of her unpretending comeliness. She was a typical English maiden, rather tall, shapely rather than graceful, her head generally bent, her movements always betraying the diffidence of solitary habit. The lips were her finest feature, their perfect outline indicating sweetness without feebleness of character. Such a girl is at her best towards the stroke of thirty. Rose had begun to know herself; she needed only opportunity to act upon her knowledge.
A train would take them back to the seaside. At the railway station Rose seated herself on a shaded part of the platform, whilst her father, who was exceedingly short of sight, peered over publications on the bookstall. Rather tired after her walk, the girl was dreamily tracing a pattern with the point of her parasol, when some one advanced and stood immediately in front of her. Startled, she looked up, and recognised the red-haired stranger of the inn.
‘You left these flowers in a glass of water on the table. I hope I’m not doing a rude thing in asking whether they were left by accident.’
He had the flowers in his hand, their stems carefully protected by a piece of paper. For a moment Rose was incapable of replying; she looked at the speaker; she felt her cheeks burn; in utter embarrassment she said she knew not what.
‘Oh!–thank you! I forgot them. It’s very kind.’
Her hand touched his as she took the bouquet from him. Without another word the man turned and strode away.
Mr. Whiston had seen nothing of this. When he approached, Rose held up the flowers with a laugh.
‘Wasn’t it kind? I forgot them, you know, and some one from the inn came looking for me.’
‘Very good of them, very,’ replied her father graciously. ‘A very nice inn, that. We’ll go again–some day. One likes to encourage such civility; it’s rare nowadays.’
He of the red hair travelled by the same train, though not in the same carriage. Rose caught sight of him at the seaside station. She was vexed with herself for having so scantily acknowledged his kindness; it seemed to her that she had not really thanked him at all; how absurd, at her age, to be incapable of common self-command! At the same time she kept thinking of her father’s phrase, ‘coarse, gross creatures,’ and it vexed her even more than her own ill behaviour. The stranger was certainly not coarse, far from gross. Even his talk about beer (she remembered every word of it) had been amusing rather than offensive. Was he a ‘gentleman’? The question agitated her; it involved so technical a definition, and she felt so doubtful as to the reply. Beyond doubt he had acted in a gentlemanly way; but his voice lacked something. Coarse? Gross? No, no, no! Really, her father was very severe, not to say uncharitable. But perhaps he was thinking of the heavy agricultural man; oh, he must have been!
Of a sudden she felt very weary. At the lodgings she sat down in her bedroom, and gazed through the open window at the sea. A sense of discouragement, hitherto almost unknown, had fallen upon her; it spoilt the blue sky and the soft horizon. She thought rather drearily of the townward journey to-morrow, of her home in the suburbs, of the endless monotony that awaited her. The flowers lay on her lap; she smelt them, dreamed over them. And then–strange incongruity–she thought of beer!
Between tea and supper she and her father rested on the beach. Mr. Whiston was reading. Rose pretended to turn the leaves of a book. Of a sudden, as unexpectedly to herself as to her companion, she broke silence.
‘Don’t you think, father, that we are too much afraid of talking with strangers?’
‘Too much afraid?’
Mr. Whiston was puzzled. He had forgotten all about the incident at the dinner-table.
‘I mean–what harm is there in having a little conversation when one is away from home? At the inn to-day, you know, I can’t help thinking we were rather–perhaps a little too silent.’
‘My dear Rose, did you want to talk about beer?’
She reddened, but answered all the more emphatically.
‘Of course not. But, when the first gentleman came in, wouldn’t it have been natural to exchange a few friendly words? I’m sure he wouldn’t have talked of beer to us’
‘The gentleman? I saw no gentleman, my dear. I suppose he was a small clerk, or something of the sort, and he had no business whatever to address us.’
‘Oh, but he only said good morning, and apologised for sitting at our table. He needn’t have apologised at all.’
‘Precisely. That is just what I mean,’ said Mr. Whiston with self-satisfaction. ‘My dear Rose, if I had been alone, I might perhaps have talked a little, but with you it was impossible. One cannot be too careful. A man like that will take all sorts of liberties. One has to keep such people at a distance.
A moment’s pause, then Rose spoke with unusual decision–
‘I feel quite sure, father, that he would not have taken liberties. It seems to me that he knew quite well how to behave himself.’
Mr. Whiston grew still more puzzled. He closed his book to meditate this new problem.
‘One has to lay down rules,’ fell from him at length, sententiously. ‘Our position, Rose, as I have often explained, is a delicate one. A lady in circumstances such as yours cannot exercise too much caution. Your natural associates are in the world of wealth; unhappily, I cannot make you wealthy. We have to guard our self-respect, my dear child. Really, it is not safe to talk with strangers–least of all at an inn. And you have only to remember that disgusting conversation about beer!’
Rose said no more. Her father pondered a little, felt that he had delivered his soul, and resumed the book.
The next morning they were early at the station to secure good places for the long journey to London. Up to almost the last moment it seemed that they would have a carriage to themselves. Then the door suddenly opened, a bag was flung on to the seat, and after it came a hot, panting man, a red-haired man, recognised immediately by both the travellers.
‘I thought I’d missed it!’ ejaculated the intruder merrily.
Mr. Whiston turned his head away, disgust transforming his countenance. Rose sat motionless, her eyes cast down. And the stranger mopped his forehead in silence.
He glanced at her; he glanced again and again; and Rose was aware of every look. It did not occur to her to feel offended. On the contrary, she fell into a mood of tremulous pleasure, enhanced by every turn of the stranger’s eyes in her direction. At him she did not look, yet she saw him. Was it a coarse face? she asked herself. Plain, perhaps, but decidedly not vulgar. The red hair, she thought, was not disagreeably red; she didn’t dislike that shade of colour. He was humming a tune; it seemed to be his habit, and it argued healthy cheerfulness. Meanwhile Mr. Whiston sat stiffly in his corner, staring at the landscape, a model of respectable muteness.
At the first stop another man entered. This time, unmistakably, a commercial traveller. At once a dialogue sprang up between him and Rufus. The traveller complained that all the smoking compartments were full.
‘Why,’ exclaimed Rufus, with a laugh, ‘that reminds me that I wanted a smoke. I never thought about it till now; jumped in here in a hurry.’
The traveller’s ‘line’ was tobacco; they talked tobacco–Rufus with much gusto. Presently the conversation took a wider scope.
‘I envy you,’ cried Rufus, ‘always travelling about. I’m in a beastly office, and get only a fortnight off once a year. I enjoy it, I can tell you! Time’s up today, worse luck! I’ve a good mind to emigrate. Can you give me a tip about the colonies?’
He talked of how he had spent his holiday. Rose missed not a word, and her blood pulsed in sympathy with the joy of freedom which he expressed. She did not mind his occasional slang; the tone was manly and right-hearted; it evinced a certain simplicity of feeling by no means common in men, whether gentle or other. At a certain moment the girl was impelled to steal a glimpse of his face. After all, was it really so plain? The features seemed to her to have a certain refinement which she had not noticed before.
‘I’m going to try for a smoker,’ said the man of commerce, as the train slackened into a busy station.
Rufus hesitated. His eye wandered.
‘I think I shall stay where I am,’ he ended by saying.
In that same moment, for the first time, Rose met his glance. She saw that his eyes did not at once avert themselves; they had a singular expression, a smile which pleaded pardon for its audacity. And Rose, even whilst turning away, smiled in response.
The train stopped. The commercial traveller alighted. Rose, leaning towards her father, whispered that she was thirsty; would he get her a glass of milk or of lemonade? Though little disposed to rush on such errands, Mr. Whiston had no choice but to comply; he sped at once for the refreshment-room.
And Rose knew what would happen; she knew perfectly. Sitting rigid, her eyes on vacancy, she felt the approach of the young man, who for the moment was alone with her. She saw him at her side: she heard his voice.
‘I can’t help it. I want to speak to you. May I?’
Rose faltered a reply.
‘It was so kind to bring the flowers. I didn’t thank you properly.’
‘It’s now or never,’ pursued the young man in rapid, excited tones. ‘Will you let me tell you my name? Will you tell me yours?’
Rose’s silence consented. The daring Rufus rent a page from a pocket-book, scribbled his name and address, gave it to Rose. He rent out another page, offered it to Rose with the pencil, and in a moment had secured the precious scrap of paper in his pocket. Scarce was the transaction completed when a stranger jumped in. The young man bounded to his own corner, just in time to see the return of Mr. Whiston, glass in hand.
During the rest of the journey Rose was in the strangest state of mind. She did not feel in the least ashamed of herself. It seemed to her that what had happened was wholly natural and simple. The extraordinary thing was that she must sit silent and with cold countenance at the distance of a few feet from a person with whom she ardently desired to converse. Sudden illumination had wholly changed the aspect of life. She seemed to be playing a part in a grotesque comedy rather than living in a world of grave realities. Her father’s dignified silence struck her as intolerably absurd. She could have burst into laughter; at moments she was indignant, irritated, tremulous with the spirit of revolt. She detected a glance of frigid superiority with which Mr. Whiston chanced to survey the other occupants of the compartment. It amazed her. Never had she seen her father in such an alien light. He bent forward and addressed to her some commonplace remark; she barely deigned a reply. Her views of conduct, of character, had undergone an abrupt and extraordinary change. Having justified without shadow of argument her own incredible proceeding, she judged everything and everybody by some new standard, mysteriously attained. She was no longer the Rose Whiston of yesterday. Her old self seemed an object of compassion. She felt an unspeakable happiness, and at the same time an encroaching fear.
The fear predominated; when she grew aware of the streets of London looming on either hand it became a torment, an anguish. Small-folded, crushed within her palm, the piece of paper with its still unread inscription seemed to burn her. Once, twice, thrice she met the look of her friend. He smiled cheerily, bravely, with evident purpose of encouragement. She knew his face better than that of any oldest acquaintance; she saw in it a manly beauty. Only by a great effort of self-control could she refrain from turning aside to unfold and read what he had written. The train slackened speed, stopped. Yes, it was London. She must arise and go. Once more their eyes met. Then, without recollection of any interval, she was on the Metropolitan Railway, moving towards her suburban home.
A severe headache sent her early to bed. Beneath her pillow lay a scrap of paper with a name and address she was not likely to forget. And through the night of broken slumbers Rose suffered a martyrdom. No more self-glorification! All her courage gone, all her new vitality! She saw herself with the old eyes, and was shame-stricken to the very heart.
Whose the fault? Towards dawn she argued it with the bitterness of misery. What a life was hers in this little world of choking respectabilities! Forbidden this, forbidden that; permitted–the pride of ladyhood. And she was not a lady, after all. What lady would have permitted herself to exchange names and addresses with a strange man in a railway carriage–furtively, too, escaping her father’s observation? If not a lady, what was she? It meant the utter failure of her breeding and education. The sole end for which she had lived was frustrate. A common, vulgar young woman–well mated, doubtless, with an impudent clerk, whose noisy talk was of beer and tobacco!
This arrested her. Stung to the defence of her friend, who, clerk though he might be, was neither impudent nor vulgar, she found herself driven back upon self-respect. The battle went on for hours; it exhausted her; it undid all the good effects of sun and sea, and left her flaccid, pale.
‘I’m afraid the journey yesterday was too much for you,’ remarked Mr. Whiston, after observing her as she sat mute the next evening.
‘I shall soon recover,’ Rose answered coldly.
The father meditated with some uneasiness. He had not forgotten Rose’s singular expression of opinion after their dinner at the inn. His affection made him sensitive to changes in the girl’s demeanour. Next summer they must really find a more bracing resort. Yes, yes; clearly Rose needed bracing. But she was always better when the cool days came round.
On the morrow it was his daughter’s turn to feel anxious. Mr. Whiston all at once wore a face of indignant severity. He was absent-minded; he sat at table with scarce a word; he had little nervous movements, and subdued mutterings as of wrath. This continued on a second day, and Rose began to suffer an intolerable agitation. She could not help connecting her father’s strange behaviour with the secret which tormented her heart.
Had something happened? Had her friend seen Mr. Whiston, or written to him?
She had awaited with tremors every arrival of the post. It was probable–more than probable–that he would write to her; but as yet no letter came. A week passed, and no letter came. Her father was himself again; plainly she had mistaken the cause of his perturbation. Ten days, and no letter came.
It was Saturday afternoon. Mr. Whiston reached home at tea-time. The first glance showed his daughter that trouble and anger once more beset him. She trembled, and all but wept, for suspense had overwrought her nerves.
‘I find myself obliged to speak to you on a very disagreeable subject’–thus began Mr. Whiston over the tea-cups–‘a very unpleasant subject indeed. My one consolation is that it will probably settle a little argument we had down at the seaside.’
As his habit was when expressing grave opinions (and Mr. Whiston seldom expressed any other), he made a long pause and ran his fingers through his thin beard. The delay irritated Rose to the last point of endurance.
‘The fact is,’ he proceeded at length, ‘a week ago I received a most extraordinary letter–the most impudent letter I ever read in my life. It came from that noisy, beer-drinking man who intruded upon us at the inn–you remember. He began by explaining who he was, and–if you can believe it–had the impertinence to say that he wished to make my acquaintance! An amazing letter! Naturally, I left it unanswered–the only dignified thing to do. But the fellow wrote again, asking if I had received his proposal. I now replied, briefly and severely, asking him, first, how he came to know my name; secondly, what reason I had given him for supposing that I desired to meet him again. His answer to this was even more outrageous than the first offence. He bluntly informed me that in order to discover my name and address he had followed us home that day from Paddington Station! As if this was not bad enough, he went on to–really, Rose, I feel I must apologise to you, but the fact is I seem to have no choice but to tell you what he said. The fellow tells me, really, that he wants to know me only that he may come to know you! My first idea was to go with this letter to the police. I am not sure that I shan’t do so even yet; most certainly I shall if he writes again. The man may be crazy–he may be dangerous. Who knows but he may come lurking about the house? I felt obliged to warn you of this unpleasant possibility.’
Rose was stirring her tea; also she was smiling. She continued to stir and to smile, without consciousness of either performance.
‘You make light of it?’ exclaimed her father solemnly.
‘O father, of course I am sorry you have had this annoyance.’
So little was there of manifest sorrow in the girl’s tone and countenance that Mr. Whiston gazed at her rather indignantly. His pregnant pause gave birth to one of those admonitory axioms which had hitherto ruled his daughter’s life.
‘My dear, I advise you never to trifle with questions of propriety. Could there possibly be a better illustration of what I have so often said–that in self-defence we are bound to keep strangers at a distance?’
‘Father’
Rose began firmly, but her voice failed.
‘You were going to say, Rose?’
She took her courage in both hands.
‘Will you allow me to see the letters?’
‘Certainly. There can be no objection to that.’
He drew from his pocket the three envelopes, held them to his daughter. With shaking hand Rose unfolded the first letter; it was written in clear commercial character, and was signed ‘Charles James Burroughs.’ When she had read all, the girl said quietly–
‘Are you quite sure, father, that these letters are impertinent?’
Mr. Whiston stopped in the act of finger-combing his beard.
‘What doubt can there be of it?’
‘They seem to me,’ proceeded Rose nervously, ‘to be very respectful and very honest.’
‘My dear, you astound me! Is it respectful to force one’s acquaintance upon an unwilling stranger? I really don’t understand you. Where is your sense of propriety, Rose? A vulgar, noisy fellow, who talks of beer and tobacco–a petty clerk! And he has the audacity to write to me that he wants to–to make friends with my daughter! Respectful? Honest? Really!’
When Mr. Whiston became sufficiently agitated to lose his decorous gravity, he began to splutter, and at such moments he was not impressive. Rose kept her eyes cast down. She felt her strength once more, the strength of a wholly reasonable and half-passionate revolt against that tyrannous propriety which Mr. Whiston worshipped.
‘Father–‘
‘Well, my dear?’
‘There is only one thing I dislike in these letters–and that is a falsehood.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Rose was flushing. Her nerves grew tense; she had wrought herself to a simple audacity which overcame small embarrassments.
‘Mr. Burroughs says that he followed us home from Paddington to discover our address. That is not true. He asked me for my name and address in the train, and gave me his.’
The father gasped.
‘He asked–? You gave–?’
‘It was whilst you were away in the refreshment-room,’ proceeded the girl, with singular self-control, in a voice almost matter-of-fact. ‘I ought to tell you, at the same time, that it was Mr. Burroughs who brought me the flowers from the inn, when I forgot them. You didn’t see him give them to me in the station.’
The father stared.
‘But, Rose, what does all this mean? You–you overwhelm me! Go on, please. What next?’
‘Nothing, father.’
And of a sudden the girl was so beset with confusing emotions that she hurriedly quitted her chair and vanished from the room.
Before Mr. Whiston returned to his geographical drawing on Monday morning, he had held long conversations with Rose, and still longer with himself. Not easily could he perceive the justice of his daughter’s quarrel with propriety; many days were to pass, indeed, before he would consent to do more than make inquiries about Charles James Burroughs, and to permit that aggressive young man to give a fuller account of himself in writing. It was by silence that Rose prevailed. Having defended herself against the charge of immodesty, she declined to urge her own inclination or the rights of Mr. Burroughs; her mute patience did not lack its effect with the scrupulous but tender parent.
‘I am willing to admit, my dear,’ said Mr. Whiston one evening, a propos of nothing at all, ‘that the falsehood in that young man’s letter gave proof of a certain delicacy.’
‘Thank you, father,’ replied Rose, very quietly and simply.
It was next morning that the father posted a formal, proper, self-respecting note of invitation, which bore results.
THE END.
