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Red Pottage by Mary Cholmondeley

M >> Mary Cholmondeley >> Red Pottage




But now again he was deeply perturbed, and it was difficult to see in
what blessing to his fellow-creatures this particular agitation would
result. He walked with bent head for hours in the garden. He could not
attend to his sermon, though it was Friday. He entirely forgot his
Bible-class at the alms-houses in the afternoon.

Mrs. Gresley watched him from her bedroom window, where she was mending
the children's stockings. At last she laid aside her work and went out.

She might not be his mental equal. She might be unable, with her small
feminine mind, to fathom the depths and heights of that great
intelligence, but still she was his wife. Perhaps, though she did not
know it, it troubled her to see him so absorbed in his sister, for she
was sure it was of Hester and her book that he was thinking. "I am his
wife," she said to herself, as she joined him in silence, and passed her
arm through his. He needed to be reminded of her existence. Mr. Gresley
pressed it, and they took a turn in silence.

He had not a high opinion of the feminine intellect. He was wont to say
that he was tired of most women in ten minutes. But he had learned to
make an exception of his wife. What mind does not feel confidence in the
sentiments of its echo?

"I am greatly troubled about Hester," he said at last.

"It is not a new trouble," said Mrs. Gresley. "I sometimes think,
dearest, it is we who are to blame in having her to live with us. She is
worldly--I suppose she can't help it--and we are unworldly. She is
irreligious, and you are deeply religious. I wish I could say I was too,
but I lag far behind you. And though I am sure she does her best--and so
do we--her presence is a continual friction. I feel she always drags us
down."

Mr. Gresley was too much absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the
diffident plea which his wife was putting forward that Hester might
cease to live with them.

"I was not thinking of that," he said, "so much as of this novel which
she has written. It is a profane, immoral book, and will do incalculable
harm if it is published."

"I feel sure it will," said Mrs. Gresley, who had not read it.

"It is dreadfully coarse in places," continued Mr. Gresley, who had the
same opinion of George Eliot's works. "And I warned Hester most solemnly
on that point when I found she had begun another book. I told her that I
well knew that to meet the public taste it was necessary to interlard
fiction with _risque_ things in order to make it sell, but that it was
my earnest hope she would in future resist this temptation. She only
said that if she introduced improprieties into her book in order to make
money, in her opinion she deserved to be whipped in the public streets.
She was very angry, I remember, and became as white as a sheet, and I
dropped the subject."

"She can't bear even the most loving word of advice," said Mrs. Gresley.

"She holds nothing sacred," went on Mr. Gresley, remembering an
unfortunate incident in the clergyman's career. "Her life here seems to
have had no softening effect upon her. She sneers openly at religion. I
never thought, I never allowed myself to think, that she was so dead to
spiritual things as her book forces me to believe. Even her good people,
her heroine, have not a vestige of religion, only a sort of vague
morality, right for the sake of right, and love teaching people things;
nothing real."

There was a moment's silence.

"Hester is my sister," said Mr. Gresley, "and I am fond of her in spite
of all, and she has no one to look to for help and guidance but me. I am
her only near relation. That is why I feel so much the way she
disregards all I say. She does not realize that it is for her sake I
speak."

Mr. Gresley thought he was sincere, because he was touched.

Mrs. Gresley's cheek burned. That faithful, devoted little heart, which
lived only for her husband and children, could not brook--_what?_ That
her priest should be grieved and disregarded? Or was it any affection
for and interest in another woman that it could not brook?

"I have made up my mind," said Mr. Gresley, "to forbid her most solemnly
when she comes back to-morrow to publish that book."

"She does not come back to-morrow, but this evening," said the young
wife; and pushed by some violent, nameless feeling which was too strong
for her, she added, "She will not obey you. When has she ever listened
to what you say? She will laugh at you, James. She always laughs at you.
And the book will be published all the same."

"It shall not," said Mr. Gresley, coloring darkly. "I shall not allow
it."

"You can't prevent it," said Mrs. Gresley, her breath coming quickly.
She was not thinking of the book at all, but of the writer. What was a
book, one more or one less? It was her duty to speak the truth to her
husband. His sister, whom he thought so much of, had no respect for his
opinion, and he ought to know it. Mr. Gresley did know it, but he felt
no particular satisfaction in his wife's presentment of the fact.

"It is no use saying I can't prevent it," he said, coldly, letting his
arm fall by his side. He was no longer thinking of the book either, but
of the disregard of his opinion, nay, of his authority, which had long
gravelled him in his sister's attitude towards him. "I shall use my
authority when I see fit, and if I have so far used persuasion rather
than authority, it was only because, in my humble opinion, it was the
wisest course."

"It has always failed," said Mrs. Gresley, stung by the slackening of
his arm. Yes. In spite of the new baby, she would rather have a hundred
a year less than have this woman in the house. The wife ought to come
first. By first, Mrs. Gresley meant without a second. She had this
morning seen Emma laying Hester's clean clothes on her bed, just
returned from a distant washer-woman whom the Gresleys did not employ,
and whom they had not wished Hester to employ. The sight of those two
white dressing-gowns, beautifully "got up" with goffered frills, had
aroused afresh in Mrs. Gresley what she believed to be indignation at
Hester's extravagance, an indignation which had been increased when she
caught sight of her own untidy wrapper over her chair. She always
appeared to disadvantage in Hester's presence. The old smouldering
grievance about the washing set a light to other feelings. They caught.
They burned. They had been drying in the oven a long time.

"It has always failed," said Mrs. Gresley, with subdued passion, "and it
will fail again. I heard you tell Mrs. Loftus that you would never let
Hester publish another book like the _Idyll_. But though you say this
one is worse, you won't be able to stop her. You will see when she
comes back that she will pack up the parcel and send it back to the
publishers, whatever you may say."

The young couple were so absorbed in their conversation that they had
not observed the approach of a tall, clerical figure whom the
parlor-maid was escorting towards them.

"I saw you through the window, and I said I would join you in the
garden," said Archdeacon Thursby, majestically. "I have been lunching
with the Pratts. They naturally wished to hear the details of the
lamented death of our mutual friend, Lord Newhaven."

Archdeacon Thursby was the clergyman who had been selected, as a friend
of Lady Newhaven's, to break to her her husband's death.

"It seems," he added, "that a Miss West, who was at the Abbey at the
time, is an intimate friend of the Pratts."

Mrs. Gresley slipped away to order tea, the silver teapot, etc.

The Archdeacon was a friend of Mr. Gresley's. Mr. Gresley had not many
friends among the clergy, possibly because he always attributed the
popularity of any of his brethren to a laxity of principle on their
part, or their success, if they did succeed, to the peculiarly easy
circumstances in which they were placed. But he greatly admired the
Archdeacon, and made no secret of the fact that, in his opinion, he
ought to have been the Bishop of the diocese.

A long conversation now ensued on clerical matters, and Mr. Gresley's
drooping spirits revived under a refreshing _douche_ of compliments on
"Modern Dissent."

The idea flashed across his mind of asking the Archdeacon's advice
regarding Hester's book. His opinion carried weight. His remarks on
"Modern Dissent" showed how clear, how statesmanlike his judgment was.
Mr. Gresley decided to lay the matter before him, and to consult him as
to his responsibility in the matter. The Archdeacon did not know Hester.
He did not know--for he lived at a distance of several miles--that Mr.
Gresley had a sister who had written a book.

Mr. Gresley did not wish him to become aware of this last fact, for we
all keep our domestic skeletons in their cupboards, so he placed a
hypothetical case before his friend.

Supposing some one he knew, a person for whose actions he felt himself
partly responsible, had written a most unwise letter, and this letter,
by no fault of Mr. Gresley's, had fallen into his hands and been read by
him. What was he, Mr. Gresley, to do? The letter, if posted, would
certainly get the writer into trouble, and would cause acute humiliation
to the writer's family. What would the Archdeacon do, in his place?

Mr. Gresley did not perceive that the hypothetical case was not "on all
fours" with the real one. His first impulse had been to gain the opinion
of an expert without disclosing family dissensions. Did some unconscious
secondary motive impel him to shape the case so that only one verdict
was probable?

The good Archdeacon ruminated, asked a few questions, and then said,
without hesitation:

"I cannot see your difficulty. Your course is clear. You are
responsible--"

"To a certain degree."

"To a certain degree for the action of an extremely injudicious friend
or relation who writes a letter which will get him and others into
trouble. It providentially falls into your hands. If I were in your
place I should destroy it, inform your friend that I had done so
principally for his own sake, and endeavor to bring him to a better mind
on the subject."

"Supposing the burning of the letter entailed a money loss?"

"I judge from what you say of this particular letter that any money that
accrued from it would be ill-gotten gains."

"Oh! decidedly."

"Then burn it; and if your friend remains obstinate he can always write
it again; but we must hope that by gaining time you will be able to
arouse his better feelings, and at least induce him to moderate its
tone."

"Of course he could write it again if he remains obstinate. I never
thought of that," said Mr. Gresley, in a low voice. "So he would not
eventually lose the money if he was still decided to gain it in an
unscrupulous manner. Or I could help him to rewrite it. I never thought
of that before."

"Your course is perfectly clear, my dear Gresley," said the Archdeacon,
not impatiently, but as one who is ready to open up a new subject. "Your
tender conscience alone makes the difficulty. Is not Mrs. Gresley
endeavoring to attract our attention?"

Mrs. Gresley was beckoning them in to tea.

When the Archdeacon had departed, Mr. Gresley said to his wife: "I have
talked over the matter with him, not mentioning names, of course. He is
a man of great judgment. He advises me to burn it."

"Hester's book?"

"Yes."

"He is quite right, I think," said Mrs. Gresley, her hands trembling, as
she took up her work. Hester would never forgive her brother if he did
that. It would certainly cause a quarrel between them. Young married
people did best without a third person in the house.

"Will you follow his advice?" she asked.

"I don't know. I--you see--poor Hester!--it has taken her a long time to
write. I wish to goodness she would leave writing alone."

"She is coming home this evening," said his wife, significantly.

Mr. Gresley abruptly left the room, and went back to his study. He was
irritated, distressed.

Providence seemed to have sent the Archdeacon to advise him. And the
Archdeacon had spoken with decision. "Burn it," that was what he had
said, "and tell your friend that you have done so."

It did not strike Mr. Gresley that the advice might have been somewhat
different if the question had been respecting the burning of a book
instead of a letter. Such subtleties had never been allowed to occupy
Mr. Gresley's mind. He was, as he often said, no splitter of hairs.

He told himself that from the very first moment of consulting him he had
dreaded that the Archdeacon would counsel exactly as he had done. Mr.
Gresley stood a long time in silent prayer by his study window. If his
prayers took the same bias as his recent statements to his friend, was
that his fault? If he silenced, as a sign of cowardice, a voice within
him which entreated for delay, was that his fault? If he had never
educated himself to see any connection between a seed and a plant, a
cause and a result, was that his fault? The first seedling impulse to
destroy the book was buried and forgotten. If he mistook this towering,
full-grown determination which had sprung from it for the will of God,
the direct answer to prayer, was that his fault?

As his painful duty became clear to him, a thin veil of smoke drifted
across the little lawn.

Regie came dancing and caracoling round the corner.

"Father!" he cried, rushing to the window, "Abel has made such a bonfire
in the back-yard, and he is burning weeds and all kinds of things, and
he has given us each a ''tato' to bake, and Fraeulein has given us a
band-box she did not want, and we've filled it quite full of dry leaves.
And do you think if we wait a little Auntie Hester will be back in time
to see it burn?"

It was a splendid bonfire. It leaped. It rose and fell. It was
replenished. Something alive in the heart of it died hard. The children
danced round it.

"Oh, if only Auntie Hester was here!" said Regie, clapping his hands as
the flame soared.

But "Auntie Hester" was too late to see it.




CHAPTER XLI

And we are punished for our purest deeds,
And chasten'd for our holiest thoughts; alas!
There is no reason found in all the creeds,
Why these things are, nor whence they come to pass.
--OWEN MEREDITH


It was while Hester was at the Palace that Lord Newhaven died. She had
perhaps hardly realized, till he was gone, how much his loyal friendship
had been to her. Yet she had hardly seen him for the last year, partly
because she was absorbed in her book, and partly because, to her
astonishment, she found that her brother and his wife looked coldly upon
"an unmarried woman receiving calls from a married man."

For in the country individuality has not yet emerged. People are married
or they are unmarried--that is all. Just as in London they are agreeable
or dull--that is all.

"Since I have been at Warpington," Hester said to Lord Newhaven one day,
the last time he found her in, "I have realized that I am unmarried. I
never thought of it all the years I lived in London, but when I visit
among the country people here, as I drive through the park, I remember,
with a qualm, that I am a spinster, no doubt because I can't help it. As
I enter the hall I recall, with a pang, that I am eight-and-twenty. By
the time I am in the drawing-room I am an old maid."

She had always imagined she would take up her friendship with him again,
and when he died she reproached herself for having temporarily laid it
aside. Perhaps no one, except Lord Newhaven's brothers, felt his death
more than Dick and Hester and the Bishop. The Bishop had sincerely
liked Lord Newhaven. A certain degree of friendship had existed between
the two men, which had often trembled on the verge of intimacy. But the
verge had never been crossed. It was the younger man who always drew
back. The Bishop, with the instinct of the true priest, had an unshaken
belief in his cynical neighbor. Lord Newhaven, who trusted no one,
trusted the Bishop. They might have been friends. But there was a deeper
reason for grief at his death than any sense of personal loss. The
Bishop was secretly convinced that he had died by his own hand.

Lord Newhaven had come to see him, the night he left Westhope, on his
way to the station. He had only stayed a few minutes, and had asked him
to do him a trifling service. The older man had agreed, had seen a
momentary hesitation as Lord Newhaven turned to leave the room, and had
forgotten the incident immediately in the press of continuous business.
But with the news of his death the remembrance of that momentary
interview returned, and with it the instant conviction that that
accidental death had been carefully planned.

* * * * *

And now Hester's visit at the Palace had come to an end, and the
Bishop's carriage was taking her back to Warpington.

The ten days at Southminster had brought a little color back to her thin
cheeks, a little calmness to her glance. She had experienced the
rest--better than sleep--of being understood, of being able to say what
she thought without fear of giving offence. The Bishop's hospitality had
been extended to her mind, instead of stopping short at the menu.

Her hands were full of chrysanthemums which the Bishop had picked for
her himself; her small head full of his parting words and counsel.

Yes, she would do as he so urgently advised, give up the attempt to live
at Warpington. She had been there a whole year. If the project had
failed, as he seemed to think it had, at any rate, it had been given a
fair trial. Both sides had done their best. She might ease money matters
later for her brother by laying by part of the proceeds of this book for
Regie's schooling. She could see that the Bishop thought highly of the
book. He had read it before it was sent to the publisher. While she was
at the Palace he had asked her to reconsider one or two passages in it
which he thought might give needless offence to her brother and others
of his mental calibre, and she had complied at once, and had sent for
the book. No doubt she should find it at Warpington on her return.

When it was published she should give Minna a new sofa for the
drawing-room, and Fraeulein a fur boa and muff, and Miss Brown a
type-writer for her G.F.S. work, and Abel a barometer, and each of the
servants a new gown, and James those four enormous volumes of Pusey for
which his soul yearned. And what should she give Rachel--dear Rachel?
Ah! What need to give her anything? The book itself was hers. Was it not
dedicated to her? And she would make her home with Rachel for the
present, as the Bishop advised, as Rachel had so urgently begged her to
do.

"And we will go abroad together after Christmas as she suggests," said
Hester to herself. "We will go to Madeira, or one of those warm places
where one can sit like a cat in the sun, and do nothing, nothing,
nothing, from morning till night. I used to be so afraid of going back
to Warpington, but now that the time is coming to an end I am sure I
shall not irritate them so much. And Minna will be glad. One can always
manage if it is only for a fixed time. And they shall not be the losers
by my leaving them. I will put by the money for my little Regie. I shall
feel parting with him."

The sun was setting as she reached Warpington. All was gray, the church
tower, the trees, the pointed gables of the Vicarage, set small
together, as in a Christmas card, against the still red sky. It only
needed "Peace and Good-will" and a robin in the foreground to be
complete. The stream was the only thing that moved, with its shimmering
mesh of fire-tipped ripples fleeing into the darkness of the reeds. The
little bridge, so vulgar in every-day life, leaned a mystery of darkness
over a mystery of light. The white frost held the meadows, and binding
them to the gray house and church and bare trees was a thin floating
ribbon of--was it mist or smoke? In her own window a faint light
wavered. They had lit a fire in her room. Hester's heart warmed to her
sister-in-law at that little token of care and welcome. Minna should
have all her flowers, except one small bunch for Fraeulein. In another
moment she was ringing the bell, and Emma's smiling red face appeared
behind the glass door.

Hester ran past her into the drawing-room. Mrs. Gresley was sitting near
the fire with the old baby beside her. She returned Hester's kiss
somewhat nervously. She looked a little frightened.

The old baby, luxuriously seated in his own little arm-chair, rose, and
holding it firmly against his small person to prevent any disconnection
with it, solemnly crossed the hearth-rug, and placed the chair with
himself in it by Hester.

"You would like some tea," said Mrs. Gresley. "It is choir practice this
evening, and we don't have supper till nine."

But Hester had had tea before she started.

"And you are not cold?"

Hester was quite warm. The Bishop had ordered a foot-warmer in the
carriage for her.

"You are looking much better."

Hester felt much better, thanks.

"And what lovely flowers!"

Hester suggested, with diffidence, that they would look pretty in the
drawing-room.

"I think," said Mrs. Gresley, who had thought the same till that
instant, "that they would look best in the hall."

"And the rest of the family," said Hester, whose face had fallen a
little. "Where are they?"

"The children have just come in. They will be down directly. Come back
to me, Toddy; you are boring your aunt. And James is in his study."

"Is he busy, or may I go in and speak to him?"

"He is not busy. He is expecting you."

Hester gathered up her rejected flowers and rose. She felt as if she had
been back at Warpington a year--as if she had never been away.

She stopped a moment in the hall to look at her letters, and laid down
her flowers beside them. Then she went on quickly to the study, and
tapped at the door.

"Come in," said the well-known voice.

Mr. Gresley was found writing. Hester instantly perceived that it was a
pose, and that he had taken up the pen when he heard her tap.

Her spirits sank a peg lower.

"He is going to lecture me about something," she said to herself, as he
kissed her.

"Have you had tea? It is choir practice this evening, and we don't have
supper till nine."

Hester had had tea before she started.

"And you are not cold?"

On the contrary, Hester was quite warm, thanks. Bishop, foot-warmer,
etc.

"You are looking much stronger."

Hester felt much stronger. Certainly married people grew very much alike
by living together.

Mr. Gresley hesitated. He never saw the difficulties entailed by any
action until they were actually upon him. He had had no idea he would
find it wellnigh impossible to open a certain subject.

Hester involuntarily came to his assistance.

"Well, perhaps I ought to look at my letters. By the way, there ought to
be a large package for me from Bentham. It was not with my letters.
Perhaps you sent it to my room."

"It did arrive," said Mr. Gresley, "and perhaps I ought to apologize,
for I saw my name on it and I opened it by mistake. I was expecting some
more copies of my _Modern Dissent_."

"It does not matter. I have no doubt you put it away safely. Where is
it?"

"Having opened it, I glanced at it."

"I am surprised to hear that," said Hester, a pink spot appearing on
each cheek, and her eyes darkening. "When did I give you leave to read
it?"

Mr. Gresley looked dully at his sister, and went on without noticing her
question.

"I glanced at it. I do not see any difference between reading a book in
manuscript or in print. I don't pretend to quibble on a point like that.
After looking at it, I felt that it was desirable I should read the
whole. You may remember, Hester, that I showed you my _Modern Dissent_.
If I did not make restrictions, why should you?"

"The thing is done," said Hester. "I did not wish you to read it, and
you have read it. It can't be helped. We won't speak of it again."

"It is my duty to speak of it."

Hester made an impatient movement.

"But it is not mine to listen," she said. "Besides, I know all you are
going to say--the same as about _The Idyll_, only worse. That it is
coarse and profane and exaggerated, and that I have put in improprieties
in order to make it sell, and that I run down the clergy, and that the
book ought never to be published. Dear James, spare me. You and I shall
never agree on certain subjects. Let us be content to differ."

Mr. Gresley was disconcerted. Your antagonist has no business to
discount all you were going to remark by saying it first.

His color was gradually leaving him. This was worse than an Easter
vestry meeting, and that was saying a good deal.

"I cannot stand by calmly and see you walk over a precipice if I can
forcibly hold you back," he said. "I think, Hester, you forget that it
is my affection for you that makes me try to restrain you. It is for
your own sake that--that--"

"That what?"

"That I cannot allow this book to be published," said Mr. Gresley, in a
low voice. He hardly ever lowered his voice.

There was a moment's pause. Hester felt the situation was serious. How
not to wound him, yet not to yield?

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