Demos. George Gissing
readily perceive it? His way of revenging himself was to emphasise a tone of good fellowship, to make it evident how well he could afford to neglect privileged insolence. In his heart he triumphed over the disinherited aristocrat; outwardly he was civil, even friendly.
Hubert had made this call with a special purpose.
‘I am charged by Mrs. Eldon,’ he began, ‘to thank you for the courtesy you have shown her during my illness. My own thanks likewise I hope you will accept. We have caused you, I fear, much inconvenience.’
Richard found himself envying the form and tone of this deliverance; he gathered his beard in his hands and gave it a tug.
‘Not a bit of it,’ he replied. ‘I am very comfortable here. A bedroom and a place for work, that’s about all I want.’
Hubert barely smiled. He wondered whether the mention of work was meant to suggest comparisons. He hastened to add—
‘On Monday we hope to leave the Manor.’
‘No need whatever for hurry,’ observed Mutimer, good-humouredly. ‘Please tell Mrs. Eldon that I hope she will take her own time.’ On reflection this seemed rather an ill-chosen phrase; he bettered it. ‘I should be very sorry if she inconvenienced herself on my account.’
‘Confound the fellow’s impudence!’ was Hubert’s mental comment. ‘He plays the forbearing landlord.’
His spoken reply was: ‘It is very kind of you. I foresee no difficulty in completing the removal on Monday.’
In view of Mutimer’s self-command, Hubert began to be aware that his own constraint might carry the air of petty resentment Fear of that drove him upon a topic he would rather have left alone.
‘You are changing the appearance of the valley,’ he said, veiling by his tone the irony which was evident in his choice of words.
Richard glanced at him, then walked to the window, with his hands in his pockets, and gave himself the pleasure of a glimpse of the furnace-chimney above the opposite houses. He laughed.
‘I hope to change it a good deal more. In a year or two you won’t know the place.’
‘I fear not.’
Mutimer glanced again at his visitor.
‘Why do you fear?’ he asked, with less command of his voice.
‘I of course understand your point of view. Personally, I prefer nature.’
Hubert endeavoured to smile, that his personal preferences might lose something of their edge.
‘You prefer nature,’ Mutimer repeated, coming back to his chair, on the seat of which he rested a foot. ‘Well, I can’t say that I do. The Wanley Iron Works will soon mean bread to several hundred families; how many would the grass support?’
‘To be sure,’ assented Hubert, still smiling.
‘You are aware,’ Mutimer proceeded to ask, ‘that this is not a speculation for my own profit?’
‘I have heard something of your scheme. I trust it will be appreciated.’
‘I dare say it will be—by those who care anything about the welfare of the people.’
Eldon rose; he could not trust himself to continue the dialogue. He had expected to meet a man of coarser grain; Mutimer’s intelligence made impossible the civil condescension which would have served with a boor, and Hubert found the temptation to pointed utterance all the stronger for the dangers it involved.
‘I will drop you a note,’ he said, ‘to let you know as soon as the house is empty.’
‘Thank you.’
They had not shaken hands at meeting, nor did they now. Each felt relieved when out of the other’s sight.
Hubert turned out of the street into a road which would lead him to the church, whence there was a field-path back to the Manor. Walking with his eyes on the ground he did not perceive the tall, dark figure that approached him as he drew near to the churchyard gate. Mr. Wyvern had been conducting a burial; he had just left the vestry and was on his way to the vicarage, which stood five minutes’ walk from the church. Himself unperceived, he scrutinised the young man until he stood face to face with him; his deep-voiced greeting caused Hubert to look up’ with a start.
‘I’m very glad to see you walking,’ said the clergyman.
He took Hubert’s hand and held it paternally in both his own. Eldon seemed affected with a sudden surprise; as he met the large gaze his look showed embarrassment.
‘You remember me?’ Mr. Wyvern remarked, his wonted solemnity lightened by the gleam of a brief smile. Looking closely into his face was like examining a map in relief; you saw heights and plains, the intersection of multitudinous valleys, river-courses with their tributaries. It was the visage of a man of thought and character. His eyes spoke of late hours and the lamp; beneath each was a heavy pocket of skin, wrinkling at its juncture with the cheek. His teeth were those of an incessant smoker, and, in truth, you could seldom come near him without detecting the odour of tobacco. Despite the amplitude of his proportions, there was nothing ponderous about him; the great head was finely formed, and his limbs must at one time have been as graceful as they were muscular.
‘Is this accident,’ Hubert asked; ‘or did you know me at the time?’
‘Accident, pure accident. Will you walk to the vicarage with me?’
They paced side by side.
‘Mrs. Eldon profits by the pleasant weather, I trust?’ the vicar observed, with grave courtesy.
‘Thank you, I think she does. I shall be glad when she is settled in her new home.’
They approached the door of the vicarage in silence. Entering Mr. Wyvern led the way to his study. When he had taken a seat, he appeared to forget himself for a moment, and played with the end of his bean.
Hubert showed impatient curiosity.
‘You found me there by chance that morning?’ he began.
The clergyman returned to the present. His elbows on either arm of his round chair, he sat leaning forward, thoughtfully gazing at his companion.
‘By chance,’ he replied. ‘I sleep badly; so it happened that I was abroad shortly after daybreak. I was near the edge of the wood when I heard a pistol-shot. I waited for the second.’
‘We fired together,’ Hubert remarked.
‘Ah! It seemed to me one report. Well, as I stood listening, there came out from among the trees a man who seemed in a hurry. He was startled at finding himself face to face with me, but didn’t stop; he said something rapidly in French that I failed to catch, pointed back into the wood, and hastened off.’
‘We had no witnesses,’ put in Hubert; ‘and both aimed our best. I wonder he sent you to look for me.’
‘A momentary weakness, no doubt,’ rejoined the vicar drily. I made my way among the trees and found you lying there, unconscious. I made some attempt to stop the blood-flow, then picked you up; it seemed better, on the whole, than leaving you on the wet grass an indefinite time. Your overcoat was on the ground; as I took hold of it, two letters fell from the pocket. I made no scruple about reading the addresses, and was astonished to find that one was to Mrs. Eldon, at Wanley Manor, Wanley being the place where I was about to live on my return to England. I took it for granted that you were Mrs. Eldon’s son. The other letter, as you know, was to a lady at a hotel in the town.’
Hubert nodded.
‘And you went to her as soon as you left me?’
‘After hearing from the doctor that there was no immediate danger.—The letters, I suppose, would have announced your death?’
Hubert again inclined his head. The imperturbable gravity of the speaker had the effect of imposing self-command on the young man; whose sensitive cheeks showed what was going on within.
‘Will you tell me of your interview with her?’ he