"poor mrs. gervase norgate, she must have been so put about to have to go away with her husband last night. how the scamp got into the drawing-room i cannot tell; but he could do nothing but lean against the wall: he could not have bitten his fingers to save his life. she did not show her mortification unless by going away immediately. a wonderful amount of countenance has that poor young woman; but i take it she will not go out with him again if she can help it—and she need not, she need not, lady metcalfe. i can tell you he shall not be asked within my doors again; but i shall be very glad if you [page 324]will always remember to send her a card, poor thing: she can go out without him, it must come to that eventually. it is not a mere kindness; she is really a credit and an ornament to your parties, to the county set altogether. but the sooner she learns to go out without him, and keep him in the background, the better for all parties. she has the command of a good income still, with a very tolerable jointure behind it, and ashpound is a pretty place; not a fine place, like my lord's, but a very pretty place for a sensible woman's management and enjoyment."
one of gervase norgate's oldest neighbours, a fussy but good-natured, middle-aged baronet, pronounced this judgment.
there was nothing left for diana but to resign gervase to his fate, and gather up the gains which were left her. the most impartial authorities decided so. the gains would have sufficed for many a woman. mrs. gervase norgate had comparative riches, after the cash scramble in which she had been brought up. gervase had not succeeded in wasting above one-third of his fortune, and would doubtless end his career before he made away with the whole. mrs. gervase was the mistress of ashpound, and most people would have valued it as what newspapers describe as a most desirable residence, a most eligible investment. if she ever had a child—a son, though she shuddered at the idea,—he would be the young squire, the heir of ashpound. in the meantime, gervase norgate was not a churl: he did not dream of stinting his wife in her perquisites, though he was not fond of her, and they now no longer lived comfortably together. she might h[page 325]ave out his mother's carriage every day, or she might have another built for her, and drive it with a pair of ponies if she chose; she had a well-bred, fine-mounted, thin-legged, glossy-coated saddle-horse kept for her sole use, and she might have a second bred and broken for her any year she liked. she could even employ her own discretion in the income to be spent in the housekeeping. ready money was becoming short with him; but his sense of her rights, and his faith in her prudence, had not failed. she had only to draw on his banker or agent to have her draught honoured. whatever sums she might devote to her personal pleasures, her prodigal husband would not call in question. she might indulge in fine clothes, recherché jewellery, embellishments and ornaments for her rooms; she might take up art or literature, or heaths, or melons, or poultry, or flannel petticoating and soup-making for the poor (sunday-schools and district visiting were hardly in fashion), and pursue one, or other, or all, for occupation and amusement, without impairing her resources; and she claimed a very respectable circle of friends as mrs. gervase norgate, though she had been friendless, and getting always more friendless, as miss baring. the world had put its veto on the risk of her marriage with gervase norgate, in so far as its excusable element—the reformation of gervase norgate—was concerned; but with commendable elasticity it had allowed itself to be considerably influenced by the advantages which the marriage had obtained and secured for diana, as well as by her conduct in their possession, and had awarded her the diploma of its esteem. a handsome, ladylike, sensible, [page 326]well-disposed, sufficiently-agreeable, though quiet young matron, almost too wise and forbearing for her years, was its verdict. it was wonderful how well she had turned out, considering how she had been exposed; for every one knew john fitzwilliam baring, and how little fitted he was for the care of a motherless daughter. the more tender-hearted and sentimental world began to look upon mrs. gervase norgate's bad husband, whom she had married in the face of his offence, as one of her merits,—a chief merit, to make of her a popular victim and martyr, no matter that she was not naturally constituted for the rôle, was not frank enough for popularity, not meek enough for martyrdom.
even miss tabitha, who had still a friendly feeling for the culprit, had nothing to say against mrs. gervase, except that she was too good for him. poor miles listened wistfully for his master's reeling step, and went out in the night air, risking his rheumatism, for which mr. gervase had always cared, making sure that the old boy had a screen to his pantry, and shutters to his garret. he watched lest his master should make his bed of the cold ground and catch a deadly chill; caring for the besotted man, when he found him, with reverence and tenderness, as for the chubby boy who had bidden so fair to be a good and happy man, worthy of all honour, when miles had first known him as his young master. miles resented feebly the perishing of the forlorn hope of a rescue, and muttered fatuously the cart had been put before the horse, and the reins taken out of the whip hand, and that'd never do. what could come of the unnatural process but a crashing spill?
[page 327]diana could not accept the solution. nineteen women out of twenty, who had acted as she had done, would have taken the compensations, perhaps been content with the indemnifications of her lot; but diana was the twentieth. whether the cost of his mercenary marriage was far beyond what she had estimated it, she lost heart and hope and heed of the world's opinion, and was on the high road to loss of conscience, from the moment she was convinced that gervase norgate was lost.
diana gave up going into the society which was so willing to welcome her, which thought so well of her. she relinquished all pride in personal dignity and propriety, as she had never done when she had locked her doors to shut out the jingling rattle of the bones, and, occasionally, the curses, not loud but deep, which broke in upon the repose of the long nights at newton-le-moor. she ceased to exert herself to regulate the expenditure of the house, to preserve its respectability, to wipe out the signs of its master's ruin. old miles might strive to keep up appearances, but his mistress no longer aided and abetted him. it had become a matter of indifference to mrs. gervase whether the dragged carpet, the wrenched-down curtain, the shattered chair, were removed or repaired, or not: she took no notice.
by the time ashpound was budding in spring, mrs. gervase norgate had fallen away, and changed rapidly for the worse, to the disappointment and with the condemnation of her acquaintances. she lay in bed half the morning, dawdled over her breakfast, and trailed her way from place to place, ageing too, with marvellous celerity.
[page 328]sunk in the mire as gervase was, he noted the transformation in his wife with discomposure and vexation. it fretted him always, and infuriated him at times, to discover that she was likely to justify his contempt by proving a poor wife after all. her rule ended, her energy exhausted, given over to an unprincipled, destructive listlessness and, carelessness, such a prospect did not make gervase amend the error of his ways: but it caused his road to ruin to be harder to tread, it caused the fruits of his vice to be more bitter between his teeth, it drove him at times to reflect when it was madness to reflect. she would not take the luxuries which she had bought dearly, which he wanted her to take. her person, drawing-room, flower-garden were fast showing neglect and cheerlessness, in spite of him, or to spite him, as he vowed savagely. here was his sin cropping out and meeting him in the life of another, and that other a woman. she was going to ruin with him as truly and faithfully as if they had been a pair of fond lovers. the shy goodwill of gervase norgate's early married life had waned into discontent and dislike, and was fast settling into rooted hatred.
"lawk!" dolly the dairymaid reflected indignantly, "madam is become as careless and trolloping-like as master is wild. if we don't take care, no one will continue to call on us and hinvite us with our equals. for that matter, the mistress has denied herself to every morning caller this spring, and it is my opingen she never so much as sends hapologies to them dinner cards as she twists into matches. if it were me, now, wouldn't i cut a dash of myself? she didn't care a bit of cheese-curd for him, [page 329]folks say, when she had him to begin with, so why she should pine for his misdeeds now, is more than i can compass."
it was on a clear, fragrant evening in june, when the world was all in flower, that a whispering, and pulling of skirts and sleeves, and throwing up of hands and eyes, arose among the servants at ashpound, at a sight that was seen there. the servants' hall were gathered secretly at a side-door and a lobby-window, and were watching mrs. gervase norgate feeling her way, like a blind woman, her tall figure bent down, crouched together, swaying, along the pleached alley from the garden.
one or two of the more sensitive of the women covered their faces and wrung their hands. old miles tugged at his tufts of red hair and smote his hands together distractedly. the new shame was too open for concealment; he could only cry, "god ha' mercy; there is not one to mend another; what will we do?"
as living among men and women given up to delusions begets delusions in rational minds with a dire infectiousness, so living with gervase norgate, and day by day regarding the evil which could not be stayed, diana had caught the fell disease.
a whisper of the culminating misfortunes of ashpound spread abroad like wild-fire, soon ceased to be a whisper, and became a loud scandal; and diana lost her credit as summarily as she had acquired it. it was—"that wretched mrs. gervase norgate came of an evil stock, though drinking was not mr. baring's vice. they were an ill-fated race, these barings, with a curse—[page 330]the curse of ruined men—upon them. who knew, indeed, but if poor gervase norgate, come of honest people at least, had gone into another family—one which he could have respected, which could have shown him a good example and remonstrated with him with authority—he might have been reclaimed?"
about the middle of summer there came a seasonably rainy period, such as frequently precedes a fine harvest. but gervase norgate was so ailing that he could not go out and look at his fields, where the corn in the ear was filling rarely, and the growth of second clover was knee-deep. he was forced to keep the house. he loathed food, and his sleep had become a horror to him. he had fits of deadly sickness and of shaking like an aspen. his only resource, all the life that was left to him, was to be found in his cellar; and even miles, seeing his master's extremity, brought out and piteously pressed the brandy upon him.
gervase's cronies had never come about his house since his marriage. there had been something in diana which had held them at arm's length; and although they had heard and scoffed at her fall, they had not the wit to discern that it clean removed the obstacle to their harbouring about the place as they had done before her reign and abdication. they might come and go now by day and night without feeling themselves too much for mrs. gervase norgate, or being compelled to regard her as a being apart from them. but they did not comprehend the bearing of the common degradation, and they had not returned to their haunt as they might have done.
[page 331]gervase had declined into such a state of fractiousness and sullenness, that he was very poor company even for illiterate country-bred men like himself. he was something of a ghastly spectacle, as he sat there, with his glass three-fourths empty, and part of its contents spilt around him, trying to smoke, trying to warm himself, with the soles of his boots burnt from being pressed on the top of the wood fire, his teeth chattering, at intervals, notwithstanding, as he cast furtive, dark glances behind him.
gervase was alone. mrs. gervase was dozing on a drawing-room couch, not troubling to order a fire, though the room was on the ground-floor,—a pleasant room in sunshine, but looking dull and dismal in wet and gloom. she had lain there all the evening, with her hair, tumbled by the posture, fallen down and straying in dim tresses on her shoulders.
overcome by illness, gervase at last defied his shrinking from his room and bed, and retired for the night. his uneven footsteps and the closing of his door had not long sounded through the house, which might have been so cheery and was so dreary and silent, when mrs. gervase, cold and comfortless, rose and proceeded to the study. she was drawn by the fire and the light, but she was drawn more irresistibly by the subtle, potent odour in the air. she came on like a sleep-walker. she sank down in the chair which her husband had occupied, and stretched out her fine white hand to the decanters which miles had not removed. she had raised one, and was about to pour its contents into a glass, when a noise at the door startled her, and caused her to hold her arm suspended. ger[page 332]vase, returning for the bottle she grasped, stood in the doorway.
ruined husband and ruined wife confronted each other on their stained hearthstone. his weakness, replaced by failing strength, gathered up and increased tenfold by horror and rage. her eyes glared defiance, and her presence there, in her white dress, with the crimson spots on each cheek, and the fair hair scattered around her, was a presence of ominous beauty, the hectic beauty of the fall. a feather's weight might have turned the scale whether gervase should totter forward and deal diana a deadly blow which should finish the misfortunes of that generation at ashpound, and brand ashpound itself with the inhuman mark of an awful crime; or whether he should melt in his misery, weep a man's scalding tears, and bemoan their misery together. diana's words were the feather's weight: she broke god's unbearable silence, and by god's power and mercy saved both. she cried out, not so much in self-defence, for she was a daring, intrepid woman, as in righteous accusation, "you dare not blame me, for you taught me, you brought me to it."
through his undone condition he owned the truth of the accusation, and the old spring of manliness in him welled up to protect the woman who spoke the truth and impeached him justly of her ruin as well as his own.
"no, i dare not blame you. we are two miserable sinners, die." and he let his arms fall on the table and bowed his head over them.
he had spared her, he had not taunted her, and he had not called her die for many a day before. she put down [page 333]the decanter and cowered back with a sense of guilt which made her glowing beauty pale, fade, wither, like the sere leaf washed by the heavy tears of a november night's rain.
when gervase norgate lifted up his bent head again, all the generosity that had ever looked out of his comely face reappeared in its changed features for a moment. "i have smitten you when you came and tried to cure me, die. and i cannot cure myself. i believe, before god, if i can get no more drink, i shall go to-night; but i shall go soon, anyhow, no mistake, and i ought to do something to save you, when i brought you to it. so, do you see, die? here go the drink and me together." and with that he took up the decanters and dashed them, one after the other, on the hearthstone, the wine and brandy running like life-blood in bubbling red streams across the floor. he summoned miles, and demanded his keys—all the keys of closet and cellar in the house. and when the old man, flustered and scared, did not venture to dispute his will, he caught up the keys, cast them into the white core of the wood-fire, piled the blazing logs upon them, and stamped them down, sending showers flying up the wide chimney.
then the blaze of passion died away from gervase's brow, the force of self-devotion ebbed out of him, his unfastened vest and shirt collar did not allow him air enough, and he fell back, gasping and quaking and calling the devils were upon him.
old miles wrung his hands, and shouted "help," and cried the master was dying, was dead.
[page 334]but diana pushed the old servant aside, put her arms round gervase, and raised him on her breast, telling him, "do not think of dying for me, gervase; i am not worthy. you must not die, i will not have you die. oh, god! spare him till i kneel at his feet and beg him to forgive all my disdainful pity, and we repent together."
gervase norgate did not die that night: it might have been easier for him if he had, for he lay, sat, walked in the sunshine deadly sick for months. when men like him are saved, it is only as by fire, by letting a part of the penal fire pass over them, and enduring, as david did, the pains of hell.
but all the time die did not leave him. night and day she stood by him, renouncing her own sin for ever. she shared vicariously its revolting anguish and agonizing fruits, in his pangs. and the woman learned to love the man as she would have learned to love a child whom she had tended every hour for what looked like a lifetime, whom she had brought back from a horrible disease and from the brink of the grave, to whose recovery she had given herself body and soul, in a way she had never dreamt of when she first undertook the task. she had lulled him to sleep as with cradle songs, she had fed him with her hands, ministered to him with her spirit. she learned to love him exceedingly.
other summer suns shone on ashpound. gervase and diana had come back from a lengthened sojourn abroad. gervase, going on a visit to his faithful old aunt tabby, looked behind him, to say, half-shamefacedly, half-yearningly, "i wish you would come with me, die; i do not [page 335]think i can pay the visit without you." and she exclaimed, with a little laugh, beneath which ran an undercurrent of feeling, still and deep, "ah! you see you cannot do without me, sir." and he rejoined, laughing too, but a little wistfully, "i wish i could flatter myself that you could not do without me, madam."
she assured him, with a sudden sedateness which hid itself shyly on his breast, "of course i could not do without you to save me from being a pillar of salt, to make me a loving, happy woman."
"god help you, happy die!"
"yes, gervase; it is those who have been tried that can be trusted, and i have been in the deep pit, and all clogged with the mire along with you, and he who brought us out will not suffer us to fall back and be lost after all."
the neighbours about ashpound were slow to discover, as erring men and women are always slow to discover, that god is more merciful than they, and that he can bring good out of evil, light out of darkness; but they discovered it at last, and, after a probation, took mr. and mrs. gervase norgate back into society and its esteem and regard, and the family at ashpound became eventually as well considered, and as much sought after in friendship and marriage, as any family among the southern moors, long after john fitzwilliam baring had dressed for dinner, and taken a fit with a cue in his hand.
as for aunt tabby and old miles, they said, "all's well that ends well." but old miles stood out stubbornly, "that it is not a many carts afore the horses as comes in [page 336]at the journey's end, and it ain't dootiful-like in them when they does do it, though i'm content." and aunt tabby argued, "it is shockingly against morality to conclude that her fall—and who'd have thought a strong woman like her would fall?—has been for his rising again."
