Red Pottage

Mr. Gresley was troubled, more troubled than he had ever been since a never-to-be-forgotten period before his ordination, when he had come in contact with worldly minds, and had had doubts as to the justice of eternal punishment. He was apt to speak in after years of the furnace through which he had passed, and from which nothing short of a conversation with a bishop had had power to save him, as a great experience which he could not regret, because it had brought him into sympathy with so many minds. As he often said in his favorite language of metaphor, he "had threshed out the whole subject of agnosticism, and could consequently meet other minds still struggling in its turbid waves."

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 risqué 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 Fräulein 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.

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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein. 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?

"I am eight-and-twenty," she said. "I am afraid I must follow my own judgment. You have no responsibility in the matter. If I am blamed," she smiled proudly—at that instant she knew all that her book was worth—"the blame will not attach to you. And, after all, Minna and the Pratts and the Thursbys need not read it."

"No one will read it," said Mr. Gresley. "It was a profane, wicked book. No one will read it."

"I am not so sure of that," said Hester.

The brother and sister looked at each other with eyes of flint.

"No one will read it," repeated Mr. Gresley—he was courageous, but all his courage was only just enough—"because, for your own sake, and for the sake of the innocent minds which might be perverted by it, I have—I have—burned it."

Hester stood motionless, like one struck by lightning, livid, dead already—all but the eyes.

"You dared not," said the dead lips. The terrible eyes were fixed on him. They burned into him.

He was frightened.

"Dear Hester," he said, "I will help you to rewrite it. I will give up an hour every morning till—" Would she never fall? Would she always stand up like that? "Some day you will know I was right to do it. You are angry now, but some day—" If she would only faint, or cry, or look away.

"When Regie was ill," said the slow, difficult voice, "I did what I could. I did not let your child die. Why have you killed mine?"

There was a little patter of feet in the passage. The door was slowly opened by Mary, and Regie walked solemnly in, holding with extreme care a small tin-plate, on which reposed a large potato.

"I baked it for you, Auntie Hester," he said, in his shrill voice, his eyes on the offering. "It was my very own 'tato Abel gave me. And I baked it in the bonfire and kept it for you."

Hester turned upon the child like some blinded, infuriated animal at bay, and thrust him violently from her. He fell shrieking. She rushed past him out of the room, and out of the house, his screams following her. "I've killed him," she said.

The side gate was locked. Abel had just left for the night. She tore it off its hinges and ran into the back-yard.

The bonfire was out. A thread of smoke twisted up from the crater of gray ashes. She fell on her knees beside the dead fire, and thrust apart the hot embers with her bare hands.

A mass of thin black films that had once been paper met her eyes. The small writing on them was plainly visible as they fell to dust at the touch of her hands.

"It is dead," she said in a loud voice, getting up. Her gown was burned through where she had knelt down.

In the still air a few flakes of snow were falling in a great compassion.

"Quite dead," said Hester. "Regie and the book."

And she set off running blindly across the darkening fields.

It was close on eleven o'clock. The Bishop was sitting alone in his study writing. The night was very still. The pen travelled, travelled. The fire had burned down to a red glow. Presently he got up, walked to the window, and drew aside the curtain.

"The first snow," he said, half aloud.

It was coming down gently, through the darkness. He could just see the white rim on the stone sill outside.

"I can do no more to-night," he said, and he bent to lock his despatch-box with the key on his watch-chain.

The door suddenly opened. He turned to see a little figure rush towards him, and fall at his feet, holding him convulsively by the knees.

"Hester!" he said, in amazement. "Hester!"

She was bareheaded. The snow was upon her hair and shoulders. She brought in the smell of fire with her.

He tried to raise her, but she held him tightly with her bleeding hands, looking up at him with a convulsed face. His own hands were red, as he vainly tried to loosen hers.

"They have killed my book," she said. "They have killed my book. They burned it alive when I was away. And my head went. I don't know what I did, but I think I killed Regie. I know I meant to."