V
As he went out past the drawing-room door, Mrs. Paul called to him:—
“Do come here a moment, Mr. West. Isn’t Amy pretty in her wedding-dress? You really must tell me what to do about something. There is a family”—and she entered upon a puzzling question of relief work, her forehead gathering into a frown, yet with her kind eyes denying the severe common-sense of her statement, that if a man will not work neither shall he eat.
“But you see we can’t let the children go hungry,” she ended.
The consideration of other people’s weaknesses and wickedness gave William West time to get his breath; he threw himself into the question with keen and intelligent sympathy. He pointed out this; he suggested that; he cleared the puzzle out of Mrs. Paul’s face, and all the time he was half deafened by a clamoring suspicion: “Have I been a fool? She will never forget it! It will always be between us. I’ve been a cowardly fool.”
“Well, that’s all settled,” said Mrs. Paul, with an air of relief; “now tell me, what day shall I have Amy’s things sent to the rectory? And shall I take the silver from the bank the day before you arrive? Is it safe to leave it at your house? I hate the responsibility of other people’s silver!”
“Oh, certainly, yes,” he answered, suddenly absent; and, with a curt good-by, left her.
Somehow or other, he hardly knew how, he got through the day. There was a service in the afternoon, and there were other people’s affairs and sorrows to remember; fortunately, there always is duty for us poor human creatures as a refuge from our thoughts! Duties to be done saved William West from desperately going back to Amy to explain. For he was guilty of the impulse of “explanation,” the babble with which the weak mind is forever annotating its remarks or its opinions.
Well, the day passed. In spite of a craving to see Amy that was almost agonizing, he held on to his common-sense, and left her to herself. In the evening, his lawyer came in, bringing some papers in regard to certain property which it was the minister’s intention to make over to his wife, and the looking these over, and the business talk, was a relief to him. He began to feel that he had taken Amy’s perturbation much too seriously; it would be all right; she would see things clearly when the first dismay had passed. He thought, tenderly, that he must not let her feel any regret for having for a moment shown him her pain at what he had told her. Her pain was only part of her exquisite goodness, that goodness which held her, remote and lovely, like some pure and luminous star, so far above the sordid meannesses and wickednesses of common life that she could not understand them; perhaps even she could not pity them. Only the sinlessness which was in all points tempted like as we are can at once understand and pity; his thought, chastened and passionate, fled back to his Master for comfort,—yet there was no reproach of Amy in his mind.
It must have been after ten, as he and Mr. Woodhouse sat before the broad writing-table, with the litter of papers and memoranda before them, that John Paul suddenly burst into the room.
The senior warden’s strong, kind face was flushed; he was plainly profoundly disturbed and upset.
“West”—he said explosively, and stopped, seeing that they were not alone. “My dear fellow,” he began again, stammering with agitation, “can I see you a moment? A matter of business, Woodhouse, if you don’t mind. Can we go into another room, West?”
But the lawyer protested that he was just about to go home. “I have married a wife; you’ll see how it is yourself, Billy, pretty soon! Lois allows me twenty minutes leeway of the hour I name to get home, and if I’m not back then, she threatens to send a policeman after me. Good-night. Good-night, John.” And he went whistling off into the night.
The minister had not spoken.
“Look here,” John Paul said, as the front door banged, “what under the sun is this business? Good Lord, West, Amy’s sent you a letter—Kate told me to break it to you, but I—confound it, man—go and read it. The girl’s crazy. Go and read it. What are we going to do?”
Without a word William West took the letter and read it, standing facing Mr. Paul. (“It looked,” John Paul told his wife afterwards, “as though he died, then and there.”)
“You were right to tell me—only please—please don’t make me marry you. I cannot. I could never forget. If it were anything else—anything else—it would be different; but theft—oh, how cruel I am to say that! but I cannot marry you. There’s no use talking about forgiveness. I don’t want you to forgive me. I want you to hate me; then you will suffer less. Hate me. I’m not worth anything else. I’m going home to-morrow. It can be said I am ill, and the wedding is put off. I am ill, it won’t be a lie. Please don’t ask to see me. I cannot see you. Forgive me.
A.”
William West sat down, folding the letter between his fingers.
“There’s nothing to be said.” He spoke very quietly. Then he opened the letter again, and looked down at it.
“West, for God’s sake,” John Paul entreated him; “listen, man! don’t take it like that. The girl is out of her mind. Here, pull yourself together! It’s a passing whim; you will bring her to her senses as soon as you see her.”
“She will not see me,” he said. As he spoke his eye caught the headlines of the deed of gift, and he read them absently:—
“This Indenture made this —— day of ——, Anno Domini 18—, Witnesseth: that William West, the grantor, for divers good and valuable considerations to him moving, has, and by these presents does give, grant, and convey”—
The fold in the deed hid the rest.
“She’s got to see you!” John Paul said angrily. “What’s the matter with her? Is she out of her senses? All I know is what Kate told me. She asked me to bring you the letter. She said Amy had broken her engagement. You could have knocked me over with a straw. She wouldn’t give any reasons. But I’m touched by this business. If a woman in my household suddenly forgets honor and common decency, I’m touched by it! Unless you’ve given her cause?”
He walked up and down, breathing hard, his hands thrust into his pockets, jingling his latchkeys for the mere relief of doing something. William West put the little note into his pocket.
“I’ve given her cause,” he said.
His senior warden stopped in front of him, and looked at him critically. “You’re lying to me. I know you! It’s a girl’s whim, and I’m touched by it, I tell you. She’s a member of my family. I shall see her (she wouldn’t see me before I started here), and straighten this business out. Kate is nearly dead with it. My wife looked like a ghost when she came and told me—and the wedding day after to-morrow! No; I’m going to straighten this thing out. What I want you to do is to tell me, man to man, what started it?”
“Amy is perfectly justified,” William West said dully. “I told her this morning that I had committed a forgery.”
“A—?” John Paul sat down, his mouth open, his plump hands on his knees, his eyes starting from his head.
“You are out of your mind!”
William West laughed shortly.
“I think, perhaps, I was when I told her. Yes; I was a fool. It was twenty-three years ago; I had just about forgotten it. When I remembered, I told her. It was too much for her. She is right to stop now. If she can throw me over, thank Heaven she has done so!”
The bitterness of it burst out in that last sentence. Then, quietly, he told Amy’s cousin the story of that long-buried youth. When it was done, John Paul said huskily:—
“West, I don’t know what to think of your telling her; but I know what to think of you. And I know what to think of Amy.”
William West said nothing; he took the little note out of his pocket and turned it over and over.
(“He seemed to go to pieces before my eyes,” John Paul told his wife. “I tell you, Kate, I saw him lose his moral grip! Poor West—poor fellow!”)
Mr. Paul sat helplessly looking at his clergyman, until he had a sense of indecency in watching the suffering of this silent human creature. Then he said vaguely:—
“I suppose you want me to clear out? But just tell me; what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing.”
“But don’t you mean to make any effort to bring her to her senses?” burst out the other.
“There’s nothing to be done,” the lover said. “It’s over—don’t you see?”
“It’s not over,” insisted Amy’s cousin; “I shall see her; this thing can’t go on. I’ll send for you; you are well rid of her; it will be all right, I”—Storming and protesting and contradicting himself, he went out of the rectory, scarcely noticing that his host saw him to the door, and let him out, in absolute silence.
Then William West went back and locked himself into his library.