The Scrupulous Father

by George Gissing

　　From The House of Cobwebs and Other Stories (1906).

　　It was market day in the little town; at one o'clock a rustic companybesieged the table of the Greyhound, lured by savoury odours and thefrothing of amber ale. Apart from three frequenters of the ordinary, in asmall room prepared for overflow, sat two persons of a different stamp--amiddle-aged man, bald, meagre, unimpressive, but wholly respectable inbearing and apparel, and a girl, evidently his daughter, who had the lookof the latter twenties, her plain dress harmonising with a subdued charm offeature and a timidity of manner not ungraceful. Whilst waiting for theirmeal they conversed in an undertone; their brief remarks and ejaculationstold of a long morning's ramble from the seaside resort some miles away; intheir quiet fashion they seemed to have enjoyed themselves, and dinner atan inn evidently struck them as something of an escapade. Rather awkwardlythe girl arranged a handful of wild flowers which she had gathered, and putthem for refreshment into a tumbler of water; when a woman entered withviands, silence fell upon the two; after hesitations and mutual glances,they began to eat with nervous appetite.Scarcely was their modest confidence restored, when in the doorway soundeda virile voice, gaily humming, and they became aware of a tall young man,red-headed, anything but handsome, flushed and perspiring from the sunnyroad; his open jacket showed a blue cotton shirt without waistcoat, in hishand was a shabby straw hat, and thick dust covered his boots. One wouldhave judged him a tourist of the noisier class, and his rather loud 'Goodmorning!' as he entered the room seemed a serious menace to privacy; on theother hand, the rapid buttoning of his coat, and the quiet choice of a seatas far as possible from the two guests whom his arrival disturbed,indicated a certain tact. His greeting had met with the merest murmur ofreply; their eyes on their plates, father and daughter resolutelydisregarded him; yet he ventured to speak again.'They're busy here to-day. Not a seat to be had in the other room.'It was apologetic in intention, and not rudely spoken. After a moment'sdelay the bald, respectable man made a curt response.'This room is public, I believe.'The intruder held his peace. But more than once he glanced at the girl, andafter each furtive scrutiny his plain visage manifested some disturbance, atroubled thoughtfulness. His one look at the mute parent was from beneathcontemptuous eyebrows.Very soon another guest appeared, a massive agricultural man, who descendedupon a creaking chair and growled a remark about the hot weather. With himthe red-haired pedestrian struck into talk. Their topic was beer.Uncommonly good, they agreed, the local brew, and each called for a secondpint. What, they asked in concert, would England be without her ale? Shameon the base traffickers who enfeebled or poisoned this noble liquor! Andhow cool it was--ah! The right sort of cellar! He of the red hair hinted ata third pewter.These two were still but midway in their stout attack on meat and drink,when father and daughter, having exchanged a few whispers, rose to depart.After leaving the room, the girl remembered that she had left her flowersbehind; she durst not return for them, and, knowing her father woulddislike to do so, said nothing about the matter.'A pity!' exclaimed Mr. Whiston (that was his respectable name) as theystrolled away. 'It looked at first as if we should have such a nice quietdinner.''I enjoyed it all the same,' replied his companion, whose name was Rose.'That abominable habit of drinking!' added Mr. Whiston austerely. Hehimself had quaffed water, as always. 'Their ale, indeed! See the coarse,gross creatures it produces!'He shuddered. Rose, however, seemed less consentient than usual. Her eyeswere on the ground; her lips were closed with a certain firmness. When shespoke, it was on quite another subject.They were Londoners. Mr. Whiston held the position of draughtsman in theoffice of a geographical publisher; though his income was small, he hadalways practised a rigid economy, and the possession of a modest privatecapital put him beyond fear of reverses. Profoundly conscious of sociallimits, he felt it a subject for gratitude that there was nothing to beashamed of in his calling, which he might fairly regard as a profession,and he nursed this sense of respectability as much on his daughter's behalfas on his own. Rose was an only child; her mother had been dead for years;her kinsfolk on both sides laid claim to the title of gentlefolk, butsupported it on the narrowest margin of independence. The girl had grown upin an atmosphere unfavourable to mental development, but she had received afairly good education, and nature had dowered her with intelligence. Asense of her father's conscientiousness and of his true affection forbadeher to criticise openly the principles on which he had directed her life;hence a habit of solitary meditation, which half fostered, yet halfopposed, the gentle diffidence of Rose's character.Mr. Whiston shrank from society, ceaselessly afraid of receiving less thanhis due; privately, meanwhile, he deplored the narrowness of the socialopportunities granted to his daughter, and was for ever forming schemes forher advantage--schemes which never passed beyond the stage of nervousspeculation. They inhabited a little house in a western suburb, a houseillumined with every domestic virtue; but scarcely a dozen persons crossedthe threshold within a twelvemonth. Rose's two or three friends were, likeherself, mistrustful of the world. One of them had lately married after avery long engagement, and Rose still trembled from the excitement of thatoccasion, still debated fearfully with herself on the bride's chances ofhappiness. Her own marriage was an event so inconceivable that merely toglance at the thought appeared half immodest and wholly irrational.Every winter Mr. Whiston talked of new places which he and Rose would visitwhen the holidays came round; every summer he shrank from the thought ofadventurous novelty, and ended by proposing a return to the same westernseaside-town, to the familiar lodgings. The climate suited neither him norhis daughter, who both needed physical as well as moral bracing; but theyonly thought of this on finding themselves at home again, with another longyear of monotony before them. And it was so good to feel welcome,respected; to receive the smiling reverences of tradesfolk; to talk withjust a little well-bred condescension, sure that it would be appreciated.Mr. Whiston savoured these things, and Rose in this respect was not whollyunlike him.To-day was the last of their vacation. The weather had been magnificentthroughout; Rose's cheeks were more than touched by the sun, greatly to theadvantage of her unpretending comeliness. She was a typical English maiden,rather tall, shapely rather than graceful, her head generally bent, hermovements always betraying the diffidence of solitary habit. The lips wereher finest feature, their perfect outline indicating sweetness withoutfeebleness of character. Such a girl is at her best towards the stroke ofthirty. Rose had begun to know herself; she needed only opportunity to actupon her knowledge.A train would take them back to the seaside. At the railway station Roseseated herself on a shaded part of the platform, whilst her father, who wasexceedingly short of sight, peered over publications on the bookstall.Rather tired after her walk, the girl was dreamily tracing a pattern withthe point of her parasol, when some one advanced and stood immediately infront of her. Startled, she looked up, and recognised the red-hairedstranger of the inn.'You left these flowers in a glass of water on the table. I hope I'm notdoing a rude thing in asking whether they were left by accident.'He had the flowers in his hand, their stems carefully protected by a pieceof paper. For a moment Rose was incapable of replying; she looked at thespeaker; she felt her cheeks burn; in utter embarrassment she said she knewnot what.'Oh!--thank you! I forgot them. It's very kind.'Her hand touched his as she took the bouquet from him. Without another wordthe man turned and strode away.Mr. Whiston had seen nothing of this. When he approached, Rose held up theflowers with a laugh.'Wasn't it kind? I forgot them, you know, and some one from the inn camelooking for me.''Very good of them, very,' replied her father graciously. 'A very nice inn,that. We'll go again--some day. One likes to encourage such civility; it'srare nowadays.'He of the red hair travelled by the same train, though not in the samecarriage. Rose caught sight of him at the seaside station. She was vexedwith herself for having so scantily acknowledged his kindness; it seemed toher that she had not really thanked him at all; how absurd, at her age, tobe incapable of common self-command! At the same time she kept thinking ofher father's phrase, 'coarse, gross creatures,' and it vexed her even morethan her own ill behaviour. The stranger was certainly not coarse, far fromgross. Even his talk about beer (she remembered every word of it) had beenamusing rather than offensive. Was he a 'gentleman'? The question agitatedher; it involved so technical a definition, and she felt so doubtful as tothe reply. Beyond doubt he had acted in a gentlemanly way; but his voicelacked something. Coarse? Gross? No, no, no! Really, her father was verysevere, not to say uncharitable. But perhaps he was thinking of the heavyagricultural man; oh, he must have been!Of a sudden she felt very weary. At the lodgings she sat down in herbedroom, and gazed through the open window at the sea. A sense ofdiscouragement, hitherto almost unknown, had fallen upon her; it spoilt theblue sky and the soft horizon. She thought rather drearily of the townwardjourney to-morrow, of her home in the suburbs, of the endless monotony thatawaited her. The flowers lay on her lap; she smelt them, dreamed over them.And then--strange incongruity--she thought of beer!Between tea and supper she and her father rested on the beach. Mr. Whistonwas reading. Rose pretended to turn the leaves of a book. Of a sudden, asunexpectedly to herself as to her companion, she broke silence.'Don't you think, father, that we are too much afraid of talking withstrangers?''Too much afraid?'Mr. Whiston was puzzled. He had forgotten all about the incident at thedinner-table.'I mean--what harm is there in having a little conversation when one isaway from home? At the inn to-day, you know, I can't help thinking we wererather--perhaps a little too silent.''My dear Rose, did you want to talk about beer?'She reddened, but answered all the more emphatically.'Of course not. But, when the first gentleman came in, wouldn't it havebeen natural to exchange a few friendly words? I'm sure he wouldn't havetalked of beer to us''The gentleman? I saw no gentleman, my dear. I suppose he was a smallclerk, or something of the sort, and he had no business whatever to addressus.''Oh, but he only said good morning, and apologised for sitting at ourtable. He needn't have apologised at all.''Precisely. That is just what I mean,' said Mr. Whiston withself-satisfaction. 'My dear Rose, if I had been alone, I might perhaps havetalked a little, but with you it was impossible. One cannot be too careful.A man like that will take all sorts of liberties. One has to keep suchpeople at a distance.A moment's pause, then Rose spoke with unusual decision--'I feel quite sure, father, that he would not have taken liberties. Itseems to me that he knew quite well how to behave himself.'Mr. Whiston grew still more puzzled. He closed his book to meditate thisnew problem.'One has to lay down rules,' fell from him at length, sententiously. 'Ourposition, Rose, as I have often explained, is a delicate one. A lady incircumstances such as yours cannot exercise too much caution. Your naturalassociates are in the world of wealth; unhappily, I cannot make youwealthy. We have to guard our self-respect, my dear child. Really, it isnot safe to talk with strangers--least of all at an inn. And you haveonly to remember that disgusting conversation about beer!'Rose said no more. Her father pondered a little, felt that he had deliveredhis soul, and resumed the book.The next morning they were early at the station to secure good places forthe long journey to London. Up to almost the last moment it seemed thatthey would have a carriage to themselves. Then the door suddenly opened, abag was flung on to the seat, and after it came a hot, panting man, ared-haired man, recognised immediately by both the travellers.'I thought I'd missed it!' ejaculated the intruder merrily.Mr. Whiston turned his head away, disgust transforming his countenance.Rose sat motionless, her eyes cast down. And the stranger mopped hisforehead in silence.He glanced at her; he glanced again and again; and Rose was aware of everylook. It did not occur to her to feel offended. On the contrary, she fellinto a mood of tremulous pleasure, enhanced by every turn of the stranger'seyes in her direction. At him she did not look, yet she saw him. Was it acoarse face? she asked herself. Plain, perhaps, but decidedly not vulgar.The red hair, she thought, was not disagreeably red; she didn't dislikethat shade of colour. He was humming a tune; it seemed to be his habit, andit argued healthy cheerfulness. Meanwhile Mr. Whiston sat stiffly in hiscorner, staring at the landscape, a model of respectable muteness.At the first stop another man entered. This time, unmistakably, acommercial traveller. At once a dialogue sprang up between him and Rufus.The traveller complained that all the smoking compartments were full.'Why,' exclaimed Rufus, with a laugh, 'that reminds me that I wanted asmoke. I never thought about it till now; jumped in here in a hurry.'The traveller's 'line' was tobacco; they talked tobacco--Rufus with muchgusto. Presently the conversation took a wider scope.'I envy you,' cried Rufus, 'always travelling about. I'm in a beastlyoffice, and get only a fortnight off once a year. I enjoy it, I can tellyou! Time's up today, worse luck! I've a good mind to emigrate. Can yougive me a tip about the colonies?'He talked of how he had spent his holiday. Rose missed not a word, and herblood pulsed in sympathy with the joy of freedom which he expressed. Shedid not mind his occasional slang; the tone was manly and right-hearted; itevinced a certain simplicity of feeling by no means common in men, whethergentle or other. At a certain moment the girl was impelled to steal aglimpse of his face. After all, was it really so plain? The features seemedto her to have a certain refinement which she had not noticed before.'I'm going to try for a smoker,' said the man of commerce, as the trainslackened into a busy station.Rufus hesitated. His eye wandered.'I think I shall stay where I am,' he ended by saying.In that same moment, for the first time, Rose met his glance. She saw thathis eyes did not at once avert themselves; they had a singular expression,a smile which pleaded pardon for its audacity. And Rose, even whilstturning away, smiled in response.The train stopped. The commercial traveller alighted. Rose, leaning towardsher father, whispered that she was thirsty; would he get her a glass ofmilk or of lemonade? Though little disposed to rush on such errands, Mr.Whiston had no choice but to comply; he sped at once for therefreshment-room.And Rose knew what would happen; she knew perfectly. Sitting rigid, hereyes on vacancy, she felt the approach of the young man, who for the momentwas alone with her. She saw him at her side: she heard his voice.'I can't help it. I want to speak to you. May I?'Rose faltered a reply.'It was so kind to bring the flowers. I didn't thank you properly.''It's now or never,' pursued the young man in rapid, excited tones. 'Willyou let me tell you my name? Will you tell me yours?'Rose's silence consented. The daring Rufus rent a page from a pocket-book,scribbled his name and address, gave it to Rose. He rent out another page,offered it to Rose with the pencil, and in a moment had secured theprecious scrap of paper in his pocket. Scarce was the transaction completedwhen a stranger jumped in. The young man bounded to his own corner, just intime to see the return of Mr. Whiston, glass in hand.During the rest of the journey Rose was in the strangest state of mind. Shedid not feel in the least ashamed of herself. It seemed to her that whathad happened was wholly natural and simple. The extraordinary thing wasthat she must sit silent and with cold countenance at the distance of a fewfeet from a person with whom she ardently desired to converse. Suddenillumination had wholly changed the aspect of life. She seemed to beplaying a part in a grotesque comedy rather than living in a world of graverealities. Her father's dignified silence struck her as intolerably absurd.She could have burst into laughter; at moments she was indignant,irritated, tremulous with the spirit of revolt. She detected a glance offrigid superiority with which Mr. Whiston chanced to survey the otheroccupants of the compartment. It amazed her. Never had she seen her fatherin such an alien light. He bent forward and addressed to her somecommonplace remark; she barely deigned a reply. Her views of conduct, ofcharacter, had undergone an abrupt and extraordinary change. Havingjustified without shadow of argument her own incredible proceeding, shejudged everything and everybody by some new standard, mysteriouslyattained. She was no longer the Rose Whiston of yesterday. Her old selfseemed an object of compassion. She felt an unspeakable happiness, and atthe same time an encroaching fear.The fear predominated; when she grew aware of the streets of London loomingon either hand it became a torment, an anguish. Small-folded, crushedwithin her palm, the piece of paper with its still unread inscriptionseemed to burn her. Once, twice, thrice she met the look of her friend. Hesmiled cheerily, bravely, with evident purpose of encouragement. She knewhis face better than that of any oldest acquaintance; she saw in it a manlybeauty. Only by a great effort of self-control could she refrain fromturning aside to unfold and read what he had written. The train slackenedspeed, stopped. Yes, it was London. She must arise and go. Once more theireyes met. Then, without recollection of any interval, she was on theMetropolitan Railway, moving towards her suburban home.A severe headache sent her early to bed. Beneath her pillow lay a scrap ofpaper with a name and address she was not likely to forget. And through thenight of broken slumbers Rose suffered a martyrdom. No moreself-glorification! All her courage gone, all her new vitality! She sawherself with the old eyes, and was shame-stricken to the very heart.Whose the fault? Towards dawn she argued it with the bitterness of misery.What a life was hers in this little world of choking respectabilities!Forbidden this, forbidden that; permitted--the pride of ladyhood. And shewas not a lady, after all. What lady would have permitted herself toexchange names and addresses with a strange man in a railwaycarriage--furtively, too, escaping her father's observation? If not a lady,what was she? It meant the utter failure of her breeding and education.The sole end for which she had lived was frustrate. A common, vulgar youngwoman--well mated, doubtless, with an impudent clerk, whose noisy talk wasof beer and tobacco!This arrested her. Stung to the defence of her friend, who, clerk though hemight be, was neither impudent nor vulgar, she found herself driven backupon self-respect. The battle went on for hours; it exhausted her; it undidall the good effects of sun and sea, and left her flaccid, pale.'I'm afraid the journey yesterday was too much for you,' remarked Mr.Whiston, after observing her as she sat mute the next evening.'I shall soon recover,' Rose answered coldly.The father meditated with some uneasiness. He had not forgotten Rose'ssingular expression of opinion after their dinner at the inn. His affectionmade him sensitive to changes in the girl's demeanour. Next summer theymust really find a more bracing resort. Yes, yes; clearly Rose neededbracing. But she was always better when the cool days came round.On the morrow it was his daughter's turn to feel anxious. Mr. Whiston allat once wore a face of indignant severity. He was absent-minded; he sat attable with scarce a word; he had little nervous movements, and subduedmutterings as of wrath. This continued on a second day, and Rose began tosuffer an intolerable agitation. She could not help connecting her father'sstrange behaviour with the secret which tormented her heart.Had something happened? Had her friend seen Mr. Whiston, or written to him?She had awaited with tremors every arrival of the post. It wasprobable--more than probable--that he would write to her; but as yet noletter came. A week passed, and no letter came. Her father was himselfagain; plainly she had mistaken the cause of his perturbation. Ten days,and no letter came.It was Saturday afternoon. Mr. Whiston reached home at tea-time. The firstglance showed his daughter that trouble and anger once more beset him. Shetrembled, and all but wept, for suspense had overwrought her nerves.'I find myself obliged to speak to you on a very disagreeablesubject'--thus began Mr. Whiston over the tea-cups--'a very unpleasantsubject indeed. My one consolation is that it will probably settle a littleargument we had down at the seaside.'As his habit was when expressing grave opinions (and Mr. Whiston seldomexpressed any other), he made a long pause and ran his fingers through histhin beard. The delay irritated Rose to the last point of endurance.'The fact is,' he proceeded at length, 'a week ago I received a mostextraordinary letter--the most impudent letter I ever read in my life. Itcame from that noisy, beer-drinking man who intruded upon us at theinn--you remember. He began by explaining who he was, and--if you canbelieve it--had the impertinence to say that he wished to make myacquaintance! An amazing letter! Naturally, I left it unanswered--the onlydignified thing to do. But the fellow wrote again, asking if I had receivedhis proposal. I now replied, briefly and severely, asking him, first, howhe came to know my name; secondly, what reason I had given him forsupposing that I desired to meet him again. His answer to this was evenmore outrageous than the first offence. He bluntly informed me that inorder to discover my name and address he had followed us home that day fromPaddington Station! As if this was not bad enough, he went on to--really,Rose, I feel I must apologise to you, but the fact is I seem to have nochoice but to tell you what he said. The fellow tells me, really, that hewants to know me only that he may come to know you! My first idea wasto go with this letter to the police. I am not sure that I shan't do soeven yet; most certainly I shall if he writes again. The man may becrazy--he may be dangerous. Who knows but he may come lurking about thehouse? I felt obliged to warn you of this unpleasant possibility.'Rose was stirring her tea; also she was smiling. She continued to stir andto smile, without consciousness of either performance.'You make light of it?' exclaimed her father solemnly.'O father, of course I am sorry you have had this annoyance.'So little was there of manifest sorrow in the girl's tone and countenancethat Mr. Whiston gazed at her rather indignantly. His pregnant pause gavebirth to one of those admonitory axioms which had hitherto ruled hisdaughter's life.'My dear, I advise you never to trifle with questions of propriety. Couldthere possibly be a better illustration of what I have so often said--thatin self-defence we are bound to keep strangers at a distance?''Father'Rose began firmly, but her voice failed.'You were going to say, Rose?'She took her courage in both hands.'Will you allow me to see the letters?''Certainly. There can be no objection to that.'He drew from his pocket the three envelopes, held them to his daughter.With shaking hand Rose unfolded the first letter; it was written in clearcommercial character, and was signed 'Charles James Burroughs.' When shehad read all, the girl said quietly--'Are you quite sure, father, that these letters are impertinent?'Mr. Whiston stopped in the act of finger-combing his beard.'What doubt can there be of it?''They seem to me,' proceeded Rose nervously, 'to be very respectful andvery honest.''My dear, you astound me! Is it respectful to force one's acquaintance uponan unwilling stranger? I really don't understand you. Where is your senseof propriety, Rose? A vulgar, noisy fellow, who talks of beer andtobacco--a petty clerk! And he has the audacity to write to me that hewants to--to make friends with my daughter! Respectful? Honest? Really!'When Mr. Whiston became sufficiently agitated to lose his decorous gravity,he began to splutter, and at such moments he was not impressive. Rose kepther eyes cast down. She felt her strength once more, the strength of awholly reasonable and half-passionate revolt against that tyrannouspropriety which Mr. Whiston worshipped.'Father--''Well, my dear?''There is only one thing I dislike in these letters--and that is afalsehood.''I don't understand.'Rose was flushing. Her nerves grew tense; she had wrought herself to asimple audacity which overcame small embarrassments.'Mr. Burroughs says that he followed us home from Paddington to discoverour address. That is not true. He asked me for my name and address in thetrain, and gave me his.'The father gasped.'He asked--? You gave--?''It was whilst you were away in the refreshment-room,' proceeded the girl,with singular self-control, in a voice almost matter-of-fact. 'I ought totell you, at the same time, that it was Mr. Burroughs who brought me theflowers from the inn, when I forgot them. You didn't see him give them tome in the station.'The father stared.'But, Rose, what does all this mean? You--you overwhelm me! Go on, please.What next?''Nothing, father.'And of a sudden the girl was so beset with confusing emotions that shehurriedly quitted her chair and vanished from the room.Before Mr. Whiston returned to his geographical drawing on Monday morning,he had held long conversations with Rose, and still longer with himself.Not easily could he perceive the justice of his daughter's quarrel withpropriety; many days were to pass, indeed, before he would consent to domore than make inquiries about Charles James Burroughs, and to permit thataggressive young man to give a fuller account of himself in writing. It wasby silence that Rose prevailed. Having defended herself against the chargeof immodesty, she declined to urge her own inclination or the rights of Mr.Burroughs; her mute patience did not lack its effect with the scrupulousbut tender parent.'I am willing to admit, my dear,' said Mr. Whiston one evening, a proposof nothing at all, 'that the falsehood in that young man's letter gaveproof of a certain delicacy.''Thank you, father,' replied Rose, very quietly and simply.It was next morning that the father posted a formal, proper,self-respecting note of invitation, which bore results.

　　THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *