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Updated: June 27, 2025
It was Una Van Sideren who, on this occasion, unconsciously focussed upon herself Mrs. Westall's wandering resentment. In the first place, the girl had no business to be there. It was "horrid" Mrs. Westall found herself slipping back into the old feminine vocabulary simply "horrid" to think of a young girl's being allowed to listen to such talk.
Charlie Dynes, Westall's assistant, had been first discovered by a horsekeeper in Farmer Wellin's employment as he was going to his work. The lad had been found under a hedge, bleeding and frightfully injured, but still alive. Close beside him was the dead body of Westall with shot-wounds in the head. On being taken to the farm and given brandy, Dynes was asked if he had recognised anybody.
Again the word derided her. She opened the door, crossed the narrow hall, and walked up the stairs. As she passed, she noticed Westall's sticks and umbrellas: a pair of his gloves lay on the hall table. The same stair-carpet mounted between the same walls; the same old French print, in its narrow black frame, faced her on the landing. This visual continuity was intolerable.
The nature of their attachment placed them so far beyond the reach of such contingencies that it was easy to discuss them with an open mind; and Julia's sense of security made her dwell with a tender insistence on Westall's promise to claim his release when he should cease to love her.
Westall's informal talks on "The New Ethics" had drawn about him an eager following of the mentally unemployed those who, as he had once phrased it, liked to have their brain-food cut up for them. The talks had begun by accident. Westall's ideas were known to be "advanced," but hitherto their advance had not been in the direction of publicity.
"Now that your prisoner is out of hearing, would you have any objection to telling me what he has been doing?" inquired Rodney, as Jeff and Nels pushed back their nail kegs and got up to act upon Mr. Westall's suggestion. "No objection whatever, and it will not take me long to do it," replied the latter. "He's Union." "But he doesn't look like a horse-thief," added Rodney.
Clement Westall, as her husband descended from his improvised platform, saw him merged in a congratulatory group of ladies. Westall's informal talks on "The New Ethics" had drawn about him an eager following of the mentally unemployed those who, as he had once phrased it, liked to have their brain-food cut up for them. The talks had begun by accident.
But, even if the attack had been on Hurd's part, I should still find excuses, because of the system, and because of Westall's hatefulness." He shook his head again. "Because a man is harsh and masterful, and uses stinging language, is he to be shot down like a dog?" There was a silence.
Westall's name always roused him. Hate still survived. But it made her life faint within her to talk of the murdered man wherein she showed her lack of the usual peasant's realism and curiosity in the presence of facts of blood and violence.
Westall's ideas were known to be "advanced," but hitherto their advance had not been in the direction of publicity. He had been, in his wife's opinion, almost pusillanimously careful not to let his personal views endanger his professional standing.
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