And then at length she read it. Ah! yes; she recollected the day well when he had driven her to Ripley Station, and asked her those questions as he was persuading Dumpling to mount the hill. The very words were still in her ears. "Would you come to such a house, Adela?" Ay, indeed, would she – if only she were duly asked. But he – ! Had it not seemed then as if he almost wished that the proffer should come from her? Not to that would she stoop. But as for sharing such a house as his – any house with him! What did true love mean, if she were not ready to do that?
And she remembered, too, that comforting of which he spoke. That had been the beginning of it all, when he took those walks along the river to West Putford; when she had learned to look for his figure coming through the little wicket at the bottom of their lawn. Then she had taxed her young heart with imprudence – but in doing so she had found that it was too late. She had soon told the truth – to herself that is; and throughout she had been true. Now she had her reward; there in her hands, pressing it to her heart. He had loved her for years and years, he said. Yes, and so had she loved him; and now he should know it. But not quite at once – in some sweet hour of fullest confidence she would whisper it all to him.
"I think I told you; though, I am sure, you have forgotten that."
Forget it! no, not a word, not one of his tones, not a glance of his eyes, as he sat there in her father's drawing-room that morning, all but unable to express his sorrows. She could never forget the effort with which she had prevented the tell-tale blood from burning in her cheeks, or the difficulty with which she had endured his confidence. But she had endured it, and now had come her reward. Then he had come to tell her that he was too poor to marry. Much as she loved him, she had then almost despised him. But the world had told him to be wiser. The world, which makes so many niggards, had taught him to be freer of heart. Now he was worthy of her, now that he cared nothing for poverty. Yes, now she had her reward.
He had allowed her till the second post for her reply. That was so kind of him, as it was necessary that she should tell her aunt. As to the nature of her reply – as to that she never doubted for a moment. She would consult her aunt; but she would do so with her mind fully made up as to the future. No aunt, no Mrs. Wilkinson, should rob her of her happiness now that he had spoken. No one should rob him of the comfort of her love!
In the evening, after thinking of it for hours, she told her aunt; or, rather, handed to her Arthur's letter, that she might read it. Miss Penelope's face grew very long as she did read it; and she made this remark – "Three hundred and fifty pounds! why, my dear, there will be only one hundred and fifty left."
"We can't keep our carriage, certainly, aunt."
"Then you mean to accept him?"
"Yes, aunt."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! What will you do when the children come?"
"We must make the best of it, aunt."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! And you will have his mother with you always."
"If so, then we should not be so very poor; but I do not think that that is what Arthur means."
There was not much more said about it between them; and at last, in the seclusion of her own bedroom, Adela wrote her letter.
Littlebath, Tuesday night.
Dear Arthur,
I received your letter this morning; but as you were so kind as to give me a day to answer it, I have put off doing so till I could be quite alone. It will be a very simple answer. I value your love more than anything in the world. You have my whole heart. I hope, for your sake, that the troubles which you speak of will not be many; but whatever they may be, I will share them. If I can, I will lessen them.
I hope it is not unmaidenly to say that I have received your dear letter with true delight; I do not know why it should be. We have known each other so long, that it is almost natural that I should love you. I do love you dearly, dearest Arthur; and with a heart thankful for God's goodness to me, I will put my hand in yours with perfect trust – fearing nothing, then, as far as this world is concerned.
I do not regard the poverty of which you speak, at least not for my own sake. What I have of my own is, I know, very little. I wish now that I could make it more for you. But, no; I will wish for nothing more, seeing that so much has been given to me. Everything has been given to me when I have your love.
I hope that this will not interfere with your mother's comfort. If anything now could make me unhappy, it would be that she should not be pleased at our prospects. Give her my kindest, kindest love; and tell her that I hope she will let me look on her as a mother.
I will write to Mary very soon; but bid her write to me first. I cannot tell her how happy, how very happy I really am, till she has first wished me joy.
I have, of course, told aunt Penelope. She, too, says something about poverty. I tell her it is croaking. The honest do not beg their bread; do they, Arthur? But in spite of her croaking, she will be very happy to see you on Monday, if it shall suit you to come. If so, let me have one other little line. But I am so contented now, that I shall hardly be more so even to have you here.
God bless you, my own, own, own dearest.
Ever yours with truest affection,Adela.
And I also hope that Adela's letter will not be considered unmaidenly; but I have my fears. There will be those who will say that it is sadly deficient in reserve. Ah! had she not been reserved enough for the last four or five years? Reserve is beautiful in a maiden if it be rightly timed. Sometimes one would fain have more of it. But when the heart is full, and when it may speak out; when time, and circumstances, and the world permit – then we should say that honesty is better than reserve. Adela's letter was honest on the spur of the moment. Her reserve had been the work of years.
Arthur, at any rate, was satisfied. Her letter seemed to him to be the very perfection of words. Armed with that he would face his mother, though she appeared armed from head to foot in the Stapledean panoply. While he was reading his letter he was at breakfast with them all; and when he had finished it for the second time, he handed it across the table to his mother.
"Oh! I suppose so," was her only answer, as she gave it him back.
The curiosity of the girls was too great now for the composure of their silent dignity. "It is from Adela," said Mary; "what does she say?"
"You may read it," said Arthur, again handing the letter across the table.
"Well, I do wish you joy," said Mary, "though there will be so very little money."
Seeing that Arthur, since his father's death, had, in fact, supported his mother and sisters out of his own income, this reception of his news was rather hard upon him. And so he felt it.
"You will not have to share the hardships," he said, as he left the room; "and so you need not complain."
There was nothing more said about it that morning; but in the evening, when they were alone, he spoke to his sister again. "You will write to her, Mary, I hope?"
"Yes, I will write to her," said Mary, half ashamed of herself.
"Perhaps it is not surprising that my mother should be vexed, seeing the false position in which both she and I have been placed; partly by my fault, for I should not have accepted the living under such conditions."
"Oh, Arthur, you would not have refused it?"
"I ought to have done so. But, Mary, you and the girls should be ready to receive Adela with open arms. What other sister could I have given you that you would have loved better?"
"Oh, no one; not for her own sake – no one half so well."
"Then tell her so, and do not cloud her prospects by writing about the house. You have all had shelter and comfort hitherto, and be trustful that it will be continued to you."
This did very well with his sister; but the affair with his mother was much more serious. He began by telling her that he should go to Littlebath on Monday, and be back on Wednesday.
"Then I shall go to Bowes on Wednesday," said Mrs. Wilkinson. Now we all know that Bowes is a long way from Staplehurst. The journey has already been made once in these pages. But Mrs. Wilkinson was as good as her word.
"To Bowes!" said Arthur.
"Yes, to Bowes, sir; to Lord Stapledean. That is, if you hold to your scheme of turning me out of my own house."
"I think it would be better, mother, that we should have two establishments."
"And, therefore, I am to make way for you and that – " viper, she was going to say again; but looking into her son's face, she became somewhat more merciful – "for you," she said, "and that chit!"
"As clergyman of the parish, I think that I ought to live in the parsonage. You, mother, will have so much the larger portion of the income."
"Very well. There need be no more words about it. I shall start for Bowes on next Wednesday." And so she did.
Arthur wrote his "one other little line." As it was three times as long as his first letter, it shall not be printed. And he did make his visit to Littlebath. How happy Adela was as she leant trustingly on his arm, and felt that it was her own! He stayed, however, but one night, and was back at Staplehurst before his mother started for Bowes.
CHAPTER XIII
ANOTHER JOURNEY TO BOWES
Mrs. Wilkinson did not leave her home for her long and tedious journey without considerable parade. Her best new black silk dress was packed up in order that due honour might be done to Lord Stapledean's hospitality, and so large a box was needed that Dumpling and the four-wheeled carriage were hardly able to take her to the railway-station. Then there arose the question who should drive her. Arthur offered to do so; but she was going on a journey of decided hostility as regarded him, and under such circumstances she could not bring herself to use his services even over a portion of the road. So the stable-boy was her charioteer.
She talked about Lord Stapledean the whole evening before she went. Arthur would have explained to her something of that nobleman's character if she would have permitted it. But she would not. When he hinted that she would find Lord Stapledean austere in his manner, she answered that his lordship no doubt had had his reasons for being austere with so very young a man as Arthur had been. When he told her about the Bowes hotel, she merely shook her head significantly. A nobleman who had been so generous to her and hers as Lord Stapledean would hardly allow her to remain at the inn.
"I am very sorry that the journey is forced upon me," she said to Arthur, as she sat with her bonnet on, waiting for the vehicle.
"I am sorry that you are going, mother, certainly," he had answered; "because I know that it will lead to disappointment."
"But I have no other course left open to me," she continued. "I cannot see my poor girls turned out houseless on the world." And then, refusing even to lean on her son's arm, she stepped up heavily into the carriage, and seated herself beside the boy.
"When shall we expect you, mamma?" said Sophia.
"It will be impossible for me to say; but I shall be sure to write as soon as I have seen his lordship. Good-bye to you, girls." And then she was driven away.
"It is a very foolish journey," said Arthur.
"Mamma feels that she is driven to it," said Sophia.
Mrs. Wilkinson had written to Lord Stapledean two days before she started, informing his lordship that it had become very necessary that she should wait upon him on business connected with the living, and therefore she was aware that her coming would not be wholly unexpected. In due process of time she arrived at Bowes, very tired and not a little disgusted at the great expense of her journey. She had travelled but little alone, and knew nothing as to the cost of hotels, and not a great deal as to that of railways, coaches, and post-chaises. But at last she found herself in the same little inn which had previously received Arthur when he made the same journey.
"The lady can have a post-chaise, of course," said the landlady, speaking from the bar. "Oh, yes, Lord Stapledean is at home, safe enough. He's never very far away from it to the best of my belief."
"It's only a mile or so, is it?" said Mrs. Wilkinson.
"Seven long miles, ma'am," said the landlady.
"Seven miles! dear, dear. I declare I never was so tired in my life. You can put the box somewhere behind in the post-chaise, can't you?"
"Yes, ma'am; we can do that. Be you a-going to stay at his lordship's, then?"
To this question Mrs. Wilkinson made an ambiguous answer. Her confidence was waning, now that she drew near to the centre of her aspirations. But at last she did exactly as her son had done before her. She said she would take her box; but that it was possible she might want a bed that evening. "Very possible," the landlady said to herself.
"And you'll take a bite of something before you start, ma'am," she said, out loud. But, no; it was only now twelve o'clock, and she would be at Bowes Lodge a very little after one. She had still sufficient confidence in Lord Stapledean to feel sure of her lunch. When people reached Hurst Staple Vicarage about that hour, there was always something for them to eat. And so she started.
It was April now; but even in April that bleak northern fell was very cold. Nothing more inhospitable than that road could be seen. It was unsheltered, swept by every blast, very steep, and mercilessly oppressed by turnpikes. Twice in those seven miles one-and-sixpence was inexorably demanded from her.
"But I know one gate always clears the other, when they are so near," she argued.
"Noa, they doant," was all the answer she received from the turnpike woman, who held a baby under each arm.
"I am sure the woman is robbing me," said poor Mrs. Wilkinson.
"No, she beant," said the post-boy. They are good hearty people in that part of the world; but they do not brook suspicion, and the courtesies of life are somewhat neglected. And then she arrived at Lord Stapledean's gate.
"Be you she what sent the letter?" said the woman at the lodge, holding it only half open.
"Yes, my good woman; yes," said Mrs. Wilkinson, thinking that her troubles were now nearly over. "I am the lady; I am Mrs. Wilkinson."
"Then my lord says as how you're to send up word what you've got to say." And the woman still stood in the gateway.
"Send up word!" said Mrs. Wilkinson.
"Yees. Just send up word. Here's Jock can rin up."
"But Jock can't tell his lordship what I have to say to him. I have to see his lordship on most important business," said she, in her dismay.
"I'm telling you no more that what my lord said his ain sell. He just crawled down here his ain sell. 'If a woman comes,' said he, 'don't let her through the gate till she sends up word what she's got to say to me.'" And the portress looked as though she were resolved to obey her master's orders.
"Good heavens! There must be some mistake in this, I'm sure. I am the clergyman of Staplehurst – I mean his widow. Staplehurst, you know; his lordship's property."
"I didna know nothing aboot it."
"Oh, drive on, post-boy. There must be some mistake. The woman must be making some dreadful mistake."
At last the courage of the lodge-keeper gave way before the importance of the post-chaise, and she did permit Mrs. Wilkinson to proceed.
"Mither," said the woman's eldest hope, "you'll cotch it noo."
"Eh, lad; weel. He'll no hang me." And so the woman consoled herself.
The house called Bowes Lodge looked damper and greener, more dull, silent, and melancholy, even than it had done when Arthur made his visit. The gravel sweep before the door was covered by weeds, and the shrubs looked as though they had known no gardener's care for years. The door itself did not even appear to be for purposes of ingress and egress, and the post-boy had to search among the boughs and foliage with which the place was overgrown before he could find the bell. When found, it sounded with a hoarse, rusty, jangling noise, as though angry at being disturbed in so unusual a manner.
But, rusty and angry as it was, it did evoke a servant – though not without considerable delay. A cross old man did come at last, and the door was slowly opened. "Yes," said the man. "The marquis was at home, no doubt. He was in the study. But that was no rule why he should see folk." And then he looked very suspiciously at the big trunk, and muttered something to the post-boy, which Mrs. Wilkinson could not hear.
"Will you oblige me by giving my card to his lordship – Mrs. Wilkinson? I want to see him on very particular business. I wrote to his lordship to say that I should be here."
"Wrote to his lordship, did you? Then it's my opinion he won't see you at all."
"Yes, he will. If you'll take him my card, I know he'll see me. Will you oblige me, sir, by taking it into his lordship?" And she put on her most imperious look.
The man went, and Mrs. Wilkinson sat silent in the post-chaise for a quarter of an hour. Then the servant returned, informing her that she was to send in her message. His lordship had given directions at the lodge that she was not to come up, and could not understand how it had come to pass that the lady had forced her way to the hall-door. At any rate, he would not see her till he knew what it was about.
Now it was impossible for Mrs. Wilkinson to explain the exact nature of her very intricate case to Lord Stapledean's butler, and yet she could not bring herself to give up the battle without making some further effort. "It is about the vicarage at Hurst Staple," said she; "the vicarage at Hurst Staple," she repeated, impressing the words on the man's memory. "Don't forget, now." The man gave a look of ineffable scorn, and then walked away, leaving Mrs. Wilkinson still in the post-chaise.
And now came on an April shower, such as April showers are on the borders of Westmoreland. It rained and blew; and after a while the rain turned to sleet. The post-boy buttoned up his coat, and got under the shelter of the portico; the horses drooped their heads, and shivered. Mrs. Wilkinson wished herself back at Hurst Staple – or even comfortably settled at Littlebath, as her son had once suggested.
"His lordship don't know nothing about the vicarage," bellowed out the butler, opening the hall-door only half way, so that his face just appeared above the lock.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" said Mrs. Wilkinson. "Just let me down into the hall, and then I will explain it to you."
"Them 'orses 'll be foundered as sure as heggs," said the post-boy.
Mrs. Wilkinson at last succeeded in making her way into the hall, and the horses were allowed to go round to the yard. And then at last, after half a dozen more messages to and fro, she was informed that Lord Stapledean would see her. So dreadful had been the contest hitherto, that this amount of success was very grateful. Her feeling latterly had been one of intense hostility to the butler rather than to her son. Now that she had conquered that most savage Cerberus, all would be pleasant with her. But, alas! she soon found that in passing Cerberus she had made good her footing in a region as little desirable as might be.
She was ushered into the same book-room in which Arthur had been received, and soon found herself seated in the same chair, and on the same spot. Lord Stapledean was thinner now, even than he had been then; he had a stoop in his shoulders, and his face and hair were more gray. His eyes seemed to his visitor to be as sharp and almost as red as those of ferrets. As she entered, he just rose from his seat and pointed to the chair on which she was to sit.
"Well, ma'am," said he; "what's all this about the clergyman's house at Hurst Staple? I don't understand it at all."
"No, my lord; I'm sure your lordship can't understand. That's why I have thought it my duty to come all this way to explain it."
"All what way?"
"All the way from Hurst Staple, in Hampshire, my lord. When your lordship was so considerate as to settle what my position in the parish was to be – "
"Settle your position in the parish!"
"Yes, my lord – as to my having the income and the house."
"What does the woman mean?" said he, looking down towards the rug beneath his feet, but speaking quite out loud. "Settle her position in the parish! Why, ma'am, I don't know who you are, and what your position is, or anything about you."
"I am the widow of the late vicar, Lord Stapledean; and when he died – "
"I was fool enough to give the living to his son. I remember all about it. He was an imprudent man, and lived beyond his means, and there was nothing left for any of you – wasn't that it?"
"Yes, my lord," said Mrs. Wilkinson, who was so troubled in spirit that she hardly knew what to say. "That is, we never lived beyond our means at all, my lord. There were seven children; and they were all educated most respectably. The only boy was sent to college; and I don't think there was any imprudence – indeed I don't, my lord. And there was something saved; and the insurance was always regularly paid; and – "
The marquis absolutely glared at her, as she went on with her domestic defence. The household at Hurst Staple had been creditably managed, considering the income; and it was natural that she should wish to set her patron right. But every word that she said carried her further away from her present object.
"And what on earth have you come to me for?" said Lord Stapledean.
"I'll tell your lordship, if you'll only allow me five minutes. Your lordship remembers when poor Mr. Wilkinson died?"
"I don't remember anything about it."
"Your lordship was good enough to send for Arthur."
"Arthur!"
"Yes, my lord."
"Who's Arthur?"
"My boy, my lord. Don't you remember? He was just in orders then, and so you were good enough to put him into the living – that is to say, not exactly into the living; but to make him curate, as it were; and you allocated the income to me; and – "
"Allocated the income!" said Lord Stapledean, putting up his hands in token of unlimited surprise.
"Yes, my lord. Your lordship saw just how it was; and, as I could not exactly hold the living myself – "
"Hold the living yourself! Why, are you not a woman, ma'am?"
"Yes, my lord, of course; that was the reason. So you put Arthur into the living, and you allocated the income to me. That is all settled. But now the question is about the house."
"The woman's mad," said Lord Stapledean, looking again to the carpet, but speaking quite out loud. "Stark mad. I think you'd better go home, ma'am; a great deal better."
"My lord, if you'd only give yourself the trouble to understand me – "
"I don't understand a word you say. I have nothing to do with the income, or the house, or with you, or with your son."
"Oh, yes, my lord, indeed you have."
"I tell you I haven't, ma'am; and what's more, I won't."
"He's going to marry, my lord," continued Mrs. Wilkinson, beginning to whimper; "and we are to be turned out of the house, unless you will interfere to prevent it. And he wants me to go and live at Littlebath. And I'm sure your lordship meant me to have the house when you allocated the income."
"And you've come all the way to Bowes, have you, because your son wants to enjoy his own income?"
"No, my lord; he doesn't interfere about that. He knows he can't touch that, because your lordship allocated it to me – and, to do him justice, I don't think he would if he could. And he's not a bad boy, my lord; only mistaken about this."
"Oh, he wants his own house, does he?"
"But it isn't his own house, you know. It has been my house ever since his father died. And if your lordship will remember – "
"I tell you what, Mrs. Wilkinson; it seems to me that your son should not let you come out so far by yourself – "
"My lord!"
"And if you'll take my advice, you'll go home as fast as you can, and live wherever he bids you."
"But, my lord – "
"At any rate, I must beg you not to trouble me any more about the matter. When I was a young man your husband read with me for a few months; and I really think that two presentations to the living have been a sufficient payment for that. I know nothing about your son, and I don't want to know anything. I dare say he's as good as most other clergymen – "
"Oh, yes; he is, my lord."
"But I don't care a straw who lives in the house."
"Don't you, my lord?" said Mrs. Wilkinson, very despondently.
"Not one straw. I never heard such a proposition from a woman in my life – never. And now, if you'll allow me, I'll wish you good-morning, ma'am. Good-morning to you." And the marquis made a slight feint, as though to raise himself from his chair.
Mrs. Wilkinson got up, and stood upright before him, with her handkerchief to her eyes. It was very grievous to her to have failed so utterly. She still felt sure that if Lord Stapledean would only be made to understand the facts of the case, he would even yet take her part. She had come so far to fight her battle, that she could not bring herself to leave the ground as long as a chance of victory remained to her. How could she put the matter in the fewest words, so as to make the marquis understand the very – very truth?
"If your lordship would only allow me to recall to your memory the circumstances of the case, – how you, yourself, allocated – "
Lord Stapledean turned suddenly at the bell-rope, and gave it a tremendous pull – then another – and then a third, harder than the others. Down came the rope about his ears, and the peal was heard ringing through the house.
"Thompson," he said to the man, as he entered, "show that lady the door."
"Yes, my lord."
"Show her the door immediately."
"Yes, my lord," said Thompson, standing irresolute. "Now, ma'am; the post-chaise is waiting."
Mrs. Wilkinson had still strength enough to prevent collapse, and to gather herself together with some little feminine dignity. "I think I have been very badly treated," she said, as she prepared to move.
"Thompson," shrieked the marquis, in his passion; "show that lady the door."
"Yes, my lord;" and Thompson gracefully waved his hand, pointing down the passage. It was the only way in which he could show Mrs. Wilkinson the way out.
And then, obedient to necessity, she walked forth. Never had she held her head so high, or tossed her bonnet with so proud a shake, as she did in getting into that post-chaise. Thompson held the handle of the carriage-door: he also offered her his arm, but she despised any such aid. She climbed in unassisted; the post-boy mounted his jade; and so she was driven forth, not without titters from the woman at the lodge-gate. With heavy heart she reached the inn, and sat herself down to weep alone in her bedroom.
"So, you've come back?" said the landlady.
"Ugh!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilkinson.
We will not dwell long on her painful journey back to Hurst Staple; nor on the wretched reflections with which her mind was laden. She sent on a line by post to her eldest daughter, so that she was expected; and Dumpling and the phaëton and the stable-boy were there to meet her. She had feared that Arthur would come: but Arthur had dreaded the meeting also; and, having talked the matter over with his sisters, had remained at home. He was in the book-room, and hearing the wheels, as the carriage drew up to the door, he went out to greet his mother on the steps.
At the first moment of meeting there was nothing said, but she warmly pressed the hand which he held out to her.
"What sort of a journey have you had?" said Sophia.
"Oh, it is a dreadful place!" said Mrs. Wilkinson.
"It is not a nice country," said Arthur.
By this time they were in the drawing-room, and the mother was seated on a sofa, with one of her girls on each side of her.
"Sophy," she said, "get up for a moment; I want Arthur to come here." So Sophy did get up, and her son immediately taking her place, put his arm round his mother's waist.
"Arthur," she whispered to him, "I fear I have been foolish about this."
That was all that was ever said to him about the journey to Bowes. He was not the man to triumph over his mother's failure. He merely kissed her when her little confession was made, and pressed her slightly with his arm. From that time it was understood that Adela was to be brought thither, as soon as might be, to reign the mistress of the vicarage; and that then, what further arrangements might be necessary, were to be made by them all at their perfect leisure. That question of the nursery might, at any rate, remain in abeyance for twelve months.
Soon after that, it was decided in full conclave, that if Adela would consent, the marriage should take place in the summer. Very frequent letters passed between Hurst Staple and Littlebath, and Mrs. Wilkinson no longer alluded to them with severity, or even with dislike. Lord Stapledean had, at any rate, thoroughly convinced her that the vicarage-house belonged to the vicar – to the vicar male, and not to the vicar female; and now that her eyes had been opened on this point, she found herself obliged to confess that Adela Gauntlet would not make a bad wife.
"Of course we shall be poor, mother; but we expect that."
"I hope you will, at least, be happy," said Mrs. Wilkinson, not liking at present to dwell on the subject of their poverty, as her conscience began to admonish her with reference to the three hundred and fifty pounds per annum.
"I should think I might be able to get pupils," continued Arthur. "If I had two at one hundred and fifty pounds each, we might be comfortable enough."
"Perhaps Adela would not like to have lads in the house."
"Ah, mother, you don't know Adela. She will not object to anything because she does not herself like it." And in this manner that affair was so far settled.
And then Adela was invited to Hurst Staple, and she accepted the invitation. She was not coy in declaring the pleasure with which she did so, nor was she bashful or shamefaced in the matter. She loved the man that she was to marry – had long loved him; and now it was permitted to her to declare her love. Now it was her duty to declare it, and to assure him, with all the pretty protestations in her power, that her best efforts should be given to sweeten his cup, and smooth his path. Her duty now was to seek his happiness, to share his troubles, to be one with him. In her mind it was not less her duty now than it would be when, by God's ordinance, they should be one bone and one flesh.