GRACE CRAWLEY RETURNS HOME.
[Illustration]
About this time Grace Crawley received two letters, the first of
them reaching her while John Eames was still at the cottage, and
the other immediately after his return to London. They both help to
tell our story, and our reader shall, therefore, read them if he
so please,--or, rather, he shall read the first and as much of the
second as is necessary for him. Grace's answer to the first letter he
shall see also. Her answer to the second will be told in a very few
words. The first was from Major Grantly, and the task of answering
that was by no means easy to Grace.
Cosby Lodge, -- February, 186--.
DEAREST GRACE,
I told you when I parted from you, that I should write
to you, and I think it best to do so at once, in order
that you may fully understand me. Spoken words are soon
forgotten,--
"I shall never forget his words," Grace said to herself as she read
this;--
and are not always as plain as they might be. Dear Grace,
I suppose I ought not to say so, but I fancied when I
parted from you at Allington, that I had succeeded in
making myself dear to you. I believe you to be so true in
spirit, that you were unable to conceal from me the fact
that you love me. I shall believe that this is so, till I
am deliberately and solemnly assured by yourself that it
is not so;--and I conjure you to think what is due both to
yourself and to myself, before you allow yourself to think
of making such an assurance unless it be strictly true.
I have already told my own friends that I have asked you
to be my wife. I tell you this, in order that you may
know how little effect your answer to me has had towards
inducing me to give you up. What you said about your
father and your family has no weight with me, and ought
ultimately to have none with you. This business of your
father's is a great misfortune,--so great that, probably,
had we not known each other before it happened, it might
have prevented our becoming intimate when we chanced to
meet. But we had met before it happened, and before it
happened I had determined to ask you to be my wife. What
should I have to think of myself if I allowed my heart to
be altered by such a cause as that?
I have only further to say that I love you better than any
one in the world, and that it is my best hope that you
will be my wife. I will not press you till this affair of
your father's has been settled; but when that is over I
shall look for my reward without reference to its result.
Not that I doubt the result if there be anything like
justice in England; but that your debt to me, if you owe
me any debt, will be altogether irrespective of that. If,
as I suppose, you will remain at Allington for some time
longer, I shall not see you till after the trial is over.
As soon as that is done, I will come to you wherever you
are. In the meantime I shall look for an answer to this;
and if it be true that you love me, dear, dear Grace, pray
have the courage to tell me so.
Most affectionately your own,
HENRY GRANTLY.
When the letter was given to Grace across the breakfast-table, both
Mrs. Dale and Lily suspected that it came from Major Grantly, but not
a word was spoken about it. When Grace with hesitating hand broke the
envelope, neither of her friends looked at her. Lily had a letter
of her own, and Mrs. Dale opened the newspaper. But still it was
impossible not to perceive that her face became red with blushes,
and then they knew that the letter must be from Major Grantly. Grace
herself could not read it, though her eye ran down over the two pages
catching a word here and a word there. She had looked at the name at
once, and had seen the manner of his signature. "Most affectionately
your own!" What was she to say to him? Twice, thrice, as she sat at
the breakfast-table she turned the page of the letter, and at each
turning she read the signature. And she read the beginning, "Dearest
Grace." More than that she did not really read till she had got the
letter away with her into the seclusion of her own room.
[Illustration: She read the beginning--"Dearest Grace."]
Not a word was said about the letter at breakfast. Poor Grace went on
eating or pretending to eat, but could not bring herself to utter a
word. Mrs. Dale and Lily spoke of various matters, which were quite
indifferent to them; but even with them the conversation was so
difficult that Grace felt it to be forced, and was conscious that
they were thinking about her and her lover. As soon as she could make
an excuse she left the room, and hurrying upstairs took the letter
from her pocket and read it in earnest.
"That was from Major Grantly, mamma," said Lily.
"I daresay it was, my dear."
"And what had we better do; or what had we better say?"
"Nothing,--I should say. Let him fight his own battle. If we
interfere, we may probably only make her more stubborn in clinging to
her old idea."
"I think she will cling to it."
"For a time she will, I daresay. And it will be best that she should.
He himself will respect her for it afterwards." Thus it was agreed
between them that they should say nothing to Grace about the letter
unless Grace should first speak to them.
Grace read her letter over and over again. It was the first
love-letter she had ever had;--the first letter she had ever received
from any man except her father and brother,--the first, almost, that
had ever been written to her by any other than her own old special
friends. The words of it were very strange to her ear. He had told
her when he left her that he would write to her, and therefore she
had looked forward to the event which had now come; but she had
thought that it would be much more distant,--and she had tried to
make herself believe that when it did come it would be very different
from this letter which she now possessed. "He will tell me that he
has altered his mind. He ought to do so. It is not proper that he
should still think of me when we are in such disgrace." But now the
letter had come, and she acknowledged the truth of his saying that
written words were clearer in their expression than those simply
spoken. "Not that I could ever forget a syllable that he said." Yet,
as she held the letter in her hand she felt that it was a possession.
It was a thing at which she could look in coming years, when he and
she might be far apart,--a thing at which she could look with pride
in remembering that he had thought her worthy of it.
Neither on that day nor on the next did she think of her answer, nor
on the third or the fourth with any steady thinking. She knew that an
answer would have to be written, and she felt that the sooner it was
written the easier might be the writing; but she felt also that it
should not be written too quickly. A week should first elapse, she
thought, and therefore a week was allowed to elapse, and then the day
for writing her answer came. She had spoken no word about it either
to Mrs. Dale or to Lily. She had longed to do so, but had feared.
Even though she should speak to Lily she could not be led by Lily's
advice. Her letter, whatever it might be, must be her own letter. She
would admit of no dictation. She must say her own say, let her say it
ever so badly. As to the manner of saying it, Lily's aid would have
been invaluable; but she feared that she could not secure that aid
without compromising her own power of action,--her own individuality;
and therefore she said no word about the letter either to Lily or to
Lily's mother.
On a certain morning she fixed herself at her desk to write her
letter. She had known that the task would be difficult, but she had
little known how difficult it would be. On that day of her first
attempt she did not get it written at all. How was she to begin? He
had called her "Dearest Grace;" and this mode of beginning seemed as
easy as it was sweet. "It is very easy for a gentleman," she said to
herself, "because he may say just what he pleases." She wrote the
words, "Dearest Henry," on a scrap of paper, and immediately tore it
into fragments as though she were ashamed of having written them. She
knew that she would not dare to send away a letter beginning with
such words. She would not even have dared to let such words in her
own handwriting remain within the recesses of her own little desk.
"Dear Major Grantly," she began at length. It seemed to her to
be very ugly, but after much consideration she believed it to be
correct. On the second day the letter was written as follows:--
Allington, Thursday.
MY DEAR MAJOR GRANTLY,--
I do not know how I ought to answer your kind letter, but
I must tell you that I am very much flattered by your
great goodness to me. I cannot understand why you should
think so much of me, but I suppose it is because you have
felt for all our misfortunes. I will not say anything
about what might have happened, if it had not been for
papa's sorrow and disgrace; and as far as I can help it,
I will not think of it; but I am sure that I ought not to
think about loving any one, that is, in the way you mean,
while we are in such trouble at home. I should not dare to
meet any of your great friends, knowing that I had brought
nothing with me but disgrace. And I should feel that I was
doing an injury to _dear_ Edith, which would be worse to
me than anything.
Pray believe that I am quite in earnest about this. I know
that a gentleman ought not to marry any girl to do himself
and his family an injury by it; and I know that if I
were to make such a marriage I should be unhappy ever
afterwards, even though I loved the man ever so dearly,
with all my heart.
These last words she had underscored at first, but the doing so had
been the unconscious expression of her own affection, and had been
done with no desire on her part to convey that expression to him. But
on reading the words she discovered their latent meaning, and wrote
it all again.
Therefore I know that it will be best that I should wish
you good-by, and I do so, thanking you again and again for
your goodness to me.
Believe me to be,
Yours very sincerely,
GRACE CRAWLEY.
The letter when it was written was hateful to her; but she had
tried her hand at it again and again, and had found that she could
do nothing better. There was much in his letter that she had not
attempted to answer. He had implored her to tell him whether or no
she did in truth love him. Of course she loved him. He knew that well
enough. Why should she answer any such question? There was a way of
answering it indeed which might serve her turn,--or rather serve his,
of which she was thinking more than of her own. She might say that
she did not love him. It would be a lie, and he would know that
it would be a lie. But still it might serve the turn. She did not
like the idea of writing such a lie as that, but nevertheless she
considered the matter. It would be very wicked; but still, if it
would serve the turn, might it not be well to write it? But at last
she reflected that, after all, the doing of the thing was in her
own hands. She could refuse to marry this man without burdening her
conscience with any lie about it. It only required that she should
be firm. She abstained, therefore, from the falsehood, and left her
lover's question unanswered. So she put up her letter and directed
it, and carried it herself to the village post-office.
On the day after this she got the second letter, and that she showed
immediately to Mrs. Dale. It was from her mother, and was written to
tell her that her father was seriously ill. "He went up to London to
see a lawyer about this weary work of the trial," said Mrs. Crawley.
"The fatigue was very great, and on the next day he was so weak that
he could not leave his bed. Dr. Turner, who has been very kind, says
that we need not frighten ourselves, but he thinks it must be some
time before he can leave the house. He has a low fever on him, and
wants nourishment. His mind has wandered once or twice, and he has
asked for you, and I think it will be best, love, that you should
come home. I know you will not mind it when I say that I think he
would like to have you here. Dr. Turner says that the illness is
chiefly owing to his not having proper food."
Of course she would go at once. "Dear Mrs. Dale," she said, "I must
go home. Can you send me to the station?" Then Mrs. Dale read the
letter. Of course they would send her. Would she go on that day, or
on the next? Might it not be better to write first, and say that she
was going? But Grace would go at once. "I know it will be a comfort
to mamma; and I know that he is worse than mamma says." Of course
there was no more to be said, and she was despatched to the station.
Before she went Mrs. Dale asked after her purse. "If there is any
trouble about money,--for your journey, or anything, you will not
scruple to come to me as to an old friend." But Grace assured her
that there was no trouble about money--for her journey. Then Lily
took her aside and produced two clean new five-pound notes. "Grace,
dear, you won't be ill-natured. You know I have a little fortune of
my own. You know I can give them without missing them." Grace threw
herself into her friend's arms and wept, but would have none of her
money. "Buy a present from me for your mother,--whom I love though
I do not know her." "I will give her your love," Grace said, "but
nothing else." And then she went.