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.
While their mother had held her seat on her high horse, with
reference to that question of the house, Sophia and Mary had almost
professed hostility to Adela. They had given in no cordial adherence
to their brother's marriage; but now they were able to talk of their
coming sister with interest and affection. "I know that Adela would
like this, Arthur;" and "I'm sure that Adela would prefer that;" and
"when we're gone, you know, Adela will do so and so." Arthur received
all this with brotherly love and the kindest smiles, and thanked God
in his heart that his mother had taken that blessed journey to Bowes
Lodge.
"Adela," he once said to her, as they were walking together, one
lonely spring evening, along the reedy bank of that river, "Adela,
had I had your courage, all this would have been settled long since."
"I don't know," she said; "but I am sure of this, that it is much
better as it is. Now we may fairly trust that we do know our own
minds. Love should be tried, perhaps, before it is trusted."
"I should have trusted yours at the first word you could have spoken,
the first look you would have given me."
"And I should have done so too; and then we might have been wrong. Is
it not well as it is, Arthur?"
And then he declared that it was very well; very well, indeed. Ah,
yes! how could it have been better with him? He thought too of his
past sorrows, his deep woes, his great disappointments; of that
bitter day at Oxford when the lists came down; of the half-broken
heart with which he had returned from Bowes; of the wretchedness
of that visit to West Putford. He thought of the sad hours he
had passed, seated idle and melancholy in the vicarage book-room,
meditating on his forlorn condition. He had so often wailed over his
own lot, droning out a dirge, a melancholy væ victis for himself! And
now, for the first time, he could change the note. Now, his song was
Io triumphe, as he walked along. He shouted out a joyful pæan with
the voice of his heart. Had he taken the most double of all firsts,
what more could fate have given to him? or, at any rate, what better
could fate have done for him?
And to speak sooth, fate had certainly given to him quite as much as
he had deserved.
And then it was settled that they should be married early in the
ensuing June. "On the first," said Arthur. "No; the thirtieth," said
Adela, laughing. And then, as women always give more than they claim,
it was settled that they should be married on the eleventh. Let us
trust that the day may always be regarded as propitious.