THREE LETTERS.
Eighteen months had elapsed since the marriage of Fitzwilliam Baldwin
and Margaret Hungerford,--a period which had brought about few changes
at Chayleigh, beyond the departure, at an early stage of its duration,
of Haldane Carteret to join his regiment, and which had been
productive of only one event of importance. The eldest Miss Crofton
had terminated at her leisure, after Margaret's departure, the capture
of the young captain, as he was called by a courteous anticipation of
the natural course of events, and there was every reason to suppose
that the ensuing year would witness a second wedding from Chayleigh,
in the parish church, which should be by no means obnoxious to public
sentiment, on the score of quiet, if the eldest Miss Crofton should
have her own way, which, indeed, the fair Lucy generally contrived to
procure in every affair in which she was interested.
Her parents entirely approved of the engagement. She had no fortune,
and Haldane's prospective independence was certain. It was a very nice
thing for her to be wife to the future Mr. Carteret of Chayleigh, and
almost a nicer thing for her to be sister-in-law to Mrs. Meriton
Baldwin of the Deane.
Margaret had become a wonderfully important personage in the
neighbourhood she had left. Every particular of her household, every
item of her expenditure, and--when she stayed a month at her father's
house after her little daughter's birth, prior to going abroad for an
indefinite period, now more than six months ago,--every article of her
dress, was a subject of discussion and interest to people who had
taken no particular notice of her in her previous stages of existence.
The eldest Miss Crofton had a little ovation when she returned from a
visit to the Deane, and simple Mr. Carteret was surprised to find how
many friends he was possessed of, how many inquirers were unwearyingly
anxious to learn the latest news of "dear Mrs. Baldwin."
The quiet household at Chayleigh pursued its usual routine course, and
little change had come to the two men, the one old, the other now
elderly, who were its chief members. Of that little, the greater
portion had fallen to the share of James Dugdale. His always bent and
twisted figure was now more bent and twisted, his hair was grayer and
scantier, his eyes were more hollow, his face was more worn, his quiet
manner quieter, his rare smile more seldom seen. Any one familiar with
his appearance eighteen months before, who had seen him enter the
cheerful breakfast-room at Chayleigh one bright winter's morning, when
Christmas-day was but a week off, would have found it difficult to
believe that the interval had been so short.
James Dugdale stood by the fire for a few minutes, then glancing round
at the breakfast-table, he muttered, "The post is not in--behind
time--the snow, I suppose," and went to the large window, against
which he leaned, idly watching the birds as they hopped about on the
snow-laden ground, and extracted bits of leaves and dry morsels of
twig from its niggard breast. He was still standing there when Mr.
Carteret came in, closely followed by a servant with a small tray
laden with letters, which he duly sorted and placed before their
respective claimants.
There was a large foreign letter among those addressed to James
Dugdale, but he let it lie beside his plate unnoticed; all his
attention was for the letter which Mr. Carteret was deciphering with
laborious difficulty.
"From Margaret," said the old gentleman at length, taking off his
double glasses with an air of relief, and laying them on the table.
"She _does_ write such a scratchy hand, it quite makes my head ache to
read it."
"Where are they now?" asked James.
"At Sorrento. Margaret writes in great delight about the place and the
climate, and the people they meet there, and the beauty and health of
little Gerty. And Baldwin adds a postscript about the _cicale_, which
is just what I wanted to know; he considers there's no doubt about
their chirp being much stronger and more prolonged than our
grasshopper's, and he has carefully examined the articulations."
"Does Margaret say anything about her own health?" interrupted James,
so impatiently that he felt ashamed of himself the next minute,
although Mr. Carteret took the sudden suppression of his favourite
topic with perfect meekness, as he made answer:
"Yes, a good deal. Here it is, read the letter for yourself,
James,"--and he handed over the document to his companion, and betook
himself to the perusal of a scientific review,--a production rarer in
those days than now,--and for whose appearance Mr. Carteret was apt to
look with eagerness.
James Dugdale read the letter which Margaret Baldwin had written to
her father from end to end, and then he turned back to the beginning,
and read it through again. No document which could come from any human
hand could have such a charm and value for him as one of her letters.
His feelings had undergone no change as regarded her, though, as
regarded himself, they had become purified from the little dross of
selfishness and vain regret that had hung about them for a little
after she had left Chayleigh. He could now rejoice, with a pure and
true heart, in her exceeding, her perfect happiness; he could think of
her husband, whom she loved with an intense and passionate devotion
which had transformed her character, as it seemed at times to
transfigure her face, illumining it with a heavenly light--with ardent
friendship and gratitude as the giver of such happiness, and with
sincere and ungrudging admiration as the being who was capable of
inspiring such a love. He could thank God now, from his inmost heart,
for the change which had been wrought in, and for, the woman he loved
with a love which angels might have seen with approval. All he had
longed and prayed and striven for, was her good--and it had come--it
had been sent in the utmost abundance; and he never murmured now, ever
so lightly, that _he_ had not been suffered to count for anything in
the fulfilment of his hope, in the answer to his prayer.
He read, with keen delight, the simple but strong words in which
Margaret described to her father the peace, happiness, companionship
and luxury of her life. Only the lightest cloud had cast a shade over
the brightness of Margaret's life since her marriage. She had been
rather delicate in health after the birth of her child, and a warmer
climate than that of Scotland had been recommended for her. Mr.
Baldwin had not been sorry for the opportunity thus afforded him of
indulging Margaret and himself by visiting the countries so well known
to him, but which his wife had never seen. Her experience of travel
had been one of wretchedness; in this respect, also, he would make the
present contrast with and efface the past. The "Lady Burleigh" feeling
which Margaret had anticipated had come upon her sometimes, in the
stately and well-ordered luxury of her new home; she had sometimes
experienced a startling sense of the discrepancy between the things
she had seen and suffered, and her surroundings at the Deane; but
these fitful feelings had not recurred often or remained with her
long, and she had become deeply attached to her beautiful home.
Nevertheless, she, too, had welcomed the prospect of a foreign tour;
and during her visit, _en route_, to Chayleigh, she had spoken so
freely and frequently to James of her anticipations of pleasure, of
the delight she took in her husband's cultivated taste, and in his
manifold learning, that James perceived how rapidly and variously her
intellect had developed in the sunshine of happiness and domestic
love.
"Though she has always been the first of women in my mind," James
Dugdale had said to himself then, "I would not have said she was
either decidedly clever or decidedly handsome formerly, and now she is
both beautiful and brilliant."
And so she was. It was not the praise of prejudice which pronounced
her so. There were many who would, if they could, have denied such
attributes to Mrs. Baldwin of the Deane, but they might as well have
attempted to deny light to the sunshine.
In this letter, which James Dugdale read with such pleasure, Margaret
said she was stronger, "much stronger," and that every one thought her
looking very well. "Fitzwilliam is so much of that opinion," she
wrote, "that he thinks this is a favourable opportunity of having a
life-size portrait taken of me, especially as a first-rate artist has
just been introduced to us,--if the picture be successful, a replica
shall be made for you. The long windows of our sitting-rooms open
on a terrace overhanging the sea, and the walls are overrun with
passion-flower--just like those at home, which James used to take such
care of. I mean to have my picture taken standing in the centre
window, with my little Gertrude in my arms. If you don't like this, or
prefer any other pose, say so when you write. Eleanor is delighted
with the notion."
The tone of the whole letter was that of happiness, full, heartfelt,
not wanting in anything. James Dugdale held it still in his hands,
when he had read it through for the second time, and fell into one of
the reveries which were habitual to him. It showed him Margaret, as he
had seen her on the day of her unexpected return, pale, stern, defiant
of the bitterness of her fate,--her slight form, clad in its heavy
mourning robes, framed by the passion-flower tendrils, the woman in
whose face he read more than confirmation of all he had ever feared or
prophesied of evil for her, and in whose letter there was such a story
of happiness as it falls but rarely to the lot of any mortal to have
to tell. He had never felt so entirely, purely, unselfishly happy
about Margaret as he felt at that moment.
"You have no letter from Haldane, have you?" asked Mr. Carteret, as he
relinquished his review for his coffee-cup. "I have not, and Margery
complains that he has not written."
The question reminded James of his hitherto disregarded letters. He
turned to the table and took them up:
"No, sir, there's no letter from Haldane."
Mr. Carteret uttered a feeble sound of dissatisfaction, but made no
farther remark, and James opened the foreign letter, which was, as he
expected, from Hayes Meredith. It announced the writer's intended
departure from Melbourne by the first ship after that which should
carry the present letter, and named the period at which the writer
hoped to reach England.
"The Yarra is a quick sailer," wrote Hayes Meredith, "and we expect to
be in Liverpool a few weeks later than the Emu. My former letters will
have explained how all difficulties subsided, but up to the last I
have not felt quite confident of being able to get away, and thought
it was well to write only one ship in advance."
There was a good deal of expression of pleasure at the prospect of
seeing his old friend again, and introducing his son to him, on Hayes
Meredith's part, some anxiety about his son's future, and warm thanks
to James for certain propositions he had made concerning him.
"My friend Meredith and his son have sailed at last, sir," said James,
addressing Mr. Carteret. "He will be here soon, I fancy, if they have
had fine weather."
"Indeed," said Mr. Carteret. "I hope he is bringing the opossum and
wombat skins, and the treeworm and boomerang you asked him for. I
should like to have them really brought from the spot, you know. One
can buy such things from the dealers, of course, but they are never so
interesting, and often not genuine."
"I have no doubt, sir, they will all arrive quite safely."
"You have asked Mr. Meredith and his son to come here direct, I hope,
James?"
"Yes, I obeyed your kind instructions in that."
"What a pity Margery is not here," said Mr. Carteret, with a placid
little sigh, "to see her kind friend!"
"Never mind, sir; Margaret mil have plenty of opportunity for seeing
Meredith. He will not remain less than six months in England."
In the pleasure and the excitement caused by the prospect of his
friend's arrival (it was not customary or possible then for people to
drop in from Melbourne for a week or two, and be heard of next at Salt
Lake), James did not immediately remember what Margaret had said when
Hayes Meredith's coming had first been talked of--that if he or any
one came from the place which had witnessed her suffering and
degradation, to her father's house, she should feel it to be an evil
omen to her. When at length he did recall her expression of feeling
about it, he smiled.
"How she would laugh at herself if I were to remind her now that she
once said that! What could be an ill omen to her now? What could bring
evil near her now?--God bless her!"
Some weeks later the Yarra, having encountered boisterous weather in
the Channel, arrived at Liverpool. On the day but one following its
arrival, James Dugdale received a short note from Hayes Meredith,
which contained these words:
_Liverpool, Jan_. 24.
"MY DEAR DUGDALE,--We have arrived, and Robert and I hope to get to
Chayleigh by Thursday. Should Mrs. Baldwin be in Scotland, endeavour
to induce her to see me, at her father's house, in preference to any
other place, as soon as possible. Do this, if you can, without
alarming her, but at all events, and under all risks, do _it_.
Circumstances which occurred immediately before my departure make it
indispensable that I should see her _at once_ on important and, I
regret to add, unpleasant business. I am too tired and dizzy to write
more.--Yours, HAYES MEREDITH."