The Ladies at Longbarns Doubt
It came at last to be decided among them that when old Mr. Wharton
returned to town,--and he had now been at Wharton longer than he had
ever been known to remain there before,--Emily should still remain in
Herefordshire, and that at some period not then fixed she should go
for a month to Longbarns. There were various reasons which induced
her to consent to this change of plans. In the first place she found
herself to be infinitely more comfortable in the country than in
town. She could go out and move about and bestir herself, whereas in
Manchester Square she could only sit and mope at home. Her father had
assured her that he thought that it would be better that she should
be away from the reminiscences of the house in town. And then when
the first week of February was past Arthur would be up in town, and
she would be far away from him at Longbarns, whereas in London she
would be close within his reach. Many little schemes were laid and
struggles made both by herself and the others before at last their
plans were settled. Mr. Wharton was to return to London in the middle
of January. It was quite impossible that he could remain longer away
either from Stone Buildings or from the Eldon, and then at the same
time, or a day or two following, Mrs. Fletcher was to go back to
Longbarns. John Fletcher and his wife and children were already
gone,--and Arthur also had been at Longbarns. The two brothers and
Everett had been backwards and forwards. Emily was anxious to remain
at Wharton at any rate till Parliament should have met, so that she
might not be at home with Arthur in his own house. But matters would
not arrange themselves exactly as she wished. It was at last settled
that she should go to Longbarns with Mary Wharton under the charge
of John Fletcher in the first week in February. As arrangements were
already in progress for the purchase of Barnton Spinnies, Sir Alured
could not possibly leave his own house. Not to have walked through
the wood on the first day that it became a part of the Wharton
property would to him have been treason to the estate. His experience
ought to have told him that there was no chance of a lawyer and a
college dealing together with such rapidity; but in the present state
of things he could not bear to absent himself. Orders had already
been given for the cutting down of certain trees which could not have
been touched had the reprobate lived, and it was indispensable that
if a tree fell at Wharton he should see the fall. It thus came to
pass that there was a week during which Emily would be forced to live
under the roof of the Fletchers together with Arthur Fletcher.
The week came and she was absolutely received by Arthur at the door
of Longbarns. She had not been at the house since it had first been
intimated to the Fletchers that she was disposed to receive with
favour the addresses of Ferdinand Lopez. As she remembered this it
seemed to her to be an age ago since that man had induced her to
believe that of all men she had ever met he was the nearest to a
hero. She never spoke of him now, but of course her thoughts of
him were never ending,--as also of herself in that she had allowed
herself to be so deceived. She would recall to her mind with bitter
inward sobbings all those lessons of iniquity which he had striven
to teach her, and which had first opened her eyes to his true
character,--how sedulously he had endeavoured to persuade her that
it was her duty to rob her father on his behalf, how continually he
had endeavoured to make her think that appearance in the world was
everything, and that, being in truth poor adventurers, it behoved
them to cheat the world into thinking them rich and respectable.
Every hint that had been so given had been a wound to her, and those
wounds were all now remembered. Though since his death she had never
allowed a word to be spoken in her presence against him, she could
not but hate his memory. How glorious was that other man in her
eyes, as he stood there at the door welcoming her to Longbarns,
fair-haired, open-eyed, with bronzed brow and cheek, and surely the
honestest face that a loving woman ever loved to gaze on. During the
various lessons she had learned in her married life, she had become
gradually but surely aware that the face of that other man had been
dishonest. She had learned the false meaning of every glance of his
eyes, the subtlety of his mouth, the counterfeit manoeuvres of
his body,--the deceit even of his dress. He had been all a lie from
head to foot; and he had thrown her love aside as useless when she
also would not be a liar. And here was this man,--spotless in her
estimation, compounded of all good qualities, which she could now see
and take at their proper value. She hated herself for the simplicity
with which she had been cheated by soft words and a false demeanour
into so great a sacrifice.
Life at Longbarns was very quiet during the days which she passed
there before he left them. She was frequently alone with him, but he,
if he still loved her, did not speak of his love. He explained it
all one day to his mother. "If it is to be," said the old lady, "I
don't see the use of more delay. Of course the marriage ought not to
be till March twelvemonths. But if it is understood that it is to
be, she might alter her dress by degrees,--and alter her manner of
living. Those things should always be done by degrees. I think it had
better be settled, Arthur, if it is to be settled."
"I am afraid, mother."
"Dear me! I didn't think you were the man ever to be afraid of a
woman. What can she say to you?"
"Refuse me."
"Then you'd better know it at once. But I don't think she'll be fool
enough for that."
"Perhaps you hardly understand her, mother."
Mrs. Fletcher shook her head with a look of considerable annoyance.
"Perhaps not. But, to tell the truth, I don't like young women whom I
can't understand. Young women shouldn't be mysterious. I like people
of whom I can give a pretty good guess what they'll do. I'm sure I
never could have guessed that she would have married that man."
"If you love me, mother, do not let that be mentioned between us
again. When I said that you did not understand her, I did not mean
that she was mysterious. I think that before he died, and since his
death, she learned of what sort that man was. I will not say that she
hates his memory, but she hates herself for what she has done."
"So she ought," said Mrs. Fletcher.
"She has not yet brought herself to think that her life should be
anything but one long period of mourning, not for him, but for her
own mistake. You may be quite sure that I am in earnest. It is not
because I doubt of myself that I put it off. But I fear that if once
she asserts to me her resolution to remain as she is, she will feel
herself bound to keep her word."
"I suppose she is very much the same as other women, after all, my
dear," said Mrs. Fletcher, who was almost jealous of the peculiar
superiority of sentiment which her son seemed to attribute to this
woman.
"Circumstances, mother, make people different," he replied.
"So you are going without having anything fixed," his elder brother
said to him the day before he started.
"Yes, old fellow. It seems to be rather slack;--doesn't it?"
"I dare say you know best what you're about. But if you have set your
mind on it--"
"You may take your oath on that."
"Then I don't see why one word shouldn't put it all right. There
never is any place so good for that kind of thing as a country
house."
"I don't think that with her it will make much difference where the
house is, or what the circumstances."
"She knows what you mean as well as I do."
"I dare say she does, John. She must have a very bad idea of me if
she doesn't. But she may know what I mean and not mean the same thing
herself."
"How are you to know if you don't ask her?"
"You may be sure that I shall ask her as soon as I can hope that my
doing so may give her more pleasure than pain. Remember, I have had
all this out with her father. I have determined that I will wait till
twelve months have passed since that wretched man perished."
On that afternoon before dinner he was alone with her in the library
some minutes before they went up to dress for dinner. "I shall hardly
see you to-morrow," he said, "as I must leave this at half-past
eight. I breakfast at eight. I don't suppose any one will be down
except my mother."
"I am generally as early as that. I will come down and see you
start."
"I am so glad that you have been here, Emily."
"So am I. Everybody has been so good to me."
"It has been like old days,--almost."
"It will never quite be like old days again, I think. But I have been
very glad to be here,--and at Wharton. I sometimes almost wish that I
were never going back to London again,--only for papa."
"I like London myself."
"You! Yes, of course you like London. You have everything in life
before you. You have things to do, and much to hope for. It is all
beginning for you, Arthur."
"I am five years older than you are."
"What does that matter? It seems to me that age does not go by years.
It is long since I have felt myself to be an old woman. But you are
quite young. Everybody is proud of you, and you ought to be happy."
"I don't know," said he. "It is hard to say what makes a person
happy." He almost made up his mind to speak to her then; but he had
made up his mind before to put it off still for a little time, and he
would not allow himself to be changed on the spur of the moment. He
had thought of it much, and he had almost taught himself to think
that it would be better for herself that she should not accept
another man's love so soon. "I shall come and see you in town," he
said.
"You must come and see papa. It seems that Everett is to be a great
deal at Wharton. I had better go up to dress now, or I shall be
keeping them waiting." He put out his hand to her, and wished her
good-bye, excusing himself by saying that they should not be alone
together again before he started.
She saw him go on the next morning,--and then she almost felt herself
to be abandoned, almost deserted. It was a fine crisp winter day, dry
and fresh and clear, but with the frost still on the ground. After
breakfast she went out to walk by herself in the long shrubbery paths
which went round the house, and here she remained for above an hour.
She told herself that she was very thankful to him for not having
spoken to her on a subject so unfit for her ears as love. She
strengthened herself in her determination never again to listen to a
man willingly on that subject. She had made herself unfit to have any
dealings of that nature. It was not that she could not love. Oh, no!
She knew well enough that she did love,--love with all her heart. If
it were not that she were so torn to rags that she was not fit to be
worn again, she could now have thrown herself into his arms with a
whole heaven of joy before her. A woman, she told herself, had no
right to a second chance in life, after having made such a shipwreck
of herself in the first. But the danger of being seduced from her
judgment by Arthur Fletcher was all over. He had been near her for
the last week and had not spoken a word. He had been in the same
house with her for the last ten days and had been with her as a
brother might be with his sister. It was not only she who had
seen the propriety of this. He also had acknowledged it, and she
was--grateful to him. As she endeavoured in her solitude to express
her gratitude in spoken words the tears rolled down her cheeks.
She was glad, she told herself, very glad that it was so. How much
trouble and pain to both of them would thus be spared! And yet her
tears were bitter tears. It was better as it was;--and yet one word
of love would have been very sweet. She almost thought that she would
have liked to tell him that for his sake, for his dear sake, she
would refuse--that which now would never be offered to her. She was
quite clear as to the rectitude of her own judgment, clear as ever.
And yet her heart was heavy with disappointment.
It was the end of March before she left Herefordshire for London,
having spent the greater part of the time at Longbarns. The ladies at
that place were moved by many doubts as to what would be the end of
all this. Mrs. Fletcher the elder at last almost taught herself to
believe that there would be no marriage, and having got back to that
belief, was again opposed to the idea of a marriage. Anything and
everything that Arthur wanted he ought to have. The old lady felt
no doubt as to that. When convinced that he did want to have this
widow,--this woman whose life had hitherto been so unfortunate,--she
had for his sake taken the woman again by the hand, and had assisted
in making her one of themselves. But how much better it would be that
Arthur should think better of it! It was the maddest constancy,--this
clinging to the widow of such a man as Ferdinand Lopez! If there were
any doubt, then she would be prepared to do all she could to prevent
the marriage. Emily had been forgiven, and the pardon bestowed must
of course be continued. But she might be pardoned without being made
Mrs. Arthur Fletcher. While Emily was still at Longbarns the old lady
almost talked over her daughter-in-law to this way of thinking,--till
John Fletcher put his foot upon it altogether. "I don't pretend to
say what she may do," he said.
"Oh, John," said the mother, "to hear a man like you talk like that
is absurd. She'd jump at him if he looked at her with half an eye."
"What she may do," he continued saying, without appearing to listen
to his mother, "I cannot say. But that he will ask her to be his wife
is as certain as that I stand here."