In the church of the Insurgents there are many orders. To rise to the
supreme passion of revolt, two conditions are indispensable: to possess
the heart of a poet, and to be subdued by poverty to the yoke of ignoble
labour. But many who fall short of the priesthood have yet a share
of the true spirit, bestowed upon them by circumstances of birth and
education, developed here and there by the experience of life, yet
rigidly limited in the upshot by the control of material ease, the fatal
lordship of the comfortable commonplace. Of such was Hubert Eldon. In
him, despite his birth and breeding, there came to the surface a rich
vein of independence, obscurely traceable, no doubt, in the
characters of certain of his ancestors, appearing at length where
nineteenth-century influences had thinned the detritus of convention
and class prejudice. His nature abounded in contradictions, and as yet
self-study--in itself the note of a mind striving for emancipation--had
done little for him beyond making clear the manifold difficulties strewn
in his path of progress.
You know already that it was no vulgar instinct of sensuality which had
made severance between him and the respectable traditions of his family.
Observant friends naturally cast him in the category of young men whom
the prospect of a fortune seduces to a life of riot; his mother had no
means of forming a more accurate judgment. Mr. Wyvern alone had seen
beneath the surface, aided by a liberal study of the world, and no doubt
also by that personal sympathy which is so important an ally of charity
and truth. Mr. Wyvern’s early life had not been in smooth waters; in him
too revolt was native, tempered also by spiritual influences of the most
opposite kind. He felt a deep interest in the young man, and desired to
keep him in view. It was the first promise of friendship that had been
held out to Hubert, who already suffered from a sense of isolation, and
was wondering in what class of society he would have to look for his
kith and kin. Since boyhood he had drawn apart to a great extent from
the companionships which most readily offered. The turn taken by the
circumstances of his family affected the pride which was one of his
strongest characteristics; his house had fallen, and it seemed to him
that a good deal of pity, if not of contempt, mingled with his reception
by the more fortunate of his own standing. He had never overcome a
natural hostility to old Mr. Mutimer: the _bourgeois_ virtues of the
worthy ironmaster rather irritated than attracted him, and he suffered
intensely in the thought that his mother brought herself to close
friendship with one so much her inferior just for the sake of her son’s
future. In this matter he judged with tolerable accuracy. Mrs. Eldon,
finding in the old man a certain unexpected refinement over and above
his goodness of heart, consciously or unconsciously encouraged herself
in idealising him, that the way of interest might approach as nearly as
might be to that of honour. Hubert, with no understanding for the craggy
facts of life, inwardly rebelled against the whole situation. He felt
that it laid him open to ridicule, the mere suspicion of which always
stung him to the quick. When, therefore, he declared to his mother,
in the painful interview on his return to Wanley, that it was almost a
relief to him to have lost the inheritance, he spoke with perfect truth.
Amid the tempest which had fallen on his life there rose in that moment
the semblance of a star of hope. The hateful conditions which had
weighed upon his future being finally cast off, might he not look
forward to some nobler activity than had hitherto seemed possible? Was
he not being saved from his meaner self, that part of his nature which
tended to conventional ideals, which was subject to empty pride and
ignoble apprehensions? Had he gone through the storm without companion,
hope might have overcome every weakness, but sympathy with his mother’s
deep distress troubled his self-control. At her feet he yielded to the
emotions of childhood, and his misery increased until bodily suffering
brought him the relief of unconsciousness.
To his mother perhaps he owed that strain of idealism which gave his
character its significance. In Mrs. Eldon it affected only the inner
life; in Hubert spiritual strivings naturally sought the outlet of
action. That his emancipation should declare itself in some exaggerated
way was quite to be expected: impatience of futilities and insincerities
made common cause with the fiery spirit of youth and spurred him into
reckless pursuit of that abiding rapture which is the dream and the
despair of the earth’s purest souls. The pistol bullet checked his
course, happily at the right moment. He had gone far enough for
experience and not too far for self-recovery. The wise man in looking
back upon his endeavours regrets nothing of which that can be said.
By the side of a passion such as that which had opened Hubert’s
intellectual manhood, the mild, progressive attachments sanctioned by
society show so colourless as to suggest illusion. Thinking of Adela
Waltham as he lay recovering from his illness, he found it difficult
to distinguish between the feelings associated with her name and those
which he had owed to other maidens of the same type. A week or two
at Wanley generally resulted in a conviction that he was in love with
Adela; and had Adela been entirely subject to her mother’s influences,
had she fallen but a little short of the innocence and delicacy which
were her own, whether for happiness or the reverse, she would doubtless
have been pledged to Hubert long ere this. The merest accident had in
truth prevented it. At home for Christmas, the young man had made up his
mind to speak and claim her: he postponed doing so till he should have
returned from a visit to a college friend in the same county. His friend
had a sister, five or six years older than Adela, and of a warmer type
of beauty, with the finished graces of the town. Hubert found himself
once more without guidance, and so left Wanley behind him, journeying to
an unknown land.
Hubert could not remember a time when he had not been in love. The
objects of his devotion had succeeded each other rapidly, but each in
her turn was the perfect woman. His imagination cast a halo about a
beautiful head, and hastened to see in its possessor all the poetry of
character which he aspired to worship. In his loves, as in every other
circumstance of life, he would have nothing of compromise; for him the
world contained nothing but his passion, and existence had no other end.
Between that past and this present more intervened than Hubert could yet
appreciate; but he judged the change in himself by the light in which
that early love appeared to him. Those were the restless ardours of
boyhood: he could not henceforth trifle so with solemn meanings. The
ideal was harder of discovery than he had thought; perhaps it was not
to be found in the world at all. But what less perfect could henceforth
touch his heart?
Yet throughout his convalescence he thought often of Adela, perhaps
because she was so near, and because she doubtless often thought of him.
His unexpected meeting with her on Stanbury Hill affected him strangely:
the world was new to his eyes, and the girl’s face seemed to share in
the renewal; it was not quite the same face that he had held in memory,
but had a fresh significance. He read in her looks more than formerly he
had been able to see. This impression was strengthened by his interview
with her on the following day. Had she too grown much older in a few
months?
After spending a fortnight with his mother at Agworth, he went to
London, and for a time thought as little of Adela as of any other woman.
New interests claimed him, interests purely intellectual, the stronger
that his mind seemed just aroused from a long sleep. He threw himself
into various studies with more zeal than he had hitherto devoted to
such interests; not that he had as yet any definite projects, but solely
because it was his nature to be in pursuit of some excellence and to
scorn mere acquiescence in a life of every-day colour. He lived all but
in loneliness, and when the change had had time to work upon him his
thoughts began to revert to Adela, to her alone of those who stood on
the other side of the gulf. She came before his eyes as a vision of
purity; it was soothing to picture her face and to think of her
walking in the spring meadows. He thought of her as of a white rose,
dew-besprent, and gently swayed by the sweet air of a sunny morning;
a white rose newly spread, its heart virgin from the hands of shaping
Nature. He could not decide what quality, what absence of thought, made
Adela so distinct to him. Was it perhaps the exquisite delicacy apparent
in all she did or said? Even the most reverent thought seemed gross in
touching her; the mind flitted round about her, kept from contact by a
supreme modesty, which she alone could inspire If her head were painted,
it must be against the tenderest eastern sky; all associations with her
were of the morning, when heatless rays strike level across the moist
earth, of simple devoutness which renders thanks for the blessing of a
new day, of mercy robed like the zenith at dawn.
His study just now was of the early Italians, in art and literature.
There was more of Adela than he perceived in the impulse which guided
him in that direction. When he came to read the ‘Vita Nuova,’ it was of
Adela expressly that he thought. The poet’s passion of worship entered
his heart; transferring his present feeling to his earlier self, he grew
to regard his recent madness as a lapse from the true love of his life.
He persuaded himself that he had loved Adela in a far more serious way
than any of the others who from time to time had been her rivals, and
that the love was now returning to him, strengthened and exalted. He
began to write sonnets in Dante’s manner, striving to body forth in
words the new piety which illumined his life. Whereas love had been to
him of late a glorification of the senses, he now cleansed himself from
what he deemed impurity and adored in mere ecstasy of the spirit. Adela
soon became rather a symbol than a living woman; he identified her with
the ends to which his life darkly aspired, and all but convinced himself
that memory and imagination would henceforth suffice to him.
In the autumn he went down to Agworth, and spent a few days with his
mother. The temptation to walk over to Wanley and call upon the Walthams
proved too strong to be resisted. His rejection at their door was rather
a shock than a surprise; it had never occurred to him that the old
friendly relations had been in any way disturbed; he explained Mrs.
Waltham’s behaviour by supposing that his silence had offended her,
and perhaps his failure to take leave of her before quitting Wanley.
Possibly she thought he had dealt lightly with Adela. Offence on purely
moral grounds did not even suggest itself.
He returned to London anxious and unhappy. The glimpse of Adela sitting
at the window had brought him back to reality; after all it was no
abstraction that had become the constant companion of his solitude; his
love was far more real for that moment’s vision of the golden head, and
had a very real power of afflicting him with melancholy. He faltered in
his studies, and once again had lost the motive to exertion. Then came
the letter from his mother, telling of Adela’s rumoured engagement. It
caused him to set forth almost immediately.
The alternation of moods exhibited in his conversation with Mr. Wyvern
continued to agitate him during the night. Now it seemed impossible
to approach Adela in any way; now he was prepared to defy every
consideration in order to save her and secure his own happiness. Then,
after dwelling for awhile on the difficulties of his position, he tried
to convince himself that once again he had been led astray after beauty
and goodness which existed only in his imagination, that in losing Adela
he only dismissed one more illusion. Such comfort was unsubstantial;
he was, in truth, consumed in wretchedness at the thought that she once
might easily have been his, and that he had passed her by. What matter
whether we love a reality or a dream, if the love drive us to frenzy?
Yet how could he renew his relations with her? Even if no actual
engagement bound her, she must be prejudiced against him by stories
which would make it seem an insult if he addressed her. And if the
engagement really existed, what shadow of excuse had he for troubling
her with his love?
When he entered his mother’s room in the morning, Mrs. Eldon took a
small volume from the table at her side.
‘I found this a few weeks ago among the books you left with me,’ she
said. ‘How long have you had it, Hubert?’
It was a copy of the ‘Christian Year,’ and writing on the fly-leaf
showed that it belonged, or had once belonged, to Adela Waltham.
Hubert regarded it with surprise.
‘It was lent to me a year ago,’ he said. ‘I took it away with me. I had
forgotten that I had it.’
The circumstances under which it had been lent to him came back very
clearly now. It was after that visit to his friend which had come so
unhappily between him and Adela. When he went to bid her good-bye he
found her alone, and she was reading this book. She spoke of it, and, in
surprise that he had never read it, begged him to take it to Oxford.
‘I have another copy,’ Adela said. ‘You can return that any time.’
The time had only now come. Hubert resolved to take the book to Wanley
in the evening; if no other means offered, Mr. Wyvern would return it to
the owner. Might he enclose a note? Instead of that, he wrote out
from memory two of his own sonnets, the best of those he had recently
composed under the influence of the ‘Vita Nuova,’ and shut them between
the pages. Then he made the book into a parcel and addressed it.
He started for his walk at the same hour as on the evening before. There
was frost in the air, and already the stars were bright. As he drew
near to Wanley, the road was deserted; his footfall was loud on the hard
earth. The moon began to show her face over the dark top of Stanbury
Hill, and presently he saw by the clear rays that the figure of a woman
was a few yards ahead of him; he was overtaking her. As he drew near to
her, she turned her head. He knew her at once, for it was Letty Tew. He
had been used to meet Letty often at the Walthams’.
Evidently he was himself recognised; the girl swerved a little, as if to
let him pass, and kept her head bent. He obeyed an impulse and spoke to
her.
‘I am afraid you have forgotten me, Miss Tew. Yet I don’t like to pass
you without saying a word.’
‘I thought it was--the light makes it difficult--’ Letty murmured, sadly
embarrassed.
‘But the moon is beautiful.’
‘Very beautiful.’
They regarded it together. Letty could not help glancing at her
companion, and as he did not turn his face she examined him for a moment
or two.
‘I am going to see my friend Mr. Wyvern,’ Hubert proceeded.
A few more remarks of the kind were exchanged, Letty by degrees
summoning a cold confidence; then Hubert said--
‘I have here a book which belongs to Miss Waltham. She lent it to me
a year ago, and I wish to return it. Dare I ask you to put it into her
hands?’
Letty knew what the book must be. Adela had told her of it at the time,
and since had spoken of it once or twice.
‘Oh, yes, I will give it her,’ she replied, rather nervously again.
‘Will you say that I would gladly have thanked her myself, if it had
been possible?’
‘Yes, Mr. Eldon, I will say that.’
Something in Hubert’s voice seemed to cause Letty to raise her eyes
again.
‘You wish me to thank her?’ she added; inconsequently perhaps, but with
a certain significance.
‘If you will be so kind.’
Hubert wanted to say more, but found it difficult to discover the right
words. Letty, too, tried to shadow forth something that was in her mind,
but with no better success.
‘If I remember,’ Hubert said, pausing in his walk, ‘this stile will
be my shortest way across to the Vicarage. Thank you much for your
kindness.’
He had raised his hat and was turning, but Letty impulsively put forth
her hand. ‘Good-bye,’ he said, in a friendly voice, as he took the
little fingers. ‘I wish the old days were back again, and we were going
to have tea together as we used to.’
Mr. Wyvern’s face gave no promise of cheerful intelligence as he
welcomed his visitor.
‘What is the origin of this, I wonder?’ he said, handing Hubert the
‘Belwick Chronicle.’
The state of the young man’s nerves was not well adapted to sustain
fresh irritation. He turned pale with anger.
‘Is this going the round of Wanley?’
‘Probably. I had it from Mrs. Waltham.’
‘Did you contradict it?’
‘As emphatically as I could.’
‘I will see the man who edits this to-morrow,’ cried Hubert hotly. ‘But
perhaps he is too great a blackguard to talk with.’
‘It purports to come, you see, from a London correspondent. But I
suppose the source is nearer.’
‘You mean--you think that man Mutimer has originated it?’
‘I scarcely think that.’
‘Yet it is more than likely. I will go to the Manor at once. At least he
shall give me yes or no.’
He had started to his feet, but the vicar laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘I’m afraid you can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Consider. You have no kind of right to charge him with such a thing.
And there is another reason: he proposed to Miss Waltham this morning,
and she accepted him.’
‘This morning? And this paper is yesterday’s. Why, it makes it more
likely than ever. How did they get the paper? Doubtless he sent it them.
If she has accepted him this very day--’
The repetition of the words seemed to force their meaning upon him
through his anger. His voice failed.
‘You tell me that Adela Waltham has engaged herself to that man?’
‘Her mother told me, only a few minutes after it occurred.’
‘Then it was this that led her to consent.’
‘Surely that is presupposing too much, my dear Eldon,’ said the vicar
gently.
‘No, not more than I know to be true. I could not say that to anyone
but you; you must understand me. The girl is being cheated into marrying
that fellow. Of her own free will she could not do it. This is one of
numberless lies. You are right; it’s no use to go to him: he wouldn’t
tell the truth. But _she_ must be told. How can I see her?’
‘It is more difficult than ever. Her having accepted him makes all the
difference. Explain it to yourself as you may, you cannot give her to
understand that you doubt her sincerity.’
‘But does she know that this story is false?’
‘Yes, that she will certainly hear. I have busied myself in
contradicting it. If Mrs. Waltham does not tell her, she will hear it
from her friend Miss Tew, without question.’
Hubert pondered, then made the inquiry:
‘How could I procure a meeting with Miss Tew? I met her just now on the
road and spoke to her. I think she might consent to help me.’
Mr. Wyvern looked doubtful.
‘You met her? She was coming from Agworth?’
‘She seemed to be.’
‘Her father and mother are gone to spend to-morrow with friends in
Belwick; I suppose she drove into Wanley with them, and walked back.’
The vicar probably meant this for a suggestion; at all events, Hubert
received it as one.
‘Then I will simply call at the house. She may be alone. I can’t weigh
niceties.’
Mr. Wyvern made no reply. The announcement that dinner was ready allowed
him to quit the subject. Hubert with difficulty sat through the meal,
and as soon as it was over took his departure, leaving it uncertain
whether he would return that evening. The vicar offered no further
remark on the subject of their thoughts, but at parting pressed the
young man’s hand warmly.
Hubert walked straight to the Tews’ dwelling. The course upon which he
had decided had disagreeable aspects and involved chances anything but
pleasant to face; he had, however, abundance of moral courage, and his
habitual scorn of petty obstacles was just now heightened by passionate
feeling. He made his presence known at the house-door as though his
visit were expected. Letty herself opened to him. It was Saturday night,
and she thought the ring was Alfred Waltham’s. Indeed she half uttered
a few familiar words; then, recognising Hubert, she stood fixed in
surprise.
‘Will you allow me to speak with you for a few moments, Miss Tew?’
Hubert said, with perfect self-possession. ‘I ask your pardon for
calling at this hour. My business is urgent; I have come without a
thought of anything but the need of seeing you.’
‘Will you come in, Mr. Eldon?’
She led him into a room where there was no fire, and only one lamp
burning low.
‘I’m afraid it’s very cold here,’ she said, with extreme nervousness.
‘The other room is occupied--my sister and the children; I hope you--’
A little girl put in her face at the door, asking ‘Is it Alfred?’ Letty
hurried her away, closed the door, and, whilst lighting two candles on
the mantelpiece, begged her visitor to seat himself.
‘If you will allow me, I will stand,’ said Hubert. ‘I scarcely know how
to begin what I wish to say. It has reference to Miss Waltham. I wish
to see her; I must, if she will let me, have an opportunity of speaking
with her. But I have no direct means of letting her know my wish;
doubtless you understand that. In my helplessness I have thought of
you. Perhaps I am asking an impossibility. Will you--can you--repeat my
words to Miss Waltham, and beg her to see me?’
Letty listened in sheer bewilderment. The position in which she found
herself was so alarmingly novel, it made such a whirlpool in her quiet
life, that it was all she could do to struggle with the throbbing of her
heart and attempt to gather her thoughts. She did not even reflect that
her eyes were fixed on Hubert’s in a steady gaze. Only the sound of his
voice after silence aided her to some degree of collectedness.
‘There is every reason why you should accuse me of worse than
impertinence,’ Hubert continued, less impulsively. ‘I can only ask your
forgiveness. Miss Waltham may very likely refuse to see me, but, if you
would ask her--’
Letty was borne on a torrent of strange thoughts. How could this man,
who spoke with such impressive frankness, with such persuasiveness, be
the abandoned creature that she had of late believed him? With Adela’s
secret warm in her heart she could not but feel an interest in Hubert,
and the interest was becoming something like zeal on his behalf. During
the past two hours her mind had been occupied with him exclusively; his
words when he left her at the stile had sounded so good and tender that
she began to question whether there was any truth at all in the evil
things said about him. The latest story had just been declared baseless
by no less an authority than the vicar, who surely was not a man to
maintain friendship with a worthless profligate. What did it all mean?
She had heard only half an hour ago of Adela’s positive acceptance of
Mutimer, and was wretched about it; secure in her own love-match, it was
the mystery of mysteries that Adela should consent to marry a man
she could scarcely endure. And here a chance of rescue seemed to be
offering; was it not her plain duty to give what help she might?
‘You have probably not seen her since I gave you the book?’ Hubert said,
perceiving that Letty was quite at a loss for words.
‘No, I haven’t seen her at all to-day,’ was the reply. ‘Do you wish me
to go to-night?’
‘You consent to do me this great kindness?’
Letty blushed. Was she not committing herself too hastily
‘There cannot be any harm in giving your message,’ she said, half
interrogatively, her timidity throwing itself upon Hubert’s honour.
‘Surely no harm in that.’
‘But do you know that she--have you heard--?’
‘Yes, I know. She has accepted an offer of marriage. It was because
I heard of it that I came to you. You are her nearest friend; you
can speak to her as others would not venture to. I ask only for five
minutes. I entreat her to grant me that.’
To add to her perturbation, Letty was in dread of hearing Alfred’s ring
at the door; she durst not prolong this interview.
‘I will tell her,’ she said. ‘If I can, I will see her to-night.’
‘And how can I hear the result? I am afraid to ask you--if you would
write one line to me at Agworth? I am staying at my mother’s house.’
He mentioned the address. Letty, who felt herself caught up above the
world of common experiences and usages, gave her promise as a matter of
course.
‘I shall not try to thank you,’ Hubert said. ‘But you will not doubt
that I am grateful?’
Letty said no more, and it was with profound relief that she heard the
door close behind her visitor. But even yet the danger was not past;
Alfred might at this moment be approaching, so as to meet Hubert near
the house. And indeed this all but happened, for Mr. Waltham presented
himself very soon. Letty had had time to impose secrecy on her sisters,
such an extraordinary proceeding on her part that they were awed, and
made faithful promise of discretion.
Letty drew her lover into the fireless room; she had blown out the
candles and turned the lamp low again, fearful lest her face should
display signs calling for comment.
‘I did so want you to come!’ she exclaimed. ‘Tell me about Adela.’
‘I don’t know that there’s anything to tell,’ was Alfred’s stolid reply.
‘It’s settled, that’s all. I suppose it’s all right.’
‘But you speak as if you thought it mightn’t be, Alfred?’
‘Didn’t know that I did. Well, I haven’t seen her since I got home.
She’s upstairs.’
‘Can’t I see her to-night? I do so want to.’
‘I dare say she’d be glad.’
‘But what is it, my dear boy? I’m sure you speak as if you weren’t quite
satisfied.’
‘The mater says it’s all right I suppose she knows.’
‘But you’ve always been so anxious for it.’
‘Anxious? I haven’t been anxious at all. But I dare say it’s the wisest
thing she could do. I like Mutimer well enough.’
‘Alfred, I don’t think he’s the proper husband for Adela.’
‘Why not? There’s not much chance that she’ll get a better.’
Alfred was manifestly less cheerful than usual. When Letty continued to
tax him with it he grew rather irritable.
‘Go and talk to her yourself,’ he said at length. ‘You’ll find it’s all
right. I don’t pretend to understand her; there’s so much religion mixed
up with her doings, and I can’t stand that.’
Letty shook her head and sighed.
‘What a vile smell of candle smoke there is here!’ Alfred cried. ‘And
the room must be five or six degrees below zero. Let’s go to the fire.’
‘I think I shall run over to Adela at once,’ said Letty, as she followed
him into the hall.
‘All right. Don’t be vexed if she refuses to let you in. I’ll stay here
with the youngsters a bit.’
The truth was that Alfred did feel a little uncomfortable this evening,
and was not sorry to be away from the house for a short time. He was
one of those young men who will pursue an end out of mere obstinacy, and
who, through default of imaginative power, require an event to declare
itself before they can appreciate the ways in which it will affect
them. This marriage of his sister with a man of the working class had
possibly, he now felt, other aspects than those which alone he had
regarded whilst it was merely a matter for speculation. He was
not seriously uneasy, but wished his mother had been somewhat less
precipitate. Well, Adela could not be such a simpleton as to be driven
entirely counter to her inclinations in an affair of so much importance.
Girls were confoundedly hard to understand, in short; probably they
existed for the purpose of keeping one mentally active.
Letty found Mrs. Waltham sitting alone, she too seemingly not in the
best of spirits. There was something depressing in the stillness of the
house. Mrs. Waltham had her volume of family prayers open before her;
her handkerchief lay upon it.
‘She is naturally a little--a little fluttered,’ she said, speaking
of Adela. ‘I hoped you would look in. Try and make her laugh, my dear;
that’s all she wants.’
The girl tripped softly upstairs, and softly knocked at Adela’s door. At
her ‘May I come in?’ the door was opened. Letty examined her friend with
surprise; in Adela’s face there was no indication of trouble, rather the
light of some great joy dwelt in her eyes. She embraced Letty tenderly.
The two were as nearly as possible of the same age, but Letty had always
regarded Adela in the light of an elder sister; that feeling was very
strong in her just now, as well as a diffidence greater than she had
known before.
‘Are you happy, darling?’ she asked timidly.
‘Yes, dear, I am happy. I believe, I am sure, I have done right. Take
your hat off; it’s quite early. I’ve just been reading the collect for
to-morrow. It’s one of those I have never quite understood, but I think
it’s clear to me now.’
They read over the prayer together, and spoke of it for a few minutes.
‘What have you brought me?’ Adela asked at length, noticing a little
parcel in the other’s hand.
‘It’s a book I have been asked to give you. I shall have to explain. Do
you remember lending someone your “Christian Year”?’
The smile left Adela’s face, and the muscles of her mouth strung
themselves.
‘Yes, I remember,’ she replied coldly.
‘As I was walking back from Agworth this afternoon, he overtook me on
the road and asked me to return it to you.’
‘Thank you, dear.’
Adela took the parcel and laid it aside. There was an awkward silence.
Letty could not look up.
‘He was going to see Mr. Wyvern,’ she continued, as if anxious to lay
stress on this. ‘He seems to know Mr. Wyvern very well.’
‘Yes? You didn’t miss Alfred, I hope. He went out a very short time
ago.’
‘No, I saw him. He stayed with the others. But I have something more to
tell you, about--about him.’
‘About Alfred?’
‘About Mr. Eldon.’
Adela looked at her friend with a grave surprise, much as a queen
regards a favourite subject who has been over-bold.
‘I think we won’t talk of him, Letty,’ she said from her height.
‘Do forgive me, Adela. I have promised toto say something. There must
have been a great many things said that were not true, just like this
about his marriage; I am so sure of it.’
Adela endeavoured to let the remark pass without replying to it. But her
thought expressed itself involuntarily.
‘His marriage? What do you know of it?’
‘Mr. Wyvern came to see mother this morning, and showed her a newspaper
that your mother gave him. It said that Mr. Eldon was going to marry an
actress, and Mr. Wyvern declared there was not a word of truth in it.
But of course your mother told you that?’
Adela sat motionless. Mrs. Waltham had not troubled herself to make
known the vicar’s contradiction. But Adela could not allow herself to
admit that. Binding her voice with difficulty, she said:
‘It does not at all concern me.’
‘But your mother _did_ tell you, Adela?’ Letty persisted, emboldened by
a thought which touched upon indignation.
‘Of course she did.’
The falsehood was uttered with cold deliberateness. There was nothing to
show that a pang quivered on every nerve of the speaker.
‘Who can have sent such a thing to the paper?’ Letty exclaimed. ‘There
must be someone who wishes to do him harm. Adela, I don’t believe
_anything_ that people have said!’
Even in speaking she was frightened at her own boldness. Adela’s eyes
had never regarded her with such a look as now.
‘Adela, my darling! Don’t, don’t be angry with me!’
She sprang forward and tried to put her arms about her friend, but Adela
gently repelled her.
‘If you have promised to say something, Letty, you must keep your
promise. Will you say it at once, and then let us talk of something
else?’
Letty checked a tear. Her trustful and loving friend seemed changed to
someone she scarcely knew. She too grew colder, and began her story in a
lifeless way, as if it no longer possessed any interest.
‘Just when I had had tea and was expecting Alfred to come, somebody rang
the bell. I went to the door myself, and it was Mr. Eldon. He had come
to speak to me of you. He said he wanted to see you, that he _must_
see you, and begged me to tell you that. That’s all, Adela. I couldn’t
refuse him; I felt I had no right to; he spoke in such a way. But I am
very sorry to have so displeased you, dear. I didn’t think you would
take anything amiss that I did in all sincerity. I am sure there has
been some wretched mistake, something worse than a mistake, depend upon
it. But I won’t say any more. And I think I’ll go now, Adela.’
Adela spoke in a tone of measured gravity which was quite new in her.
‘You have not displeased me, Letty. I don’t think you have been to blame
in any way; I am sure you had no choice but to do as he asked you. You
have repeated all he said?’
‘Yes, all; all the words, that is. There was something that I can’t
repeat.’
‘And if I consented to see him, how was he to know?’
‘I promised to write to him. He is staying at Agworth.’
‘You mustn’t do that, dear. I will write to him myself, then I can thank
him for returning the book. What is his address?’
Letty gave it.
‘It is, of course, impossible for me to see him,’ pursued Adela, still
in the same measured tones. ‘If I write myself it will save you any more
trouble. Forget it, if I seemed unkind, dear.’
‘Adela, I can’t forget it. You are not like yourself, not at all.
Oh, how I wish this had happened sooner! Why, why can’t you see him,
darling? I think you ought to; I do really think so.’
‘I must be the best judge of that, Letty. Please let us speak of it no
more.’
The sweet girl-face was adamant, its expression a proud virginity; an
ascetic sternness moulded the small, delicate lips. Letty’s countenance
could never have looked like that.
Left to herself again, Adela took the parcel upon her lap and sat
dreaming. It was long before her face relaxed; when it did so, the mood
that succeeded was profoundly sorrowful. One would have said that it
was no personal grief that absorbed her, but compassion for the whole
world’s misery.
When at length she undid the wrapping, her eye was at once caught by the
papers within the volume. She started, and seemed afraid to touch the
book. Her first thought was that Eldon had enclosed a letter; but she
saw that there was no envelope, only two or three loose slips. At length
she examined them and found the sonnets. They had no heading, but at the
foot of each was written the date of composition.
She read them. Adela’s study of poetry had not gone beyond a school-book
of selections, with the works of Mrs. Hemans and of Longfellow, and the
‘Christian Year.’ Hubert’s verses she found difficult to understand;
their spirit, the very vocabulary, was strange to her. Only on a second
reading did she attain a glimmering of their significance. Then she
folded them again and laid them on the table.
Before going to her bedroom she wrote this letter:
‘DEAR MR. ELDON,--I am much obliged to you for returning the “Christian
Year.” Some papers were left in its pages by accident, and I now enclose
them.
‘Miss Tew also brought me a message from you. I am sorry that I cannot
do as you wish. I am unable to ask you to call, and I hope you will
understand me when I say that any other kind of meeting is impossible.
‘I am, yours truly, ‘ADELA WALTHAM.’
It was Adela’s first essay in this vein of composition. The writing cost
her an hour, and she was far from satisfied with the final form. But she
copied it in a firm hand, and made it ready for posting on the morrow.