Next morning, however, there came a crisis which drove all thought of
anything else for the moment out of Lady William’s mind.
It came in the shape of a letter laid upon her innocent breakfast table,
along with the little bunch of correspondence, very small, and very
unimportant, which was all that the post generally brought to that
peaceable house. Lady William had, of course, a friend or two with whom
occasionally she exchanged those utterly unimportant letters which form
so large a portion in the lives of some unoccupied women. It would be
hard to grudge these poor ladies so innocent a pleasure, but their
letters were not exciting enough to make a woman like Lady William, who
felt that she had herself a great deal to do, and did not want that
gentle stimulant, very impatient for the arrival of the post: and her
mild correspondence waited for her quite contentedly on both sides till
she had performed various little morning duties, and was ready to sit
down to breakfast. The long blue envelope, however, alarmed her a little
whenever she saw it, and yet there was nothing so very alarming in it,
for it was a similar envelope, directed in the same writing, as that
which brought her the cheque for her quarterly allowance, which, as it
happened, was now a little overdue. She lingered, however, over the
letter--though it did enclose a cheque, which she took out and laid upon
the table--much longer than she was wont to linger over the letters of
Messrs. Fox and Round. She read it carefully over, and then she folded
it up, put it in its envelope, and poured out the coffee. But before she
touched her own cup, returned to the letter; took it once more from its
envelope, read it all over again, and put it back once more. Mab had a
little letter of her own to read, all about nothing, from a girl of her
own age, so that she did not for a minute or so observe these
proceedings of her mother. But she very soon did so, and divined not
only from them, but from the manner in which Lady William swallowed her
coffee and pushed away the innocent rolls on the table as if they had
done her some harm, that all was not as usual. When Lady William spoke,
however, it was in a voice elaborately calm.
‘Are you going out this morning, Mab?’
‘Yes, mother--I am going----’ Mab paused a moment. She had got up that
morning with her mind full of the weighty determination of last night;
but it seemed to her that if she said she was going to the school it
might partly betray the secret which was not hers, but which lay so
heavy on her soul. ‘I think,’ she went on, correcting herself, ‘I will
run over and see how they feel at the Rectory, now it’s over, about last
night. And I will probably look in at the school,’ she added, for to
have a secret from her mother was dreadful to her, ‘before I come back.’
‘If you are going to the Rectory,’ said Lady William, ‘tell your Uncle
James that I should like to see him, Mab.’
‘Yes, mother;’ but Mab could not help glancing aside at the letter with
an awakened interest, and wondering what Uncle James, so infrequent a
visitor on ordinary occasions, could be wanted for--again.
‘You are right, Mab,’ said her mother, ‘it is about business and about
this letter in particular. And if you can give him my message without
anybody else knowing, I shall be all the better pleased.’
‘Is it about--Uncle Reginald, mother?’
‘About Reginald! Oh no, you may make your mind easy. It is not about
Reginald. It is,’ she said, with a sudden desire for sympathy,
‘something much more important to you and me; but I cannot tell you
now,’ she added, remembering herself, ‘you will know of it all in time.’
‘Is it from Mr. Leo, mother?’ said Mab, growing very pale, and towering
over the table as she looked at her mother, with severity, yet terror,
as if she had suddenly grown a foot in stature. Lady William, altogether
engrossed in other thoughts, gave her a look of astonishment which was
balm to Mab’s soul.
‘From Leo!’ she said, amazed. ‘Why should it be from Leo? I told you,’
she said, with a little impatience, ‘that it was a letter of importance,
which none of his little communications could be. Tell your uncle,’ she
continued, falling into her usual tone, ‘that I have received a letter
on which I wish to consult him. Remember that I have no secrets,’ she
said, suddenly looking up; ‘I don’t want you to make a mystery; but if
you could see him--by himself, to give him my message----’
‘Oh yes, I can do that easily,’ said Mab, in the relief of her mind. ‘I
want to say something to him about Mrs. Brown.’
‘I must see this Mrs. Brown,’ said Lady William, with a smile. ‘She
seems to have a fascination for you, Mab.’
At this unexpected and most unintentional carrying of the war into her
own country Mab flushed crimson, and cried quickly: ‘Oh no, nothing of
the sort. I don’t even _like_ her. She is not like any one else I ever
saw.’
‘I must see her--one of these days,’ said Lady William vaguely: and then
the faint smile died off her face, and she turned to contemplate the
long blue letter which lay by her plate. It looked a dangerous thing
among the little inoffensive white and gray envelopes. Lady William’s
letters were chiefly gray, written upon that ugly paper which people,
and especially ladies, use out of economy, and which is one of the
additional (small) miseries of life.
Mab felt much ashamed of her foolish question as she went out, but hoped
her mother had forgotten, or had not attached any meaning to it. It was
all the fault of the horrid people who talked--as if there was anything
strange in Mr. Swinford’s visits. ‘Where else should he go?’ Mab said
indignantly to herself. ‘To the FitzStephens or the Kendalls, who are
six times as old as he is? or to the Rectory, where Aunt Jane would talk
to him all the time, and the girls never could get in a word? How
different mother is! I don’t think I have ever seen any one so nice as
mother! Well, of course, she is mother, which is a great thing in her
favour; but not, perhaps, in the way of society. Emmy and Florry are
very fond of Aunt Jane. She is very nice and kind if you are ill, and
all that; but I am sure they would rather talk a little themselves
sometimes, rather than just listen to her, especially when it is Mr.
Leo.’ This was the result of Mab’s unprejudiced observation, and she was
much ashamed of herself for having been moved to ask the very
inappropriate question which her mother had not paid any attention to,
thank heaven. Mab, as good luck would have it, met the Rector at his own
door, and conveyed her message in the most natural way in the world.
‘Mother would like to see you, Uncle James. Would you go into the
cottage as you pass? She has got a letter.’
‘Oh, she has got a letter?’ said the Rector.
Mab longed to say, ‘Not a letter from Leo Swinford, an important letter,
a letter about business,’ but she restrained her inclination. Probably
Uncle James had never thought upon that other subject. She went on
quickly to the Rectory, in order to carry out her own programme which
she had in a way bound herself to by announcing it to her mother. But
she did not find the girls at the Rectory very anxious to talk over the
events of the previous night. Mrs. Plowden, indeed, had no objection to
discuss it fully; but it was in its connection with Jim that she thought
of it most.
‘If it had not been for Jim,’ Mrs. Plowden said, ‘Mr. Osborne might just
have kept all his music and his things to himself. Oh yes, I daresay,
the FitzStephens, and Kendalls, and ourselves, and those people from the
villas would have come; but, as for the men from Riverside, they came
for Jim, not for him. And did you hear, Mab, what a noise they made with
their cheers and their clappings after Jim’s piece? They thought that
the gem of the whole evening. They came chiefly to hear that. As for Mr.
Osborne, with his little speeches and his fiddles from Winwick----’
‘Oh, mamma,’ cried Emmy, ‘the violins were a great treat. We have not
heard any music like that in Watcham for ever so long.’
‘Well, you may say what you like about fiddles,’ said the Rector’s wife,
‘but there’s always something a little like a village fair in them to
me. And the poor people were bored beyond anything. They liked your
songs, girls, and wanted to encore them if Mr. Osborne would have
allowed it; and they liked that piano bit, with the tunes from the
_Pinafore_. They understood that, and so do I, I allow; but what do they
care for a classical quartette? I don’t myself, and I know more about
music than they can be supposed to do. But a fine, stirring thing like
Jim’s “Ride to Aix”----’
‘It was Mr. Browning’s “Ride to Aix,” mamma.’
‘As if I did not know that! But, all the same, it was Jim’s ride to me.
Don’t you think he did it great justice, Mab? I never heard it come off
so well. The people were so attentive. That and the duets were certainly
the success of the evening; and what it would have been without them I
can’t tell.’
‘It would have been much more satisfactory without them, mamma,’ cried
Florry, half turning a shadowed countenance towards her mother. ‘Mr.
Osborne did not want mere amusement for the people--he wanted them to
take pledges, and turn from drinking. That was his object, don’t you
know--and a far better object than hearing two poor little country birds
like Emmy and me sing. And I approve of it,’ said Florence a little
loudly, as if she would have liked all the world to hear.
Mrs. Plowden looked at Mab and shrugged her shoulders behind her
daughter. ‘I can’t think what has come over Florry,’ she said. ‘She has
grown so domineering of late--I dare not say a word.’
What Mab thought was that poor Florry looked dark, and pale, and out of
heart--she seemed to be losing her good looks and her merry ways. It was
rare, very rare, when she put forth any of her old arts of mimicry which
the elders laughed yet pretended to frown at, and which all the young
ones delighted in; but I will not have it supposed that Mab was so
precocious as to divine what was the matter with Florence--for this, to
tell the truth, never came into her unconscious thoughts.
The Rector hurried along to see his sister after he had received Mab’s
message. He was anxious and disturbed about the state of affairs, and
very desirous to find some way of setting his poor Emily straight, and
making her independent, as she would be gloriously, did this great
fortune come to Mab. If, perhaps, he was at the same time not quite
sorry that she had been brought to see she was not so able to do
everything for herself as she supposed, and had it proved to her in the
most effectual way that to have respectable relatives to fall back upon
was the greatest blessing a woman could have, it was no more than
natural: and certainly above all, his desire was to be able to help her,
and ‘pull her through:’ but it would be uphill work he felt, and require
all the efforts that he himself could make. His brow was full of care
when he went into the room in which she sat expecting him; not, indeed,
looking so serious as he did, but, still, with work enough for all her
thoughts.
‘Well?’ he said, as he drew a chair opposite to her, and sat down on the
other side of the table at which she sat at her work. He bent forward
across this little table, fixing upon her a look of such solemnity that
Lady William’s first impulse (though, heaven knows, she was not in a
merry mood) was to laugh at his portentous looks, which would have been
very inappropriate and improper, and would have shocked Mr. Plowden more
than words could say. As she checked herself in this impulse there burst
from her instead something which was half a sob and half also a chuckle:
but he took it as a sob, which was much the best.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘my dear!’ putting his hand upon hers, ‘it can’t be
so bad as that you should cry about it. We will stick to you, whatever
happens. Come, Emily, take heart, take heart!’
‘I am not losing heart,’ she said. ‘I have expected it, you know. It is
a distinct demand for my certificates. And now the moment is come when I
must decide what to do.’
‘Is this the letter?’ he said. It was lying on the table between them,
and Mr. Plowden took it up and read it over with great care, making
little comments of distress with his tongue against his palate, ‘Tchich,
tchuch,’ as he did so. Lady William went on with her work, raising her
eyes to him from time to time as he read. His arrival and his tragic
looks had amused her for the moment, but those distressful, inarticulate
remarks acted after a while on her imagination and nerves.
‘You think it a very bad business, James? How I wish,’ she said, ‘that
John, who never was a friend of mine, could have lived for ever, or
carried his dirty money with him to the grave!’
‘I don’t think that is a very Christian wish, Emily.’
‘What, to wish him alive and in enjoyment of all he ever possessed?’
‘Oh, well, perhaps that is one way of looking at it,’ said the Rector,
‘but, my dear, the noble family to which in fact you belong----’
‘And which show their belief in me so nobly,’ said Lady William, this
time permitting herself to laugh.
‘The noble family to which you belong,’ repeated Mr. Plowden with a
little irritation, ‘will be very much benefited by this money. That nice
young Lord Will as good as said so: and your own daughter, Emily, if all
goes well, and we are able to establish your rights----’
‘If!----’ she cried, with a flash of her eyes which seemed for the
moment to set the room aflame.
‘You know what I mean. I at least have no doubt what your rights are:
the question now is what is the best thing to do.’
‘Yes,’ said Lady William, ‘we are in front of something definite at
last. I have done little but think about it, as you may suppose, ever
since you brought me that crushing news: and it seems to me that there
are several ways that are open to us: the first----’
‘Emily,’ said the Rector, ‘by far the best, and first step to take, in
my opinion, is to consult Perowne--which we should have done long ago.’
‘What could Mr. Perowne do? He could not rebuild the chapel and restore
the books and bring back poor Mr. Gepps to life again. He might put my
answer into formal words, but that is quite unnecessary. I have not the
least inclination to consult Mr. Perowne----’
‘Still, he must know how such things are managed better than we can do,’
murmured the Rector.
‘Such things--what things? You speak as if this was a common case.’
‘No, no, Emily, no, no----’
‘When it is, perhaps, such a case as never occurred before,’ she said.
‘I can answer these men formally to their questions, but to him I should
have to go into the whole matter, explaining everything from the first
step to the last. No, I will not ask Mr. Perowne for his opinion,’ she
said. Her countenance, naturally so soft in colour, was suffused with a
sudden flush. ‘Anything but that,’ she repeated, in almost an angry
tone.
It is so difficult to be purely business-like in matters where men and
women are concerned. Mr. Perowne, the ‘man of business’ employed by the
old Rector of Watcham, the father of Emily Plowden--had taken upon him
to admire that young lady, and to make certain overtures which were not
received graciously in the days that were gone. Lady William would
rather have died than disclose all the circumstances of her marriage, as
well as the possible doubt that might be thrown upon it, to her former
lover. It was no figure of speech to say this; she would rather have
died. But to her brother it all seemed very foolish, and to show an
arrogant confidence in her own judgment which he did not share.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘of course, it is your own business, and I cannot
interfere with you, Emily: but that lawyer should meet lawyer is surely
a much better way than that you should think you could encounter Messrs.
Fox and Round--who are, of course, experienced in all sorts of
villainy--in your own strength.’
‘It is a mere simple statement of fact that has to be made to them,’ she
said. ‘I will write and say I have no certificates, but that one person
is still alive who was present at my marriage if she can be found: and
that my father----’
‘For goodness’ sake!’ cried the Rector. ‘What, what do you mean--you are
going to show your hand at once to these men, and let them see that you
have no proof at all?’
‘My father’s diary is the best of evidence,’ she said. ‘The law is not
such a bugbear as you make it out to be. There must be some sense and
justice in it: my father’s word, a clergyman, and a man of honour----’
‘They may say it is a got-up thing, and what so easy as for me to write
that entry in an old book? I write very like my father.’
‘What folly, James! You! as little likely to cheat as my father, a
clergyman, and a man of honour too!’
‘We might say,’ said the Rector, ‘for I have been thinking it over too,
my dear Emily--that you were married at St. Alban’s Proprietary Chapel,
Backwood Street, Marylebone, on such a day and year, by the incumbent,
the Reverend T. I. Gepps: and leave it to them to got a copy of the
register for themselves--if they can,’ he added grimly. ‘The books, of
course, ought to have been saved, and perhaps some of them may be. It is
their business to find all that out.’
This specious suggestion staggered Lady William for the moment. ‘But
when they find out that the church is burnt, the book destroyed, and the
clergyman dead--which is a catastrophe almost too complete for the
theatre--they may think we have chosen the place on that account, and
that we mean fraud and nothing else.’
‘I,’ cried the Rector, ‘meaning fraud--and you! It would be just as easy
to suppose that I had forged the entry in my father’s diary. I hope we
are two honourable people.’
Lady William shook her head.
‘I hope so too: but I could not send them on such a wildgoose chase,
which would certainly harm us in the end, without letting them know the
truth.’
‘Oh, the truth,’ cried the Rector. ‘Isn’t it all the truth, both one
thing and the other? The truth is all very well and can’t be altered
were you to harp upon it for ever, but what they want and what we want
is the proof.’