When Mr. Osborne found himself alone--the impromptu committee which had
hastily discussed the emergency having melted away, with the
understanding that nothing could be done for this morning, that the
holiday must be permitted, and a more formal meeting held in the
afternoon at which some expedient might be settled upon--he stood for a
moment at the door of the schoolhouse looking out upon the emancipated
children, and making up his mind what to do. There was one thing very
clear, and that was that the Rector ought to know. The curate stood and
meditated with many things in his mind. He had not gone to the Rectory
for some weeks, not since that disastrous moment when Florence had
spoken her mind. His heart leaped up in his bosom, and began to beat in
a most wild, unclerical, and unjustifiable way, when he saw that it was
his duty to go now, and that there was no one else to do it for him. Jim
had gone off in attendance upon Lady William, which was wholly
unnecessary, seeing she had already her daughter and Swinford with her;
but the fact that he had gone was evident, and more immediately
important than to decide whether he had any right to go. And there was
nobody but the curate to fulfil this necessary duty. Miss Grey even, the
feminine curate, who ought to have been the first to undertake that
mission, had melted away with the rest, going off to her district--as if
her district for once could not wait! Mr. Osborne looked round him for
help, but found none. At last he buttoned up his coat, which was the
same as the Scriptural preparation of girding his loins, and went forth,
hesitating no longer, but walking with a firm foot, light and swift, up
the village street, resolved to do his duty. His duty was clearly to
beard the lion in his den: no, not the Rector--the Rector was no lion to
this critical young man: the lion whom he felt himself called upon to
beard was a person of very different appearance from that of the
respectable middle-aged clergyman who was Mr. Osborne’s ecclesiastical
superior, and whom, with the instinct of the new generation, the curate
was disposed to estimate lightly. It was a very different kind of lion
indeed--a lion probably in a white gown, with pretty brown locks a
little astray on her forehead, with a pair of mild brown eyes, that
could indeed shine with sacred fire, as when she dared to discourse to a
consecrated priest upon his duty--his duty! which was, first of all, by
all laws, both of Nature and the Church, to hold her in subjection and
ordain for her what she was to do--a case which she had taken upon
herself to reverse. It would be difficult to say why Mr. Osborne should
have concluded that this dangerous animal was the one he would see at
the Rectory and not the true spiritual ruler of the parish himself, or
even the ruler-ess, at whose pretensions the curate would have snapped
his fingers. No, curiously enough, it was of neither of these that he
thought. He felt absolutely certain, by what means I cannot tell, that
it was Florence he would see--Florence, who had so offended him that he
had all but insulted her sister and herself in the sight of the whole
parish about their duet: and now he would have to face her--probably
alone. To all ordinary calculations nothing could be more improbable
than this--that circumstances should conjoin in such a concatenation
accordingly as that nobody should be in the Rectory to receive Mr.
Osborne but Florence; that her father should be out--a man always in his
study till luncheon; and her mother out--a woman devoted to housekeeping
and the cares of her family; and even Emmy out, with whom Mr. Osborne
had no controversy. Only that spitfire, that little dictator, that
feminine meddler, who had taken upon her to give advice to a priest!
Such a contingency was not to be looked for by any of the laws of
probability; and yet Mr. Osborne felt certain this was how it would be.
His heart would not have beat so, his cheek taken such a colour, his
head been held so high, if it had been the Rector he expected to see. He
knew he should see _her_, and no one else; and he strode along
accordingly, with sensations which were somewhere between those which
moved David when he went out to meet Goliath and those which might be
supposed to inspire a Forlorn Hope.
He did, however, everything he could to persuade himself that, after
all, this was an ordinary visit upon parish business to the Rector. He
went in by the parish door, which, as has been said, was a swinging
door, always open in case any shy and shame-faced parishioner should
wish to communicate with the spiritual authorities; but Mr. Plowden was
not in his study, as Mr. Osborne foresaw. As he came out of that room,
pretending to himself that he was disappointed--which he was not--he met
one of the servants, who informed him (what he had discovered without
her aid) that her master was out, and missis was out, and Mr. Jim was
out, but she thought there was some one in the drawing-room, one of the
young ladies, if that would do. Mr. Osborne could not say to Mary Jane
_that_ that would not do, that it was the last thing he wished, though
he had been sure of it all along. All that he did was to nod his head
rather impatiently in reply, and push past Mary Jane. No, he would not
have himself announced by the maid, as if it were quite a usual matter.
He waved her away, and went on by himself and opened the drawing-room
door. How his heart beat, and what a wrathful shining was in his eyes!
And of course his previsions were quite true, true in every particular:
there she sat, looking as if--as if, according to the old wives, butter
would not melt in her mouth. Not with the air of a lion to be boarded in
his den. Oh no! much more like a lamb--in the white dress which (even
that detail!) the unfortunate curate had foreseen, looking so peaceable
and innocent, so--so--sweet, confound her! Oh no, the curate did not say
that. It is I who say it, in the impossibility of finding words to
express his sentiments. It all surged upon him now--much worse even than
he had expected! the abominable impertinence and presumption of her, the
sweetness of her, the everything he liked best, conjoined with that
intolerable something which he could not endure. Poor curate! He had
foreseen it all--but not so bad, not quite so bad as it turned out. She
was seated close by the window, at one side of the large table which had
been thrust into a corner, but not put away, as being so convenient for
work--with a good deal of white stuff about, cotton from which she was
cutting out various shapes, of which I do not pretend that Mr. Osborne
recognised more than the purpose of them, which was for the sewing class
evidently in the first place, and the comfort of its members after that.
A clergyman--if not celibate, which, perhaps, is the best--but Mr.
Osborne had regretfully allowed the difficulties of it some months
before this--could not well behold in visions a wife more suitably
employed. Florence was so busy that it did not occur to her to turn
round when the door opened. She was singing to herself in a sort of
undertone as she planned out, and pinned, and cut, not thinking of any
visitor. It piqued Mr. Osborne extremely, as if it were a special little
defiance thrown out at himself, that she should be singing at her work.
‘Miss Plowden,’ he said.
Oh, then he was revenged for the moment! Florence started so that she
nearly jumped from her chair, and the scissors with which she was
cutting out so carefully gave a long and jagged gash into the cotton
like a wound, and the cheeks and pretty white throat which were under
his gaze suddenly turned red to the edge of the white dress as if with
some relay dye.
‘Mr. Osborne!’ she said, with a half-terrified look.
‘I am afraid I startled you. I came to see the Rector--to tell him of a
most extraordinary incident.’
Florence uttered a quavering, troubled ‘O--oh!’ and then she said,
dropping her scissors, ‘I hope it is not bad news.’
‘Oh, not to any of us,’ said the curate hurriedly, ‘to the parish,
perhaps; but I am not even sure of that.’
When Florence heard it was only the parish that was threatened, she
calmed down immediately; her ‘O--oh!’ repeated, was in quite a different
tone. ‘My father is out,’ she said, ‘and so, I am afraid, are mamma and
Emmy. It is very seldom,’ said Florence, feeling herself almost on her
defence, ‘that I am the only one at home; but I can tell
papa--anything----’
Anything? How was it that it occurred to both of them instinctively that
there might be things which Florry could not tell papa--which it would
be Mr. Osborne’s duty to say in his own person? If there is anything
that it is specially embarrassing to think of, at any given moment,
that, one may be sure, is the thing that comes into one’s head.
Anything? If the curate wanted to ask Mr. Plowden for his daughter, for
example, which was a thing that did not seem unlikely some time ago,
though not now--oh, certainly, not now! This thought in all its
ramifications went like lightning through the minds of both, and made
each--thinking nothing could be further from the ideas of the
other--more confused than words can say.
‘It is to ask,’ said the curate, recovering himself, ‘that the Rector
would call together the education committee at once, if he does not
mind. A wonderful thing has occurred. The schoolmistress, without giving
any notice or warning, without a word to any one, has gone away. When
the children went to school this morning the door was locked, and she
was gone.’
‘The schoolmistress? Mrs. Brown?’
‘I don’t know how she was appointed,’ said the curate; ‘I was away at
the time for my holiday; nor who is responsible for her, nor what
recommendations she had. I had never any confidence in her, for my own
part. She did not at all seem fitted for such a sphere.’
Florence felt that this was an assault upon her father’s judgment, and
immediately stood to her guns.
‘She was an excellent teacher; the girls would do anything for her, and
the inspector said there was such an improvement.’
‘She was not a woman to have charge of the moral training of all those
girls.’
‘Oh, their moral training! But it was for the standards that she was
there.’
‘We need not quarrel over that,’ said the curate, as who should say, we
have plenty of subjects to quarrel upon, ‘the thing is that she is gone.
I was going to say bag and baggage; but that would not be correct, for
her boxes are left all fastened up--directed to a distant railway
station. She has not even left an address.’
‘How very odd!’ Florence said. And then there was a little pause: there
is nothing so dangerous as a pause in certain positions of affairs.
Mr. Osborne stood in front of the window, and when he came to the end of
a sentence looked out upon the garden. Florence, except when she was
speaking and was obliged to raise her eyes to him now and then, kept
them upon her work. She had not asked him to sit down--partly from
inadvertence, partly from embarrassment--and both of them cast furtive
glances at the gate, longing for somebody to come. Did they long for
somebody to come? At last the silence became so very appalling that
Florence rushed into it, not knowing what might come of that too
eloquent pause.
‘I am to tell papa that there is to be a meeting of the education----’
‘I hope you don’t think I would send my Rector a message like that?
That, if he thinks well, there ought, perhaps, to be a meeting--for
something must be done at once; the children are all about’--Mr. Osborne
added, sinking into a more confidential tone--‘we cannot keep the girls’
school shut.’
‘No,’ said Florence, ‘oh no; do you know of any one? There is Anderson’s
wife, the schoolmaster. He wanted her to get it, but now she has the
infant school. At the worst, don’t you think for a day or two we ladies,
perhaps? If you can’t hear of any one, I could take the reading and
spelling, and perhaps the writing. Having the copylines makes that easy,
though, of course, I don’t write well enough myself.’
‘You might do it, Miss Plowden; you don’t mind what trouble you put
yourself to--’ He had to pull up sharply, or he did not know what he
might have said. His voice began to grow rather soft in spite of
himself, which was a thing that could not be permitted to be. ‘We might
think of Mrs. Anderson,’ he said; ‘as for the other ladies, I don’t
think it would do. It is useless trusting to amateurs.’
‘Yes,’ said Florence, with humility. ‘I never thought, of course, that I
could be much good, or any of us, only for a stop-gap for the moment.
Mrs. Anderson would be the most hopeful thing, perhaps.’
‘I did not mean to imply that you would be no good. Quite the reverse. I
meant----’
‘Oh! I know, I know, Mr. Osborne,’ said Florry. ‘We need not stand upon
compliments; we are only trying to think what’s best for the children.’
That was all--what was best for the children--nothing more.
He stood looking out of the window, and Florence pinned her paper
patterns to new folds of the white cotton. And there was again a
pause--which Florry this time did not try to break. It was he who began.
‘Your brother,’ he said, suddenly but harshly, ‘was so good about that
ridiculous entertainment of mine; I should never have got those men to
come but for him.’
‘Jim?’ said Florence. ‘I am very glad; he liked to help; but I don’t see
why you should call it a ridiculous entertainment.’
‘I felt it so,’ cried the curate fiercely. ‘What is the good of such
attempts? Perhaps if they went on, like the public-house, every night, a
warm bright place, with ladies to sing, and----’
‘Dance!’ said Florry, with unsteady laughter, ‘as Miss Grey said. Well,
then, you must start a working-man’s club, Mr. Osborne, and then you can
have it every night, and there will always be a nice bright, light place
to sit in, and games, you know, and papers----’
‘And beer?’
‘I have heard people say,’ said Florence, ‘that it is best to let them
have whatever they would have if it was natural. But I am rather on your
side about that, and so is mamma.’
‘On my side?’ said the curate, with a faintness in his voice.
‘About the temperance. But, on the other hand, papa says it is not
having no beer, but having just as much as is good, that is temperance.’
‘None is good,’ cried Mr. Osborne impulsively.
‘Well,’ said Florence, with judicial calm, ‘I have said that I think I
am on your side.’
A pause again, and Florence went on with her work steadily. Nobody
came--the May sunshine fell over the lawn without a shadow to break it.
Would they never come back, Florry asked herself? And yet the present
situation was not without its charm. All his displeasure was oozing out
of his fingers’ ends, all his unwillingness to be dictated to by a girl.
He thought he would like it if she would dictate to him again, and tell
him what was his duty. No; he did not think this, he only felt it
vaguely--touched, he could not tell why, by her avowal of being on his
side. Was he not her spiritual superior, and was it not her duty, as
soon as she heard his sentiments on the subject, to be on his side? But
somehow he did not feel so sure of that position, and rather wanted to
hear her unbiassed opinion and what she would say.
‘Your brother has been a great help to me,’ he said again.
He would not for the world have reminded her of what she had said that
day. And, of course, she had said nothing in so many words about her
brother. He was by no means sure that it was not a mean thing thrusting
this forward to make her think she was obliged to him, but yet--when a
man is at his wits’ end, what can he say?
‘We have all been so glad to see that Jim was beginning--to take an
interest----’
‘And he knows so much,’ pursued the curate, ‘more than I do. If we were
to get up a club, he might do almost anything he pleased with the men. I
have to thank you, Miss Florence,’ he went on, finding as he proceeded
that it was necessary to be definite if he was to make any impression,
‘for giving me a hint----’
‘I don’t think I gave you any hint,’ said Florence, dropping her
scissors; while she stooped for them she went on, saying quickly: ‘We
know what we owe to you; we all feel it. One can’t talk of such things,
Mr. Osborne, and I was very bold and disagreeable once; but if you think
I don’t thank you from my heart----’
‘Florence!’ said the curate.
‘Oh, I don’t mind, call me whatever you like. You had a good right to be
angry, and I took a great deal, a very great deal upon me--but if you
knew how we all thanked you from the bottom of our hearts.’
‘Florence!’ the curate said again; he had got down on his knee on the
carpet to look for the scissors too--they were strange scissors to
disappear like that--scissors are not round things like a ring or a reel
of cotton to run into a corner; yet they eluded both these people who
were looking for them, and who, not finding them, suddenly somehow
looked at each other, probably for the first time since that day.
I think it highly probable that these young people forgot from that
moment that there was a girls’ school in Watcham at all, much more that
the mistress had ran away from it, or that there was any occasion for
moving heaven and earth, as Mr. Osborne had intended when he entered the
Rectory, to get a substitute for Mrs. Brown.
L
Mr. Osborne went off and had a long walk after this little scene, and
Florence retreated to her own room. Neither of them for that first hour
felt at all disposed to face the looks and possible inquiries of those
ridiculously composed and commonplace persons to whom nothing had
happened. The presence of these people surrounding them on every side,
prying at them, laughing or wondering, or making investigation into
their feelings, is at once a trouble and an astonishment to the hero and
heroine. On a day which is the beginning of a new life to them, to think
there should be so many in the world to whom it was only the fifteenth
of May. How grotesque it seems! Only a day like another to be written
down quite calmly as the date of their letters, and never thought of
more, just the same as the sixteenth or the twenty-second! There are so
many stupidities, so much that is dull and common in this life.
And in the afternoon there was that other event, so much less important,
but yet meaning much, in Lady William’s cottage. That the Rector, after
spending all the morning out of doors, should have gone out again in the
afternoon was a contrariety which Mr. Osborne for one could scarcely
believe. When he came back in the afternoon to see his chief and to tell
his tale, the curate’s face, on hearing that once more that chief was
out, was a study. Astonishment, annoyance, even displeasure were written
on it, as well as a subduing consciousness that Florence would laugh,
which Florence did accordingly with a strong inclination partially
mastered to mimic the curate to his face: an inclination which,
perhaps--who can tell?--if indulged in might have been too much for that
gentleman, though he was very much in love. She laughed, and explained
that poor papa could not mean any offence, seeing he was quite unaware
what great intimation was about to be made to him.
‘I tried to keep him,’ she said, ‘but he had business with Aunt Emily,
and frowned upon me when I tried to insinuate that there might be more
important business at home.’
Florence had come out to meet her curate at the gate. She put her hand
within his arm as they came together across the lawn, and as she said
these words she looked up into his face with so exact a representation
of the Rector’s frown, and his ‘Go away, child, don’t worry me with
nonsense,’ that Mr. Osborne, all grave, provoked, and half offended as
he was, could not help but laugh.
‘Florry, darling,’ he said, pressing her arm to his side, ‘it is very
funny--but when you are a clergyman’s wife, you know----’ Poor Florry
had not had the heart to mimic anybody since that April day: but now she
only laughed at the reproof: she was ready to have ‘taken off’ the
Archbishop of Canterbury had His Grace come in her way.
I need scarcely say that the sight of Florry coming across the lawn with
her arm within that of the curate, laughing and looking up at him, while
he looked down, and shook his head, and had the air of reproving, though
with a smile on his face, had the greatest effect upon the people in the
drawing-room who saw that scene from the windows.
‘Emmy--_Emmy!_’ cried Mrs. Plowden to her daughter, who was coming in
calmly with the basket of stockings to be darned--and as soon as Emmy
was within reach, her mother seized her by the skirts and pulled her
forward to the window. ‘What does that mean?’ cried the Rector’s wife.
Mrs. Plowden’s heart had leaped up into her throat, beating almost as
fast and as tumultuously as the curate’s heart had done when he stooped
down in that very spot to look for the scissors. ‘Tell me, _what_ does
_that_ mean?’ she said imperiously, while Emmy in consternation gazed
out, not knowing what to say.
‘Well, mamma, you are not angry, are you?’ said Emmy, with a sympathetic
jump of her heart, too.
‘Angry!’ said Mrs. Plowden, and began forthwith to cry; for though she
was fussy, and perhaps commonplace, she was a very devoted mother. And
there was not a word to be said against Mr. Osborne--he was tolerably
well off, well connected, likely to ‘get on,’ and an excellent young
man--almost too good, if a fault might be hinted; and Florry liked him;
and, crowning virtue of all, he had been kind to Jim. Afterwards, when
the little épanchement was over which followed on the entry of these two
evident lovers, after she had cried a good deal and laughed a little,
and given her consent and blessed them, and retired to see whether Mr.
Plowden had returned, followed by Emmy, who thought it would be well to
tell the cook to have some sally-luns for tea--Mrs. Plowden expressed
her sentiments more freely. ‘I should not like to marry him myself,’ she
said, ‘but since Florry likes it, and everything is so suitable, I feel
quite sure your father will be pleased.’
‘No,’ said Emmy thoughtfully, ‘he is very nice, but I should not like to
marry him.’ Which was just as well, probably, since there was no
possibility of anything of the kind. Emmy thought of Another, with whom
she thought Mr. Osborne could not bear comparison. But, alas! that
Other, it is to be feared, was quite as little likely to fall in Emmy’s
way.
The young pair walked over to Lady William’s cottage after a while, with
that satisfaction in communicating the fact of their happiness which is
natural to well-conditioned friendly young pairs. I am not myself sure
that Mr. Osborne, indeed, liked to be led, in triumph even to the house
of so near a relation, for he had a secret dread of ridicule, which gave
this young man a great deal of trouble. They met Mr. Swinford walking
away from the cottage with a grave face, accompanied by little Miss
Grey, who was full of excitement. I need not say that by this time, as
they walked along in full view of the village, Florence no longer hung
on the curate’s arm, as she had done while crossing the lawn at the
Rectory. On the contrary, they were walking very demurely side by side,
with the air of people who had met accidentally in the street and could
not help but walk together, little as they liked it, as they were going
the same way. Miss Grey’s chatter was audible almost before they came in
sight of her. Her countenance was wreathed in smiles, her old-fashioned
broad hat had got a little to one side, and looked more jaunty and
‘fast’ than the most fashionable headgear.
‘I could have told her years ago if I had thought it would be of any
consequence,’ Miss Grey was saying; and so much preoccupied was she,
that the unusual spectacle of the curate and Florence walking together,
although in the most austere manner, which would have excited her so
much on another occasion, did not even attract her observation now.
‘Has anything happened, Miss Grey?’ Florence asked demurely, with a
secret consciousness which made her heart dance, of all she had herself
to tell, and of the very great thing which had certainly happened, far
greater than anything else which could possibly have taken place in
Watcham. And Miss Grey remarked nothing! The young people gave a glance
of amazement at each other, and Miss Grey fell in the opinion of
both--but most in that of the curate, who had been so great a friend of
hers, and who felt that she ought to have divined him at the first
glance.
‘I should think, indeed, something has happened,’ cried Miss Grey. ‘I
have just been telling your dear aunt Emily, Lady William, that I was at
her marriage. And she is so pleased, it has been quite a little _fête_
for me. Think of Lady William, the darling, being so pleased that I was
there, and I always frightened she should find out, fearing she would
think it a liberty! I am sure I might have told her years ago if I had
thought she would have liked it. It made quite a little sensation, Mr.
Swinford can tell you. It agitated her a little, poor darling, to think
of that time at all; and yet she was so pleased.’
‘She never speaks of her marriage,’ said Florence carelessly. Oh! what
waste of sentiment to think of people making a fuss about a marriage of
twenty years ago when they might hear at first hand of one that was
going to be now!
‘No, she never speaks of it; and I had taken it into my head that she
did not like to go back upon it. We never knew him, and I don’t know why
people should have taken an unfavourable impression; but to see her
agitation and her change of colour when I spoke! Ah, my dear Florry,
there are many things in this world that are never thought of in our
philosophy! She must have been thinking of him many and many a day when
we thought there was no such thing in her mind.’
It surprised Miss Grey a little, it must be allowed, to see that the
curate stood by all this time, and did not stalk on about his business,
leaving Florry to go also her own way; and afterwards she thought of it
with a little surprise and a question to herself. But, in the meantime,
she was much more taken up with what was in her own mind.
‘I thought,’ cried Florry when they had passed on, ‘that we carried it
written all over us; and yet she never found out anything! Miss Grey,
too, who knows so many things.’
‘It proves,’ said the curate loftily, ‘how much more largely the most
trivial incident in our own experience bulks in our eyes than the
greatest event in another’s. I must say I am surprised that Miss Grey
should be so obtuse--Miss Grey, of all people in the world.’
He was perhaps, to tell the truth, a little offended, too.
They went into the cottage, where Lady William was in the course of
writing a letter, for which the Rector seemed to be waiting to give it
his approval. Lady William was writing hurriedly, sometimes pausing to
listen to something he said, but, I fear, not giving him the devoted
attention which the Rector felt that he merited. Mr. Osborne was not a
very common visitor at the cottage, and Lady William stopped her writing
to give him a reception a little more ceremonious than usual.
‘Will you excuse me for a moment,’ she said, ‘while I finish a letter?
It is an important one, which must be ready for this post, and my
brother must see it before it goes.’
And then there ensued a curious pause. Mab did her best to entertain the
visitors, discoursing to them on what she in her innocence still
believed to be the principal event of the day--for Miss Grey’s
revelation did not strike Mab as particularly exciting, and she had
thought her mother’s interest in it quite out of proportion with the
importance of the subject. And she felt the appearance of Florence and
the curate together to be another proof of the momentous nature of the
morning’s event; for what could have brought them here but a desire to
settle about Mrs. Brown’s successor? So Mab began, thinking, no doubt,
this was the chief matter in their thoughts, to talk of Mrs. Brown.
‘I was there yesterday,’ she said, ‘she might have given me a hint. I
was there almost all the morning; the afternoon was a half-holiday. She
might have said she was going away.’
‘My dear,’ cried Florry, a little impatient, ‘if she had intended to
tell, there were other people whom she was more likely to tell than
you.’
‘She told me a great many things,’ said Mab, ‘and I was interested in
her. But, Mr. Osborne, there is a very nice girl, who was a pupil
teacher, in one of the houses down by Riverside. She would do very well
till you can get somebody, if you like to try her. I meant to have told
Uncle James, but Uncle James is so full of that business of mother’s.’
‘Just as you are about the schoolmistress, Mab,’ said Florence, with a
laugh.
Mr. Osborne did not make any remark, but he, too, thought--to fuss about
Lady William’s business, whatever it might be, to make a commotion about
the very ordinary and commonplace fact that Miss Grey had been present
at a certain wedding twenty years ago--what a waste of emotion, what
folly it was, when there was here, waiting for the telling, a piece of
news so much more interesting! He exchanged a glance with Florence, and
they both laughed at human absurdity and the blindness even of fathers
and aunts, the latter especially, who are supposed to have an eye for
events of the kind of which these two were so conscious. And then that
everlasting affair about the schoolmistress! To be sure, somebody must
be found and something done; but to thrust it upon them now!
Lady William had finished the letter, which was the one she had begun in
the morning with the admission which Mr. Plowden thought so rash of the
burning down of the chapel. She had struck out the line in which she
said ‘one witness of my marriage is alive, but----.’ What she wrote was
as follows:
‘There are two witnesses of my marriage alive, one Miss Grey, The Nook,
Watcham, who will make an affidavit, or see anybody you may send to take
her evidence; the other, Mrs. Artémise Mansfield. I do not know at this
present moment where to find the latter, but she will appear if
necessary. There is also a record in a diary of my father’s which I am
told would hold good in law----’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Plowden doubtfully, ‘I suppose that is all right, Emily;
Miss Grey’s evidence, of course, makes all the difference. Still, I
can’t see why you should be so anxious to confess to them that the
chapel is burnt down.’
‘They would discover that fact themselves: and they might think we knew
it all the time, and had chosen that place on purpose to have a good
excuse.’
‘Who is thinking ill of her fellow-creatures now?’ said the Rector.
‘Yes, yes, I suppose it will do--with my father’s diary and Miss Grey to
back you up, you may say anything you please. Yes, I think you may send
it, and I think I may congratulate Mab now. Yes, I believe we may allow
ourselves to think that it is all right now.’ He watched while Lady
William folded up and put the letter into its envelope. ‘Yes, yes,’ he
said, so as to be heard by all, ‘this has been a very interesting day.
There was first that untoward act of the schoolmistress going
away--which indeed I must not call untoward, for she was not the sort of
person for the place: but that also had to do with you, Emily: and then
the quite unhoped-for, unthought-of discovery that Miss Grey had gone to
see you married in such an easy, natural way; and then the great fact,
to be announced to-day for the first time, that little Mab is an
heiress. Do you hear, Florry? Could you have believed such a thing? The
finest piece of news! that our little Mab is an heiress. She has come
into a great deal of money. She will be able to take her proper
position, which is far better than anything we can give her in Watcham.
Mab,’ said the Rector, rising up and looking round him, as he had a way
of doing when addressing a much larger audience, ‘has come into a
fortune of fifty thousand pounds--as to-day.’
A little shriek broke from Florence--it came against her will. It was
not wonder and sympathy, as might have been expected from her, but an
intolerable sense of the contrariety and distraction of things. ‘Oh,
papa!’ There was a protest in it against Mab, Mab’s mother, and all that
could happen to those secondary persons. What did anything matter in
comparison with what she herself had to tell? And they were all in a
conspiracy against her to prevent her from getting it out!
At last, however, there arrived a crisis, as the Rector got his hat and
prepared to go away. The curate rose, too.
‘I’ll go with you, if you will permit me. There is something I want to
talk to you about,’ said Mr. Osborne, with a visible blush, which Lady
William, looking suddenly up, caught, and started a little to behold,
feeling for the first time some thrill in the air of the new thing.
‘Oh yes, to be sure, the schoolmistress,’ the Rector said. He gave a
little sigh of impatience. ‘To be sure, that is a thing that must be
attended to,’ he said.
‘No, it is not the schoolmistress. It is something much more important,’
said Mr. Osborne, at the end of his patience. There was something in the
tone of his voice this time which made them all look up.
‘Ah?’ said Mr. Plowden, half alarmed.
‘Oh!’ said Lady William, sitting upright, bending forward to catch the
new light. Mab did not say anything, but her eyes turned upon Florence
with a certain illumination too. Florence, excited, exasperated, and
worn out with the suspense which had been so little expected, was on the
point of bursting into tears. Mr. Osborne took her hand, and pressed it
so that she gave another little shriek of excitement and almost pain, as
he followed the Rector out; and there was Florence left half sobbing,
angry, full of the news which was so much greater than any of the
others--even Mab’s fortune, which she did not in the least believe
in--which nobody would take the trouble to understand.
‘Florry, dear child, what is this?’ cried Lady William, while the big
steps of the gentlemen were heard, one following the other, from the
door.
‘Oh, what does it matter?’ cried Florry, ‘you are all so full of your
own affairs. We came to tell you, thinking you would be interested; but
you would not let us speak; and to see papa standing there talking about
the finest piece of news! “Mab, our little Mab, is an heiress,”’ cried
the irreverent girl, getting up and looting round exactly as he had
done, and with all his solemnity, ‘“Mab has come into a fortune.”’
‘Florry, Florry, spare your father!’ cried Lady William, with an
irrepressible laugh.
And then Florry, who, notwithstanding her white frock, and her agitated
heart, and her girl’s face, had been the Rev. James Plowden in person
for one malicious, humorous, angry moment, dropped into her chair and
fell a-crying in her own character and no other.
‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘to think that you should be so stupid, Aunt Emily, you
that always see everything. When we came expressly to tell you! Good
gracious, what are fortunes, or schoolmistresses, or Miss Greys, or
anything, in comparison with it being all right, all right and
everything settled between Edward and me?’