The letter to Lord Seely was duly written, and this time in Castalia's own words. Algernon refused to assist her in the composition of it, saying, in answer to her appeals, "No, no, Cassy; I shall make no suggestion whatsoever. I don't choose to expose myself to any more grandiloquence from your uncle about letters being 'written by your hand, but not dictated by your head.' I wonder at my lord talking such high-flown stuff. But pomposity is his master weakness."
Castalia's letter was as follows:
"Whitford, November 23rd."Dear Uncle Val,—I am sure you will understand that I was very much surprised and hurt at the tone of your last letter to Ancram. Of course, if you have not the money to help us with, you cannot lend it. And I don't complain of that. But I was vexed at the way you wrote to Ancram. You won't think me ungrateful to you. I know how good you have always been to me, and I am fonder of you than of anybody in the world except Ancram. But nobody can be unkind to him without hurting me, and I shall always resent any slight to him. But I am writing now to ask you something that 'I wish for very much myself;' it is quite my own desire. I am not at all happy in this place. And I want you to get Ancram a berth somewhere in the Colonies, quite away. It is no use changing from one town in England to another. What we want is to get 'far away,' and put the seas between us and all the odious people here. I am sure you might get us something if you would try. I assure you Ancram is perfectly wasted in this hole. Any stupid grocer or tallow-chandler could do what he has to do. Do, dear Uncle Val, try to help us in this. Indeed I shall never be happy in Whitford.—Your affectionate niece,"C. Errington."Give my love to Aunt Belinda if she cares to have it. But I daresay she won't.—C. E."
"Whitford, November 23rd.
"Dear Uncle Val,—I am sure you will understand that I was very much surprised and hurt at the tone of your last letter to Ancram. Of course, if you have not the money to help us with, you cannot lend it. And I don't complain of that. But I was vexed at the way you wrote to Ancram. You won't think me ungrateful to you. I know how good you have always been to me, and I am fonder of you than of anybody in the world except Ancram. But nobody can be unkind to him without hurting me, and I shall always resent any slight to him. But I am writing now to ask you something that 'I wish for very much myself;' it is quite my own desire. I am not at all happy in this place. And I want you to get Ancram a berth somewhere in the Colonies, quite away. It is no use changing from one town in England to another. What we want is to get 'far away,' and put the seas between us and all the odious people here. I am sure you might get us something if you would try. I assure you Ancram is perfectly wasted in this hole. Any stupid grocer or tallow-chandler could do what he has to do. Do, dear Uncle Val, try to help us in this. Indeed I shall never be happy in Whitford.—Your affectionate niece,
"C. Errington.
"Give my love to Aunt Belinda if she cares to have it. But I daresay she won't.—C. E."
"I think my lord will not doubt the genuineness of that epistle!" thought Algernon, after having read it at his wife's request.
Then the fly was announced, and they set off together to pass the evening at the elder Mrs. Errington's lodgings. The "Blue Bell" driver touched his hat in a very respectful manner. His master's long-standing account was unpaid, but he continued to receive, for his part, frequent half-crowns from Algernon, who liked the immediate popularity to be purchased by a gift somewhat out of proportion to his means. Indeed, our young friend enjoyed a better reputation amongst menials and underlings than amongst their employers. The former were apt to speak of him as a pleasant gentleman who was free with his money; and to declare that they felt as if they could do anything for young Mr. Errington, so they could! He had such a way with him! Whereas the mere payment of humdrum debts excites no such agreeable glow of feeling, and is altogether a flat, stale, and unprofitable proceeding.
"What o'clock shall we say, Castalia?" asked her husband, as they alighted at Mrs. Thimbleby's door.
"Tell him to come at half-past ten," returned Castalia.
It chanced that David Powell was re-entering his lodgings at the moment the younger Erringtons reached the door. He stood aside to let the lady pass into the house before him, and thus heard her answer. The sound of her voice made him start and bend forward to look at her face when the light from the open door fell upon it. She turned round at the same instant, and the two looked full at each other. David Powell asked Mrs. Thimbleby if that lady were not the wife of Mr. Algernon Errington.
"Yes, Mr. Powell, she is his wife; and more's the pity, if all tales be true!"
"Judge not uncharitably, sister Thimbleby! Nor let your tongue belie the gentleness of your spirit. It is an unruly member that speaks not always out of the fulness of the heart. The lady seems very sick, and bears the traces of much sorrow on her countenance."
"Oh yes, indeed, poor thing! Sickly enough she looks, and sorry. Nay, I daresay she has her own trials, but I fear me she leads that pleasant young husband of hers a poor life of it. I shouldn't say as much to anyone but you, sir, for I do try to keep my tongue from evil-speaking. But had you never seen her before, Mr. Powell?"
Powell answered musingly, "N—no—scarcely seen her. But I had heard her voice."
Mrs. Errington received her son and daughter-in-law with an effusive welcome. She was so astonished; so delighted. It was so long since she had seen them. And then to see them together! That had latterly become quite a rare treat. The good lady expatiated on this theme until Castalia's brow grew gloomy with the recollection of her wrongs, her solitary hours spent so drearily, and her suspicions as to how her husband employed the hours of his absence from her. And then Mrs. Errington began playfully to reprove her for being dull and silent, instead of enjoying dear Algy's society now that she had it! "I am sure, my dear Castalia," said the elder lady with her usual self-complacent stateliness, "you won't mind my telling you that I consider one of the great secrets of the perfect felicity I enjoyed during my married life to have been the interest and pleasure I always took—and showed that I took—in Dr. Errington's society."
"Perhaps he liked your society," returned Castalia with a languid sneer, followed by a short bitter sigh.
"Preferred it to any in the world, my dear!" said Mrs. Errington, mellifluously. She said it, too, with anaplomband an air of conviction that mightily tickled Algernon, who, remembering the family rumours which haunted his childhood, thought that his respected father, if he preferred his wife's society to any other, must have put a considerable constraint on his inclinations, not to say sacrificed them altogether to the claims of a convivial circle of friends. "The dear old lady is as good as a play!" thought he. Indeed, he thoroughly relished this bit of domestic comedy.
"But then," proceeded Mrs. Errington, as she rang the bell to order tea, "I have not the vanity to suppose that he would have done so without the exercise of some little care and tact on my part. Tact, my dear Castalia—tact is the most precious gift a wife can bring to the domestic circle. But the Ancrams always had enormous tact—Give us some tea, if you please, Mrs. Thimbleby, and be careful that the water boils—proverbial for it, in fact!"
Algernon thought it time to come to the rescue. He did not choose his comfort to be destroyed by a passage of arms between his mother and his wife, so he deftly turned the conversation to less dangerous topics, and things proceeded peacefully until the tea was served.
"Who was that man that was coming in to the house with us?" asked Castalia, as she sipped her tea from one of Mrs. Errington's antique blue and white china cups.
"Would it be Mr. Diamond——? But no; you know him by sight. Or—oh, I suppose it was that Methodist preacher, Powell!"
"Powell! Yes, that was the name—David Powell."
"Most likely. He is in and out at all hours. Really, Algernon, do you know—you remember the fellow, how he used to annoy us at Maxfield's. Well, do you know, I believe he is quite crazy!"
"You have always entertained that opinion, I believe, ma'am."
"Oh, but, my dear boy, I think he is demented in real downright earnest now. I do indeed. I'm sure the things that poor weak-minded Mrs. Thimbleby tells me about him——! He has delusions of all kinds; hears voices, sees visions. I should say it is a case of what your father would have called 'melancholy madness.' Really, Algy, I frequently think about it. It is quite alarming sometimes in the night if I happen to wake up, to remember that there is a lunatic sleeping overhead. You know he might take it into his head to murder one! Or if he only killed himself—which is perhaps more likely—it would be a highly unpleasant circumstance. I could not possibly remain in the lodgings, you know. Out of the question! And so I told that silly Thimbleby. I said to her, 'Observe, Mrs. Thimbleby, if any dreadful thing happens in this house—a suicide or anything of that sort—I shall leave you at an hour's notice. I wish you well, and I have no desire to withdraw my patronage from you, but you could not expect me to look over a coroner's inquest.'"
Algernon threw his head back and laughed heartily. "That was a fair warning, at any rate!" said he. "And if Mr. David Powell has any consideration for his landlady, he will profit by it—that is to say, supposing Mrs. Thimbleby tells him of it. What did she say?"
"Oh, she merely cried and whimpered, and hid her face in her apron. She is terribly weak-minded, poor creature."
Castalia had been listening in silence. All at once she said, "How many miserable people there are!"
"Very true, Cassy; provincial postmasters and others. And part of my miserable lot is to go down to the office again for an hour to-night."
"My poor boy!" "Go to the office again to-night?" exclaimed his mother and his wife simultaneously.
"Yes; it is now half-past eight. I have an appointment. At least—I shall be back in an hour, I have no doubt."
Algernon walked off with an air of good-humoured resignation, smiling and shrugging his shoulders. The two women, left alone together, took his departure very differently. Mrs. Errington was majestically wrathful with a system of things which involved so much discomfort to a scion of the house of Ancram. She was of opinion that some strong representations should be made to the ministry; that Parliament should be appealed to. And she rather enjoyed her own eloquence, and was led on by it to make some most astounding assertions, and utter some scathing condemnations with an air of comfortable self-satisfaction. Castalia, on the other hand, remained gloomily taciturn, huddled into an easy-chair by the hearth, and staring fixedly at the fire.
It has been recorded in these pages that Mrs. Errington did not much object to silence on the part of her companion for the time being; she only required an assenting or admiring interjection now and then, to enable her to carry on what she supposed to be a very agreeable conversation, but she did like her confidante to do that much towards social intercourse. And she liked, moreover, to see some look of pleasure, interest, or sympathy on the confidante's face. Looking at Castalia's moody and abstracted countenance, she could not but remember the gentle listener in whom she had been wont for so many years to find a sweet response to all her utterances.
"Oddly enough," she said, "I have been disappointed of a visitor this evening, and so should have been quite alone if you and Algy had not come in. I had asked Rhoda to spend the evening with me."
Castalia looked round at the sound of that name. "Why didn't she come?" she asked abruptly.
"Oh, I don't know. She merely said she could not leave home to-night. That old father of hers sometimes takes tyrannical fancies into his head. He has been kinder to dear Rhoda of late, and has treated her more becomingly—chiefly, I believe I may say, owing to my influence, although the old booby chose to quarrel with me—but when he takes a thing into his head he is as obstinate as a mule."
"I don't know about treating her 'becomingly,' but I think she needs some one to look after her and keep her in check."
"Who, Rhoda? My dear Castalia, she is the very sweetest-tempered creature I ever met with in my life; and that is saying a good deal, let me tell you, for the Ancram temper was something quite special. A gift. I don't boast of it, because I believe it was simply constitutional. But such was the fact."
"The girl is dressed up beyond her station. The last time I saw her it was absurd. Scarcely reputable, I should think."
Mrs. Errington by no means liked this attack. Over and above the fact that Rhoda was her pet and herprotégée, which would have sufficed to make any animadversions on her appear impertinent, she was genuinely fond of the girl, and answered with some warmth, "I am sure, Castalia, that whatever Rhoda Maxfield might be dressed in, she would look modest and sweet, not to say excessively pretty, for I suppose there cannot be a doubt about that?"
"I thought you were a stickler for people keeping to their own station, and not aping their betters!"
"We must distinguish, Castalia. Birth will ever be with me the first consideration. Coming of the race I do, it could not be otherwise. But it is useless to shut one's eyes to the fact that money nowadays will do much. Look at our best families!—families of lineage as good as my own. What do we see? We see them allying themselves with commercial people right and left. Now, there was Miss Pickleham. The way in which she was thrown at Algy's head would surprise you. She had a hundred thousand pounds of her own on the day she married, and expectations of much more on old Picklekam's decease. But I never encouraged the thing. Perhaps I was wrong. However!—she married Sir Peregrine Puffin last season. And the Puffins were in Cornwall before the Conquest."
Castalia shrugged her shoulders in undisguised scorn. "All that nonsense is nothing to the purpose," said she, throwing her head back against the cushion of the chair she sat on. Mrs. Errington opened her blue eyes to their widest extent. "Really, Castalia! 'All that nonsense!' You are not very polite."
"I'm sick of all the pretences, and shams, and deceptions," returned Castalia, her eyes glittering feverishly, and her thin fingers twining themselves together with nervous restlessness. "I don't know whether you are made a fool of yourself, or are trying to make a fool of me——"
"Castalia!"
"But, in either case, I am not duped. Your 'sweet Rhoda!' Don't you know that she is an artful, false coquette—perhaps worse!"
"Castalia!"
"Yes, worse. Why should she not be as bad as any other low-bred creature who lures on gentlemen to make love to her? Men are such idiots! So false and fickle! But, though I may be injured and insulted, I will not be laughed at for a dupe."
"Good heavens, Castalia! What does this mean?"
"And I will tell you another thing, if you really are so blind to what goes on, and has been going on, for years: I don't believe Ancram has gone to the post-office to-night at all. I believe he has gone to see Rhoda. It would not be the first time he has deceived me on that score!"
Mrs. Errington sat holding the arms of her easy-chair with both hands, and staring at her daughter-in-law. The poor lady felt as if the world were turned upside down. It was not so long since old Maxfield had astonished her by plainly showing that he thought her of no importance, and choosing to turn her out of his house. And now, here was Castalia conducting herself in a still more amazing manner. Whilst she revolved the case in her brain—much confused and bewildered as that organ was—and endeavoured to come to some clear opinion on it, the younger woman got up and walked up and down the room with the restless, aimless, anxious gait of a caged animal.
At length Mrs. Errington slowly nodded her head two or three times, drew a long breath, folded her hands, and, assuming a judicial air, spoke as follows:
"My dear Castalia! I shall overlook the unbecomingness of certain expressions that you have used towards myself, because I can make allowance for an excited state of feeling. But you must permit me to give you a little advice. Endeavour to control yourself; try to look at things with calmness and judgment, and you will soon perceive how wrong and foolish your present conduct is. And, moreover, you need not be startled if I have discovered the real motive at the bottom of all this display of temper. There never was a member of my family yet who had not a wonderful gift of reading motives. I'm sure it is nothing to envy us! I have often, for my own part, wished myself as slow of perception as other people, for the truth is not always pleasant. But I must say that I can see one thing very plainly—and that is, that you are most unfortunately and most unreasonably giving way to jealousy! I can see it, Castalia, as plain as possible."
Mrs. Errington had finished her harangue with much majesty, bringing out the closing sentences as if they were a most unexpected and powerful climax, when the effect of the whole was marred by her giving a violent start and exclaiming, with more naturalness than dignity, "Mercy on us! Castalia, what will you do next? Do shut that window, for pity's sake! I shall get my death of cold!"
Castalia had opened the window, and was leaning out of it, regardless of the sleet which fell in slanting lines and beat against her cheek. "I knew that was his step," she said, speaking, as it seemed, more to herself than to her mother-in-law. "And he has no umbrella, and those light shoes on!" She ran to the fireplace and stirred the fire into a blaze, displaying an activity which was singularly contrasted with her usual languid slowness of movement. "Can't you give him some hot wine and water?" she asked, ringing the bell at the same time. When her husband came in she removed his damp great-coat with her own hands, made him sit down near the fire, and brought him a pair of his mother's slippers, which were quite sufficiently roomy to admit his slender feet. Algernon submitted to be thus cherished and taken care of, declaring, with an amused smile, as he sipped the hot negus, that this fuss was very kind, but entirely unnecessary, as he had not been three minutes in the rain.
As to Mrs. Errington, she was so perplexed by her daughter-in-law's sudden change of mood and manner, that she lost her presence of mind, and remained gazing from Algernon to his wife very blankly. "I never knew such a thing!" thought the good lady. "One moment she's raging and scolding, and abusing her husband for deceiving her, and the next she is petting him up as if he was a baby!"
When the fly was announced, and Castalia left the little drawing-room to put on her cloak and bonnet, Mrs. Errington drew near to her son and whispered to him solemnly, "Algy, there is something very strange about your wife. I never saw such a changed creature within the last few weeks. Don't you think you should have some one to see her?—some professional person I mean? I fear that her brain is affected!"
"Good gracious, mother! Another lunatic? You are getting to have a monomania on that subject yourself!" Algernon laughed as he said it.
"My dear, there may be two persons afflicted in the same way, may there not? But I said nothing about lunatics, Algy. Only—really, I think some temporary disturbance of the brain is going on. I do, indeed."
"Pooh, pooh! Nonsense, ma'am! But it is odd enough that you are the second person who has made that agreeable suggestion to me within a fortnight. Poor Cassy! That's all she gets by her airs and her temper."
"Another person, was there?"
"Yes; it was little Miss Chubb, and——"
"Miss Chubb! Upon my word, I think that Miss Chubb was guilty of taking a considerable liberty in suggesting anything of the kind about the Honourable Mrs. Ancram Errington!"
"Oh, I don't know about liberty; but, of course, I laughed at her; and, of course, you will too, if she says anything of the kind to you."
"I shall undoubtedly check her pretty severely if she attempts anything of the sort with me! Miss Chubb, indeed!"
The consequence was, that Mrs. Errington went about among her Whitford friends elaborately contradicting and denying "the innuendos spread abroad about her daughter-in-law by certain presumptuous and gossiping persons;" and thus brought the suggestion before many who would not otherwise have heard of it. All which, of course, surprised and annoyed Algernon very much, who had, naturally, not expected anything of the sort from his mother's well-known tact and discretion.
One dreary Sunday afternoon, about this time—that is to say, about the end of November—Matthew Diamond rang at the bell of Mr. Maxfield's door. He had a couple of books under his arm, and he asked the servant, who admitted him, if she could give him back the volume he had last lent to Miss Maxfield. Sally looked askance at the books as she took them from his hand, and shook her head doubtfully.
"It's one o' them French books, isn't it, sir? I don't know one from another. Would you please step upstairs yourself? Miss Rhoda's in the drawing-room."
Diamond went upstairs and tapped at the door of the sitting-room.
"Come in," said a soft, sweet voice, that seemed to him the most deliciously musical he had ever heard, and he entered.
The old room looked very different from what it had looked in the days when Matthew Diamond used to come there to read Latin and history with Algernon Errington. There were still the clumsy beams in the low ceiling, and the old-fashioned cushioned seats in the bay-window, but everything else was changed. A rich carpet covered the floor; there were handsome hangings, and a couch, and a French clock on the chimney-piece; there was a small pianoforte in the room, too; and, at one end, a bookcase well filled with gaily-bound books. These things were the products of old Max's money. But there were evidences about the place of taste and refinement, which were due entirely to Rhoda. She had got a stand of hyacinths like those in Miss Bodkin's room. She had softened and hidden the glare of the bright, brand-new upholstery by dainty bits of lacework spread over the couch and the chairs; and she had, with some difficulty, persuaded her father to substitute for two staring coloured French lithographs, which had decked the walls, a couple of good engravings after Italian pictures. There was a fire glowing redly in the grate, and the room was warm and fragrant. Rhoda was curled up on the window-seat, with a book in her hand, and bending down her pretty head over it, until the soft brown curls swept the page.
Diamond stood still for a moment in the doorway, admiring the graceful figure well defined against the light.
"Come in, Sally," said Rhoda. And then she looked up from her book and saw him.
"I'm afraid I disturb you!" said Diamond. "But the maid told me to come up."
"Oh no! I was just reading——"
"Straining your eyes by this twilight! That's very wrong."
"Yes! I'm afraid it is not very wise, but I wanted to finish the chapter; and my eyes are really very strong."
"I thought you might be at church," said Diamond, seating himself on the opposite side of the bay-window, and within its recess, "so I asked the maid to get me the book I wanted. But she sent me upstairs."
"Aunt Betty is at church, and James; but father wouldn't let me go. He said it was so raw and foggy, and I had been to church this morning."
"Yes; I saw you there. But have you not been well, that your father did not wish you to go out?"
"Oh yes; I'm very well, thank you. But I had a little cold last week; and I should have had to walk to St. Chad's and back, you know. Father doesn't think it right to drive on the Lord's day, so he made me stay at home."
"How very right of him! What were you reading?"
He drew a little nearer to her as he asked the question, and looked at the book she held.
"Oh, it's a Sunday book," said Rhoda, simply. "'The Pilgrim's Progress.' I like it very much."
"I wonder whether you will care to hear of some good news I had to-day?"
"Oh yes; I shall be very glad to hear it."
"I think I stand a good chance of getting the head-mastership of Dorrington Proprietary School. Dorrington is in the next county, you know."
"Oh! I'm very glad."
"It would be a very good position. I am not certain of it yet, you know; but Dr. Bodkin has been very friendly, and has promised to canvass the governing committee for me."
"Oh! I'm very glad indeed."
"I don't know yet myself whether I am very glad or not."
"Don't you?"
Rhoda looked up at him in genuine surprise; but her eyes fell before the answering look they encountered, and she blushed from brow to chin.
"No; it all depends on you, Rhoda, whether I am glad of it to the bottom of my heart, or whether I give it all up as a thing not worth striving for."
There was a pause, which Rhoda broke at length, because the silence embarrassed her unendurably.
"Oh, I don't think it can depend upon me, Mr. Diamond," she said, speaking in a little quivering voice that was barely audible; whilst, at the same time, she hurriedly turned over the pages of "The Pilgrim's Progress" with her eyes fixed on them, although she assuredly did not see one letter. Diamond gently drew the book from her hand and took the hand in his own.
"Yes, Rhoda," he said—and, having once called her so, his lips seemed to dwell lovingly on the sound of her name—"I think you do know! You must know that, if I look forward hopefully and happily to anything in my future life, it is only because I have a hope that you may be able to love me a little. I love you so much."
She trembled violently, but did not withdraw her hand from his clasp. She sat quite still with downcast eyes, neither moving nor looking to the right or the left.
"Rhoda! Rhoda! Won't you say one word to me?"
"I'm trying—thinking what I ought to say,'" she answered, almost in a whisper.
"Is it so difficult, Rhoda?"
She made a strong effort to command her voice, but she had not the courage to look full at him as she answered, "Yes; it is very difficult for me. I want to do right, Mr. Diamond. I want not to deceive you."
"I am very sure that you will not deceive me, Rhoda!"
"Not if I can help it. But it is so hard to say just the exact truth."
"I don't find it hard to say the exact truth to you. You may believe me implicitly, Rhoda, when I say that I love you with all my heart, and will do my best to make you happy if you will let me."
"I do believe you. I believe you are really fond of me. Only—of course you are much cleverer and wiser than I am, except in thinking too much of me—and you can say just whatever is in your mind. But I can't; not all at once."
"I will wait, Rhoda. I will have patience, and not distress you."
The tears were falling down her cheeks now, not from sorrow, but from sheer agitation. She thanked him by a gesture of her head, and drew her hand away from his very gently, and wiped her eyes. He could not command himself at sight of her tears, although he had resolved not to speak again until she should be calm and ready to hear him.
"My darling," he said, clasping his hands together and looking at her with eyes full of anxious compassion, "don't cry! Is it my fault? You must have had some knowledge of what was in my heart to say to you! I have not startled you and taken you by surprise?"
"No; that's just it, Mr. Diamond. It's that that makes me feel so afraid of doing wrong and deceiving you. I—I—have thought for some time past that you were getting to like me very much. Some one said so too. But yet I couldn't do anything, could I? I couldn't say, 'Don't get fond of me, Mr. Diamond!'"
"It would have been quite in vain to say, 'Don't get fond of me.' I'm a desperately obstinate man, Rhoda!"
"So then I—I mean to tell you the exact truth, you know, as well as I can. I began to think whether I liked you very much."
"Well, Rhoda?"
There was a rather long silence.
"Well, I thought—yes, I did."
He clasped his arms round her with a sudden impetuous movement, but she held him off with her two hands on his shoulders. "No, but please listen! I did love somebody else once very much. Of course we were very young, and it was nonsense. But I did wrong in being secret, and keeping it from father. And I never want to be secret any more. And—though I do like you very much, and—and—I should be very sorry if you went away—yet it isn't quite the same that I felt before. That is the truth as well as I can say it, and I am very grateful to you for thinking so well of me."
He drew the young head with its soft shining chestnut curls down on to his breast, and pressed his lips to her cheek.
"Now you are mine, my very own—are you not, Rhoda?"
"Yes; if you like, Mr. Diamond."
Matthew Diamond had been successful in his wooing, after feeling very doubtful of success. And he should naturally have been elated in proportion to his previous trepidation. And he was happy, of course; yet scarcely with the fulness of joyful triumph he had promised himself if pretty Rhoda should incline her ear to his suit. There was a subtle flavour of disappointment in it all. Rhoda had behaved very well, very honestly, in making that effort to be quite clear and candid about her feelings. It was a great thing to be able to feel perfect confidence in the woman who was to be his companion for life. And as to her loving him with the same fervour he felt towards her, that was not to be expected. He never had expected that. She was gentle, sweet, modest, thoroughly feminine, and exquisitely pretty. She was willing to give herself to him, and would doubtless be a true and affectionate wife. He held her slight waist in his arm, and her head rested confidingly on his bosom. Of course he was very happy. Only—if only Rhoda were not quite so silent and cold; if she would say one little word of tenderness, or even nestle herself fondly against his shoulder without speaking!
Some such thoughts were vaguely flitting through Diamond's mind when Rhoda raised her head, and, emboldened by the gathering dusk, looked up into his face and said, "You know it cannot be unless father consents."
"I shall speak to him this evening. Do you think he will be stern and hard to persuade, Rhoda?"
"I don't know. He said once that he would like to—to—that he would like to know I had some one to take care of me."
"On that score I am not afraid of falling short. Your father could give his treasure to no man who would take more loving care of her than I!"
"And then you are a gentleman; and father thinks a great deal of that, although he makes no pretence at being anything more than a tradesman himself. And of course I am only a tradesman's daughter. I am greatly below you in station—I know that."
"My Rhoda! As if there could be any question of that between us! God knows I have been poor and obscure enough all my life. But now I shall be able to tell your father that I hope to have a home to offer you that will be at least not sordid, and the position of a lady."
"I hope you won't repent, Mr. Diamond."
"Repent! But, Rhoda, won't you call me by my name? Say Matthew, not Mr. Diamond."
"Yes; I will if you like. But I'm afraid I can't all at once. It seems so strange."
"I wish you liked my name one thousandth part as much as I love the sound of yours! It seems so sweet to be able to call you Rhoda."
"Oh, I like your name very much indeed. But I think, please, that you had better go now. The people are coming out of church, and Aunt Betty may be back at any moment; and I don't wish her to find you here before you have spoken to father."
Rhoda stood up as she said it, and Diamond had no choice but to rise too, and say farewell. He drew her gently towards him and kissed her. "Will you try to love me, Rhoda?" he said, in a tone of almost sad entreaty. "Do you think you shall be able to love me a little?"
"I should not have accepted you if I felt that I could never be fond of you," returned Rhoda, and a little flush spread itself over her face as she spoke. "But you know I have told you the truth. I have told you about——"
He put up his hand to check her. "Yes, yes; you have been quite candid and honourable, and I won't be exacting or unreasonable, or too impatient." He did not think he could endure to hear Rhoda, in her anxiety not to deceive him, recapitulate the confession of her "different feeling" for another man in days past; and yet he had known, or guessed, that it had been so.
Then he took his leave, an accepted lover; and he told himself that he was a very fortunate and happy man. As he passed the door of old Max's little parlour downstairs, he saw a light gleaming under the door into the almost dark passage. He stopped and tapped at the door. "Come in," said Jonathan Maxfield's harsh voice. And Diamond went into the parlour.
Old Max looked up at his visitor over the great tortoise-shell spectacles on his nose. He had a large Bible open on the table before him. The large Bible was placed there every evening, and on Sunday evenings any other mundane volume which might chance to be lying in the parlour was carefully removed out of sight, to be restored to the light of day on Monday morning. This was the custom of the house, and had been so for years. It had obtained all through the Methodist days, and now lasted under the new orthodox dispensation. Since old Max had his spectacles on, it was to be supposed that he had been reading, and, since there was no other printed document within sight, not even an almanac, it was clear that he could have been reading nothing but his Bible. And yet it was nearly an hour since he had turned the page before him. He had been dozing, sitting up in his chair by the fire. This had latterly become a habit with him whenever he was left alone in the evening. And once, even, he had fallen into a sleep, or a stupor, in the midst of the assembled family, and, on awaking, had been lethargic in his movements, and dazed in his manner for some time.
He was quite awake now, however, as he peered sharply at Diamond over his glasses. The latter found some little difficulty in beginning his communication, not being assisted by a word from old Max, who stared at him silently.
"I have a few words to say to you, Mr. Maxfield, if you are at leisure to hear them," he said at length.
"If it's anything in the natur' of a business communication, I can't attend to it now," returned old Max deliberately. "It has been a rule of mine through life to transact no manner of business on the Lord's day, and I have found it prosper with me."
"No, no; it is not a matter of business, Mr. Maxfield," said Diamond smiling, but not quite at his ease. Then he sat down and told his errand. Maxfield listened in perfect silence. "May I hope, Mr. Maxfield, that you will give us your consent and approbation?" asked Diamond, after a pause.
"You're pretty glib, sir! I must know a little more about this matter before I can give an answer one way or another."
"You shall know all that I can tell you, Mr. Maxfield. Indeed, I do not see what more I have to say. I have explained to you what my prospects in life are. I have told you every particular with the most absolute fulness and candour. As to my feeling for your daughter, I don't think I could fully express that if I talked to you all night."
"What did my daughter say to you?"
"She—she told me that she was willing to be my wife, but that it must depend upon your consent."
"Rhoda has always been a very dutiful daughter. There's not many like Rhoda."
"I appreciate her, Mr. Maxfield. You may believe that I do most heartily appreciate her. I have long known that all my happiness depended on winning Rhoda for my wife. I have loved her long. But, of course, I could not venture to ask her to marry me, or to ask you to give her to me, until I had some prospect of a home to offer her."
"Ah! And this prospect, now—you aren't sure about it?"
"No; I am not quite sure."
"And, supposing you don't get the place—how then?"
"Why, then, Mr. Maxfield, I should look for another. If you will give your consent to my engagement to Rhoda, I am not afraid of not finding a place in the world for her. I have a fair share of resolution; I am industrious and well educated; I am not quite thirty years old. If you will give me a word of encouragement I shall be sure to succeed."
"Head-master of Dorrington Proprietary School, eh? Will that be a place like Dr. Bodkin's?"
"Something of that kind, only not so lucrative."
"Dr. Bodkin is thought a good deal of in Whitford."
"Mr. Maxfield, may I hope for a favourable answer from you before I go?"
Old Max struck his hand sharply on the table as he exclaimed, almost with a snarl, "I will not be hurried, sir! nor made to speak rashly and without duly pondering and meditating my words." Then he added, in a different tone, "You are glib, sir! mighty glib! Do you know what Miss Maxfield will have to her portion—if I choose to give it her?"
"No, Mr. Maxfield, I do not. Nor do I care to know. I would take her to my heart to-morrow if she would come, although she were the poorest beggar in the world!"
"And would you take her without my consent?"
"I would, if you had no reasonable grounds for withholding it."
"You would steal my daughter away without my consent?"
"I said nothing about stealing. I should not think of deceiving you in the matter. I think you must acknowledge that I am speaking to you pretty frankly, at any rate!"
Maxfield could not but acknowledge to himself that the young man was honest and straightforward, and spoke fairly. He was well-looking too, and had the air of a gentleman, although there was not a trace about him of the peculiar airy elegance, the graceful charm of face and figure, which made Algernon Errington so attractive. Neither had he Algernon's gift of flattery, so adroitly conveyed as to appear unconscious; nor—what might, under the present circumstances, have served him equally well with the old tradesman—Algernon's good-humoured way of taking for granted his own incontestable social superiority over the Whitford grocer. Maxfield had his doubts as to whether this young man, ex-usher at the Grammar School, a fellow who went about to people's houses and gave lessons for money, could prove to be a fine enough match for his Rhoda, even though he should become head-master at Dorrington—Maxfield had so set his heart on seeing Rhoda "made a lady of," in the phraseology of his class.
"I shall have some conversation with my daughter, and let you have my answer after that, sir," said he, looking half sullenly, half thoughtfully at the suitor. "And as there will be questions of figures to go into, maybe, I am not willing to consider the subject more at length on the Lord's day."
But I am bound to confess that this was an afterthought on old Max's part.
When Diamond had gone, the old man sent for his daughter to come to him in the parlour. "You can take yourself off, Betty Grimshaw," said he to that respectable spinster, very unceremoniously. "You and James can bide in the kitchen till supper's ready. When it is, come and tell me."
Rhoda came, in answer to her father's summons, very calmly. She had, of course, expected it. She had quite got over the agitation of the interview with her lover, and was her usual sweet, placid self again. Yes; she said Mr. Diamond had asked her to marry him, and she was willing to marry him if her father would consent. She believed Mr. Diamond loved her very much, and she liked him very much. She had been afraid of him once because he was so very learned and clever, and seemed rather proud and stern. But he was really extremely gentle when you came to know him. She was sure he would be kind to her.
"It's not a thing to decide upon all in a moment, Rhoda," said her father.
"No, father; but I have thought of it for some time past," answered Rhoda, simply.
The old man looked at her with a slight feeling of surprise. "Rhoda has a vast deal of common sense," thought he. "She has some of my brains inside that pretty brown head of hers, that is so like her poor mother's!" Then he said aloud, "You see, this Mr. Diamond is nobody after all. A schoolmaster! Well, that's no great shakes."
"Dr. Bodkin is a schoolmaster, father."
"Dr. Bodkin is rector of St. Chad's and D.D., and a man of substance besides."
"Mr. Diamond is a gentleman, father. Everybody allows that."
"Do you think you could be happy to be his wife, Rhoda?" As he asked this question her father's voice was almost tender, and he placed his hand gently on her head.
"Yes, father; I think so. He would take care of me, and be good to me, and guide me right. And he would never put himself between you and me, father. I mean he would wish me always to be dutiful and affectionate to you."
"Well, Rhoda, we must consider. And I hope the Lord will send me wisdom in the matter. I would fain see thee happy before I am called away. God bless thee, child."
Jonathan Maxfield turned the matter in his mind during the watches of the night with much anxious consideration, according to his lights. In social status there was truly not much to complain of, he thought. A man in a position like that of Dr. Bodkin, who should have money of his own (or of his wife's) to render him independent of the profits of his place, might come to be a personage of importance. "And money there will be; more'n they think for," said old Max to himself. "The young man seemed to worship Rhoda; as he ought." She had shown herself to be very dutiful, very honest, very sensible on this occasion. "He's out and away a better man than that t'other one! Lives clear and clean before the world, and is ashamed to look no man in the face."
Thus old Max reflected. And it will be seen that his reflections tended more and more to favour the acceptance of Matthew Diamond as his son-in-law. Yes; he should be glad to see Rhoda safe and happy under a husband's care before he died. And yet—and yet—he felt, as the prosperous wooer had felt, a dim sense of dissatisfaction. Old Max could not be accused of being sentimental, but he had looked forward to Rhoda's marriage as an occasion of triumph and exultation. If she found a husband whom he approved of, he would be large and generous in his dealings with them. He would show the world that Rhoda Maxfield was no tocherless lass, but an heiress, courted, and sought after, and destined to belong to a sphere far above that of Whitford shopkeepers. Now the husband had been found—he had almost made up his mind as to that—but there was no exultation; certainly no triumph. Rhoda was so cool and quiet. Very sensible! Oh, admirably sensible; but——. In a word, the whole affair seemed a little flat and chilly. Of all the three personages chiefly interested, Rhoda was the only one who was conscious of no disappointment.
Miss Chubb could keep a secret. She was proud of being entrusted with one. She was much gratified when Rhoda Maxfield, on the Monday after Diamond's proposal, called at the maiden lady's modest lodgings, and confided to her the fact that Mr. Diamond had asked her to marry him, and that she had accepted him subject to her father's consent. It may seem strange that Rhoda should have chosen to make this confidence to Miss Chubb, rather than to Mrs. Errington, or to Minnie Bodkin, with both of whom she was more intimate. But she told Miss Chubb that she wanted her help.
"My help, my dear! I'm sure I don't know how I can help you. But if I can I will. And I congratulate you sincerely. I've seen how it would be all along. You know I told you that a certain gentleman was falling over head and ears in love, a long time ago. Didn't I, now?"
Rhoda acknowledged that it was so; and then she said she had come to ask a great favour. Would Miss Chubb mind saying a word or two on Mr. Diamond's behalf to her father? "Father told me this morning, after breakfast, that he should make some inquiries about Mr. Diamond. I am quite sure that nothing will come out that is not honourable to him; I am not the least afraid of that. And I believe Dr. Bodkin will praise him very highly, but he will not perhaps say the sort of things that would please father most. He will tell him what a good scholar he is, and all that, but he will never think of making father understand that Mr. Diamond is looked upon as being as much a gentleman as he is himself. Gentlefolks like Dr. Bodkin take those things for granted. But father would like to be told them. He thinks so very much of my marrying—above my own class, for, of course, I have learnt enough to know that Mr. Diamond belongs to a different sort of people from mine."
"I understand, my dear," returned Miss Chubb, nodding her head shrewdly. "And you may depend on my doing my best, if I have the chance. But I'm afraid it is not likely that Mr. Maxfield will consult me on the subject."
"I told him to come to you. Father knows you are one of the few people with whom Mr. Diamond has associated in Whitford."
"Why don't you send him to Mrs. Errington? Oh, I forgot! Your father and she are two." Miss Chubb laughed to cover a little confusion on her own part, for she guessed that Rhoda might have other reasons for not asking Mrs. Errington's testimony in favour of her suitor. Then she added quickly, "Or Minnie Bodkin, now! Minnie's word would go farther with your father than mine would. And Minnie and Mr. Diamond are such cronies. You had better send him to Minnie."
"No, thank you."
"But why not? Good gracious, she is the very person!"
"No, I think not. We don't wish it known until father has given his decided consent. I have only told you in confidence, Miss Chubb."
"But—if the doctor knows it, Minnie must know it! And if I know it, why shouldn't she?"
"No, thank you. I don't want to ask Miss Minnie about it."
"I wonder why that is, now!" pondered Miss Chubb, when Rhoda was gone. And very probably Rhoda could not have told her why.
Old Maxfield duly paid his visit to Miss Chubb. The good-natured little woman waited at home all day lest she should miss him. And about an hour after her early dinner Mr. Maxfield sent in his respects, and would be glad to have a word with her if she were at leisure.
"I hope you will overlook the intrusion, ma'am," said Maxfield, standing up with his hat in his hand, just inside the door of the little sitting-room, where Miss Chubb asked him to walk in.
"No intrusion at all, Mr. Maxfield! I'm very glad to see you. Please to sit down."
He obeyed, and holding his thick stick upright before him, and his hat on his knees, he thus began:
"I'm not a-going to waste your time and mine with vain and worldly discourse, ma'am. I am a man as knows the value of time, thanks be! And I have a serious matter on my mind. You know my daughter Rhoda?"
"I know Rhoda, and like her, and admire her very much."
"Yes; Rhoda is a girl such as you don't see many like her. There's a young man seeking her in marriage."
"I'm not surprised at that!"
"No; there has been several others too. But she gave 'em no encouragement; nor should I have been willing that she should. Some of them were persons in my own rank of life, and that would not do for Rhoda."
"I think you are quite right there, Mr. Maxfield. Rhoda is naturally very refined, and she has associated a good deal with persons of cultivated manners. I don't think Rhoda would be happy if she were obliged to give up certain little graces of life, which a great many excellent people can do without perfectly well."
Maxfield nodded approvingly. "You speak with a good deal of judgment, ma'am," said he, with the air of a recognised authority on wisdom. "But it isn't only that. Rhoda will have money—a great deal of money—more than some folks that holds their heads very high ever had or will have. Now it is but just and rightful that I should expect her husband to bring some advantages in return."
"Of course. And—ahem!—I'm sure you are too sensible a man not to consider that the best thing a husband could bring in exchange would be an honest, loving heart, and a real esteem and respect for your daughter."
Little Miss Chubb became quite fluttered after making this speech, and coloured as if she had been a girl of eighteen.
"Not at all," returned old Max decisively. "The loving heart and the esteem and respect are due to my Rhoda if she hadn't a penny. In return for her fortin' I expect something over and above."
"Oh!" exclaimed Miss Chubb, a good deal taken aback.
"Now I don't feel sure that the young man in question has that something over and above. It is Mr. Matthew Diamond, tutor at the Grammar School in this town."
"A most excellent young man! And, I'm sure, most devotedly in love with Rhoda."
"But very poor, and not of much account in the world, as far as I can make out."
"Oh, don't say that, Mr. Maxfield! He is proud and shy, and has kept himself aloof from society because he chose to do so. But he would be a welcome guest anywhere in the town or county. Young Mr. Pawkins, of Pudcombe Hall, quite courts him; he is always asking him to go over there."
Thus much and more Miss Chubb valiantly spoke on behalf of Matthew Diamond in his character of Rhoda's wooer. And then she expatiated on the excellent position he would hold as master of Dorrington School. It was such a "select seminary;" and so many of the first county people sent their boys there. "Dear me," said Miss Chubb, "it seems to me to be the very position for Rhoda! Not too far from Whitford, and yet not too near—of course she couldn't keep up all her old acquaintances here, could she?—and altogether so refined, and scholastic, and quiet! And really, Mr. Maxfield, see how everything turns out for the best. I thought at one time that young Errington was very much smitten with Rhoda; but, if she had taken him, you wouldn't have been so satisfied with her position in life now, would you? With all his talent and connection, see what a poor place he has of it. Mr. Diamond has done best, ten to one."
This was a master-stroke, and made a great impression on old Max. Not that the latter even now was at all dazzled by the prospect of having the head-master of Dorrington School for his son-in-law. But Miss Chubb's allusion did suffice to show him that the world would consider Diamond to be a triumphantly successful man in comparison with Errington.
"Oh, him!" said Maxfield in a tone of bitter contempt. "No; such as him was not for Miss Maxfield. And I'll tell you, moreover, that I don't know but what she's throwing herself away more or less if she takes this other. She's a great catch for him; I know the world, and I know that she is a great catch. But I've felt latterly one or two warnings that my end is near——"
"Dear me, Mr. Maxfield! Don't say so! I'm sure you look very hearty!" exclaimed Miss Chubb, much startled by this cool announcement.
"That my end is near," repeated old Max doggedly, "and I wish to set my house in order, and see my daughter provided for, before I go. And she seems to be contented with this young man. Rhoda ain't just easy to please. It might be a long time, if ever, before she found some one to suit her so well."
Miss Chubb was a little shocked at this singularly prosaic and unemotional way of treating the subject of love and marriage, as to which she herself preserved the most romantic freshness of ideas. She would have liked the young couple to be like the lovers in a story-book, and the father to bestow his daughter and his blessing with tears of joy. However, she did her best to encourage Mr. Maxfield in giving his consent after his own fashion, and they parted on excellent terms with each other.
"That dry old chip, Jonathan Maxfield, has been to me to-day," said Dr. Bodkin after dinner to his wife and daughter. "He came to ask me what prospect I thought Diamond had of getting the mastership of Dorrington, explaining to me that Diamond was a suitor for his daughter's hand. It took me quite by surprise. Had you any inkling of the matter, Minnie?"
"Oh yes, papa."
"Dear me! Well, women see these things so quickly! H'm! Well, Master Diamond has shown good taste, I must say. That little Rhoda is the prettiest girl I know. And such a sweet, soft, lovable creature! I think she's too good for him."
"It is a singular thing, but I have remarked very often that men in general are apt to think pretty girls too good for anybody but themselves!"
The doctor frowned, and then smiled. "Have you so, Saucebox?" he said.
"I don't know about her being too good for him," said Mrs. Bodkin, in her quick, low tones; "but I suppose he knows very well what he is about. Old Maxfield has feathered his nest very considerably. It will be a very good match for a poor man like Matthew Diamond."
Mrs. Bodkin had for some time past exhibited symptoms of dislike to Diamond. She never had a good word for him; she even was almost rancorous against him at times, although she seldom allowed the feeling to express itself in words before her daughter. Minnie understood it all very well. "Poor mother!" she thought to herself, "she cannot forgive him. I wish I could persuade her that there is nothing to forgive. How could he help it if I was a fool?" Yet the mother and daughter had never exchanged a word on the subject. And Minnie comforted herself with the conviction that her mother was the only person in the world who guessed her secret. "Mamma has a sixth sense where I am concerned," said she to herself.
"I hope you said a good word for the lovers to Mr. Maxfield, papa," she said aloud, in a clear, cheerful voice.
"I had not much to say. I told him that I thought Diamond stood a good chance of getting Dorrington School."
"When will it be known positively, papa?"
"About Dorrington? Oh, before Christmas. I should say by the end of the first week in December. Diamond will be a loss to me, but I shall be glad of his promotion. He's a gentleman, and a very good fellow, although his manner is a trifle self-opiniated. And," added the doctor, shaking his head and lowering his voice as one does who is forced to admit a painful truth, "I am sorry to say that his views as to the use of the Digamma are by no means sound."
"Perhaps Rhoda won't find that a drawback to her happiness!" said Minnie, laughing her sweet, musical laugh.
"Probably not, Puss!"
Then the Rev. Peter Warlock and Mr. Dockett dropped in. A whist-table was made up in the drawing-room. The doctor and Mr. Dockett won three rubbers out of four against Mrs. Bodkin and the curate. And the latter—being seated where he could command a full view of Minnie as she reclined near the fire with a book—made two revokes, and drew down upon himself a very severe homily and a practical lecture or short course on the science of whist, illustrated by all the errors he had made during the evening, from Dr. Bodkin. For the doctor, although he liked to win, cared not for inglorious victory, and was almost as indignant with his opponents as with his partner for any symptom of slovenly play. The Reverend Peter's brow grew serious, even to gloom, and it seemed to him as if the doctor's scolding were almost more than human patience could endure. "I don't mind losing my sixpences," thought the curate, "and I could make up my mind to sacrificing an hour or two over those accursed," (I'm afraid he did mentally use that strong expression!) "those thrice-accursed bits of pasteboard. But to be lectured and scolded at into the bargain——!" He arose from the green table with an almost defiant sullenness.
However, when the tray was brought in and the victimised gentleman had comforted his inner man with hot negus, and was at liberty to sip it in close proximity to Miss Bodkin's chair, and had received one or two kind looks from Miss Bodkin's eyes, and several kind words from Miss Bodkin's lips, his heart grew soft within him, and he began to think that even six, ten—a dozen rubbers of whist with the doctor would not be too high a price to pay for these privileges! Then they talked of Diamond's engagement to Rhoda—it had been spoken of all over Whitford hours ago!—and of his prospects. And Mr. Warlock was quite effusive in his rejoicings on both scores. He had been dimly jealous of Minnie's regard for Diamond, and was heartily glad of the prospect of getting rid of him. Mr. Dockett, too, seemed to think the match a desirable one. He pursed up his mouth and looked knowing as he dropped a mysterious hint as to the extent of Rhoda's dowry. "I made old Max's will myself," said he; "and without violating professional secrecy, I may confirm what I hear old Max bruits abroad at every opportunity—namely, that he is a warm man—a very warm man in—deed! But I'm sure Mr. Diamond is a young man of sound principles, and will make the girl a good husband. And it is decided promotion for her too, you know. A grocer's daughter! Eh? I'm sure I wish them well most sincerely." And shall we blame Mr. Dockett if, in his fatherly anxiety, he rejoiced at the removal of a dangerous rival to his little Ally, on whom young Pawkins had recently bestowed a good deal of attention whenever Rhoda Maxfield was out of his reach?
"I never knew such a popular engagement," said Dr. Bodkin, innocently. "Everybody seems to approve! One might almost fear it could not be a case of true love, it runs so very smooth. There does not appear to be a single objection."
"Except the Digamma, papa!"
"Except the Digamma," echoed the doctor merrily. And when he was alone with his wife that night, he remarked to her that he was immensely thankful to see the great improvement in their beloved child this winter.
"Minnie is certainly stronger," said the mother.
"And in such excellent spirits!" said the father.
The days passed by and brought no letter, in answer to Castalia's, from Lord Seely. Dreary were the hours in Ivy Lodge. The wife was devoured by passionate jealousy and a vain yearning for affection; the husband found that even the bright, smooth, hard metal of his own character was not impervious to the corrosive action of daily cares, regrets, and apprehensions. Algernon was not apt to hate. He usually perceived the absurd side of persons who were obnoxious to him with too keen an amusement to detest them; and the inmost feeling of his heart with respect to his fellow-creatures in general approached, perhaps, as nearly to perfect indifference as it is given to a mortal to attain. But it was not possible to preserve a condition of indifference towards Castalia. She was a thorn in his flesh, a mote in his eye, a weariness to his spirit; and he began to dislike the very sight of the sallow, sickly face, red-eyed too often, and haggard with discontent, that met his view whenever he was in his own home. It was the daily "worry" of it, he told himself, that was unendurable. It was the being shut up with her in a box like Ivy Lodge, where there was no room for them to get away from each other. If he could have shared a mansion in Grosvenor Square with Castalia he might have got on with her well enough! But then, that mansion in Grosvenor Square would have made so many things different in his life.
At length one day came a letter to Castalia, with the London post-mark and sealed with the well-known coat of arms, but it did not bear Lord Seely's frank. Another name was scrawled in the corner, and the direction was written in Lady Seely's crooked, cramped little characters.
"I'm afraid Uncle Val must be ill!" exclaimed Castalia, opening the letter with a trembling hand. She was so weak and nervous now that the most trifling agitation made her heart beat painfully. My lady's epistle was not long, and, as a knowledge of its contents is essential to the due comprehension of this story, it is given in full, with her ladyship's own phraseology and orthography:—
"My dear Castalia,—I cannot think what on earth you are about to write such letters to your uncle. Go abroad, indeed! I suppose Ancram would like the embassy to St. Petersburg, or to be governor of the Ionian Islands. It's all nonsense, and you had better put such ideas out of your head at once, and for all. I should think you might know that we have other people to think of besides your husband, especially after all we have done for him. Your uncle is very ill in bed with an attack of the gout, and can't write himself. The doctor thinks he won't be about again for weeks. You can guess what trouble this throws on to my shoulders, so I hope you won't worry me by any more such letters as the last. As if there was not anxiety enough, Fido had a fit on Thursday. I hope you are pretty well. What a blessing you've no sign of a family. With only you two to keep, you ought to do very well on Ancram's salary, and you can tell him I say so. Yours affectionately,"B. Seely."
"My dear Castalia,—I cannot think what on earth you are about to write such letters to your uncle. Go abroad, indeed! I suppose Ancram would like the embassy to St. Petersburg, or to be governor of the Ionian Islands. It's all nonsense, and you had better put such ideas out of your head at once, and for all. I should think you might know that we have other people to think of besides your husband, especially after all we have done for him. Your uncle is very ill in bed with an attack of the gout, and can't write himself. The doctor thinks he won't be about again for weeks. You can guess what trouble this throws on to my shoulders, so I hope you won't worry me by any more such letters as the last. As if there was not anxiety enough, Fido had a fit on Thursday. I hope you are pretty well. What a blessing you've no sign of a family. With only you two to keep, you ought to do very well on Ancram's salary, and you can tell him I say so. Yours affectionately,
"B. Seely."
"Poor Uncle Val!" exclaimed Castalia, dropping the letter from her hand. "I was afraid he was ill."
"Pshaw! A touch of the gout won't kill him," said Algernon, who had been reading over her shoulder. "But it's deuced unfortunate for me that he should be laid up at this time, and quite helpless in the hands of that old catamaran."
"Poor Uncle Val! Perhaps he never got my letter at all."
"Nothing more likely, if my lady could prevent his getting it."
"Perhaps, when he gets better, I can write to him again, and ask him——"
"When he gets better? Oh yes, certainly. We have plenty of time. There is no hurry, of course!"
"I see that you are speaking satirically, Ancram, but I don't know why."
Her husband shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the room. As he left the house he was met at the garden-gate by a bright-eyed, consumptive-looking lad, in shabby working clothes, who touched his cap, and held out a paper to Algernon. "What do you want?" asked the latter. "Mr. Gladwish, sir. His account, if you please, sir."
"And who the devil is Mr. Gladwish?"
"The shoemaker, sir."
"Oh! Mr. Gladwish, then, is an extremely importunate, impatient, troublesome fellow. This is the third or fourth time within a very few weeks that he has sent in his bill. I'm not accustomed to that sort of thing. I don't understand it. Don't give me the paper, boy. Take it into the house."
"Please, sir," began the lad, and stopped, hesitatingly. Then seeing that Mr. Errington was walking off without taking any further notice of him, he repeated in a louder, firmer tone, "Please, sir, Mr. Gladwish is really in want of the money. He has two of the children bad with fever. And I was to say that even five pounds on account would be acceptable."
"Five pounds! He's too modest. I haven't got five pounds, nor five minutes. I'm busy."
"Then, I'm sorry to say, sir, that Mr. Gladwish will take legal proceedings for the debt at once. He told me to tell you so."
"Nice state of things!" muttered Algernon, as he walked towards the post-office, with his head bent down and his hands deep in his pockets. "But that's nothing. It's those cursed bills in Maxfield's hands that are on my mind like lead."
His spirits were not lightened by that which awaited him at the office. He had to undergo an interview with the district surveyor, who was very grave, not to say severe, in speaking of the irregularities which had been complained of, and were looked on as very serious at the head office. The surveyor ended by plainly hinting his hope that persons having no business at the office would be strictly forbidden from having access to it at abnormal hours. "I—I don't understand you," stammered Algernon.
"Mr. Errington," said the surveyor, "I am speaking to you, not officially, but confidentially, and as man to man. I have been having a little conversation with Mr. Gibbs—who seems to have none but good feeling towards you, but who—in short, I think it is not needful to be more explicit. I advise you in all friendliness to be stern and decisive in keeping every person out of this office except such as have recognised business to be here. If further trouble arises, I shall have to do my duty, and make my report without respect of any persons whatsoever."
"Perhaps," said Algernon, who was white to his lips, but otherwise apparently unmoved, "perhaps it would be best for me to resign my post here at once. If the authorities above me find cause for dissatisfaction——"
"I can give you no advice as to that, Mr. Errington. You must know your own affairs better than I do."
"There are things which a man can scarcely say even to himself; considerations which are painful as they float dimly in one's own mind, but which would be unendurable uttered aloud in words. Anything like a public scandal—or—or—disgrace to me, would involve a large circle of persons—many of them persons of rank and consideration in the world. You are possibly aware that—my wife"—there was a peculiar tone in Algernon's voice as he said these two words—"is a niece of Lord Seely?"
But the official gentleman declined to enter into the question of Mr. Errington's family connections. "Oh," said he, coldly; "we must hope there will be no question of scandal or disgrace." Then he went away, leaving Algernon in a chaos of doubt as to whether he should, or should not, speak further on the subject to Obadiah Gibbs. Obadiah Gibbs, however, decided the question for him. He came into Algernon's room, closing the door carefully behind him, and asked to speak a few words in private. Algernon was sitting in the luxurious easy-chair which he had had carried into the office for his own use. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon of a dull November day. The single window which looked on to a white-washed court threw a ghastly pallid light on Algernon's face as he sat opposite to it, with his head thrown back against the cushions of the high chair. Mr. Gibbs was touched with compassion at seeing how changed the bright young face looked since he had first been acquainted with it. And yet, in truth, the change was not a very deep one: it was more in colouring, and the expression of the moment, than in any lines which care had graven.
"Come in, Gibbs; come in," said Algernon, with his affable air. The clerk seemed the more anxious and disturbed of the two. He sat down on the chair Algernon pointed out to him in a constrained posture, and seemed to have some difficulty in beginning to speak, albeit not a man usually liable to embarrassment of manner. His superior stretched his feet out nearer to the hearth, and slightly moved his white hand to and fro, looking, as a child might have done, at the glitter of a ring he wore in the firelight.
"Mr. Wing did not seem very well pleased, sir," said Gibbs, after clearing his throat.
"Of course he had to appear displeased, whether he was or not, Gibbs. A little hocus-pocus, a little official solemnity, is the thing to assume, I suppose. I think that man's nose is the very longest I ever saw. Remarkable nose, eh, Gibbs?"
"But, sir," continued Gibbs, declining to discuss the surveyor's nose, "he said that from inquiries that had been made, it's pretty certain that the missing letters were—stolen—they must have been stolen—at Whitford."
"Very intelligent on the part of the official, Mr. Wing! Only I think you and I had come to pretty nearly the same conclusion before."
"He made strict inquiries about the people in the office here, and I had to give him what information I could, sir."
"Of course, of course, Gibbs! I quite understand," said Algernon, putting his hand out to shake that of the clerk with so frank a cordiality that the latter felt the tears spring into his eyes as he took the cool white hand into his own. "I have felt very much for you, Mr. Errington," said he. "Your position is a trying one, indeed. I would do almost anything in my power to set your mind more at rest. But I'm sorry to say that I have an unpleasant matter to speak of."
"I wonder," thought Algernon, leaning back in his chair once more, "whether my friend Obadiah conceives our conversation hitherto to have been of an agreeable and entertaining nature, that he now announces something unpleasant by way of a change!"
"You will understand," said Gibbs, "that I am speaking to you in the very strictest confidence. I should be sorry for it to come out that I had meddled in the matter. Nor, sir, would it be well for you to have it known that I gave you any warning."
"I wish the old bore would not be so confoundedly long-winded!" thought Algernon, nodding meanwhile with an air of thoughtful attention.
But Gibbs was prone to long-windedness and to the making of speeches. And he now availed himself of the opportunity of haranguing the postmaster (one of whose chief faults was a vivacious impatience of his clerk's eloquence) to the fullest extent. But the gist of what he had to say was this: Roger Heath, the man whose money-letter had been lost, now declared that his correspondent at Bristol, being interrogated in the hope that he might be able to furnish some clue to the identification of the missing notes, stated that he remembered one was endorsed in blue ink instead of black: and that he, Heath, had reason to know that one of the notes paid by young Mrs. Errington to Ravell, the mercer, had been endorsed in blue ink!
"Now, sir," proceeded Gibbs, "I remember its being a good deal talked of in the town at the time, that young Mrs. Errington had money unknown to you, and Mrs. Ravell spoke of it to many."
"Damn Mrs. Ravell! What does it all mean, Gibbs?"
Algernon got up from his chair, and leant his elbows on the chimney-piece, and hid his face in his hands, but he so stood that he could watch the clerk's countenance between his fingers. That countenance expressed trouble and compassion. Gibbs got up too, and stood looking at Algernon and shaking his head ruefully.
"I thought it well you should know what was being said, Mr. Errington," said he.