Demos

CHAPTER XIII

In the church of the Insurgents there are many orders. To rise to the supreme passion of revolt, two conditions are indispensable: to possess the heart of a poet, and to be subdued by poverty to the yoke of ignoble labour. But many who fall short of the priesthood have yet a share of the true spirit, bestowed upon them by circumstances of birth and education, developed here and there by the experience of life, yet rigidly limited in the upshot by the control of material ease, the fatal lordship of the comfortable commonplace. Of such was Hubert Eldon. In him, despite his birth and breeding, there came to the surface a rich vein of independence, obscurely traceable, no doubt, in the characters of certain of his ancestors, appearing at length where nineteenth-century influences had thinned the detritus of convention and class prejudice. His nature abounded in contradictions, and as yet self-study—in itself the note of a mind striving for emancipation—had done little for him beyond making clear the manifold difficulties strewn in his path of progress.

You know already that it was no vulgar instinct of sensuality which had made severance between him and the respectable traditions of his family. Observant friends naturally cast him in the category of young men whom the prospect of a fortune seduces to a life of riot; his mother had no means of forming a more accurate judgment. Mr. Wyvern alone had seen beneath the surface, aided by a liberal study of the world, and no doubt also by that personal sympathy which is so important an ally of charity and truth. Mr. Wyvern’s early life had not been in smooth waters; in him too revolt was native, tempered also by spiritual influences of the most opposite kind. He felt a deep interest in the young man, and desired to keep him in view. It was the first promise of friendship that had been held out to Hubert, who already suffered from a sense of isolation, and was wondering in what class of society he would have to look for his kith and kin. Since boyhood he had drawn apart to a great extent from the companionships which most readily offered. The turn taken by the circumstances of his family affected the pride which was one of his strongest characteristics; his house had fallen, and it seemed to him that a good deal of pity, if not of contempt, mingled with his reception by the more fortunate of his own standing. He had never overcome a natural hostility to old Mr. Mutimer: the bourgeois virtues of the worthy ironmaster rather irritated than attracted him, and he suffered intensely in the thought that his mother brought herself to close friendship with one so much her inferior just for the sake of her son’s future. In this matter he judged with tolerable accuracy. Mrs. Eldon, finding in the old man a certain unexpected refinement over and above his goodness of heart, consciously or unconsciously encouraged herself in idealising him, that the way of interest might approach as nearly as might be to that of honour. Hubert, with no understanding for the craggy facts of life, inwardly rebelled against the whole situation. He felt that it laid him open to ridicule, the mere suspicion of which always stung him to the quick. When, therefore, he declared to his mother, in the painful interview on his return to Wanley, that it was almost a relief to him to have lost the inheritance, he spoke with perfect truth. Amid the tempest which had fallen on his life there rose in that moment the semblance of a star of hope. The hateful conditions which had weighed upon his future being finally cast off, might he not look forward to some nobler activity than had hitherto seemed possible? Was he not being saved from his meaner self, that part of his nature which tended to conventional ideals, which was subject to empty pride and ignoble apprehensions? Had he gone through the storm without companion, hope might have overcome every weakness, but sympathy with his mother’s deep distress troubled his self-control. At her feet he yielded to the emotions of childhood, and his misery increased until bodily suffering brought him the relief of unconsciousness.

To his mother perhaps he owed that strain of idealism which gave his character its significance. In Mrs. Eldon it affected only the inner life; in Hubert spiritual strivings naturally sought the outlet of action. That his emancipation should declare itself in some exaggerated way was quite to be expected: impatience of futilities and insincerities made common cause with the fiery spirit of youth and spurred him into reckless pursuit of that abiding rapture which is the dream and the despair of the earth’s purest souls. The pistol bullet checked his course, happily at the right moment. He had gone far enough for experience and not too far for self-recovery. The wise man in looking back upon his endeavours regrets nothing of which that can be said.

By the side of a passion such as that which had opened Hubert’s intellectual manhood, the mild, progressive attachments sanctioned by society show so colourless as to suggest illusion. Thinking of Adela Waltham as he lay recovering from his illness, he found it difficult to distinguish between the feelings associated with her name and those which he had owed to other maidens of the same type. A week or two at Wanley generally resulted in a conviction that he was in love with Adela; and had Adela been entirely subject to her mother’s influences, had she fallen but a little short of the innocence and delicacy which were her own, whether for happiness or the reverse, she would doubtless have been pledged to Hubert long ere this. The merest accident had in truth prevented it. At home for Christmas, the young man had made up his mind to speak and claim her: he postponed doing so till he should have returned from a visit to a college friend in the same county. His friend had a sister, five or six years older than Adela, and of a warmer type of beauty, with the finished graces of the town. Hubert found himself once more without guidance, and so left Wanley behind him, journeying to an unknown land.

Hubert could not remember a time when he had not been in love. The objects of his devotion had succeeded each other rapidly, but each in her turn was the perfect woman. His imagination cast a halo about a beautiful head, and hastened to see in its possessor all the poetry of character which he aspired to worship. In his loves, as in every other circumstance of life, he would have nothing of compromise; for him the world contained nothing but his passion, and existence had no other end. Between that past and this present more intervened than Hubert could yet appreciate; but he judged the change in himself by the light in which that early love appeared to him. Those were the restless ardours of boyhood: he could not henceforth trifle so with solemn meanings. The ideal was harder of discovery than he had thought; perhaps it was not to be found in the world at all. But what less perfect could henceforth touch his heart?

Yet throughout his convalescence he thought often of Adela, perhaps because she was so near, and because she doubtless often thought of him. His unexpected meeting with her on Stanbury Hill affected him strangely: the world was new to his eyes, and the girl’s face seemed to share in the renewal; it was not quite the same face that he had held in memory, but had a fresh significance. He read in her looks more than formerly he had been able to see. This impression was strengthened by his interview with her on the following day. Had she too grown much older in a few months?

After spending a fortnight with his mother at Agworth, he went to London, and for a time thought as little of Adela as of any other woman. New interests claimed him, interests purely intellectual, the stronger that his mind seemed just aroused from a long sleep. He threw himself into various studies with more zeal than he had hitherto devoted to such interests; not that he had as yet any definite projects, but solely because it was his nature to be in pursuit of some excellence and to scorn mere acquiescence in a life of every-day colour. He lived all but in loneliness, and when the change had had time to work upon him his thoughts began to revert to Adela, to her alone of those who stood on the other side of the gulf. She came before his eyes as a vision of purity; it was soothing to picture her face and to think of her walking in the spring meadows. He thought of her as of a white rose, dew-besprent, and gently swayed by the sweet air of a sunny morning; a white rose newly spread, its heart virgin from the hands of shaping Nature. He could not decide what quality, what absence of thought, made Adela so distinct to him. Was it perhaps the exquisite delicacy apparent in all she did or said? Even the most reverent thought seemed gross in touching her; the mind flitted round about her, kept from contact by a supreme modesty, which she alone could inspire If her head were painted, it must be against the tenderest eastern sky; all associations with her were of the morning, when heatless rays strike level across the moist earth, of simple devoutness which renders thanks for the blessing of a new day, of mercy robed like the zenith at dawn.

His study just now was of the early Italians, in art and literature. There was more of Adela than he perceived in the impulse which guided him in that direction. When he came to read the ‘Vita Nuova,’ it was of Adela expressly that he thought. The poet’s passion of worship entered his heart; transferring his present feeling to his earlier self, he grew to regard his recent madness as a lapse from the true love of his life. He persuaded himself that he had loved Adela in a far more serious way than any of the others who from time to time had been her rivals, and that the love was now returning to him, strengthened and exalted. He began to write sonnets in Dante’s manner, striving to body forth in words the new piety which illumined his life. Whereas love had been to him of late a glorification of the senses, he now cleansed himself from what he deemed impurity and adored in mere ecstasy of the spirit. Adela soon became rather a symbol than a living woman; he identified her with the ends to which his life darkly aspired, and all but convinced himself that memory and imagination would henceforth suffice to him.

In the autumn he went down to Agworth, and spent a few days with his mother. The temptation to walk over to Wanley and call upon the Walthams proved too strong to be resisted. His rejection at their door was rather a shock than a surprise; it had never occurred to him that the old friendly relations had been in any way disturbed; he explained Mrs. Waltham’s behaviour by supposing that his silence had offended her, and perhaps his failure to take leave of her before quitting Wanley. Possibly she thought he had dealt lightly with Adela. Offence on purely moral grounds did not even suggest itself.

He returned to London anxious and unhappy. The glimpse of Adela sitting at the window had brought him back to reality; after all it was no abstraction that had become the constant companion of his solitude; his love was far more real for that moment’s vision of the golden head, and had a very real power of afflicting him with melancholy. He faltered in his studies, and once again had lost the motive to exertion. Then came the letter from his mother, telling of Adela’s rumoured engagement. It caused him to set forth almost immediately.

The alternation of moods exhibited in his conversation with Mr. Wyvern continued to agitate him during the night. Now it seemed impossible to approach Adela in any way; now he was prepared to defy every consideration in order to save her and secure his own happiness. Then, after dwelling for awhile on the difficulties of his position, he tried to convince himself that once again he had been led astray after beauty and goodness which existed only in his imagination, that in losing Adela he only dismissed one more illusion. Such comfort was unsubstantial; he was, in truth, consumed in wretchedness at the thought that she once might easily have been his, and that he had passed her by. What matter whether we love a reality or a dream, if the love drive us to frenzy? Yet how could he renew his relations with her? Even if no actual engagement bound her, she must be prejudiced against him by stories which would make it seem an insult if he addressed her. And if the engagement really existed, what shadow of excuse had he for troubling her with his love?

When he entered his mother’s room in the morning, Mrs. Eldon took a small volume from the table at her side.

‘I found this a few weeks ago among the books you left with me,’ she said. ‘How long have you had it, Hubert?’

It was a copy of the ‘Christian Year,’ and writing on the fly-leaf showed that it belonged, or had once belonged, to Adela Waltham.

Hubert regarded it with surprise.

‘It was lent to me a year ago,’ he said. ‘I took it away with me. I had forgotten that I had it.’

The circumstances under which it had been lent to him came back very clearly now. It was after that visit to his friend which had come so unhappily between him and Adela. When he went to bid her good-bye he found her alone, and she was reading this book. She spoke of it, and, in surprise that he had never read it, begged him to take it to Oxford.

‘I have another copy,’ Adela said. ‘You can return that any time.’

The time had only now come. Hubert resolved to take the book to Wanley in the evening; if no other means offered, Mr. Wyvern would return it to the owner. Might he enclose a note? Instead of that, he wrote out from memory two of his own sonnets, the best of those he had recently composed under the influence of the ‘Vita Nuova,’ and shut them between the pages. Then he made the book into a parcel and addressed it.

He started for his walk at the same hour as on the evening before. There was frost in the air, and already the stars were bright. As he drew near to Wanley, the road was deserted; his footfall was loud on the hard earth. The moon began to show her face over the dark top of Stanbury Hill, and presently he saw by the clear rays that the figure of a woman was a few yards ahead of him; he was overtaking her. As he drew near to her, she turned her head. He knew her at once, for it was Letty Tew. He had been used to meet Letty often at the Walthams’.

Evidently he was himself recognised; the girl swerved a little, as if to let him pass, and kept her head bent. He obeyed an impulse and spoke to her.

‘I am afraid you have forgotten me, Miss Tew. Yet I don’t like to pass you without saying a word.’

‘I thought it was—the light makes it difficult—’ Letty murmured, sadly embarrassed.

‘But the moon is beautiful.’

‘Very beautiful.’

They regarded it together. Letty could not help glancing at her companion, and as he did not turn his face she examined him for a moment or two.

‘I am going to see my friend Mr. Wyvern,’ Hubert proceeded.

A few more remarks of the kind were exchanged, Letty by degrees summoning a cold confidence; then Hubert said—

‘I have here a book which belongs to Miss Waltham. She lent it to me a year ago, and I wish to return it. Dare I ask you to put it into her hands?’

Letty knew what the book must be. Adela had told her of it at the time, and since had spoken of it once or twice.

‘Oh, yes, I will give it her,’ she replied, rather nervously again.

‘Will you say that I would gladly have thanked her myself, if it had been possible?’

‘Yes, Mr. Eldon, I will say that.’

Something in Hubert’s voice seemed to cause Letty to raise her eyes again.

‘You wish me to thank her?’ she added; inconsequently perhaps, but with a certain significance.

‘If you will be so kind.’

Hubert wanted to say more, but found it difficult to discover the right words. Letty, too, tried to shadow forth something that was in her mind, but with no better success.

‘If I remember,’ Hubert said, pausing in his walk, ‘this stile will be my shortest way across to the Vicarage. Thank you much for your kindness.’

He had raised his hat and was turning, but Letty impulsively put forth her hand. ‘Good-bye,’ he said, in a friendly voice, as he took the little fingers. ‘I wish the old days were back again, and we were going to have tea together as we used to.’

Mr. Wyvern’s face gave no promise of cheerful intelligence as he welcomed his visitor.

‘What is the origin of this, I wonder?’ he said, handing Hubert the ‘Belwick Chronicle.’

The state of the young man’s nerves was not well adapted to sustain fresh irritation. He turned pale with anger.

‘Is this going the round of Wanley?’

‘Probably. I had it from Mrs. Waltham.’

‘Did you contradict it?’

‘As emphatically as I could.’

‘I will see the man who edits this to-morrow,’ cried Hubert hotly. ‘But perhaps he is too great a blackguard to talk with.’

‘It purports to come, you see, from a London correspondent. But I suppose the source is nearer.’

‘You mean—you think that man Mutimer has originated it?’

‘I scarcely think that.’

‘Yet it is more than likely. I will go to the Manor at once. At least he shall give me yes or no.’

He had started to his feet, but the vicar laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m afraid you can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Consider. You have no kind of right to charge him with such a thing. And there is another reason: he proposed to Miss Waltham this morning, and she accepted him.’

‘This morning? And this paper is yesterday’s. Why, it makes it more likely than ever. How did they get the paper? Doubtless he sent it them. If she has accepted him this very day—’

The repetition of the words seemed to force their meaning upon him through his anger. His voice failed.

‘You tell me that Adela Waltham has engaged herself to that man?’

‘Her mother told me, only a few minutes after it occurred.’

‘Then it was this that led her to consent.’

‘Surely that is presupposing too much, my dear Eldon,’ said the vicar gently.

‘No, not more than I know to be true. I could not say that to anyone but you; you must understand me. The girl is being cheated into marrying that fellow. Of her own free will she could not do it. This is one of numberless lies. You are right; it’s no use to go to him: he wouldn’t tell the truth. But she must be told. How can I see her?’

‘It is more difficult than ever. Her having accepted him makes all the difference. Explain it to yourself as you may, you cannot give her to understand that you doubt her sincerity.’

‘But does she know that this story is false?’

‘Yes, that she will certainly hear. I have busied myself in contradicting it. If Mrs. Waltham does not tell her, she will hear it from her friend Miss Tew, without question.’

Hubert pondered, then made the inquiry:

‘How could I procure a meeting with Miss Tew? I met her just now on the road and spoke to her. I think she might consent to help me.’

Mr. Wyvern looked doubtful.

‘You met her? She was coming from Agworth?’

‘She seemed to be.’

‘Her father and mother are gone to spend to-morrow with friends in Belwick; I suppose she drove into Wanley with them, and walked back.’

The vicar probably meant this for a suggestion; at all events, Hubert received it as one.

‘Then I will simply call at the house. She may be alone. I can’t weigh niceties.’

Mr. Wyvern made no reply. The announcement that dinner was ready allowed him to quit the subject. Hubert with difficulty sat through the meal, and as soon as it was over took his departure, leaving it uncertain whether he would return that evening. The vicar offered no further remark on the subject of their thoughts, but at parting pressed the young man’s hand warmly.

Hubert walked straight to the Tews’ dwelling. The course upon which he had decided had disagreeable aspects and involved chances anything but pleasant to face; he had, however, abundance of moral courage, and his habitual scorn of petty obstacles was just now heightened by passionate feeling. He made his presence known at the house-door as though his visit were expected. Letty herself opened to him. It was Saturday night, and she thought the ring was Alfred Waltham’s. Indeed she half uttered a few familiar words; then, recognising Hubert, she stood fixed in surprise.

‘Will you allow me to speak with you for a few moments, Miss Tew?’ Hubert said, with perfect self-possession. ‘I ask your pardon for calling at this hour. My business is urgent; I have come without a thought of anything but the need of seeing you.’

‘Will you come in, Mr. Eldon?’

She led him into a room where there was no fire, and only one lamp burning low.

‘I’m afraid it’s very cold here,’ she said, with extreme nervousness. ‘The other room is occupied—my sister and the children; I hope you—’

A little girl put in her face at the door, asking ‘Is it Alfred?’ Letty hurried her away, closed the door, and, whilst lighting two candles on the mantelpiece, begged her visitor to seat himself.

‘If you will allow me, I will stand,’ said Hubert. ‘I scarcely know how to begin what I wish to say. It has reference to Miss Waltham. I wish to see her; I must, if she will let me, have an opportunity of speaking with her. But I have no direct means of letting her know my wish; doubtless you understand that. In my helplessness I have thought of you. Perhaps I am asking an impossibility. Will you—can you—repeat my words to Miss Waltham, and beg her to see me?’

Letty listened in sheer bewilderment. The position in which she found herself was so alarmingly novel, it made such a whirlpool in her quiet life, that it was all she could do to struggle with the throbbing of her heart and attempt to gather her thoughts. She did not even reflect that her eyes were fixed on Hubert’s in a steady gaze. Only the sound of his voice after silence aided her to some degree of collectedness.

‘There is every reason why you should accuse me of worse than impertinence,’ Hubert continued, less impulsively. ‘I can only ask your forgiveness. Miss Waltham may very likely refuse to see me, but, if you would ask her—’

Letty was borne on a torrent of strange thoughts. How could this man, who spoke with such impressive frankness, with such persuasiveness, be the abandoned creature that she had of late believed him? With Adela’s secret warm in her heart she could not but feel an interest in Hubert, and the interest was becoming something like zeal on his behalf. During the past two hours her mind had been occupied with him exclusively; his words when he left her at the stile had sounded so good and tender that she began to question whether there was any truth at all in the evil things said about him. The latest story had just been declared baseless by no less an authority than the vicar, who surely was not a man to maintain friendship with a worthless profligate. What did it all mean? She had heard only half an hour ago of Adela’s positive acceptance of Mutimer, and was wretched about it; secure in her own love-match, it was the mystery of mysteries that Adela should consent to marry a man she could scarcely endure. And here a chance of rescue seemed to be offering; was it not her plain duty to give what help she might?

‘You have probably not seen her since I gave you the book?’ Hubert said, perceiving that Letty was quite at a loss for words.

‘No, I haven’t seen her at all to-day,’ was the reply. ‘Do you wish me to go to-night?’

‘You consent to do me this great kindness?’

Letty blushed. Was she not committing herself too hastily

‘There cannot be any harm in giving your message,’ she said, half interrogatively, her timidity throwing itself upon Hubert’s honour.

‘Surely no harm in that.’

‘But do you know that she—have you heard—?’

‘Yes, I know. She has accepted an offer of marriage. It was because I heard of it that I came to you. You are her nearest friend; you can speak to her as others would not venture to. I ask only for five minutes. I entreat her to grant me that.’

To add to her perturbation, Letty was in dread of hearing Alfred’s ring at the door; she durst not prolong this interview.

‘I will tell her,’ she said. ‘If I can, I will see her to-night.’

‘And how can I hear the result? I am afraid to ask you—if you would write one line to me at Agworth? I am staying at my mother’s house.’

He mentioned the address. Letty, who felt herself caught up above the world of common experiences and usages, gave her promise as a matter of course.

‘I shall not try to thank you,’ Hubert said. ‘But you will not doubt that I am grateful?’

Letty said no more, and it was with profound relief that she heard the door close behind her visitor. But even yet the danger was not past; Alfred might at this moment be approaching, so as to meet Hubert near the house. And indeed this all but happened, for Mr. Waltham presented himself very soon. Letty had had time to impose secrecy on her sisters, such an extraordinary proceeding on her part that they were awed, and made faithful promise of discretion.

Letty drew her lover into the fireless room; she had blown out the candles and turned the lamp low again, fearful lest her face should display signs calling for comment.

‘I did so want you to come!’ she exclaimed. ‘Tell me about Adela.’

‘I don’t know that there’s anything to tell,’ was Alfred’s stolid reply. ‘It’s settled, that’s all. I suppose it’s all right.’

‘But you speak as if you thought it mightn’t be, Alfred?’

‘Didn’t know that I did. Well, I haven’t seen her since I got home. She’s upstairs.’

‘Can’t I see her to-night? I do so want to.’

‘I dare say she’d be glad.’

‘But what is it, my dear boy? I’m sure you speak as if you weren’t quite satisfied.’

‘The mater says it’s all right I suppose she knows.’

‘But you’ve always been so anxious for it.’

‘Anxious? I haven’t been anxious at all. But I dare say it’s the wisest thing she could do. I like Mutimer well enough.’

‘Alfred, I don’t think he’s the proper husband for Adela.’

‘Why not? There’s not much chance that she’ll get a better.’

Alfred was manifestly less cheerful than usual. When Letty continued to tax him with it he grew rather irritable.

‘Go and talk to her yourself,’ he said at length. ‘You’ll find it’s all right. I don’t pretend to understand her; there’s so much religion mixed up with her doings, and I can’t stand that.’

Letty shook her head and sighed.

‘What a vile smell of candle smoke there is here!’ Alfred cried. ‘And the room must be five or six degrees below zero. Let’s go to the fire.’

‘I think I shall run over to Adela at once,’ said Letty, as she followed him into the hall.

‘All right. Don’t be vexed if she refuses to let you in. I’ll stay here with the youngsters a bit.’

The truth was that Alfred did feel a little uncomfortable this evening, and was not sorry to be away from the house for a short time. He was one of those young men who will pursue an end out of mere obstinacy, and who, through default of imaginative power, require an event to declare itself before they can appreciate the ways in which it will affect them. This marriage of his sister with a man of the working class had possibly, he now felt, other aspects than those which alone he had regarded whilst it was merely a matter for speculation. He was not seriously uneasy, but wished his mother had been somewhat less precipitate. Well, Adela could not be such a simpleton as to be driven entirely counter to her inclinations in an affair of so much importance. Girls were confoundedly hard to understand, in short; probably they existed for the purpose of keeping one mentally active.

Letty found Mrs. Waltham sitting alone, she too seemingly not in the best of spirits. There was something depressing in the stillness of the house. Mrs. Waltham had her volume of family prayers open before her; her handkerchief lay upon it.

‘She is naturally a little—a little fluttered,’ she said, speaking of Adela. ‘I hoped you would look in. Try and make her laugh, my dear; that’s all she wants.’

The girl tripped softly upstairs, and softly knocked at Adela’s door. At her ‘May I come in?’ the door was opened. Letty examined her friend with surprise; in Adela’s face there was no indication of trouble, rather the light of some great joy dwelt in her eyes. She embraced Letty tenderly. The two were as nearly as possible of the same age, but Letty had always regarded Adela in the light of an elder sister; that feeling was very strong in her just now, as well as a diffidence greater than she had known before.

‘Are you happy, darling?’ she asked timidly.

‘Yes, dear, I am happy. I believe, I am sure, I have done right. Take your hat off; it’s quite early. I’ve just been reading the collect for to-morrow. It’s one of those I have never quite understood, but I think it’s clear to me now.’

They read over the prayer together, and spoke of it for a few minutes.

‘What have you brought me?’ Adela asked at length, noticing a little parcel in the other’s hand.

‘It’s a book I have been asked to give you. I shall have to explain. Do you remember lending someone your “Christian Year”?’

The smile left Adela’s face, and the muscles of her mouth strung themselves.

‘Yes, I remember,’ she replied coldly.

‘As I was walking back from Agworth this afternoon, he overtook me on the road and asked me to return it to you.’

‘Thank you, dear.’

Adela took the parcel and laid it aside. There was an awkward silence. Letty could not look up.

‘He was going to see Mr. Wyvern,’ she continued, as if anxious to lay stress on this. ‘He seems to know Mr. Wyvern very well.’

‘Yes? You didn’t miss Alfred, I hope. He went out a very short time ago.’

‘No, I saw him. He stayed with the others. But I have something more to tell you, about—about him.’

‘About Alfred?’

‘About Mr. Eldon.’

Adela looked at her friend with a grave surprise, much as a queen regards a favourite subject who has been over-bold.

‘I think we won’t talk of him, Letty,’ she said from her height.

‘Do forgive me, Adela. I have promised toto say something. There must have been a great many things said that were not true, just like this about his marriage; I am so sure of it.’

Adela endeavoured to let the remark pass without replying to it. But her thought expressed itself involuntarily.

‘His marriage? What do you know of it?’

‘Mr. Wyvern came to see mother this morning, and showed her a newspaper that your mother gave him. It said that Mr. Eldon was going to marry an actress, and Mr. Wyvern declared there was not a word of truth in it. But of course your mother told you that?’

Adela sat motionless. Mrs. Waltham had not troubled herself to make known the vicar’s contradiction. But Adela could not allow herself to admit that. Binding her voice with difficulty, she said:

‘It does not at all concern me.’

‘But your mother did tell you, Adela?’ Letty persisted, emboldened by a thought which touched upon indignation.

‘Of course she did.’

The falsehood was uttered with cold deliberateness. There was nothing to show that a pang quivered on every nerve of the speaker.

‘Who can have sent such a thing to the paper?’ Letty exclaimed. ‘There must be someone who wishes to do him harm. Adela, I don’t believe anything that people have said!’

Even in speaking she was frightened at her own boldness. Adela’s eyes had never regarded her with such a look as now.

‘Adela, my darling! Don’t, don’t be angry with me!’

She sprang forward and tried to put her arms about her friend, but Adela gently repelled her.

‘If you have promised to say something, Letty, you must keep your promise. Will you say it at once, and then let us talk of something else?’

Letty checked a tear. Her trustful and loving friend seemed changed to someone she scarcely knew. She too grew colder, and began her story in a lifeless way, as if it no longer possessed any interest.

‘Just when I had had tea and was expecting Alfred to come, somebody rang the bell. I went to the door myself, and it was Mr. Eldon. He had come to speak to me of you. He said he wanted to see you, that he must see you, and begged me to tell you that. That’s all, Adela. I couldn’t refuse him; I felt I had no right to; he spoke in such a way. But I am very sorry to have so displeased you, dear. I didn’t think you would take anything amiss that I did in all sincerity. I am sure there has been some wretched mistake, something worse than a mistake, depend upon it. But I won’t say any more. And I think I’ll go now, Adela.’

Adela spoke in a tone of measured gravity which was quite new in her.

‘You have not displeased me, Letty. I don’t think you have been to blame in any way; I am sure you had no choice but to do as he asked you. You have repeated all he said?’

‘Yes, all; all the words, that is. There was something that I can’t repeat.’

‘And if I consented to see him, how was he to know?’

‘I promised to write to him. He is staying at Agworth.’

‘You mustn’t do that, dear. I will write to him myself, then I can thank him for returning the book. What is his address?’

Letty gave it.

‘It is, of course, impossible for me to see him,’ pursued Adela, still in the same measured tones. ‘If I write myself it will save you any more trouble. Forget it, if I seemed unkind, dear.’

‘Adela, I can’t forget it. You are not like yourself, not at all. Oh, how I wish this had happened sooner! Why, why can’t you see him, darling? I think you ought to; I do really think so.’

‘I must be the best judge of that, Letty. Please let us speak of it no more.’

The sweet girl-face was adamant, its expression a proud virginity; an ascetic sternness moulded the small, delicate lips. Letty’s countenance could never have looked like that.

Left to herself again, Adela took the parcel upon her lap and sat dreaming. It was long before her face relaxed; when it did so, the mood that succeeded was profoundly sorrowful. One would have said that it was no personal grief that absorbed her, but compassion for the whole world’s misery.

When at length she undid the wrapping, her eye was at once caught by the papers within the volume. She started, and seemed afraid to touch the book. Her first thought was that Eldon had enclosed a letter; but she saw that there was no envelope, only two or three loose slips. At length she examined them and found the sonnets. They had no heading, but at the foot of each was written the date of composition.

She read them. Adela’s study of poetry had not gone beyond a school-book of selections, with the works of Mrs. Hemans and of Longfellow, and the ‘Christian Year.’ Hubert’s verses she found difficult to understand; their spirit, the very vocabulary, was strange to her. Only on a second reading did she attain a glimmering of their significance. Then she folded them again and laid them on the table.

Before going to her bedroom she wrote this letter:

‘DEAR MR. ELDON,—I am much obliged to you for returning the “Christian Year.” Some papers were left in its pages by accident, and I now enclose them.

‘Miss Tew also brought me a message from you. I am sorry that I cannot do as you wish. I am unable to ask you to call, and I hope you will understand me when I say that any other kind of meeting is impossible.

‘I am, yours truly, ‘ADELA WALTHAM.’

It was Adela’s first essay in this vein of composition. The writing cost her an hour, and she was far from satisfied with the final form. But she copied it in a firm hand, and made it ready for posting on the morrow.