Eames declared his purpose of going to the divan, or to the theatre, or to take a walk in the streets. The smiles of beauty had no longer charms for him in Burton Crescent.
“They’ll expect you to take a cup of tea the first night,” said Cradell; but Eames declared that they might expect it.
“I’m in no humour for it,” said he. “I’ll tell you what, Cradell, I shall leave this place, and take rooms for myself somewhere. I’ll never go into a lodging-house again.”
As he so spoke, he was standing at the dining-room door; but he was not allowed to escape in this easy way. Jemima, as he went out into the passage, was there with a three-cornered note in her hand. “From Miss Mealyer,” she said. “Miss Mealyer is in the back parlour all by herself.”
Poor Johnny took the note, and read it by the lamp over the front door.
“Are you not going to speak to me on the day of your return? It cannot be that you will leave the house without seeing me for a moment. I am in the back parlour.”
When he had read these words, he paused in the passage, with his hat on. Jemima, who could not understand why any young man should hesitate as to seeing his lady-love in the back parlour alone, whispered to him again, in her audible way, “Miss Mealyer is there, sir; and all the rest on ‘em’s upstairs!” So compelled, Eames put down his hat, and walked with slow steps into the back parlour.
How was it to be with the enemy? Was he to encounter Amelia in anger, or Amelia in love? She had seemed to be stern and defiant when he had ventured to steal a look at her across the dining-table, and now he expected that she would turn upon him with loud threatenings and protestations as to her wrongs. But it was not so. When he entered the room she was standing with her back to him, leaning on the mantel-piece, and at the first moment she did not essay to peak. He walked into the middle of the room and stood there, waiting for her to begin.
“Shut the door!” she said, looking over her shoulder. “I suppose you don’t want the girl to hear all you’ve got to say to me!”
Then he shut the door; but still Amelia stood with her back to him, leaning upon the mantel-piece.
It did not seem that he had much to say, for he remained perfectly silent.
“Well!” said Amelia, after a long pause, and she then again looked over her shoulder. “Well, Mr. Eames!”
“Jemima gave me your note, and so I’ve come,” said he.
“And is this the way we meet!” she exclaimed, turning suddenly upon him, and throwing her long black hair back over her shoulders. There certainly was some beauty about her. Her eyes were large and bright, and her shoulders were well turned. She might have done as an artist’s model for a Judith, but I doubt whether any man, looking well into her face, could think that she would do well as a wife. “Oh, John, is it to be thus, after love such as ours?” And she clasped her hands together, and stood before him.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Eames.
“If you are engaged to marry L. D., tell me so at once. Be a man, and speak out, sir.”
“No,” said Eames; “I am not engaged to marry the lady to whom you allude.”
“On your honour?”
“I won’t have her spoken about. I’m not going to marry her, and that’s enough.”
“Do you think that I wish to speak of her? What can L. D. be to me as long as she is nothing to you? Oh, Johnny, why did you write me that heartless letter?” Then she leaned upon his shoulder—or attempted to do so.
I cannot say that Eames shook her off, seeing that he lacked the courage to do so; but he shuffled his shoulder about so that the support was uneasy to her, and she was driven to stand erect again. “Why did you write that cruel letter?” she said again.
“Because I thought it best, Amelia. What’s a man to do with ninety pounds a year, you know?”
“But your mother allows you twenty.”
“And what’s a man to do with a hundred and ten?”
“Rising five pounds every year,” said the well-informed Amelia. “Of course we should live here, with mamma, and you would just go on paying her as you do now. If your heart was right, Johnny, you wouldn’t think so much about money. If you loved me—as you said you did—” Then a little sob came, and the words were stopped. The words were stopped, but she was again upon his shoulder. What was he to do? In truth, his only wish was to escape, and yet his arm, quite in opposition to his own desires, found its way round her waist. In such a combat a woman has so many points in her favour! “Oh, Johnny,” she said again, as soon as she felt the pressure of his arm. “Gracious, what a beautiful watch you’ve got,” and she took the trinket out of his pocket. “Did you buy that?”
“No; it was given to me.”
“John Eames, did L. D. give it you?”
“No, no, no,” he shouted, stamping on the floor as he spoke.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Amelia, quelled for the moment by his energy. “Perhaps it was your mother.”
“No; it was a man. Never mind about the watch now.”
“I wouldn’t mind anything, Johnny, if you would tell me that you loved me again. Perhaps I oughtn’t to ask you, and it isn’t becoming in a lady; but how can I help it, when you know you’ve got my heart. Come upstairs and have tea with us now, won’t you?”
What was he to do? He said that he would go up and have tea; and as he led her to the door he put down his face and kissed her. Oh, Johnny Eames! But then a woman in such a contest has so many points in her favour.
CHAPTER XXX
“Is It from Him?”
I have already declared that Crosbie wrote and posted the fatal letter to Allington, and we must now follow it down to that place. On the morning following the squire’s return to his own house, Mrs. Crump, the post-mistress at Allington, received a parcel by post directed to herself. She opened it, and found an enclosure addressed to Mrs. Dale, with a written request that she would herself deliver it into that lady’s own hand at once. This was Crosbie’s letter.
“It’s from Miss Lily’s gentleman,” said Mrs. Crump, looking at the handwriting. “There’s ‘something up, or he wouldn’t be writing to her mamma in this way.” But Mrs. Crump lost no time in putting on her bonnet, and trudging up with the letter to the Small House. “I must see the missus herself,” said Mrs. Crump. Whereupon Mrs. Dale was called downstairs into the hall, and there received the packet. Lily was in the breakfast-parlour, and had seen the post-mistress arrive—had seen also that she carried a letter in her hand. For a moment she had thought that it was for her, and imagined that the old woman had brought it herself from simple good-nature. But Lily, when she heard her mother mentioned, instantly withdrew and shut the parlour door. Her heart misgave her that something was wrong, but she hardly tried to think what it might be. After all, the regular postman might bring the letter she herself expected. Bell was not yet downstairs, and she stood alone over the tea-cups on the breakfast-table, feeling that there was something for her to fear. Her mother did not come at once into the room, but, after a pause of a moment or two, went again upstairs. So she remained, either standing against the table, or at the window, or seated in one of the two arm-chairs, for a space of ten minutes, when Bell entered the room.
“Isn’t mamma down yet?” said Bell.
“Bell,” said Lily, “something has happened. Mamma has got a letter.”
“Happened! What has happened? Is anybody ill? Who is the letter from?” And Bell was going to return through the door in search of her mother.
“Stop, Bell,” said Lily. “Do not go to her yet. I think it’s from—Adolphus.”
“Oh, Lily, what do you mean?”
“I don’t know, dear. We’ll wait a little longer. Don’t look like that, Bell.” And Lily strove to appear calm, and strove almost successfully.
“You have frightened me so,” said Bell.
“I am frightened myself. He only sent me one line yesterday, and now he has sent nothing. If some misfortune should have happened to him! Mrs. Crump brought down the letter herself to mamma, and that is so odd, you know.”
“Are you sure it was from him?”
“No; I have not spoken to her. I will go up to her now. Don’t you come, Bell. Oh! Bell, do not look so unhappy.” She then went over and kissed her sister, and after that, with very gentle steps, made her way up to her mother’s room. “Mamma, may I come in?” she said.
“Oh! my child!”
“I know it is from him, mamma. Tell me all at once.”
Mrs. Dale had read the letter. With quick, glancing eyes, she had made herself mistress of its whole contents, and was already aware of the nature and extent of the sorrow which had come upon them. It was a sorrow that admitted of no hope. The man who had written that letter could never return again; nor if he should return could he be welcomed back to them. The blow had fallen, and it was to be borne. Inside the letter to herself had been a very small note addressed to Lily. “Give her the enclosed,” Crosbie had said in his letter, “if you do not now think it wrong to do so. I have left it open, that you may read it.” Mrs. Dale, however, had not yet read it, and she now concealed it beneath her handkerchief.
I will not repeat at length Crosbie’s letter to Mrs. Dale. It covered four sides of letter-paper, and was such a letter that any man who wrote it must have felt himself to be a rascal. We saw that he had difficulty in writing it, but the miracle was, that any man could have found it possible to write it. “I know you will curse me,” said he; “and I deserve to be cursed. I know that I shall be punished for this, and I must bear my punishment. My worst punishment will be this, that I never more shall hold up my head again.” And then, again, he said—”My only excuse is my conviction that I should never make her happy. She has been brought up as an angel, with pure thoughts, with holy hopes, with a belief in all that is good, and high, and noble. I have been surrounded through my whole life by things low, and mean, and ignoble. How could I live with her, or she with me? I know now that this is so; but my fault has been that I did not know it when I was there with her. I choose to tell you all,” he continued, towards the end of the letter, “and therefore I let you know that I have engaged myself to marry another woman. Ah! I can foresee how bitter will be your feelings when you read this: but they will not be so bitter as mine while I write it. Yes; I am already engaged to one who will suit me, and whom I may suit. You will not expect me to speak ill of her who is to be near and dear to me. But she is one with whom I may mate myself without an inward conviction that I shall destroy all her happiness by doing so. Lilian,” he said, “shall always have my prayers; and I trust that she may soon forget, in the love of an honest man, that she ever knew one so dishonest as—Adolphus Crosbie.”
Of what like must have been his countenance as he sat writing such words of himself under the ghastly light of his own small, solitary lamp? Had he written his letter at his office, in the day-time, with men coming in and out of his room, he could hardly have written of himself so plainly. He would have bethought himself that the written words might remain, and be read hereafter by other eyes than those for which they were intended. But, as he sat alone, during the small hours of the night, almost repenting of his sin with true repentance, he declared to himself that he did not care who might read them. They should, at any rate, be true. Now they had been read by her to whom they had been addressed, and the daughter was standing before the mother to hear her doom.
“Tell me all at once,” Lily had said; but in what words was her mother to tell her?
“Lily,” she said, rising from her seat, and leaving the two letters on the couch; that addressed to the daughter was hidden beneath a handkerchief, but that which she had read she left open and in sight. She took both the girl’s hands in hers as she looked into her face, and spoke to her. “Lily, my child!” Then she burst into sobs, and was unable to tell her tale.
“Is it from him, mamma? May I read it? He cannot be—”
“It is from Mr. Crosbie.”
“Is he ill, mamma? Tell me at once. If he is ill I will go to him.”
“No, my darling, he is not ill. Not yet—do not read it yet. Oh, Lily! It brings bad news; very bad news.”
“Mamma, if he is not in danger, I can read it. Is it bad to him, or only bad to me?”
At this moment the servant knocked, and not waiting for an answer half opened the door.
“If you please, ma’am, Mr. Bernard is below, and wants to speak to you.”
“Mr. Bernard! ask Miss Bell to see him.”
“Miss Bell is with him, ma’am, but he says that he specially wants to speak to you.”
Mrs. Dale felt that she could not leave Lily alone. She could not take the letter away, nor could she leave her child with the letter open.
“I cannot see him,” said Mrs. Dale. “Ask him what it is. Tell him I cannot come down just at present.” And then the servant went, and Bernard left his message with Bell.
“Bernard,” she had said, “do you know of anything? Is there anything wrong about Mr. Crosbie?” Then, in a few words, he told her all, and understanding why his aunt had not come down to him, he went back to the Great House. Bell, almost stupefied by the tidings, seated herself at the table unconsciously, leaning upon her elbows.
“It will kill her,” she said to herself. “My Lily, my darling Lily! It will surely kill her!”
But the mother was still with the daughter, and the story was still untold.
“Mamma,” said Lily, “whatever it is, I must, of course, be made to know it. I begin to guess the truth. It will pain you to say it. Shall I read the letter?”
Mrs. Dale was astonished at her calmness. It could not be that she had guessed the truth, or she would not stand like that, with tearless eyes and unquelled courage before her.
“You shall read it, but I ought to tell you first. Oh, my child, my own one!” Lily was now leaning against the bed, and her mother was standing over her, caressing her.
“Then tell me,” said she. “But I know what it is. He has thought it all over while away from me, and he finds that it must not be as we have supposed. Before he went I offered to release him, and now he knows that he had better accept my offer. Is it so, mamma?” In answer to this Mrs. Dale did not speak, but Lily understood from her signs that it was so.
“He might have written it to me, myself,” said Lily very proudly. “Mamma, we will go down to breakfast. He has sent nothing to me, then?”
“There is a note. He bids me read it, but I have not opened it. It is here.”
“Give it me,” said Lily, almost sternly. “Let me have his last words to me;” and she took the note from her mother’s hands.
“Lily,” said the note, “your mother will have told you all. Before you read these few words you will know that you have trusted one who was quite untrustworthy. I know that you will hate me. I cannot even ask you to forgive me. You will let me pray that you may yet be happy.—A.C.”
She read these few words, still leaning against the bed. Then she got up, and walking to a chair, seated herself with her back to her mother. Mrs. Dale moving silently after her stood over the back of the chair, not daring to speak to her. So she sat for some five minutes, with her eyes fixed upon the open window, and with Crosbie’s note in her hand.
“I will not hate him, and I do forgive him,” she said at last, struggling to command her voice, and hardly showing that she could not altogether succeed in her attempt. “I may not write to him again, but you shall write and tell him so. Now we will go down to breakfast.” And so saying, she got up from her chair.
Mrs. Dale almost feared to speak to her, her composure was so complete, and her manner so stern and fixed. She hardly knew how to offer pity and sympathy, seeing that pity seemed to be so little necessary, and that even sympathy was not demanded. And she could not understand all that Lily had said. What had she meant by the offer to release him? Had there, then, been some quarrel between them before he went? Crosbie had made no such allusion in his letter. But Mrs. Dale did not dare to ask any questions.
“You frighten me, Lily,” she said. “Your very calmness frightens me.”
“Dear mamma!” and the poor girl absolutely smiled as she embraced her mother. “You need not be frightened by my calmness. I know the truth well. I have been very unfortunate—very. The brightest hopes of my life are all gone—and I shall never again see him whom I love beyond all the world!” Then at last she broke down, and wept in her mother’s arms.
There was not a word of anger spoken then against him who had done all this. Mrs. Dale felt that she did not dare to speak in anger against him, and words of anger were not likely to come from poor Lily. She, indeed, hitherto did not know the whole of his offence, for she had not read his letter.
“Give it me, mamma,” she said at last. “It has to be done sooner or later.”
“Not now, Lily. I have told you all—all that you need know at present.”
“Yes; now, mamma,” and again that sweet silvery voice became stern. “I will read it now, and there shall be an end.” Whereupon Mrs. Dale gave her the letter and she read it in silence. Her mother, though standing somewhat behind her, watched her narrowly as she did so. She was now lying over upon the bed, and the letter was on the pillow, as she propped herself upon her arm. Her tears were running, and ever and again she would stop to dry her eyes. Her sobs, too, were very audible, but she went on steadily with her reading till she came to the line on which Crosbie told that he had already engaged himself to another woman. Then her mother could see that she paused suddenly, and that a shudder slightly convulsed all her limbs.
“He has been very quick,” she said, almost in a whisper; and then she finished the letter. “Tell him, mamma,” she said, “that I do forgive him, and I will not hate him. You will tell him that—from me; will you not?” And then she raised herself from the bed.
Mrs. Dale would give her no such assurance. In her present mood her feelings against Crosbie were of a nature which she herself hardly could understand or analyse. She felt that if he were present she could almost fly at him as would a tigress. She had never hated before as she now hated this man. He was to her a murderer, and worse than a murderer. He had made his way like a wolf into her little fold, and torn her ewe-lamb and left her maimed and mutilated for life. How could a mother forgive such an offence as that, or consent to be the medium through which forgiveness should be expressed?
“You must, mamma; or, if you do not, I shall do so. Remember that I love him. You know what it is to have loved one single man. He has made me very unhappy; I hardly know yet how unhappy. But I have loved him, and do love him. I believe, in my heart, that he still loves me. Where this has been there must not be hatred and unforgiveness.”
“I will pray that I may become able to forgive him,” said Mrs. Dale.
“But you must write to him those words. Indeed you must, mamma! ‘She bids me tell you that she has forgiven you, and will not hate you.’ Promise me that!”
“I can make no promise now, Lily. I will think about it, and endeavour to do my duty.”
Lily was now seated, and was holding the skirt of her mother’s dress.
“Mamma,” she said, looking up into her mother’s face, “you must be very good to me now; and I must be very good to you. We shall be always together now. I must be your friend and counsellor; and be everything to you, more than ever. I must fall in love with you now;” and she smiled again, and the tears were almost dry upon her cheeks.
At last they went down to the breakfast-room, from which Bell had not moved. Mrs. Dale entered the room first, and Lily followed, hiding herself for a moment behind her mother. Then she came forward boldly, and taking Bell in her arms, clasped her close to her bosom.