by Ellen Wood
Mrs. Jonas, bewildered, but intensely relieved, wished Emma good-afternoon civilly, and went away to enlighten the world. A reaction set in: hopes rose again to fever heat. If it was neither Emma Topcroft nor her mother, why, it must be somebody else, argued the ladies, old and young, and perhaps she was not chosen yet: and the next day they were running about the parish more than ever.
Seated in her drawing-room, in her own particular elbow-chair, in the twilight of the summer’s evening, was Miss Deveen. Near to her, telling a history, his voice low, his conscious face slightly flushed, sat the Rector of St. Matthew’s. The scent from the garden flowers came pleasantly in at the open window; the moon, high in the heavens, was tinting the trees with her silvery light. One might have taken them for two lovers, sitting there to exchange vows, and going in for romance.
Miss Deveen was at home alone. I was escorting that other estimable lady to a “penny-reading” in the adjoining district, St. Jude’s, at which the clergy of the neighbourhood were expected to gather in full force, including the Rector of St. Matthew’s. It was a special reading, sixpence admission, got up for the benefit of St. Jude’s vestry fire-stove, which wanted replacing with a new one. Our parish, including Cattledon, took up the cause with zeal, and would not have missed the reading for the world. We flocked to it in numbers.
Disappointment was in store for some of us, however, for the Rector of St. Matthew’s did not appear. He called, instead, on Miss Deveen, confessing that he had hoped to find her alone, and to get half-an-hour’s conversation with her: he had been wishing for it for some time, as he had a tale to tell.
It was a tale of love. Miss Deveen, listening to it in the soft twilight, could but admire the man’s constancy of heart and his marvellous patience.
In the West of England, where he had been curate before coming to London, he had been very intimate with the Gibson family — the medical people of the place. The two brothers were in partnership, James and Edward Gibson. Their father had retired upon a bare competence, for village doctors don’t often make fortunes, leaving the practice to these two sons. The rest of his sons and daughters were out in the world — Mrs. Topcroft was one of them. William Lake’s father had been the incumbent of this parish, and the Lakes and the Gibsons were ever close friends. The incumbent died; another parson was appointed to the living; and subsequently William Lake became the new parson’s curate, upon the enjoyable stipend of fifty pounds a-year. How ridiculously improvident it was of the curate and Emily Gibson to fall in love with one another, wisdom could testify. They did; and there was an end of it, and went in for all kinds of rose-coloured visions after the fashion of such-like poor mortals in this lower world. And when he was appointed to the curacy of St. Matthew’s in London, upon a whole one hundred pounds a-year, these two people thought Dame Fortune was opening her favours upon them. They plighted their troth solemnly, and exchanged broken sixpences.
Mr. Lake was thirty-one years of age then, and Emily was nineteen. He counted forty-five now, and she thirty-three. Thirty-three! Daisy Dutton would have tossed her little impertinent head, and classed Miss Gibson with the old ladies at the Alms Houses, who were verging on ninety.
Fourteen summers had drifted by since that troth-plighting; and the lovers had been living — well, not exactly upon hope, for hope seemed to have died out completely; and certainly not upon love, for they did not meet: better say, upon disappointment. Emily, the eldest daughter of the younger of the two brothers, was but one of several children, and her father had no fortune to give her. She kept the house, her mother being dead, and saw to the younger children, patiently training and teaching them. And any chance of brighter prospects appeared to be so very hopeless, that she had long ago ceased to look for it.
As to William Lake, coming up to London full of hope with his rise in life, he soon found realization not answer to expectation. He found that a hundred a-year in the metropolis, did not go so very much further than his fifty pounds went in the cheap and remote village. Whether he and Emily had indulged a hope of setting up housekeeping on the hundred a-year, they best knew; it might be good in theory, it was not to be accomplished in practice. It’s true that money went further in those days than it goes in these; still, without taking into calculation future incidental expenses that marriage might bring in its train, they were not silly enough to risk it.
When William Lake had been five years at St. Matthew’s, and found he remained just as he was, making both ends meet upon the pay, and saw no prospect of being anywhere else to the end, or of gaining more, he wrote to release Emily from her engagement. The heartache at this was great on both sides, not to be got over lightly. Emily did not rebel; did not remonstrate. A sensible, good, self-enduring girl, she would not for the world have crossed him, or added to his care; if he thought it right that they should no longer be bound to one another, it was not for her to think differently. So the plighted troth was recalled and the broken sixpences were despatched back again. Speaking in theory, that is, you understand: practically, I don’t in the least know whether the sixpences were returned or kept. It must have been a farce altogether, taken at the best: for they had just gone on silently caring for each other; patiently bearing — perhaps in a corner of their hearts even slightly hoping — all through these later years.
Miss Deveen drew a deep breath as the Rector’s voice died away in the stillness of the room. What a number of these long-enduring, silently-borne cases the world could tell of, and how deeply she pitied them, was very present to her then.
“You are not affronted at my disclosing all this so fully, Miss Deveen?” he asked, misled by her silence. “I wished to — —”
“Affronted!” she interposed. “Nay, how could I be? I am lost in the deep sympathy I feel — with you and with Emily Gibson. What a trial it has been! — how hopeless it must have appeared. You will marry now.”
“Yes. I could not bring myself to disclose this abroad prematurely,” he added; “though perhaps I ought to have done it before beginning to furnish the house. I find that some of my friends, suspecting something from that fact, have been wondering whether I was thinking of Emma Topcroft. Though indeed I feel quite ashamed to repeat to you any idea that is so obviously absurd, poor child!”
Miss Deveen laughed. “How did you hear that?” she asked.
“From Emma herself. She heard of it from — from — Mrs. Jonas, I think — and repeated it to me, and to her mother, in the highest state of glee. To Emma, it seemed only fun: she is young and thoughtless.”
“I conclude Emma has known of your engagement?”
“Only lately. Mrs. Topcroft knew of it from the beginning: Emily is her niece. She knew also that I released Emily from the engagement years ago, and she thought I did rightly, my future being so hopeless. But how very silly people must be to suppose I could think of that child Emma! I must set them right.”
“Never mind the people,” cried Miss Deveen. “Don’t set them right until you feel quite inclined to do so. As to that, I believe Emma has done it already. How long is it that you and Emily have waited for one another?”
“Fourteen years.”
“Fourteen years! It seems half a lifetime. Do not let another day go on, Mr. Lake; marry at once.”
“That was one of the points on which I wished to ask your opinion,” he rejoined, his tones hesitating, his face shrinking from the moonlight. “Do you think it would be wrong of me to marry — almost directly? Would it be at all unseemly?”
“Wrong? Unseemly?” cried Miss Deveen. “In what way?”
“I hardly know. It may appear to the parish so very hurried. And it is so short a time since my kind Rector died.”
“Never mind the parish,” reiterated Miss Deveen. “The parish would fight at your marriage, though it were put off for a twelvemonth; be sure of that. As to Mr. Selwyn, he was no relative of yours. Surely you have waited long enough! Were I your promised wife, sir, I wouldn’t have you at all unless you married me to-morrow
morning.”
They both laughed a little. “Why should the parish fight at my marriage, Miss Deveen?” he suddenly asked.
“Why?” she repeated; thinking how utterly void of conceit he was, how unconscious he had been all along in his modesty. “Oh, people always grumble at everything, you know. If you were to remain single, they would say you ought to marry; and if you marry, they will think you might as well have remained single. Don’t trouble your head about the parish, and don’t tell any one a syllable beforehand if you’d rather not. I shouldn’t.”
“You have been so very kind to me always, Miss Deveen, and I have felt more grateful than I can say. I hope — I hope you will like my wife. I hope you will allow me to bring her here, and introduce her to you.”
“I like her already,” said Miss Deveen. “As to your bringing her here, if she lived near enough you should both come here to your wedding-breakfast. What a probation it has been!”
The tears stood in his grey eyes. “Yes, it has been that; a trial hardly to be imagined. I don’t think we quite lost heart, either she or I. Not that we have ever looked to so bright an ending as this; but we knew that God saw all things, and we were content to leave ourselves in His hands.”
“I am sure that she is good and estimable! One to be loved.”
“Indeed she is. Few are like her.”
“Have you never met — all these fourteen years?”
“Yes; three or four times. When I have been able to take a holiday I have gone down there to my old Rector; he was always glad to see me. It has not been often, as you know,” he added. “Mr. Selwyn could not spare me.”
“I know,” said Miss Deveen. “He took all the holidays, and you all the work.”
“He and his family seemed to need them,” spoke the clergyman from his unselfish heart. “Latterly, when Emily and I have met, we have only allowed it to be as strangers.”
“Not quite as strangers, surely!”
“No, no; I used the word thoughtlessly. I ought to have said as friends.”
“Will you pardon me for the question I am about to ask you, and not attribute it to impertinent curiosity?” resumed Miss Deveen. “How have you found the money to furnish your house? Or are you doing it on credit?”
His whole face lighted up with smiles. “The money is Emily’s, dear Miss Deveen. Her father, Edward Gibson, sent me his cheque for three hundred pounds, saying it was all he should be able to do for her, but he hoped it might be enough for the furniture.”
Miss Deveen took his hands in hers as he rose to leave. “I wish you both all the happiness that the world can give,” she said, in her earnest tones. “And I think — I feel sure — Heaven’s blessing will rest upon you.”
We turned out from the penny-reading like bees from a hive, openly wondering what could have become of Mr. Lake. Mrs. Jonas hoped his head was not splitting — she had seen him talking to Miss Cattledon long enough in the afternoon in that hot King’s Road to bring on a sunstroke. Upon which Cattledon retorted that the ginger-cordial might have disagreed with him. With the clearing up as to Emma Topcroft, these slight amenities had recommenced.
Miss Deveen sat reading by lamp-light when we arrived home. Taking off her spectacles, she began asking us about the penny-reading; but never a hint gave she that she had had a visitor.
Close upon this Mr. Lake took a week’s holiday, leaving that interesting young deacon as his substitute, and a brother Rector to preach on the Sunday morning. No one could divine what on earth he had gone out for, as Mrs. Herriker put it, or what part of the world he had betaken himself to. Miss Deveen kept counsel; Mrs. Topcroft and Emma never opened their lips.
The frightful truth came out one morning, striking the parish all of a heap. They read it in the Times, amongst the marriages. “The Reverend William Lake, Rector of St. Matthew’s, to Emily Mary, eldest daughter of Edward Gibson, Member of the Royal College of Surgeons.” Indignation set in.
“I have heard of gay deceivers,” gasped Miss Barlow, who was at the least as old as Cattledon, and sat in the churchwarden’s pew at church, “but I never did hear of deceit such as this. And for a clergyman to be guilty of it!”
“I’m glad I sent him a doll,” giggled Daisy Dutton. “I dare say it is a doll he has gone and married.”
This was said in the porch, after morning prayers. Whilst they were all at it, talking as fast as they could talk, Emma Topcroft chanced to pass. They pounced upon her forthwith.
“Married! Oh yes, of course he is married; and they are coming home on Saturday,” said Emma, in response.
“Is she a doll?” cried Daisy.
“She is the nicest girl you ever saw,” returned Emma; “though of course not much of a girl now; and they have waited for one another fourteen years.”
Fourteen years! Thoughts went back, in mortification, to slippers and cushions. Mrs. Jonas cast regrets to her ginger-cordial.
“Of course he has a right to be engaged — and to have slyly kept it to himself, making believe he was a free man: but to go off surreptitiously to his wedding without a word to any one! — I don’t know what he may call it,” panted Mrs. Herriker, in virtuous indignation, “I call it conduct unbefitting a gentleman. He could have done no less had he been going to his hanging.”
“He would have liked to speak, I think, but could not get up courage for it; he is the shyest man possible,” cried Emma. “But he did not go off surreptitiously: some people knew of it. Miss Deveen knew — and Dr. Galliard knew — and we knew — and I feel nearly sure Mr. Chisholm knew, he simpered so the other day when he called for the books. I dare say Johnny Ludlow knew.”
All which was so much martyrdom to Jemima Cattledon, listening with a face of vinegar. Miss Deveen! — and Johnny Ludlow! — and those Topcrofts! — while she had been kept in the dark! She jerked up her skirts to cross the wet road, inwardly vowing never to put faith in surpliced man again.
We went to church on Sunday morning to the sound of the ting-tang. Mr. Lake, looking calm and cool as usual, was stepping into the reading-desk: in the Rector’s pew sat a quiet-looking and quietly dressed young lady with what Miss Deveen called, then and afterwards, a sweet face. Daisy Dutton took a violent fancy to her at first-sight: truth to say, so did I.
Our parish — the small knot of week-day church-goers in it — could not get over it at all. Moreover, just at this time they lost Mr. Chisholm, whose year was up. Some of them “went over” to St. Jude’s in a body; that church having recently set up daily services, and a most desirable new curate who could “intone.” “As if we would attend that slow old St. Matthew’s now, to hear that slow old parson Lake!” cried Mrs. Herriker, craning her neck disparagingly.
The disparagement did not affect William Lake. He proved as indefatigable as Rector as he had been as curate, earning the golden opinions he deserved. And he and his wife were happy.
But he would persist in declaring that all the good which had come to him was owing to me; that but for my visit to London at that critical time, Sir Robert Tenby would never have heard there was such a man as himself in the world.
“It is true, Johnny,” said Miss Deveen. “But you were only the humble instrument in the hand of God.”
MRS. CRAMP’S TENANT
I.
It was autumn weather, and we had just arrived at Crabb Cot. When you have been away from a familiar place, whether it may be only for days, or whether it may be for weeks or months or years, you are eager on returning to it to learn what has transpired during your absence, concerning friends or enemies, the parish or the public.
Bob Letsom ran in that first evening, and we had him to ourselves; the Squire and Mrs. Todhetley were still in the dining-room. I asked after Coralie Fontaine.
“Oh, Coralie’s all right,” said he.
“Do the old ladies go on at her still?” cried Tod.
Bob laughed. “I think they’ve stopped that, finding it hopeless.”
When Sir Dace Fontaine died, now eight
een months ago, the two girls, Coralie and Verena, were left alone. Verena shortly went back to the West Indies to marry George Bazalgette, Coralie remained at Oxlip Grange. Upon that, all the old ladies in the place, as Tod had ungallantly put it, beginning with Bob’s mother, set on to lecture her: telling her she must not continue to live alone, she must take a companion of mature age. Why must she not live alone, Coralie returned: she had old Ozias to protect her from robbers, and her maid-servants to see to her clothes and her comforts. Because it was not proper, said the old ladies. Coralie laughed at that, and told them not to be afraid; she could take care of herself. And apparently she did. She had learnt to be independent in America; could not be brought to understand English stiffness and English pride: and she would go off to London and elsewhere for a week or two at a time, just as though she had been sixty years of age.
“I have an idea she will not be Coralie Fontaine much longer,” continued Letsom.
“Who will she be, then?”
“Coralie Rymer.”
“You can’t mean that she is going to take up with Ben!”
“Well, I fancy so. Some of us thought they were making up to one another before Sir Dace died — when Ben was attending him. Don’t you recollect how much old Fontaine liked Ben? — he’d have had him by his side always. Ben’s getting on like a house on fire; has unusual skill in surgery and is wonderful at operations: he performed a very critical one upon old Massock this summer, and the man is about again as sturdy and impudent as ever.”
“Does Ben live down here entirely?”
“He goes up to London between whiles — in pursuit of his studies and the degrees he means to take. He is there now. Oh, he’ll get on. You’ll see.”
“Well, what else, Letsom?” cried Tod. “You have told us no news about anybody yet.”
“Because there’s none to tell.”
“How do those two old dames get on — the Dennets?”