CHAPTER XII.
THE WOUNDED DOE.
It was a weary, melancholy household just then, that of Hurst Staple,and one may almost wonder that Bertram should have remained there;but still he did remain. He had been there a fortnight, when helearnt that in three days' time Adela was to go to Littlebath. Shewas to go down with Miss Baker; and was to remain there with her, orwith Miss Todd if Miss Baker should go back to Hadley, till her ownaunt should have returned.
"I don't know why you should be in such a hurry to get toLittlebath," said Mrs. Wilkinson. "We have been very glad to haveyou; and I hope we have shown it." As Arthur had evinced no symptomsof making love to Miss Gauntlet, the good lady had been satisfied,and now she felt somewhat slighted that her hospitality was not morevalued.
But Adela explained in her own soft manner that it would be betterfor her to leave that neighbourhood; that her heart was sore there;that her sorrow for her father would be lighter if she were away.What hypocrites women are! Even Ophelia in her madness would pretendthat she raved for her murdered father, when it was patent to all theworld that she was mad for love for Hamlet. And now Adela must leaveHurst Staple because, forsooth, her poor old father lay buried atWest Putford. Would not ten words have quieted that ghost for ever?But then, what is the use of a lady's speech but to conceal herthoughts?
Bertram had spoken to Arthur about Caroline's marriage, but he had asyet said no word on the subject to any one else. Mrs. Wilkinson hadtried him once or twice, but in vain. He could not bare his bosom toMrs. Wilkinson.
"So you are going, Adela?" he said the morning he had heard the news.They had all called her Adela in that house, and he had learned to doas others did. These intimacies will sometimes grow up in five days,though an acquaintance of twenty years will often not produce them.
"Yes, Mr. Bertram. I have been a great trouble to them here, and itis time that I should be gone."
"'Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.' Had I a house, Ishould endeavour to act on that principle. I would never endeavourto keep a person who wished to go. But we shall all regret you. Andthen, Littlebath is not the place for you. You will never be happy atLittlebath."
"Why not?"
"Oh, it is a wretched place; full of horse-jockeys and hags--ofcard-tables and false hair."
"I shall have nothing to do with the card-tables, and I hope not withthe false hair--nor yet much, I suppose, with the horse-jockeys."
"There will still remain the worst of the four curses."
"Mr. Bertram, how can you be so evil-minded? I have had many happydays at Littlebath." And then she paused, for she remembered that herhappy days there had all been passed with Caroline Waddington.
"Yes, and I also have had happy days there," said he; "very happy.And I am sure of this--that they would have been happy still but forthe influence of that wretched place."
Adela could make no answer to this at the moment, so she went onhemming at her collar. Then, after a pause, she said, "I hope it willhave no evil influence on me."
"I hope not--I hope not. But you are beyond such influences. It seemsto me, if I may say so, that you are beyond all influences."
"Yes; as a fool is," she said, laughing.
"No; but as a rock is. I will not say as ice, for ice will alwaysmelt."
"And do I never melt, Mr. Bertram? Has that which has made you sounhappy not moved me? Do you think that I can love Caroline as I do,and not grieve, and weep, and groan in the spirit? I do grieve; Ihave wept for it. I am not stone."
And in this also there had been some craft. She had been as it wereforced to guard the thoughts of her own heart; and had, therefore,turned the river of the conversation right through the heart of hercompanion.
"For whom do you weep? for which of us do you weep?" he asked.
"For both; that, having so much to enjoy, you should between you havethrown it all away."
"She will be happy. That at any rate is a consolation to me. Thoughyou will hardly believe that."
"I hope she will. I hope she will. But, oh! Mr. Bertram, it is sofearful a risk. What--what if she should not be? What if she shallfind, when the time will be too late for finding anything--what ifshe shall then find that she cannot love him?"
"Love him!" said the other with a sneer. "You do not know her. Whatneed is there for love?"
"Ah! do not be harsh to her; do not you be harsh to her."
"Harsh, no; I will not be harsh to her. I will be all kindness. Andbeing kind, I ask what need is there for love? Looking at it in anylight, of course she cannot love him."
"Cannot love him! why not?"
"How is it possible? Had she loved me, could she have shaken off onelover and taken up another in two months? And if she never loved me;if for three years she could go on, never loving me--then what reasonis there to think she should want such excitement now?"
"But you--could you love her, and yet cast her from you?"
"Yes; I could do it. I did do it--and were it to do again, it shouldbe done again. I did love her. If I know what love is, if I can atall understand it, I did love her with all my heart. And yet--I willnot say I cast her off; it would be unmanly as well as false; but Ilet her go."
"Ah! you did more than that, Mr. Bertram."
"I gave her back her troth; and she accepted it;--as it was her dutyto do, seeing that her wishes were then changed. I did no more thanthat."
"Women, Mr. Bertram, well know that when married they must sometimesbear a sharp word. But the sharp word before marriage; that is veryhard to be borne."
"I measure my words-- But why should I defend myself? Of course yourverdict will be on your friend's side. I should hate you if it werenot so. But, oh! Adela, if I have sinned, I have been punished. Ihave been punished heavily. Indeed, indeed, I have been punished."And sitting down, he bowed himself on the table, and hid his facewithin his hands.
This was in the drawing-room, and before Adela could venture to speakto him again, one of the girls came into the room.
"Adela," said she, "we are waiting for you to go down to the school."
"I am coming directly," said Adela, jumping up, and still hoping thatMary would go on, so as to leave her one moment alone with Bertram.But Mary showed no sign of moving without her friend. Instead ofdoing so, she asked her cousin whether he had a headache?
"Not at all," said he, looking up; "but I am half asleep. This HurstStaple is a sleepy place, I think. Where's Arthur?"
"He's in the study."
"Well, I'll go into the study also. One can always sleep therewithout being disturbed."
"You're very civil, master George." And then Adela followed herfriend down to the school.
But she could not rest while the matter stood in this way. She feltthat she had been both harsh and unjust to Bertram. She knew thatthe fault had been with Caroline; and yet she had allowed herself tospeak of it as though he, and he only, had been to blame. She felt,moreover, an expressible tenderness for his sorrow. When he declaredhow cruel was his punishment, she could willingly have given him thesympathy of her tears. For were not their cases in many points thesame?
She was determined to see him again before she went, and to tell himthat she acquitted him;--that she knew the greater fault was not withhim. This in itself would not comfort him; but she would endeavour soto put it that he might draw comfort from it.
"I must see you for a moment alone, before I go," she said to himthat evening in the drawing-room. "I go very early on Thursdaymorning. When can I speak to you? You are never up early, I know."
"But I will be to-morrow. Will you be afraid to come out with mebefore breakfast?"
"Oh no! she would not be at all afraid," she said: and so theappointment was made.
"I know you'll think me very foolish for giving this trouble," shebegan, in rather a confused way, "and making so much about nothing."
"No man thinks there is much ado about nothing when the ado is abouthimself," said Bertram, laughing.
"Well, but I know it
is foolish. But I was unjust to you yesterday,and I could not leave you without confessing it."
"How unjust, Adela?"
"I said you had cast Caroline off."
"Ah, no! I certainly did not do that."
"She wrote to me, and told me everything. She wrote very truly, Iknow; and she did not say a word--not a word against you."
"Did she not? Well--no--I know she would not. And remember this,Adela: I do not say a word against her. Do tell her, not from me, youknow, but of your own observation, that I do not say one word againsther. I only say she did not love me."
"Ah! Mr. Bertram."
"That is all; and that is true. Adela, I have not much to give; but Iwould give it all--all--everything to have her back--to have her backas I used to think her. But if I could have her now--as I know hernow--by raising this hand, I would not take her. But this imputes noblame to her. She tried to love me, but she could not."
"Ah! she did love you."
"Never!" He almost shouted as he said this; and as he did so, hestood across his companion's path. "Never! She never loved me. I knowit now. What poor vile wretches we are! It is this I think that mosttorments me."
And then they walked on. Adela had come there expressly to speak tohim, but now she was almost afraid to speak. Her heart had been fullof what it would utter, but now all utterance seemed to have lefther. She had intended to console, but she did not dare to attempt it.There was a depth, almost a sublimity about his grief which kept hersilent.
"Oh! Adela," he said, "if you knew what it is to have an emptyheart--or rather a heart not empty--that would fain be empty that youmight again refill it. Dear Adela!" And he put out his hand to takeher own. She hardly knew why, but she let him take her hand. "DearAdela; have you never sighed for the comfort of an empty heart? Youprobe my wounds to the bottom; may I not search your own?"
She did not answer him. Was it possible that she should answer sucha question? Her eyes became suffused with tears, and she was unableto raise them from the ground. She could not recall her hand--notat that moment. She had come there to lecture him, to talk to him,to comfort him; and now she was unable to say a word. Did he knowthe secret of her heart; that secret which once and but once hadinvoluntarily broken from out her lips? Had Caroline told him? Hadshe been so false to friendship--as false to friendship as she hadbeen to love?
"Adela! Adela! I would that we had met earlier in our lives. Yes, youand I." These last words he added after she had quickly rescued herhand from his grasp. Very quickly she withdrew it now. As quickly shelifted up her face, all covered as it was with tears, and endured thefull weight of his gaze. What! was it possible that he knew how shehad loved, and thought that her love had been for him!
"Yes, you and I," he continued. "Even though your eyes flash uponme so sternly. You mean to say that had it been ever so early, thatprize would have been impossible for me. Speak out, Adela. That iswhat you mean?"
"Yes; it would have been impossible; impossible every way;impossible, that is, on both sides."
"Then you have not that empty heart, Adela? What else should make itimpossible?"
"Mr. Bertram, when I came here, I had no wish, no intention to talkabout myself."
"Why not of yourself as well as of me? I say again, I would we hadboth met earlier. It might have been that I should have been savedfrom this shipwreck. I will speak openly to you, Adela. Why not?"he added, seeing that she shrunk from him, and seemed as though shewould move on quickly--away from his words.
"Mr. Bertram, do not say that which it will be useless for you tohave said."
"It shall not be useless. You are my friend, and friends shouldunderstand each other. You know how I have loved Caroline. Youbelieve that I have loved her, do you not?"
"Oh, yes; I do believe that."
"Well, you may; that at any rate is true. I have loved her. She willnow be that man's property, and I must love her no longer."
"No; not with that sort of love."
"That sort! Are there two sorts on which a man may run the changes,as he may from one room to another? I must wipe her out of mymind--out of my heart--or burn her out. I would not wish to loveanything that he possesses."
"No!" said she, "not his wife."
"Wife! she will never be his wife. She will never be bone of hisbone, and flesh of his flesh, as I would have made her. It will bebut a partnership between them, to be dissolved when they have madethe most of their world's trading."
"If you love her, Mr. Bertram, do not be so bitter in speaking ofher."
"Bitter! I tell you that I think her quite right in what she does.If a woman cannot love, what better can she do than trade upon herbeauty? But, there; let her go; I did not wish to speak of her."
"I was very wrong in asking you to walk with me this morning."
"No, Adela, not wrong; but very, very right. There, well, I will notask you for your hand again, though it was but in friendship."
"In friendship I will give it you," and she stretched out her hand tohim. It was ungloved, and very white and fair; a prettier hand thaneven Caroline could boast.
"I must not take it. I must not lie to you, Adela. I ambroken-hearted. I have loved; I have loved that woman with all myheart, with my very soul, with the utmost strength of my wholebeing--and now it has come to this. If I know what a broken heartmeans, I have it here. But yet--yet--yet. Oh, Adela! I would fain tryyet once again. I can do nothing for myself; nothing. If the worldwere there at my feet, wealth, power, glory, to be had for thestooping, I would not stoop to pick them, if I could not share themwith--a friend. Adela, it is so sad to be alone!"
"Yes, it is sad. Is not sadness the lot of many of us?"
"Yes; but nature bids us seek a cure when a cure is possible."
"I do not know what you wish me to understand, Mr. Bertram?"
"Yes, Adela, you do; I think you do. I think I am honest and open. Atany rate, I strive to be so. I think you do understand me."
"If I do, then the cure which you seek is impossible."
"Ah!"
"Is impossible."
"You are not angry with me?"
"Angry; no, not angry."
"And do not be angry now, if I speak openly again. I thought--Ithought. But I fear that I shall pain you."
"I do not care for pain if any good can come of it."
"I thought that you also had been wounded. In the woods, the strickenharts lie down together and lick each other's wounds while the herdroams far away from them."
"Is it so? Why do we hear then 'of the poor sequestered stag, leftand abandoned of his velvet friend?' No, Mr. Bertram, grief, I fear,must still be solitary."
"And so, unendurable."
"God still tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, now as he has everdone. But there is no sudden cure for these evils. The time will comewhen all this will be remembered, not without sorrow, but with acalm, quiet mourning that will be endurable; when your heart, nownot broken as you say, but tortured, will be able to receive otherimages. But that time cannot come at once. Nor, I think, is it wellthat we should wish it. Those who have courage to love should havecourage to suffer."
"Yes, yes, yes. But if the courage be wanting? if one have it not?One cannot have such courage for the asking."
"The first weight of the blow will stun the sufferer. I know that,Mr. Bertram. But that dull, dead, deathly feeling will wear off atlast. You have but to work; to read, to write, to study. In thatrespect, you men are more fortunate than we are. You have that whichmust occupy your thoughts."
"And you, Adela--?"
"Do not speak of me. If you are generous, you will not do so.If I have in any way seemed to speak of myself, it is becauseyou have made it unavoidable. What God has given me to bear isbearable;--though I would that he could have spared my poor father."And, so saying, Adela at last gave way to tears. On that subject shemight be allowed to weep.
Bertram said nothing to disturb her till they were near the house,and then he again held out his hand to her. "
As a true friend; I hopeas a dear friend. Is it not so?" said he.
"Yes," she answered, in her lowest voice, "as a dear friend.But remember that I expect a friend's generosity and a friend'sforbearance." And so she made her way back to her own room, andappeared at breakfast in her usual sober guise, but with eyes thattold no tales.
On the next morning she took her departure. The nearest station onthe railway by which she was to go to Littlebath was distant abouttwelve miles, and it was proposed that she should be sent thither inMrs. Wilkinson's phaeton. This, indeed, except the farm-yard cart,was the only vehicle which belonged to the parsonage, and was a lowfour-wheeled carriage, not very well contrived for the accommodationof two moderate-sized people in front, and of two immoderately-smallpeople on the hind seat. Mrs. Wilkinson habitually drove it herself,with one of her daughters beside her, and with two others--thosetwo whose legs had been found by measurement to be the shortest--indurance vile behind; but when so packed, it was clear to all men thatthe capacity of the phaeton was exhausted. Now the first arrangementproposed was, that Arthur should drive the phaeton, and that Sophyshould accompany Adela to the station. But Sophy, in so arranging,had forgotten that her friend had a bag, a trunk, and a bonnet-box,the presence of which at Littlebath would be indispensable; and,therefore, at the last moment, when the phaeton came to the door withthe luggage fastened on the hinder seat, it was discovered for thefirst time that Sophy must be left behind.
Arthur Wilkinson would willingly have given up his position, andGeorge Bertram would willingly have taken it. Adela also would havebeen well pleased at such a change. But though all would have beenpleased, it could not be effected. The vicar could not very wellproclaim that, as his sister was not to accompany him and shieldhim, he would not act as charioteer to Miss Gauntlet; nor could thelady object to be driven by her host. So at last they started fromthe vicarage door with many farewell kisses, and a large paper ofsandwiches. Who is it that consumes the large packets of sandwicheswith which parting guests are always laden? I imagine thatstation-masters' dogs are mainly fed upon them.
The first half-mile was occupied, on Wilkinson's part, in littlewould-be efforts to make his companion more comfortable. He shiftedhimself about into the furthest corner so as to give her more room;he pulled his cloak out from under her, and put it over her knees toguard her from the dust; and recommended her three times to put upher parasol. Then he had a word or two to say to the neighbours; butthat only lasted as long as he was in his own parish. Then he came toa hill which gave him an opportunity of walking; and on getting inagain he occupied half a minute in taking out his watch, and assuringAdela that she would not be too late for the train.
But when all this was done, the necessity for conversation stillremained. They had hardly been together--thrown for conversation oneach other as they now were--since that day when Arthur had walkedover for the last time to West Putford. Reader, do you remember it?Hardly; for have not all the fortunes and misfortunes of our moreprominent hero intervened since that chapter was before you?
"I hope you will find yourself comfortable at Littlebath," he said atlast.
"Oh, yes; that is, I shall be when my aunt comes home. I shall be athome then, you know."
"But that will be some time?"
"I fear so; and I dread greatly going to this Miss Todd, whom I havenever seen. But you see, dear Miss Baker must go back to Hadley soon,and Miss Todd has certainly been very good-natured in offering totake me."
Then there was another silence, which lasted for about half a mile.
"My mother would have been very glad if you would have stayed at theparsonage till your aunt's return; and so would my sisters--and soshould I."
"You are all very kind--too kind," said Adela.
Then came another pause, perhaps for a quarter of a mile, but it wasup-hill work, and the quarter of a mile passed by very slowly.
"It seems so odd that you should go away from us, whom you have knownso long, to stay with Miss Todd, whom you never have even seen."
"I think change of scene will be good for me, Mr. Wilkinson."
"Well, perhaps so." And then the other quarter of a mile made awaywith itself. "Come, get along, Dumpling." This was said to the fatsteed; for they had now risen to level ground.
"Our house, I know, must be very stupid for you. It is much changedfrom what it was; is it not?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Yes, it is. There is neither the same spirit, nor the samegood-will. We miss my father greatly."
"Ah, yes. I can feel for you there. It is a loss; a great loss."
"I sometimes think it unfortunate that my mother should have remainedat the vicarage after my father's death."
"You have been very good to her, I know."
"I have done my best, Adela." It was the first time she haddistinctly heard him call her by her Christian name since she hadcome to stay with them. "But I have failed. She is not happy there;nor, indeed, for that matter, am I."
"A man should be happy when he does his duty."
"We none of us do that so thoroughly as to require no other source ofhappiness. Go on, Dumpling, and do your duty."
"I see that you are very careful in doing yours."
"Perhaps you will hardly believe me, but I wish Lord Stapledean hadnever given me the living."
"Well; it is difficult to believe that. Think what it has been foryour sisters."
"I know we should have been very poor, but we should not havestarved. I had my fellowship, and I could have taken pupils. I amsure we should have been happier. And then--"
"And then--well?" said Adela; and as she spoke, her heart was notquite at rest within her breast.
"Then I should have been free. Since I took that living, I have beena slave." Again he paused a moment, and whipped the horse; but it wasonly now for a moment that he was silent. "Yes, a slave. Do you notsee what a life I live? I could be content to sacrifice myself to mymother if the sacrifice were understood. But you see how it is withher. Nothing that I can do will satisfy her; and yet for her I havesacrificed everything--everything."
"A sacrifice is no sacrifice if it be agreeable. The sacrificeconsists in its being painful."
"Well, I suppose so. I say that to myself so often. It is the onlyconsolation I have."
"Not that I think your home should be made uncomfortable to you.There is no reason why it should be. At least, I should think not."She spoke with little spasmodic efforts, which, however, did notbetray themselves to her companion, who seemed to her to be almostmore engaged with Dumpling than with the conversation. It certainlyhad been through no wish of hers that they were thus talking of hishousehold concerns; but as they were speaking of them, she was forcedinto a certain amount of hypocrisy. It was a subject on which shecould not speak openly.
There was then another hill to be walked up, and Adela thought therewould be no more of it. The matter had come up by accident, and wouldnow, probably, drop away. But no. Whether by design, or from chance,or because no other topic presented itself, Arthur went back to thesubject, and did so now in a manner that was peculiarly startling toMiss Gauntlet.
"Do you remember my calling once at West Putford, soon after I gotthe living? It is a long time ago now, and I don't suppose you doremember it."
"Yes, I do; very well."
"And do you remember what I told you then?"
"What was it?" said Adela. It clearly is the duty of a young lady onvery many occasions to be somewhat hypocritical.
"If there be any man to whose happiness marriage is more necessarythan to that of another, it is a country clergyman."
"Yes, I can believe that. That is, if there be not ladies of his ownfamily living with him."
"I do not know that that makes any difference."
"Oh, yes; it must make a difference. I think that a man must be verywretched who has no one to look after his house."
"And is that your idea of the excellence of a wife? I should haveexpected something higher from you, Adela. I s
uppose you think, then,that if a man have his linen looked after, and his dinner cooked,that is sufficient." Poor Adela! It must be acknowledged that thiswas hard on her.
"No, I do not think that sufficient."
"It would seem so from what you say."
"Then what I said belied my thoughts. It seems to me, Mr. Wilkinson,since you drive me to speak out, that the matter is very much inyour own hands. You are certainly a free agent. You know better thanI can tell you what your duty to your mother and sisters requires.Circumstances have made them dependent on you, and you certainly arenot the man to disacknowledge the burden."
"Certainly not."
"No, certainly not. But, having made up my mind to that, I would not,were I you, allow myself to be a slave."
"But what can I do?"
"You mean that you would be a poor man, were you--were you to give upyour fellowship and at the same time take upon yourself other caresas well. Do as other poor men do."
"I know no other man situated as I am."
"But you know men who are much worse situated as regards theirworldly means. Were you to give your mother the half of your income,you would still, I presume, be richer than Mr. Young." Mr. Young wasthe curate of a neighbouring parish, who had lately married on hiscuracy.
It will be said by my critics, especially by my female critics, thatin saying this, Adela went a long way towards teaching Mr. Wilkinsonthe way to woo. Indeed, she brought that accusation against herself,and not lightly. But she was, as she herself had expressed it, drivenin the cause of truth to say what she had said. Nor did she, in herheart of hearts, believe that Mr. Wilkinson had any thought of her insaying what she did say. Her mind on that matter had been long madeup. She knew herself to be "the poor sequestered stag, left andabandoned by his velvet friend." She had no feeling in the matterwhich amounted to the slightest hope. He had asked her for hercounsel, and she had given him the only counsel which she honestlycould give.
Therefore, bear lightly on her, oh my critics! Bear lightly on herespecially, my critics feminine. To the worst of your wrath and scornI willingly subject the other lovers with whom my tale is burthened.
"Yes, I should be better off than Young," said Wilkinson, as thoughhe were speaking to himself. "But that is not the point. I do notknow that I have ever looked at it exactly in that light. There isthe house, the parsonage I mean. It is full of women"--'twas thusirreverently that he spoke of his mother and sisters--"what otherwoman would come among them?"
"Oh, that is the treasure for which you have to search"--this shesaid laughingly. The bitterness of the day was over with her; or atleast it then seemed so. She was not even thinking of herself whenshe said this.
"Would you come to such a house, Adela? You, you yourself?"
"You mean to ask whether, if, as regards other circumstances, I wasminded to marry, I would then be deterred by a mother-in-law andsister-in-law?"
"Yes, just so," said Wilkinson, timidly.
"Well, that would depend much upon how well I might like thegentleman; something also upon how much I might like the ladies."
"A man's wife should always be mistress in his own house."
"Oh yes, of course."
"And my mother is determined to be mistress in that house."
"Well, I will not recommend you to rebel against your mother. Is thatthe station, Mr. Wilkinson?"
"Yes--that's the station. Dear me, we have forty minutes to waityet!"
"Don't mind me, Mr. Wilkinson. I shall not in the least dislikewaiting by myself."
"Of course, I shall see you off. Dumpling won't run away; you may besure of that. There is very little of the runaway class to be foundat Hurst Staple Parsonage; except you, Adela."
"You don't call me a runaway, I hope?"
"You run away from us just when we are beginning to feel the comfortof your being with us. There, he won't catch cold now;" and sohaving thrown a rug over Dumpling's back, he followed Adela into thestation.
I don't know anything so tedious as waiting at a second-class stationfor a train. There is the ladies' waiting-room, into which gentlemenmay not go, and the gentlemen's waiting-room, in which the portersgenerally smoke, and the refreshment room, with its dirty countercovered with dirtier cakes. And there is the platform, which you walkup and down till you are tired. You go to the ticket-window half adozen times for your ticket, having been warned by the company'sbills that you must be prepared to start at least ten minutes beforethe train is due. But the man inside knows better, and does not openthe little hole to which you have to stoop your head till two minutesbefore the time named for your departure. Then there are five fatfarmers, three old women, and a butcher at the aperture, and notfinding yourself equal to struggling among them for a place, you makeup your mind to be left behind. At last, however, you do get yourticket just as the train comes up; but hearing that exciting sound,you nervously cram your change into your pocket without counting it,and afterwards feel quite convinced that you have lost a shilling inthe transaction.
'Twas somewhat in this way that the forty minutes were passed byWilkinson and Adela. Nothing of any moment was spoken between themtill he took her hand for the last time. "Adela," he then whisperedto her, "I shall think much of what you have said to me, very much.I do so wish you were not leaving us. I wonder whether you would besurprised if I were to write to you?" But the train was gone beforeshe had time to answer.
Two days afterwards, Bertram also left them. "Arthur," he said, ashe took leave of the vicar, "if I, who have made such a mess of itmyself, may give advice on such a subject, I would not leave AdelaGauntlet long at Littlebath if I were you."