The Bertrams

  CHAPTER XII.

  MRS. WILKINSON'S TROUBLES.

  Arthur Wilkinson was received at home with open arms and warmembraces. He was an only son, an only brother, the head and stay ofhis family; and of course he was beloved. His mother wept for joy asshe saw the renewed plumpness of his cheeks, and declared that Egyptmust indeed be a land of fatness; and his sisters surrounded him,smiling and kissing him, and asking questions, as though he wereanother Livingstone. This was very delightful; but a cloud was soonto come across all this sunshine.

  Mrs. Wilkinson, always excepting what care she may have had for herson's ill health, had not been unhappy during his absence. She hadreigned the female vicaress, without a drawback, praying daily, andin her heart almost hourly, for the continuance in the land of suchexcellent noblemen as Lord Stapledean. The curate who had takenArthur's duty had been a very mild young man, and had been quitecontented that Mrs. Wilkinson should leave to him the pulpit andthe reading-desk. In all other matters he had been satisfied not tointerfere with her power, or to contradict her edicts.

  "Mr. Gilliflower has behaved excellently," she said to her son, soonafter his return; "and has quite understood my position here. Ionly wish we could keep him in the parish; but that, of course, isimpossible."

  "I shouldn't want him at all, mother," Arthur had replied. "I am asstrong as a horse now."

  "All the same; I should like to have him here," said Mrs. Wilkinson,in a tone which was the beginning of the battle. How sweet it wouldhave been to her if Arthur could have gone to some good neighbouringparish, leaving her, with Gabriel Gilliflower as her assistant,to manage the souls of Hurst Staple! And why, as she almost askedherself--why should she not be addressed as the Reverend Mrs.Wilkinson?

  But the battle had to be fought, and there was to be an end to thesesweet dreams. Her son had been meek enough, but he was not as meek asMr. Gilliflower; and now he was sharpening his arrows, and looking tohis bow, and preparing for the war.

  "Is Adela at Littlebath?" he asked of one of his sisters, on thethird or fourth day after his arrival.

  "Yes," said Mary. "She is with her aunt. I had a letter from heryesterday."

  "I wonder whether she would come here if you were to ask her."

  "Oh, that she would," said Mary.

  "I doubt it very much," said the more prudent Sophia.

  Mrs. Wilkinson heard the conversation, and pondered over it. At themoment she said nothing, pressing down her grief in her deep heart;but that evening, in the book-room, she found Arthur alone; and thenshe began.

  "You were not in earnest just now about Adela, were you, Arthur?"

  "Indeed I was, mother; quite in earnest."

  "She has been very much away from Littlebath since her aunt came backfrom Italy to make a home for her. She was with us; and with theHarcourts, in London; and, since the break-up there, she was atHadley. It would not be right to Miss Gauntlet to ask her away sosoon."

  "I don't think Miss Gauntlet would mind her coming here; and even ifshe does--"

  "And then my time is so much taken up--what with the schools, andwhat with the parish visiting--"

  "Adela will do the visiting with you."

  "I really had rather not have her just at present; that is, unlessyou have some very particular reason."

  "Well, mother, I have a particular reason. But if you had rather thatshe did not come here, I will go to Littlebath instead."

  There was nothing more said on this occasion; but that was thebeginning of the battle. Mrs. Wilkinson could not but know what herson meant; and she now knew that all that she dreaded was to comeupon her. It was not that she did not wish to see her son happy, orthat she did not think that his being married and settled would tendto his happiness; but she was angry, as other mothers are angry, whentheir foolish, calf-like boys will go and marry without any incomeson which to support a wife. She said to herself over and over againthat night, "I cannot have a second family here in the parsonage;that's certain. And where on earth they're to live, I don't know;and how they're to live when his fellowship is gone, I can't think."And then she shook her head, clothed as it was in her night-cap,and reposing as it was on her pillow. "Two thousand pounds is everyshilling she has--every shilling." And then she shook her head again.She knew that the ecclesiastical income was her own; for had not thegood Lord Stapledean given it to her? But she had sad thoughts, andfeared that even on this point there might be a contest between herand her son.

  Two mornings after this the blow came very suddenly. It was now herhabit to go into the book-room after breakfast, and set herself downto, work--as her husband, the former vicar, had done in his time--andas Arthur, since his return, usually did the same, they naturallyfound themselves alone together. On the morning in question, she hadno sooner seated herself, with her papers before her, than Arthurbegan. And, alas! he had to tell her, not what he was going to do,but what he had done.

  "I spoke to you, mother, of going to Littlebath the other day."

  "Yes, Arthur," said she, taking her spectacles off, and laying thembeside her.

  "I have written to her, instead."

  "And you have made her an offer of marriage!"

  "Exactly so. I was sure you must have known how my heart stoodtowards her. It is many years now since I first thought of this; butI was deterred, because I feared that my income--our income, thatis--was insufficient."

  "Oh, Arthur, and so it is. What will you do? How will you live? Adelahas got just two thousand pounds--about seventy or eighty pounds ayear. And your fellowship will be gone. Oh, Arthur, how will all themouths be fed when you have six or seven children round you?"

  "I'll tell you what my plans are. If Adela should accept me--"

  "Oh, accept you! She'll accept you fast enough," said Mrs. Wilkinson,with the venom with which mothers will sometimes speak of the girlsto whom their sons are attached.

  "It makes me very happy to hear you say so. But I don't know. When Idid hint at the matter once before, I got no encouragement."

  "Psha!" said Mrs. Wilkinson.

  This sound was music to her son's ears; so he went on with the morecheerfulness to describe his plans.

  "You see, mother, situated as I am, I have no right to expect anyincrease of income, or to hope that I shall ever be better able tomarry than I am now."

  "But you might marry a girl who had something to help. There is MissGlunter--"

  "But it so happens that I am attached to Adela, and not to MissGlunter."

  "Attached! But, of course, you must have your own way. You are ofage, and I cannot prevent your marrying the cook-maid if you like.What I want to know is, where do you mean to live?"

  "Here, certainly."

  "What! in this house?"

  "Certainly. I am bound to live here, as the clergyman of the parish."

  Mrs. Wilkinson drew herself up to her full height, put her spectacleson, and looked at the papers before her; then put them off again, andfixed her eyes on her son. "Do you think there will be room in thehouse?" she said. "I fear you would be preparing great discomfort forAdela. Where on earth would she find room for a nursery? But, Arthur,you have not thought of these things."

  Arthur, however, had thought of them very often. He knew where tofind the nursery, and the room for Adela. His difficulty was as tothe rooms for his mother and sisters. It was necessary now that thisdifference of opinion should be explained.

  "I suppose that my children, if I have any--"

  "Clergymen always have large families," said Mrs. Wilkinson.

  "Well, I suppose they'll have the same nursery that we had."

  "What, and turn Sophy and Mary out of it!" And then she paused, andbegan to rearrange her papers. "That will not do at all, Arthur," shecontinued. "It would be unjust in me to allow that; much as I thinkof your interests, I must of course think of theirs as well."

  How was he to tell her that the house was his own? It was essentiallynecessary that he should do so, and that he should do so now. Ifhe gave up the poin
t at the present moment, he might give it upfor ever. His resolve was, that his mother and sisters should goelsewhere; but in what words could he explain this resolution to her?

  "Dear mother, I think we should understand each other--"

  "Certainly," said Mrs. Wilkinson, laying her hands across each otheron the table, and preparing for the onslaught.

  "It is clearly my duty, as clergyman, to live in this parish, and tolive in this house."

  "And it is my duty also, as was excellently explained by LordStapledean after your poor father's death."

  "My idea is this--" and then he paused, for his heart misgave himwhen he attempted to tell his mother that she must pack up and turnout. His courage all but failed him. He felt that he was right, andyet he hardly knew how to explain that he was right without appearingto be unnatural.

  "I do not know that Lord Stapledean said anything about the house;but if he did, it could make no difference."

  "Not the least, I should think," said the lady. "When he appointedme to the income of the parish, it could hardly be necessary that heshould explain that I was to have the house also."

  "Mother, when I accepted the living, I promised him that I would giveyou three hundred and fifty pounds out of the proceeds; and so Iwill. Adela and I will be very poor, but I shall endeavour to eke outour income; that is, of course, if she consents to marry me--"

  "Psha!"

  "--To eke out our income by taking pupils. To do that, I must havethe house at my own disposal."

  "And you mean to tell me," said the female vicaress, rising to herfeet in her wrath, "that I--that I--am to go away?"

  "I think it will be better, mother."

  "And the poor girls!"

  "For one or two of them there would be room here," said Arthur,trying to palliate the matter.

  "One or two of them! Is that the way you would treat your sisters? Isay nothing about myself, for I have long seen that you are tired ofme. I know how jealous you are because Lord Stapledean has thoughtproper to--" she could not exactly remember what phrase would bestsuit her purpose--"to--to--to place me here, as he placed your poorfather before. I have seen it all, Arthur. But I have my duty to do,and I shall do it. What I have undertaken in this parish I shall gothrough with, and if you oppose me I shall apply to his lordship."

  "I think you have misunderstood Lord Stapledean."

  "I have not misunderstood him at all. I know very well what he meant,and I quite appreciate his motives. I have endeavoured to act up tothem, and shall continue to do so. I had thought that I had made thehouse as comfortable to you as any young man could wish."

  "And so you have."

  "And yet you want to turn me out of it--out of my own house!"

  "Not to turn you out, mother. If it suits you to remain here foranother year--"

  "It will suit me to remain here for another ten years, if I am sparedso long. Little viper! I suppose this comes from her. After warmingher in my bosom when her father died!"

  "It can hardly have come from her, seeing that there has never yetbeen a word spoken between us on the subject. I fear that you greatlymistake the footing on which we stand together. I have no reasonableground for hoping for a favourable answer."

  "Psha! viper!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilkinson, in dire wrath. Mothers areso angry when other girls, not their own, will get offers; so doublyangry when their own sons make them.

  "You will make me very unhappy if you speak ill of her," said Arthur.

  "Has it ever come into your head to think where your mother andsisters are to live when you turn them out?" said she.

  "Littlebath," suggested Arthur.

  "Littlebath!" said Mrs. Wilkinson, with all the scorn that she couldmuster to the service. "Littlebath! I am to put up with the aunt, Isuppose, when you take the niece. But I shall not go to Littlebath atyour bidding, sir." And so saying, she gathered up her spectacles,and stalked out of the room.

  Arthur was by no means satisfied with the interview, and yet had hebeen wise he might have been. The subject had been broached, and thatin itself was a great deal. And the victory had by no means beenwith Mrs. Wilkinson. She had threatened, indeed, to appeal to LordStapledean; but that very threat showed how conscious she was thatshe had no power of her own to hold her place where she was. He oughtto have been satisfied; but he was not so.

  And now he had to wait for his answer from Adela. Gentlemen who makeoffers by letter must have a weary time of it, waiting for the returnof post, or for the return of two posts, as was the case in thisinstance. And Arthur had a weary time of it. Two evenings he hadto pass, after the conversation above recounted, before he got hisletter; and dreadful evenings they were. His mother was majestic,glum, and cross; his sisters were silent and dignified. It was clearto him that they had all been told; and so told as to be leagued inenmity against him. What account their mother may have given to themof their future poverty, he knew not; but he felt certain that shehad explained to them how cruelly he meant to turn them out on thewide world; unnatural ogre that he was.

  Mary was his favourite, and to her he did say a few words. "Mamma hastold you what I have done, hasn't she?"

  "Yes, Arthur," said Mary, demurely.

  "And what do you think about it?"

  "Think about it!"

  "Yes. Do you think she'll accept me?"

  "Oh! she'll accept you. I don't doubt about that." How cheap girls domake themselves when talking of each other!

  "And will it not be an excellent thing for me?" said he.

  "But about the house, Arthur!" And Mary looked very glum. So he saidnothing further to any of them.

  On the day after this he got his answer; and now we will give the twoletters. Arthur's was not written without much trouble and variouscopies; but Adela's had come straight from her heart at once.

  Hurst Staple, April, 184--.

  My dear Adela,

  You will be surprised to receive a letter from me, and more so, I am sure, when you read its contents. You have heard, I know, from Mary, of my return home. Thank God, I am quite strong again. I enjoyed my trip very much. I had feared that it would be very dull before I knew that George Bertram would go with me.

  I wonder whether you recollect the day when I drove you to Ripley Station! It is eighteen months ago now, I believe; and indeed the time seems much longer. I had thought then to have said to you what I have to say now; but I did not. Years ago I thought to do the same, and then also I did not. You will know what I mean. I did not like to ask you to share such poverty, such a troubled house as mine will be.

  But I have loved you, Adela, for years and years. Do you remember how you used to comfort me at that grievous time, when I disappointed them all so much about my degree? I remember it so well. It used to lie on my tongue then to tell you that I loved you; but that would have been folly. Then came my poor father's death, and the living which I had to take under such circumstances. I made up my mind then that it was my duty to live single. I think I told you, though I am sure you forget that.

  I am not richer now, but I am older. I seem to care less about poverty on my own behalf; and--though I don't know whether you will forgive me for this--I feel less compunction in asking you to be poor with me. Do not imagine from this that I feel confident as to your answer. I am very far from that. But I know that you used to love me as a friend--and I now venture to ask you to love me as my wife.

  Dearest Adela! I feel that I may call you so now, even if I am never to call you so again. If you will share the world with me, I will give you whatever love can give--though I can give but little more. I need not tell you how we should be circumstanced. My mother must have three hundred and fifty pounds out of the living as long as she lives; and should I survive her, I must, of course, maintain the girls. But I mean to explain to my mother that she had better live elsewhere. There will be trouble about this; but I am sure that it is right. I shall tell her of this letter
to-morrow. I think she knows what my intention is, though I have not exactly told it to her.

  I need not say how anxious I shall be till I hear from you. I shall not expect a letter till Thursday morning; but, if possible, do let me have it then. Should it be favourable--though I do not allow myself to have any confidence--but should it be favourable, I shall be at Littlebath on Monday evening. Believe me, that I love you dearly.

  Yours, dear Adela,

  ARTHUR WILKINSON.

  Aunt Penelope was a lady addicted to very early habits, andconsequently she and Adela had usually left the breakfast-tablebefore the postman had visited them. From this it resulted that Adelareceived her letter by herself. The first words told her what itcontained, and her eyes immediately became suffused with tears. Afterall, then, her patience was to be rewarded. But it had not beenpatience so much as love; love that admitted of no change; love onwhich absence had had no effect; love which had existed without anyhope; which had been acknowledged by herself, and acknowledged as asad misfortune. But now--. She took the letter up, but she could notread it. She turned it over, and at the end, through her tears, shesaw those words--"Believe me, that I love you dearly." They werenot like the burning words, the sweet violent protestations of apassionate lover. But coming from him, they were enough. At last shewas to be rewarded.

  And then at length she read it. Ah! yes; she recollected the daywell when he had driven her to Ripley Station, and asked her thosequestions as he was persuading Dumpling to mount the hill. The verywords were still in her ears. "Would _you_ come to such a house,Adela?" Ay, indeed, would she--if only she were duly asked. But he--!Had it not seemed then as if he almost wished that the proffer shouldcome from her? Not to that would she stoop. But as for sharing sucha house as his--any house with him! What did true love mean, if shewere not ready to do that?

  And she remembered, too, that comforting of which he spoke. That hadbeen the beginning of it all, when he took those walks along theriver to West Putford; when she had learned to look for his figurecoming through the little wicket at the bottom of their lawn. Thenshe had taxed her young heart with imprudence--but in doing so shehad found that it was too late. She had soon told the truth--toherself that is; and throughout she had been true. Now she had herreward; there in her hands, pressing it to her heart. He had lovedher for years and years, he said. Yes, and so had she loved him; andnow he should know it. But not quite at once--in some sweet hour offullest confidence she would whisper it all to him.

  "I think I told you; though, I am sure, you have forgotten that."

  Forget it! no, not a word, not one of his tones, not a glance of hiseyes, as he sat there in her father's drawing-room that morning, allbut unable to express his sorrows. She could never forget the effortwith which she had prevented the tell-tale blood from burning in hercheeks, or the difficulty with which she had endured his confidence.But she had endured it, and now had come her reward. Then he had cometo tell her that he was too poor to marry. Much as she loved him, shehad then almost despised him. But the world had told him to be wiser.The world, which makes so many niggards, had taught him to be freerof heart. Now he was worthy of her, now that he cared nothing forpoverty. Yes, now she had her reward.

  He had allowed her till the second post for her reply. That was sokind of him, as it was necessary that she should tell her aunt. As tothe nature of her reply--as to that she never doubted for a moment.She would consult her aunt; but she would do so with her mind fullymade up as to the future. No aunt, no Mrs. Wilkinson, should rob herof her happiness now that he had spoken. No one should rob him of thecomfort of her love!

  In the evening, after thinking of it for hours, she told her aunt;or, rather, handed to her Arthur's letter, that she might read it.Miss Penelope's face grew very long as she did read it; and she madethis remark--"Three hundred and fifty pounds! why, my dear, therewill be only one hundred and fifty left."

  "We can't keep our carriage, certainly, aunt."

  "Then you mean to accept him?"

  "Yes, aunt."

  "Oh, dear! oh, dear! What will you do when the children come?"

  "We must make the best of it, aunt."

  "Oh, dear! oh, dear! And you will have his mother with you always."

  "If so, then we should not be so very poor; but I do not think thatthat is what Arthur means."

  There was not much more said about it between them; and at last, inthe seclusion of her own bedroom, Adela wrote her letter.

  Littlebath, Tuesday night.

  Dear Arthur,

  I received your letter this morning; but as you were so kind as to give me a day to answer it, I have put off doing so till I could be quite alone. It will be a very simple answer. I value your love more than anything in the world. You have my whole heart. I hope, for your sake, that the troubles which you speak of will not be many; but whatever they may be, I will share them. If I can, I will lessen them.

  I hope it is not unmaidenly to say that I have received your dear letter with true delight; I do not know why it should be. We have known each other so long, that it is almost natural that I should love you. I do love you dearly, dearest Arthur; and with a heart thankful for God's goodness to me, I will put my hand in yours with perfect trust--fearing nothing, then, as far as this world is concerned.

  I do not regard the poverty of which you speak, at least not for my own sake. What I have of my own is, I know, very little. I wish now that I could make it more for you. But, no; I will wish for nothing more, seeing that so much has been given to me. Everything has been given to me when I have your love.

  I hope that this will not interfere with your mother's comfort. If anything now could make me unhappy, it would be that she should not be pleased at our prospects. Give her my kindest, kindest love; and tell her that I hope she will let me look on her as a mother.

  I will write to Mary very soon; but bid her write to me first. I cannot tell her how happy, how very happy I really am, till she has first wished me joy.

  I have, of course, told aunt Penelope. She, too, says something about poverty. I tell her it is croaking. The honest do not beg their bread; do they, Arthur? But in spite of her croaking, she will be very happy to see you on Monday, if it shall suit you to come. If so, let me have one other little line. But I am so contented now, that I shall hardly be more so even to have you here.

  God bless you, my own, own, own dearest.

  Ever yours with truest affection,

  ADELA.

  And I also hope that Adela's letter will not be consideredunmaidenly; but I have my fears. There will be those who will saythat it is sadly deficient in reserve. Ah! had she not been reservedenough for the last four or five years? Reserve is beautiful in amaiden if it be rightly timed. Sometimes one would fain have more ofit. But when the heart is full, and when it may speak out; when time,and circumstances, and the world permit--then we should say thathonesty is better than reserve. Adela's letter was honest on the spurof the moment. Her reserve had been the work of years.

  Arthur, at any rate, was satisfied. Her letter seemed to him to bethe very perfection of words. Armed with that he would face hismother, though she appeared armed from head to foot in the Stapledeanpanoply. While he was reading his letter he was at breakfast withthem all; and when he had finished it for the second time, he handedit across the table to his mother.

  "Oh! I suppose so," was her only answer, as she gave it him back.

  The curiosity of the girls was too great now for the composure oftheir silent dignity. "It is from Adela," said Mary; "what does shesay?"

  "You may read it," said Arthur, again handing the letter across thetable.

  "Well, I do wish you joy," said Mary, "though there will be so verylittle money."

  Seeing that Arthur, since his father's death, had, in fact, supportedhis mother and sisters out of his own income, this reception of hisnews was rather hard upon him.
And so he felt it.

  "You will not have to share the hardships," he said, as he left theroom; "and so you need not complain."

  There was nothing more said about it that morning; but in theevening, when they were alone, he spoke to his sister again. "Youwill write to her, Mary, I hope?"

  "Yes, I will write to her," said Mary, half ashamed of herself.

  "Perhaps it is not surprising that my mother should be vexed, seeingthe false position in which both she and I have been placed; partlyby my fault, for I should not have accepted the living under suchconditions."

  "Oh, Arthur, you would not have refused it?"

  "I ought to have done so. But, Mary, you and the girls should beready to receive Adela with open arms. What other sister could I havegiven you that you would have loved better?"

  "Oh, no one; not for her own sake--no one half so well."

  "Then tell her so, and do not cloud her prospects by writing aboutthe house. You have all had shelter and comfort hitherto, and betrustful that it will be continued to you."

  This did very well with his sister; but the affair with his motherwas much more serious. He began by telling her that he should go toLittlebath on Monday, and be back on Wednesday.

  "Then I shall go to Bowes on Wednesday," said Mrs. Wilkinson. Now weall know that Bowes is a long way from Staplehurst. The journey hasalready been made once in these pages. But Mrs. Wilkinson was as goodas her word.

  "To Bowes!" said Arthur.

  "Yes, to Bowes, sir; to Lord Stapledean. That is, if you hold to yourscheme of turning me out of my own house."

  "I think it would be better, mother, that we should have twoestablishments."

  "And, therefore, I am to make way for you and that--" viper, shewas going to say again; but looking into her son's face, she becamesomewhat more merciful--"for you," she said, "and that chit!"

  "As clergyman of the parish, I think that I ought to live in theparsonage. You, mother, will have so much the larger portion of theincome."

  "Very well. There need be no more words about it. I shall start forBowes on next Wednesday." And so she did.

  Arthur wrote his "one other little line." As it was three times aslong as his first letter, it shall not be printed. And he did makehis visit to Littlebath. How happy Adela was as she leant trustinglyon his arm, and felt that it was her own! He stayed, however, butone night, and was back at Staplehurst before his mother started forBowes.