The vicar did not return her dark look of inquiry or conjecture, but looked on the letter which he held in his fingers.
“He does not say,” said the vicar; “we shall know, time enough. I hope he has made a wise choice.”
“Ah, poor Amy!” murmured Miss Barbara Temple. “Such idolatry! So soon forgotten!”
She did not know the story of the letter that was found upon poor Amy’s bed, nor did Rachel. Old Wyndle had spelled through a part of it without comprehending its exact meaning. Rachel had looked at it — no more, for her mind was distracted with another panic at the time when she saw it; and except that it was an unkind letter, she remembered nothing very distinctly of it. It lay in the vicar’s desk — one of those secrets of other people which he always kept religiously.
“Ah! ray poor Amy! Well — well, how such things can be, I don’t understand!” murmured Barbara.
The news was told to Rachel very kindly and briefly by the vicar that evening, Miss Barbara being present, who hugged and kissed Rachel vehemently when the story was over, and spared no sympathy, indignation, or consolation.
I sometimes think that the more despotic and selfish parents are, the more they are revered and admired by their children. It is one of those strange perversities and injustices which appear in the laws of human nature. Rachel cherished for her father an awe and veneration which a better man might have failed to inspire. She wept over this intelligence in the despair and tribulation of youth, which however are transitory.
Then came conjectures as to whom he had selected for his wife. Miss Barbara listened reservedly to these speculations, for she had a pretty decided opinion upon the point, aided by scandal, which of course had not reached Rachel’s ear.
In a little while, however, it was established, and past the period of debate. The bride was Miss Agnes Marlyn, and she came down with her husband to Raby, and forthwith began with rapidity and decision to remodel the household. One by one the old servants were removed, and new ones came in their places. Mr. Twinley, the attorney, spoke of her reservedly as “a very clever woman,” and “a lady who would, if any one could, make the estate pay.”
The new Mrs. Shadwell was looking more beautiful than ever, and appeared in the Squire’s pew in Raby Church, dressed very richly, but in excellent taste. But rumours had preceded her, and a great scandal had traced a circle round her, and she was isolated. She was not a person, however, to forego an object without an effort. As the wife of Shadwell of Raby, she was, in some respects, the first lady of her county. That she should be snubbed by such people was really too good!
But though she tried, patiently and many ways, by taking a graceful interest in the charities of the neighbourhood, by visiting the girls’ school, by looking in upon the sick room of old Martha Cripps, and by fifty other expedients, she failed to make any way with the ladies whom she was disposed to know. They were shy — they did not visit her.
She did not acquiesce in these relations. But she saw that she must wait and proceed, circuitously. If only the clear income of Raby could be got up to three thousand a year — and that, she thought, was quite on the cards before four years were over — with Mark Shadwell’s connections he should have a seat in the House, and make a fresh start in the great world. Then these mean little people of Raby and the vicinity would have their eyes opened, and be made to see things as they were. This would be beginning at the right end, and Agnes would pay those small people off when the proper time came.
The vicar painfully reconsidered the whole case. The recent rumours to which I have referred were unpleasant; but he found no proof of them. The stories about the French school were better supported; but, after all, they proved no more than extreme giddiness, and were, in some measure, attributable to the mad spirits and inexperience of a schoolgirl; and must he not assume that Mr. Shadwell — a proud and fiery man — had satisfied himself upon these points? and had he any right, upon mere conjecture, to go behind his mature decision? And if his clerical position obliged him to special reserves, did it not also exact special charities?
The result was, that Miss Barbara paid a visit; but Rachel did not come. The vicar had reasoned with her to make the effort, but she could not, and his sympathies were with her.
Mark Shadwell saw Miss Barbara after she had paid her cold and embarrassed visit, as she crossed the hall. He talked to her there for a few minutes, and then asked sharply where Rachel was. So Barbara, with a feminine dexterity, pleaded for her young friend, hiding altogether the fiery element which had mingled in her refusal to come to Raby, and urging only the pain of reviving so recent a grief and other similar apologies, in which Mart, unsatisfied, darkly acquiesced.
So the good old lady took her leave of him at the steps, and drove away, with an unpleasant conviction that Mark understood only too well the spirit in which his daughter had stayed away, and resented it fiercely.
It was about this time that Captain Clayton returned from Scotland. He put up at the comfortable little inn at Raby, and passed his days at “the great house” as before. Agnes Shadwell took up the idea of his marrying Rachel with energy. Clayton opened his rental and his plans to Mark Shadwell, who, in consequence, walked over in the afternoon to the Vicarage, and paid his respects to Miss Barbara. Honest Roger had made an agitated exit by the back-door as Mark arrived at the steps. Mark Shadwell saw and spoke to Rachel, who trembled a great deal, and for a long time could hardly control the hysterical gush of tears which were every moment at the point of bursting forth.
It was a short but a tedious visit. He had something more to say, however, and on taking his leave he made Rachel accompany him as far as the little brook on the way to Wynderfel.
CHAPTER XVI.
PLAIN LANGUAGE.
RACHEL was very much frightened as she walked beside her father, who maintained an unbroken and a stem silence till they reached the stile under the gentle hill of Wynderfel.
“I sha’n’t trouble you to come further; just sit down there, or stand, if you like it better, and listen to what I have to say.”
She did not sit on the broad plank of the stile, but stood looking at him with a face of awe and large and frightened eyes.
“As you don’t like coming to Raby — your friends here at the Vicarage, I am sure, must admire your spirit vastly — I have asked you to accompany me here. Mind, I don’t want you to come to Raby. I quite understand the petty malice which, under fine names, indulges itself in inflicting what it conceives to be mortifications; under such circumstances it is a great pleasure to women, and I hope it does them good. Not a word, please. I don’t care a farthing, mind; it’s nothing to me, absolutely, or to — to any one else. You have got your four thousand pounds, and you are independent of me; you can do what you like, what your friends here advise you; but my consent, by the settlement, is necessary.”
He paused. She was looking at him half bewildered. “I say, by the terms of the instrument, the deed, which gives you that provision, you forfeit it the moment you marry without my consent; do you quite understand?”
“Yes, sir; yes, papa,” whispered Rachel, with a gasp, and looking as frightened as her worst enemy, if she had any, could wish her.
“You need not look so stupid, then. Should any of the wiseacres about the Vicarage, there — the people whom you choose to consult and trust — persuade you to marry that very impudent and foolish young man, Charles Mordant, you will do precisely the thing which I forbid, and one guinea you sha’n’t get. You’ll find that by that spirited act you will have disappointed the religious, primitive people up there — left yourself without a shilling — improved my estate to the extent of four thousand pounds, and let that charming young man, who knows, I presume, the value of money, in for a very romantic and disinterested adventure.”
In spite of her alarm, a flush of crimson dyed Rachel’s cheeks as her father spoke. She remained standing, and perfectly silent.
“Well, so much for romance, and — and contempt of my wishe
s; and I have left a note for Stour Temple, telling him shortly those facts. So that any one who aids in accomplishing that folly will have done so, at all events, with their eyes open.”
He paused, and there was a little silence, in which Rachel felt utterly confounded, and the croon and gurgling of the little brook close by filled her ears with a strange distinctness.
“And now, the other part. I don’t mean to reason with you, observe. I’m simply putting facts before you; and if you decline to act according to common sense, it’s all the better, in one sense, for me. Captain Clayton, whom you saw some time ago — every day for a month — likes you; he has returned to Raby for a time, and I see him, as before, every day. He has spoken to me, and satisfied me that there is nothing in point of prudence against it. Quite the reverse — very advantageous, indeed, and with extremely good prospects, that proposal is now before you; if you choose to accept it, you have my entire approval; but one word more, I won’t talk about it at present. I won’t take your answer now; you had better think it over, and all the consequences. He knows your friends, the Temples, and will very likely look in tomorrow afternoon, and speak to you himself — that is, if they choose to give him an opportunity, and that you like the idea; but I wished to tell you exactly all about it, and how I view the subject; not because I suppose my opinion of any weight — in fact I don’t care a farthing whether it is or not — but because I wish you to understand the exact effect of acting under ill-advice in this matter, or indulging an idiotic and unworthy fancy, for which there is not even the miserable excuse that you see, or are ever likely to meet the object of it; for he is in India, and very well content to live there without troubling his head about you.”
As soon as he had said that, Mark Shadwell went away. Whether her father kissed her at parting she could not remember, nor how he looked at her. For some time, with a dreadful sense of suffocation, she stood still, and at length her excitement and anguish found relief in a convulsive burst of tears.
An hour after she told, as well as she could, all that had passed to Barbara Temple. And they cried together in Rachel’s room for more than an hour. Then Barbara, in the evening, communicated the matter to the vicar, who was pained and helpless. What could these good people do but speak, not even comfortably, but only kindly, to the poor girl.
The next morning a note was despatched by the vicar to Mark Shadwell, saying a great deal to the point, and with a very moderate expenditure of words. He knew that Mark Shadwell would excuse his writing, as Rachel was so distressed and agitated that she felt herself unequal to write as she would wish, and had begged of him to say that the proposal of Captain Clayton had come upon her by surprise — that she had never looked on him as a possible suitor, and could never consent to view him in that light, and a great deal more that was deprecatory and dutiful; but quite clear and decided on the point that she could not listen to Captain Clayton’s suit.
Mark was intensely angry. Clayton was at the breakfast-table with him and his wife, exhibiting, his suspense considered, a wonderfully good appetite, when the vicar’s note was handed to Mark, he took it to the window, exchanging a glance with his guest, and there read it.
Very angry under one of his bitter impulses, he said, with a kind of laugh: —
“I’ve had my answer, and there it is.”
At the same time he presented the note open to Clayton, who said, as he took it, looking towards Agnes: —
“Am I to read this?”
“Certainly,” said Mark. “They intend it, evidently.”
Clayton did read it. He looked annoyed, but by no means so much moved as Mark.
His beautiful young wife was the only one of the party who talked much during the time they continued at the breakfast-table, and seemed quite as gay and happy as usual. About an hour later, however, alone with her husband, she said a little tartly: —
“What possessed you to show him that letter?”
“It won’t make the least difference,” said Mark. “Those Temple people have got fast hold of her; it’s quite enough thinking I wish it.”
“You give up things too easily. Clayton can be of immense use to us. You must be in parliament; you forget your own plans — everything — when you grow angry,” his wife rejoined.
“My giving up or not has nothing to do with it; that rests with him, not me, and as to hiding it from him, that would be all very well if Stour Temple weren’t sure to make him out before he goes, and tell him all about it,” answered Mark Shadwell, moodily.
“Well, leave him to me; he must not be allowed to think her answer final; he must be kept on; he must come back to Raby. I dare say all will go right in a little while. I’ll talk to him by-and-bye, and you need not say a word more about it.”
Instead of his intended walk to the Vicarage, Clayton joined Mark Shadwell in a ramble to the woods, which was made short, however, by the early winter nightfall. In the drawingroom that evening, before he bid goodnight and went away to his inn in the village, Agnes had a long talk with him, Mark affecting to be busy in writing some letters. Next day, again, in the drawingroom, she had a very long farewell interview with Clayton.
The result of her persuasions was that he would return to Raby in the autumn. Mark was pleased. He knew that earlier he could not come. He had to join his sister, now at Naples, where she was to winter. Then northward for the summer, and to be joined by her mother in October, who was to relieve him, and having regained his liberty, to Raby he would return.
At Raby time moved slowly. Mark had his fits of gloom, more abrupt and more terrible perhaps than ever; but also more transient. His young wife watched him with an observant eye. She was always cheerful, and nearly always in an amiable temper. Her influence upon him was gradually developing itself. An artful, clever woman could have little difficulty in managing that vain, proud man.
“So you write to Clayton?” said he one day, as the autumn which was to bring him back again to Raby approached, tapping an envelope addressed in his handwriting to her, which lay upon her desk.
“Write to Clayton? I should think I do; how else could we know whether he is coming?”
Mark extended his fingers towards Clayton’s envelope, but his wife, laughing, took it up, and popped it into her desk.
“Is he jealous? How delightful,” said she, with a little laugh.
“Well, no! He’s not quite such a fool,” said Mark; “but what does Clayton say, for I really am curious?”
“He says he will certainly be at Raby in October,” she answered.
“In two months,” said Mark, ruminating. He was thinking whether it might not be well to prepare Rachel for his return. And something of this he hinted to Agnes.
She laughed.
“Don’t be vexed; but I understand her better, I’m afraid, than you do. I don’t think she really cares about Mordant, and I’m quite sure that if she did not think that you and I both wished her to marry Clayton, she would marry him; but she does think it, and the less time she has to think it over the better. She thinks of course that I’m at the bottom of it, and she hates me. I have never given her any cause, but one.”
Suddenly her tone changed from one almost of gaiety to one of sadness, and her fine eyes filled with tears; “and that for all the world I would not undo.”
As she said this, looking up fondly, she folded her hands about his arm, and he stooped and kissed her very tenderly.
“Never mind; I love you only the more, the more ungracious they all are. I know how dull this life is, but fortune will yet make us amends, and I shall see you where you ought to be and kissing her again, he walked down, in a sudden access of energy, to the little town of Raby, where he had an interview with his attorney, who pleaded in excuse for dilatoriness, that he had not got full instructions yet, and brought out a bundle of papers, and spread them before his client.
A few days afterward the attorney, happening to meet the vicar on the Applebury road, said, after some little talk:
; “There was a matter I thought I might as well give you a hint of, but you must not let Mr. Shadwell know, I rely for that on your honour — you’ll promise?”
The vicar assented.
“Well. He made no settlement,” said the attorney, in an undertone, “on his recent marriage, but he’s going to deal with his property now, and, you know, there’s his daughter, poor Miss Shadwell, and she ought to be considered; he ought not to put everything out of his power for the advantage of the present Mrs. Shadwell, and he has powers which, under a well-considered settlement, he ought not to have had; and, as you take an interest in the poor young lady, I wished to give you a hint that you may put in a word for her, if you have an opportunity, naturally, you know, only you must not let him suspect that you got it from me.”
Here was a new uneasiness, and what could the vicar do?
CHAPTER XVII.
THE DAGGER HALF UNSHEATHED.
MARK SHADWELL was still enamoured of his young wife. He had reason to admire her cleverness. For the first time a gleam of hope pierced the darkness that overhung him. Mr. Twinley, the Raby attorney, has often said that he never met a professed accountant who could match that girl in disentangling complications, and reducing confusion to order. But her genius for figures was but one of her curiously-admirable faculties for business. Than the management of that large portion of the Raby estate which was in Mark’s hands, nothing could have been more slobbering and wasteful; all this underwent a keen and wise revision, and the result was an immediate saving of several hundreds a year. The two mills of Drimsworth, that had been locked up for nearly three years and were falling to decay, within four months had tenants. All the leases were carefully overhauled. In several that had expired, and were held from year to year, it was found that the holdings were under-measured, and immediate accessions to the rental were the result. It would be tedious to enumerate the various operations of the new and active regime which began with the accession of the second Mrs. Shadwell.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 434
