Chapter XXII · —MORE WEAK THAN WICKED.

Robert Wentworth took good care that our time should not hang heavily upon our hands when we were at home, urging us to work, and keeping us well supplied with books, such as he had gradually got me into the habit of reading—books which required some little mental exercise for their proper appreciation. Moreover, he demanded notes, a paraphrase, or criticism, upon all we read; being very exacting about our getting thoroughly to the root of the subject treated upon, and having no mercy upon what he termed a slovenly habit of thinking.

We were much amused at the tests he gave us, and the impossibility of throwing dust in his eyes. If Lilian wrote my thoughts upon a subject, and I hers, he detected which belonged to which with an unerring readiness which proved that our minds were as open books to him. The very difference in his treatment of us when he found us flagging, bantering—not to say taunting—me, and encouraging Lilian, I now think was a proof that he knew the kind of spur we each needed. And although I believed that he was doing all this for Lilian's sake, I was none the less grateful for the benefit it was to me. At his suggestion, Lilian was doing a little French with me, for which she gave me German; whilst our sketch-books were not allowed to lie entirely unused. All this, with what dear Mrs Tipper called our long walks—she did not as yet know how our mornings were employed—sent us healthily tired each night to bed.

Robert Wentworth came down twice and sometimes three times during the week; and after we had given him a résumé of the work we had done in the interval, we finished the evenings with music and singing. Lilian's voice was not her least charm. Then would come some triumph of dear Mrs Tipper's skill in the way of little appetising dainties for our substantial tea, and afterwards Lilian and I went along the lanes with him as far as the stile, which separated them from the fields, in the summer moonlight, bidding him goodnight there.

It was a pleasant life, though at the time I naturally could not think it the pleasantest; it was merely the pleasant peaceful prelude—the, so to speak, preparation for the fuller life to come. But best of all, Lilian was beginning to enter into it with real enjoyment, less as a life lived from duty than from love.

'It is what I never hoped for—to see my darling get over it so well as this!' confided dear Mrs Tipper to me.

'They cannot at anyrate call her broken-hearted at present,' was my cheerful rejoinder.

'No, indeed, dear. I shall begin now to hope that by-and-by some one more worthy of her may have a chance; and I shall yet live to see my Lilian's children about me.—And you too will be thinking of getting married presently, dear?' with what I fancied was an inquiring glance.

I murmured something to the effect that perhaps my time would come; even then shrinking a little nervously from entering into details.

'Of course it will, dear; and Lilian's too. Already there is Mr Wyatt making all sorts of excuses for finding his way to the cottage. A nice gentleman; isn't he, dear—shews what brings him so plain too; doesn't he?'

Yes, he did shew it plainly; no doubt of that. If he did not already love Lilian, he was on the very verge of it. But that was not at all in accordance with my hopes.

'You forget Mr Wentworth,' I put in smilingly. She looked up into my face for a moment; then bent over her knitting again, as I went on: 'I think you must have guessed what brings him so often down here now?'

'Yes, Mary; yes, I have, dear.'

'And so have I; but I suppose it's early days for talking of it yet.'

'Very well, dear; you know best about that, of course. I will only say that Robert Wentworth is a great favourite of mine.'

'That is because he is so good, auntie,' said Lilian, who had caught the last words as she entered the room. 'He is the very best and kindest friend we have known.'

'The very best, dearie?' I asked.

She flushed to her temples; then, after a moment, repeated in a low clear tone: 'The very best and kindest, Mary.'

I was quite satisfied. No love-lorn damsel could talk in that way. Arthur Trafford no longer disturbed her peace. Everything was going on favourably for Robert Wentworth; and the sooner poor Mr Wyatt was allowed to perceive the real state of the case, the better for his future peace.

Two months had glided thus pleasantly away. There was now only one shadow upon Lilian's mind, though that was an abiding one. The wrong done to the innocent mother was not likely to be forgotten by her child. It was that, and not the loss of her lover, which caused the soft yearning regretful expression that still lingered in the beautiful blue eyes.

Fortunately, we had accustomed ourselves to think of Arthur Trafford as Miss Farrar's lover, before the news reached us that it was so; and I was very proud of Lilian's calm reception of it. After that, it was easy to get over the additional information that the marriage was arranged to take place very shortly.

Marian adopted the tone—I think I knew by whom it was suggested—of Arthur Trafford having been badly treated by Lilian, who had cruelly cast him off; and that made matters easier for us all. As Marian said, Lilian could not blame her for accepting one whom she herself had rejected. Nor had she had any misgivings about his love. Fortunately for her own peace, she did not suspect that Arthur Trafford's love for her was less than hers for him. And the readiness with which he had transferred his affections was interpreted in the same convenient way. 'The truth is, he had not seen me when he engaged himself to Lilian,' she confided to me in a little aside. 'You knew he admired me from the very first; now, didn't you, Miss Haddon? I don't blame you now for being cross about his paying me such compliments when he was engaged to Lilian; he really couldn't help it, poor fellow! And I do believe that if Lilian had played her cards well, he would have acted honourably to her; he says he should. But you can't blame me for being glad things have turned out as they have, neither. Caroline says only envious people would blame me.'

I really did not much blame her. I suppose she acted up to her perception in the matter; and I know she meant now to be good-natured. I will do her the justice to say she was honestly glad to find that Lilian shewed no sign of distress at the engagement.

'If you had been miserable or disagreeable about it, I don't know what I should have done, dear,' she said with engaging confidence. 'It would be like that story in the what's-its-name, you know, two sisters in love with the same man. Though I don't think—I'm sure I shouldn't have poisoned you. I expect I should have joined your hands, and then died of a broken heart;' sentimentally.

At which Lilian broke into a smile, and Marian was satisfied. In truth, no one could now have imagined Lilian a love-sick damsel, so improved was she in health and spirits by our present life.

Marian was very pressing with us to be present at the wedding, which was to be a very grand one, she told us.

'But I tell Caroline, I shan't care for it a bit if Lilian won't be first bridesmaid. And it shouldn't cost you a penny, dear,' she urged. 'Everything of the very best, and made at Madame Michaud, if you will only say you will come?'

But Lilian was firm; and then Marian tried the effect of her persuasive powers upon Mrs Tipper.

'You really must, aunt. It would look worse for you to stop away than even for Lilian—my own aunt!'

But Mrs Tipper also shewed that it was not to be thought of; and Marian at length came to the conclusion that their refusal arose from their sense of the wrong done to Lilian's mother; though she was quite as much at a loss to account for that as for everything else we did.

'I don't see why you should be so put out about a thing which can't be helped. When it was thought that it was my Ma who had been taken in, I behaved sensibly about it; and why can't Lilian and you do the same?'

Great preparation were being made for the event; and a great deal of company—'Caroline's' friends—was constantly at Fairview. Rumours reached us that the bridegroom expectant was not in very good health; indeed it was said that the marriage was being hastened on that account, a change of climate having been recommended for a while.

I saw him once only before his marriage, and that happened by chance. Had Lilian really suffered from his desertion of her—had I felt any desire to see her avenged—I must have been satisfied. As it was I felt almost inclined to pity him, as more weak than wicked. I do not believe that any utterly bad man would be as heartily ashamed of himself as Arthur Trafford appeared to be when he saw Lilian for the first time after his approaching marriage with 'Miss Farrar' was announced.

The Fairview party were attending morning service at the little church to which Lilian and I went. I do not think that they had the slightest expectation of seeing us there; since they could not know that we should choose the long walk to that out-of-the-way little church, in preference to attending the one in the village. Most probably they went there for the drive, or perhaps to create a little sensation, which Miss Farrar was candid enough to acknowledge she had a penchant for doing.

They were shewn into the best pew, as befitted people who had arrived in state, the old clerk himself seeing that their wants in the way of hassocks and hymn-books were duly supplied, before signing to his subordinate to cease pulling the bell, and stepping back into the vestry for Mr Wyatt, whom he always carefully buttoned into his reading-desk before shutting himself up in his own square box beneath. How thankful I felt that although Arthur Trafford could see Lilian, she was so placed that she could not see him. I was glad too that he should see her thus—shewing no traces of suffering from his desertion, her face blooming with the delicate rose-tint of health, and its whole expression calm, and sweet, and pure; whilst she joined in the service in a way which betokened no wandering thoughts, unconscious of the eyes bent upon her half in shame, half in regret. He was surprised, I fancied even disagreeably so, to find his loss borne so calmly as this. And though he no doubt persuaded himself that he was glad to see that his desertion had not permanently injured her, his vanity was wounded.

It was just as well that the bride-elect had no misgivings about herself, and was too much occupied in admiring some bracelets, which I suppose she was wearing for the first time, to notice the direction of her lover's eyes. She did not perceive us where we sat, and I contrived to whisper a few words so as to draw Lilian's attention from them, as they passed down the aisle on their way out. They had driven away before she knew that they had been there, and I was rejoiced to find that her walk home was none the less enjoyed for my telling her of it.

The following evening Lilian was seated at the piano trying a new song which Robert Wentworth had brought down with him. He was standing by her side, listening attentively and critically, stopping her every now and then, to make her go over the ground again, frankly pointing out defects of style or what not, as his habit was with all we did. A glorious July evening.

I was sitting at the open window, my eyes turned towards the hill-side, bathed in the glory of departing day, my mind attuned to Lilian's music, and reflecting the couleur de rose of the scene outside. I was indulging myself with a peep into dream-land, though a little doubtfully, and somewhat as an interloper, liable at any time to be warned off the enchanted ground, which, in my self-consciousness, I told myself youth alone has a right to enter, when my attention was attracted towards Becky, standing at the door and beckoning me out of the room.

'A letter for you, Miss; just come by the evening post,' she whispered, slipping it into my hand when I joined her outside. I noticed that Becky always called me aside to give me the foreign letters now; as though she intuitively felt that I should prefer to receive them when alone.

I thanked her with a look; and hastily catching up my garden-hat, slipped by the window and out at the gate, unobserved; then hurried down the lane to read my precious letter at the stile, in the red glory of the sunset.

A letter from Philip—and what a letter!—'My wife—my dear wife. At last I am setting my face homewards'——

Ah, well; I think I will tell the rest in my own words. I have been chary of quoting Philip's letters hitherto, and they shall be sacred still. Enough for me to say that his affairs were definitely settled at last. He loved me—he did love me—in a way which it made me humble to think of; humble, and proud, and glad, with all a woman's strength and depth. Ah! Philip, for once I was satisfied for your sake; it was something stronger, and deeper, and more enduring than a girl's love awaiting you!

How tenderly he wrote about the pain which the long waiting had cost him! How tenderly he dwelt upon what he termed my unselfishness in acceding to the delay! How rejoiced he seemed to be at last able to claim me—'me,' I repeated, nodding pleasantly at a wild rose peeping round the hedge. 'You wouldn't imagine it, I daresay, but it is true, nevertheless.'

Philip had never written like this before; never until now had it been so evident how much the long waiting had cost him. Whilst I had sometimes tormented myself with fears lest the separation should at length have become a matter of course to him, he had been silently rebelling. I could only judge how much by the sudden revulsion—the contrast in his tone now that the waiting was at an end.

He had made enough to satisfy us two, without any more 'money-grubbing,' as he termed it. He would have nearly two thousand a year when he had retired from the partnership and all was settled. We could now live the life we had dreamt of in the old times, with the gratification of knowing that we had earned it. Any time after the middle of next month he might be expected. 'And you must amuse yourself in the meantime in deciding where we are to pitch our tent. Look about for a house after your own heart for us to settle down in;' and so forth, and so forth. Was ever woman so blessed! My whole being steeped in happiness, I clasped my hands upon the top bar of the stile and tried to offer up a thanksgiving. What had I done to deserve all the happiness showered upon me? What was I that I should be so blessed? But mental prayer was not enough. There was the irresistible desire to give as well as receive, which is experienced in all seasons of great joy. Who can love one truly without being in more sympathy with all humanity! I only know that I felt I could not bear my happiness aright until I had, so to speak, consecrated it by some act of love.

I slipped my letter into the bosom of my dress, turned down the lane which ran at right angles with that leading from the cottage, and walked swiftly on. On I went, without thinking whither; yielding to the impulse upon me, without pausing to ask myself how far I should have to go, or what I should find to do in those silent lanes. Was some subtle influence at work with me, of which at the time I was not conscious? Was some guardian spirit leading me towards an end it was not necessary for me to see? I only know that I shall never believe it was only chance which led me to a certain spot that night!