Part 94 (2/2)
”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 do make 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 said nothing further to any of them.
On the day after this he got his answer; and now we will give the two letters. Arthur's was not written without much trouble and various copies; 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 G.o.d, 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 circ.u.mstanced. 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, and consequently she and Adela had usually left the breakfast-table before the postman had visited them. From this it resulted that Adela received her letter by herself. The first words told her what it contained, and her eyes immediately became suffused with tears. After all, then, her patience was to be rewarded. But it had not been patience so much as love; love that admitted of no change; love on which absence had had no effect; love which had existed without any hope; which had been acknowledged by herself, and acknowledged as a sad misfortune. But now--. She took the letter up, but she could not read it. She turned it over, and at the end, through her tears, she saw those words--”Believe me, that I love you dearly.” They were not like the burning words, the sweet violent protestations of a pa.s.sionate lover. But coming from him, they were enough. At last she was to be rewarded.
And then at length she read it. Ah! yes; she recollected the day well when he had driven her to Ripley Station, and asked her those questions as he was persuading Dumpling to mount the hill. The very words 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 should come from her? Not to that would she stoop. But as for sharing such a house as his--any house with him! What did true love mean, if she were not ready to do that?
And she remembered, too, that comforting of which he spoke. That had been the beginning of it all, when he took those walks along the river to West Putford; when she had learned to look for his figure coming through the little wicket at the bottom of their lawn. Then she had taxed her young heart with imprudence--but in doing so she had found that it was too late. She had soon told the truth--to herself that is; and throughout she had been true. Now she had her reward; there in her hands, pressing it to her heart. He had loved her for years and years, he said. Yes, and so had she loved him; and now he should know it. But not quite at once--in some sweet hour of fullest confidence she would whisper it all to him.
”I think I told you; though, I am sure, you have forgotten that.”
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