Part 96 (1/2)

CHAPTER XIII.

ANOTHER JOURNEY TO BOWES.

Mrs. Wilkinson did not leave her home for her long and tedious journey without considerable parade. Her best new black silk dress was packed up in order that due honour might be done to Lord Stapledean's hospitality, and so large a box was needed that Dumpling and the four-wheeled carriage were hardly able to take her to the railway-station. Then there arose the question who should drive her.

Arthur offered to do so; but she was going on a journey of decided hostility as regarded him, and under such circ.u.mstances she could not bring herself to use his services even over a portion of the road. So the stable-boy was her charioteer.

She talked about Lord Stapledean the whole evening before she went.

Arthur would have explained to her something of that n.o.bleman's character if she would have permitted it. But she would not. When he hinted that she would find Lord Stapledean austere in his manner, she answered that his lords.h.i.+p no doubt had had his reasons for being austere with so very young a man as Arthur had been. When he told her about the Bowes hotel, she merely shook her head significantly. A n.o.bleman who had been so generous to her and hers as Lord Stapledean would hardly allow her to remain at the inn.

”I am very sorry that the journey is forced upon me,” she said to Arthur, as she sat with her bonnet on, waiting for the vehicle.

”I am sorry that you are going, mother, certainly,” he had answered; ”because I know that it will lead to disappointment.”

”But I have no other course left open to me,” she continued. ”I cannot see my poor girls turned out houseless on the world.” And then, refusing even to lean on her son's arm, she stepped up heavily into the carriage, and seated herself beside the boy.

”When shall we expect you, mamma?” said Sophia.

”It will be impossible for me to say; but I shall be sure to write as soon as I have seen his lords.h.i.+p. Good-bye to you, girls.” And then she was driven away.

”It is a very foolish journey,” said Arthur.

”Mamma feels that she is driven to it,” said Sophia.

Mrs. Wilkinson had written to Lord Stapledean two days before she started, informing his lords.h.i.+p that it had become very necessary that she should wait upon him on business connected with the living, and therefore she was aware that her coming would not be wholly unexpected. In due process of time she arrived at Bowes, very tired and not a little disgusted at the great expense of her journey. She had travelled but little alone, and knew nothing as to the cost of hotels, and not a great deal as to that of railways, coaches, and post-chaises. But at last she found herself in the same little inn which had previously received Arthur when he made the same journey.

”The lady can have a post-chaise, of course,” said the landlady, speaking from the bar. ”Oh, yes, Lord Stapledean is at home, safe enough. He's never very far away from it to the best of my belief.”

”It's only a mile or so, is it?” said Mrs. Wilkinson.

”Seven long miles, ma'am,” said the landlady.

”Seven miles! dear, dear. I declare I never was so tired in my life.

You can put the box somewhere behind in the post-chaise, can't you?”

”Yes, ma'am; we can do that. Be you a-going to stay at his lords.h.i.+p's, then?”

To this question Mrs. Wilkinson made an ambiguous answer. Her confidence was waning, now that she drew near to the centre of her aspirations. But at last she did exactly as her son had done before her. She said she would take her box; but that it was possible she might want a bed that evening. ”Very possible,” the landlady said to herself.

”And you'll take a bite of something before you start, ma'am,” she said, out loud. But, no; it was only now twelve o'clock, and she would be at Bowes Lodge a very little after one. She had still sufficient confidence in Lord Stapledean to feel sure of her lunch.

When people reached Hurst Staple Vicarage about that hour, there was always something for them to eat. And so she started.

It was April now; but even in April that bleak northern fell was very cold. Nothing more inhospitable than that road could be seen. It was unsheltered, swept by every blast, very steep, and mercilessly oppressed by turnpikes. Twice in those seven miles one-and-sixpence was inexorably demanded from her.

”But I know one gate always clears the other, when they are so near,”

she argued.

”Noa, they doant,” was all the answer she received from the turnpike woman, who held a baby under each arm.