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now dropped his affected tone, and was speaking

with natural energy.

 

‘But you do me?’

 

‘No; if I did, I don’t suppose I should be sitting with you here; but

they tell me—’

 

‘They tell you what?’

 

‘They tell me that that you did not behave wisely about it. Why could

you not let her alone when you found out how matters were going?’

 

‘Who has been telling you this, Rowley?’

 

Sir Marmaduke considered for awhile, and then, remembering that Colonel

Osborne could hardly quarrel with a clergyman, told him the truth.

‘Outhouse says that you have done her an irretrievable injury by going

down to Devonshire to her, and by writing to her.’

 

‘Outhouse is an ass.’

 

‘That is easily said, but why did you go?’

 

‘And why should I not go? What the deuce! Because a man like that

chooses to take vagaries into his head I am not to see my own

godchild!’ Sir Marmaduke tried to remember whether the Colonel was in

fact the godfather of his eldest daughter, but he found that his mind

was quite a blank about his children’s godfathers and godmothers. ‘And

as for the letters, I wish you could see them. The only letters which

had in them a word of importance were those about your coming home. I

was anxious to get that arranged, not only for your sake, but because

she was so eager about it.’

 

‘God bless her, poor child,’ said Sir Marmaduke, rubbing the tears away

from his eyes with his red silk pocket-handkerchief.

 

‘I will acknowledge that those letters—there may have been one or two—

were the beginning of the trouble. It was these that made this man show

himself to be a lunatic. I do admit that. I was bound not to talk about

your coming, and I told her to keep the secret. He went spying about,

and found her letters, I suppose, and then he took fire because there

was to be a secret from him. Dirty, mean dog! And now I’m to be told by

such a fellow as Outhouse that it’s my fault, that I have caused all

the trouble, because, when I happened to be in Devonshire, I went to

see your daughter!’ We must do the Colonel the justice of supposing

that he had by this time quite taught himself to believe that the

church porch at Cockchaffington had been the motive cause of his

journey into Devonshire. ‘Upon my word it is too hard,’ continued he

indignantly. ‘As for Outhouse, only for the gown upon his hack, I’d pull

his nose. And I wish that you would tell him that I say so.’

 

‘There is trouble enough without that,’ said Sir Marmaduke.

 

‘But it is hard. By G—, it is hard. There is this comfort: if it hadn’t

been me, it would have been some one else. Such a man as that couldn’t

have gone two or three years without being jealous of some one. And as

for poor Emily, she is better off perhaps with an accusation so absurd

as this, than she might have been had her name been joined with a

younger man, or with one whom you would have less reason for trusting.’

 

There was so much that seemed to be sensible in this, and it was spoken

with so well assumed a tone of injured innocence, that Sir Marmaduke

felt that he had nothing more to say. He muttered something further

about the cruelty of the case, and then slunk away out of the club, and

made his way home to the dull gloomy house in Manchester Street. There

was no comfort for him there but neither was there any comfort for him

at the club. And why did that vexatious Secretary of State send him

messages about blue books? As he went, he expressed sundry wishes that

he was back at the Mandarins, and told himself that it would be well

that he should remain there till he died.

CHAPTER LXV

MYSTERIOUS AGENCIES

 

When the thirty-first of March arrived, Exeter had not as yet been made

gay with the marriage festivities of Mr Gibson and Camilla French. And

this delay had not been the fault of Camilla. Camilla had been ready,

and when, about the middle of the month, it was hinted to her that some

postponement was necessary, she spoke her mind out plainly, and

declared that she was not going to stand that kind of thing. The

communication had not been made to her by Mr Gibson in person. For some

days previously he had not been seen at Heavitree, and Camilla had from

day to day become more black, gloomy, and harsh in her manners both to

her mother and her sister. Little notes had come and little notes had

gone, but no one in the house, except Camilla herself, knew what those

notes contained. She would not condescend to complain to Arabella; nor

did she say much in condemnation of her lover to Mrs French, till the

blow came. With unremitting attention she pursued the great business of

her wedding garments, and exacted from the unfortunate Arabella an

amount of work equal to her own, of thankless work, as is the custom of

embryo brides with their unmarried sisters. And she drew with great

audacity on the somewhat slender means of the family for the amount of

feminine gear necessary to enable her to go into Mr Gibson’s house with

something of the eclat of a well-provided bride. When Mrs French

hesitated, and then expostulated, Camilla replied that she did not

expect to be married above once, and that in no cheaper or more

productive way than this could her mother allow her to consume her

share of the family resources. ‘What matter, mamma, if you do have to

borrow a little money? Mr Burgess will let you have it when he knows

why. And as I shan’t be eating and drinking at home any more, nor yet

getting my things here, I have a right to expect it.’ And she ended by

expressing an opinion, in Arabella’s hearing, that any daughter of a

house who proves herself to be capable of getting a husband for

herself, is entitled to expect that those left at home shall pinch

themselves for a time, in order that she may go forth to the world in a

respectable way, and be a credit to the family.

 

Then came the blow. Mr Gibson had not been at the house for some days,

but the notes had been going and coming. At last Mr Gibson came

himself; but, as it happened, when he came Camilla was out shopping. In

these days she often did go out shopping between eleven and one,

carrying her sister with her. It must have been but a poor pleasure for

Arabella, this witnessing the purchases made, seeing the pleasant

draperies and handling the real linens and admiring the fine cambrics

spread out before them on the shop counters by obsequious attendants.

And the questions asked of her by her sister, whether this was good

enough for so august an occasion, or that sufficiently handsome, must

have been harassing. She could not have failed to remember that it

ought all to have been done for her, that had she not been treated with

monstrous injustice, with most unsisterly cruelty, all these good

things would have been spread on her behoof. But she went on and

endured it, and worked diligently with her needle, and folded and

unfolded as she was desired, and became as it were quite a younger

sister in the house, creeping out by herself now and again into the

purlieus of the city, to find such consolation as she might receive

from her solitary thoughts.

 

But Arabella and Camilla were both away when Mr Gibson called to tell

Mrs French of his altered plans. And as he asked, not for his

lady-love, but for Mrs French herself, it is probable that he watched

his opportunity and that he knew to what cares his Camilla was then

devoting herself. ‘Perhaps it is quite as well that I should find you

alone,’ he said, after sundry preludes, to his future mother-in-law,

‘because you can make Camilla understand this better than I can. I must

put off the day for about three weeks.’

 

‘Three weeks, Mr Gibson?’

 

‘Or a month. Perhaps we had better say the 29th of April.’ Mr Gibson

had by this time thrown off every fear that he might have entertained

of the mother, and could speak to her of such an unwarrantable change

of plans with tolerable equanimity.

 

‘But I don’t know that that will suit Camilla at all.’

 

‘She can name any other day she pleases, of course, that is in May.’

 

‘But why is this to be?’

 

‘There are things about money, Mrs French, which I cannot arrange

sooner. And I find that unfortunately I must go up to London.’ Though

many other questions were asked, nothing further was got out of Mr

Gibson on that occasion; and he left the house with a perfect

understanding on his own part and on that of Mrs French that the

marriage was postponed till some day still to be fixed, but which could

not and should not be before the 29th of April. Mrs French asked him

why he did not come up and see Camilla. He replied, false man that he

was, that he had hoped to have seen her this morning, and that he would

come again before the week was over.

 

Then it was that Camilla spoke her mind out plainly. ‘I shall go to his

house at once,’ she said, ‘and find out all about it. I don’t

understand it. I don’t understand it at all; and I won’t put up with

it. He shall know who he has to deal with, if he plays tricks upon me.

Mamma, I wonder you let him out of the house, till you had made him

come back to his old day.’

 

‘What could I do, my dear?’

 

‘What could you do? Shake him out of it as I would have done. But he

didn’t dare to tell me because he is a coward.’

 

Camilla in all this showed her spirit; but she allowed her anger to

hurry her away into an indiscretion. Arabella was present, and Camilla

should have repressed her rage.

 

‘I don’t think he’s at all a coward,’ said Arabella.

 

‘That’s my business. I suppose I’m entitled to know what he is better

than you.’

 

‘All the same I don’t think Mr Gibson is at all a coward,’ said

Arabella, again pleading the cause of the man who had misused her.

 

‘Now, Arabella, I won’t take any interference from you; mind that. I

say it was cowardly, and he should have come to me. It’s my concern,

and I shall go to him. I’m not going to be stopped by any shilly-shally

nonsense, when my future respectability, perhaps, is at stake. All

Exeter knows that the marriage is to take place on the 31st of this

month.’

 

On the next day Camilla absolutely did go to Mr Gibson’s house at an

early hour, at nine, when, as she thought, he would surely be at

breakfast. But he had flown. He had left Exeter that morning by an

early train, and his servant thought that he had gone to London. On the

next morning Camilla got a note from him, written in London. It

affected to be very cheery and affectionate, beginning ‘Dearest Cammy,’

and alluding to the postponement of his wedding as though it were a

thing so fixed as to require no further question. Camilla answered this

letter, still in much wrath, complaining, protesting, expostulating

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