IV. A LETTER PROM LORD COURLAND.
On quitting the cabinet, the door of which was locked, and, taking the key with her, Mrs. Calverley went out into the garden, looking, apparently, quite cheerful, though she had an anxious breast, and had just sat down on a lawn chair, when a letter that had arrived by post was brought her by Laura.
As yet, Mrs. Calverley had said nothing to her lady's-maid about the restoration of the will, as she thought it best to leave that matter in doubt for the present, and she now allowed her to depart without any allusion to the subject. Indeed, she was dying to read her letter, which she saw was from Lord Courland.
It was just such a letter as might have been expected from him, but there were some passages in it that produced an effect contrary to that intended by her noble suitor, and heightened her uneasiness.
“I must write you a line, dearest Teresa,” he began, “though I have nothing to say, except to tell you how supremely wretched I feel now you are gone. However, I try to console myself by the thought that I shall soon behold you again, and in your own house, which I long so much to see—as it will be my abode when I am made the happiest of mortals by the possession of your hand.
“I have to thank Mr. Calverley for two things—first, that he was considerate enough to die; and secondly, that he left his large property at your entire disposal. I shall always entertain the highest respect for his memory.
“This may seem rather heartless jesting, sweet Teresa, but it is the simple expression of my feelings. Really, very few men would have behaved so well as your late husband, but he fully appreciated you. I wish I could follow his example—not by quitting you, for I don't intend to do that, if I can help it, for many years to come—but by making a handsome settlement upon you.
“Fortunately, you have enough—enough for us both—and I cannot sufficiently thank you for your kind promises. My devotion shall prove my gratitude. Ouselcroft, you tell me, is a charming place, and I ought not to accept it, or any share in it; but I can refuse nothing you offer me—not even that priceless treasure, yourself.
“I do not ask you to write to me, though one word would enchant me, and enable me to endure this separation.
“Adieu, sweet Teresa! I shall count the minutes till we meet.”
The perusal of this letter gave Mrs. Calverley infinitely more pain than pleasure, for she now feared she should never be able to carry out her noble suitor's wishes, and she saw plainly that he would not be content with the income derived from her settlement.
She read the letter again, and this conviction struck her even more forcibly on the second perusal.
She revolved the matter in her mind very deliberately.
What could she do?
Dark thoughts possessed her. There seemed only one way of extricating herself from the difficulty. She shrank from it; but it recurred again and again, till she became F=familiarised with the idea, and it appeared less dreadful than at first.
The step seemed unavoidable.
She resolved to answer Lord Courland's letter, but very briefly, and to make no allusion to her promises to him, though he seemed to expect it.
She was still buried in thought when Laura came to her, and with the familiarity which this favourite attendant usually displayed, said:
“Dear me, ma'am, you look dreadfully pale! I hope nothing has gone wrong?”
“Nothing whatever,” replied Mrs. Calverley, with a forced smile. “I have had a most charming letter from Lord Courland. But I feel rather faint. The air doesn't seem to revive me, so I shall go in-doors.” And she arose.
“I came to tell you, ma'am,” said Laura, “that old Norris is greatly obliged by your kind promise to him. He says he now feels quite easy.”
“There was no need to trouble himself before,” observed Mrs. Oalverley. “By-the-bye, I haven't told you that the will has been found.”
“Indeed, ma'am! Where?” exclaimed Laura.
“In the top drawer of the escritoire!”
“I'm sure I searched that drawer, ma'am!”
“Mr. Carteret found it at once. But don't say anything more about it. I don't want the matter talked about. By-the-bye, I mean to drive over to Brackley in the pony-carriage this afternoon, and shall take you with me.”
“I'm always pleased with a drive, ma'am, especially to Brackley,” replied Laura.
As they entered the house, they met the aged butler, who bowed respectfully to his mistress.
“Much obliged to you for thinking of me, ma'am,” he said. “You've always shown me great kindness.”
“Not more than you deserve, Norris,” she replied graciously. “It was quite a misapprehension, I assure you. I never intended to part with you, and should never think of doing so without making you a comfortable provision.”
“I'd rather stay where I am, ma'am,” replied the butler. “After living in it for half a century, a man gets attached to a house.”
“Then rest easy, Norris,” she rejoined. “You shall stay here to the last—that I promise you.”
The old butler muttered his thanks, for he felt rather husky, and Mrs. Calverley went up-stairs to her own room.