“Dearest Mother, you have a right to all that our hands can give you,” answered Edith, tenderly: “but, I pray you, tarry until the morrow, and then if need be, and your strength sufficient, you can ride to Shoe Lane.”
So Edith went with Mr Marshall alone. Even after all she had heard, Aubrey’s condition was a delightful surprise. Never before had she seen him in so softened, humbled, grateful a mood as now. They talked the matter over, and in the end decided that, subject to Lady Louvaine’s approval, Aubrey should go to the bookseller.
When the White Bear was reached on her return, Edith found Lady Oxford in the parlour. The sternness with which the Countess had treated Aubrey was quite laid aside. To Lady Louvaine she showed a graceful and grateful mixture of sympathy and respect, endeavoured to reassure her, hoped there would be no search nor inquiry, thought it was almost too late, highly approved of Edith’s decision, promised to send over all Aubrey’s possessions to the White Bear, and bade them let her know if she could do them any service.
“Will you suffer me to ask you one thing?” she said. “If Mr Louvaine go to Oxford, shall you tarry here, or no?”
“Would it be safe for us to follow him?”
“Follow him—no! I did but think you might better love to be forth of this smoky town.”
“Amen, with all my heart!” said Temperance. “But, Madam, and saving your Ladyship’s presence, crowns bloom not on our raspberry bushes, nor may horses be bought for a groat apiece down this way.”
Mrs Louvaine, behind the cambric, was heard to murmur something about a sordid spirit, people whose minds never soared, and old maids who knew nothing of the strength of maternal love.
“Strength o’ fiddlesticks!” said Temperance, turning on her. “Madam, I ask your Ladyship’s pardon.”
“My dear lady, I cannot answer you as now,” was Lady Louvaine’s reply. “The pillar of cloud hath not moved as yet; and so long as it tarrieth, so long must I also. It may be, as seemeth but like, that my next home will be the churchyard vault, that let my Father judge. If it had been His will, that I might have laid my bones in mine own country, and by the side of my beloved, it had been pleasant to flesh and blood: but I know well that I go to meet him, wherever my dust may lie. I am well-nigh fourscore years old this day; and if the Lord say, ‘Go not over this Jordan,’ let Him do as seemeth Him good. Methinks the glory of the blessed City burst no less effulgent on the vision of Moses, because he had seen the earthly Canaan but far off. And what I love the best is not here, but there.”