A Woman of Consequence

By then it was so late that Margaret very much doubted there would be time to reach the abbey and return before dark, and she thought that if Dido was wanting air and exercise she had much better walk out into the kitchen garden and watch over Robert digging the potatoes, for the fellow was so lazy he had left half of them in the ground last time.

But Dido held out. She would walk fast, and not stay long, and the necessary business of ‘finding out how Penelope goes on’ provided a very convenient excuse for the visit.

By the time she left the vicarage, the sunshine of the early morning was all over, the clouds were gathering and there was a threat of rain in the breeze. But still she was determined to go. Madderstone and its mysteries intrigued her more and more, and besides, the two miles between Badleigh and the abbey provided a little peace, a break between one society and another in which she might indulge her own thoughts.

And she found that today, as she walked, even thoughts of ghosts and governesses must give a little ground to thoughts of Mr William Lomax …

His proposed visit must discompose, though it did not surprise, her. Unlike Margaret, she found it very easy to understand why her bookish brother should value the friendship of another clever, well-informed man. She had not forgotten to anticipate, when her living at the vicarage was first proposed, that the move must throw her more into Mr Lomax’s way.

But did she wish to meet him again, or not? It was a difficult point which two whole miles of brisk walking could not quite decide.

It was now nearly four months since Mr Lomax had made her an offer of marriage – and been refused. There had been, at that time, such a serious difference of opinion between them as had convinced her they could not be happy together – despite her considerable affection for him. He had objected to that part of her which was particularly dear to her – her curiosity. They had argued; but still he had made his offer. He had even been so foolhardy as to pin his hopes for their future happiness upon a change in her character. She might, he had suggested, be so influenced by the advice of a husband as to adopt his opinions rather than arguing against them.

It was, she thought, a strong proof of his regard that such a sensible man should wilfully blind himself to the evidence around him: evidence which must cry out against finding happiness in marriage through so momentous a change. Was there a couple in the world who had ever succeeded in it? And even if it were possible, she doubted she would find it desirable. Her own opinions were very precious to her: she did not wish to give them up.

All in all, she had felt it incumbent upon her to save them both from his dangerous optimism. She had spoken her ‘No’ as firmly as she knew how. And if the matter had only rested there, there would be sufficient embarrassment in this recontre. But there was more.

She had given her answer and walked away – and he had followed her. He had, in point of fact, run after her and called upon her to stop.

This last memory brought a little flutter of pleasure. At nineteen she would have been affected by this evidence of passion; at six and thirty she was quite delighted to find that she had such power over a man.

She remembered him, there in the lime walk at Richmond, bareheaded in the sunlight that twinkled through the leaves, earnestly pleading his cause. For she had, of course, done as he requested and stopped – just before reaching the end of the avenue.

‘Miss Kent,’ he said breathlessly, ‘forgive me … I know that I am not acting the part of a gentleman … to force myself upon you in this way when your answer is already given. Please, do not think I would be such a brute as to distress you by asking you to reconsider your decision now … But I cannot help … I must just beg one favour.’

‘I am sure …’ she began, but her voice was unsteady and she paused. Exertion was absolutely necessary. If this was to be their last interview, she would not wish him to remember her stammering. ‘I am sure I would do anything in my power to prove my friendship.’

‘Then may I be allowed to ask you again … Not now, but in the future …’ He too was forced to break off. ‘As you know – as I have explained,’ he began again more calmly, ‘the burden of debt which my son has laid upon me makes an immediate marriage impossible. In two, three years at the most, I shall be free. Do I have your permission to ask then – if, of course, you are still unmarried – to ask you again to be my wife?’

Dido remembered staring down at the trodden earth of the lime walk; she remembered very clearly how the interlacing roots of the trees had stood out like veins on the back of an aging hand. Her mind had been in turmoil, flattered, confused … and yet, suspecting him. ‘I do not think such an arrangement would be wise,’ she said quietly. ‘I would not wish you to feel bound to make an offer which – three years hence – you may no longer wish to make.’

He shook his head very seriously. ‘My dear Miss Kent, I am bound to you. It cannot be helped, though it is very kind of you to attempt to grant a liberty I do not even desire.’

She bent her head lower so that he could not see her smile. ‘I cannot suppose,’ she insisted, ‘that time will change my reply.’

‘But we cannot any of us predict the future,’ he argued eagerly. ‘Three years … two, even one year may encompass any amount of change. I beg you: allow me to hope.’

The indecision had been dreadful: her heart had been all for giving way and consenting immediately, while her head … Her head had been calmly noting the inconstancy of his argument. The passage of time was to produce no change in him – his feelings were not to alter, and yet it was to be supposed that hers might undergo a very material change. He was no doubt thinking that she would soon regret her answer – and decide that she must give up her opinions, cease to argue with him, and become all that he required in a wife … In fact, his request was intolerable presumption …

But he was regarding her with such tenderness, and he had never looked so well as he did now, his usual dignity all put aside, his brow furrowed, his eyes so anxious.

Her heart had won the day. She had granted the favour. When the gaming debts of his dissolute son were at last paid – when he had a home to offer a wife – Mr Lomax was authorised to apply to her again.

Of course, she remained determined against accepting. She instinctively shrank from that image which her lively imagination readily supplied – of esteem and affection all sunk into marital discord and resentment …

However, there was another image of the future which had lately begun to haunt her: an image of a lonely old maid shivering perpetually in Margaret’s attic – and that was sufficient to touch even Dido’s cheerful mind with despair.

Chapter Eleven

… Well, Eliza, I have very wisely determined to give myself no more pain by worrying over this visit of Mr Lomax. The resolution is, I think, a great proof of my strength of character. Though the keeping of it may prove my weakness …

But I shall write no more upon the subject – except to remind you of your promised secrecy – which you must be particularly careful to preserve if you should happen to see our cousin, Flora, while you are in town looking after Charles. I would not for the world have any of my acquaintance know of Mr Lomax’s offer, for I do not think there is one among them – excepting, of course, your dear self – who could resist advising me upon the subject. And that would be insufferable.

I certainly have more than enough carrying on here to distract me. And I hope, instead of pining, to prove myself worthy of my resolution by being useful to poor Mrs Harman-Foote. For the more I look about me, Eliza, the more certain I become that a very great injustice has been done: that Miss Fenn is innocent of the dreadful calumny which is charged against her and has been cast out into that terrible grave for no reason.

I must tell you about the drained pool.

I went to look at it yesterday, you see, and it provided a  great deal more interest than one could reasonably expect from a muddy depression in the ground.

It was a bleak enough sight! Indeed there seemed to be a kind of gloom hanging over everything yesterday. Though it pains me to admit it, Margaret was right in supposing it would be rather dark before I reached the abbey. The sun was low in the sky. It was cold and still and damp, with the smoke from the house chimneys