style="font-size:15px;"> "I wish I had received my living as he did his; not that it would make any real difference."
"He got his, you know, from the bishop. But do you dislike being Lord Stapledean's nominee?"
"It would be ungrateful to say that; but I certainly do not like Lord Stapledean. However, I have taken his living, and should not complain."
"I did not know that there was anything disagreeable."
"There is this, Adela. I had rather tell you; and I came over to-day in part to do so: but you will see that the matter is one that should not be talked about," and he looked down on the floor, poking about on the carpet pattern with his stick, being unable any longer to meet the clear gaze of her soft eye.
"Oh, I am sorry if there is anything to distress you."
"Not exactly to distress me, perhaps; but I will tell you. When the marquis offered me the living, he did it on the stipulation that I should pay over to my mother three hundred and fifty pounds a year during her life. I doubt whether it was right to accept it on these conditions; but I did so. The living, therefore, is rather hers than mine."
"Oh, Arthur, how good of you!" In spite of all Aunt Penelope's lessons, old habits would sometimes get the better of her.
"I don't know; I am afraid that it was not good."
"Why? I can't understand? Surely it must be good to give up your time, your labour, your hopes" – Adela did not say his heart – "for your mother and sisters' good! Why, how can it be else than good? I think it good, and shall think so."
"At any rate, Adela, I could not withstand the offer when it was made to me."
"I am sure you could not."
"So I am little more than a curate in the parish as far as the income is concerned; with this difference, that I can't change my curacy for a living should a chance offer."
Adela had never before known him to be solicitous about money for himself, and now she felt that she did not understand him. "But you have got your fellowship," said she.
"Yes, I have got my fellowship: oh, as far as that is concerned, I am better off than I could ever have expected to be. But, nevertheless, one feels – feels crippled by such an arrangement. It is quite impossible, you know, for instance, that – that – that I should do a great many things." His courage failed him as he was about to make the fatal announcement.
"What things?" said Adela, with all the boldness of innocence.
It was necessary that he should say it. "Why, for instance," he continued, "it is quite impossible, though perhaps that does not make much matter; but it is quite impossible – that I should ever marry." And still looking down upon the ground, he poked sedulously among the patterns with his stick.
"Oh!" said Adela, with a tremour in her voice, and her eye was no longer able to rest upon his face.
There was a pause during which neither of them said a word, or saw each other. As far as Adela was concerned, immediate speech was impossible. She neither cried, nor sighed, nor sobbed, nor became hysterical. She was simply dumb. She could not answer this little announcement of her neighbour's. Heretofore, when he had come to her with his sorrows, she had sympathized with him, and poured balm into his wounds. But she had no balm for him now – and no sympathy. There they sat, mute; he poking the while at the carpet, while she did not even move a limb.
And then it gradually came home to both of them that this utter silence, this prostration of all power of self-management, told to each the secret of the other. Each felt that every moment of prolonged silence committed both of them the deeper. Why should not Adela be able to speak when thus informed of her neighbour's intended celibacy? Why should he sit like a fool before her merely because he had told her that on which he had long decided?
But it was clearly Wilkinson's duty to have disembarrassed the lady as soon as possible. It was almost unmanly in him to be put thus beyond the power of speech or action. But still he poked the carpet and said nothing. It was Adela who first broke that tell-tale silence; and grievous was the effort which it cost her to do so.
"But you will have your mother and sisters with you, Mr. Wilkinson; and so, perhaps, you won't mind that."
"Yes, I shall have them," said he; and then there was another silence, which seemed about to be equally dangerous and equally difficult. But Adela, who was fully aware of the error which she had already committed, strove hard to save herself from repeating it.
"You will have a family round you; and if, as you say" – but the ground that she approached was so hot that she could not walk on it. She could not get further in that direction, and therefore merely added: "I am sure I hope you will always be happy."
At length Arthur shook himself, positively shook himself, as though that were the only mode by which he could collect his faculties; and then getting up from his chair, and standing with his back against the wall, he spoke out as follows: —
"Perhaps, Adela, there was no necessity for me to have mentioned this subject. At least, I am sure there was no necessity. But you have ever been such a friend to me, have so understood my feelings when no one else seemed to do so, that I could not but tell you this as I have told you everything else. I hope I have not annoyed you by doing so."
"Oh, no; not at all."
"It does make me a little sad to think that I shall never be my own master."
"Never, Mr. Wilkinson!" Had Arthur but known it, there was balm, there was sympathy in this word. Had his intellect been as sharp as his feelings, he would have known it. But it passed him unperceived, as it had fallen from her unawares: and she said no other word that could encourage him. If he was cold, she at least would be equally so.
"Certainly not during my mother's life; and you know how good ground we have for hoping that her life will be long. And then there are my sisters. My duty to them will be the same as to my mother, even though, as regards them, I may not be tied down as I am with regard to her."
"We cannot have everything here," said Adela, trying to smile. "But I am sure I need not teach you that."
"No, we cannot have everything." And Arthur thought that, in spite of the clerical austerity which he was about to assume, he should very much like to have Adela Gauntlet.
"It will make you happy to know that you are making your mother happy, and the dear girls – and – and I have no doubt you will very soon get used to it. Many clergymen, you know, think that they ought not to marry."
"Yes; but I never made up my mind to that."
"No, perhaps not; but now perhaps you will think of it more seriously."
"Indeed, I used to have an idea that a parish clergyman should be a married man. There are so many things which he can do better when he has a woman to assist him who thinks exactly as he thinks."
"You will have your sisters, you know. Both Mary and Sophia were always active in the parish, and Jane and Fanny have their school."
"Yes;" and he uttered a gentle sigh as he paused before he answered her. "But it is not quite the same thing, Adela. I love my sisters dearly; but one always longs to have one heart that shall be entirely one's own."
And had he come over to tell her this in the same breath with which he informed her that marriage was a privilege quite beyond his reach? What did he think
