Romance in the Last Kingdom
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When I saw you for the first time, my heart was so full of joy that it could hardly keep pace with my thoughts. So I went to see my uncle again and told him all about your letters. He was very kind—more than he knew—and took me aside on his own account. But after I had read your book, Uncle Tom said something so wise and comforting as to bring tears to my eyes.
When I asked if I might go out with you again, he smiled at me kindly and said: ‘If I may judge by what you have done already, and the effect it has had upon you, then it can only be a blessing.’ And when I asked him who was going to marry you, he replied: ‘I don’t know, but it is well worth thinking about!’ That made me happy!
But how much we talked! What a delight it would have been if I had never known that I was to marry another man. Now that I look back upon those days, it seems to me there were so many things I wanted to ask you. It seemed as though every second letter brought me new ideas, new thoughts—new ways of life.
And yet, I did not wish to seem presumptuous, and I didn’t want to appear too anxious. In one place you had written something that troubled me: ‘What are the chances of happiness between us?’ I thought it would have been better if I’d asked your permission to tell you more, but it’s hard to say whether you would have taken it kindly or ill-naturedly.
I hope, dear, you won’t think me ungrateful?
‘It would have been easier,’ he answered. ‘But you will have the best of all chances now. The chance to do what is right! You’ll be free—free from care and fear. If she loves you, there can be no reason why she should refuse you anything that would make you happier, and I dare say she feels the same way.’
The next day we walked up and down the town together, until nightfall. There were several things I ought to have mentioned before this point, which I should have explained in greater detail—the fact of our being cousins. And I remember you saying to me that we ought to give some thought to a name. Then we talked about your plans to travel to Scotland.
So I began to tell him all about my plans, my hopes, and my desires, but it soon became clear to me that he knew nothing at all about them. I was surprised at this, for I thought he must have guessed. After all, he knew me so well—as far as anyone else did.
So I decided to tell him everything at once. I told him about my plan to go with you to London, to get away to a place where I could be alone to write to you.
He smiled and said: “Do you think that would please me?”
I told him that I hoped so—that I thought it would please him very much.
Uncle Tom laughed as I told him all the little things I had planned; how I wanted to spend all the summer abroad. How I wished to see England again, and how grateful I felt towards him for his kindness in inviting me to come home at Christmas and take advantage of the opportunities offered to me.
I told him how much he had made me feel at home with my family, how happy I was that you had been willing to help me, and how I felt sure that the time would arrive when I was able to show you my gratitude in person. And then, after a pause, he asked: ‘How long shall we stay here?’
We both looked at each other and smiled. We were standing at the foot of the stairs and looked up to heaven together.
‘As long as possible,’ I said.
***
My cousin came in and gave me a letter from my mother. It had arrived while I was away in Paris, but it would have been awkward to send it to London. I had written to her asking her to let me know what sort of things she wanted from me and how to write to her—but I could not help feeling as if there had been a slight lack of courtesy in having sent it to Edinburgh instead of to London.
After I finished reading my uncle’s letter, I put it back on his desk and sat down beside him. He was sitting with one hand in his pocket and gazing out of the window. My father’s handwriting lay on the table, and he read through it without looking at me.
The first part of the letter began: ‘Dear Euphemia—’
There were some words in Uncle Tom’s writing that I couldn’t identify.
And then: ‘You may rest assured that I am still doing what I can for you and the child.’
This was followed by a list of names and addresses.
‘If ever you need any advice, please write to me,’ he said.
“I have written to the two ladies you suggested, who are both in England. But if you like you may use this address, too.’
I thanked him for his kindness and said I would gladly write to him whenever I needed any information.
‘And now it is time I went,’ he said. ‘Are you ready?’
“Yes,” I answered. ‘Let’s start.”
Then he held out his hands and I took hold of them. As I leaned my head upon his shoulder, he patted my hair and wept. He said it was all for the best, and I told him I loved him, though I didn’t want to cry. It was only when he left us that we both began to cry a little.
I went up to my room and changed into my clothes; they were damp with rain, as I had thrown off my coat and trousers as soon as we reached my aunt’s house. When we got outside, there was an old woman sitting in the parlor and she was crying, but my aunt said: “Go away, Mother.
She has come home at last.” So the woman went away. The windows were open and there was a smell of flowers and a warm breeze blew in. It smelled like a garden. All these things struck me as being particularly fine.
We went upstairs to the nursery and the nurse met us. Her face was flushed and she was wiping her nose with a handkerchief, and she looked so glad. She said: “I’m so happy! Oh, God bless you!” Then she kissed me.
***
On our way back to London I felt as if something within me had been taken away from me, and I could not understand it until it became clear to me later that my uncle had never intended for me to go to Scotland, but was only planning to send me home.
This made a difference. It meant that everything that happened afterward was done without deceit or subterfuge and that I was not going home because of something Uncle Tom had done—and I felt sure that if he had known how I felt, he would never have allowed such a thing to happen.
It might be said that my father was partly responsible for my uncle’s action, in giving permission for me to return home; but even supposing he had wanted to refuse to allow me to do so, he couldn’t have refused, for I had no right to leave the house, and my leaving had been brought about by my own decision.
That was why it was so strange to me that he would not say anything when I asked him what had become of the money which I had paid for a ticket to Scotland—and yet it was only natural that he should feel ashamed of this, as well as angry.
I thought that my father was acting in a very unnatural manner, for he was behaving quite differently from how he acted toward me in ordinary life.
I knew he liked me well enough, but there was something odd in his behavior, and although I could not tell exactly why he was acting so strangely, I could see that he didn’t want to meet my gaze and that he kept glancing over his shoulder as if he expected someone else to be there.
I tried to think what had happened—that I must have misunderstood something, but when we got back to England he was still behaving oddly.
I was standing before the glass trying to put on the necklace Aunt Elizabeth had given me and my aunt came up behind me and took hold of my wrists. “I’ve been thinking of getting these rings engraved for you,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
“They’re lovely,” I said, and she smiled happily. But I noticed then that her cheeks were red and she was breathing quickly. And when I turned my head to look at her, she seemed to have grown younger than usual. It was just as if a cloud had passed over her face.
But that wasn’t all. My aunt was smiling more brightly and prettily than ever, but there were tears in her eyes. When I looked at her she put out her arms towards me, and her fingers touched my face gently.
“Come here,” she said.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
I was confused, but my aunt’s face had suddenly lost all its expression and it gave me the impression that she was trying to hide her feelings. I took hold of her hands and held them tight. Then she whispered in my ear: “Oh! I’m so glad it’s over.”
And we laughed together. I saw my aunt looking into my face and I thought I caught a glimpse of a shadow crossing her features, and she looked happier than she had ever done since I had come to live with them.
“What are those little marks round your neck—the ones you’ve taken off? What use is there in putting rings on the outside of a bracelet? Why do you always make such stupid remarks?”
I could not help laughing at this, and I wondered whether I had been right after all, in thinking that she had been crying. Perhaps my Aunt Elizabeth was feeling better, now she knew that I hadn’t left her.
My father was sitting next to my mother, and he said to her: “Now we can get some fresh air.” And when we got into the carriage, he told me: “I’m sorry you had to leave your friends behind, but I did think of sending for them.”
But I said: “No, don’t trouble yourself about it, please, Father! I don’t know who any of them are!”
And when he saw that I was serious, he sighed and said: “All the same, I am glad you didn’t go alone!”
I smiled at him and I could see he was vexed. He said in an annoyed tone: “Well, well! If you won’t take advice, I’ll give you one. Don’t go anywhere where you’re likely to bump against people if you can avoid it! And try not to talk to anyone unless they ask you.”
We went to our home, and I was happy again because the journey had given me the chance to recover from the disappointment and unhappiness which I had experienced in Scotland.
I knew there was no way I could prevent my father from talking about my departure and my return, nor from asking me what had become of the money, but fortunately, my father did not want to speak about either of these things. I did not tell him everything; he never really wanted to hear anything that wasn’t in keeping with his notions and preconceptions.
He had always been like this; he was so easily influenced that he couldn’t accept the fact that others might differ from him. As soon as I got to my room, I lay down on my bed and fell asleep straight away.
My thoughts kept turning to my aunt’s letter. I wondered whether my father had read it, and then I remembered that my father would never believe her account without knowing all the facts.
But then I asked myself whether it was necessary for me to give him all the details.
My aunt was so clever that she could easily convince my father that she had sent us a message saying that I had gone on a tour of Paris. She wouldn’t have needed to tell him about my being in Edinburgh or how we had returned from France, so that would have saved us both a great deal of trouble.
I had no sooner fallen asleep than I woke up again. I heard the sound of voices outside my door. I listened, and it sounded as if someone was speaking German. I thought perhaps it was Mr. Blyth, whom I knew was staying with us. But it could hardly be my father, as he was sitting next to my mother.
I was afraid, too, that it might be Aunt Elizabeth herself, but I thought it unlikely. There was a knock at the door. Someone called out: “Aunt Elizabeth! Is that you?”
It was Mrs. Barlow. She was looking very pleased with herself.
I opened the door and asked her to come in. When she saw me lying on my bed, she exclaimed: “I’ve just had the greatest shock!”
I tried to laugh, but my voice failed me. All I could say was: “You have, indeed? How extraordinary! You haven’t come by mistake?”
She shook her head. “Not in the least!”
“I can see why you were surprised,” I said. “After all, you didn’t know that I was in bed! But I assure you, you’re quite mistaken if you think I’ve been crying—that’s all nonsense!”
“No, no!” said Mrs. Barlow. “I don’t mean that.”
I looked at her, but I did not know what she meant. “Then tell me what you do mean,” I said, “and tell me how it came about! Did you send a message to Scotland?”
Mrs. Barlow’s face lit up with joy and she said: “Yes, I did! But it’s such a long story, and there is so much to tell, that I thought you’d be happier if I came to you directly, instead of writing a letter.”
I could hardly keep awake. It was the best thing that could have happened. For all my father’s scolding, it had not occurred to me that Mrs. Barlow could come to us before she wrote to Scotland, because she was bound to have written by today. And now we were going to get her to help us in our plan of getting my father off our hands.
When Mrs. Barlow arrived, my father was still sitting with my mother, although he did not seem to be paying attention to what Mrs. Barlow was saying. He was staring into space.
I went and sat in an armchair so that I could look at the paper. My father said: “Oh, yes! Yes, of course! That’s very good of you! I shall be very happy to listen.”
She began telling us about the letters she had received from Scotland. I listened attentively, hoping that she might say something about me; I hoped she might repeat what she had said about me last time; but nothing like this was mentioned. I could only hope that she would mention the money.
She talked about her husband, who was a lawyer, and about how they had met. Then she told us about the weather there, but this did not interest me. I wished my father would stop listening to Mrs. Barlow, for I wanted to tell him what I had done with the money, and how I had got hold of my aunt’s letter.
Mr. Barlow smiled happily when Mrs. Barlow spoke of his brother. She told us about the two brothers, who were twins, and how kind and clever they both were.
“And then,” she said, “she says that my dear cousin John has been taken seriously ill and that you should write straightaway.”
My heart beat faster. She was talking about him having feverish dreams, hearing voices, and seeing people who weren’t there, and seeing things out of the corner of his eyes—just the sort of thing my father had said happened. The idea seemed very funny, but it was so wonderful that Mrs. Barlow would say it—I found myself laughing.
“Well,” I said, “what else does she say?”
“That you’ll be pleased to hear my dear son’s better,” she replied, “and that his recovery will be quicker than we imagined.”
“And what’s more, she also writes that she expects to come and see us soon,” I added.
I thought it might be worthwhile asking how he was. So I said: “Did she say anything else?”
But my father interrupted. “No, no! I’m afraid that won’t do. You must go straight to Scotland yourself! There’s really nothing to worry about here!”
His manner puzzled me. What could he mean? Had Mr. Barlow been unwell? I felt so restless that I couldn’t think of what to ask.
Mrs. Barlow smiled and thanked us. Her husband came in, and she gave him some papers he had left behind. I noticed that my father looked as though he were rather glad to leave the room, and I wondered whether she had mentioned to him what I had done with the money so that he might try to put her off by suggesting that I hadn’t sent her a letter after all!
As for Mrs. Barlow, she was smiling too brightly when she saw me.
It struck me that there had never been a moment so agreeable as this one, and yet I knew it would not last. In another minute Mrs. Barlow and her husband would be gone, and my father would have forgotten everything except our plans for getting him off our hands.
“Oh, yes,” my father said. “We’ll be happy to let you go.”
I glanced at Mrs. Barlow, and suddenly I saw that she was crying. Her hands were trembling, and her eyes were shining, and I felt quite ashamed of myself.
“You are so good to us!” she cried. “And your poor mother! Oh, thank God you’re back!”
Her husband came over and took her hand. I thought I saw her glance at him; I think she might have been grateful to him; but then she turned to me again, and asked me if I wouldn’t come and join them in their carriage. They were going home to see my uncle. My father was already putting on his coat.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard that Mr. Barlow is well.”
He had not even noticed my entrance; his manner was so different from mine; he was so much more like a servant than I. But it did not appear to matter to him what Mrs. Barlow or anybody else said; he had made up his mind not to trust Mrs. Barlow with a message from me. He was not thinking of my welfare, but only about himself. He was determined not to trust her.
I stood still and stared down at the table. I didn’t know what to say next, but I could hardly believe what had passed between us just now: the way in which my father had told Mrs. Barlow how little he trusted her, and the way in which she had burst into tears because he did.
When we were ready to leave, my father said to Mr. Barlow: “Don’t forget to tell Miss Wren to write to us as quickly as possible.”
So Mr. Barlow promised to write to her as soon as he got home. Then I went to help him with his hat and his gloves—it was quite dark outside, and I felt cold suddenly—and we set off to take the coach to London Bridge.
After we had left Mrs. Barlow’s, Mrs. Withers came running up the stairs; she had been in the kitchen, and she had seen her brother arrive, and wanted to speak to him before we went away. I went and fetched her, and together we walked along the pavement.
We kept close to the side of the house; we dared not venture near our own front door. The street lamps were lit, but that was enough light to see our way, and we did not look out for the carriage until we reached it.
I helped Mr. Barlow in, and she sat beside me and told me what she’d seen. She had watched Mr. Withers get in, and then she’d followed him inside and found that he had not brought any luggage with him, and then he had shut the carriage door.
My father had been standing in the doorway talking with Mr. Withers, and she had caught sight of him, but he hadn’t noticed her. His face was flushed, and I fancied he was in a great hurry to escape from the house so that he could return alone to Scotland Yard and begin his inquiries.
He seemed quite calm and composed; it didn’t seem to trouble him at all that he had been so rudely refused.
“I wish he wouldn’t do that,” Mrs. Withers said. “There’s so much I want to ask him.”
I said I should be very sorry if anything happened to Mrs. Barlow—she was so kind and good, and I liked her very much. She had a pretty face, too; I couldn’t understand why my father disliked her so much.
Mr. Barlow said that we must try to find Mrs. Barlow some other lodgings, and I said I hoped we might see her again sometime. It was strange that Mr. Withers was not here—he usually waited outside when he returned home late in the evening.
“We won’t forget you,” Mrs. Withers said. “And perhaps we may have news for you.”
She was always saying something about the news, but I had no idea what she meant. Perhaps she would tell us what Mr. Withers had done during his absence from home? I looked around at Mrs. Barlow; she smiled; and then my father drove us down the drive.
When we reached the station, I went back into the coach to help my father with his cloak and his stick; and then we went upstairs to our room. Mrs. Withers took my arm, but she did not speak to me. I suppose my father did not want us talking to each other, and neither of us said anything; he opened the door and let us out into the passage, where my father took his leave of his valet.
It was raining outside, and a cold wind blew from the river. We hurried up to the top floor, and there we found our bedroom. We closed the window shutters and shut the doors to keep out the noise of the night-time traffic. And after all, it was quite dark enough without looking at the windows.
We lit a lamp and went to bed, and I lay awake wondering if Mr. Barlow would get his letter through safely. I fell asleep thinking about that, and then woke in the middle of the night because I heard my mother’s voice calling to me: “Milly!” I thought it was only a dream.
But soon she called again. “Milly?” I opened my eyes wide. What could be wrong? My father was still sleeping, but he must know that I was there. I put out my hand to feel for him, and he stirred, turning over in his sleep. Then my mother called to me: “Milly! Milly! Come back here.”
I got up, and when I touched the table I saw that the paper was gone. It wasn’t on the desk or the dresser or anywhere else; only a few sheets were left in the envelope. That was all she wrote: “Come back here. You don’t know what you’re missing.”
The End