his legs, so that the elegancy of the epistle was visible to them all.
“Please ma’am, Dr. Stanhope’s coachman says he is to wait for an answer,” said the servant.
Eleanor got very red in the face as she took the note in her hand. She had never seen the writing before. Charlotte’s epistles, to which she was well accustomed, were of a very different style and kind. She generally wrote on large notepaper; she twisted up her letters into the shape and sometimes into the size of cocked hats; she addressed them in a sprawling, manly hand, and not unusually added a blot or a smudge, as though such were her own peculiar sign-manual. The address of this note was written in a beautiful female hand, and the gummed wafer bore on it an impress of a gilt coronet. Though Eleanor had never seen such a one before, she guessed that it came from the signora. Such epistles were very numerously sent out from any house in which the signora might happen to be dwelling, but they were rarely addressed to ladies. When the coachman was told by the lady’s maid to take the letter to Mrs. Bold, he openly expressed his opinion that there was some mistake about it. Whereupon the lady’s maid boxed the coachman’s ears. Had Mr. Slope seen in how meek a spirit the coachman took the rebuke, he might have learnt a useful lesson, both in philosophy and religion.
The note was as follows. It may be taken as a faithful promise that no further letter whatever shall be transcribed at length in these pages.
My dear Mrs. Bold,
May I ask you, as a great favour, to call on me tomorrow. You can say what hour will best suit you, but quite early, if you can. I need hardly say that if I could call upon you, I should not take this liberty with you.
I partly know what occurred the other day, and I promise you that you shall meet with no annoyance if you will come to me. My brother leaves us for London to-day; from thence he goes to Italy.
It will probably occur to you that I should not thus intrude on you, unless I had that to say to you which may be of considerable moment. Pray therefore excuse me, even if you do not grant my request.
And believe me,
Very sincerely yours,
M. Vesey Neroni.
Thursday Evening
The three of them sat in consultation on this epistle for some ten or fifteen minutes, and then decided that Eleanor should write a line saying that she would see the signora the next morning at twelve o’clock.
Chapter XLV.
The Stanhopes at Home
We must now return to the Stanhopes and see how they behaved themselves on their return from Ullathorne.
Charlotte, who came back in the first homeward journey with her sister, waited in palpitating expectation till the carriage drove up to the door a second time. She did not run down, or stand at the window, or show in any outward manner that she looked for anything wonderful to occur; but when she heard the carriage wheels, she stood up with erect ears, listening for Eleanor’s footfall on the pavement, or the cheery sound of Bertie’s voice welcoming her in. Had she heard either, she would have felt that all was right; but neither sound was there for her to hear. She heard only her father’s slow step as he ponderously let himself down from the carriage and slowly walked along the hall, till he got into his own private room on the ground floor. “Send Miss Stanhope to me,” he said to the servant.
“There’s something wrong now,” said Madeline, who was lying on her sofa in the back drawing-room.
“It’s all up with Bertie,” replied Charlotte. “I know, I know,” she said to the servant as he brought up the message. “Tell my father I will be with him immediately.”
“Bertie’s wooing has gone astray,” said Madeline. “I knew it would.”
“It has been his own fault then. She was ready enough, I am quite sure,” said Charlotte with that sort of illnature which is not uncommon when one woman speaks of another.
“What will you say to him now?” By “him,” the signora meant their father.
“That will be as I find him. He was ready to pay two hundred pounds for Bertie to stave off the worst of his creditors, if this marriage had gone on. Bertie must now have the money instead and go and take his chance.”
“Where is he now?”
“Heaven knows! Smoking in the bottom of Mr. Thorne’s ha-ha, or philandering with some of those Miss Chadwicks. Nothing will ever make an impression on him. But he’ll be furious if I don’t go down.”
“No, nothing ever will. But don’t be long, Charlotte, for I want my tea.”
And so Charlotte went down to her father. There was a very black cloud on the old man’s brow—blacker than his daughter could ever yet remember to have seen there. He was sitting in his own armchair, not comfortably over the fire, but in the middle of the room, waiting till she should come and listen to him.
“What has become of your brother?” he said as soon as the door was shut.
“I should rather ask you,” said Charlotte. “I left you both at Ullathorne when I came away. What have you done with Mrs. Bold?”
“Mrs. Bold! Nonsense. The woman has gone home as she ought to do. And heartily glad I am that she should not be sacrificed to so heartless a reprobate.”
“Oh, Papa!”
“A heartless reprobate! Tell me now where he is and what he is going to do. I have allowed myself to be fooled between you. Marriage, indeed! Who on earth that has money, or credit, or respect in the world to lose would marry him?”
“It is no use your scolding me, Papa. I have done the best I could for him and you.”
“And Madeline is nearly as bad,” said the prebendary, who was in truth very, very angry.
“Oh, I suppose we are all bad,” replied Charlotte.
The old man emitted a huge, leonine sigh. If they were all bad, who had made them so? If they were unprincipled, selfish, and disreputable, who was to be blamed for the education which had had so injurious an effect?
“I know you’ll ruin me among you,” said he.
“Why, Papa, what nonsense that is. You are living within your income this minute, and if there are any new debts, I don’t know of them. I am sure there ought to be none, for we are dull enough here.”
“Are those bills of Madeline’s paid?”
“No, they are not. Who was to pay them?”
“Her husband may pay them.”
“Her husband! Would you wish me to tell her you say so? Do you wish to turn her out of your house?”
“I wish she would know how to behave herself.”
“Why, what on earth has she done now? Poor Madeline! To-day is only the second time she has gone out since we came to this vile town.”
He then sat silent for a time, thinking in what shape he would declare his resolve. “Well, Papa,” said Charlotte, “shall I stay here, or may I go upstairs and give Mamma her tea?”
“You are in your brother’s confidence. Tell me what he is going to do.”
“Nothing, that I am aware of.”
“Nothing—nothing! Nothing but eat and drink and spend every shilling of my money he can lay his hands upon. I have made up my mind, Charlotte. He shall eat and drink no more in this house.”
“Very well. Then I suppose he must go back to Italy.”
“He may go where he pleases.”