Chapter Twenty-Four
Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turned.
His good intent notwithstanding, Mr. Adam Hearne’s letters caused nothing short of uproar.
It began in true Iffley fashion, when Mrs. Lamb the postmistress opened the morning’s mailbag to sort its contents and stood for two whole minutes holding the letters, one in each hand, Lord Dere’s in the right and Mrs. Barstow’s in the left, wishing and wishing she knew their contents.
Being a firm believer in the proverb, “A wise man will hear, and will increase learning,” she was left to the next best thing, which was to tell every single person who came to the Tree Inn to collect the post about the letters’ arrival.
Thus when Irving lay hers beside Mrs. Barstow’s breakfast plate, he said, “There was another from this same person addressed to Lord Dere, Mrs. Lamb tells me.” And, over at Perryfield, the footman Wood cleared his throat delicately and murmured, “I was informed that Mrs. Barstow of Iffley Cottage received a letter from the same person, sir.”
“Which person?” demanded Mrs. Markham Dere, laying down at once her own post.
“It is from Mr. Adam Hearne,” the baron answered, already sliding a finger under the wax. Much as he would have preferred to read the missive alone in his library, he knew such a boon would not be granted to him; therefore he chose to make his report straightaway.
But when he began to read quietly, just under his breath, his niece by marriage drummed impatient fingers on the cloth so that he had to begin again.
“Well, sir?” she prompted. “What can that impostor possibly have to say to you?”
“He—er—deeply regrets having led anyone to believe—”
“Regrets making fools of respectable people?” she interrupted.
“Er—yes, in so many words. That is, he writes that he never meant to—”
“To cut off his nose, to be revenged of his face?” supplied Mrs. Dere swiftly.
“For that is precisely what he has done, coming among his equals and his betters, Uncle, and playing them false. Why we, whom he did not know and who meant him well, should be treated in such a manner is beyond my comprehension! I rejoice that we need never see nor hear of the man again, being no residents of Oxford. Dorothy Eveleigh may relent against him—” (holding up her own letter and shaking it menacingly, though it was merely a tradesman’s bill) “—because she has no proper pride—imagine being willing to let that Mr. Midgecomb pay his addresses to Miss Eveleigh after what has passed!—but we have our standards, sir, and the sooner Mr. Hearne and his friends know of it, the better.”
Not being of vindictive nature and sadly deficient in what his niece called “proper pride,” Lord Dere regarded the apology in his hands with regret. “He does say it began in thoughtlessness, Alice, Mr. Midgecomb having already formed an attachment to Miss Eveleigh.”
“What are you talking about, Uncle? Is Mr. Hearne making Mr. Midgecomb’s apologies or his own?”
“His own. But he writes that the regrettable imposture began in goodwill. He was trying to help Mr. Midgecomb’s suit, by not himself forming any distraction—”
“What sort of help is that? One does not go around lying and tricking, even in the name of help! Not if one has any honor. You must not be taken in, sir.”
The baron sighed and let the sheet fall to the table. “In any case, he begs my pardon—our pardon as ‘the leading family in Iffley,’ and wishes we might be persuaded to think of him again with kindness, as he has always thought of us.”
Mrs. Dere only sniffed, shaking her head.
“It sounds like he has already gained his object, then, with you. I suppose there is no use in asking you to send him a cold reply, Uncle. But I will say it is one thing to pardon such a person in Christian charity and another altogether to invite him to work further mischief among us. He may be forgiven, but from a distance.”
“Ah, but that’s just it, Alice,” persevered Lord Dere, almost apologizing himself.
“He says family obligations have taken him away to Northamptonshire for the time being, but when his tasks there are completed, and he has returned to Oxford and his Christ Church duties, he hope he may call again on his ‘friends in Iffley.’”
“Friends!” she muttered darkly.
The baron glanced at Wood for courage, but the footman stood by the sideboard with his usual good posture and faraway stare. Lord Ranulph Dere was on his own hook, it appeared.
He cleared his throat. “My dear Alice, I did think at one time that you had formed a favorable opinion of the young man,” he ventured.
“You—I even thought—on more than one occasion—that possibly you imagined him as a…possible match for our young Frances, despite his supposed intellectual shortcomings.”
Her head snapped up from the tradesman’s bill she had been affecting to inspect.
“If I did, Uncle, and—and why should I deny it?—it is one thing for a young man to have…certain weaknesses beyond his control, but if that same young man cannot control his character, that is a serious failing indeed. If I did once think of him for Frances, I ceased to do so the moment I learned of his deception. Do you think I would have her tied for life to someone who cannot be trusted? Who laughs at others behind their backs and then makes excuses for his conduct? Never! Our dear Frances deserves much better. The more so, Uncle, because I will tell you now that he did offer for her, when she thought he was a stupid man, and she refused him. I commend her now for her wisdom. What a fortunate escape!”
The frown marring her marble brow deepened, however, when she saw how he took this news. “What? What makes you look that way? Does he say more? Never say he mentions Frances in his letter!”
“Er—he says—”
But Mrs. Dere had already extended an imperious hand, and he surrendered it to her.
Her bosom swelled as she read, her color rising.
“Mm,” she said at last, folding it up and returning the letter to him. “I will call directly at Iffley Cottage after breakfast.”
Being a wily woman, Mrs. Dere did not have the pony cart hitched, knowing that would require her to leave it at the Tree Inn. Instead she walked to the cottage, taking a route away from Mrs. Lamb’s all-seeing eye, and thus arrived without warning.
Suffice to say, Mr. Hearne’s letter to Mrs. Barstow had evoked a different response in that house. He had written the letters in full knowledge that they would be read aloud, passed around, pored over. At least, he hoped such would be their fate.
“See?” Mrs. Barstow told her family. “We guessed as much, after reading Miss Eveleigh’s letter.
Mr. Hearne is modest here and does not say so explicitly, but clearly what began as an impulse to help his friend became something which must be maintained after they were invited to Greenwood Hall.
It does not make his conduct right, but it makes it understandable. ”
“Possibly he regretted it shortly after they arrived,” Sarah suggested.
“Especially when it didn’t work in any case, to help Miss Eveleigh to prefer Mr. Midgecomb,” Frances put in, trying to dampen her eagerness.
“It might even have been tiresome to pretend to be a blockhead,” Mrs. Barstow went on, “if he has all the firsts and honors his mother claimed he did.”
“I think it would be fun,” said Gordon contrarily, earning a scowl from Frances. “Then you might say and do whatever you liked, and everyone would just charge it to your idiocy, as we did. You saw what fun he had playing Bottom, who is a blockhead through and through.”
“From top to bottom,” giggled Maria.
In her heart of hearts, Frances could not deny Mr. Hearne did sometimes appear to be having fun being stupid. She thought of the times he teased them with it, even at this very breakfast table that morning he had his “one thought.”
“Still,” she insisted, “he didn’t abuse our trust. He didn’t say or do anything wrong.”
“Unless one counts the three of them laughing up their sleeves at us,” her brother shrugged.
“I don’t blame him for it. Peter and I sometimes do the same thing at Keele’s.
We’ll try to distract Mr. Keele from the lesson by asking questions about Egypt, and the next thing you know, he’s forgotten all about Latin declensions because he’s somewhere in ancient Thebes, telling us about pharaohs and dynasties.
Everyone’s laughing at him, but it’s all in fondness. ”
“Gordon,” chided his mother.
“What do you mean, ‘Gordon’?” he mimicked her rueful tone. “If you disapprove of Peter and me doing that, but you don’t disapprove of Mr. Hearne doing the same thing, you are being inconsistent.”
“And you are being a smug, twelve-year-old boy,” returned Frances, tossing her napkin at him.
“I’m only saying if you are all determined to forgive him, then forgive him, and never mind the excuses.”
“We will then,” Mrs. Barstow rejoined, holding up a hand for peace.
“Mr. Hearne is hereby declared forgiven at Iffley Cottage, and when he comes to call again, he will be made most welcome.” Smiling at Frances, she repeated, “Most, most welcome. May we then come to know the true Adam Hearne and to appreciate him even more than we thought we did.”
The warm tide which flooded Frances rose with each reading of Mr. Hearne’s brief, manly letter and lasted until Reed announced the arrival of Mrs. Dere.
Then it drained away rapidly, to be replaced by trepidation.
But was such apprehension justified? Mrs. Dere had surprised her once already, after all, when Frances expected her to be angry. Why not again?
From the moment Mrs. Dere strode into the parlor, however, chin lifted and lips compressed, Frances knew her benefactress was not going to surprise her this time.
Her gaze swept the room’s occupants (not a one of whom wanted to miss this), from Bash and Gordon playing at draughts to the ladies at their various needlework projects.