“She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids.”
“Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage.”
“And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that.”
“Lady Arabella!” said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. “I do not care that for Lady Arabella,” and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. “If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella.”
“Then why not come to it?”
She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. “Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr. Gresham—and I do care for his son.”
“But the squire always loved you.”
“Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill.”
“I am sure you will not do that,” said Miss Oriel.
“I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their fêtes! No, Patience.” And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend’s ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank’s promises.
“Mary, dear Mary.”
“Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that,” said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. “I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak.”
“But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know.”
“Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless—but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me.”
Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends.
“Good-bye, Mary,” said Patience. “I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you.”
“Oh, comfort! I don’t want comfort. I want to be let alone.”
“That’s just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way.”
“What I do take, I’ll take without complaint,” said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted.
CHAPTER XXXIII
A Morning Visit
It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank’s departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella’s precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with someone; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it.
But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to anyone of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr. Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage?
There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibouk, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the De Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated—for the tenth time—by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury.
But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank’s love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way.
“No,” Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, “I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone.”
A day or two after Miss Oriel’s visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice:—
DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don’t you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr. Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn’t it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won’t write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you.
Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY
Monday.
Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her—just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice’s face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger.
And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all t
he delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson’s wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all couleur de rose, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend.
But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary’s own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature.
“And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like—you and Dr. Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own.”
Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt.
“You know how happy that will make me,” continued Beatrice. “Of course mamma won’t expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that.”
“You are very kind, Trichy,” said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago.
“Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan’t you be glad to come to see us?”
“I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me.”
“And shan’t you be glad to see him?”
“Yes, certainly, if he loves you.”
“Of course he loves me.”
“All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends—friend, I should say, for I have only one—should make them opposed to each other?”
“Circumstances! What circumstances?”
“You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?”
“Indeed, I am!”
“And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?”
“Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is,” said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs.
“And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?” Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face.
Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. “I am sure I hope you will, some day.”
“No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel.”
“Do you?” said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her.
“It that so odd?” said Mary. “You love Mr. Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?”
“But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that—that—I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him, you know—I thought you always said so—I have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself.”
“Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you will say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say—and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy—Trichy, I do love you so much! Don’t turn away from me!”
There was such a mixture in Mary’s manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. “Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy.”
“It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr. Oriel.”
“But, Mary, you cannot marry him!”
“Why not?” said she, in a loud voice. “Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?”
“But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money.”
“Money—money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it—I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him.”
“Are you engaged to him, Mary?”
“He is not engaged to me; but I am to him.”
“Oh, Mary, that is impossible!”
“It is not impossible: it is the case—I am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me.”
“But, Mary, don’t look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?”
“Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different.”
Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank’s conduct.
She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her.
Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. As it was, is was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend.
She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary’s ways must be different.
Mary saw all that was passing in the other’s mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so.
“I am glad I have told you,” said Mary, curbing herself, “for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable.”
“It was a misunderstanding, not deceit,” said Beatrice.
“Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness.”
“But, Mary—”
“Well?”
“You say you love him.”
“Yes; I do say so.”
“But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?”
“If I have a fever
, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die.”
“I fear,” continued Beatrice, “you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank’s real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry.”
Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank’s new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary’s spirit.
“Very well,” said she, “let it be so. I have nothing to say against it.”
“But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?”
“Very likely.”
“Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible.”
“Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others—with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position—and yet I love him.”
“But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so—”
“You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?”
At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently.
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 123