by Clara Benson
EIGHTEEN
True to her resolution, Miss King called on Miss Lucas the very next day, and they walked into Meryton together. On the way back, they parted at the crossroads, with many promises to meet again the next day—although Maria had taken little pleasure in Miss King’s company that morning, for Mary had talked of nothing but Mr. Thripp and his proposal, until Maria was quite depressed, and her head was full of the wrong she would do her family and him if she refused him. It was on Monday that he had come to dinner, and she had successfully avoided seeing him on Tuesday and Wednesday through the simple expedient of bursting into tears whenever his name was mentioned. But she knew he could not be avoided forever—and so it proved, thanks to Mary King, who encountered him in the road not a minute after she had left Maria, and sent him after her with an artful hint. Maria heard him calling her name, and her heart began to beat fast as he caught up with her. She stopped and waited in some embarrassment as he fetched his breath and wiped his brow.
‘I trust you are much recovered now, Miss Lucas,’ he said at last. ‘I understand you have been unwell these last two days, so naturally it was not possible for me to pay you the attentions that were due to you.’
‘Thank you, I am quite well now,’ said Miss Lucas.
‘I am very glad, for I have been in agonies since Monday evening, fearing that I may have importuned you to the detriment of your health. Please be assured that such was not my intention; I meant only to show you the utmost respect. However, I am aware that young ladies are frail creatures, and it has since occurred to me that my proposal may have come as too much of a surprise to you, and caused you to take fright. Forgive me if I was too warm in my declaration, but I knew not how to contain my ardour, and I fear it may have been too much for your delicacy.’
Maria shook her head without knowing what she was doing, and wished to be elsewhere, but he had cut off her means of escape, and she could not run away without pushing past him. This she would not do, and so she was forced to hear him out.
‘Very well; I can see for myself that you are no longer in any way indisposed,’ he went on. ‘And that being the case you can have no doubt as to my object in speaking to you now—and for this, I might add, I have the express permission of your father. Your excellent parents, quite understandably, wished to give you time to subdue your agitation and consider the question carefully—for I should be failing in my duty were I to recommend acting precipitately in such matters as these, and I commend you for your circumspection. However, I can no longer contain myself—not the least because tomorrow I am going away, and will not be back until Saturday fortnight, and I should wish for a resolution before I go, that the uncertainty may not weigh upon my mind when I have other, more important things with which to concern myself. I am sure you will not think me unreasonable, therefore, if I allude to the subject again and request an answer from you, for although my affection has not dimmed since Monday, I know you are too generous to try it any further and keep me in suspense any longer, lest the discouragement cause the flame to dwindle and perhaps be extinguished altogether.’
‘Sir—’ began Maria, but got no further, for she still did not know what to say. Her heart told her to refuse him, for she did not love him, was sure she should never love him, and indeed was very strongly inclined towards another man altogether. But set against the desires of her heart were the demands of interest, good sense, family honour, and the wishes of all her friends. Could she refuse such an unexceptionable offer as this, and live with the reproaches of her father and mother for the rest of her life? For she was sure that only a proposal from a different quarter now would make them forget Mr. Thripp—and such a thing would never happen, however much she wished for it; Mary King’s words had made that clear enough. Was the offer from Mr. Thripp, then, her only real chance of marriage? And did she want marriage enough to accept him?
Mr. Thripp now looked about him, to ascertain that they were quite alone in the lane—for despite his passion he had not forgotten himself entirely—and seized her hand, at the same time fixing a gaze upon her which was meant to be overpowering, for she had shown no sign of running away this time, and so he was certain that the question was all but settled.
‘My dear Miss Lucas—Maria,’ he said. ‘You cannot doubt my feelings for you, or my conviction that our union will only increase the happiness of not only ourselves, but also your family and all our acquaintance. I am only astonished that the idea did not occur to me before—indeed, had your father not mentioned it the other week, I believe I should never have understood my own wishes or concluded that such a thing were even possible, but Sir William’s information was the very spur to set me off, and once I had begun there was no doubt as to where I would end. We must thank your father again and again for the happy thought which induced him to convey to me the secret of your heart, for I am sure your natural timidity would never have allowed you to reveal it to me yourself, and had he not told me of it, I should perhaps never have acted as I have done. Only let me say that, despite my slowness of understanding, I am now convinced that we were made for one another, and I look forward to welcoming you to my humble parsonage as my wife very soon. You may be sure that nothing will be wanting, and that any little thing you wish me to do to increase your comfort when you first step over the threshold shall be done. And now, all that remains, my dear Miss Lucas—Maria—is for you to say the word I long most avidly to hear. Say it, and happiness shall be ours before we know it.’
Here he paused, for his long speech had quite put him out of breath again. Maria’s first thought when he began it had been to pull her hand away, but his next words had astonished her so much that she quite forgot her intention and left it where it was. What did he mean by his reference to Sir William? For if she had understood correctly, her father himself had told Mr. Thripp that she was in love with him, and it was that which had first given him the idea of proposing to her. But it was impossible! Her father was a good man, and would never tell such an untruth, unless he himself believed it to be true. Maria knew not what to think, and could not help saying:
‘Pardon me, sir, but I do not quite understand what you have just said about my father. What exactly did he tell you?’
‘Why, he told me of your affection, my dear Maria, and happy for us all that he did, for I should certainly never have discerned it myself.’
‘What? Are you quite certain?’ said Maria, colouring in dismay, for she had no idea why her father should have done such a thing.
‘Quite certain,’ said Mr. Thripp. ‘Or, at least,’ he said, correcting himself, ‘that is what I understood by it—and, indeed, he could have had no other meaning. He sought me out particularly to ask me whether the rumour he had heard at the assembly were true, and if it were, to say that he and your mother had no objection to the match. Naturally, I understood immediately what he meant; the mention of a rumour was, of course, a mere convention by which he intended to let me know of your innocent affection and their approval of it. You need not be ashamed of it, for you have behaved with the utmost modesty throughout—perhaps too much modesty, in fact, for where an affection is kept secret, there is always the danger that it will never be discovered by the very person to whom it is directed. To be sure, it would have been highly improper of you to tell me of it outright—that would have been quite impossible, of course—but there are other ways and means by which a lady may reveal her true feelings: a dropped handkerchief, a glance, a blush—all of these things, if not employed to excess, will convey a woman’s thoughts without making her seem forward. But enough! We have been here quite ten minutes, and I fear that we will soon be discovered. Besides, I am expected at church. Now that you are acquainted with my innermost feelings and I with yours, what else have we to wait for? Answer me, I beg you, and put me out of my misery.’
Maria, almost sinking under this latest discovery that her beloved father, Sir William, had apparently been scheming against her, was at a loss to reply. And yet she must sa
y something. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak she heard a whistle, and then the person whom of all people she least wished to see at that moment, Thomas Fairhead, came upon them. He had been chasing his dog, and his appearance was so sudden that they had not time to move apart. The first thing Thomas saw, therefore, was the sight of Mr. Thripp, standing close to Miss Lucas, clasping her hand in his and speaking most earnestly to her, while she listened with the greatest attention.
Which of the three felt the most embarrassed at that moment it would be impossible to say. Each of them went very red in the face, and Mr. Fairhead knew not where to look. Maria immediately snatched her hand away from Mr. Thripp when she saw him, and appeared quite horror-struck, while Mr. Thripp did his best to assume an air of innocence, but succeeded merely in looking foolish. At length, Mr. Fairhead remembered himself so far as to speak.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said hurriedly, and without another word, took his dog by the collar and departed as quickly as he had arrived. The interruption had thrown Maria into the greatest state of agitation, and she put her hands to her face.
‘Oh, Lord!’ she exclaimed. ‘What is to become of me? I cannot stay here. I beg you would excuse me, Mr. Thripp.’ And with that she ran away as fast as she could, all the way home to Lucas Lodge, there to seek refuge in her room and weep hot tears of dismay, for if her situation had seemed bad before, it seemed absolutely hopeless now. She had still not given Mr. Thripp an answer, but circumstances seemed to be conspiring to ensure that he would attain his object in the end, whether she liked it or not, for the more people who knew of it and wished for the marriage, the less able she felt to refuse him. And of all people to see what had happened, Thomas Fairhead was quite the worst. All hope of his affection had now ended, and in the most humiliating way, and she could not but wonder what she had done to be punished so, for it seemed that Fate had lately had no other object than to cause her misery.
Her tears brought on a headache, and she remained in her room and pleaded indisposition to her mother, that she might not be forced to speak to Mr. Thripp again if he decided to continue to urge his suit after his return from church. Her only consolation now was that he was going away for a fortnight. Perhaps something would happen during that time to save her, for she feared she had not the strength or the firmness of purpose to save herself.
NINETEEN
It was now that Thomas Fairhead found his affection for Maria Lucas went much further than he had before suspected, for his dismay on discovering her with Mr. Thripp, apparently in the act of accepting his proposal, was considerable. He was not a quick thinker, but he had a methodical and sensible enough mind to conclude, once he had had time to reflect fully, that his discomfiture at what he had seen was due not only to embarrassment—although that had been great—but also to unhappiness at the thought of Miss Lucas’s having been claimed by another man. He had long known of the expected engagement between the two, but had chosen not to think about it, telling himself that until it were announced, there was still a chance that the story might not be true—might have been an exaggeration, or a misunderstanding. His hopes had been raised, moreover, by the lady herself, who had seemed to take pleasure in his company, and who had by her looks—he was almost certain of it—given the occasional intimation of deeper feelings. However, Mr. Thripp was always in his mind, and so he had never thought of speaking to her openly until the other day, when they had been walking together through the park. He had been too slow, and the moment had been lost. But now all, all was too late; he had seen Maria and Mr. Thripp in the lane with his own eyes, and there was no doubt of what had been going on. Thomas was left to rue his own idleness and want of resolution, for he was now certain that Maria Lucas was the very sort of woman who would have made him happy, but he had lost his chance, and it could never be regained. The thought brought him quite low for a few days—something which did not escape the attention of his family.
‘I wish there were something I might do to help bring you out of these low spirits, Tom,’ said Louisa one day shortly afterwards. ‘It pains me to see it. I am sure you must be unwell. Our father remarked on it only this morning. He thinks the country air does not agree with you.’
‘Does he?’ said Thomas. ‘Then he is mistaken, for I love the countryside hereabouts, and am only sorry we did not come sooner.’
‘But then what is it that ails you?’
‘Nothing ails me,’ said Thomas uncomfortably, for he had been congratulating himself on having kept his feelings hidden. ‘I had not realized that the state of my spirits was the talk of the family. If our father mentions it again I shall be sure and put him right. I am quite happy, Louisa,’ he went on, for he saw her disbelieving expression. ‘It is only that I do not like to be confined indoors, and all the heavy rain these past few days has prevented me from going out. But today you see the sun has come out again, and I am determined to take my walk.’
‘Better stay in, for here is something to cheer you,’ said Louisa, who was looking out of the window. ‘Mary is come. She will be your medicine. Now, you will not run away, will you? For she is come here in all this mud and you must stay and talk to her.’
Mary King shortly afterwards entered the room in a state of great curiosity, for she knew about the events of Thursday, having seen Maria and induced her to tell the story, albeit unwillingly. Mary, too, had been waiting for the rain to stop, for she was impatient to visit Netherfield and see Thomas Fairhead, to find out whether he had told his sister of what he had seen. Since Mary strongly suspected that he admired Maria, she also longed to know how the sight of Miss Lucas and Mr. Thripp had affected him.
‘I am glad you are come, Mary,’ said Louisa, ‘for Tom and I were just agreeing how dull we have been these past three days with only each other for company.’
‘And you think I am the person to bring cheer?’ said Mary. ‘That is not for me to say. However, I shall do my best to brighten the day with what news I have—although there is but one subject on which I can speak, for I confess my mind has been full of my friend Maria Lucas’s affairs, and I have been unable to think of anything but her happiness.’
‘Oh?’ said Miss Fairhead, all attention, and her manner convinced Mary that Thomas had said nothing.
‘Yes, Louisa, it has happened at last,’ said Mary, with a significant nod. ‘Mr. Thripp and Miss Lucas are to be married—that is to say, it is not to be talked of yet, for he is gone away to the North for two weeks, but there is no doubt that when he returns, the announcement will be made, and we may smile and congratulate ourselves on having known of it before anybody else.’
‘Depend upon it, you can be sure we will say nothing,’ said Louisa, with a glance at her brother, who was listening attentively, as though he wished to know more. ‘It is, then, quite certain?’
‘Yes; only the date is to be set, and the usual arrangements made. There is always some little problem to be resolved, some little complication to be smoothed away, where a wedding is concerned, but I have no doubt that within a month or two I shall see my dear Maria enter the parsonage as the wife of Mr. Thripp. How I shall miss her! You and I must bear one another company, Louisa, for the housekeeping concerns of a new bride have nothing to do with us, and I dare say Maria will be much too busy to notice us.’
This was another untruth, for Mary knew full well that there was no definite engagement, and that Thomas Fairhead had interrupted them before Maria had given Mr. Thripp his answer. However, she also knew Sir William and Lady Lucas’s wishes on the subject of the marriage, and so she was perfectly persuaded that it was become a mere matter of form, of which only the time was in doubt. She now observed Thomas Fairhead closely, and saw that he was low in spirits. This confirmed her in her suspicion that he had liked Maria, and was despondent at having lost her, and she immediately resolved that if a soft voice and a compassionate ear could do anything, she would employ them both to the best of her ability in order to draw Mr. Fairhead’s thoughts away from M
aria and towards herself. She did not suppose he felt or thought very deeply, and trusted that the task would not be an arduous one, especially since he must now be conscious of the need to forget Maria, and his own efforts would therefore be of unwitting assistance in the scheme. Mary felt all the advantages of the intimacy she had cultivated with his sister, and was cheered by the knowledge that Louisa was as anxious as she was for them to make a match of it. Now all that remained was to win the man himself. She had been unsuccessful up to now because a rival had stood in her way, but now that Maria was safely disposed of in the presumed marriage to Mr. Thripp, there was nothing to prevent Mary from attaining her ends at last.
For the next week, therefore, Miss King—with Louisa’s connivance, for Miss Fairhead was still convinced that the scheme to have her friend marry Thomas was her own idea—took care to spend as much time as she possibly could at Netherfield Park, and without knowing quite how, Thomas found himself drawn more and more into company with her, for Louisa was determined to settle the question once and for all, and devised one reason after another to require his presence. And more often than not, Louisa found an excuse once or twice during the day to leave Thomas and Mary alone together.
‘He is unhappy about something,’ she said to Mary. ‘He will not say what it is, but I am sure your gentle compassion is doing him good—far more so than I should do if I tried myself, for I do not know how to cheer him. I see, however, that you know very well how to make him smile, and even laugh sometimes.’
‘Oh! I am glad you think so,’ said Mary. ‘But I say nothing except what comes into my head at the moment. If you think it cheers him, then so much the better, for it pains me to see him unhappy.’
‘Then you do care for him a little,’ said Louisa.