And yet the last time she had the honour of seeing him, she would have thought it quite as likely that she might have been, within the next fortnight, affianced to the Grand Turk as to him!
CHAPTER V
HAVING, of course, received a suitable notification on the subject from his venerable neighbour, Mr. Mathews, on his side, of course, waited on Miss King precisely on the day, and at the hour that was indicated to him for that purpose.
But before I relate what passed at the interview which then took place, I must follow my heroine up and down the “east walk,” as her favourite garden promenade was called, during a late hour of the evening of the important day on which, so very unexpectedly to herself, she had given her father permission to tell Mr. Mathews that she was willing to marry him.
The life of Mary King had had less of romance in it than the lives of most young ladies; that class of persons being, for the most part, a good deal addicted to the species of fanciful imaginings which tend to make people distort the sober realities which surround them into something either more gratifying to their vanity, more exciting to their imagination, or more soothing to their affections, than the unadorned facts of their existence could furnish.
But of this decorative drapery of existence my heroine had never availed herself, in order to conceal the homely outline of her every-day life; nor was it likely that she should do so now in the vain hope of persuading herself that this marriage, to which she had been so strangely beguiled into giving her consent, possessed any of the attractions which the great majority of affianced ladies are apt to predict for their future lives.
No! no atom of romance mixed itself in her meditations as she paced up and down the old east walk, for the hour during which she was accustomed to leave her father for the enjoyment of his after-dinner nap.
She saw her position exactly as it was — and, such as it was, she did not like it. She did not like the idea of belonging to any man; though, to say the truth, Mr. Mathews was very little, if at all, more disagreeable to her, in the character of an owner and master, than any other man “would have been. She believed him, and very justly, to be of a good, quiet, easy, equable temper; to be just, honest, and honourable in his dealings — and to be hardly at all more tiresome in his manner of talking, than the majority of her friends and acquaintance. But, notwithstanding that she allowed all this — and she was conscious that in doing so she allowed a great deal — she still exceedingly disliked the thoughts of being married to him; and there was not, from first to last, a shadow of doubt upon her mind, upon either the sincerity, the strength, or the durability of this feeling.
Nevertheless, she never contemplated for a moment the possibility of avoiding what she so very heartily disliked. Nor did this fixedness of purpose arise solely from her own respect to her own pledged word — although that had its weight also. But, again and again, she avowed to herself, with the most stedfast firmness, that, if the whole thing were to come over again, she should again act as she had done.
“Rather, far rather,” said she, in heart-revealing soliloquy—” rather, far rather, would I submit to hear myself called Mrs. Mathews to the end of my days, and to listen, for some portion of every one of them, to the talk of Mr. Mathews, to the end of his, than I would doom myself to the misery of recalling that my poor old father’s dying request was refused by me!”
And, as her heart uttered this, a tear, that to her was a very rare occurrence, made itself felt upon her check. She was not young lady-like enough to pull forth her pocket-handkerchief to remove it — but she shook her head to assist its fall to earth, and let the evening breeze do the rest. But before it was well dry upon her cheek her thoughts were withdrawn from the past, and rolling onward, if not gaily, at least comically to the future.
“After all,” thought she, “there is, I believe, no very substantial reason for my making myself miserable about it. If worthy Mr. Mathews were really a perfect stranger to me, there might be some reasonable ground to fear that the shape and colour of my future existence might be affected in some manner or other by his being made my husband, and such a possibility would have been quite enough to justify my feeling uncomfortable. But what possible difference can it make to me whether worthy Mr. Mathews is in the house, or out of it? Am I afraid that he should clamber up my corkscrew stairs, in order to hold sweet converse with me and my books at the top of them? Poor dear well-behaved Mr. Mathews! I should deserve to be set upon the cutty stool, either before marriage or after it, if I could do him such foul wrong as to suspect him of it for a single moment! It will be a bore if he expects me either to talk much, or to listen much to him, during meals, or during any other intervals when we must be together. But it would be weakness to shrink from this, with a feeling of helpless cowardice. It would be weakness in anybody, but utter poltroonery in me — because I know in my heart, as distinctly as a stout mastiff does, that I have the power of taking care of myself, if I will only take the trouble to do it; and if Heaven gives me life and health, I will take the trouble. It will be a duty to him, too, as well as to myself. I don’t believe that the mere operation of boring people can be a pleasure. Teasing people, now and then, may be; and I will let him tease me as much as he can, but I will NOT let him bore me.”
This resolution seemed to have a powerful and very cheering effect upon the spirits of the bride elect. Her step became firmer and more elastic, and the expression of her small but bright dark eyes, as she raised her head and looked around her was anything rather than desponding.
Two o’clock, on the following day, brought Mr. Mathews to her presence. Notes had been exchanged to that effect between the two old gentlemen, and Mary King had received due notice from her father that it would be desirable she should find herself in the drawing-room at that hour.
Nothing under the circumstances could be in better taste and style than her manner of receiving him. She did not pretend to be reading — something approaching to a feeling of repugnance to the occupation prevented her from having recourse to it: but as she thought there would be something awkward in sitting up in all the state and dignity of perfect idleness, she had brought out her winter knitting-basket — the knitting of worsted hose being the only absolutely feminine occupation to which she ever had recourse; and even this, under ordinary circumstances, was only brought forth during the long evenings of winter — when, with most praiseworthy filial devotion, she laid aside her book, as soon as her father awakened from his after-dinner nap, and amused him with all sorts of chit-chat about everything that she could think of.
Assuredly there was nothing either in her dress, manner, or features, which could have suggested, either to the wooer himself or to any one else, any idea of unsuitable disparity of age between them; yet, nevertheless, Mr. Mathews was rather more than ten years her senior. But the dark hair of Mary King was already dappled with grey, — and her sober cap, dark silk gown, and close little habit-shirt, together with the primitive occupation of stocking-knitting, were by no means calculated to give her a juvenile appearance. On the contrary, it is not at all improbable that Mr. Mathews’ first look at her, as his intended bride, might have put it into his head that she was too old-looking for him; for he was by no means unconscious that he was a most particularly upright, handsome man for his age. But if any such unfavourable comparison suggested itself, the effect was more than counteracted by the aspect of the pretty drawing-room, which certainly looked particularly well on that occasion; the bright summer light, partially softened by Venetian blinds, and the well-kept flower-baskets in the windows together with a peep at the well-shorn lawn without, and at the noble trees in the rich pastures beyond it, — altogether produced an effect much more likely to give ardour to his suit, than her antiquated appearance was to chill it.
Of course the gentleman took the hand of the lady, for he would have done so in friendly greeting had his object in coming been merely to make a neighbourly morning call; but on this occasion he did not resign it quite so soon, l
eading her backwards as it were to the seat she had left; for, in the old-fashioned way, she had risen to meet him.
But, perceiving that he intended to continue in possession of her hand after she had reseated herself, as a sort of emblem perhaps of the nature of his errand, she said, in the most goodnatured tone imaginable, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Mathews, but you must let me have my hand, please, or I shall have sad work with my knitting.”
“My dear Miss King!” he replied, “I beg your pardon ten thousand times for my awkwardness; but upon this particular occasion you must excuse me, — for do you not know that I am come hither this morning expressly to ask for the possession of that hand?”
“Yes, Mr. Mathews,” she replied, quietly restoring two or three dropped stitches to their place on the knitting-needle; “my father told me what you were coming to say.”
“And may I flatter myself, Miss King, that I do not find you averse to listen to me?” he rejoined.
Mary King had fully made up her mind to marry Mr. Mathews, although she would very much rather have remained a single woman, could she have done so without giving her father more pain than she had courage to inflict; and having so made up her mind, she was too sensible a woman to think it either necessary, right, or proper that she should tell him that she would not be his wife if she had nobody to consult but herself. Nevertheless, she thought it was due to him to be as nearly sincere on the subject as she could be, without impropriety; and she, therefore, looked very grave as she replied, “If I were really averse to listen to you, Mr. Mathews, I would not have let you have the trouble of calling here to-day. But though I am not averse to listen to you, I wish that you also should listen to me.” And here she paused for a moment; but Mr. Mathews occupied the interval by saying, with very polite energy, “Believe me, my dear Miss King, that there is nothing on earth I so much wish for as the pleasure of listening to you.”
“But I am not quite certain, Mr. Mathews, that you will like what I am going to say to you. I doubt if it is quite fair, Sir, that I should marry you without making you first acquainted with some peculiarities in my character, which it is too late for me to change, but which I think many gentlemen-might object to. In the first place, Mr. Mathews, I ought to tell you that my dear, good father has been too indulgent to me; he has quite spoiled me as to the article of passive obedience, which I am told most men expect from their wives. I am quite sure, Mr. Mathews, that I could not be passively obedient to any one.”
“And I am quite sure, my dear lady, that I could never wish any one to be passively obedient to me,” replied Mr. Mathews, — whose eyes, to avoid staring rudely in the face of the lady as she made him the above confession, had fixed itself, with much genuine admiration, on the pretty view disclosed by the halfopen blinds. “I am quite sure, Miss King, that I should hate and despise passive obedience in anybody.”
“So far, then, we are quite agreed,” resumed Miss King. “But I have still another peculiarity to confess to you, Mr. Mathews. One especial feature of the life-long indulgence of which I have spoken, is my having been permitted, almost from childhood, to employ every hour precisely according to my own inclination. No engagements, either of pleasure or business, have ever been made for me from which I have not had unlimited power to withdraw myself, without any question asked, or reason given, save that I wished to be doing something else.”
“Well!” said Mr. Mathews, smilingly, “I see nothing unreasonable in that. I should be unwilling to marry any lady who I supposed had not sufficient discretion to arrange her own engagements.” On receiving this reply, Mary King bowed as if to acknowledge his obliging confidence in her discretion; and then, after another short silence, she added, “All I have to say further, Mr. Mathews, is, that not being so young as ladies generally are when they marry, I shall wish to be made acquainted with the manner in which the property which we possess is to be settled. On this point I do not think I am likely to be unreasonable; but I shall choose to feel myself independent of accidents.”
If Mary King had soothed herself with any hopes that any of the conditions for which she had stipulated would frighten the gentleman from his purpose, she was disappointed, for the interview concluded by his declaring that the admirable judgment and good sense which she had displayed in the course of it, had made him many thousand times more desirous than before of the honour and happiness of being her husband.
CHAPTER VI.
“So it’s all settled, my darling!” said old Mr. King on meeting his daughter at the door of the dining-room as the clock in the hall struck five; “and it is years and years since I have been so happy as I am now, Mary,” he added, as he took her arm to steady his steps as he entered the room.
She pressed his hand in reply, but she said nothing; probably because the man-servant who was waiting to shut the door after they bad passed through it, was too near to permit her being confidential. And, for the same reason, but little passed between them while the dinner lasted, beyond the exchange of sundry pleasant nods and smiles on the part of the old gentleman, and the kindly reception of them on the part of his daughter.
But no sooner were they left to themselves than Mr. King filled two glasses to the brim with ruby-tinted wine, and having pushed one of them towards his daughter, gaily seized upon the other himself, and having raised it with a band marvellously steady under the circumstances, he uttered in a voice that trembled more than his hand, “God bless thee, now and for ever, my dear child! you have made me a happy father ever since you were born, and not only have you made my life happy, but you have made my death happy too.”
Mary too lifted the glass to her lips, saying, as she did so, “And God bless you, my dear father! It must have been an iron-hearted daughter who could have refused such a father anything he wished for so earnestly as you have seemed to wish for this marriage. And I hope it will turn out well for us all. The not having to leave the dear old house where I was born, is a very favourable feature in the business, father.”
“To be sure it is, Mary. You do not suppose I would have let any one carry you away from it. No, my dear, not the best man in the county should have done that, with my consent. But as it is, you see, it makes quite a different thing of it. Mr. Mathews, too, thinks a good deal of the place, I can tell you; not having any landed property of his own makes that very natural, you know; and as his money is safe and sound in the funds, and quite enough of it for comfort and to keep carriage-horses, as well as the handsome pair of nags he has now for himself and his groom, we may be very well contented too. For two incomes put together, my dear Mary, can always do more than if they were kept separate; because there is one house instead of two, you know, and one set of servants, and one table. In short, my dear, as far as money goes, there can be no doubt whatever that you will both of you be better off, much better off. I can’t say, Mary,” continued the happy old gentleman, “that I am at all sorry at his having only rented the Oaks instead of having bought the place. The landed portion of the property being yours, of course, gives me the right to be a little particular about the settlements.”
“Whatever you purpose to do, dear father, will, I am quite sure, be liberal and like a gentleman,” she replied; “and I myself should wish this to be so. Nevertheless, I should wish to consider myself as perfectly independent. You have always made me feel so completely hitherto that you and I were one and the same, that I have never yet known what it was to depend upon any one’s whims and wishes but my own, and I should like, if possible, that this should continue for the future.”
“It shall, my dear child, it shall,” returned her father, with very zealous eagerness; “and you have been very right to draw my attention particularly to it, for when people get to be as old as I am, they are very apt to be forgetful. But I shall not forget this now, Mary. Mr. Mathews is to come to me to-morrow morning, at eleven o’clock, on purpose to talk about money-matters,” he continued, “and nothing shall be done with the lawyers, you may depend upon it, till you have been
made to understand all about it, and signified your approval.”
His daughter thanked him, kissed him, and then left him with the pleasant prospect of a particularly comfortable nap in his arm-chair, while she, as usual, took her way to the garden. But on this occasion she did not, as usual, take a book with her, for she felt that she had a great deal to think about.
In this case, as in most others, the truth of the adage, “C’est le -premier pas qui coûte,” was folly proved. Most certainly it was not ‘without a sharp pang that Mary King had made up her mind to be married; but she was herself astonished to find how easily and how rapidly she was teaching herself to think of it with indifference. Though her common sense must have told her, had she permitted herself to listen to it, that her father could not live much longer, she amused herself by fancying that sundry little changes which would follow upon her marriage would be very agreeable to him. For instance, the having a close carriage always at his command, instead of his having it only when they dined out, would, she thought, be both healthy and amusing to him; for he had for many years given up riding on horseback, and but seldom trusted himself in the little open carriage; so that it was but rarely that he went beyond his own premises. Moreover, after very reasonably turning the matter over in her thoughts, she came to the conclusion, that however dull Mr. Mathews might appear to her, it was by no means impossible but that he might sometimes prove quite an agreeable companion to her father. She knew that her intended spouse was a great newspaper man, for everybody in the village quoted news from him and his “Morning Post”; and as her father had left off shooting and fishing, it was by no means improbable that the having another old gentleman in the house who took in a newspaper, and was rather fond of reading it aloud, might prove highly useful to him.
And thus she went on plotting and planning schemes, by which her father’s manner of life might be improved, till by the time that the bell summoned her to make tea, she was quite ready to allow that after all it was very possible that the dear old man was in the right when he took it into his head that the time was come when she ought to marry.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 382