“Yes, he always was, and I am grateful to Mr. Gresham,” answered Mary. It was well for Lady Arabella that she had her temper under command, for had she spoken her mind out there would have been very little chance left for reconciliation between her and Mary.
“Yes, indeed he was; and I think we all did what little we could to make you welcome at Greshamsbury, Mary, till those unpleasant occurrences took place.”
“What occurrences, Lady Arabella?”
“And Beatrice is so very anxious on this point,” said her ladyship, ignoring for the moment Mary’s question. “You two have been so much together, that she feels she cannot be quite happy if you are not near her when she is being married.”
“Dear Beatrice!” said Mary, warmed for the moment to an expression of genuine feeling.
“She came to me yesterday, begging that I would waive any objection I might have to your being there. I have made her no answer yet. What answer do you think I ought to make her?”
Mary was astounded at this question, and hesitated in her reply. “What answer ought you to make her?” she said.
“Yes, Mary. What answer do you think I ought to give? I wish to ask you the question, as you are the person the most concerned.”
Mary considered for a while, and then did give her opinion on the matter in a firm voice. “I think you should tell Beatrice, that as you cannot at present receive me cordially in your house, it will be better that you should not be called on to receive me at all.”
This was certainly not the sort of answer that Lady Arabella expected, and she was now somewhat astounded in her turn. “But, Mary,” she said, “I should be delighted to receive you cordially if I could do so.”
“But it seems you cannot, Lady Arabella; and so there must be an end of it.”
“Oh, but I do not know that:” and she smiled her sweetest smile. “I do not know that. I want to put an end to all this ill-feeling if I can. It all depends upon one thing, you know.”
“Does it, Lady Arabella?”
“Yes, upon one thing. You won’t be angry if I ask you another question—eh, Mary?”
“No; at least I don’t think I will.”
“Is there any truth in what we hear about your being engaged to Frank?”
Mary made no immediate answer to this, but sat quite silent, looking Lady Arabella in the face; not but that she had made up her mind as to what answer she would give, but the exact words failed her at the moment.
“Of course you must have heard of such a rumour,” continued Lady Arabella.
“Oh, yes, I have heard of it.”
“Yes, and you have noticed it, and I must say very properly. When you went to Boxall Hill, and before that with Miss Oriel to her aunt’s, I thought you behaved extremely well.” Mary felt herself glow with indignation, and began to prepare words that should be sharp and decisive. “But, nevertheless, people talk; and Frank, who is still quite a boy” (Mary’s indignation was not softened by this allusion to Frank’s folly), “seems to have got some nonsense in his head. I grieve to say it, but I feel myself in justice bound to do so, that in this matter he has not acted as well as you have done. Now, therefore, I merely ask you whether there is any truth in the report. If you tell me that there is none, I shall be quite contented.”
“But it is altogether true, Lady Arabella; I am engaged to Frank Gresham.”
“Engaged to be married to him?”
“Yes; engaged to be married to him.”
What was to say or do now? Nothing could be more plain, more decided, or less embarrassed with doubt than Mary’s declaration. And as she made it she looked her visitor full in the face, blushing indeed, for her cheeks were now suffused as well as her forehead; but boldly, and, as it were, with defiance.
“And you tell me so to my face, Miss Thorne?”
“And why not? Did you not ask me the question; and would you have me answer you with a falsehood? I am engaged to him. As you would put the question to me, what other answer could I make? The truth is, that I am engaged to him.”
The decisive abruptness with which Mary declared her own iniquity almost took away her ladyship’s breath. She had certainly believed that they were engaged, and had hardly hoped that Mary would deny it; but she had not expected that the crime would be acknowledged, or, at any rate, if acknowledged, that the confession would be made without some show of shame. On this Lady Arabella could have worked; but there was no such expression, nor was there the slightest hesitation. “I am engaged to Frank Gresham,” and having so said, Mary looked her visitor full in the face.
“Then it is indeed impossible that you should be received at Greshamsbury.”
“At present, quite so, no doubt: in saying so, Lady Arabella, you only repeat the answer I made to your first question. I can now go to Greshamsbury only in one light: that of Mr. Gresham’s accepted daughter-in-law.”
“And that is perfectly out of the question; altogether out of the question, now and for ever.”
“I will not dispute with you about that; but, as I said before, my being at Beatrice’s wedding is not to be thought of.”
Lady Arabella sat for a while silent, that she might meditate, if possible, calmly as to what line of argument she had now better take. It would be foolish in her, she thought, to return home, having merely expressed her anger. She had now an opportunity of talking to Mary which might not again occur: the difficulty was in deciding in what special way she should use the opportunity. Should she threaten, or should she entreat? To do her justice, it should be stated, that she did actually believe that the marriage was all but impossible; she did not think that it could take place. But the engagement might be the ruin of her son’s prospects, seeing how he had before him one imperative, one immediate duty—that of marrying money.
Having considered all this as well as her hurry would allow her, she determined first to reason, then to entreat, and lastly, if necessary, to threaten.
“I am astonished! you cannot be surprised at that, Miss Thorne: I am astonished at hearing so singular a confession made.”
“Do you think my confession singular, or is it the fact of my being engaged to your son?”
“We will pass over that for the present. But do let me ask you, do you think it possible, I say possible, that you and Frank should be married?”
“Oh, certainly; quite possible.”
“Of course you know that he has not a shilling in the world.”
“Nor have I, Lady Arabella.”
“Nor will he have were he to do anything so utterly hostile to his father’s wishes. The property, you are aware, is altogether at Mr. Gresham’s disposal.”
“I am aware of nothing about the property, and can say nothing about it except this, that it has not been, and will not be inquired after by me in this matter. If I marry Frank Gresham, it will not be for the property. I am sorry to make such an apparent boast, but you force me to do it.”
“On what then are you to live? You are too old for love in a cottage, I suppose?”
“Not at all too old; Frank, you know is ‘still quite a boy.’”
Impudent hussy! forward, ill-conditioned saucy minx! such were the epithets which rose to Lady Arabella’s mind; but she politely suppressed them.
“Miss Thorne, this subject is of course to me very serious; very ill-adapted for jesting. I look upon such a marriage as absolutely impossible.”
“I do not know what you mean by impossible, Lady Arabella.”
“I mean, in the first place, that you two could not get yourselves married.”
“Oh, yes; Mr. Oriel would manage that for us. We are his parishioners, and he would be bound to do it.”
“I beg your pardon; I believe that under all the circumstances it would be illegal.”
Mary smiled; but she said nothing. “You may laugh, Miss Thorne, but I think you will find that I am right. There are still laws to prevent such fearful distress as would be brought about by such a marriage.”
�
�I hope that nothing I shall do will bring distress on the family.”
“Ah, but it would; don’t you know that it would? Think of it, Miss Thorne. Think of Frank’s state, and of his father’s state. You know enough of that, I am sure, to be well aware that Frank is not in a condition to marry without money. Think of the position which Mr. Gresham’s only son should hold in the county; think of the old name, and the pride we have in it; you have lived among us enough to understand all this; think of these things, and then say whether it is possible such a marriage should take place without family distress of the deepest kind. Think of Mr. Gresham; if you truly love my son, you could not wish to bring on him all this misery and ruin.”
Mary now was touched, for there was truth in what Lady Arabella said. But she had no power of going back; her troth was plighted, and nothing that any human being could say should shake her from it. If he, indeed, chose to repent, that would be another thing.
“Lady Arabella,” she said, “I have nothing to say in favour of this engagement, except that he wishes it.”
“And is that a reason, Mary?”
“To me it is; not only a reason, but a law. I have given him my promise.”
“And you will keep your promise even to his own ruin?”
“I hope not. Our engagement, unless he shall choose to break it off, must necessarily be a long one; but the time will come—”
“What! when Mr. Gresham is dead?”
“Before that, I hope.”
“There is no probability of it. And because he is headstrong, you, who have always had credit for so much sense, will hold him to this mad engagement?”
“No, Lady Arabella; I will not hold him to anything to which he does not wish to be held. Nothing that you can say shall move me: nothing that anybody can say shall induce me to break my promise to him. But a word from himself will do it. One look will be sufficient. Let him give me to understand, in any way, that his love for me is injurious to him—that he has learnt to think so—and then I will renounce my part in this engagement as quickly as you could wish it.”
There was much in this promise, but still not so much as Lady Arabella wished to get. Mary, she knew, was obstinate, but yet reasonable; Frank, she thought, was both obstinate and unreasonable. It might be possible to work on Mary’s reason, but quite impossible to touch Frank’s irrationality. So she persevered—foolishly.
“Miss Thorne—that, is, Mary, for I still wish to be thought your friend—”
“I will tell you the truth, Lady Arabella: for some considerable time past I have not thought you so.”
“Then you have wronged me. But I will go on with what I was saying. You quite acknowledge that this is a foolish affair?”
“I acknowledge no such thing.”
“Something very much like it. You have not a word in its defence.”
“Not to you: I do not choose to be put on my defence by you.”
“I don’t know who has more right; however, you promise that if Frank wishes it, you will release him from his engagement.”
“Release him! It is for him to release me; that is, if he wishes it.”
“Very well; at any rate, you give him permission to do so. But will it not be more honourable for you to begin?”
“No; I think not.”
“Ah, but it would. If he, in his position, should be the first to speak, the first to suggest that this affair between you is a foolish one, what would people say?”
“They would say the truth.”
“And what would you yourself say?”
“Nothing.”
“What would he think of himself?”
“Ah, that I do not know. It is according as that may be, that he will or will not act at your bidding.”
“Exactly; and because you know him to be high-minded, because you think that he, having so much to give, will not break his word to you—to you who have nothing to give in return—it is, therefore, that you say that the first step must be taken by him. Is that noble?”
Then Mary rose from her seat, for it was no longer possible for her to speak what it was in her to say, sitting there leisurely on her sofa. Lady Arabella’s worship of money had not hitherto been so brought forward in the conversation as to give her unpardonable offence; but now she felt that she could no longer restrain her indignation. “To you who have nothing to give in return!” Had she not given all that she possessed? Had she not emptied her store into his lap? that heart of hers, beating with such genuine life, capable of such perfect love, throbbing with so grand a pride; had she not given that? And was not that, between him and her, more than twenty Greshamsburys, nobler than any pedigree? “To you who have nothing to give,” indeed! This to her who was so ready to give everything!
“Lady Arabella,” she said, “I think that you do not understand me, and that it is not likely that you should. If so, our further talking will be worse than useless. I have taken no account of what will be given between your son and me in your sense of the word giving. But he has professed to—to love me”—as she spoke, she still looked on the lady’s face, but her eyelashes for a moment screened her eyes, and her colour was a little heightened—”and I have acknowledged that I also love him, and so we are engaged. To me my promise is sacred. I will not be threatened into breaking it. If, however, he shall wish to change his mind, he can do so. I will not upbraid him; will not, if I can help it, think harshly of him. So much you may tell him if it suits you; but I will not listen to your calculations as to how much or how little each of us may have to give to the other.”
She was still standing when she finished speaking, and so she continued to stand. Her eyes were fixed on Lady Arabella, and her position seemed to say that sufficient words had been spoken, and that it was time that her ladyship should go; and so Lady Arabella felt it. Gradually she also rose; slowly, but tacitly, she acknowledged that she was in the presence of a spirit superior to her own; and so she took her leave.
“Very well,” she said, in a tone that was intended to be grandiloquent, but which failed grievously; “I will tell him that he has your permission to think a second time on this matter. I do not doubt but that he will do so.” Mary would not condescend to answer, but curtsied low as her visitor left the room. And so the interview was over.
The interview was over, and Mary was alone. She remained standing as long as she heard the footsteps of Frank’s mother on the stairs; not immediately thinking of what had passed, but still buoying herself up with her hot indignation, as though her work with Lady Arabella was not yet finished; but when the footfall was no longer heard, and the sound of the closing door told her that she was in truth alone, she sank back in her seat, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into bitter tears.
All that doctrine about money was horrible to her; that insolent pretence, that she had caught at Frank because of his worldly position, made her all but ferocious; but Lady Arabella had not the less spoken much that was true. She did think of the position which the heir of Greshamsbury should hold in the county, and of the fact that a marriage would mar that position so vitally; she did think of the old name, and the old Gresham pride; she did think of the squire and his deep distress: it was true that she had lived among them long enough to understand these things, and to know that it was not possible that this marriage should take place without deep family sorrow.
And then she asked herself whether, in consenting to accept Frank’s hand, she had adequately considered this; and she was forced to acknowledge that she had not considered it. She had ridiculed Lady Arabella for saying that Frank was still a boy; but was it not true that his offer had been made with a boy’s energy, rather than a man’s forethought? If so, if she had been wrong to accede to that offer when made, would she not be doubly wrong to hold him to it now that she saw their error?
It was doubtless true that Frank himself could not be the first to draw back. What would people say of him? She could now calmly ask herself the question that had so angered her when
asked by Lady Arabella. If he could not do it, and if, nevertheless, it behoved them to break off this match, by whom was it to be done if not by her? Was not Lady Arabella right throughout, right in her conclusions, though so foully wrong in her manner of drawing them?
And then she did think for one moment of herself. “You who have nothing to give in return!” Such had been Lady Arabella’s main accusation against her. Was it in fact true that she had nothing to give? Her maiden love, her feminine pride, her very life, and spirit, and being—were these things nothing? Were they to be weighed against pounds sterling per annum? and, when so weighed, were they ever to kick the beam like feathers? All these things had been nothing to her when, without reflection, governed wholly by the impulse of the moment, she had first allowed his daring hand to lie for an instant in her own. She had thought nothing of these things when that other suitor came, richer far than Frank, to love whom it was as impossible to her as it was not to love him.
Her love had been pure from all such thoughts; she was conscious that it ever would be pure from them. Lady Arabella was unable to comprehend this, and, therefore, was Lady Arabella so utterly distasteful to her.
Frank had once held her close to his warm breast; and her very soul had thrilled with joy to feel that he so loved her—with a joy which she had hardly dared to acknowledge. At that moment, her maidenly efforts had been made to push him off, but her heart had grown to his. She had acknowledged him to be master of her spirit; her bosom’s lord; the man whom she had been born to worship; the human being to whom it was for her to link her destiny. Frank’s acres had been of no account; nor had his want of acres. God had brought these two together that they should love each other; that conviction had satisfied her, and she had made it a duty to herself that she would love him with her very soul. And now she was called upon to wrench herself asunder from him because she had nothing to give in return!
Well, she would wrench herself asunder, as far as such wrenching might be done compatibly with her solemn promise. It might be right that Frank should have an opportunity offered him, so that he might escape from his position without disgrace. She would endeavour to give him this opportunity. So, with one deep sigh, she arose, took to herself pen, ink, and paper, and sat herself down again so that the wrenching might begin.
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 135
