CHAPTER XLII
What Can You Give in Return?
In spite of the family troubles, these were happy days for Beatrice.It so seldom happens that young ladies on the eve of their marriagehave their future husbands living near them. This happiness was hers,and Mr Oriel made the most of it. She was constantly being coaxeddown to the parsonage by Patience, in order that she might give heropinion, in private, as to some domestic arrangement, some piece offurniture, or some new carpet; but this privacy was always invaded.What Mr Oriel's parishioners did in these halcyon days, I will notask. His morning services, however, had been altogether given up, andhe had provided himself with a very excellent curate.
But one grief did weigh heavily on Beatrice. She continually heardher mother say things which made her feel that it would be more thanever impossible that Mary should be at her wedding; and yet she hadpromised her brother to ask her. Frank had also repeated his threat,that if Mary were not present, he would absent himself.
Beatrice did what most girls do in such a case; what all would do whoare worth anything; she asked her lover's advice.
"Oh! but Frank can't be in earnest," said the lover. "Of course he'llbe at our wedding."
"You don't know him, Caleb. He is so changed that no one hardlywould know him. You can't conceive how much in earnest he is, howdetermined and resolute. And then, I should like to have Mary so muchif mamma would let her come."
"Ask Lady Arabella," said Caleb.
"Well, I suppose I must do that; but I know what she'll say, andFrank will never believe that I have done my best." Mr Orielcomforted her with such little whispered consolations as he was ableto afford, and then she went away on her errand to her mother.
She was indeed surprised at the manner in which her prayer wasreceived. She could hardly falter forth her petition but when shehad done so, Lady Arabella answered in this wise:--
"Well my dear, I have no objection, none the least; that is, ofcourse, if Mary is disposed to behave herself properly."
"Oh, mamma! of course she will," said Beatrice; "she always did andalways does."
"I hope she will, my love. But, Beatrice, when I say that I shall beglad to see her, of course I mean under certain conditions. I neverdisliked Mary Thorne, and if she would only let Frank understand thatshe will not listen to his mad proposals, I should be delighted tosee her at Greshamsbury just as she used to be."
Beatrice could say nothing in answer to this; but she felt very surethat Mary, let her intention be what it might, would not undertake tomake Frank understand anything at anybody's bidding.
"I will tell you what I will do, my dear," continued Lady Arabella;"I will call on Mary myself."
"What! at Dr Thorne's house?"
"Yes; why not? I have been at Dr Thorne's house before now." AndLady Arabella could not but think of her last visit thither, and thestrong feeling she had, as she came out, that she would never againenter those doors. She was, however, prepared to do anything onbehalf of her rebellious son.
"Oh, yes! I know that, mamma."
"I will call upon her, and if I can possibly manage it, I will ask hermyself to make one of your party. If so, you can go to her afterwardsand make your own arrangements. Just write her a note, my dear, andsay that I will call to-morrow at twelve. It might fluster her if Iwere to go in without notice."
Beatrice did as she was bid, but with a presentiment that no goodwould come of it. The note was certainly unnecessary for the purposeassigned by Lady Arabella, as Mary was not given to be flustered bysuch occurrences; but, perhaps, it was as well that it was written,as it enabled her to make up her mind steadily as to what informationshould be given, and what should not be given to her coming visitor.
On the next morning, at the appointed hour, Lady Arabella walked downto the doctor's house. She never walked about the village withoutmaking some little disturbance among the inhabitants. With thesquire, himself, they were quite familiar, and he could appear andreappear without creating any sensation but her ladyship had notmade herself equally common in men's sight. Therefore, when shewent in at the doctor's little gate, the fact was known through allGreshamsbury in ten minutes, and before she had left the house, MrsUmbleby and Miss Gushing had quite settled between them what was theexact cause of the very singular event.
The doctor, when he had heard what was going to happen, carefullykept out of the way: Mary, therefore, had the pleasure ofreceiving Lady Arabella alone. Nothing could exceed her ladyship'saffability. Mary thought that it perhaps might have savoured lessof condescension but then, on this subject, Mary was probablyprejudiced. Lady Arabella smiled and simpered, and asked after thedoctor, and the cat, and Janet, and said everything that could havebeen desired by any one less unreasonable than Mary Thorne.
"And now, Mary, I'll tell you why I have called." Mary bowed herhead slightly, as much to say, that she would be glad to receive anyinformation that Lady Arabella could give her on that subject. "Ofcourse you know that Beatrice is going to be married very shortly."
Mary acknowledged that she had heard so much.
"Yes: we think it will be in September--early in September--and thatis coming very soon now. The poor girl is anxious that you should beat her wedding." Mary turned slightly red; but she merely said, andthat somewhat too coldly, that she was much indebted to Beatrice forher kindness.
"I can assure you, Mary, that she is very fond of you, as much so asever; and so, indeed, am I, and all of us are so. You know that MrGresham was always your friend."
"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 littlechance left for reconciliation between her and Mary.
"Yes, indeed he was; and I think we all did what little we couldto make you welcome at Greshamsbury, Mary, till those unpleasantoccurrences 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 muchtogether, that she feels she cannot be quite happy if you are notnear her when she is being married."
"Dear Beatrice!" said Mary, warmed for the moment to an expression ofgenuine feeling.
"She came to me yesterday, begging that I would waive any objection Imight have to your being there. I have made her no answer yet. Whatanswer 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 askyou the question, as you are the person the most concerned."
Mary considered for a while, and then did give her opinion on thematter in a firm voice. "I think you should tell Beatrice, that asyou cannot at present receive me cordially in your house, it will bebetter that you should not be called on to receive me at all."
This was certainly not the sort of answer that Lady Arabellaexpected, and she was now somewhat astounded in her turn. "But,Mary," she said, "I should be delighted to receive you cordially ifI could do so."
"But it seems you cannot, Lady Arabella; and so there must be an endof it."
"Oh, but I do not know that:" and she smiled her sweetest smile. "Ido not know that. I want to put an end to all this ill-feeling if Ican. 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 anotherquestion--eh, Mary?"
"No; at least I don't think I will."
"Is there any truth in what we hear about your being engaged toFrank?"
Mary made no immediate answer to this, but sat quite silent, lookingLady Arabella in the face; not but that she had made up her mind asto what answer she would give, but the exact words failed her at themoment.
"Of course you must have heard of such a rumour," continued LadyArabella.
"Oh, yes, I have heard of it."
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br /> "Yes, and you have noticed it, and I must say very properly. When youwent to Boxall Hill, and before that with Miss Oriel's to her aunt's,I thought you behaved extremely well." Mary felt herself glow withindignation, and began to prepare words that should be sharp anddecisive. "But, nevertheless, people talk; and Frank, who is stillquite a boy" (Mary's indignation was not softened by this allusionto Frank's folly), "seems to have got some nonsense in his head. Igrieve to say it, but I feel myself in justice bound to do so, thatin 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 FrankGresham."
"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 shemade it she looked her visitor full in the face, blushing indeed, forher 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 meanswer you with a falsehood? I am engaged to him. As you would putthe 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 iniquityalmost took away her ladyship's breath. She had certainly believedthat they were engaged, and had hardly hoped that Mary would deny it;but she had not expected that the crime would be acknowledged, or, atany rate, if acknowledged, that the confession would be made withoutsome show of shame. On this Lady Arabella could have worked; butthere was no such expression, nor was there the slightest hesitation."I am engaged to Frank Gresham," and having so said, Mary looked hervisitor full in the face.
"Then it is indeed impossible that you should be received atGreshamsbury."
"At present, quite so, no doubt: in saying so, Lady Arabella, youonly repeat the answer I made to your first question. I can now goto Greshamsbury only in one light: that of Mr Gresham's accepteddaughter-in-law."
"And that is perfectly out of the question altogether out of thequestion, now and for ever."
"I will not dispute with you about that; but, as I said before, mybeing at Beatrice's wedding is not to be thought of."
Lady Arabella sat for a while silent, that she might meditate, ifpossible, calmly as to what line of argument she had now better take.It would be foolish in her, she thought, to return home, havingmerely expressed her anger. She had now an opportunity of talking toMary which might not again occur: the difficulty was in deciding inwhat special way she should use the opportunity. Should she threaten,or should she entreat? To do her justice, it should be stated, thatshe did actually believe that the marriage was all but impossible;she did not think that it could take place. But the engagement mightbe the ruin of her son's prospects, seeing how he had before him oneimperative, 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, ifnecessary, to threaten.
"I am astonished! you cannot be surprised at that, Miss Thorne: I amastonished at hearing so singular a confession made."
"Do you think my confession singular, or is it the fact of my beingengaged to your son?"
"We will pass over that for the present. But do let me ask you, doyou think it possible, I say possible, that you and Frank should bemarried?"
"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 hisfather's wishes. The property, you are aware, is altogether at MrGresham's disposal."
"I am aware of nothing about the property, and can say nothing aboutit except this, that it has not been, and will not be inquired afterby me in this matter. If I marry Frank Gresham, it will not be forthe property. I am sorry to make such an apparent boast, but youforce 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 werethe epithets which rose to Lady Arabella's mind; but she politelysuppressed them.
"Miss Thorne, this subject is of course to me very serious; veryill-adapted for jesting. I look upon such a marriage as absolutelyimpossible."
"I do not know what you mean by impossible, Lady Arabella."
"I mean, in the first place, that you two could not get yourselvesmarried."
"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 itwould be illegal."
Mary smiled; but she said nothing. "You may laugh, Miss Thorne, but Ithink you will find that I am right. There are still laws to preventsuch 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, MissThorne. Think of Frank's state, and of his father's state. You knowenough of that, I am sure, to be well aware that Frank is not in acondition to marry without money. Think of the position which MrGresham'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 tounderstand all this; think of these things, and then say whether itis possible such a marriage should take place without family distressof 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, andnothing that any human being could say should shake her from it. Ifhe, indeed, chose to repent, that would be another thing.
"Lady Arabella," she said, "I have nothing to say in favour of thisengagement, 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 mypromise."
"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 thismad engagement?"
"No, Lady Arabella; I will not hold him to anything to which he doesnot wish to be held. Nothing that you can say shall move me: nothingthat anybody can say shall induce me to break my promise to him. Buta word from himself will do it. One look will be sufficient. Let himgive me to understand, in any way, that his love for me is injuriousto him--that he has learnt to think so--and then I will renounce mypart in this engagement as quickly as you could wish it."
There was much in this promise, but still not so much as LadyArabella wished to get. Mary, she knew, was obstinate, but yetreasonable; Frank, she thought, was both obstinate and unreasonable.It might be possible to work on Mary's reason, but quite impossibleto touch Frank's irrationality. So she persevered--foolishly.
"Miss Thorne--that, is, Mary, for I still wish to be thought yourfriend--"
"I will tell you the truth, Lady Arabella: for some considerable timepast 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 Frankwishes 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 willit 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 tospeak, the first to suggest that this affair between you is a foolishone, 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 willor will not act at your bidding."
"Exactly; and because you know him to be high-minded, because youthink that he, having so much to give, will not break his word toyou--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 thatnoble?"
Then Mary rose from her seat, for it was no longer possible for herto speak what it was in her to say, sitting there leisurely on hersofa. Lady Arabella's worship of money had not hitherto been sobrought forward in the conversation as to give her unpardonableoffence; but now she felt that she could no longer restrain herindignation. "To you who have nothing to give in return!" Had she notgiven all that she possessed? Had she not emptied his store into hislap? that heart of hers, beating with such genuine life, capable ofsuch perfect love, throbbing with so grand a pride; had she not giventhat? And was it not that, between him and her, more than twentyGreshamsburys, nobler than any pedigree? "To you who have nothing togive," 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 talkingwill be worse than useless. I have taken no account of what will begiven between your son and me in your sense of the word giving. Buthe has professed to--to love me"--as she spoke, she still looked onthe lady's face, but her eyelashes for a moment screened her eyes,and her colour was a little heightened--"and I have acknowledged thatI also love him, and so we are engaged. To me my promise is sacred. Iwill not be threatened into breaking it. If, however, he shall wishto 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 ifit suits you; but I will not listen to your calculations as to howmuch or how little each of us may have to give to the other."
She was still standing when she finished speaking, and so shecontinued to stand. Her eyes were fixed on Lady Arabella, and herposition seemed to say that sufficient words had been spoken, andthat it was time that her ladyship should go; and so Lady Arabellafelt it. Gradually she also rose; slowly, but tacitly, sheacknowledged that she was in the presence of a spirit superior to herown; and so she took her leave.
"Very well," she said, in a tone that was intended to begrandiloquent, but which failed grievously; "I will tell him that hehas your permission to think a second time on this matter. I do notdoubt but that he will do so." Mary would not condescend to answer,but curtsied low as her visitor left the room. And so the interviewwas over.
The interview was over, and Mary was alone. She remained standing aslong as she heard the footsteps of Frank's mother on the stairs; notimmediately thinking of what had passed, but still buoying herself upwith her hot indignation, as though her work with Lady Arabella wasnot yet finished; but when the footfall was no longer heard, and thesound of the closing door told her that she was in truth alone, shesank back in her seat, and, covering her face with her hands, burstinto bitter tears.
All that doctrine about money was horrible to her; that insolentpretence, that she had caught at Frank because of his worldlyposition, made her all but ferocious; but Lady Arabella had not theless spoken much that was true. She did think of the position whichthe heir of Greshamsbury should hold in the county, and of the factthat a marriage would mar that position so vitally; she did think ofthe old name, and the old Gresham pride; she did think of the squireand his deep distress: it was true that she had lived among themlong enough to understand these things, and to know that it was notpossible that this marriage should take place without deep familysorrow.
And then she asked herself whether, in consenting to accept Frank'shand, she had adequately considered this; and she was forced toacknowledge that she had not considered it. She had ridiculed LadyArabella for saying that Frank was still a boy; but was it not truethat his offer had been made with a boy's energy, rather than a man'sforethought? If so, if she had been wrong to accede to that offerwhen made, would she not be doubly wrong to hold him to it now thatshe saw their error?
It was doubtless true that Frank himself could not be the first todraw back. What would people say of him? She could now calmly askherself the question that had so angered her when asked by LadyArabella. If he could not do it, and if, nevertheless, it behovedthem to break off this match, by whom was it to be done if notby her? Was not Lady Arabella right throughout, right in herconclusions, though so foully wrong in her manner of drawing them?
And then she did think for one moment of herself. "You who havenothing to give in return!" Such had been Lady Arabella's mainaccusation against her. Was it in fact true that she had nothing togive? Her maiden love, her feminine pride, her very life, and spirit,and being--were these things nothing? Were they to be weighed againstpounds sterling per annum? and, when so weighed, were they ever tokick the beam like feathers? All these things had been nothing toher when, without reflection, governed wholly by the impulse of themoment, she had first allowed his daring hand to lie for an instantin her own. She had thought nothing of these things when that othersuitor came, richer far than Frank, to love whom it was as impossibleto her as it was not to love him.
Her love had been pure from all such thoughts; she was consciousthat it ever would be pure from them. Lady Arabella was unable tocomprehend this, and, therefore, was Lady Arabella so utterlydistasteful to her.
Frank had once held her close to his warm breast; and her very soulhad thrilled with joy to feel that he so loved her,--with a joy whichshe had hardly dared to acknowledge. At that moment, her maidenlyefforts had been made to push him off, but her heart had grown tohis. She had acknowledged him to be master of her spirit; her bosom'slord; the man whom she had been born to worship; the human being towhom it was for her to link her destiny. Frank's acres had been of noaccount; nor had his want of acres. God had brought them two togetherthat they should love each other; that conviction had satisfied her,and she had made it a duty to herself that she would love him withher very soul. And now she was called upon to wrench herself asunderfrom him because she had nothing to give in return!
Well, she would wrench herself asunder, as far as such wrenchingmight be done compatibly with her solemn promise. It might be rightthat Frank should have an opportunity offered him, so that he mightescape from his position without disgrace. She would endeavour togive him this opportunity. So, with one deep sigh, she arose, tookherself pen, ink, and paper, and sat herself down again so that thewrenching might begin.
And then, for a moment, she thought of her uncle. Why had he notspoken to her of all this? Why had he not warned her? He who had everbeen so good to her, why had he now failed her so grievously? She hadtold him everything, had had no secret from him; but he had neveranswered her a word. "He also must have known," she said to herself,piteously, "he also must have known that I could give nothing inreturn." Such accusation, however, availed her not at all, so she satdown and slowly wrote her letter.
"Dearest Frank," she began. She had at first written "dear MrGresham;" but her heart revolted against such useless coldness. Shewas not going to pretend she did not love him.
DEAREST FRANK,
Your mother has been here talking to me about our engagement. I do not generally agree with her about such m
atters; but she has said some things to-day which I cannot but acknowledge to be true. She says, that our marriage would be distressing to your father, injurious to all your family, and ruinous to yourself. If this be so, how can I, who love you, wish for such a marriage?
I remember my promise, and have kept it. I would not yield to your mother when she desired me to disclaim our engagement. But I do think it will be more prudent if you will consent to forget all that has passed between us--not, perhaps, to forget it; that may not be possible for us--but to let it pass by as though it had never been. If so, if you think so, dear Frank, do not have any scruples on my account. What will be best for you, must be best for me. Think what a reflection it would ever be to me, to have been the ruin of one that I love so well.
Let me have but one word to say that I am released from my promise, and I will tell my uncle that the matter between us is over. It will be painful for us at first; those occasional meetings which must take place will distress us, but that will wear off. We shall always think well of each other, and why should we not be friends? This, doubtless, cannot be done without inward wounds; but such wounds are in God's hands, and He can cure them.
I know what your first feelings will be on reading this letter; but do not answer it in obedience to first feelings. Think over it, think of your father, and all you owe him, of your old name, your old family, and of what the world expects from you. [Mary was forced to put her hand to her eyes, to save her paper from her falling tears, as she found herself thus repeating, nearly word for word, the arguments that had been used by Lady Arabella.] Think of these things, coolly, if you can, but, at any rate, without passion: and then let me have one word in answer. One word will suffice.
I have but to add this: do not allow yourself to think that my heart will ever reproach you. It cannot reproach you for doing that which I myself suggest. [Mary's logic in this was very false; but she was not herself aware of it.] I will never reproach you either in word or thought; and as for all others, it seems to me that the world agrees that we have hitherto been wrong. The world, I hope, will be satisfied when we have obeyed it.
God bless you, dearest Frank! I shall never call you so again; but it would be a pretence were I to write otherwise in this letter. Think of this, and then let me have one line.
Your affectionate friend,
MARY THORNE.
P.S.--Of course I cannot be at dear Beatrice's marriage; but when they come back to the parsonage, I shall see her. I am sure they will both be happy, because they are so good. I need hardly say that I shall think of them on their wedding day.
When she had finished her letter, she addressed it plainly, in herown somewhat bold handwriting, to Francis N. Gresham, Jun., Esq., andthen took it herself to the little village post-office. There shouldbe nothing underhand about her correspondence: all the Greshamsburyworld should know of it--that world of which she had spoken in herletter--if that world so pleased. Having put her penny label on it,she handed it, with an open brow and an unembarrassed face, to thebaker's wife, who was Her Majesty's postmistress at Greshamsbury;and, having so finished her work, she returned to see the tableprepared for her uncle's dinner. "I will say nothing to him," saidshe to herself, "till I get the answer. He will not talk to me aboutit, so why should I trouble him?"
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