by George Eliot
CHAPTER XXV.
"Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care But for another gives its ease And builds a heaven in hell's despair. . . . . . . . Love seeketh only self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a hell in heaven's despite." --W. BLAKE: Songs of Experience
Fred Vincy wanted to arrive at Stone Court when Mary could not expecthim, and when his uncle was not down-stairs in that case she might besitting alone in the wainscoted parlor. He left his horse in the yardto avoid making a noise on the gravel in front, and entered the parlorwithout other notice than the noise of the door-handle. Mary was in herusual corner, laughing over Mrs. Piozzi's recollections of Johnson, andlooked up with the fun still in her face. It gradually faded as shesaw Fred approach her without speaking, and stand before her with hiselbow on the mantel-piece, looking ill. She too was silent, onlyraising her eyes to him inquiringly.
"Mary," he began, "I am a good-for-nothing blackguard."
"I should think one of those epithets would do at a time," said Mary,trying to smile, but feeling alarmed.
"I know you will never think well of me any more. You will think me aliar. You will think me dishonest. You will think I didn't care foryou, or your father and mother. You always do make the worst of me, Iknow."
"I cannot deny that I shall think all that of you, Fred, if you give megood reasons. But please to tell me at once what you have done. Iwould rather know the painful truth than imagine it."
"I owed money--a hundred and sixty pounds. I asked your father to puthis name to a bill. I thought it would not signify to him. I madesure of paying the money myself, and I have tried as hard as I could.And now, I have been so unlucky--a horse has turned out badly--I canonly pay fifty pounds. And I can't ask my father for the money: hewould not give me a farthing. And my uncle gave me a hundred a littlewhile ago. So what can I do? And now your father has no ready moneyto spare, and your mother will have to pay away her ninety-two poundsthat she has saved, and she says your savings must go too. You seewhat a--"
"Oh, poor mother, poor father!" said Mary, her eyes filling with tears,and a little sob rising which she tried to repress. She lookedstraight before her and took no notice of Fred, all the consequences athome becoming present to her. He too remained silent for some moments,feeling more miserable than ever. "I wouldn't have hurt you for theworld, Mary," he said at last. "You can never forgive me."
"What does it matter whether I forgive you?" said Mary, passionately."Would that make it any better for my mother to lose the money she hasbeen earning by lessons for four years, that she might send Alfred toMr. Hanmer's? Should you think all that pleasant enough if I forgaveyou?"
"Say what you like, Mary. I deserve it all."
"I don't want to say anything," said Mary, more quietly, "and my angeris of no use." She dried her eyes, threw aside her book, rose andfetched her sewing.
Fred followed her with his eyes, hoping that they would meet hers, andin that way find access for his imploring penitence. But no! Marycould easily avoid looking upward.
"I do care about your mother's money going," he said, when she wasseated again and sewing quickly. "I wanted to ask you, Mary--don'tyou think that Mr. Featherstone--if you were to tell him--tell him, Imean, about apprenticing Alfred--would advance the money?"
"My family is not fond of begging, Fred. We would rather work for ourmoney. Besides, you say that Mr. Featherstone has lately given you ahundred pounds. He rarely makes presents; he has never made presentsto us. I am sure my father will not ask him for anything; and even ifI chose to beg of him, it would be of no use."
"I am so miserable, Mary--if you knew how miserable I am, you would besorry for me."
"There are other things to be more sorry for than that. But selfishpeople always think their own discomfort of more importance thananything else in the world. I see enough of that every day."
"It is hardly fair to call me selfish. If you knew what things otheryoung men do, you would think me a good way off the worst."
"I know that people who spend a great deal of money on themselveswithout knowing how they shall pay, must be selfish. They are alwaysthinking of what they can get for themselves, and not of what otherpeople may lose."
"Any man may be unfortunate, Mary, and find himself unable to pay whenhe meant it. There is not a better man in the world than your father,and yet he got into trouble."
"How dare you make any comparison between my father and you, Fred?"said Mary, in a deep tone of indignation. "He never got into troubleby thinking of his own idle pleasures, but because he was alwaysthinking of the work he was doing for other people. And he has faredhard, and worked hard to make good everybody's loss."
"And you think that I shall never try to make good anything, Mary. Itis not generous to believe the worst of a man. When you have got anypower over him, I think you might try and use it to make him better;but that is what you never do. However, I'm going," Fred ended,languidly. "I shall never speak to you about anything again. I'm verysorry for all the trouble I've caused--that's all."
Mary had dropped her work out of her hand and looked up. There isoften something maternal even in a girlish love, and Mary's hardexperience had wrought her nature to an impressibility very differentfrom that hard slight thing which we call girlishness. At Fred's lastwords she felt an instantaneous pang, something like what a motherfeels at the imagined sobs or cries of her naughty truant child, whichmay lose itself and get harm. And when, looking up, her eyes met hisdull despairing glance, her pity for him surmounted her anger and allher other anxieties.
"Oh, Fred, how ill you look! Sit down a moment. Don't go yet. Let metell uncle that you are here. He has been wondering that he has notseen you for a whole week." Mary spoke hurriedly, saying the wordsthat came first without knowing very well what they were, but sayingthem in a half-soothing half-beseeching tone, and rising as if to goaway to Mr. Featherstone. Of course Fred felt as if the clouds hadparted and a gleam had come: he moved and stood in her way.
"Say one word, Mary, and I will do anything. Say you will not thinkthe worst of me--will not give me up altogether."
"As if it were any pleasure to me to think ill of you," said Mary, in amournful tone. "As if it were not very painful to me to see you anidle frivolous creature. How can you bear to be so contemptible, whenothers are working and striving, and there are so many things to bedone--how can you bear to be fit for nothing in the world that isuseful? And with so much good in your disposition, Fred,--you mightbe worth a great deal."
"I will try to be anything you like, Mary, if you will say that youlove me."
"I should be ashamed to say that I loved a man who must always behanging on others, and reckoning on what they would do for him. Whatwill you be when you are forty? Like Mr. Bowyer, I suppose--just asidle, living in Mrs. Beck's front parlor--fat and shabby, hopingsomebody will invite you to dinner--spending your morning in learning acomic song--oh no! learning a tune on the flute."
Mary's lips had begun to curl with a smile as soon as she had askedthat question about Fred's future (young souls are mobile), and beforeshe ended, her face had its full illumination of fun. To him it waslike the cessation of an ache that Mary could laugh at him, and with apassive sort of smile he tried to reach her hand; but she slipped awayquickly towards the door and said, "I shall tell uncle. You _must_ seehim for a moment or two."
Fred secretly felt that his future was guaranteed against thefulfilment of Mary's sarcastic prophecies, apart from that "anything"which he was ready to do if she would define it. He never dared inMary's presence to approach the subject of his expectations from Mr.Featherstone, and she always ignored them, as if everything depended onhimself. But if ever he actually came into the property, she mustrecognize the change in his position. All this passed through his mindsomewhat languidly, before he w
ent up to see his uncle. He stayed buta little while, excusing himself on the ground that he had a cold; andMary did not reappear before he left the house. But as he rode home,he began to be more conscious of being ill, than of being melancholy.
When Caleb Garth arrived at Stone Court soon after dusk, Mary was notsurprised, although he seldom had leisure for paying her a visit, andwas not at all fond of having to talk with Mr. Featherstone. The oldman, on the other hand, felt himself ill at ease with a brother-in-lawwhom he could not annoy, who did not mind about being considered poor,had nothing to ask of him, and understood all kinds of farming andmining business better than he did. But Mary had felt sure that herparents would want to see her, and if her father had not come, shewould have obtained leave to go home for an hour or two the next day.After discussing prices during tea with Mr. Featherstone Caleb rose tobid him good-by, and said, "I want to speak to you, Mary."
She took a candle into another large parlor, where there was no fire,and setting down the feeble light on the dark mahogany table, turnedround to her father, and putting her arms round his neck kissed himwith childish kisses which he delighted in,--the expression of hislarge brows softening as the expression of a great beautiful dogsoftens when it is caressed. Mary was his favorite child, and whateverSusan might say, and right as she was on all other subjects, Calebthought it natural that Fred or any one else should think Mary morelovable than other girls.
"I've got something to tell you, my dear," said Caleb in his hesitatingway. "No very good news; but then it might be worse."
"About money, father? I think I know what it is."
"Ay? how can that be? You see, I've been a bit of a fool again, andput my name to a bill, and now it comes to paying; and your mother hasgot to part with her savings, that's the worst of it, and even theywon't quite make things even. We wanted a hundred and ten pounds: yourmother has ninety-two, and I have none to spare in the bank; and shethinks that you have some savings."
"Oh yes; I have more than four-and-twenty pounds. I thought you wouldcome, father, so I put it in my bag. See! beautiful white notes andgold."
Mary took out the folded money from her reticule and put it into herfather's hand.
"Well, but how--we only want eighteen--here, put the rest back,child,--but how did you know about it?" said Caleb, who, in hisunconquerable indifference to money, was beginning to be chieflyconcerned about the relation the affair might have to Mary's affections.
"Fred told me this morning."
"Ah! Did he come on purpose?"
"Yes, I think so. He was a good deal distressed."
"I'm afraid Fred is not to be trusted, Mary," said the father, withhesitating tenderness. "He means better than he acts, perhaps. But Ishould think it a pity for any body's happiness to be wrapped up inhim, and so would your mother."
"And so should I, father," said Mary, not looking up, but putting theback of her father's hand against her cheek.
"I don't want to pry, my dear. But I was afraid there might besomething between you and Fred, and I wanted to caution you. You see,Mary"--here Caleb's voice became more tender; he had been pushing hishat about on the table and looking at it, but finally he turned hiseyes on his daughter--"a woman, let her be as good as she may, has gotto put up with the life her husband makes for her. Your mother has hadto put up with a good deal because of me."
Mary turned the back of her father's hand to her lips and smiled at him.
"Well, well, nobody's perfect, but"--here Mr. Garth shook his head tohelp out the inadequacy of words--"what I am thinking of is--what itmust be for a wife when she's never sure of her husband, when he hasn'tgot a principle in him to make him more afraid of doing the wrong thingby others than of getting his own toes pinched. That's the long andthe short of it, Mary. Young folks may get fond of each other beforethey know what life is, and they may think it all holiday if they canonly get together; but it soon turns into working day, my dear.However, you have more sense than most, and you haven't been kept incotton-wool: there may be no occasion for me to say this, but a fathertrembles for his daughter, and you are all by yourself here."
"Don't fear for me, father," said Mary, gravely meeting her father'seyes; "Fred has always been very good to me; he is kind-hearted andaffectionate, and not false, I think, with all his self-indulgence. ButI will never engage myself to one who has no manly independence, andwho goes on loitering away his time on the chance that others willprovide for him. You and my mother have taught me too much pride forthat."
"That's right--that's right. Then I am easy," said Mr. Garth, takingup his hat. "But it's hard to run away with your earnings, eh child."
"Father!" said Mary, in her deepest tone of remonstrance. "Takepocketfuls of love besides to them all at home," was her last wordbefore he closed the outer door on himself.
"I suppose your father wanted your earnings," said old Mr.Featherstone, with his usual power of unpleasant surmise, when Maryreturned to him. "He makes but a tight fit, I reckon. You're of agenow; you ought to be saving for yourself."
"I consider my father and mother the best part of myself, sir," saidMary, coldly.
Mr. Featherstone grunted: he could not deny that an ordinary sort ofgirl like her might be expected to be useful, so he thought of anotherrejoinder, disagreeable enough to be always apropos. "If Fred Vincycomes to-morrow, now, don't you keep him chattering: let him come up tome."
