IS THERE CAUSE OR JUST IMPEDIMENT?
I now purpose to visit another country house in Barsetshire, but
on this occasion our sojourn shall be in the eastern division, in
which, as in every other county in England, electioneering matters
are paramount at the present moment. It has been mentioned that Mr.
Gresham, junior, young Frank Gresham as he was always called, lived
at a place called Boxall Hill. This property had come to his wife by
will, and he was now settled there,—seeing that his father still
held the family seat of the Greshams at Greshamsbury.
At the present moment Miss Dunstable was staying at Boxall Hill
with Mrs. Frank Gresham. They had left London,—as, indeed, all the
world had done, to the terrible dismay of the London tradesmen. This
dissolution of Parliament was ruining everybody except the country
publicans, and had of course destroyed the London season among other
things.
Mrs. Harold Smith had only just managed to catch Miss Dunstable
before she left London; but she did do so, and the great heiress
had at once seen her lawyers, and instructed them how to act with
reference to the mortgages on the Chaldicotes property. Miss
Dunstable was in the habit of speaking of herself and her own
pecuniary concerns as though she herself were rarely allowed to
meddle in their management; but this was one of those small jokes
which she ordinarily perpetrated; for in truth few ladies, and
perhaps not many gentlemen, have a more thorough knowledge of their
own concerns or a more potent voice in their own affairs, than was
possessed by Miss Dunstable. Circumstances had lately brought her
much into Barsetshire and she had there contracted very intimate
friendships. She was now disposed to become, if possible, a
Barsetshire proprietor, and with this view had lately agreed with
young Mr. Gresham that she would become the purchaser of the Crown
property. As, however, the purchase had been commenced in his name,
it was so to be continued; but now, as we are aware, it was rumoured
that, after all, the duke, or, if not the duke, then the Marquis of
Dumbello, was to be the future owner of the Chace. Miss Dunstable,
however, was not a person to give up her object if she could attain
it, nor, under the circumstances, was she at all displeased at
finding herself endowed with the power of rescuing the Sowerby
portion of the Chaldicotes property from the duke’s clutches. Why
had the duke meddled with her, or with her friend, as to the other
property? Therefore it was arranged that the full amount due to the
duke on mortgage should be ready for immediate payment; but it was
arranged also that the security as held by Miss Dunstable should be
very valid.
Miss Dunstable, at Boxall Hill or at Greshamsbury, was a very
different person from Miss Dunstable in London; and it was this
difference which so much vexed Mrs. Gresham; not that her friend
omitted to bring with her into the country her London wit and
aptitude for fun, but that she did not take with her up to town the
genuine goodness and love of honesty which made her loveable in the
country. She was as it were two persons, and Mrs. Gresham could not
understand that any lady should permit herself to be more worldly at
one time of the year than at another—or in one place than in any
other.
“Well, my dear, I am heartily glad we’ve done with that,” Miss
Dunstable said to her, as she sat herself down to her desk in the
drawing-room on the first morning after her arrival at Boxall Hill.
[Illustration: Mrs. Gresham and Miss Dunstable.]
“What does ‘that’ mean?” said Mrs. Gresham.
“Why, London and smoke and late hours, and standing on one’s legs
for four hours at a stretch on the top of one’s own staircase, to be
bowed at by any one who chooses to come. That’s all done—for one
year, at any rate.”
“You know you like it.”
“No, Mary; that’s just what I don’t know. I don’t know whether I like
it or not. Sometimes, when the spirit of that dearest of all women,
Mrs. Harold Smith, is upon me, I think that I do like it; but then
again, when other spirits are on me, I think that I don’t.”
“And who are the owners of the other spirits?”
“Oh! you are one, of course. But you are a weak little thing, by no
means able to contend with such a Samson as Mrs. Harold. And then you
are a little given to wickedness yourself, you know. You’ve learned
to like London well enough since you sat down to the table of Dives.
Your uncle,—he’s the real impracticable, unapproachable Lazarus who
declares that he can’t come down because of the big gulf. I wonder
how he’d behave, if somebody left him ten thousand a year?”
“Uncommonly well, I am sure.”
“Oh, yes; he is a Lazarus now, so of course we are bound to speak
well of him; but I should like to see him tried. I don’t doubt but
what he’d have a house in Belgrave Square, and become noted for his
little dinners before the first year of his trial was over.”
“Well, and why not? You would not wish him to be an anchorite?”
“I am told that he is going to try his luck,—not with ten thousand a
year, but with one or two.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jane tells me that they all say at Greshamsbury that he is going to
marry Lady Scatcherd.” Now Lady Scatcherd was a widow living in those
parts; an excellent woman, but one not formed by nature to grace
society of the highest order.
“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Gresham, rising up from her chair while her
eyes flashed with anger at such a rumour.
“Well, my dear, don’t eat me. I don’t say it is so; I only say that
Jane said so.”
“Then you ought to send Jane out of the house.”
“You may be sure of this, my dear: Jane would not have told me if
somebody had not told her.”
“And you believed it?”
“I have said nothing about that.”
“But you look as if you had believed it.”
“Do I? Let us see what sort of a look it is, this look of faith.”
And Miss Dunstable got up and went to the glass over the fire-place.
“But, Mary, my dear, ain’t you old enough to know that you should not
credit people’s looks? You should believe nothing now-a-days; and
I did not believe the story about poor Lady Scatcherd. I know the
doctor well enough to be sure that he is not a marrying man.”
“What a nasty, hackneyed, false phrase that is—that of a marrying
man! It sounds as though some men were in the habit of getting
married three or four times a month.”
“It means a great deal all the same. One can tell very soon whether a
man is likely to marry or no.”
“And can one tell the same of a woman?”
“The thing is so different. All unmarried women are necessarily in
the market; but if they behave themselves properly they make no
signs. Now there was Griselda Grantly; of course she intended to get
herself a husband, and a very grand one she has got; but she always
looked as though butter would not melt in her mouth. It would have
been very wrong to call her a marrying girl.”
“Oh, of course she was,” says Mrs. Gresham, with that sort of
acrimony which one pretty young woman so frequently expresses with
reference to another. “But if one could always tell of a woman, as
you say you can of a man, I should be able to tell of you. Now, I
wonder whether you are a marrying woman? I have never been able to
make up my mind yet.”
Miss Dunstable remained silent for a few moments, as though she were
at first minded to take the question as being, in some sort, one made
in earnest; but then she attempted to laugh it off. “Well, I wonder
at that,” said she, “as it was only the other day I told you how many
offers I had refused.”
“Yes; but you did not tell me whether any had been made that you
meant to accept.”
“None such was ever made to me. Talking of that, I shall never forget
your cousin, the Honourable George.”
“He is not my cousin.”
“Well, your husband’s. It would not be fair to show a man’s letters;
but I should like to show you his.”
“You are determined, then, to remain single?”
“I didn’t say that. But why do you cross-question me so?”
“Because I think so much about you. I am afraid that you will become
so afraid of men’s motives as to doubt that any one can be honest.
And yet sometimes I think you would be a happier woman and a better
woman, if you were married.”
“To such an one as the Honourable George, for instance?”
“No, not to such an one as him; you have probably picked out the
worst.”
“Or to Mr. Sowerby?”
“Well, no; not to Mr. Sowerby, either. I would not have you marry any
man that looked to you for your money principally.”
“And how is it possible that I should expect any one to look to me
principally for anything else? You don’t see my difficulty, my dear?
If I had only five hundred a year, I might come across some decent
middle-aged personage, like myself, who would like me, myself, pretty
well, and would like my little income—pretty well also. He would not
tell me any violent lie, and perhaps no lie at all. I should take to
him in the same sort of way, and we might do very well. But, as it
is, how is it possible that any disinterested person should learn to
like me? How could such a man set about it? If a sheep have two
heads, is not the fact of the two heads the first and, indeed, only
thing which the world regards in that sheep? Must it not be so as a
matter of course? I am a sheep with two heads. All this money which
my father put together, and which has been growing since like grass
under May showers, has turned me into an abortion. I am not the
giantess eight feet high, or the dwarf that stands in the man’s
hand,—”
“Or the two-headed sheep—”
“But I am the unmarried woman with—half a dozen millions of
money—as I believe some people think. Under such circumstances have
I a fair chance of getting my own sweet bit of grass to nibble, like
any ordinary animal with one head? I never was very beautiful, and I
am not more so now than I was fifteen years ago.”
“I am quite sure it is not that which hinders it. You would not call
yourself plain; and even plain women are married every day, and are
loved, too, as well as pretty women.”
“Are they? Well, we won’t say more about that; but I don’t expect a
great many lovers on account of my beauty. If ever you hear of such
an one, mind you tell me.”
It was almost on Mrs. Gresham’s tongue to say that she did know of
one such—meaning her uncle. But in truth, she did not know any such
thing; nor could she boast to herself that she had good grounds for
feeling that it was so—certainly none sufficient to justify her in
speaking of it. Her uncle had said no word to her on the matter, and
had been confused and embarrassed when the idea of such a marriage
was hinted to him. But, nevertheless, Mrs. Gresham did think that
each of these two was well inclined to love the other, and that they
would be happier together than they would be single. The difficulty,
however, was very great, for the doctor would be terribly afraid of
being thought covetous in regard to Miss Dunstable’s money; and it
would hardly be expected that she should be induced to make the first
overture to the doctor.
“My uncle would be the only man that I can think of that would be at
all fit for you,” said Mrs. Gresham, boldly.
“What, and rob poor Lady Scatcherd!” said Miss Dunstable.
“Oh, very well. If you choose to make a joke of his name in that way,
I have done.”
“Why, God bless the girl! what does she want me to say? And as for
joking, surely that is innocent enough. You’re as tender about the
doctor as though he were a girl of seventeen.”
“It’s not about him; but it’s such a shame to laugh at poor dear Lady
Scatcherd. If she were to hear it she’d lose all comfort in having my
uncle near her.”
“And I’m to marry him, so that she may be safe with her friend!”
“Very well; I have done.” And Mrs. Gresham, who had already got up
from her seat, employed herself very sedulously in arranging flowers
which had been brought in for the drawing-room tables. Thus they
remained silent for a minute or two, during which she began to
reflect that, after all, it might probably be thought that she also
was endeavouring to catch the great heiress for her uncle.
“And now you are angry with me,” said Miss Dunstable.
“No, I am not.”
“Oh, but you are. Do you think I’m such a fool as not to see when a
person’s vexed? You wouldn’t have twitched that geranium’s head off
if you’d been in a proper frame of mind.”
“I don’t like that joke about Lady Scatcherd.”
“And is that all, Mary? Now do try and be true, if you can. You
remember the bishop? _Magna est veritas._”
“The fact is you’ve got into such a way of being sharp, and saying
sharp things among your friends up in London, that you can hardly
answer a person without it.”
“Can’t I? Dear, dear, what a Mentor you are, Mary! No poor lad that
ever ran up from Oxford for a spree in town got so lectured for his
dissipation and iniquities as I do. Well, I beg Dr. Thorne’s pardon,
and Lady Scatcherd’s, and I won’t be sharp any more; and I will—let
me see, what was it I was to do? Marry him myself, I believe; was not
that it?”
“No; you’re not half good enough for him.”
“I know that. I’m quite sure of that. Though I am so sharp, I’m very
humble. You can’t accuse me of putting any very great value on
myself.”
“Perhaps not as much as you ought to do—on yourself.”
“Now, what do you mean, Mary? I won’t be bullied and teased, and have
innuendos thrown out at me, because you’ve got something on your
mind, and don’t quite dare to speak it out. If you have got anything
to say, say it.”
But Mrs. Gresham did not choose to say it at that moment. She held
her peace, and went on arranging her flowers—now with a more
satisfied air, and without destruction to the geraniums. And when she
had grouped her bunches properly she carried the jar from one part of
the room to another, backwards and forwards, trying the effect of the
colours, as though her mind was quite intent upon her flowers, and
was for the moment wholly unoccupied with any other subject.
But Miss Dunstable was not the woman to put up with this. She sat
silent in her place, while her friend made one or two turns about the
room; and then she got up from her seat also. “Mary,” she said, “give
over about those wretched bits of green branches and leave the jars
where they are. You’re trying to fidget me into a passion.”
“Am I?” said Mrs. Gresham, standing opposite to a big bowl, and
putting her head a little on one side, as though she could better
look at her handiwork in that position.
“You know you are; and it’s all because you lack courage to speak
out. You didn’t begin at me in this way for nothing.”
“I do lack courage. That’s just it,” said Mrs. Gresham, still giving
a twist here and a set there to some of the small sprigs which
constituted the background of her bouquet. “I do lack courage—to
have ill motives imputed to me. I was thinking of saying something,
and I am afraid, and therefore I will not say it. And now, if you
like, I will be ready to take you out in ten minutes.”
But Miss Dunstable was not going to be put off in this way. And to
tell the truth, I must admit that her friend Mrs. Gresham was not
using her altogether well. She should either have held her peace on
the matter altogether,—which would probably have been her wiser
course,—or she should have declared her own ideas boldly, feeling
secure in her own conscience as to her own motives. “I shall not stir
from this room,” said Miss Dunstable, “till I have had this matter
out with you. And as for imputations,—my imputing bad motives to
you,—I don’t know how far you may be joking, and saying what you
call sharp things to me; but you have no right to think that I should
think evil of you. If you really do think so, it is treason to the
love I have for you. If I thought that you thought so, I could not
remain in the house with you. What! you are not able to know the
difference which one makes between one’s real friends and one’s mock
friends! I don’t believe it of you, and I know you are only striving
to bully me.” And Miss Dunstable now took her turn of walking up and
down the room.
“Well, she shan’t be bullied,” said Mrs. Gresham, leaving her
flowers, and putting her arm round her friend’s waist;—“at least,
not here, in this house, although she is sometimes such a bully
herself.”
“Mary, you have gone too far about this to go back. Tell me what
it was that was on your mind, and as far as it concerns me, I will
answer you honestly.”
Mrs. Gresham now began to repent that she had made her little
attempt. That uttering of hints in a half-joking way was all very
well, and might possibly bring about the desired result, without the
necessity of any formal suggestion on her part; but now she was so
brought to book that she must say something formal. She must commit
herself to the expression of her own wishes, and to an expression
also of an opinion as to what had been the wishes of her friend; and
this she must do without being able to say anything as to the wishes
of that third person.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose you know what I meant.”
“I suppose I did,” said Miss Dunstable; “but it is not at all the
less necessary that you should say it out. I am not to commit myself
by my interpretation of your thoughts, while you remain perfectly
secure in having only hinted your own. I hate hints, as I do—the
mischief. I go in for the bishop’s doctrine. _Magna est veritas._”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Gresham.
“Ah! but I do,” said Miss Dunstable. “And therefore go on, or for
ever hold your peace.”
“That’s just it,” said Mrs. Gresham.
“What’s just it?” said Miss Dunstable.
“The quotation out of the Prayer Book which you finished just now.
‘If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons
should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare
it. This is the first time of asking.’ Do you know any cause, Miss
Dunstable?”
“Do you know any, Mrs. Gresham?”
“None, on my honour!” said the younger lady, putting her hand upon
her breast.
“Ah! but do you not?” and Miss Dunstable caught hold of her arm, and
spoke almost abruptly in her energy.
“No, certainly not. What impediment? If I did, I should not have
broached the subject. I declare I think you would both be very happy
together. Of course, there is one impediment; we all know that. That
must be your look out.”
“What do you mean? What impediment?”
“Your own money.”
“Psha! Did you find that an impediment in marrying Frank Gresham?”
“Ah! the matter was so different there. He had much more to give than
I had, when all was counted. And I had no money when we—when we were
first engaged.” And the tears came into her eyes as she thought of
the circumstances of her early love;—all of which have been narrated
in the county chronicles of Barsetshire, and may now be read by men
and women interested therein.
“Yes; yours was a love match. I declare, Mary, I often think that you
are the happiest woman of whom I ever heard; to have it all to give,
when you were so sure that you were loved while you yet had nothing.”
“Yes; I was sure,” and she wiped the sweet tears from her eyes, as
she remembered a certain day when a certain youth had come to her,
claiming all kinds of privileges in a very determined manner. She had
been no heiress then. “Yes; I was sure. But now with you, dear, you
can’t make yourself poor again. If you can trust no one—”
“I can. I can trust him. As regards that I do trust him altogether.
But how can I tell that he would care for me?”
“Do you not know that he likes you?”
“Ah, yes; and so he does Lady Scatcherd.”
“Miss Dunstable!”
“And why not Lady Scatcherd, as well as me? We are of the same
kind—come from the same class.”
“Not quite that, I think.”
“Yes, from the same class; only I have managed to poke myself up
among dukes and duchesses, whereas she has been content to remain
where God placed her. Where I beat her in art, she beats me in
nature.”
“You know you are talking nonsense.”
“I think that we are both doing that—absolute nonsense; such as
schoolgirls of eighteen talk to each other. But there is a relief in
it; is there not? It would be a terrible curse to have to talk sense
always. Well, that’s done; and now let us go out.”
Mrs. Gresham was sure after this that Miss Dunstable would be a
consenting party to the little arrangement which she contemplated.
But of that she had felt but little doubt for some considerable time
past. The difficulty lay on the other side, and all that she had as
yet done was to convince herself that she would be safe in assuring
her uncle of success if he could be induced to take the enterprise in
hand. He was to come to Boxall Hill that evening, and to remain there
for a day or two. If anything could be done in the matter, now would
be the time for doing it. So at least thought Mrs. Gresham.
The doctor did come, and did remain for the allotted time at Boxall
Hill; but when he left, Mrs. Gresham had not been successful. Indeed,
he did not seem to enjoy his visit as was usual with him; and there
was very little of that pleasant friendly intercourse which for some
time past had been customary between him and Miss Dunstable. There
were no passages of arms between them; no abuse from the doctor
against the lady’s London gaiety; no raillery from the lady as to
the doctor’s country habits. They were very courteous to each other,
and, as Mrs. Gresham thought, too civil by half; nor, as far as she
could see, did they ever remain alone in each other’s company for
five minutes at a time during the whole period of the doctor’s visit.
What, thought Mrs. Gresham to herself,—what if she had set these two
friends at variance with each other, instead of binding them together
in the closest and most durable friendship!
But still she had an idea that, as she had begun to play this game,
she must play it out. She felt conscious that what she had done must
do evil, unless she could so carry it on as to make it result in
good. Indeed, unless she could so manage, she would have done a
manifest injury to Miss Dunstable in forcing her to declare her
thoughts and feelings. She had already spoken to her uncle in London,
and though he had said nothing to show that he approved of her
plan, neither had he said anything to show that he disapproved it.
Therefore she had hoped through the whole of those three days that he
would make some sign,—at any rate to her; that he would in some way
declare what were his own thoughts on this matter. But the morning of
his departure came, and he had declared nothing.
“Uncle,” she said, in the last five minutes of his sojourn there,
after he had already taken leave of Miss Dunstable and shaken hands
with Mrs. Gresham, “have you ever thought of what I said to you up in
London?”
“Yes, Mary; of course I have thought about it. Such an idea as that,
when put into a man’s head, will make itself thought about.”
“Well; and what next? Do talk to me about it. Do not be so hard and
unlike yourself.”
“I have very little to say about it.”
“I can tell you this for certain, you may if you like.”
“Mary! Mary!”
“I would not say so if I were not sure that I should not lead you
into trouble.”
“You are foolish in wishing this, my dear; foolish in trying to tempt
an old man into a folly.”
“Not foolish if I know that it will make you both happier.”
He made her no further reply, but stooping down that she might kiss
him, as was his wont, went his way, leaving her almost miserable in
the thought that she had troubled all these waters to no purpose.
What would Miss Dunstable think of her? But on that afternoon Miss
Dunstable seemed to be as happy and even-tempered as ever.