THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE
"Blackborough Castle?" said the Squire at luncheon. "Well, if you
like--but you'll take your tea in the company of Dick, Tom and Harry,
and I think you would be more comfortable at home."
"I don't suppose there'll be anybody else there to-day," said Dick, "and
the spirit of youth cries aloud for tea on the floor." So it was
settled. Mrs. Clinton and Mrs. Birket went in the carriage, Angela rode
with Humphrey, and Dick drove the rest of the party, which did not
include the Squire, in the brake.
"You look like bean-feasters," said Humphrey, as they drove past him and
Angela. "But you need not behave as such," said Miss Bird to the twins,
who, one on each side of their uncle, were inclined to be a trifle
uproarious.
They had the old keep of the castle pretty well to themselves, spread
their cloth on the green turf by the battlements, where centuries ago
men-at-arms had tramped the now covered stones, and made merry in true
picnic style. There was a footman to clear away, and the party broke up
into little groups, and explored the ruins, and wandered in the thick
woods which surrounded them.
Jim looked a little wistfully at Cicely as she went away with her arm in
that of Beatrice Birket, but made no attempt to join her, and presently
allied himself to the storming party which Joan was collecting to rescue
Miss Bird, confined in the deepest dungeon.
"Now, Trixie, you have got to tell me all about it," Cicely said, when
the two girls were out of hearing of the rest.
"My dear," said Beatrice, laughing, "I told you last night that he had
asked me and I had said yes, and that I am very happy."
"Oh, I know. But that was before Angela, and she said we were to have no
raptures. I want raptures, please."
"Well, I'm afraid you won't get them. I'm too well drilled. You know,
Cicely, I rather envy you being brought up as you were. You're more
natural, somehow, than Angela and I."
"Well, I envy _you_; so we're quits. But never mind about that now.
Trixie, is Angela just the least bit jealous?"
"No, not a bit," said Beatrice loyally. "But you see she's a year older,
and ever so much cleverer, and prettier too."
"She's none of those things except a year older. But she's a dear all
the same, and so are you. I don't wonder at anybody falling in love with
you. Are you very much in love too?"
"Well, Cicely, I don't mind telling you in strict confidence that I am.
But, perhaps, it's in a way you would not sympathise with particularly."
"Tell me in what way, and you'll see."
"Of course George isn't especially good-looking; in fact he isn't
good-looking at all, except for his eyes. I used to think I should never
love anybody unless he was as handsome as--as, well, Dick is, for
instance--that sort of man--you know--smart and well set up, and"--with
a laugh--"rather ignorant."
"Dick isn't ignorant," said Cicely indignantly.
"My dear, compared to George he is a monument of ignorance, a pyramid of
it; so are most men. It was just that; George is so clever, and he's
making such use of his brains too. He is one of the youngest men in
parliament, and is in office already. It was looking up to him as a
pillar of wisdom, and then finding that he looked to me of all people,
to help him on."
"I'm sure you will help him on. I heard some one say in London that many
politicians owed a great deal of their success to their wives."
"I don't mean quite in that way. I don't think George is ambitious,
though I am for him. He wants to get things done. Father says it is
because he is so young. He tells me about everything, and it makes me
grateful--you know, I think when you are very grateful, that is being in
love."
"You dear thing!" said Cicely, squeezing her arm. "Does Uncle Herbert
like him? They are not on the same side in politics, are they?"
"No. But it doesn't seem to matter. It doesn't matter in the least to
me. Of course, there _are_ things. George is a tremendous churchman, you
know, and I have never thought much about religion--not deeply, I mean.
But it is a real thing with him, and I'm learning. You see, Cicely, we
are rather a different engaged couple from most, although we don't
appear so to the world at large. Outside our two selves, George is a
coming man, and I am a lucky girl to be making such a match."
"I'm glad you have told me about it all," Cicely said. "It must be
splendid to be looking forward to helping your husband in all the good
things he is going to do."
"Oh, it is. I am ever so happy. And George is the dearest soul--so kind
and thoughtful, for all his cleverness. Cicely, you must meet him."
"I should love to," said Cicely simply. "I never meet anybody
interesting down here." Her incipient sense of revolt had died down for
the time; she was young enough to live in the present, if the present
was agreeable enough, as it was with this mild, unwonted, holiday stir
about her. She only felt, vaguely, a little sorry for herself.
"It is lovely," said Beatrice; "but I own I shouldn't care for it all
day and every day. It is rather jolly to feel you're in the middle of
things."
"Oh, I know it is," said Cicely, laughing. "_I_ was in the middle of
things in London, and I enjoyed it immensely."
Beatrice's engagement was the subject of another conversation that
evening. When the party got back from the picnic, Cicely set out for the
dower-house. Nobody had been near the old aunts that day; it was seven
o'clock, and there was just time to pay them a short visit. Mr. Birket
was in the hall as she passed through, and she asked him to go with her.
"I should like to pay my respects to those two admirable ladies," he
said. "They make me feel that I am nobody, which is occasionally good
for the soul of man."
"Ah," said Cicely, as they went across the garden together, "you are a
wicked Radical, you see, and you want to disestablish their beloved
Church."
"Do I?" said Mr. Birket. "How truly shocking of me. My dear, don't
believe everything you hear. I am sure that my chief fault is that I
don't possess land. Cicely, how much land must you possess if you really
want to hold your head up? Would a hundred acres or so do the trick? I
suppose not. Two hundred acres, now! I might run to that if the land was
cheap."
"Two hundred acres, I should think, uncle," said Cicely, "with a
manor-house, and, say, a home farm. And if you could get the advowson of
a living, it would be all to the good."
"Would it? Thank you for telling me. But then I should have to ask the
parson to dinner, and we might not get on. And I should have to go to
church. I like going to church when I'm not obliged to--that is if
they'll preach me a good sermon. I insist upon a good sermon. But if I
had to go to set an example--well, I shouldn't go; and then I should get
into trouble."
"Yes, I think you would, uncle. You can't live your own life entirely in
the country. There are responsibilities."
"Ah, you've thought of that, have you? You do think things over?"
"Yes. I do think things over. There's nothing much else to do."
Mr. Birket cast a side glance at her. The sun striking through the trees
of the park flushed translucently the smooth, fair flesh of her cheek
and her ungloved hand. In her white frock, moving freely, with the
springy grace of a young animal, she attracted the eye. Her head, under
her wide hat-brim, was pensive, but she looked up at him with a smile.
"If you could bring yourself to it, you know," she began, and broke off.
"I mean," she began again, "I think you must either be a man, or--or
very young, or not young at all."
Mr. Birket was a man of very quick perception. His face softened a
little. "My dear," he said, "when you are very young things are
happening every day, when you are a little older anything may happen,
and when you are older still happenings don't matter. But you haven't
got to the third stage yet."
"No," Cicely said, "I suppose not. Happenings do matter to me; and there
aren't enough of them."
The two old ladies received Mr. Birket courteously. He was accidentally
allied to the Clintons, and in his own path of life had striven, not
without success, to make himself worthy of the alliance. He came to see
them, two old ladies who had lived all their long lives in a small
country village, had hardly ever been to London, and never out of
England, who had been taught to read and write and to add up pounds,
shillings and pence, and had never felt the lack of a wider education.
He came with his great reputation, his membership of Parliament, his
twenty thousand a year of income earned by the exercise of his brain,
and a judgeship looming in the near future, and as far as they were
concerned he came straight out of the little house on the Bathgate Road,
now fitly occupied by a retired chemist. But far be it from them to show
a brother of their nephew's wife that he was not welcome among them.
They talked of the weather, of Blackborough Castle, of Jim Graham's
return, and of Walter's coming marriage with Muriel.
"Well, that will be the first wedding in the new generation," said Mr.
Birket. "But there will be another very soon. Have you heard that my
girl, Beatrice, is going to be married?"
The old ladies had not heard this piece of news and expressed their
interest. Privately they thought it a little odd that Mr. Birket should
talk as if there were any connection between the two events, although,
of course, it was true that Walter was of the new Birket generation as
well as the new Clinton generation.
"She is rather young," pursued Mr. Birket, "but George Senhouse is a
steady fellow as well as a successful one. It is George Senhouse she is
going to marry--you have heard of him?"
"Any relation, if I may ask, to Sir George Senhouse of whom we read in
the House of Parliament?" asked Aunt Ellen.
"Yes--George Senhouse--that's the man. Not on my side, you know, Miss
Clinton, but I'm sure you won't think that a drawback."
Indeed it was not. Mr. Birket was a Liberal, and therefore a deadly foe
to the true religion of the Church of England as by compromise
established, and to all the societies for raising mankind to a just
appreciation of that religion which the Misses Clinton supported. And
Sir George Senhouse, a capable and earnest young man, with an historic
name, had early devoted his powers to the defence of those things in the
outside world which they held dear. It was, indeed, a surprising piece
of good fortune for Mr. Birket--and no wonder that he was so evidently
pleased.
"I hope your daughter will be strengthened to assist him in all the good
work he does," said Aunt Ellen.
"I sincerely hope she will," said Mr. Birket. "The engagement is not
announced yet; but I tell _you_, Miss Clinton--and Miss Laura."
"Oh, we should not say a word before the proper time," said Aunt Laura.
When Cicely and Mr. Birket had gone, Aunt Ellen said, "You may take my
word for it, sister, that it is owing to the Clinton connection. We have
lived a retired life, but I know very well how these things tell."
As Cicely dressed for dinner--it was the first time she had been alone
during the day--she thought about Jim, and what he had said to her, or
tried to say to her, early in the morning. He had disturbed her mind and
given her something that she had to think about. She had told Mr. Birket
that she thought things over, and it was true; she had courage in that
way. With but little in her education or scope of life to feed it, her
brain was active and inquiring. It worked on all matters that came
within her ken, and she never shirked a question. She was affectionate,
loyal, and naturally light-hearted, but she was critical too, of herself
no less than of others. It would have been easy for her, if she had had
less character, to put away from her, as she had done for the last five
years, the consideration of her relationship to Jim, to have ignored his
approach to her, since she had stopped him from coming closer, and to
have deferred searching her own mind until he should have approached her
again and in such a way that she could no longer have avoided it. But
she had locked up the remembrance of the happenings of five years before
in a cupboard of her brain, and locked the key on it. If she had thought
of it at all, she would have had to think of herself as having made a
present to Jim which he had returned to her. And because she could not
altogether escape from the memory of it, she had come to look upon
herself as a rather foolish and very immature young person in those
days, who had not in the least known what she was about when she allowed
herself to be made love to.
With regard to Jim her thoughts had been even less definite. His
attitude to her had been so entirely brotherly that she had never felt
the necessity of asking herself whether he was still keeping his
expressed love for her alive, although he would not show it, or whether
he, too, thought of their love-making as a piece of rather childish
folly, and had put it completely behind him. Beyond the first slight
awkwardness of meeting him when he came back from Oxford after his
letter to her, she had felt none in his presence, and until this very
morning her attitude towards him had been frank and her feelings
affectionate. He had made that possible by showing the same attitude and
apparently the same feelings.
But what she now had to consider was whether he had actually been so
frank towards her as she to him; whether he had not been keeping
something back, and, in effect, playing a part. If it were so, their
relationship was not as she had thought it, and would have to be
adjusted.
She turned her mind to this point first. It would really be rather
surprising if Jim had been in love with her all this time and she had
not known it. She thought she must have known if it were so, and she
rejected the idea. What she could not get away from--it hardly needed
stating in her mind--was that he had tentatively made love to her that
morning. Or rather--and here she rather congratulated herself on making
the distinction, as a process of pure thought--he had seemed to show her
that marriage was in his mind, perhaps as a thing already settled
between them, although she, for her part, had long since given up
thinking of it as a matter to be considered, however loosely, settled.
Of course she knew he was fond of her, as she was of him. If he was not
in love with her, as once he had been, he might still want to marry her,
as the nicest person he could find, and the requisite impulsion might
come from his return after a long absence. She would be included in his
heightened appreciation of all his home surroundings. These
considerations passed through her mind, in no logical sequence of
thought, but at various points of her self-questioning, and when she was
also thinking further of her own part in what might follow, trying to
discover what she wanted and to decide what she should do. The fact that
he had opened and would probably open again the subject of their
marriage was all that really mattered, and she knew that without
thinking.
She knew, too, without thinking, that she did not want to engage herself
again to marry Jim, at any rate not yet; and, in fact, she would not do
so. What her honesty of mind impelled her to was the discovery of the
root from which this femininely instinctive decision had flowered. What
were her reasons for not wanting to marry Jim now, or soon; and would
they take from her, when examined, that always present but always
unstated possibility of some day finding herself living at Mountfield as
his wife? She a little dreaded the conclusion, which may have shown that
she had already made up her mind; but it was here that an answer had to
be found, and she faced it bravely.
She was not ready to marry Jim now, or soon, because in the first place
she did not love him--not in that way--and in the second place because
she did not love, in any way, what he stood for.
When she said to herself that she did not love Jim her mind recoiled a
little. He was such a good sort, so kind, so reliable. It was just as if
she had said that she did not love her brothers. It was ungracious, and
ungrateful. She did love him. Dear old Jim! And she would be sorry to
cause him pain. But, if she did not want him to make love to her--and
certainly she didn't--she couldn't possibly love him as a girl ought to
love her prospective husband--as Beatrice, for instance, loved her young
parliamentarian. That seemed settled. And because she did think things
over, and was no longer very young indeed, she saw that the change of
circumstances in a girl's life when she was going to be married counted
for something, something of the pleasure, something of the excitement.
It was so with Beatrice, and with Muriel. They loved the men they were
going to marry, but they also got a great deal of satisfaction out of
the change in their surroundings, quite apart from that. What sort of
change would she have as Jim's wife? She would step straight out of one
large house into another, and she would no more be the mistress of
Mountfield than she had been of Kencote. So she told herself. For the
mistresses of houses like Kencote and Mountfield were really a sort of
superior housekeeper, allowed to live with the family, but placed where
they were with the sole object of serving their lords and masters, with
far less independence than a paid housekeeper, who could take her money
and go if she were dissatisfied with her position.
What a prospect! To live out the rest of her life in the subjection
against which she had already begun to rebel, in exactly similar
surroundings and in exactly the same atmosphere! If she married Jim she
would not even have the pleasure of furnishing her own house. It would
be Jim's house, and the furniture and all the appurtenances of it were
so perfect in Jim's eyes that she knew he would never hear of her
altering a thing. She would not be able to rearrange her drawing-room
without his permission. That was what it meant to marry a country
gentleman of Jim's sort, who disliked "gadding about," and would expect
his wife to go through the same dull round, day after day, all her life
long, while he amused himself in the way that best suited him.
When she had reached this point, and the end of her toilet together,
Cicely suddenly determined that she would _never_ marry Jim, and if he
pressed her she would tell him so. She didn't want to marry anybody. If
only she could get away from Kencote and be a hospital nurse, or
something of the sort, that was all she wanted. With this rather
unsatisfactory conclusion she cleared her mind, ran downstairs, and
found Jim himself alone in the drawing-room.