HOW BESSY PRYOR OWNED THAT SHE WAS ENGAGED.
When these pretty oaths had been sworn, and while Mrs. Miles was too ill
to keep her eyes upon them or to separate them, of course the two lovers
were much together. For whispering words of love, for swearing oaths,
for sweet kisses and looking into each other’s eyes, a few minutes now
and again will give ample opportunities. The long hours of the day and
night were passed by Bessy with her aunt; but there were short moments,
heavenly moments, which sufficed to lift her off the earth into an
Elysium of joy. His love for her was so perfect, so assured! “In a
matter such as this,” he said in his fondly serious air, “my mother can
have no right to interfere with me.”
“But with me she may,” said Bessy, foreseeing in the midst of her
Paradise the storm which would surely come.
“Why should she wish to do so? Why should she not allow me to make
myself happy in the only way in which it is possible?” There was such an
ecstacy of bliss coming from such words as these, such a perfection of
the feeling of mutual love, that she could not but be exalted to the
heavens, although she knew that the storm would surely come. If her love
would make him happy, then, then, surely he should be happy. “Of course
she has given up her idea about that parson,” he said.
“I fear she has not, Philip.”
“It seems to me too monstrous that any human being should go to work and
settle whom two other human beings are to marry.”
“There was never a possibility of that.”
“She told me it was to be so.”
“It never could have been,” said Bessy with great emphasis. “Not even
for her, much as I love her--not even for her to whom I owe
everything--could I consent to marry a man I did not love. But----”
“But what?”
“I do not know how I shall answer her when she bids me give you up. Oh,
my love, how shall I answer her?”
Then he told her at considerable length what was the answer which he
thought should in such circumstances be made to his mother. Bessy was to
declare that nothing could alter her intentions, that her own happiness
and that of her lover depended on her firmness, and that they two did,
in fact, intend to have their own way in this matter sooner or later.
Bessy, as she heard the lesson, made no direct reply, but she knew too
well that it could be of no service to her. All that it would be
possible for her to say, when the resolute old woman should declare her
purpose, would be that come what might she must always love Philip
Launay; that she never, never, never could become the wife of any other
man. So much she thought she would say. But as to asserting her right to
her lover, that she was sure would be beyond her.
Everyone in the house except Mrs. Miles was aware that Philip and Bessy
were lovers, and from the dependents of the house the tidings spread
through the parish. There had been no special secrecy. A lover does not
usually pronounce his vows in public. Little half-lighted corners and
twilight hours are chosen, or banks beneath the trees supposed to be
safe from vulgar eyes, or lonely wanderings. Philip had followed the
usual way of the world in his love-making, but had sought his secret
moments with no special secrecy. Before the servants he would whisper to
Bessy with that look of thorough confidence in his eyes which servants
completely understand; and thus while the poor old woman was still in
her bed, while she was unaware both of the danger and of her own
immediate impotence, the secret--as far as it was a secret--became
known to all Launay. Mr. Morrison heard it over at Budcombe, and, with
his heart down in his boots, told himself that now certainly there could
be no chance for him. At Launay Mr. Gregory was the rector, and it was
with his daughters that Bessy had become intimate. Knowing much of the
mind of the first lady of the parish, he took upon himself to say a word
or two to Philip. “I am so glad to hear that your mother is much better
this morning.”
“Very much better.”
“It has been a most serious illness.”
“Terribly serious, Mr. Gregory.”
Then there was a pause, and sundry other faltering allusions were made
to the condition of things up at the house, from which Philip was aware
that words of counsel or perhaps reproach were coming. “I hope you will
excuse me, Philip, if I tell you something.”
“I think I shall excuse anything from you.”
“People are saying about the place that during your mother’s illness you
have engaged yourself to Bessy Pryor.”
“That’s very odd,” said Philip.
“Odd!” repeated the parson.
“Very odd indeed, because what the people about the place say is always
supposed to be untrue. But this report is true.”
“It is true?”
“Quite true, and I am proud to be in a position to assure you that I
have been accepted. I am really sorry for Mr. Morrison, you know.”
“But what will your mother say?”
“I do not think that she or anyone can say that Bessy is not fit to be
the wife of the finest gentleman in the land.” This he said with an air
of pride which showed plainly enough that he did not intend to be talked
out of his purpose.
“I should not have spoken, but that your dear mother is so ill,”
rejoined the parson.
“I understand that. I must fight my own battle and Bessy’s as best I
may. But you may be quite sure, Mr. Gregory, that I mean to fight it.”
Nor did Bessy deny the fact when her friend Mary Gregory interrogated
her. The question of Bessy’s marriage with Mr. Morrison had, somewhat
cruelly in regard to her and more cruelly still in regard to the
gentleman, become public property in the neighbourhood. Everybody had
known that Mrs. Miles intended to marry Bessy to the parson of Budcombe,
and everybody had thought that Bessy would, as a matter of course,
accept her destiny. Everybody now knew that Bessy had rebelled; and, as
Mrs. Miles’s autocratic disposition was well understood, everybody was
waiting to see what would come of it. The neighbourhood generally
thought that Bessy was unreasonable and ungrateful. Mr. Morrison was a
very nice man, and nothing could have been more appropriate. Now, when
the truth came out, everybody was very much interested indeed. That Mrs.
Miles should assent to a marriage between the heir and Bessy Pryor was
quite out of the question. She was too well known to leave a doubt on
the mind of anyone either in Launay or Budcombe on that matter. Men and
women drew their breath and looked at each other. It was just when the
parishes thought that she was going to die that the parishioners first
heard that Bessy would not marry Mr. Morrison because of the young
squire. And now, when it was known that Mrs. Miles was not going to die,
it was known that the young squire was absolutely engaged to Bessy
Pryor. “There’ll be a deal o’ vat in the voir,” said the old head
ploughman of Launay, talking over the matter with the wife of Mr.
Gregory’s gardener. There was going to be “a deal of fat in the fire.”
Mrs. Miles was not like other mothers. Everything in respect to present
income was in her hands. And Bessy was not like other girls. She had
absolutely no “locus standi” in the world, except what came to her from
the bounty of the old lady. By favour of the Lady of Launay she held her
head among the girls of that part of the country as high as any girl
there. She was only Bessy Pryor; but, from love and kindness, she was
the recognised daughter of the house of Launay. Everybody knew it all.
Everybody was aware that she had done much towards reaching her present
position by her own special sweetness. But should Mrs. Miles once frown,
Bessy would be nobody. “Oh, Bessy, how is this all to be?” asked Mary
Gregory.
“As God pleases,” said Bessy, very solemnly.
“What does Mrs. Miles say?”
“I don’t want anybody to ask me about it,” said Bessy. “Of course I love
him. What is the good of denying it? But I cannot talk about it.” Then
Mary Gregory looked as though some terrible secret had been revealed to
her--some secret of which the burden might probably be too much for her
to bear.
The first storm arose from an interview which took place between the
mother and son as soon as the mother found herself able to speak on a
subject which was near her heart. She sent for him and once again
besought him to take steps towards that combining of the properties
which was so essential to the Launay interests generally. Then he
declared his purpose very plainly. He did not intend to combine the
properties. He did not care for the red-haired Launay cousin. It was his
intention to marry--Bessy Pryor; yes--he had proposed to her and she had
accepted him. The poor sick mother was at first almost overwhelmed with
despair. “What can I do but tell you the truth when you ask me?” he
said.
“Do!” she screamed. “What could you do? You could have remembered your
honour! You could have remembered your blood! You could have remembered
your duty!” Then she bade him leave her, and after an hour passed in
thought she sent for Bessy. “I have had my son with me,” she said,
sitting bolt upright in her bed, looking awful in her wanness, speaking
with low, studied, harsh voice, with her two hands before her on the
counterpane. “I have had my son with me and he has told me.” Bessy felt
that she was trembling. She was hardly able to support herself. She had
not a word to say. The sick old woman was terrible in her severity. “Is
it true?”
“Yes, it is true,” whispered Bessy.
“And this is to be my return?”
“Oh, my dearest, my darling, oh, my aunt, dear, dearest, dearest aunt!
Do not speak like that! Do not look at me like that! You know I love
you. Don’t you know I love you?” Then Bessy prostrated herself on the
bed, and getting hold of the old woman’s hand covered it with kisses.
Yes, her aunt did know that the girl loved her, and she knew that she
loved the girl perhaps better than any other human being in the world.
The eldest son had become estranged from her. Even Philip had not been
half so much to her as this girl. Bessy had wound herself round her very
heartstrings. It made her happy even to sit and look at Bessy. She had
denied herself all pretty things; but this prettiest of all things had
grown up beneath her eyes. She did not draw away her hand; but, while
her hand was being kissed, she made up her mind that she would do her
duty.
“Of what service will be your love,” she said, “if this is to be my
return?” Bessy could only lie and sob and hide her face. “Say that you
will give it up.” Not to say that, not to give him up, was the only
resolution at which Bessy had arrived. “If you will not say so, you must
leave me, and I shall send you word what you are to do. If you are my
enemy you shall not remain here.”
“Pray--pray do not call me an enemy.”
“You had better go.” The woman’s voice as she said this was dreadful in
its harshness. Then Bessy, slowly creeping down from the bed, slowly
slunk out of the room.