OUTWARD BOUND.
The voice which I did more esteem
Than music in her sweetest key--
Those eyes which unto me did seem
More comfortable than the day--
Those now by me, as they have been,
Shall never more be heard or seen.
GEORGE WITHER.
In suspense and impatience, Fitzjocelyn awaited the end of his father's
breakfast, that he might hasten to learn what ailed Mary. The post came
in, vexing him at first merely as an additional delay, but presently a
sound of dissatisfaction attracted his notice to the foreign air of two
envelopes which had been forwarded from home.
'Hem!' said the Earl, gravely, 'I am afraid this fellow Ponsonby will
give us some trouble.'
'Then Mary had heard from him!' cried Louis. 'She was keeping it from
me, not to spoil the day. I must go to her this moment--'but pausing
again, 'What is it? He cannot have had my letter!'
'No, but he seems to have anticipated it. Puffed up as they are about
these speculations, he imagines me to have brought Mary home for no
purpose but to repair our fortunes; and informs me that, in the event
of your marriage, she will receive not a farthing beyond her mother's
settlements. I am much obliged! It is all I ever thought you would
receive; and but for me, it would have been in the bottom of some mine
long ago! Do you wish to see what he says?'
Louis caught up the missive. It was the letter of a very angry man,
too violent to retain the cold formality which he tried to assume. 'He
was beholden to his lordship for his solicitude about his daughter. It
was of a piece with other assistance formerly rendered to him in his
domestic arrangements, for which he was equally obliged. He was happy
to inform his lordship that, in this instance, his precautions had been
uncalled for; and referred him to a letter which he would receive from
Mr. Dynevor by the same mail, for an explanation of the circumstances
to which he referred. He had been informed, by undoubted authority,
that Lord Fitzjocelyn had done his daughter the honour of soliciting
her hand. It might console his lordship to learn that, should the
union take place, the whole of his property would be secured to Mrs.
Ponsonby, and his daughter's sole fortune would be that which she
inherited by her mother's marriage settlements. Possibly this
intelligence might lead to a cessation of these flattering attentions.'
'Mrs. Ponsonby! he can mention her in the same sentence with Mary's
mother!' said the Earl.
Louis turned pale as he read, and scarcely breathed as he looked up at
his father, dreading that he might so resent the studied affronts as to
wish to break off the connexion, and that he might have him likewise to
contend with; but on that score he was set at rest. The Earl replied
to his exclamation of angry dismay, 'It is little more than I looked
for. It is not the first letter I have had from him. I find he has
some just cause for offence. The marriage is less disgraceful than I
had been led to believe. Here is Oliver Dynevor's testimony.'
Oliver Dynevor's was a succinct business-like letter, certifying his
cousin that he had been mistaken in his view of the marriage. Dona
Rosita de Guzman was an orphan of a very respectable family, who had
come to spend the year before her intended noviciate at the house of an
uncle. She was very young, and Mr. Dynevor believed that the marriage
had been hastened by her relations making her feel herself unwelcome,
and her own reluctance to return to her convent, and that she might not
be aware how very recently Mr. Ponsonby had become a widower. For his
own part, he was little used to ladies' society, and could form no
judgment of the bride; but he could assure Lord Ormersfield that she
had been guilty of no impropriety; she was visited by every one; and
that there was no reason against Mary Ponsonby associating with her.
'What could the clerk be thinking of?' exclaimed Louis.
'My first impression was not taken from the clerk. What I heard first,
and in the strongest terms, was from the captain of a ship at
Valparaiso. In fact, it was in the mouth of all who had known the
family. Robson neither confirmed nor contradicted, and gave me the
notion of withholding much from regard for his employer. He lamented
the precipitation, but seemed willing to make excuses. He distinctly
said, he would not take it on himself to recommend Miss Ponsonby's
continuing her journey. He was right. If I had known all this, I
should still have brought her home. I must write an apology, as far as
her character is concerned; but, be that as it may, the marriage is
atrocious--an insult--a disgrace! He could not have waited six
weeks--'
'But I must go to Mary!' cried Louis, as though reproaching himself for
the delay. 'Oh! that she should have forced herself to that wedding,
and spared me!'
'I am coming with you,' said the Earl. 'She will require my personal
assurance that all this makes no difference to me.'
'I am more afraid of the difference it may make to her,' said Louis.
'You have never believed how fond she is of her father.'
On arriving, they were ushered into the room where Miss Ponsonby was at
breakfast, and a cup of tea and untasted roll showed where her niece
had been. She received them with stiff, upright chillness; and to
their hope that Mary was not unwell, replied--'Not very well. She had
been over-fatigued yesterday, and had followed her advice in going to
lie down.'
Louis began to imagine a determination to exclude him, and was eagerly
beginning to say that she had asked him to come that morning--could she
not see him? when the lady continued, with the same severity--'Until
yesterday, I was not aware how much concern Lord Fitzjocelyn had taken
in what related to my niece.'
At that moment, when Louis's face was crimson with confusion and
impatience, the door was softly pushed ajar, and he heard himself
called in low, hoarse tones. Miss Ponsonby was rising with an air of
vexed surprise, but he never saw her, and, hastily crossing the room,
he shut the door behind him, and followed the form that flitted up the
stairs so fast, that he did not come up with her till she had entered
the drawing-room, and stood leaning against a chair to gather breath.
She was very pale, and her eyes looked as if she had cried all night,
but she controlled her voice to say, 'I could not bear that you should
hear it from Aunt Melicent.'
'We had letters this morning, dearest. Always thinking for me! But I
must think for you. You can hardly stand--'
He would have supported her to the sofa, but she shrank from him; and,
leaning more heavily on the chair, said--'Do you not know, Louis, all
that must be at an end?'
'I know no such thing. My father is here on purpose to assure you that
it makes not the slightest difference to him.'
'Yours! Yes! But oh, Louis!' with a voice that, in its faintness and
steadiness, had a sound of anguish--'only think what I allowed him to
make me do! To insult my father and his choice! It was a mistake, I
know,' she continued, fearing to be unjust and to grieve Louis; 'but a
most dreadful one!'
'He says he should have brought you home all the same--' began Louis.
'Mary, you must sit down!' he cried, interrupting himself to come
nearer; and she obeyed, sinking into the chair. 'What a state you are
in! How could you go through yesterday? How could you be distressed,
and not let me know?'
'I could not spoil their wedding-day, that we had wished for so long.'
'Then you had the letter?'
'In the morning. Oh, that I had examined farther! Oh, that I had
never come home!'
'Mary! I cannot hear you say so.'
'You would have been spared all this. You were doing very well without
me--as you will--'
He cried out with deprecating horror.
'Louis!' she said, imploringly. 'Oh, Louis! do not make it harder for
me to do right.'
'Why--what? I don't understand! Your father has not so much as heard
how we stand together. He cannot be desiring you to give me up.'
'He--he forbids me to enter on anything of the sort with you. I don't
know what made him think it possible, but he does. And--' again Mary
waited for the power of utterance, 'he orders me to come out with Mrs.
Willis, in the Valdivia, and it sails on the 12th of December!'
'But Mary, Mary! you cannot be bound by this. It is only fair towards
him, towards all of us, to give him time to answer our letters.'
Mary shook her head. 'The only condition, he says, on which he could
allow me to remain, would be if I were engaged to James Frost.'
'Too late for that, certainly,' said Louis; and the smile was a relief
to both. 'At any rate, it shows that he can spare you. Only give him
time. When he has my father's explanation--and my father is certain to
be so concerned at having cast any imputation on a lady. His first
thought was to apologize--'
'That is not all! I remember now that dear mamma always said she did
not know whether he would consent. Oh! how weak I was ever to listen--'
'No, Mary, that must not be said. It was my presumptuous, inveterate
folly that prevented you from trusting my affection when she might have
helped us.'
'I don't know. It would have caused her anxiety and distress when she
was in no state for them. I don't think it did,' said Mary,
considering; 'I don't think she ever knew how much I cared.'
The admission could only do Louis's heart good, and he recurred to his
arguments that her father could be persuaded by such a letter as he
felt it in him to write.
'You do not know all,' said Mary. 'I could not show you his letter;
but, from it and from my aunt, I better understand what impressions he
has of you all, and how hopeless it is.'
'Tell me!'
She could not help giving herself the relief, when that most loving,
sympathizing face was pleading with her to let him comfort her. She
knew there was no fiery nor rancorous temper to take umbrage, and it
was best for him to know the completeness of the death-blow.
'Oh, Louis! he fancies that my dear mother's fondness for her own
family destroyed his domestic peace. He says their pride and narrow
notions poisoned--yes, that is the word--poisoned her mind against him;
and that was the reason he insisted on my being brought up here, and
kept from you all.'
'But I don't understand why he let you come straight home to us, and
live in Dynevor Terrace?'
'Then he was really sorry mamma was so ill; and--and for all that was
past; I am sure he felt it was the last parting, and only wished to do
anything that could make up to her. He freely gave her leave to go
wherever she pleased, and said not a word against Northwold. It was
one of her great comforts that he never seemed in the least vexed at
anything she had done since we went home. Besides, my aunt says that
he and Mr. Dynevor had some plans about James and me.'
'He will have that out of his head. He will come to reason. Fond of
you, and sorry for the past, he will listen. No wonder he was in a
passion; but just imagine what it would be to heed half Jem Frost says
when he is well worked up!'
'Papa is not like James,' said Mary; 'things go deeper with him. He
never forgets! I shall never forgive myself for not having spoken to
Robson! I know his manner, seeming to assent and never committing
himself, and I ought to have gone through anything rather than have
taken such an accusation for granted.'
To hinder his pleading against her self-conviction, she re-opened her
letter to prove the cruelty of the injustice. Mr. Ponsonby professed
to have been unwilling to enter so speedily on the new tie; but to have
been compelled, by the species of persecution which was exercised on
Rosita, in order to make her return to her nunnery. He dwelt on her
timid affection and simplicity, and her exceeding mortification at the
slur which Mary had been induced to cast upon her; though, he said, her
innocent mind could not comprehend the full extent of the injury; since
the step his daughter had taken would, when known, seriously affect the
lady's reception into society, in a manner only to be repaired by
Mary's immediately joining them at Lima. He peremptorily indicated the
ship and the escort--a merchant's wife, well known to her and charged
her, on her duty, as the only proof of obedience or affection which
could remedy the past, to allow no influence nor consideration whatever
to detain her. 'You see?' said Mary.
'I see!' was the answer. 'Mary, you are right, you must go.'
The words restored her confiding look, and her face lost almost all the
restless wretchedness which had so transformed it. 'Thank you,' she
said, with a long breath; 'I knew you would see it so.'
'It will be a very pretty new style of wedding tour. Andes for Alps!
No, Mary, you need not suspect me of trifling now! I really mean it,
and, seriously, our going in that way would set this Rosita straight
with society much more handsomely and effectually. Don't doubt my
father--I will fetch him.'
'Stop, Louis! You forget! Did I not tell you that he expressly warns
me against you? He must have heard of what happened before: he says I
had prudence once to withstand, and he trusts to my spirit and
discretion to--' Mary stopped short of the phrase before her eyes--to
resist the interested solicitations of necessitous nobility, and the
allurements of a beggarly coronet. 'No,' she concluded; 'he says that
you are the last person whom he could think of allowing me to accept.'
She hid her face in her hands, and her voice died away.
'Happily that is done,' said Louis, not yet disconcerted; 'but if you
go, as I own you must, it shall be with a letter of mine, explaining
all. You will plead for me--I think you will, and when he is satisfied
that we are no rebels, then the first ship that sails for Peru--Say
that will do, Mary.'
'No, Louis, I know my father.' She roused herself and sat upright,
speaking resolutely, but not daring to look at him--'I made up my mind
last night. It was weak and selfish in me to enter into this
engagement, and it must be broken off. You must be left free--not
bound for years and years.'
'Oh, Mary! Mary! this is too much. I deserved distrust by my wretched
folly and fickleness last year, but I did not know what you were to me
then--my most precious one! Can you not trust me! Do you not know how
I would wait?'
'You would wait,' said poor Mary, striving with choking tears, 'and be
sorry you had waited.'
'Are you talking madness, Mary? I should live for the moment to
compensate for all.'
'You would waste your best years, and when the time came, you would
still be young, and I grown into an old careworn woman. You would find
you had waited for what was nothing worth!'
'How can you talk so!' cried Louis, wounded, 'when you know that to
cherish and make up to you would be my dearest, fondest wish! No,
don't shake your head! You know it is not a young rose and lily beauty
that I love,--it is the honest, earnest glance in my Mary's eyes, the
rest, and trust, and peace, whenever I do but come near her. Time
can't take that away!'
'Pray,' said Mary, feebly, 'don't let us discuss it now. I know it is
right. I was determined to say it to-day, that the worst might be
over, but I can't argue, nor bear your kindness now. Please let it
wait.'
'Yes, let it wait. It is depression. You will see it in a true light
when you have recovered the shock, and don't fancy all must be given up
together. Lie down and rest; I am sure you have been awake all night.'
'I may rest now I have told you, and seen you not angry with poor papa,
nor with me. Oh! Louis--the gratitude to you, the weight off my mind!'
'I don't think any one could help taking the same view,' said Louis.
'It seems to me one of the cases where the immediate duty is the more
clear because it is so very painful. Mary, I think that you are
committing your way unto the Lord, and you know 'He shall bring it to
pass.''
As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and Miss Ponsonby, stiffly
entering, said, 'Excuse my interruption, but I hope Lord Fitzjocelyn
will be considerate enough not to harass you any longer with
solicitations to act against your conscience.'
'He is not persuading me,' said Mary, turning towards her aunt a face
which, through all her dejection, proved her peace in his support and
approval, 'he is helping me.'
'Yes,' said Louis to the astonished aunt; 'since I have heard the true
state of the case, I have been convinced that there is no choice for
her but to go out, to repair the injustice so unfortunately done to
this poor lady. It is a noble resolution, and I perfectly concur with
her.'
'I am glad you think so properly, sir,' returned Miss Ponsonby. 'Lord
Ormersfield seems quite of another opinion. He was desirous of seeing
you, Mary; but I have been telling him I could permit no more
interviews to-day.'
'Oh no,' said Mary, putting her hand to her head, as if it could bear
no more; 'not to-day! Louis, tell him how it is. Make him forgive
me; but do not let me see him yet.'
'You shall see no one,' said Louis, tenderly; 'you shall rest. There--'
and, as if he had the sole right to her, he arranged the cushions,
placed her on the sofa, and hung over her to chafe her hands, and bathe
her forehead with eau de Cologne; while, as he detected signs of hasty
preparations about the room, he added, 'Don't trouble yourself with
your arrangements; I will see about all I can to help you. Only rest,
and cure your head.'
'Say that one thing to me again,' whispered Mary, ere letting his hand
go.
Again he murmured the words, 'Commit thy way unto the Lord, and He
shall bring it to pass.'
Then Mary felt her hand pressed to his lips, but she would not unclose
her burning eyes; she would fain sleep beneath the impress of that
spell of patient confidence.
The gentle authority of his manner had deprived Miss Ponsonby of all
notion of interfering. This 'odious, frivolous young man of fashion,'
so entirely disconcerted her ideas of ardent lovers, or of
self-interested puppies, that she gazed at him, surprised and softened;
and when he looked at her anxiously, to judge whether Mary would find
in her a kind comforter, her eyes were full of tears, and she said as
they left the room, 'It must be a great relief to my poor Mary that you
see it so sensibly. She has been suffering much in anticipation of
this meeting.'
'Her unselfishness goes to one's heart!' said Louis, almost overcome.
'If she would but have spared herself yesterday!'
'Ah! she said she could not bear that you should be pained on your
friend's wedding-day. I am much comforted to find that you appreciate
the effort.'
This was not what Miss Ponsonby had intended to say, but there was
something about the young man that touched her exceedingly; even when
fresh from a very civil and decorous combat with his father, and a
ripping-up of all the ancient grievances of the married life of their
two relations, rendering wider than ever the breach between the houses
of Ponsonby and Fitzjocelyn.
Lord Ormersfield came forward to learn whether he might see Mary, and
was met by assurances that she must be kept as quiet as possible; upon
which he took leave, making a stately bend of the head, while Louis
shook Miss Ponsonby's hand, and said he should come to the door to
inquire before the day was over.
'I never saw her so broken down,' he said, in answer to his father's
compassionate but indignant exclamation as they walked home. 'Yesterday
was a terrible strain on her.'
'I wish we had never brought her here,' said Lord Ormersfield. 'The
aunt is your enemy, as she always was that of Mary's mother. She
nearly avowed that she set her brother on making this premature
prohibition.'
'I do not think she is unkind to Mary,' said Louis; 'I could be almost
glad that the dear Aunt Kitty is spared all this worry. It would make
her so very miserable.'
'Her influence would be in your favour, whereas this woman is perfectly
unreasonable. She justifies her brother in everything, and is actually
working on that poor girl's scruples of conscience to send her out by
this ship.'
'Nay,' said Louis, 'after hearing her father's letter, I do not see
that it is possible for her to do otherwise.'
Lord Ormersfield hastily turned to look at his son's countenance,--it
was flushed and melancholy, but fully in earnest; nevertheless the Earl
would not believe his ears, and made a sound as if he had missed the
words.
'I am grieved enough to say so,' repeated Louis; 'but, as he puts it, I
do not see how Mary can refuse to obey him.'
'I declare, Fitzjocelyn,' exclaimed his father, with some anger, 'any
one who takes the trouble, may talk you into anything imaginable!'
'Not into believing her wrong.'
'I did not think you so weak!' continued his father. 'It is the very
case where a woman's exaggerated notions of right may be wrought on to
do her infinite harm! They become quite ridiculous without some one to
show that such things may be carried too far! I must say, I did expect
strength of mind and common sense for your own interest. I esteem it a
mere matter of duty to put an end to such nonsense.'
'My dear father,' said Louis, 'it was Mary and her mother who first
taught me my own obligations. I should never dare to interfere with
any one's filial duty--above all, where my own happiness is so deeply
concerned.'
'Yours! I am not talking of yours. What is to become of Mary with
such a man as that? and this Spanish woman, who, if she does not
deserve all that has been said of her, no doubt soon will?--no
education, no principles, breaking out of her convent! And you let
yourself be drawn into calling it Mary's duty to run into such company
as that! You are not fit to protect her.'
'From all I have heard of Mr. Ponsonby, I am convinced he has too much
regard for his daughter to summon her into any improper society. I do
not hear that he has been to blame as a father. I wish I could see it
as you do; but not only do I know that Mary could not have an instant's
peace under the sense of his displeasure, but it seems to me that this
is one of the express commands which could not be disobeyed without
setting aside the law of Heaven. If I gave my voice against it, I
should fear to bring on us a curse, and not a blessing.'
'Fitzjocelyn, I always knew how it would be if you took to being one of
those very good people. Nothing is so weak, and yet so unmanageable.
Any rational being would look on it as a duty to rescue her from such a
man as that; but that is too ordinary a virtue for you. You must go
higher.'
Louis made no answer. Never had his father pained him so much, and he
could ill brook additional suffering.
'However,' said the Earl, recovering, 'I shall see her. I shall put
the matter in a just light. She is a sensible girl, and will
understand me when she has recovered the shock. On one head I shall
give warning. She must choose between us and her father. If she
persist in going out to join this establishment, I will have your
engagement given up.'
'Father! father! you would not be so cruel!'
'I know what I am saying. Am I to allow you to be encumbered all the
time she is on the other side of the world, waiting Ponsonby's
pleasure, to come home at last, in ten or fifteen years' time, worried
and fretted to death, like her poor mother? No, Louis, it must be now
or never.'
'You are only saying what I would not hear from her. She has been
insisting on breaking off, and all my hope was in you.'
'She has? That is like her! The only reasonable thing I have heard
yet.'
'Then you will not help me? You, who I thought loved her like your own
daughter, and wished for nothing so much!'
'So I might; but that is a different thing from allowing you to wear
out your life in a hopeless engagement. If she cast off her family,
nothing could be better, otherwise, I would never connect you with
them.'
It did not occur to his lordship that he was straining pretty hard the
filial duty of his own son, while he was arguing that Mary should snap
asunder the same towards her father.
The fresh discomfiture made poor Louis feel utterly dejected and almost
hopeless, but lest silence should seem to consent, he said, 'When you
see Mary, you will be willing for me to do anything rather than lose
what is so dear and so noble.'
'Yes, I will see Mary. We will settle it between us, and have it right
yet; but we must give her to-day to think it over, and get over the
first shock. When she has had a little time for reflection, a few cool
arguments from me will bring her to reason.'
So it was all to be settled over Louis's passive head; and thus
satisfied, his father, who was exceedingly sorry for him, forgot his
anger, and offered to go home alone as Clara's escort, promising to
return on the Monday, to bring the full force of his remonstrances to
bear down Mary's scruples.
Lord Ormersfield believed Clara too much of a child to have any ideas
on what was passing; and had it depended on him, she must have gone
home in an agony of ignorance on the cause of her cousin's trouble, but
Louis came with them to the station, and contrived to say to her while
walking up and down the platform, 'Her father is bitter against me. He
has sent for her, and she is going!'
Clara looked mutely in his face, with a sort of inquiring dismay.
'You'll hear all about it when my father has told Aunt Kitty,' said
Louis. 'Clara,'--he paused, and spoke lower--'tell her I see what is
right now; tell her to--to pray for me, that I may not be talked into
tampering with my conscience or with hers. Don't let it dwell on you
or on my aunt,' he added, cheerfully. 'No, it won't; you will be
thinking of Jem and Isabel.' And as his father came up, his last words
were, in his own bright tone, 'Tell granny from me that giraffes ought
always to be seen by gaslight.'
Clara's countenance returned him a look of sorrowful reproach, for
thinking her capable of being amused when he was in distress; and she
sat in silent musings all the way home--pondering over his words,
speculating on his future, wondering what Mary felt, and becoming blunt
and almost angry, when her grave escort in the opposite corner
consulted civility by addressing some indifferent remark to her, as if,
she said to herself, 'she were no better than a stuffed giraffe, and
knew and cared nothing about anybody!'
He might have guessed that she understood something by the sudden way
in which she curtailed her grandmother's rapturous and affectionate
inquiries about the wedding, ran upstairs on the plea of taking off her
bonnet, and appeared no more till he had gone home; when, coming down,
she found granny, with tearful eyes, lamenting that Mr. Ponsonby was so
harsh and unkind, and fully possessed with the rational view which her
nephew had been impressing on her.
'Ha!' said Clara, 'that is what Louis meant. I'll tell you what,
granny, Lord Ormersfield never knew in his life what was right, half as
well as Louis does. I wish he would let him alone. If Mary is good
enough for him, she will go out and wait till her father comes round.
If she is not, she won't; and Lord Ormersfield has no business to tease
her.'
'Then you would like her to go out?' said Mrs. Frost.
'I like anything that makes Louis happy. I thought it would have been
delightful to have him married--one could be so much more at
Ormersfield, and Mary would be so nice; but as to their being
over-persuaded, and thinking themselves half wrong! why, they would
never be happy in their lives; and Louis would be always half-asleep or
half mad, to save himself the trouble of thinking. But he'll never do
it!'
On the Saturday morning Mary's healthy and vigorous spirit had quite
resumed its tone. The worst was over when she had inflicted the stroke
on Louis, and seen him ready to support instead of adding to her
distress. He found her pale and sorrowful, but calm, collected, and
ready for exertion. By tacit consent, they avoided all discussion of
the terms on which they were to stand. Greatly touched by her
consideration for him on the wedding-day, he would not torture her with
pleadings, and was only too grateful for every service that he was
allowed to render her without protest, as still her chief and most
natural dependence.
She did not scruple to allow him to assist her; she understood the
gratification to him, and it was only too sweet to her to be still his
object. She could trust him not to presume, his approval made her
almost happy; and yet it was hard that his very patience and
acquiescence should endear him so much as to render the parting so much
the more painful. The day was spent in business. He facilitated much
that would have been arduous for two solitary women, and did little all
day but go about for Mary, fulfilling the commissions which her father
had sent home; and though he did it with a sore heart, it was still a
privilege to be at work for Mary.
Rigid as Miss Ponsonby was, she began to be touched. There was a doubt
as to his admission when he came on Sunday morning--'Mistress saw no
one on Sunday,' but when his name was carried in, Miss Ponsonby could
not withstand Mary's face. She took care to tell him her rule; but
that, considering the circumstances, she had made an exception in his
favour, on the understanding that nothing was to break in upon the
observance of the Sabbath.
Louis bent his head, with the heartfelt answer that he was but too glad
to be permitted to go to church once more with Mary.
Aunt Melicent's Sunday was not quite their own Sunday, but all that
they could desire was to be quietly together, and restricted from all
those agitating topics and arrangements. It was a day of rest, and
they valued it accordingly. In fact, Miss Ponsonby found the young
Lord so good and inoffensive, that she broke her morning's resolution,
invited him to partake of the cold dinner, let him go to church with
them again in the evening, and remain to tea; and when he took leave,
she expressed such surprised admiration at his having come and gone on
his own feet, his church-going, and his conduct generally, that Mary
could not help suspecting that her good aunt had supposed that he had
never heard of the Fourth Commandment.
Miss Ponsonby was one of the many good women given to hard judgments on
slight grounds, and to sudden reactions still more violent; and the
sight of Lord Fitzjocelyn spending a quiet, respectable Sunday, had
such an effect on her, that she transgressed her own mandate, and
broached 'the distressing subject.'
'Mary, my dear, I suppose this young gentleman is an improved
character?'
'He is always improving,' said Mary.
'I mean, that an important change must have taken place since I
understood you to say you had refused him. I thought you acted most
properly then; and, as I see him now, I think you equally right in
accepting him.'
'He was very much what he is now,' said Mary.
'Then it was from no doubt of his being a serious character?'
'None whatever,' said Mary, emphatically.
'Well, my dear, I must confess his appearance, his family, and your
refusal, misled me. I fear I did him great injustice.'
A silence, and then Miss Ponsonby said, 'After all, my dear, though I
thought quite otherwise at first, I do believe that, considering what
the youth is, and how much attached he seems, you might safely continue
the engagement.'
Mary's heart glowed to her aunt for having been thus conquered by
Louis--she who, three nights back, had been so severely incredulous, so
deeply disappointed in her niece for having been deluded into endurance
of him. But her resolution was fixed. 'It would not be right,' she
said; 'his father would not allow it. There is so little chance of
papa's relenting, or of my coming home, that it would be wrong to keep
him in suspense. He had better turn his thoughts elsewhere while he is
young enough to begin again.'
'It might save him from marrying some mere fine lady.'
'That will never be, whatever woman he chooses will--' She could not go
on, but presently cleared her voice--'No; I should like to leave him
quite free. I was less his choice than his father's; and, though I
thought we should have been very happy, it does not seem to be the
leading of Heaven. I am so far his inferior in cleverness, and
everything attractive, and have been made so like his elder sister,
that it might not have been best for him. I want him to feel that, in
beginning afresh, he is doing me no injury; and then in time, whenever
I come home, it may be such a friendship as there was between our
elders. That is what I try to look forward to,--no, I don't think I
look forward to anything. Good night, Aunt Melicent--I am so glad you
like him!'
In this mind Mary met Lord Ormersfield. The delay had been an
advantage, for he was less irritated, and she had regained
self-possession. Her passage had been taken, and this was an argument
that told on the Earl, though he refused to call it irrevocable. He
found that there was no staggering her on the score of the life that
awaited her; she knew more on that subject than he did, had confidence
in her father, and no dread of Rosita; and she was too much ashamed and
grieved at the former effect of his persuasions to attend to any more
of a like description. He found her sense of duty more stubborn than
he had anticipated, and soon had no more to say. She might carry it too
far; but the principle was sound, and a father could not well
controvert it. He had designed the rupture with Louis as a penalty to
drive her into his measures; but he could not so propound it, and was
wondering how to bring it in, when Mary relieved him by beginning
herself, and stating the grounds with such sensible, unselfish, almost
motherly care of Louis's happiness, that he was more unwilling than
ever to let him resign her, and was on the point of begging her to
re-consider, and let Louis wait for ever rather than lose her. But he
knew they ought not to be bound, under such uncertainties, and his
conviction was too strong to give way to emotion. He thanked her, and
praised her with unwonted agitation, and regretted more than ever; and
so they closed the conference by deciding that, unless Mr. Ponsonby
should be induced to relent by his daughter's representations on her
arrival, Mary and Louis must consider themselves as mutually released.
That loophole--forlorn, most forlorn hope, as they knew it to be--was
an infinite solace to the young people, by sparing them a formal
parting, and permitting them still to feel that they belonged to each
other. If he began declaring that nothing would ever make him feel
disconnected with Mary, he was told that it was not time to think of
that, and they must not waste their time. And once Mary reminded him
how much worse it would be if they had been separated by a quarrel.
'Anger might give one spirits,' he said, smiling mournfully.
'At the time; but think what it would be not to be able to remember
happy times without remorse.'
'Then you do mean to recollect, Mary?'
'I trust to bring myself to remember rightly and wisely. I shall try
to set it for a reward for myself to cure me of repinings,' said Mary,
looking into his face, as if the remembrance of it must bring
cheerfulness and refreshment.
'And when shall I not think, Mary! When I leave off work, I shall want
you for a companion; when I go to work, the thought must stir me up.
Your judgment must try my own.'
'Oh, hush, Louis! this is not good. Be yourself, and be more than
yourself, and only think of the past as a time when we had a great deal
of pleasantness, and you did me much good.'
'Did I?'
'Yes; I see it now I am with Aunt Melicent. You put so many more
thoughts in my head, and showed me that so much more was good and
wholesome than I used to fancy. Dear mamma once said you were
educating me; and I hope to go on, and not let your lessons waste away.'
'Nay, Mary, you won good everywhere. If you had not been Mary, I might
have made you a great goose. But you taught me all the perseverance I
ever had. And oh! Mary, I don't wonder you do not trust it.'
'There is the forbidden subject,' said Mary, firmly.
That was the sort of conversation into which they fell now and then
during those last days of busy sadness.
Truly it could have been worse. Suffering by their own fault would
have rent them asunder more harshly, and Louis's freedom from all
fierceness and violence softened all ineffably to Mary. James Frost's
letter of fiery indignation, almost of denunciation, made her thankful
that he was not the party concerned; and Louis made her smile at
Isabel's copy of all his sentiments in ladylike phrases.
The last day came. Louis would not be denied seeing Mary on board the
Valdivia; and, in spite of all Miss Ponsonby's horror of railways, he
persuaded her to trust herself under his care to Liverpool. She
augured great things from the letter which she had entrusted to Mary,
and in which she had spoken of Lord Fitzjocelyn in the highest terms
her vocabulary could furnish.
They parted bravely. Spectators hindered all display of feeling, and
no one cried, except Miss Ponsonby.
'Good-bye, Louis; I will not forget your messages to Tom Madison. My
love to your father and Aunt Catharine.'
'Good-bye, Mary; I shall see Tom and Chimborazo yet.'