"IT IS IMPOSSIBLE."
THE absence of Dr. and Mrs. Wortle was peculiarly unfortunate on that
afternoon, as a visitor rode over from a distance to make a call,--a
visitor whom they both would have been very glad to welcome, but of whose
coming Mrs. Wortle was not so delighted to hear when she was told by Mary
that he had spent two or three hours at the Rectory. Mrs. Wortle began to
think whether the visitor could have known of her intended absence and the
Doctor's. That Mary had not known that the visitor was coming she was
quite certain. Indeed she did not really suspect the visitor, who was one
too ingenuous in his nature to preconcert so subtle and so wicked a
scheme. The visitor, of course, had been Lord Carstairs.
"Was he here long?" asked Mrs. Wortle anxiously.
"Two or three hours, mamma. He rode over from Buttercup where he is
staying, for a cricket match, and of course I got him some lunch."
"I should hope so," said the Doctor. "But I didn't think that Carstairs
was so fond of the Momson lot as all that."
Mrs. Wortle at once doubted the declared purpose of this visit to
Buttercup. Buttercup was more than half-way between Carstairs and Bowick.
"And then we had a game of lawn-tennis. Talbot and Monk came through to
make up sides." So much Mary told at once, but she did not tell more
till she was alone with her mother.
Young Carstairs had certainly not come over on the sly, as we may call it,
but nevertheless there had been a project in his mind, and fortune had
favoured him. He was now about nineteen, and had been treated for the
last twelve months almost as though he had been a man. It had seemed to
him that there was no possible reason why he should not fall in love as
well as another. Nothing more sweet, nothing more lovely, nothing more
lovable than Mary Wortle had he ever seen. He had almost made up his mind
to speak on two or three occasions before he left Bowick; but either his
courage or the occasion had failed him. Once, as he was walking home with
her from church, he had said one word;--but it had amounted to nothing.
She had escaped from him before she was bound to understand what he meant.
He did not for a moment suppose that she had understood anything. He was
only too much afraid that she regarded him as a mere boy. But when he had
been away from Bowick two months he resolved that he would not be regarded
as a mere boy any longer. Therefore he took an opportunity of going to
Buttercup, which he certainly would not have done for the sake of the
Momsons or for the sake of the cricket.
He ate his lunch before he said a word, and then, with but poor grace,
submitted to the lawn-tennis with Talbot and Monk. Even to his youthful
mind it seemed that Talbot and Monk were brought in on purpose. They were
both of them boys he had liked, but he hated them now. However, he played
his game, and when that was over, managed to get rid of them, sending them
back through the gate to the school-ground.
"I think I must say good-bye now," said Mary, "because there are ever so
many things in the house which I have got to do."
"I am going almost immediately," said the young lord.
"Papa will be so sorry not to have seen you." This had been said once or
twice before.
"I came over," he said, "on purpose to see you."
They were now standing on the middle of the lawn, and Mary had assumed a
look which intended to signify that she expected him to go. He knew the
place well enough to get his own horse, or to order the groom to get it
for him. But instead of that, he stood his ground, and now declared his
purpose.
"To see me, Lord Carstairs!"
"Yes, Miss Wortle. And if the Doctor had been here, or your mother, I
should have told them."
"Have told them what?" she asked. She knew; she felt sure that she knew;
and yet she could not refrain from the question.
"I have come here to ask if you can love me."
It was a most decided way of declaring his purpose, and one which made
Mary feel that a great difficulty was at once thrown upon her. She really
did not know whether she could love him or not. Why shouldn't she have
been able to love him? Was it not natural enough that she should be able?
But she knew that she ought not to love him, whether able or not. There
were various reasons which were apparent enough to her though it might be
very difficult to make him see them. He was little more than a boy, and
had not yet finished his education. His father and mother would not
expect him to fall in love, at any rate till he had taken his degree. And
they certainly would not expect him to fall in love with the daughter of
his tutor. She had an idea that, circumstanced as she was, she was bound
by loyalty both to her own father and to the lad's father not to be able
to love him. She thought that she would find it easy enough to say that
she did not love him; but that was not the question. As for being able to
love him,--she could not answer that at all.
"Lord Carstairs," she said, severely, "you ought not to have come here
when papa and mamma are away."
"I didn't know they were away. I expected to find them here."
"But they ain't. And you ought to go away."
"Is that all you can say to me?"
"I think it is. You know you oughtn't to talk to me like that. Your own
papa and mamma would be angry if they knew it."
"Why should they be angry? Do you think that I shall not tell them?"
"I am sure they would disapprove it altogether," said Mary. "In fact it
is all nonsense, and you really must go away."
Then she made a decided attempt to enter the house by the drawing-room
window, which opened out on a gravel terrace.
But he stopped her, standing boldly by the window. "I think you ought to
give me an answer, Mary," he said.
"I have; and I cannot say anything more. You must let me go in."
"If they say that it's all right at Carstairs, then will you love me?"
"They won't say that it's all right; and papa won't think that it's right.
It's very wrong. You haven't been to Oxford yet, and you'll have to
remain there for three years. I think it's very ill-natured of you to
come and talk to me like this. Of course it means nothing. You are only
a boy, but yet you ought to know better."
"It does mean something. It means a great deal. As for being a boy, I am
older than you are, and have quite as much right to know my own mind."
Hereupon she took advantage of some little movement in his position, and,
tripping by him hastily, made good her escape into the house. Young
Carstairs, perceiving that his occasion for the present was over, went
into the yard and got upon his horse. He was by no means contented with
what he had done, but still he thought that he must have made her
understand his purpose.
Mary, when she found herself safe within her own room, could not refrain
from asking herself the question which her lover had asked her. "Could
she love him?" She didn't see any reason why she couldn't love him. It
would be very nice, she thought, to love him. He was sweet-tempered,
handsome, bright, and thoroughly good-humoured; and then his position in
the world was very high. Not for a moment did she tell herself that she
would love him. She did not understand all the differences in the world's
ranks quite as well as did her father, but still she felt that because of
his rank,--because of his rank and his youth combined,--she ought not to
allow herself to love him. There was no reason why the son of a peer
should not marry the daughter of a clergyman. The peer and the clergyman
might be equally gentlemen. But young Carstairs had been there in trust.
Lord Bracy had sent him there to be taught Latin and Greek, and had a
right to expect that he should not be encouraged to fall in love with his
tutor's daughter. It was not that she did not think herself good enough
to be loved by any young lord, but that she was too good to bring trouble
on the people who had trusted her father. Her father would despise her
were he to hear that she had encouraged the lad, or as some might say, had
entangled him. She did not know whether she should not have spoken to
Lord Carstairs more decidedly. But she could, at any rate, comfort
herself with the assurance that she had given him no encouragement. Of
course she must tell it all to her mother, but in doing so could declare
positively that she had given the young man no encouragement.
"It was very unfortunate that Lord Carstairs should have come just when I
was away," said Mrs. Wortle to her daughter as soon as they were alone
together.
"Yes, mamma; it was."
"And so odd. I haven't been away from home any day all the summer
before."
"He expected to find you."
"Of course he did. Had he anything particular to say!"
"Yes, mamma."
"He had? What was it, my dear?"
"I was very much surprised, mamma, but I couldn't help it. He asked
me----"
"Asked you what, Mary?"
"Oh, mamma!" Here she knelt down and hid her face in her mother's lap.
"Oh, my dear, this is very bad;--very bad indeed."
"It needn't be bad for you, mamma; or for papa."
"Is it bad for you, my child?"
"No, mamma; except of course that I am sorry that it should be so."
"What did you say to him?"
"Of course I told him that it was impossible. He is only a boy, and I
told him so."
"You made him no promise."
"No, mamma; no! A promise! Oh dear no! Of course it is impossible. I
knew that. I never dreamed of anything of the kind; but he said it all
there out on the lawn."
"Had he come on purpose?"
"Yes;--so he said. I think he had. But he will go to Oxford, and will of
course forget it."
"He is such a nice boy," said Mrs. Wortle, who, in all her anxiety, could
not but like the lad the better for having fallen in love with her
daughter.
"Yes, mamma; he is. I always liked him. But this is quite out of the
question. What would his papa and mamma say?"
"It would be very dreadful to have a quarrel, wouldn't it,--and just at
present, when there are so many things to trouble your papa." Though Mrs.
Wortle was quite honest and true in the feeling she had expressed as to
the young lord's visit, yet she was alive to the glory of having a young
lord for her son-in-law.
"Of course it is out of the question, mamma. It has never occurred to me
for a moment as otherwise. He has got to go to Oxford and take his degree
before he thinks of such a thing. I shall be quite an old woman by that
time, and he will have forgotten me. You may be sure, mamma, that
whatever I did say to him was quite plain. I wish you could have been
here and heard it all, and seen it all."
"My darling," said the mother, embracing her, "I could not believe you
more thoroughly even though I saw it all, and heard it all."
That night Mrs. Wortle felt herself constrained to tell the whole story to
her husband. It was indeed impossible for her to keep any secret from her
husband. When Mary, in her younger years, had torn her frock or cut her
finger, that was always told to the Doctor. If a gardener was seen idling
his time, or a housemaid flirting with the groom, that certainly would be
told to the Doctor. What comfort does a woman get out of her husband
unless she may be allowed to talk to him about everything? When it had
been first proposed that Lord Carstairs should come into the house as a
private pupil she had expressed her fear to the Doctor,--because of Mary.
The Doctor had ridiculed her fears, and this had been the result. Of
course she must tell the Doctor. "Oh, dear," she said, "what do you think
has happened while we were up in London?"
"Carstairs was here."
"Oh, yes; he was here. He came on purpose to make a regular declaration
of love to Mary."
"Nonsense."
"But he did, Jeffrey."
"How do you know he came on purpose."
"He told her so."
"I did not think the boy had so much spirit in him," said the Doctor.
This was a way of looking at it which Mrs. Wortle had not expected. Her
husband seemed rather to approve than otherwise of what had been done. At
any rate, he had expressed none of that loud horror which she had
expected. "Nevertheless," continued the Doctor, "he's a stupid fool for
his pains."
"I don't know that he is a fool," said Mrs. Wortle.
"Yes; he is. He is not yet twenty, and he has all Oxford before him. How
did Mary behave?"
"Like an angel," said Mary's mother.
"That's of course. You and I are bound to believe so. But what did she
do, and what did she say?"
"She told him that it was simply impossible."
"So it is,--I'm afraid. She at any rate was bound to give him no
encouragement."
"She gave him none. She feels quite strongly that it is altogether
impossible. What would Lord Bracy say?"
"If Carstairs were but three or four years older," said the Doctor,
proudly, "Lord Bracy would have much to be thankful for in the attachment
on the part of his son, if it were met by a return of affection on the
part of my daughter. What better could he want?"
"But he is only a boy," said Mrs. Wortle.
"No; that's where it is. And Mary was quite right to tell him that it is
impossible. It is impossible. And I trust, for her sake, that his words
have not touched her young heart."
"Oh, no," said Mrs. Wortle.
"Had it been otherwise how could we have been angry with the child?"
Now this did seem to the mother to be very much in contradiction to that
which the Doctor had himself said when she had whispered to him that Lord
Carstairs's coming might be dangerous. "I was afraid of it, as you know,"
said she.
"His character has altered during the last twelve months."
"I suppose when boys grow into men it is so with them."
"Not so quickly," said the Doctor. "A boy when he leaves Eton is not
generally thinking of these things."
"A boy at Eton is not thrown into such society," said Mrs. Wortle.
"I suppose his being here and seeing Mary every day has done it. Poor
Mary!"
"I don't think she is poor at all," said Mary's mother.
"I am afraid she must not dream of her young lover."
"Of course she will not dream of him. She has never entertained any idea
of the kind. There never was a girl with less nonsense of that kind than
Mary. When Lord Carstairs spoke to her to-day I do not suppose she had
thought about him more than any other boy that has been here."
"But she will think now."
"No;--not in the least. She knows it is impossible."
"Nevertheless she will think about it. And so will you."
"I!"
"Yes,--why not? Why should you be different from other mothers? Why
should I not think about it as other fathers might do? It is impossible.
I wish it were not. For Mary's sake, I wish he were three or four years
older. But he is as he is, and we know that it is impossible.
Nevertheless, it is natural that she should think about him. I only hope
that she will not think about him too much." So saying he closed the
conversation for that night.
Mary did not think very much about "it" in such a way as to create
disappointment. She at once realised the impossibilities, so far as to
perceive that the young lord was the top brick of the chimney as far as
she was concerned. The top brick of the chimney may be very desirable,
but one doesn't cry for it, because it is unattainable. Therefore Mary
did not in truth think of loving her young lover. He had been to her a
very nice boy; and so he was still; that;--that, and nothing more. Then
had come this little episode in her life which seemed to lend it a gentle
tinge of romance. But had she inquired of her bosom she would have
declared that she had not been in love. With her mother there was perhaps
something of regret. But it was exactly the regret which may be felt in
reference to the top brick. It would have been so sweet had it been
possible; but then it was so evidently impossible.
With the Doctor the feeling was somewhat different. It was not quite so
manifest to him that this special brick was altogether unattainable, nor
even that it was quite at the top of the chimney. There was no reason why
his daughter should not marry an earl's son and heir. No doubt the lad
had been confided to him in trust. No doubt it would have been his duty
to have prevented anything of the kind, had anything of the kind seemed to
him to be probable. Had there been any moment in which the duty had
seemed to him to be a duty, he would have done it, even though it had been
necessary to caution the Earl to take his son away from Bowick. But there
had been nothing of the kind. He had acted in the simplicity of his
heart, and this had been the result. Of course it was impossible. He
acknowledged to himself that it was so, because of the necessity of those
Oxford studies and those long years which would be required for the taking
of the degree. But to his thinking there was no other ground for saying
that it was impossible. The thing must stand as it was. If this youth
should show himself to be more constant than other youths,--which was not
probable,--and if, at the end of three or four years, Mary should not have
given her heart to any other lover,--which was also improbable,--why,
then, it might come to pass that he should some day find himself
father-in-law to the future Earl Bracy. Though Mary did not think of it,
nor Mrs. Wortle, he thought of it,--so as to give an additional interest
to these disturbed days.