THE LAST DAY.
[Illustration]
The parson's visit to the mill was on a Saturday. The next Sunday
passed by very quietly, and nothing was seen of Mr. Gilmore at the
Vicarage. He was at church, and walked with the two ladies from the
porch to their garden gate, but he declined Mrs. Fenwick's invitation
to lunch, and was not seen again on that day. The parson had sent
word to Fanny Brattle during the service to stop a few minutes for
him, and had learned from her that Sam had not been at home last
night. He had also learned, before the service that morning, that
very early on the Saturday, probably about four o'clock, two men
had passed through Paul's Hinton with a huxter's cart and a pony.
Now Paul's Hinton, or Hinton Saint Paul's as it should be properly
called, was a long straggling village, six miles from Bullhampton,
and half-way on the road to Market Lavington, to which latter place
Sam had told his sister that he was going. Putting these things
together, Mr. Fenwick did not in the least doubt but the two men in
the cart were they who had been introduced to his garden by young
Brattle.
"I only hope," said the parson, "that there's a good surgeon at
Market Lavington. One of the gentlemen in that cart must have wanted
him, I take it." Then he thought that it might, perhaps, be worth his
while to trot over to Lavington in the course of the week, and make
inquiries.
On the Wednesday Mary Lowther was to go back to Loring. This seemed
like a partial break-up of their establishment, both to the parson
and his wife. Fenwick had made up his mind that Mary was to be his
nearest neighbour for life, and had fallen into the way of treating
her accordingly, telling her of things in the parish as he might have
done to the Squire's wife, presuming the Squire's wife to have been
on the best possible terms with him. He now regarded Mary as being
almost an impostor. She had taken him in and obtained his confidence
under false pretences. It was true that she might still come and
fill the place that he had appointed for her. He rather thought
that at last she would do so. But he was angry with her because she
hesitated. She was creating an unnecessary disturbance among them.
She had, he thought, been now wooed long enough, and, as he told his
wife more than once, was making an ass of herself. Mrs. Fenwick was
not quite so hard in her judgment, but she also was tempted to be a
little angry. She loved her friend Mary a great deal better than she
loved Mr. Gilmore, but she was thoroughly convinced that Mary could
not do better than accept a man whom she owned that she liked,--whom
she, at any rate, liked so well that she had not as yet rejected him.
Therefore, although Mary was going, they were, both of them, rather
savage with her.
The Monday passed by, also very quietly, and Mr. Gilmore did not come
to them, but he had sent a note to tell them that he would walk down
on the Tuesday evening to say good-bye to Miss Lowther. Early on
the Wednesday Mr. Fenwick was to drive her to Westbury, whence the
railway would take her round by Chippenham and Swindon to Loring. On
the Tuesday morning she was very melancholy. Though she knew that it
was right to go away, she greatly regretted that it was necessary.
She was angry with herself for not having better known her own mind,
and though she was quite sure that were Mr. Gilmore to repeat his
offer to her that moment, she would not accept it, nevertheless she
thought ill of herself because she would not do so. "I do believe,"
she said to herself, "that I shall never like any man better." She
knew well enough that if she was never brought to love any man, she
never ought to marry any man; but she was not quite sure whether
Janet was not right in telling her that she had formed erroneous
notions of the sort of love she ought to feel for the man whom she
should resolve to accept. Perhaps it was true that that kind of
adoration which Janet entertained for her husband was a feeling which
came after marriage--a feeling which would spring up in her own heart
as soon as she was the man's own wife, the mistress of his house, the
mother of his children, the one human being for whose welfare he was
solicitous beyond that of all others. And this man did love her. She
had no doubt about that. And she was unhappy, too, because she felt
that she had offended his friends, and that they thought that she was
not treating their friend well.
"Janet," she said, as they were again sitting out on the lawn, on
that Tuesday afternoon, "I am almost sorry that I came here at all."
"Don't say that, dear."
"I have spent some of the happiest days of my life here, but the
visit, on the whole, has been unfortunate. I am going away in
disgrace. I feel that so acutely."
"What nonsense! How are you in disgrace?"
"Mr. Fenwick and you think that I have behaved badly. I know you do,
and I feel it so strongly! I think so much of him, and believe him to
be so good, and so wise, and so understanding,--he knows what people
should do, and should be, so well,--that I cannot doubt that I have
been wrong if he thinks so."
"He only wishes that you could have made up your mind to marry a most
worthy man, who is his friend, and who, by marrying you, would have
fixed you close to us. He wishes it still, and so do I."
"But he thinks that I have been--have been mopish, and
lack-a-daisical, and--and--almost untrue. I can hear it in the tone
of his voice, and see it in his eye. I can tell it from the way he
shakes hands with me in the morning. He is such a true man that I
know in a moment what he means at all times. I am going away under
his displeasure, and I wish I had never come."
"Return as Mrs. Gilmore, and all his displeasure will disappear."
"Yes, because he would forgive me. He would say to himself that, as
I had repented, I might be taken back to his grace; but as things are
at present he condemns me. And so do you."
"If you ask me, Mary, I must tell the truth. I don't think you know
your own mind."
"Suppose I don't, is that disgraceful?"
"But there comes a time when a girl should know her own mind. You are
giving this poor fellow an enormous deal of unnecessary trouble."
"I have known my own mind so far as to tell him that I could not
marry him."
"As far as I understand, Mary, you have always told him to wait a
little longer."
"I have never asked him to wait, Janet;--never. It is he who says
that he will wait; and what can I answer when he says so? All the
same I don't mean to defend myself. I do believe that I have been
wrong, and I wish that I had never come here. It sounds ungrateful,
but I do. It is so dreadful to feel that I have incurred the
displeasure of people that I love so dearly."
"There is no displeasure, Mary; the word is a good deal too strong.
I wonder what you'll think of all this when the parson and his wife
come up on future Sundays to dine with the Squire and his lady. I
have long since made up my mind that when afternoon service is over,
we ought to go up and be made much of at the Privets; and you're
putting all this off till I'm an old woman--for a chimera. It's about
our Sunday dinners that I'm angry. Flo, my darling, what a face you
have got. Do come and sit still for a few minutes, or you'll be in a
fever." While Mrs. Fenwick was wiping her girl's brow, and smoothing
her ringlets, Mary walked off to the orchard by herself. There was a
broad green path which made the circuit of it, and she took the round
twice, pausing at the bottom to look at the spot from which she had
tumbled into the river. What a trouble she had been to them all! She
was thoroughly dissatisfied with herself; especially so because she
had fallen into those very difficulties which from early years she
had resolved that she would avoid. She had made up her mind that she
would not flirt, that she would never give a right to any man--or to
any woman--to call her a coquette; that if love and a husband came
in her way she would take them thankfully, and that if they did not,
she would go on her path quietly, if possible, feeling no uneasiness,
and certainly showing none, because the joys of a married life did
not belong to her. But now she had gotten herself into a mess, and
she could not tell herself that it was not her own fault. Then she
resolved again that in future she would go right. It could not but
be that a woman could keep herself from floundering in these messes
of half-courtship,--of courtship on one side, and doubt on the
other,--if she would persistently adhere to some safe rule. Her
rejection of Mr. Gilmore ought to have been unhesitating and certain
from the first. She was sure of that now. She had been guilty of
an absurdity in supposing that because the man had been in earnest,
therefore she had been justified in keeping him in suspense, for his
own sake. She had been guilty of an absurdity, and also of great
self-conceit. She could do nothing now but wait till she should hear
from him,--and then answer him steadily. After what had passed she
could not go to him and declare that it was all over. He was coming
to-night, and she was nearly sure that he would not say a word to her
on the subject. If he did,--if he renewed his offer,--then she would
speak out. It was hardly possible that he should do so, and therefore
the trouble which she had created must remain.
As she thus resolved, she was leaning over the gate looking into the
churchyard, not much observing the graves or the monuments or the
beautiful old ivy-covered tower, or thinking of the dead that were
lying there, or of the living who prayed there; but swearing to
herself that for the rest of her life she would keep clear of, what
she called, girlish messes. Like other young ladies she had read much
poetry and many novels; but her sympathies had never been with young
ladies who could not go straight through with their love affairs,
from the beginning to the end, without flirtation of either an inward
or an outward nature. Of all her heroines, Rosalind was the one she
liked the best, because from the first moment of her passion she knew
herself and what she was about, and loved her lover right heartily.
Of all girls in prose or poetry she declared that Rosalind was
the least of a flirt. She meant to have the man, and never had a
doubt about it. But with such a one as Flora MacIvor she had no
patience;--a girl who did and who didn't, who would and who wouldn't,
who could and who couldn't, and who of all flirts was to her the most
nauseous! As she was taking herself to task, accusing herself of
being a Flora without the poetry and romance to excuse her, Mr.
Fenwick came round from Farmer Trumbull's side of the church, and got
over the stile into the churchyard.
[Illustration: Mr. Fenwick came round from Farmer Trumbull's
side of the church, and got over the stile into the churchyard.]
"What, Mary, is that you gazing in so intently among your brethren
that were?"
"I was not thinking of them," she said, with a smile. "My mind was
intent on some of my brethren that are." Then there came a thought
across her, and she made a sudden decision. "Mr. Fenwick," she said,
"would you mind walking up and down the churchyard with me once or
twice? I have something to say to you, and I can say it now so well."
He opened the gate for her, and she joined him. "I want to beg your
pardon, and to get you to forgive me. I know you have been angry with
me."
"Hardly angry,--but vexed. As you ask me so frankly and prettily, I
will forgive you. There is my hand upon it. All evil thoughts against
you shall go out of my head. I shall still have my wishes, but I will
not be cross with you."
"You are so good, and so clearly honest. I declare I think Janet the
happiest woman that I ever heard of."
"Come, come; I didn't bargain for this kind of thing when I allowed
myself to be brought in here."
"But it is so. I did not stop you for that, however, but to
acknowledge that I have been wrong, and to ask you to pardon me."
"I will. I do. If there has been anything amiss, it shall not be
looked on again as amiss. But there has been only one thing amiss."
"And, Mr. Fenwick, will you do this for me? Will you tell him that I
was foolish to say that he might wait? Why should he wait? Of course
he should not wait. When I am gone, tell him so, and beg him to make
an end of it. I had not thought of it properly, or I would not have
allowed him to be tormented."
There was a pause after this, during which they walked half the
length of the path in silence. "No, Mary," he said, after a while; "I
will not tell him that."
"Why not, Mr. Fenwick?"
"Because it will not be for his good, or for mine, or for Janet's,
or, as I believe, for yours."
"Indeed, it will, for the good of us all."
"I think, Mary, you do not quite understand. There is not one among
us who does not wish that you should come here and be one of us;
a real, right down Bullompton 'ooman, as they say in the village.
I want you to be my wife's dearest friend, and my own nearest
neighbour. There is no man in the world whom I love as I do Harry
Gilmore, and I want you to be his wife. I have said to myself and
to Janet a score of times that you certainly would be so sooner or
later. My wrath has not come from your bidding him to wait, but from
your coldness in not taking him without waiting. You should remember
that we grow gray very quickly, Mary."
Here was the old story again,--the old story as she had heard it from
Harry Gilmore, but told as she had never expected to hear it from
the lips of Frank Fenwick. It amounted to this; that even he, Frank
Fenwick, bade her wait and try. But she had formed her resolution,
and she was not going to be turned aside, even by Frank Fenwick; "I
had thought that you would help me," she said, very slowly.
"So I will, with all my heart, towards the keys of the store closets
of the Privets, but not a step the other way. It has to be, Mary. He
is too much in earnest, and too good, and too fit for the place to
which he aspires, to miss his object. Come, we'll go in. Mind, you
and I are one again, let it go how it may. I will own that I have
been vexed for the last two days,--have been in a humour unbecoming
your departure to-morrow. I throw all that behind me. You and I are
dear friends,--are we not?"
"I do hope so, Mr. Fenwick?"
"There shall be no feather moulted between us. But as to operating
between you and Harry, with the view of keeping you apart, I decline
the commission. It is my assured belief that sooner or later he will
be your husband. Now we will go up to Janet, who will begin to think
herself a Penelope, if we desert her much longer."
Immediately after this Mary went up to dress for dinner. Should she
make up her mind to give way, and put on the blue ribbons which he
loved so well? She thought that she could tell him at once, if she
made up her mind in that direction. It would not, perhaps, be very
maidenly, but anything would be better than suspense,--than torment
to him. Then she took out her blue ribbons, and tried to go through
that ceremony of telling him. It was quite impossible. Were she to do
so, she would know no happiness again in this world, or probably in
the other. To do the thing, it would be necessary that she should lie
to him.
She came down in a simple white dress, without any ribbons, in
just the dress which she would have worn had Mr. Gilmore not been
coming. At dinner they were very merry. The word of command had gone
forth from Frank that Mary was to be forgiven, and Janet of course
obeyed. The usual courtesies of society demand that there shall be
civility--almost flattering civility--from host to guest, and from
guest to host; and yet how often does it occur that in the midst
of these courtesies there is something that tells of hatred, of
ridicule, or of scorn! How often does it happen that the guest knows
that he is disliked, or the host knows that he is a bore! In the last
two days Mary had felt that she was not cordially a welcome guest.
She had felt also that the reason was one against which she could not
contend. Now all that, at least, was over. Frank Fenwick's manner had
never been pleasanter to her than it was on this occasion, and Janet
followed the suit which her lord led.
They were again on the lawn between eight and nine o'clock when Harry
Gilmore came up to them. He was gracious enough in his salutation to
Mary Lowther, but no indifferent person would have thought that he
was her lover. He talked chiefly to Fenwick, and when they went in to
tea did not take a place on the sofa beside Mary. But after a while
he said something which told them all of his love.
"What do you think I've been doing to-day, Frank?"
"Getting your wheat down, I should hope."
"We begin that to-morrow. I never like to be quite the earliest at
that work, or yet the latest."
"Better be a day too early than a day too late, Harry."
"Never mind about that. I've been down with old Brattle."
"And what have you been doing with him?"
"I'm half ashamed, and yet I fancy I'm right."
As he said this he looked across to Mary Lowther, who no doubt was
watching every turn of his face from the corner of her eye. "I've
just been and knocked under, and told him that the old place shall be
put to rights."
"That's your doing, Mary," said Mrs. Fenwick, injudiciously.
"Oh, no; I'm sure it is not. Mr. Gilmore would only do such a thing
as that because it is proper."
"I don't know about it's being proper," said he. "I'm not quite sure
whether it is or not. I shall never get any interest for my money."
"Interest for one's money is not everything," said Mrs. Fenwick.
"Nevertheless, when one builds houses for other people to live in,
one has to look to it," said the parson.
"People say it's the prettiest spot in the parish," continued Mr.
Gilmore, "and as such it shouldn't be let go to ruin." Janet remarked
afterwards to her husband that Mary Lowther had certainly declared
that it was the prettiest spot in the parish, but that, as far as
her knowledge went, nobody else had ever said so. "And then, you see,
when I refused to spend money upon it, old Brattle had money of his
own, and it was his business to do it."
"He hasn't much now, I fear," said Mr. Fenwick.
"I fear not. His family has been very heavy on him. He paid money
to put two of his boys into trade who died afterwards, and then for
years he had either doctors or undertakers about the place. So I just
went down to him and told him I would do it."
"And how did he take it?"
"Like a bear, as he is. He would hardly speak to me, but went away
into the mill, telling me that I might settle it all with his wife.
It's going to be done, however. I shall have the estimate next week,
and I suppose it will cost me two or three hundred pounds. The mill
is worse than the house, I take it."
"I am so glad it is to be done," said Mary. After that Mr. Gilmore
did not in the least begrudge his two or three hundred pounds. But he
said not a word to Mary, just pressed her hand at parting, and left
her subject to a possibility of a reversal of her sentence at the end
of the stated period.
On the next morning Mr. Fenwick drove her in his little open phaeton
to the station at Westbury. "You are to come back to us, you know,"
said Mrs. Fenwick, "and remember how anxiously I am waiting for my
Sunday dinners." Mary said not a word, but as she was driven round
in front of the church she looked up at the dear old tower, telling
herself that, in all probability, she would never see it again.
"I have just one thing to say, Mary," said the parson, as he walked
up and down the platform with her at Westbury; "you are to remember
that, whatever happens, there is always a home for you at Bullhampton
when you choose to come to it. I am not speaking of the Privets now,
but of the Vicarage."
"How very good you are to me!"
"And so are you to us. Dear friends should be good to each other.
God bless you, dear." From thence she made her way home to Loring by
herself.