WHAT MR. GILMORE THOUGHT ABOUT IT.
Mr. Gilmore was standing on the doorsteps of his own house when
Mary's letter was brought to him. It was a modest-sized country
gentleman's residence, built of variegated uneven stones, black and
grey and white, which seemed to be chiefly flint; but the corners
and settings of the windows and of the door-ways, and the chimneys,
were of brick. There was something sombre about it, and many perhaps
might call it dull of aspect; but it was substantial, comfortable,
and unassuming. It was entered by broad stone steps, with iron
balustrades curving outwards as they descended, and there was an open
area round the house, showing that the offices were in the basement.
In these days it was a quiet house enough, as Mr. Gilmore was a man
not much given to the loudness of bachelor parties. He entertained
his neighbours at dinner perhaps once a month, and occasionally
had a few guests staying with him. His uncle, the prebendary from
Salisbury, was often with him, and occasionally a brother who was in
the army. For the present, however, he was much more inclined, when
in want of society, to walk off to the Vicarage than to provide it
for himself at home. When Mary's letter was handed to him with his
"Times" and other correspondence, he looked, as everybody does, at
the address, and at once knew that it came from Mary Lowther. He
had never hitherto received a letter from her, but yet he knew her
handwriting well. Without waiting a moment, he turned upon his heel,
and went back into his house, and through the hall to the library.
When there, he first opened three other letters, two from tradesmen
in London, and one from his uncle, offering to come to him on the
next Monday. Then he opened the "Times," and cut it, and put it down
on the table. Mary's letter meanwhile was in his hand, and anyone
standing by might have thought that he had forgotten it. But he
had not forgotten it, nor was it out of his mind for a moment.
While looking at the other letters, while cutting the paper, while
attempting, as he did, to read the news, he was suffering under the
dread of the blow that was coming. He was there for twenty minutes
before he dared to break the envelope; and though during the whole of
that time he pretended to deceive himself by some employment, he knew
that he was simply postponing an evil thing that was coming to him.
At last he cut the letter open, and stood for some moments looking
for courage to read it. He did read it, and then sat himself down in
his chair, telling himself that the thing was over, and that he would
bear it as a man. He took up his newspaper, and began to study it. It
was the time of the year when newspapers are not very interesting,
but he made a rush at the leading articles, and went through two of
them. Then he turned over to the police reports. He sat there for an
hour, and read hard during the whole time. Then he got up and shook
himself, and knew that he was a crippled man, with every function out
of order, disabled in every limb. He walked from the library into the
hall, and thence to the dining-room, and so, backwards and forwards,
for a quarter of an hour. At last he could walk no longer, and,
closing the door of the library behind him, he threw himself on a
sofa and cried like a woman.
What was it that he wanted, and why did he want it? Were there not
other women whom the world would say were as good? Was it ever known
that a man had died, or become irretrievably broken and destroyed by
disappointed love? Was it not one of those things that a man should
shake off from him, and have done with it? He asked himself these,
and many such-like questions, and tried to philosophise with himself
on the matter. Had he no will of his own, by which he might conquer
this enemy? No; he had no will of his own, and the enemy would not be
conquered. He had to tell himself that he was so poor a thing that he
could not stand up against the evil that had fallen on him.
He walked out round his shrubberies and paddocks, and tried to take
an interest in the bullocks and the horses. He knew that if every
bullock and horse about the place had been struck dead it would not
enhance his misery. He had not had much hope before, but now he would
have seen the house of Hampton Privets in flames, just for the chance
that had been his yesterday. It was not only that he wanted her, or
that he regretted the absence of some recognised joys which she would
have brought to him; but that the final decision on her part seemed
to take from him all vitality, all power of enjoyment, all that
inward elasticity which is necessary for an interest in worldly
affairs.
He had as yet hardly thought of anything but himself;--had hardly
observed the name of his successful rival, or paid any attention to
aught but the fact that she had told him that it was all over. He
had not attempted to make up his mind whether anything could still
be done, whether he might yet have a chance, whether it would be
well for him to quarrel with the man; whether he should be indignant
with her, or remonstrate once again in regard to her cruelty. He had
thought only of the blow, and of his inability to support it. Would
it not be best that he should go forth, and blow out his brains, and
have done with it?
He did not look at the letter again till he had returned to the
library. Then he took it from his pocket, and read it very carefully.
Yes, she had been quick about it. Why; how long had it been since she
had left their parish? It was still October, and she had been there
just before the murder--only the other day! Captain Walter Marrable!
No; he didn't think he had ever heard of him. Some fellow with a
moustache and a military strut--just the man that he had always
hated; one of a class which, with nothing real to recommend it, is
always interfering with the happiness of everybody. It was in some
such light as this that Mr. Gilmore at present regarded Captain
Marrable. How could such a man make a woman happy,--a fellow who
probably had no house nor home in which to make her comfortable?
Staying with his uncle the clergyman! Poor Gilmore expressed a
wish that the uncle the clergyman had been choked before he had
entertained such a guest. Then he read the concluding sentence of
poor Mary's letter, in which she expressed a hope that they might be
friends. Was there ever such cold-blooded trash? Friends indeed! What
sort of friendship could there be between two persons, one of whom
had made the other so wretched,--so dead as was he at present!
For some half-hour he tried to comfort himself with an idea that he
could get hold of Captain Marrable and maul him; that it would be a
thing permissible for him, a magistrate, to go forth with a whip and
flog the man, and then perhaps shoot him, because the man had been
fortunate in love where he had been unfortunate. But he knew the
world in which he lived too well to allow himself long to think that
this could really be done. It might be that it would be a better
world were such revenge practicable in it; but, as he well knew, it
was not practicable now, and if Mary Lowther chose to give herself to
this accursed Captain, he could not help it. There was nothing that
he could do but to go away and chafe at his suffering in some part of
the world in which nobody would know that he was chafing.
When the evening came, and he found that his solitude was terribly
oppressive to him, he thought that he would go down to the Vicarage.
He had been told by that false one that her tidings had been sent to
her friend. He took his hat and sauntered out across the fields, and
did walk as far as the churchyard gate close to poor Mr. Trumbull's
farm, the very spot on which he had last seen Mary Lowther; but when
he was there he could not endure to go through to the Vicarage. There
is something mean to a man in the want of success in love. If a
man lose a venture of money he can tell his friend; or if he be
unsuccessful in trying for a seat in parliament; or be thrown out of
a run in the hunting-field; or even if he be blackballed for a club;
but a man can hardly bring himself to tell his dearest comrade that
his Mary has preferred another man to himself. This wretched fact
the Fenwicks already knew as to poor Gilmore's Mary; and yet, though
he had come down there, hoping for some comfort, he did not dare to
face them. He went back all alone, and tumbled and tossed and fretted
through the miserable night.
And the next morning was as bad. He hung about the place till about
four, utterly crushed by his burden. It was a Saturday, and when the
postman called no letter had yet been even written in answer to his
uncle's proposition. He was moping about the grounds, with his hands
in his pockets, thinking of this, when suddenly Mrs. Fenwick appeared
in the path before him. There had been another consultation that
morning between herself and her husband, and this visit was the
result of it. He dashed at the matter immediately.
"You have come," he said, "to talk to me about Mary Lowther."
"I have come to say a word, if I can, to comfort you. Frank bade me
to come."
[Illustration: "I have come to say a word, if I can, to
comfort you."]
"There isn't any comfort," he replied.
"We knew that it would be hard to bear, my friend," she said, putting
her hand within his arm; "but there is comfort."
"There can be none for me. I had set my heart upon it so that I
cannot forget it."
"I know you had, and so had we. Of course there will be sorrow, but
it will wear off." He shook his head without speaking. "God is too
good," she continued, "to let such troubles remain with us long."
"You think, then," he said, "that there is no chance?"
What could she say to him? How, under the circumstances of Mary's
engagement, could she encourage his love for her friend?
"I know that there is none," he continued. "I feel, Mrs. Fenwick,
that I do not know what to do with myself or how to hold myself. Of
course it is nonsense to talk about dying, but I do feel as though if
I didn't die I should go crazy. I can't settle my mind to a single
thing."
"It is fresh with you yet, Harry," she said. She had never called him
Harry before, though her husband did so always, and now she used the
name in sheer tenderness.
"I don't know why such a thing should be different with me than with
other people," he said; "only perhaps I am weaker. But I've known
from the very first that I have staked everything upon her. I have
never questioned to myself that I was going for all or nothing.
I have seen it before me all along, and now it has come. Oh, Mrs.
Fenwick, if God would strike me dead this moment, it would be a
mercy!" And then he threw himself on the ground at her feet. He was
not there a moment before he was up again. "If you knew how I despise
myself for all this, how I hate myself!"
She would not leave him, but stayed there till he consented to come
down with her to the Vicarage. He should dine there, and Frank
should walk back with him at night. As to that question of Mr.
Chamberlaine's visit, respecting which Mrs. Fenwick did not feel
herself competent to give advice herself, it should become matter of
debate between them and Frank, and then a man and horse could be sent
to Salisbury on Sunday morning. As he walked down to the Vicarage
with that pretty woman at his elbow, things perhaps were a little
better with him.