THE AUNT AND THE UNCLE.
Miss Marrable heard the story of the Captain's loss in perfect
silence. Mary told it craftily, with a smile on her face, as though
she were but slightly affected by it, and did not think very much on
the change it might effect in her plans and those of her lover. "He
has been ill-treated; has he not?" she said.
"Very badly treated. I can't understand it, but it seems to me that
he has been most shamefully treated."
"He tried to explain it all to me; but I don't know that he
succeeded."
"Why did the lawyers deceive him?"
"I think he was a little rash there. He took what they told him for
more than it was worth. There was some woman who said that she would
resign her claim; but when they came to look into it, she too had
signed some papers and the money was all gone. He could recover it
from his father by law, only that his father has got nothing."
"And that is to be the end of it."
"That is the end of our five thousand pounds," said Mary, forcing
a little laugh. Miss Marrable for a few moments made no reply. She
sat fidgety in her seat, feeling that it was her duty to explain to
Mary what must, in her opinion, be the inevitable result of this
misfortune, and yet not knowing how to begin her task. Mary was
partly aware of what was coming, and had fortified herself to reject
all advice, to assert her right to do as she pleased with herself,
and to protest that she cared nothing for the prudent views of
worldly-minded people. But she was afraid of what was coming. She
knew that arguments would be used which she would find it very
difficult to answer; and, although she had settled upon certain
strong words which she would speak, she felt that she would be
driven at last to quarrel with her aunt. On one thing she was quite
resolved. Nothing should induce her to give up her engagement,--short
of the expression of a wish to that effect from Walter Marrable
himself.
"How will this affect you, dear?" said Miss Marrable at last.
"I should have been a poor man's wife any how. Now I shall be the
wife of a very poor man. I suppose that will be the effect."
"What will he do?"
"He has, aunt, made up his mind to go to India."
"Has he made up his mind to anything else?"
"Of course, I know what you mean, aunt?"
"Why should you not know? I mean, that a man going out to India, and
intending to live there as an officer on his pay, cannot be in want
of a wife."
"You speak of a wife as if she were the same as a coach-and-four, or
a box at the opera,--a sort of luxury for rich men. Marriage, aunt,
is like death, common to all."
"In our position in life, Mary, marriage cannot be made so common as
to be undertaken without foresight for the morrow. A poor gentleman
is further removed from marriage than any other man."
"One knows, of course, that there will be difficulties."
"What I mean, Mary, is, that you will have to give it up."
"Never, Aunt Sarah. I shall never give it up."
"Do you mean that you will marry him now, at once, and go out to
India with him, as a dead weight round his neck?"
"I mean that he shall choose about that."
"It is for you to choose, Mary. Don't be angry. I am bound to tell
you what I think. You can, of course, act as you please; but I think
that you ought to listen to me. He cannot go back from his engagement
without laying himself open to imputation of bad conduct."
"Nor can I."
"Pardon me, dear. That depends, I think, upon what passes between
you. It is at any rate for you to propose the release to him,--not to
fix him with the burthen of proposing it." Mary's heart quailed as
she heard this, but she did not show her feeling by any expression
on her face. "For a man, placed as he is, about to return to such a
climate as that of India, with such work before him as I suppose men
have there,--the burden of a wife, without the means of maintaining
her according to his views of life and hers--"
"We have no views of life. We know that we shall be poor."
"It is the old story of love and a cottage,--only under the most
unfavourable circumstances. A woman's view of it is, of course,
different from that of a man. He has seen more of the world, and
knows better than she does what poverty and a wife and family mean."
"There is no reason why we should be married at once."
"A long engagement for you would be absolutely disastrous."
"Of course, there is disaster," said Mary. "The loss of Walter's
money is disastrous. One has to put up with disaster. But the worst
of all disasters would be to be separated. I can stand anything but
that."
"It seems to me, Mary, that within the last few weeks your character
has become altogether altered."
"Of course it has."
"You used to think so much more of other people than yourself."
"Don't I think of him, Aunt Sarah?"
"As of a thing of your own. Two months ago you did not know him, and
now you are a millstone round his neck."
"I will never be a millstone round anybody's neck," said Mary,
walking out of the room. She felt that her aunt had been very cruel
to her,--had attacked her in her misery without mercy; and yet she
knew that every word that had been uttered had been spoken in pure
affection. She did not believe that her aunt's chief purpose had been
to save Walter from the fruits of an imprudent marriage. Had she
so believed, the words would have had more effect on her. She saw,
or thought that she saw, that her aunt was trying to save herself
against her own will, and at this she was indignant. She was
determined to persevere; and this endeavour to make her feel that
her perseverance would be disastrous to the man she loved was, she
thought, very cruel. She stalked upstairs with unruffled demeanour;
but when there, she threw herself on her bed and sobbed bitterly.
Could it be that it was her duty, for his sake, to tell him that the
whole thing should be at an end? It was impossible for her to do so
now, because she had sworn to him that she would be guided altogether
by him in his present troubles. She must keep her word to him,
whatever happened; but of this she was quite sure,--that if he should
show the slightest sign of a wish to be free from his engagement,
she would make him free--at once. She would make him free, and would
never allow herself to think for a moment that he had been wrong.
She had told him what her own feelings were very plainly,--perhaps,
in her enthusiasm, too plainly,--and now he must judge for himself
and for her. In respect to her aunt, she would endeavour to avoid
any further conversation on the subject till her lover should have
decided finally what would be best for both of them. If he should
choose to say that everything between them should be over, she would
acquiesce,--and all the world should be over for her at the same
time.
While this was going on in Uphill Lane something of the same kind was
taking place at the Lowtown Parsonage. Parson John became aware that
his nephew had been with the ladies at Uphill, and when the young
man came in for lunch, he asked some question which introduced the
subject. "You've told them of this fresh trouble, no doubt."
"I didn't see Miss Marrable," said the Captain.
"I don't know that Miss Marrable much signifies. You haven't asked
Miss Marrable to be your wife."
"I saw Mary, and I told her."
"I hope you made no bones about it."
"I don't know what you mean, sir."
"I hope you told her that you two had had your little game of play,
like two children, and that there must be an end of it."
"No; I didn't tell her that."
"That's what you have got to tell her in some kind of language, and
the sooner you do it the better. Of course you can't marry her. You
couldn't have done it if this money had been all right, and it's out
of the question now. Bless my soul! how you would hate each other
before six months were over. I can understand that for a strong
fellow like you, when he's used to it, India may be a jolly place
enough."
"It's a great deal more than I can understand."
"But for a poor man with a wife and family;--oh dear! it must be very
bad indeed. And neither of you have ever been used to that kind of
thing."
"I have not," said the Captain.
"Nor has she. That old lady up there is not rich, but she is as proud
as Lucifer, and always lives as though the whole place belonged to
her. She's a good manager, and she don't run in debt;--but Mary
Lowther knows no more of roughing it than a duchess."
"I hope I may never have to teach her."
"I trust you never may. It's a very bad lesson for a young man
to have to teach a young woman. Some women die in the learning.
Some won't learn it at all. Others do, and become dirty and rough
themselves. Now, you are very particular about women."
"I like to see them well turned out."
"What would you think of your own wife, nursing perhaps a couple of
babies, dressed nohow when she gets up in the morning, and going on
in the same way till night? That's the kind of life with officers who
marry on their pay. I don't say anything against it. If the man likes
it,--or rather if he's able to put up with it,--it may be all very
well; but you couldn't put up with it. Mary's very nice now, but
you'd come to be so sick of her, that you'd feel half like cutting
her throat,--or your own."
"It would be the latter for choice, sir."
"I dare say it would. But even that isn't a pleasant thing to look
forward to. I'll tell you the truth about it, my boy. When you first
came to me and told me that you were going to marry Mary Lowther, I
knew it could not be. It was no business of mine; but I knew it could
not be. Such engagements always get themselves broken off somehow.
Now and again there are a pair of fools who go through with it;--but
for the most part it's a matter of kissing and lovers' vows for a
week or two."
"You seem to know all about it, Uncle John."
"I haven't lived to be seventy without knowing something, I suppose.
And now here you are without a shilling. I dare say, if the truth
were known, you've a few debts here and there."
"I may owe three or four hundred pounds or so."
"As much as a year's income;--and you talk of marrying a girl without
a farthing."
"She has twelve hundred pounds."
"Just enough to pay your own debts, and take you out to India,--so
that you may start without a penny. Is that the sort of career that
will suit you, Walter? Can you trust yourself to that kind of thing,
with a wife under your arm? If you were a man of fortune, no doubt
Mary would make a very nice wife; but, as it is,--you must give it
up."
Whereupon Captain Marrable lit a pipe and took himself into the
parson's garden, thence into the stables and stable-yard, and again
back to the garden, thinking of all this. There was not a word spoken
by Parson John which Walter did not know to be true. He had already
come to the conclusion that he must go out to India before he
married. As for marrying Mary at once and taking her with him this
winter, that was impossible. He must go and look about him;--and as
he thought of this he was forced to acknowledge to himself that he
regarded the delay as a reprieve. The sooner the better had been
Mary's view with him. Though he was loath enough to entertain the
idea of giving her up, he was obliged to confess that, like the
condemned man, he desired a long day. There was nothing happy before
him in the whole prospect of his life. Of course he loved Mary. He
loved her very dearly. He loved her so dearly, that to have her taken
from him would be to have his heart plucked asunder. So he swore to
himself;--and yet he was in doubt whether it would not be better that
his heart should be plucked asunder, than that she should be made to
live in accordance with those distasteful pictures which his uncle
had drawn for him. Of himself he would not think at all. Everything
must be bad for him. What happiness could a man expect who had been
misused, cheated, and mined by his own father? For himself it did not
much matter what became of him; but he began to doubt whether for
Mary's sake it would not be well that they should be separated. And
then Mary had thrust upon him the whole responsibility of a decision!