FEMALE MARTYRDOM.
Early in February Captain Marrable went to Dunripple to stay with
his uncle, Sir Gregory, and there he still was when the middle of
March had come. News of his doings reached the ladies at Loring, but
it reached them through hands which were not held to be worthy of a
perfect belief,--at any rate, on Mary Lowther's part. Dunripple Park
is in Warwickshire, and lies in the middle of a good hunting country.
Now, according to Parson John, from whom these tidings came, Walter
Marrable was hunting three days a week; and, as Sir Gregory himself
did not keep hunters, Walter must have hired his horses,--so said
Parson John, deploring that a nephew so poor in purse should have
allowed himself to be led into such heavy expense. "He brought home
a little ready money with him," said the parson; "and I suppose he
thinks he may have his fling as long as that lasts." No doubt Parson
John, in saying this, was desirous of proving to Mary that Walter
Marrable was not dying of love, and was, upon the whole, leading a
jolly life, in spite of the little misfortune that had happened to
him. But Mary understood all this quite as well as did Parson John
himself; and simply declined to believe the hunting three days a
week. She said not a word about it, however, either to him or to her
aunt. If Walter could amuse himself, so much the better; but she was
quite sure that, at such a period of his life as this, he would not
spend his money recklessly. The truth lay between Parson John's
stories and poor Mary's belief. Walter Marrable was hunting,--perhaps
twice a week, hiring a horse occasionally, but generally mounted by
his uncle, Sir Gregory. He hunted; but did so after a lugubrious
fashion, as became a man with a broken heart, who was laden with many
sorrows, and had just been separated from his lady love for ever and
ever. But still, when there came anything good, in the way of a run,
and when our Captain could get near to hounds, he enjoyed the fun,
and forgot his troubles for a while. Is a man to know no joy because
he has an ache at his heart?
In this matter of disappointed and, as it were, disjointed affection,
men are very different from women, and for the most part, much more
happily circumstanced. Such sorrow a woman feeds;--but a man starves
it. Many will say that a woman feeds it, because she cannot but feed
it; and that a man starves it, because his heart is of the starving
kind. But, in truth, the difference comes not so much from the inner
heart, as from the outer life. It is easier to feed a sorrow upon
needle-and-thread and novels, than it is upon lawyers' papers, or
even the out-a-door occupations of a soldier home upon leave who has
no work to do. Walter Marrable told himself again and again that he
was very unhappy about his cousin, but he certainly did not suffer in
that matter as Mary suffered. He had that other sorrow, arising from
his father's cruel usage of him, to divide his thoughts, and probably
thought quite as much of the manner in which he had been robbed, as
he did of the loss of his love.
But poor Mary was, in truth, very wretched. When a girl asks herself
that question,--what shall she do with her life? it is so natural
that she should answer it by saying that she will get married, and
give her life to somebody else. It is a woman's one career--let
women rebel against the edict as they may; and though there may
be word-rebellion here and there, women learn the truth early in
their lives. And women know it later in life when they think of
their girls; and men know it, too, when they have to deal with their
daughters. Girls, too, now acknowledge aloud that they have learned
the lesson; and Saturday Reviewers and others blame them for their
lack of modesty in doing so,--most unreasonably, most uselessly, and,
as far as the influence of such censors may go, most perniciously.
Nature prompts the desire, the world acknowledges its ubiquity,
circumstances show that it is reasonable, the whole theory of
creation requires it; but it is required that the person most
concerned should falsely repudiate it, in order that a mock modesty
may be maintained, in which no human being can believe! Such is the
theory of the censors who deal heavily with our Englishwomen of
the present day. Our daughters should be educated to be wives, but,
forsooth, they should never wish to be wooed! The very idea is but a
remnant of the tawdry sentimentality of an age in which the mawkish
insipidity of the women was the reaction from the vice of that
preceding it. That our girls are in quest of husbands, and know well
in what way their lines in life should be laid, is a fact which none
can dispute. Let men be taught to recognise the same truth as regards
themselves, and we shall cease to hear of the necessity of a new
career for women.
Mary Lowther, though she had never encountered condemnation as a
husband-hunter, had learned all this, and was well aware that for her
there was but one future mode of life that could be really blessed.
She had eyes, and could see; and ears, and could hear. She could
make,--indeed, she could not fail to make,--comparisons between
her aunt and her dear friend, Mrs. Fenwick. She saw, and could not
fail to see, that the life of the one was a starved, thin, poor
life,--which, good as it was in its nature, reached but to few
persons, and admitted but of few sympathies; whereas the other woman,
by means of her position as a wife and a mother, increased her roots
and spread out her branches, so that there was shade, and fruit, and
beauty, and a place in which the birds might build their nests. Mary
Lowther had longed to be a wife,--as do all girls healthy in mind and
body; but she had found it to be necessary to her to love the man who
was to become her husband. There had come to her a suitor recommended
to her by all her friends,--recommended to her also by all outward
circumstances,--and she had found that she did not love him! For a
while she had been sorely perplexed, hardly knowing what it might
be her duty to do, not understanding how it was that the man was
indifferent to her, doubting whether, after all, the love of which
she had dreamt was not a passion which might come after marriage,
rather than before it,--but still fearing to run so great a hazard.
She had doubted, feared, and had hitherto declined,--when that other
lover had fallen in her way. Mr. Gilmore had wooed her for months
without touching her heart. Then Walter Marrable had come and had
conquered her almost in an hour. She had never felt herself disposed
to play with Mr. Gilmore's hair, to lean against his shoulder, to be
touched by his fingers,--never disposed to wait for his coming, or
to regret his going. But she had hardly become acquainted with her
cousin before his presence was a pleasure to her; and no sooner had
he spoken to her of his love, than everything that concerned him was
dear to her. The atmosphere that surrounded him was sweeter to her
than the air elsewhere. All those little aids which a man gives to a
woman were delightful to her when they came to her from his hands.
She told herself that she had found the second half that was needed
to make herself one whole; that she had become round and entire in
joining herself to him; and she thought that she understood well why
it had been that Mr. Gilmore had been nothing to her. As Mr. Fenwick
was manifestly the husband appointed for his wife, so had Walter
Marrable been appointed for her. And so there had come upon her a
dreamy conviction that marriages are made in heaven. That question,
whether they were to be poor or rich, to have enough or much less
than enough for the comforts of life, was, no doubt, one of much
importance; but, in the few happy days of her assured engagement, it
was not allowed by her to interfere for a moment with the fact that
she and Walter were intended, each to be the companion of the other,
as long as they two might live.
Then by degrees,--by degrees, though the process had been quick,--had
fallen upon her that other conviction, that it was her duty to him
to save him from the burdens of that life to which she herself had
looked forward so fondly. At first she had said that he should judge
of the necessity; swearing to herself that his judgment, let it be
what it might, should be right to her. Then she had perceived that
this was not sufficient;--that in this way there would be no escape
for him;--that she herself must make the decision, and proclaim
it. Very tenderly and very cautiously had she gone about her task;
feeling her way to the fact that this separation, if it came from
her, would be deemed expedient by him. That she would be right in all
this, was her great resolve; that she might after all be wrong, her
constant fear. She, too, had heard of public censors, of the girl of
the period, and of the forward indelicacy with which women of the
age were charged. She knew not why, but it seemed to her that the
laws of the world around her demanded more of such rectitude from
a woman than from a man, and, if it might be possible to her, she
would comply with these laws. She had convinced herself, forming her
judgment from every tone of his voice, from every glance of his eye,
from every word that fell from his lips, that this separation would
be expedient for him. And then, assuring herself that the task should
be hers, and not his, she had done it. She had done it, and, counting
up the cost afterwards, she had found herself to be broken in pieces.
That wholeness and roundness, in which she had rejoiced, had gone
from her altogether. She would try to persuade herself that she could
live as her aunt had lived, and yet be whole and round. She tried,
but knew that she failed. The life to which she had looked forward
had been the life of a married woman; and now, as that was taken from
her, she could be but a thing broken, a fragment of humanity, created
for use, but never to be used.
She bore all this well, for a while,--and indeed never ceased to bear
it well, to the eyes of those around her. When Parson John told her
of Walter's hunting, she laughed, and said that she hoped he would
distinguish himself. When her aunt on one occasion congratulated
her, telling her that she had done well and nobly, she bore the
congratulation with a smile and a kind word. But she thought about it
much, and within the chambers of her own bosom there were complaints
made that the play which had been played between him and her during
the last few months should for her have been such a very tragedy,
while for him the matter was no more than a melodrama, touched with
a pleasing melancholy. He had not been made a waif upon the waters
by the misfortune of a few weeks, by the error of a lawyer, by a
mistaken calculation,--not even by the crime of his father. His
manhood was, at any rate, perfect to him. Though he might be a poor
man, he was still a man with his hands free, and with something
before him which he could do. She understood, too, that the rough
work of his life would be such that it would rub away, perhaps too
quickly, the impression of his late love, and enable him hereafter
to love another. But for her,--for her there could be nothing but
memory, regrets, and a life which would simply be a waiting for
death. But she had done nothing wrong,--and she must console herself
with that, if consolation could then be found.
Then there came to her a letter from Mrs. Fenwick which moved her
much. It was the second which she had received from her friend since
she had made it known that she was no longer engaged to her cousin.
In her former letter Mrs. Fenwick had simply expressed her opinion
that Mary had done rightly, and had, at the same time, promised that
she would write again, more at length, when the passing by of a few
weeks should have so far healed the first agony of the wound, as to
make it possible for her to speak of the future. Mary, dreading this
second letter, had done nothing to elicit it; but at last it came.
And as it had some effect on Mary Lowther's future conduct, it shall
be given to the reader:--
Bullhampton Vicarage, March 12, 186--.
DEAREST MARY,
I do so wish you were here, if it were only to share our
misery with us. I did not think that so small a thing as
the building of a wretched chapel could have put me out so
much, and made me so uncomfortable as this has done. Frank
says that it is simply the feeling of being beaten,--the
insult not the injury, which is the grievance; but they
both rankle with me. I hear the click of the trowel every
hour, and though I never go near the front gate, yet I
know that it is all muddy and foul with brickbats and
mortar. I don't think that anything so cruel and unjust
was ever done before; and the worst of it is that Frank,
though he hates it just as much as I do, does preach
such sermons to me about the wickedness of caring for
small evils. 'Suppose you had to go to it every Sunday
yourself,' he said the other day, trying to make me
understand what a real depth of misery there is in the
world. 'I shouldn't mind that half so much,' I answered.
Then he bade me try it,--which wasn't fair because he
knows I can't. However, they say it will all tumble down
because it has been built so badly.
I have been waiting to hear from you, but I can understand
why you should not write. You do not wish to speak of your
cousin, or to write without speaking of him. Your aunt has
written to me twice, as doubtless you know, and has told
me that you are well, only more silent than heretofore.
Dearest Mary, do write to me, and tell me what is in
your heart. I will not ask you to come to us,--not
yet,--because of our neighbour; but I do think that if you
were here I could do you good. I know so well, or fancy
that I know so well, the current in which your thoughts
are running! You have had a wound, and think that
therefore you must be a cripple for life. But it is not
so; and such thoughts, if not wicked, are at least wrong.
I would that it had been otherwise. I would that you had
not met your cousin.--
"So would not I," said Mary to herself; but as she said it she knew
that she was wrong. Of course it would be for her welfare, and for
his too, if his heart was as hers, that she should never have seen
him.--
But because you have met him, and have fancied that you
and he would be all in all together, you will be wrong
indeed if you let that fancy ruin your future life. Or
if you encourage yourself to feel that, because you
have loved one man from whom you are necessarily parted,
therefore you should never allow yourself to become
attached to another, you will indeed be teaching yourself
an evil lesson. I think I can understand the arguments
with which you may perhaps endeavour to persuade your
heart that its work of loving has been done, and should
not be renewed; but I am quite sure that they are false
and inhuman. The Indian, indeed, allows herself to be
burned through a false idea of personal devotion; and if
that idea be false in a widow, how much falser is it in
one who has never been a wife.
You know what have ever been our wishes. They are the same
now as heretofore; and his constancy is of that nature,
that nothing will ever change it. I am persuaded that it
would have been unchanged, even if you had married your
cousin, though in that case he would have been studious to
keep out of your way. I do not mean to press his claims at
present. I have told him that he should be patient, and
that if the thing be to him as important as he makes it,
he should be content to wait. He replied that he would
wait. I ask for no word from you at present on this
subject. It will be much better that there should be no
word. But it is right that you should know that there is
one who loves you with a devotion which nothing can alter.
I will only add to this my urgent prayer that you will not
make too much to yourself of your own misfortune, or allow
yourself to think that because this and that have taken
place, therefore everything must be over. It is hard to
say who makes the greatest mistakes, women who treat their
own selves with too great a reverence, or they who do so
with too little.
Frank sends his kindest love. Write to me at once, if only
to condole with me about the chapel.
Most affectionately yours,
JANET FENWICK.
My sister and Mr. Quickenham are coming here for
Easter week, and I have still some hopes of getting my
brother-in-law to put us up to some way of fighting the
Marquis and his myrmidons. I have always heard it said
that there was no case in which Mr. Quickenham couldn't
make a fight.
Mary Lowther understood well the whole purport of this letter,--all
that was meant as well as all that was written. She had told herself
again and again that there had been that between her and the lover
she had lost,--tender embraces, warm kisses, a bird-like pressure
of the plumage,--which alone should make her deem it unfit that she
should be to another man as she had been to him, even should her
heart allow it. It was against this doctrine that her friend had
preached, with more or less of explicitness in her sermon. And how
was the truth? If she could take a lesson on that subject from any
human being in the world, she would take it from her friend Janet
Fenwick. But she rebelled against the preaching, and declared to
herself that her friend had never been tried, and therefore did not
understand the case. Must she not be guided by her own feelings, and
did she not feel that she could never lay her head on the shoulder of
another lover without blushing at her memories of the past?
And yet how hard was it all! It was not the joys of young love
that she regretted in her present mood, not the loss of those soft
delights of which she had suddenly found herself to be so capable;
but that all the world should be dark and dreary before her! And he
could hunt, could dance, could work,--no doubt could love again! How
happy would it be for her if her reason would allow her to be a Roman
Catholic, and a nun!