MR. GILMORE'S RUBIES.
Mary Lowther struggled hard for a week to reconcile herself to her
new fate, and at the end of the week had very nearly given way. The
gloom which had fallen upon her acted upon her lover and then reacted
upon herself. Could he have been light in hand, could he have talked
to her about ordinary subjects, could he have behaved towards her
with any even of the light courtesies of the every-day lover, she
would have been better able to fight her battle. But when he was
with her there was a something in his manner which always seemed to
accuse her in that she, to whom he was giving so much, would give him
nothing in return. He did not complain in words. He did not wilfully
resent her coldness to him. But he looked, and walked, and spoke,
and seemed to imply by every deed that he was conscious of being an
injured man. At the end of the week he made her a handsome present,
and in receiving it she had to assume some pleasure. But the failure
was complete, and each of the two knew how great was the failure. Of
course, there would be other presents. And he had already,--already,
though no allusion to the day for the marriage had yet been
made,--begun to press on for those changes in his house for which she
would not ask, but which he was determined to effect for her comfort.
There had been another visit to the house and gardens, and he had
told her that this should be done,--unless she objected; and that
that other change should be made, if it were not opposed to her
wishes. She made an attempt to be enthusiastic,--enthusiastic on the
wrong side, to be zealous to save him money, and the whole morning
was beyond measure sad and gloomy. Then she asked herself whether she
meant to go through with it. If not, the sooner that she retreated
and hid herself and her disgrace for the rest of her life the better.
She had accepted him at last, because she had been made to believe
that by doing so she would benefit him, and because she had taught
herself to think that it was her duty to disregard herself. She had
thought of herself till she was sick of the subject. What did it
matter,--about herself,--as long as she could be of some service to
some one? And so thinking, she had accepted him. But now she had
begun to fear that were she to marry this man she could not be of
service to him. And when the thing should be done,--if ever it were
done,--there would be no undoing it. Would not her life be a life
of sin if she were to live as the wife of a man whom she did not
love,--while, perhaps, she would be unable not to love another man?
Nothing of all this was told to the Vicar, but Mrs. Fenwick knew what
was going on in her friend's mind, and spoke her own very freely.
"Hitherto," she said, "I have given you credit all through for good
conduct and good feeling; but I shall be driven to condemn you if
you now allow a foolish, morbid, sickly idea to interfere with his
happiness and your own."
"But what if I can do nothing for his happiness?"
"That is nonsense. He is not a man whom you despise or dislike.
If you will only meet him half-way you will soon find that your
sympathies will grow."
"There never will be a spark of sympathy between us."
"Mary, that is most horribly wicked. What you mean is this, that
he is not light and gay as a lover. Of course he remembers the
occurrences of the last six months. Of course he cannot be so happy
as he might have been had Walter Marrable never been at Loring. There
must be something to be conquered, something to be got over, after
such an episode. But you may set your face against doing that, or you
may strive to do it. For his sake, if not for your own, the struggle
should be made."
"A man may struggle to draw a loaded wagon, but he won't move it."
"The load in this case is of your own laying on. One hour of frank
kindness on your part would dispel his gloom. He is not gloomy by
nature."
Then Mary Lowther tried to achieve that hour of frank kindness and
again failed. She failed and was conscious of her failure, and there
came a time,--and that within three weeks of her engagement,--in
which she had all but made up her mind to return the ring which he
had given her, and to leave Bullhampton for ever. Could it be right
that she should marry a man that she did not love?
That was her argument with herself, and yet she was deterred from
doing as she contemplated by a circumstance which could have had no
effect on that argument. She received from her Aunt Marrable the
following letter, in which was certainly no word capable of making
her think that now, at last, she could love the man whom she had
promised to marry. And yet this letter so affected her, that she told
herself that she would go on and become the wife of Harry Gilmore.
She would struggle yet again, and force herself to succeed. The
wagon, no doubt, was heavily laden, but still, with sufficient
labour, it might perhaps be moved.
Miss Marrable had been asked to go over to Dunripple, when Mary
Lowther went to Bullhampton. It had been long since she had been
there, and she had not thought ever to make such a visit. But there
came letters, and there were rejoinders,--which were going on before
Mary's departure,--and at last it was determined that Miss Marrable
should go to Dunripple, and pay a visit to her cousin. But she did
not do this till long after Walter Marrable had left the place. She
had written to Mary soon after her arrival, and in this first letter
there had been no word about Walter; but in her second letter she
spoke very freely of Walter Marrable,--as the reader shall see.
Dunripple, 2nd July, 1868.
DEAR MARY,
I got your letter on Saturday, and cannot help wishing
that it had been written in better spirits. However, I do
not doubt but that it will all come right soon. I am quite
sure that the best thing you can do is to let Mr. Gilmore
name an early day. Of course you never intended that there
should be a long engagement. Such a thing, where there is
no possible reason for it, must be out of the question.
And it will be much better to take advantage of the fine
weather than to put it off till the winter has nearly
come. Fix some day in August or early in September. I am
sure you will be much happier married than you are single;
and he will be gratified, which is, I suppose, to count
for something.
I am very happy here, but yet I long to get home. At my
time of life, one must always be strange among strangers.
Nothing can be kinder than Sir Gregory, in his sort of
fashion. Gregory Marrable, the son, is, I fear, in a
bad way. He is unlike his father, and laughs at his own
ailments, but everybody in the house,--except perhaps Sir
Gregory,--knows that he is very ill. He never comes down
at all now, but lives in two rooms, which he has together
up-stairs. We go and see him every day, but he is hardly
able to talk to any one. Sir Gregory never mentions the
subject to me, but Mrs. Brownlow is quite confident that
if anything were to happen to Gregory Marrable, Walter
would be asked to come to Dunripple as the heir, and to
give up the army altogether.
I get on very well with Mrs. Brownlow, but of course we
cannot be like old friends. Edith is a very nice girl,
but rather shy. She never talks about herself, and is too
silent to be questioned. I do not, however, doubt for a
moment but that she will be Walter Marrable's wife. I
think it likely that they are not engaged as yet, as in
that case I think Mrs. Brownlow would tell me; but many
things have been said which leave on my mind a conviction
that it will be so. He is to be here again in August, and
from the way in which Mrs. Brownlow speaks of his coming,
there is no doubt that she expects it. That he paid great
attention to Edith when he was here before, I am quite
sure; and I take it he is only waiting till--
In writing so far, Miss Marrable had intended to signify that Captain
Marrable had been slow to ask Edith Brownlow to be his wife while he
was at Dunripple, because he could not bring himself so soon to show
himself indifferent to his former love; but that now he would not
hesitate, knowing as he would know, that his former love had bestowed
herself elsewhere; but in this there would have been a grievous
accusation against Mary, and she was therefore compelled to fill up
her sentence in some other form;--
till things should have arranged themselves a little.
And it will be all for the best. She is a very nice,
quiet, lady-like girl, and so great a favourite with her
uncle, that should his son die before him, his great
object in life will be her welfare. Walter Marrable, as
her husband, would live at Dunripple, just as though the
place were his own. And indeed there would be no one
between him and the property except his own father. Some
arrangement could be made as to buying out his life
interest,--for which indeed he has taken the money
beforehand with a vengeance,--and then Walter would be
settled for life. Would not this be all for the best?
I shall go home about the 14th. They want me to stay,
but I shall have been away quite long enough. I don't
know whether people ought to go from home at all after a
certain age. I get cross because I can't have the sort of
chair I like to sit on; and then they don't put any green
tea into the pot, and I don't like to ask to have any
made, as I doubt whether they have any green tea in the
house. And I find it bad to be among invalids with whom,
indeed, I can sympathise, but for whom I cannot pretend
that I feel any great affection. As we grow old we become
incapable of new tenderness, and rather resent the calls
that are made upon us for pity. The luxury of devotion to
misery is as much the privilege of the young as is that of
devotion to love.
Write soon, dearest; and remember that the best news
I can have, will be tidings as to the day fixed for
your marriage. And remember, too, that I won't have any
question about your being married at Bullhampton. It would
be quite improper. He must come to Loring; and I needn't
say how glad I shall be to see the Fenwicks. Parson John
will expect to marry you, but Mr. Fenwick might come and
assist.
Your most affectionate aunt,
SARAH MARRABLE.
It was not the entreaty made by her aunt that an early day should
be fixed for the marriage which made Mary Lowther determine that
she would yet once more attempt to drag the wagon. She could have
withstood such entreaty as that, and, had the letter gone no further,
would probably have replied to it by saying that no day could be
fixed at all. But, with the letter there came an assurance that
Walter Marrable had forgotten her, was about to marry Edith Brownlow,
and that therefore all ideas of love and truth and sympathy and joint
beating of mutual hearts, with the rest of it, might be thrown to the
winds. She would marry Harry Gilmore, and take care that he had good
dinners, and would give her mind to flannel petticoats and coal for
the poor of Bullhampton, and would altogether come down from the
pedestal which she had once striven to erect for herself. From that
high but tottering pedestal, propped up on shafts of romance and
poetry, she would come down; but there would remain for her the
lower, firmer standing block, of which duty was the sole support. It
was no doubt most unreasonable that any such change should come upon
her in consequence of her aunt's letter. She had never for a moment
told herself that Walter Marrable could ever be anything to her,
since that day on which she had by her own deed liberated him from
his troth; and, indeed, had done more than that, had forced him to
accept that liberation. Why then should his engagement with another
woman have any effect with her either in one direction or in the
other? She herself had submitted to a new engagement,--had done so
before he had shown any sign of being fickle. She could not therefore
be angry with him. And yet, because he could be fickle, because he
could do that very thing which she had openly declared her purpose of
doing, she persuaded herself,--for a week or two,--that any sacrifice
made to him would be a sacrifice to folly, and a neglect of duty.
At this time, during this week or two, there came to her direct from
the jewellers in London, a magnificent set of rubies,--ear-rings,
brooch, bracelets, and necklace. The rubies she had seen before, and
knew that they had belonged to Mr. Gilmore's mother. Mrs. Fenwick had
told him that the setting was so old that no lady could wear them
now, and there had been a presentiment that they would be forthcoming
in a new form. Mary had said that, of course, such ornaments as these
would come into her hands only when she became Mrs. Gilmore. Mrs.
Fenwick had laughed and told her that she did not understand the
romantic generosity of her lover. And now the jewellery had come to
her at the parsonage without a word from Gilmore, and was spread out
in its pretty cases on the vicarage drawing-room table. Now, if ever,
must she say that she could not do as she had promised.
"Mary," said Mrs. Fenwick, "you must go up to him to-morrow, and tell
him how noble he is."
Mary waited, perhaps, for a whole minute before she answered. She
would willingly have given the jewels away for ever and ever, so that
they might not have been there now to trouble her. But she did answer
at last, knowing, as she did so, that her last chance was gone.
"He is noble," she said, slowly; "and I will go and tell him so. I'll
go now, if it is not too late."
"Do, do. You'll be sure to find him." And Mrs. Fenwick, in her
enthusiasm, embraced her friend and kissed her.
Mary put on her hat and walked off at once through the garden and
across the fields, and into the Privets; and close to the house she
met her lover. He did not see her till he heard her step, and then
turned short round, almost as though fearing something.
"Harry," she said, "those jewels have come. Oh, dear. They are not
mine yet. Why did you have them sent to me?"
There was something in the word yet, or in her tone as she spoke it,
which made his heart leap as it had never leaped before.
"If they're not yours, I don't know whom they belong to," he said.
And his eye was bright, and his voice almost shook with emotion.
"Are you doing anything?" she asked.
"Nothing on earth."
"Then come and see them."
So they walked off, and he, at any rate, on that occasion was a happy
lover. For a few minutes,--perhaps for an hour,--he did allow himself
to believe that he was destined to enjoy that rapture of requited
affection, in longing for which his very soul had become sick. As she
walked back with him to the vicarage her hand rested heavily on his
arm, and when she asked him some question about his land, she was
able so to modulate her voice as to make him believe that she was
learning to regard his interests as her own. He stopped her at the
gate leading into the vicarage garden, and once more made to her an
assurance of his regard.
"Mary," he said, "if love will beget love, I think that you must love
me at last."
"I will love you," she said, pressing his arm still more closely. But
even then she could not bring herself to tell him that she did love
him.