IF I WERE YOUR SISTER!
Mr. Gilmore in his last words to his friend Fenwick, declared that he
would not accept the message which the Vicar delivered to him as the
sufficient expression of Mary's decision. He would see Mary Lowther
herself, and force her to confess her own treachery face to face with
him,--to confess it or else to deny it. So much she could not refuse
to grant him. Fenwick had indeed said that as long as the young lady
was his guest she must be allowed to please herself as to whom she
would see or not see. Gilmore should not be encouraged to force
himself upon her at the vicarage. But the Squire was quite sure that
so much as that must be granted to him. It was impossible that even
Mary Lowther should refuse to see him after what had passed between
them. And then, as he walked about his own fields, thinking of
it all, he allowed himself to feel a certain amount of hope that
after all she might be made to marry him. His love for her had not
dwindled,--or rather his desire to call her his own, and to make
her his wife; but it had taken an altered form out of which all its
native tenderness had been pressed by the usage to which he had been
subjected. It was his honour rather than his love that he now desired
to satisfy. All those who knew him best were aware that he had set
his heart upon this marriage, and it was necessary to him that he
should show them that he was not to be disappointed. Mary's conduct
to him from the day on which she had first engaged herself to him had
been of such a kind as naturally to mar his tenderness and to banish
from him all those prettinesses of courtship in which he would have
indulged as pleasantly as any other man. She had told him in so many
words that she intended to marry him without loving him, and on these
terms he had accepted her. But in doing so he had unconsciously
flattered himself that she would be better than her words,--that
as she submitted herself to him as his affianced bride she would
gradually become soft and loving in his hands. She had, if possible,
been harder to him even than her words. She had made him understand
thoroughly that his presence was not a joy to her, and that her
engagement to him was a burden on her which she had taken on her
shoulders simply because the romance of her life had been nipped
in the bud in reference to the man whom she did love. Still he had
persevered. He had set his heart sturdily on marrying this girl,
and marry her he would, if, after any fashion, such marriage should
come within his power. Mrs. Fenwick, by whose judgment and affection
he had been swayed through all this matter, had told him again and
again, that such a girl as Mary Lowther must love her husband,--if
her husband loved her and treated her with tenderness. "I think I
can answer for myself," Gilmore had once replied, and his friend
had thoroughly believed in him. Trusting to the assurance he had
persevered; he had persevered even when his trust in that assurance
had been weakened by the girl's hardness. Anything would be better
than breaking from an engagement on which he had so long rested all
his hopes of happiness. She was pledged to be his wife; and, that
being so, he could reform his gardens and decorate his house, and
employ himself about his place with some amount of satisfaction. He
had at least a purpose in his life. Then by degrees there grew upon
him a fear that she still meant to escape from him, and he swore
to himself,--without any tenderness,--that this should not be
so. Let her once be his wife and she should be treated with all
consideration,--with all affection, if she would accept it; but she
should not make a fool of him now. Then the Vicar had come with his
message, and he had been simply told that the engagement between them
was over!
Of course he would see her,--and that at once. As soon as Fenwick had
left him, he went with rapid steps over his whole place, and set the
men again upon their work. This took place on a Wednesday, and the
men should be continued at their work, at any rate, till Saturday. He
explained this clearly to Ambrose, his gardener, and to the foreman
in the house.
"It may be," said he to Ambrose, "that I shall change my mind
altogether about the place;--but as I am still in doubt, let
everything go on till Saturday."
Of course they all knew why it was that the conduct of the Squire was
so like the conduct of a madman.
He sent down a note to Mary Lowther that evening.
DEAR MARY,
I have seen Fenwick, and of course I must see you. Will
you name an hour for to-morrow morning?
Yours, H. G.
When Mary read this, which she did as they were sitting on the lawn
after dinner, she did not hesitate for a moment. Hardly a word had
been said to her by Fenwick, or his wife, since his return from the
Privets. They did not wish to show themselves to be angry with her,
but they found conversation to be almost impossible. "You have told
him?" Mary had asked. "Yes, I have told him," the Vicar had replied;
and that had been nearly all. In the course of the afternoon she
had hinted to Janet Fenwick that she thought she had better leave
Bullhampton. "Not quite yet, dear," Mrs. Fenwick had said, and Mary
had been afraid to urge her request.
"Shall I name eleven to-morrow?" she said, as she handed the Squire's
note to Mrs. Fenwick. Mrs. Fenwick and the Vicar both assented, and
then she went in and wrote her answer.
I will be at home at the vicarage at eleven.--M. L.
She would have given much to escape what was coming, but she had not
expected to escape it.
The next morning after breakfast Fenwick himself went away. "I've had
more than enough of it," he said, to his wife, "and I won't be near
them."
Mrs. Fenwick was with her friend up to the moment at which the bell
was heard at the front door. There was no coming up across the lawn
now.
"Dear Janet," Mary said, when they were alone, "how I wish that I had
never come to trouble you here at the vicarage!"
Mrs. Fenwick was not without a feeling that much of all this
unhappiness had come from her own persistency on behalf of her
husband's friend, and thought that some expression was due from her
to Mary to that effect. "You are not to suppose that we are angry
with you," she said, putting her arm round Mary's waist.
"Pray,--pray do not be angry with me."
"The fault has been too much ours for that. We should have left this
alone, and not have pressed it. We have meant it for the best, dear."
"And I have meant to do right;--but, Janet, it is so hard to do
right."
When the ring at the door was heard, Mrs. Fenwick met Harry
Gilmore in the hall, and told him that he would find Mary in the
drawing-room. She pressed his hand warmly as she looked into his
face, but he spoke no word as he passed on to the room which she had
just left. Mary was standing in the middle of the floor, half-way
between the window and the door, to receive him. When she heard
the door-bell she put her hand to her heart, and there she held it
till he was approaching; but then she dropped it and stood without
support, with her face upraised to meet him. He came up to her very
quickly and took her by the hand. "Mary," he said, "I am not to
believe this message that has been sent to me. I do not believe
it. I will not believe it. I will not accept it. It is out of the
question;--quite out of the question. It shall be withdrawn, and
nothing more shall be said about it."
"That cannot be, Mr. Gilmore."
"What cannot be? I say that it must be. You cannot deny, Mary,
that you are betrothed to me as my wife. Are such betrothals to be
nothing? Are promises to go for nothing because there has been no
ceremony? You might as well come and tell me that you would leave me
even though you were my wife."
"But I am not your wife."
"What does it mean? Have I not been patient with you? Have I been
hard to you, or cruel? Have you heard anything of me that is to my
discredit?" She shook her head, eagerly. "Then what does it mean? Are
you aware that you are proposing to yourself to make an utter wreck
of me--to send me adrift upon the world without a purpose or a hope?
What have I done to deserve such treatment?"
He pleaded his cause very well,--better than she had ever heard him
plead a cause before. He held her still by the hand, not with a grasp
of love, but with a retention which implied his will that she should
not pass away from out of his power. He looked her full in the face,
and she did not quail before his eyes. Nevertheless she would have
given the world to have been elsewhere, and to have been free from
the necessity of answering him. She had been fortifying herself
throughout the morning with self-expressed protests that on no
account would she yield, whether she had been right before or
wrong;--of this she was convinced, that she must be right now to save
herself from a marriage that was so distasteful to her.
"You have deserved nothing but good at my hands," she said.
"And is this good that you are doing to me?"
"Yes,--certainly. It is the best that I know how to do now."
"Why is it to be done now? What is it that has changed you?"
She withdrew her hand from him, and waited a while before she
answered. It was necessary that she should tell him all the tidings
that had been conveyed to her in the letter which she had received
from her cousin Walter; but in order that he should perfectly
understand them and be made to know their force upon herself she must
remind him of the stipulation which she had made when she consented
to her engagement. But how could she speak words which would seem
to him to be spoken only to remind him of the abjectness of his
submission to her?
"I was broken-hearted when I came here," she said.
"And therefore you would leave me broken-hearted now."
"You should spare me, Mr. Gilmore. You remember what I told you. I
loved my cousin Walter entirely. I did not hide it from you. I begged
you to leave me because it was so. I told you that my heart would not
change. When I said so, I thought that you would--desist."
"I am to be punished, then, for having been too true to you?"
"I will not defend myself for accepting you at last. But you must
remember that when I did so I said that I should go--back--to him, if
he could take me."
"And you are going back to him?"
"If he will have me."
"You can stand there and look me in the face and tell me that you
are false as that! You can confess to me that you will change like a
weathercock;--be his one day, and then mine, and his again the next!
You can own that you give yourself about first to one man, and then
to another, just as may suit you at the moment! I would not have
believed it of any woman. When you tell it me of yourself, I begin
to think that I have been wrong all through in my ideas of a woman's
character."
The time had now come in which she must indeed speak up. And speech
seemed to be easier with her now that he had allowed himself to
express his anger. He had expressed more than his anger. He had dared
to shower his scorn upon her, and the pelting of the storm gave her
courage. "You are unjust upon me, Mr. Gilmore,--unjust and cruel. You
know in your heart that I have not changed."
"Were you not betrothed to me?"
"I was;--but in what way? Have I told you any untruth? Have I
concealed anything? When I accepted you, did I not explain to
you how and why it was so,--against my own wish, against my own
judgment,--because then I had ceased to care what became of me. I do
care now. I care very much."
"And you think that is justice to me?"
"If you will bandy accusations with me, why did you accept me when
I told you that I could not love you? But, indeed, indeed, I would
not say a word to displease you, if you would only spare me. We were
both wrong; but the wrong must now be put right. You would not wish
to take me for your wife when I tell you that my heart is full of
affection for another man. Then, when I yielded, I was struggling to
cure that as a great evil. Now I welcome it as the sweetest blessing
of my life. If I were your sister, what would you have me do?"
He stood silent for a moment, and then the colour rose to his
forehead as he answered her. "If you were my sister, my ears would
tingle with shame when your name was mentioned in my presence."
The blood rushed also over her face, suffusing her whole countenance,
forehead and all, and fire flashed from her eyes, and her lips were
parted, and even her nostrils seemed to swell with anger. She looked
full into his face for a second, and then she turned and walked
speechless away from him. When the handle of the door was in her
hand, she turned again to address him. "Mr. Gilmore," she said, "I
will never willingly speak to you again." Then the door was opened
and closed behind her before a word had escaped from his lips.
He knew that he had insulted her. He knew that he had uttered words
so hard, that it might be doubted whether, under any circumstances,
they could be justified from a gentleman to a lady. And certainly he
had not intended to insult her as he was coming down to the vicarage.
As far as any settled purpose had been formed in his mind, he had
meant to force her back to her engagement with himself, by showing to
her how manifest would be her injustice, and how great her treachery,
if she persisted in leaving him. But he knew her character well
enough to be aware that any word of insult addressed to her as a
woman, would create offence which she herself would be unable to
quell. But his anger had got the better of his judgment, and when
the suggestion was made to him of a sister of his own, he took the
opportunity which was offered to him of hitting her with all his
force. She had felt the blow, and had determined that she would never
encounter another.
He was left alone, and he must retreat. He waited a while, thinking
that perhaps Mrs. Fenwick or the Vicar would come to him; but nobody
came. The window of the room was open, and it was easy for him to
leave the house by the garden. But as he prepared to do so, his eye
caught the writing materials on a side table, and he sat down and
addressed a note to Mrs. Fenwick. "Tell Mary," he said, "that in
a matter which to me is of life and death, I was forced to speak
plainly. Tell her, also, that if she will be my wife, I know well
that I shall never have to blush for a deed of hers,--or for a
word,--or for a thought.--H. G." Then he went out on to the lawn, and
returned home by the path at the back of the church farm.
He had left the vicarage, making another offer for the girl's hand,
as it were, with his last gasp. But as he went, he told himself that
it was impossible that it should be accepted. Every chance had now
gone from him, and he must look his condition in the face as best
he could. It had been bad enough with him before, when no hope had
ever been held out to him; when the answers of the girl he loved had
always been adverse to him; when no one had been told that she was to
be his bride. Even then the gnawing sense of disappointment and of
failure,--just there, when only he cared for success,--had been more
than he could endure without derangement of the outer tranquillity of
his life. Even then he had been unable so to live that men should not
know that his sorrow had disturbed him. When he had gone to Loring,
travelling with a forlorn hope into the neighbourhood of the girl
he loved, he had himself been aware that he had lacked strength to
control himself in his misfortune. But if his state then had been
grievous, what must it be now? It had been told to all the world
around him that he had at last won his bride, and he had proceeded,
as do jolly thriving bridegrooms, to make his house ready for her
reception. Doubting nothing he had mingled her wishes, her tastes,
his thoughts of her, with every action of his life. He had prepared
jewels for her, and decorated chambers, and laid out pleasure
gardens. He was a man, simple in his own habits, and not given to
squandering his means; but now, at this one moment of his life, when
everything was to be done for the delectation of her who was to be
his life's companion, he could afford to let prudence go by the
board. True that his pleasure in doing this had been sorely marred by
her coldness, by her indifference, even by her self-abnegation; but
he had continued to buoy himself up with the idea that all would come
right when she should be his wife. Now she had told him that she
would never willingly speak to him again,--and he believed her.
He went up to his house, and into his bedroom, and then he sat
thinking of it all. And as he thought he heard the voices and the
tools of the men at their work; and knew that things were being
done which, for him, would never be of avail. He remained there
for a couple of hours without moving. Then he got up and gave the
housekeeper instructions to pack up his portmanteau, and the groom
orders to bring his gig to the door. "He was going away," he said,
and his letters were to be addressed to his club in London. That
afternoon he drove himself into Salisbury that he might catch the
evening express train up, and that night he slept at a hotel in
London.