in obedience to one of those traditions before which the british parent lies prone, the moment that mary middleham was asked for and granted, the utmost care was taken that she should see as little as possible of the man with whom she was to spend her life. spotless must she be brought out by the contractors, spotless be transferred to the purchaser. she was sent for from home, and home she went after a month of clearing up. there had been much to do; good-byes to say, some to avoid saying, if so it might be. mr. nunn, making her a presentation and a speech before his assembled seed-plots, also made her cry; but mrs. james germain, in the course of an icy tea-party, whereat the girl was present, unexplained, unaccounted for, and ignored, until the late entry of the rector on the scene very nearly made her defiant. she had a spirit of her own—and there are ways of showing “persons their place” which spirited persons may not endure. at that tea-party—under mrs. james’s politeness and the chill insolence of mrs. duplessis—the prosperity of mr. john germain’s love was like that of a bubble on a tobacco pipe—its iris globe throbbed towards inward collapse. his brother saved it to soar; he was charming—easy, homely, cool, and obviously glad to have her there. touched profoundly, she became at once buoyant—as all young people must be if they are to live—and meek. when the company was gone he had her into his library, and discussed her affair as a settled, happily settled, thing—ending, rectorwise, with a little homily, in which he delicately but unmistakably showed her that she was going into a very new world and had better go in clean raiment. “let there be no drawbacks to your future happiness, my dear, of your own providing. marriage is the happiest of all states so long as it is a clear bargain. that is not always possible; with two people of an age much may be taken for granted. you are young, and your husband is not. he is wiser than you are and asks nothing better than to help you. make him your friend before he makes you his wife; you will never regret it. and you may begin, i believe, by making a friend of his brother.”
she replied brokenly, lamely, but she was deeply grateful—and he knew it. atop of that came miss de speyne—the honourable hertha de speyne—in a fast dog-cart to her cottage door, with an invitation to tea at the park. she went—and had the sense to go in her simplest. dress, manner, and looks appealed—here am i, the girl as he found me, as i pleased him. make what you please of me—if you please. lady cantacute could make no mistake in a matter of the sort—her manners were as fine as her instincts. his lordship, even more finely, varied nothing from his habits; and his daughter could not. there was no company, and all went well; after tea, better. miss de speyne invited her to walk; they sat in the rose-garden. by-and-by came a question. “i think you know a friend of mine—mr. senhouse?” this had to be explained. mr. senhouse, it appeared, was the gentleman-tinker of mere common. mary sparkled as she admitted her acquaintance, and after that all was well indeed. his acts and opinions were debated. miss de speyne thought him cynical, and hinted at some unhealed wound; miss middleham could not admit that. she believed him sound, if not spear-proof.
“he spoke to me of my engagement, but not as anybody else would have done.”
“did he like it?”
mary blushed. “i could hardly say. he spoke very highly of mr. germain. he had met him here, he told me.”
“yes. i wanted them to meet,” miss de speyne said—and mary wondered.
“he told me, in the course of conversation, that he should never marry”—she said, presently; but miss de speyne, older than her new friend, held her peace.
at parting, the tall, splendid young woman clasped hands with her warmly. “good-bye. it was nice of you to come. i wish i had known you before—but we’re such fools in the country.”
mary said, “i hope you won’t forget me after i’m—” she felt delicate about this astounding marriage. but miss hertha reassured her. “when you’ve settled down, ask me and i shall come and see you. of course, you’ll be asked here—but you needn’t come unless you like.” this was bracing; she began to believe in herself, to say that she had nothing to fear, and to believe it. but she found out her mistake within a little, when, in mid-august, she left misperton brand, crossed london, and found her sister jinny awaiting her on the blackheath platform.
jinny, the tall, the pert, the very fair, strikingly attired, despising all mankind and ignoring all womankind, sailed to meet her, intending to be patroness still. it was soon to be seen that her claim was not disputed. “well, molly, so here you are. hand out your traps. and, for heaven’s sake, child, put your hat straight. do you want all the world to know that you’re engaged?”
mary laughed, her hands to her hat. “it’s all right, my dear,” she said. “i’ve come down alone.”
“if you’d come down with your mr. germain i should never have accused him of it, i assure you.” miss jinny tossed her head. “too much the gentleman by half. is that all you have? the rest in the van, i suppose. well, child, you look well enough, i must say. so he agrees with you?” they kissed each other on both cheeks.
in the fly, jinny enlarged upon the recent visit of mr. germain. “my dear! he fairly scared poor father. it was, ‘yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir,’ from him all the time—and ‘any arrangements you wish, sir.’ i don’t see that sort of talk myself—but father was always a worm. what he made of me i really can’t say—you know my way with gentlemen—take me or leave me alone, is my rule. well, he left me alone, and i managed to get over that, as you see. i’m still the same height in my stockings. so you mean to be ‘an old man’s darling,’ molly? every one to her taste, i suppose.”
“oh, jinny, he’s not old.”
“he could be your father, my dear—easily.”
“he’s not going to be, i assure you.”
“well, we’ll see. i should hope not, of course. one thing’s as plain as my nose; your people won’t see much of you when you’re boxed up with that old——”
“jinny, please!”
“oh, if you want me to tell falsehoods, my dear, i’ll do my best to oblige you. i’ll call him young to myself until it comes easy. practice makes perfect, they say. why, here we are! this horse must have the glanders or something. perhaps he thought mr. germain was after you. there’s a lot of sense in brute beasts.” all this, which shows the rights of elder, was meekly received.
home-coming was nevertheless a sort of triumph. the younger girls—all tidied up—allowed her to kiss them as if she had become an aunt; father and mother made much of her; she must see in their faces a sort of anxious wonder—can this be our mary then? can i have begotten this young lady? can these breasts have nourished a mrs. germain? she was to have tea in her hat, which jinny refused to do; but elaborately removed it and administered the kettle, the muffins, the slices of bread, the jam-pot. blushing and successful as she showed, mary would have put an end to this splendid isolation if she could. it was not possible until tea was over; but then, when her father made her a kind of speech—clearing his throat and frowning at one of the girls, who was speaking the deaf and dumb language to another under the table—then indeed mary upset all ceremonial, by jumping up, and knocking down her chair, by throwing herself upon her mother’s lap, her arms around her mother’s neck, by hiding her face upon her mother’s breast and anointing that dear cradle with tears. mr. middleham’s little speech ended in a choking fit; the girls looked all their misery; and jinny sniffed and hardened her heart. mary had unbent, but she was made to see that all her people knew that it was a condescension.
the sisters slept together as of old, and jinny must be wooed. for natural reasons mary must have jinny’s approbation, must coax and kiss and strain for it. jinny was not easily won, but after a passionate while allowed the back of her mind to be seen. she sat up in bed and asked a series of questions. they were answered in low murmurs by a hiding molly.
“molly, how did you get off from misperton?”
“quite well.”
“h’m. glad to hear it. no scenes?”
“mrs. germain was rather awful. she always hated me. the rector was sweet to me. and oh! there was miss de speyne—i can’t tell you how kind she was. certainly, we had a friend in common . . . but——”
“that’s not what i mean. you can manage them, i should hope. i know that i could. the rectory, indeed—and you to go out before her! molly, did you see him before you went?”
“who do you mean?” said a suddenly sobered molly.
“you know quite well who i mean.”
“john rudd, i suppose. there’s nothing between us—now.”
“john rudd! john germain! there’s not only johns in the world. there’s an ambrose—you know.”
“mr. perivale! oh, jinny, that’s ridiculous. why, he only——”
“i know what he only—as you call it. i don’t mean that at all—or him either. i asked you, did you see him before you went?” there was no answer for a minute or more—and then a defiant answer.
“no, i didn’t. he’s away—abroad.”
“ah. well, you’ll have to, you know. have you told old—mr. germain?”
“no—at least—i was going to. but that was when he—kissed me—and so i couldn’t.”
“that was when he kissed you? do you mean to tell me——?”
“no, of course not. but he kisses my hand mostly.”
“well, i’m—” miss jinny did not say what she considered herself to be.
“gentlemen are like that, jinny—real gentlemen.”
“gentlemen! do you mean to tell me that tr—that he is not a gentleman?”
“that was quite different. he meant nothing but—it was all nonsense.”
“i advise you to find out whether mr. germain thinks it nonsense.”
“of course, i shall tell him everything. i don’t want ever to see mr. dup—him again. that was all foolishness.” mary sat up in bed and clasped her knees. her eyes, staring at the bright light, were stored with knowledge—as if the soul within were shining through them at last. “i have a friend—a real, wise friend—who has told me this much—that there is a real thing. i believe that, i do indeed.”
jinny stared, then yawned. “i’m sleepy. that’s real enough for me just now. what do you mean, child?”
“i mean that one might give up everything—risk everything—if one were sure, quite sure. but if one isn’t—if one knows that one is a trifle, a plaything, to a—to a person, and that, to another person, one may be much more—then—oh, jinny, jinny, please!” mary’s arms were now about jinny’s neck, and jinny allowed herself to be pulled down. mary snuggled and put up her lips. after an instant she whispered, “darling old jinny, will you do something for me?”
“what is it?”
“promise.”
“what is it?”
“if tr—if he comes here—will you see him for me? oh, please, please——”
“why can’t you——?”
“no, no, i can’t, you know i can’t. why, he looks at me as if i belonged to him—as if he had a right—! and when he does that, when he frowns and looks through you, and waits—and says nothing—i know what he means; and if he said one word, or moved towards me, or beckoned”—she shivered and hid her face. “i simply mustn’t—i daren’t. oh, jinny darling, please!”
after a time jinny promised—but mary’s peace was broken up. a shadow haunted her outdoors and in.
mr. germain drove down to blackheath to greet his bride. her shy welcome, with gladness behind, to make it real, charmed him altogether. the family, after a respectful interval, left him the parlour, for which he was grateful. it would have, no doubt, to be explained that in marrying mary he had no intention of taking charge of her people. admittedly they were impossible, but it is very odd that he loved the girl of his selection the more for being simply and unaffectedly one of them. he respected her for it, but there was more than that. at the bottom of his heart he knew that if she were to lose sight of her origin, his love would suffer. it was absolutely necessary—he felt it—that she must masquerade for life, be a sweet little bourgeoise playing county lady; but playing it with sincerity, and obediently, doing her best because she was told. the unvoiced conviction lay behind what he now had to say to her. he told her, for instance, that he hoped she would see as much of her family as she pleased, after she was married, though, of course, she would have the duties of her new station to consider and to reconcile with others. he did not suppose, he told her, that it would be reasonable, or even true kindness, to ask them often to southover. “i esteem your father highly, my dearest. he is in all respects what i should have expected your father to be. your mother, too, is, i am sure, worthy of your love and gratitude; your sisters seem to me happy and affectionate girls. i doubt, however, if they would be comfortable among our friends at southover—” mary here said at once that she was sure they would not.
“they are different from you—quite different. we are quite poor people—you would call us middle-class people, wouldn’t you?”
“i suppose that i should,” he admitted; “but would that hurt you, my love?”
“no, no, not at all. there is no harm in that; and we can’t help it—but——”
he leaned, put his arm round her waist and drew her to him. “well, my darling, well—? tell me of what you are thinking.”
“i was wondering—if you can see that they wouldn’t do at southover, what made you think that i should do there, either?” he held her closer.
“i’ll tell you, my love. it was because i knew what i should feel if you were ever to be there. it was because my heart was full of you, so that i could never look on any scene that i loved without seeing you in it, and loving it the more for your presence there. when i thought of southover, i saw you its little sovereign lady, and myself waiting upon you, showing you all the things about it which have been so dear to me in spite of—much unhappiness; and my heart beat high. i said to myself, you must be a miserable and lonely man, my friend, unless you can promise yourself this joy of service. does my mary understand me?” he stooped his head to hers, and asked her again, did she understand? yes, yes, she said, but she sighed, and turned her face away. then he must needs kiss her.
then she did try to speak, meaning, if possible, to lead herself up to a confession. she told him that she feared to disappoint him, that he rated her too highly. “i can tell you truthfully that your love has made me very proud and very happy; i must assure you that i shall do everything in my power to prove to you how proud i am. i will do my duty faithfully—you must tell me of the least thing which is not just as you like. i can’t do more than that, can i?”
“nobody in the world could do more than that,” he told her.
“but there’s something else. mrs. germain at misperton doesn’t like me at all——”
he nodded sadly. “i know, my dear, i know. she is a foolish, arrogant woman, but there are excuses——”
“oh, of course there are!” she sat upon his knee. “i expect that she is right and that you are wrong—in a way.” then her eyes opened widely upon him: the hour had come. “but she thinks—she says that i am—bad.” he turned grey. “oh, no, my love, you misjudge her! good heavens—bad!”
she held her face back from him that she might look at him seriously. “she does, you know—but she makes no allowances. i have always tried to be a good girl—i assure you. please believe that.” he held her to his heart.
“my dearest, my dearest, you distress me. good! who is good if you are not? purest of the pure—my mary.” but she shook herself free in a hurry.
“no, no, indeed, you mustn’t say that. that’s absurd. i am just an ordinary girl, who likes to be happy, and to be admired, and to have fun when i can——”
“of course, of course. oh, my beloved, do not reproach yourself.” then she turned in his arms, put her hands on his shoulders, and looked gravely and imploringly into his face.
“promise me one thing,” she said, “one thing only. i will ask you nothing more than that.” she could not have been resisted by the assessing angel.
“speak, my adored one.”
“whatever you hear of me—against me—ask me what i have to say before you condemn me. promise me that.”
“my love and my life,” he said fervently; and she pouted her lips for a kiss. thus she justified herself in this regard, and by a sophistry of her sex came in time to feel that she had made him a full confession. she told jinny as much.
we were now in late august; the wedding was to be quietly at blackheath at the end of september, and the exciting business of the trousseau must be undertaken. mrs. james, it seems, had so far reconciled herself to the inevitable as to have consented to come to town and “see to things” which the child must have. her own people being out of the question, mary was to stay with her in hill-street, which was one day to be her own house, and do her shopping. a liberal sum was in mrs. james’s hands for the purpose. there was to be no white satin; but jinny was to be allowed to walk as bridesmaid. there was no way out of this. her dress was to be chosen for her, and then she must come to london to be fitted; but she was not to be asked to hill-street.
