"They buy and sell land."
"No; they don't. They buy a bit now and then when they're screws, and they sell a bit now and then when the eating and drinking has gone too fast. But as for capital and investment, they know nothing about it. After all, they ain't getting above two-and-a-half per cent. for their money. We all know what that must come to."
Mr. Cockey had been so mild before the pint of sherry and the glass of toddy, that Mr. Gilmore was somewhat dismayed by the change. Mr. Cockey, however, in his altered aspect seemed to be so much the less gracious, that Gilmore left him and strolled out into the town. He climbed up the hill and walked round the church and looked up at the windows of Miss Marrable's house, of which he had learned the site; but he had no adventure, saw nothing that interested him, and at half-past nine took himself wearily to bed.
That same day Captain Marrable had run down from London to Loring laden with terrible news. The money on which he had counted was all gone! "What do you mean?" said his uncle; "have the lawyers been deceiving you all through?"
"What is it to me?" said the ruined man. "It is all gone. They have satisfied me that nothing more can be done." Parson John whistled with a long-drawn note of wonder. "The people they were dealing with would be willing enough to give up the money, but it's all gone. It's spent, and there's no trace of it."
"Poor fellow!"
"I've seen my father, uncle John."
"And what passed?"
"I told him that he was a scoundrel, and then I left him. I didn't strike him."
"I should hope not that, Walter."
"I kept my hands off him; but when a man has ruined you as he has me, it doesn't much matter who he is. Your father and any other man are much the same to you then. He was worn, and old, and pale, or I should have felled him to the ground."
"And what will you do now?"
"Just go to that hell upon earth on the other side of the globe. There's nothing else to be done. I've applied for extension of leave, and told them why."
Nothing more was said that night between the uncle and nephew, and no word had been spoken about Mary Lowther. On the next morning the breakfast at the parsonage passed by in silence. Parson John had been thinking a good deal of Mary, but had resolved that it was best that he should hold his tongue for the present. From the moment in which he had first heard of the engagement, he had made up his mind that his nephew and Mary Lowther would never be married. Seeing what his nephew was – or rather seeing that which he fancied his nephew to be, – he was sure that he would not sacrifice himself by such a marriage. There was always a way out of things, and Walter Marrable would be sure to find it. The way out of it had been found now with a vengeance. Immediately after breakfast the Captain took his hat without a word, and walked steadily up the hill to Uphill Lane. As he passed the door of the Bull he saw, but took no notice of, a gentleman who was standing under the covered entrance to the inn, and who had watched him coming out from the parsonage gate; but Gilmore, the moment that his eyes fell upon the Captain, declared to himself that that was his rival. Captain Marrable walked straight up the hill and knocked at Miss Marrable's door. Was Miss Lowther at home? Of course Miss Lowther was at home at such an hour. The girl said that Miss Mary was alone in the breakfast parlour. Miss Marrable had already gone down to the kitchen. Without waiting for another word, he walked into the little back room, and there he found his love. "Walter," she said, jumping up and running to him; "how good of you to come so soon! We didn't expect you these two days." She had thrown herself into his arms, but, though he embraced her, he did not kiss her. "There is something the matter!" she said. "What is it?" As she spoke she drew away from him and looked up into his face. He smiled and shook his head, still holding her by the waist. "Tell me, Walter; I know there is something wrong."
"It is only that dirty money. My father has succeeded in getting it all."
"All, Walter?" said she, again drawing herself away.
"Every shilling," said he, dropping his arm.
"That will be very bad."
"Not a doubt of it. I felt it just as you do."
"And all our pretty plans are gone."
"Yes; – all our pretty plans."
"And what shall you do now?"
"There is only one thing. I shall go to India again. Of course it is just the same to me as though I were told that sentence of death had gone against me; – only it will not be so soon over."
"Don't say that, Walter."
"Why not say it, my dear, when I feel it?"
"But you don't feel it. I know it must be bad for you, but it is not quite that. I will not think that you have nothing left worth living for."
"I can't ask you to go with me to that happy Paradise."
"But I can ask you to take me," she said; – "though perhaps it will be better that I should not."
"My darling! – my own darling!" Then she came back to him and laid her head upon his shoulders, and lifted his hand till it came again round her waist. And he kissed her forehead, and smoothed her hair. "Swear to me," she said, "that whatever happens you will not put me away from you."
"Put you away, dearest! A man doesn't put away the only morsel he has to keep him from starving. But yet as I came up here this morning I resolved that I would put you away."
"Walter!"
"And even now I know that they will tell me that I should do so. How can I take you out there to such a life as that without having the means of keeping a house over your head?"
"Officers do marry without fortunes."
"Yes; – and what sort of a time do their wives have? Oh, Mary, my own, my own, my own! – it is very bad! You cannot understand it all at once, but it is very bad."
"If it be better for you, Walter, – " she said, again drawing herself away.
"It is not that, and do not say that it is. Let us at any rate trust each other."
She gave herself a little shake before she answered him. "I will trust you in everything; – as God is my judge, in everything. What you tell me to do, I will do. But, Walter, I will say one thing first. I can look forward to nothing but absolute misery in any life that will separate me from you. I know the difference between comfort and discomfort in money matters, but all that is as a feather in the balance. You are my god upon earth, and to you I must cling. Whether you be away from me or with me, I must cling to you the same. If I am to be separated from you for a time, I can do it with hope. If I am to be separated from you for ever, I shall still do so, – with despair. And now I will trust you, and I will do whatever you tell me. If you forbid me to call you mine any longer, – I will obey, and will never reproach you."
"I will always be yours," he said, taking her again to his heart.
"Then, dearest, you shall not find me wanting for anything you may ask of me. Of course you can't decide at present."
"I have decided that I must go to India. I have asked for the exchange."
"Yes; – I understand; but about our marriage. It may be that you should go out first. I would not be unmaidenly, Walter; but remember this – the sooner the better, if I can be a comfort to you; – but I can bear any delay rather than be a clog upon you."
Marrable, as he had walked up the hill, – and during all his thoughts, indeed, since he had been convinced that the money was gone from him, – had been disposed to think that his duty to Mary required him to give her up. He had asked her to be his wife when he believed his circumstances to be other than they were; and now he knew that the life he had to offer to her was one of extreme discomfort. He had endeavoured to shake off any idea that as he must go back to India it would be more comfortable for himself to return without than with a wife. He wanted to make the sacrifice of himself, and had determined that he would do so. Now, at any rate for the moment, all his resolves were thrown to the wind. His own love was so strong and was so gratified by her love, that half his misery was carried away in an enthusiasm of romantic devotion. Let the worst come to the worst, the man that was so loved by such a woman could not be of all men the most miserable.
He left the house, giving to her the charge of telling the bad news to Miss Marrable; and as he went he saw in the street before the house the man whom he had seen standing an hour before under the gateway of the inn. And Gilmore saw him too, and well knew where he had been.
CHAPTER XXX.
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!