The Vicar of Bullhampton. Trollope Anthony
nonsense, Mary, and you know it. If a girl were to tell me she fell in love because she couldn't help it, I should tell her that she wasn't worth any man's love."
"But what's your reason, Aunt Sarah?"
"Because it wouldn't suit Mr. Gilmore."
"I am not bound to suit Mr. Gilmore."
"I don't know about that. And then, too, it would not suit Walter himself. How could he marry a wife when he has just been robbed of all his fortune?"
"But I have not the slightest idea of falling in love with him. In spite of what I said, I do hope that I can help it. And then I feel to him just as though he were my brother. I've got almost to know what it would be to have a brother."
In this Miss Lowther was probably wrong. She had now known her cousin for just a month. A month is quite long enough to realise the pleasure of a new lover, but it may be doubted whether the intimacy of a brother does not take a very much longer period for its creation.
"I think if I were you," said Miss Marrable, after a pause, "that I would tell him about Mr. Gilmore."
"Would you, Aunt Sarah?"
"I think I would. If he were really your brother you would tell him."
It was probably the case, that when Miss Marrable gave this advice, her opinion of Mr. Gilmore's success was greater than the circumstances warranted. Though there had been much said between the aunt and her niece about Mr. Gilmore and his offers, Mary had never been able quite to explain her own thoughts and feelings. She herself did not believe that she could be brought to accept him, and was now stronger in that opinion than ever. But were she to say so in language that would convince her aunt, her aunt would no doubt ask her, why then had she left the man in doubt? Though she knew that at every moment in which she had been called upon to act, she had struggled to do right, yet there hung over her a half-conviction that she had been weak, and almost selfish. Her dearest friends wrote to her and spoke to her as though she would certainly take Mr. Gilmore at last. Janet Fenwick wrote of it in her letters as of a thing almost fixed; and Aunt Sarah certainly lived as though she expected it. And yet Mary was very nearly sure that it could not be so. Would it not be better that she should write to Mr. Gilmore at once, and not wait till the expiration of the weary six months which he had specified as the time at the end of which he might renew his proposals? Had Aunt Sarah known all this, – had she been aware how very near Mary was to the writing of such a letter, – she would not probably have suggested that her niece should tell her cousin anything about Mr. Gilmore. She did think that the telling of the tale would make Cousin Walter understand that he should not allow himself to become an interloper; but the tale, if told as Mary would tell it, might have a very different effect.
Nevertheless Mary thought that she would tell it. It would be so nice to consult a brother! It would be so pleasant to discuss the matter with some one that would sympathise with her, – with some one who would not wish to drive her into Mr. Gilmore's arms simply because Mr. Gilmore was an excellent gentleman, with a snug property! Even from Janet Fenwick, whom she loved dearly, she had never succeeded in getting the sort of sympathy that she wanted. Janet was the best friend in the world, – was actuated in this matter simply by a desire to do a good turn to two people whom she loved. But there was no sympathy between her and Mary in the matter.
"Marry him," said Janet, "and you will adore him afterwards."
"I want to adore him first," said Mary.
So she resolved that she would tell Walter Marrable what was her position. They were again down on the banks of the Lurwell, sitting together on a slope which had been made to support some hundred yards of a canal, where the river itself rippled down a slightly rapid fall. They were seated between the canal and the river, with their feet towards the latter, and Walter Marrable was just lighting a cigar. It was very easy to bring the conversation round to the affairs of Bullhampton, as Sam was still in prison, and Janet's letters were full of the mystery which shrouded the murder of Mr. Trumbull.
"By the bye," said she, "I have something to tell you about Mr. Gilmore."
"Tell away," said he, as he turned the cigar round in his mouth, to complete the lighting of the edges in the wind.
"Ah, but I shan't, unless you will interest yourself. What I am going to tell you ought to interest you."
"He has made you a proposal of marriage?"
"Yes."
"I knew it."
"How could you know it? Nobody has told you."
"I felt sure of it from the way in which you speak of him. But I thought also that you had refused him. Perhaps I was wrong there?"
"No."
"You have refused him?"
"Yes."
"I don't see that there is very much of a story to be told, Mary."
"Don't be so unkind, Walter. There is a story, and one that troubles me. If it were not so I should not have proposed to tell you. I thought that you would give me advice, and tell me what I ought to do."
"But if you have refused him, you have done so, – no doubt rightly, – without my advice; and I am too late in the field to be of any service."
"You must let me tell my own story, and you must be good to me while I do so. I think I shouldn't tell you if I hadn't almost made up my mind; but I shan't tell you which way, and you must advise me. In the first place, though I did refuse him, the matter is still open, and he is to ask me again, if he pleases."
"He has your permission for that?"
"Well, – yes. I hope it wasn't wrong. I did so try to be right."
"I do not say you were wrong."
"I like him so much, and think him so good, and do really feel that his affection is so great an honour to me, that I could not answer him as though I were quite indifferent to him."
"At any rate, he is to come again?"
"If he pleases."
"Does he really love you?"
"How am I to say? But that is missish and untrue. I am sure he loves me."
"So that he will grieve to lose you?"
"I know he will grieve. I ought not to say so. But I know he will."
"You ought to tell the truth, as you believe it. And you yourself, – do you love him?"
"I don't know. I do love him; but if I heard he was going to marry another girl to-morrow it would make me very happy."
"Then you can't love him?"
"I feel as though I should think the same of any man who wanted to marry me. But let me go on with my story. Everybody I care for wishes me to take him. I know that Aunt Sarah feels quite sure that I shall at last, and that she thinks I ought to do so at once. My friend, Janet Fenwick, cannot understand why I should hesitate, and only forgives me because she is sure that it will come right, in her way, some day. Mr. Fenwick is just the same, and will always talk to me as though it were my fate to live at Bullhampton all my life."
"Is not Bullhampton a nice place?"
"Very nice; I love the place."
"And Mr. Gilmore is rich?"
"He is quite rich enough. Fancy my inquiring about that, with just £1200 for my fortune."
"Then why, in God's name, don't you accept him?"
"You think I ought?"
"Answer my question; – why do you not?"
"Because – I do not love him – as I should hope to love my husband."
After this Captain Marrable, who had been looking her full in the face while he had been asking these questions, turned somewhat away from her, as though the conversation were over. She remained motionless, and was minded so to remain till he should tell her that it was time to move, that they might return home. He had given her no advice; but she presumed she was to take what had passed as the expression of his opinion that it was her duty to accept an offer so favourable and so satisfactory