“He would certainly not speak to me about it. I do not think he thinks of it. He is not like that.”
“Men do consider such things. And they are only cousins; and they have never known each other! Oh, Mary!”
“What are you thinking of, Lady Ushant?”
“Men ought not to care for money or position, but they do. If he comes here, all that I have will be yours.”
“Oh, Lady Ushant!”
“It is not much but it will be enough.”
“I do not want to hear about such things now.”
“But you ought to be told. Ah, dear;—if it could be as I wish!” The imprudent, weak-minded, loving old woman longed to hear a tale of mutual love—longed to do something which should cause such a tale to be true on both sides. And yet she could not quite bring herself to express her wish either to the man or to the woman.
Poor Mary almost understood it, but was not quite sure of her friend’s meaning. She was, however, quite sure that if such were the wish of Lady Ushant’s heart, Lady Ushant was wishing in vain. She had twice walked back to Dillsborough with Reginald Morton, and he had been more sedate, more middle-aged, less like a lover than ever. She knew now that she might safely walk with him, being sure that he was no more likely to talk of love than would have been old Dr. Nupper had she accepted the offer which he had made her of a cast in his gig. And now that Reginald would probably become Squire of Bragton it was more impossible than ever. As Squire of Bragton he would seek some highly born bride, quite out of her way, whom she could never know. And then she would see neither him—nor Bragton any more. Would it not have been better that she should have married Larry Twentyman and put an end to so many troubles beside her own?
Again she walked back with him to Dillsborough, passing as they always did across the little bridge. He seemed to be very silent as he went, more so than usual—and as was her wont with him she only spoke to him when he addressed her. It was only when he got out on the road that he told her what was on his mind. “Mary,” he said, “how will it be with me if that poor fellow dies?”
“In what way, Mr. Morton?”
“All that place will be mine. He told me so just now.”
“But that would be of course.”
“Not at all. He might give it to you if he pleased. He could not have an heir who would care for it less. But it is right that it should be so. Whether it would suit my taste or not to live as Squire of Bragton—and I do not think it would suit my taste well—it ought to be so. I am the next, and it will be my duty.”
“I am sure you do not want him to die.”
“No, indeed. If I could save him by my right hand—if I could save him by my life, I would do it.”
“But of all lives it must surely be the best.”
“Do you think so? What is such a one likely to do? But then what do I do, as it is? It is the sort of life you would like—if you were a man.”
“Yes—if I were a man,” said Mary. Then he again relapsed into silence and hardly spoke again till he left her at her father’s door.
LIX
The Last Effort
When Mary reached her home she was at once met by her stepmother in the passage with tidings of importance. “He is upstairs in the drawing-room,” said Mrs. Masters. Mary whose mind was laden with thoughts of Reginald Morton asked who was the he. “Lawrence Twentyman,” said Mrs. Masters. “And now, my dear, do, do think of it before you go to him.” There was no anger now in her stepmother’s face—but entreaty and almost love. She had not called Mary “my dear” for many weeks past—not since that journey to Cheltenham. Now she grasped the girl’s hand as she went on with her prayer. “He is so good and so true! And what better can there be for you? With your advantages, and Lady Ushant, and all that, you would be quite the lady at Chowton. Think of your father and sisters;—what a good you could do them! And think of the respect they all have for him, dining with Lord Rufford the other day and all the other gentlemen. It isn’t only that he has got plenty to live on, but he knows how to keep it as a man ought. He’s sure to hold up his head and be as good a squire as any of ’em.” This was a very different tale;—a note altogether changed! It must not be said that the difference of the tale and the change of the note affected Mary’s heart; but her stepmother’s manner to her did soften her. And then why should she regard herself or her own feelings? Like others she had thought much of her own happiness, had made herself the centre of her own circle, had, in her imagination, built castles in the air and filled them according to her fancy. But her fancies had been all shattered into fragments; not a stone of her castles was standing; she had told herself unconsciously that there was no longer a circle and no need for a centre. That last half-hour which she had passed with Reginald Morton on the road home had made quite sure that which had been sure enough before. He was now altogether out of her reach, thinking only of the new duties which were coming to him. She would never walk with him again; never
