And there seemed to Dillsborough to be some justification for all this in the fact that Mary was now living at Bragton, and that she did not apparently intend to return to her father’s house. At this time Reginald Morton himself was still at Hoppet Hall, and had declared that he would remain there till after his marriage. Lady Ushant was living at the big house, which was henceforth to be her home. Mary was her visitor, and was to be married from Bragton as though Bragton were her residence rather than the squire’s. The plan had originated with Reginald, and when it had been hinted to him that Mary would in this way seem to slight her father’s home, he had proposed that all the Masters should come and stay at Bragton previous to the ceremony. Mrs. Masters yielded as to Mary’s residence, saying with mock humility that of course she had no room fit to give a marriage feast to the Squire of Bragton; but she was steadfast in saying to her husband, who made the proposition to her, that she would stay at home. Of course she would be present at the wedding; but she would not trouble the like of Lady Ushant by any prolonged visiting.
The wedding was to take place about the beginning of May, and all these things were being considered early in April. At this time one of the girls was always at Bragton, and Mary had done her best, but hitherto in vain, to induce her stepmother to come to her. When she heard that there was a doubt as to the accomplishment of the plan for the coming of the whole family, she drove herself into Dillsborough in the old phaeton and then pleaded her cause for herself. “Mamma,” she said, “won’t you come with the girls and papa on the 29th?”
“I think not, my dear. The girls can go—if they like it. But it will be more fitting for papa and me to come to the church on the morning.”
“Why more fitting, mamma?”
“Well, my dear; it will.”
“Dear mamma;—why—why?”
“Of course, my dear, I am very glad that you are going to get such a lift.”
“My lift is marrying the man I love.”
“That of course is all right. I have nothing on earth to say against it. And I will say that through it all you have behaved as a young woman should. I don’t think you meant to throw yourself at him.”
“Mamma!”
“But as it has turned up, you have to go one way and me another.”
“No!”
“But it must be so. The Squire of Bragton is the Squire, and his wife must act accordingly. Of course you’ll be visiting at Rufford and Hampton Wick, and all the places. I know very well who I am, and what I came from. I’m not a bit ashamed of myself, but I’m not going to stick myself up with my betters.”
“Then mamma, I shall come and be married from here.”
“It’s too late for that now, my dear.”
“No;—it is not.” And then a couple of tears began to roll down from her eyes. “I won’t be married without your coming in to see me the night before, and being with me in the morning when I dress. Haven’t I been a good child to you, mamma?” Then the stepmother began to cry also. “Haven’t I, mamma?”
“Yes, my dear,” whimpered the poor woman.
“And won’t you be my mamma to the last;—won’t you?” And she threw her arms round her stepmother’s neck and kissed her. “I won’t go one way, and you another. He doesn’t wish it. It is quite different from that. I don’t care a straw for Hampton Wick and Rufford; but I will never be separated from you and the girls and papa. Say you will come, mamma. I will not let you go till you say you will come.” Of course she had her own way, and Mrs. Masters had to feel with a sore heart that she also must go out Ushanting. She knew, that in spite of her domestic powers, she would be stricken dumb in the drawing-room at Bragton and was unhappy.
Mary had another scheme in which she was less fortunate. She took it into her head that Larry Twentyman might possibly be induced to come to her wedding. She had heard how he had ridden and gained honour for himself on the day that the hounds killed their fox at Norrington, and thought that perhaps her own message to him had induced him so far to return to his old habits. And now she longed to ask him, for her sake, to be happy once again. If any girl ever loved the man she was going to marry with all her heart, this girl loved Reginald Morton. He had been to her, when her love was hopeless, so completely the master of her heart that she could not realise the possibility of affection for another. But yet she was pervaded by a tenderness of feeling in regard to Larry which was love also—though love altogether of another kind. She thought of him daily. His future well-being was one of the cares of her life. That her husband might be able to call him a friend was among her prayers. Had anybody spoken ill of him in her presence she would have resented it hotly. Had she been told that another girl had consented to be his wife, she would have thought that girl to be happy in her destiny. When she heard that
