“Patagonia! That’s a long way off.”
“We Foreign Office slaves have to be sent a long way off.”
“But we heard, John,” said Reginald, who did not feel it to be his duty to stand on any ceremony with his younger cousin—“we heard that you were going to be married to Miss Trefoil. Are you going to take a wife out to Patagonia?”
This was a question which he certainly had not expected. “I don’t know how that may be,” he said frowning.
“We were told here in Dillsborough that it was all settled. I hope I haven’t asked an improper question.”
“Of course people will talk.”
“If it’s only talk I beg pardon. Whatever concerns Bragton is interesting to me, and from the way in which I heard this I thought it was a certainty. Patagonia;—well! You don’t want an assistant private secretary I suppose? I should like to see Patagonia.”
“We are not allowed to appoint those gentlemen ourselves.”
“And I suppose I should be too old to get in at the bottom. It seems a long way off for a man who is the owner of Bragton.”
“It is a long way.”
“And what will you do with the old place?”
“There’s no one to live there. If you were married you might perhaps take it.” This was of course said in joke, as old Mrs. Morton would have thought Bragton to be disgraced forever, even by such a proposition.
“You might let it.”
“Who would take such a place for five years? I suppose old Mrs. Hopkins will remain, and that it will become more and more desolate every year. I mustn’t let the old house tumble down;—that’s all.” Then the Minister Plenipotentiary to Patagonia took his departure and walked back to Bragton thinking of the publicity of his engagement. All Dillsborough had heard that he was to be married to Miss Trefoil, and this cousin of his had been so sure of the fact that he had not hesitated to ask a question about it in the first moment of their first interview. Under such circumstances it would be better for him to go to Patagonia than to remain in England.
XXXIII
The Beginning of Persecution
When Mary Masters got up on the morning after her arrival she knew that she would have to endure much on that day. Everybody had smiled on her the preceding evening, but the smiles were of a nature which declared themselves to be preparatory to some coming event. The people around her were gracious on the presumption that she was going to do as they wished, and would be quite prepared to withdraw their smiles should she prove to be contumacious. Mary, as she crept down in the morning, understood all this perfectly. She found her stepmother alone in the parlour and was at once attacked with the all important question. “My dear, I hope you have made up your mind about Mr. Twentyman.”
“There were to be two months, mamma.”
“That’s nonsense, Mary. Of course you must know what you mean to tell him.” Mary thought that she did know, but was not at the present moment disposed to make known her knowledge and therefore remained silent. “You should remember how much this is to your papa and me and should speak out at once. Of course you need not tell Mr. Twentyman till the end of the time unless you like it.”
“I thought I was to be left alone for two months.”
“Mary, that is wicked. When your papa has so many things to think of and so much to provide for, you should be more thoughtful of him. Of course he will want to be prepared to give you what things will be necessary.” Mrs. Masters had not as yet heard of Mr. Morton’s cheque, and perhaps would not hear of it till her husband’s bank book fell into her hands. The attorney had lately found it necessary to keep such matters to himself when it was possible, as otherwise he was asked for explanations which it was not always easy for him to give. “You know,” continued Mrs. Masters, “how hard your father finds it to get money as it is wanted.”
“I don’t want anything, mamma.”
“You must want things if you are to be married in March or April.”
“But I shan’t be married in March or April. Oh, mamma, pray don’t.”
“In a week’s time or so you must tell Larry. After all that has passed of course he won’t expect to have to wait long, and you can’t ask him. Kate, my dear,”—Kate had just entered the room—“go into the office and tell your father to come into breakfast in five minutes. You must know, Mary, and I insist on your telling me.”
“When I said two months—only it was he said two months—”
“What difference does it make, my dear?”
“It was only because he asked me to put it off. I knew it could make no difference.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Mary, that you are going to refuse him after all?”
“I can’t help it,” said Mary, bursting out into tears.
“Can’t help it! Did anybody ever see such an idiot since girls were first created? Not help it, after having given him as good as a promise! You must help it. You must be made to help it.”
There was an injustice in this which nearly killed poor Mary. She had been persuaded among them to put off her final decision, not because she had any doubt in her own mind, but at their request, and now she was told that in granting this delay she had “given as good as a promise!” And her stepmother also had declared that she “must be made to help it,”—or in other words be made to marry Mr. Twentyman in opposition to her own wishes! She was quite sure that no human being could have such right of compulsion over her. Her father would not
