“He is thinking only of what may be best for you.”
“It would be best for me to stay near him. Whom else has he got?”
All this Mrs. Finn repeated to the Duke as closely as she could, and then of course the father was obliged to speak to his daughter.
“Don’t send me away, papa,” she said at once.
“Your life here, Mary, will be inexpressibly sad.”
“It must be sad anywhere. I cannot go to college, like Gerald, or live anywhere just as I please, like Silverbridge.”
“Do you envy them that?”
“Sometimes, papa. Only I shall think more of poor mamma by being alone, and I should like to be thinking of her always.” He shook his head mournfully. “I do not mean that I shall always be unhappy, as I am now.”
“No, my dear; you are too young for that. It is only the old who suffer in that way.”
“You will suffer less if I am with you; won’t you, papa? I do not want to go to Lady Cantrip. I hardly remember her at all.”
“She is very good.”
“Oh yes. That is what they used to say to mamma about Lady Midlothian. Papa, pray do not send me to Lady Cantrip.”
Of course it was decided that she should not go to Lady Cantrip at once, or to Mrs. Jeffrey Palliser, and, after a short interval of doubt, it was decided also that Mrs. Finn should remain at Matching for at least a fortnight. The Duke declared that he would be glad to see Mr. Finn, but she knew that in his present mood the society of any one man to whom he would feel himself called upon to devote his time, would be a burden to him, and she plainly said that Mr. Finn had better not come to Matching at present. “There are old associations,” she said, “which will enable you to bear with me as you will with your butler or your groom, but you are not as yet quite able to make yourself happy with company.” This he bore with perfect equanimity, and then, as it were, handed over his daughter to Mrs. Finn’s care.
Very quickly there came to be close intimacy between Mrs. Finn and Lady Mary. For a day or two the elder woman, though the place she filled was one of absolute confidence, rather resisted than encouraged the intimacy. She always remembered that the girl was the daughter of a great duke, and that her position in the house had sprung from circumstances which would not, perhaps, in the eyes of the world at large, have recommended her for such friendship. She knew—the reader may possibly know—that nothing had ever been purer, nothing more disinterested than her friendship. But she knew also—no one knew better—that the judgment of men and women does not always run parallel with facts. She entertained, too, a conviction in regard to herself, that hard words and hard judgments were to be expected from the world—were to be accepted by her without any strong feeling of injustice—because she had been elevated by chance to the possession of more good things than she had merited. She weighed all this with a very fine balance, and even after the encouragement she had received from the Duke, was intent on confining herself to some position about the girl inferior to that which such a friend as Lady Cantrip might have occupied. But the girl’s manner, and the girl’s speech about her own mother, overcame her. It was the unintentional revelation of the Duchess’s constant reference to her—the way in which Lady Mary would assert that “Mamma used always to say this of you; mamma always knew that you would think so-and-so; mamma used to say that you had told her.” It was the feeling thus conveyed, that the mother who was now dead had in her daily dealings with her own child spoken of her as her nearest friend, which mainly served to conquer the deference of manner which she had assumed.
Then gradually there came confidences—and at last absolute confidence. The whole story about Mr. Tregear was told. Yes; she loved Mr. Tregear. She had given him her heart, and had told him so.
“Then, my dear, your father ought to know it,” said Mrs. Finn.
“No; not yet. Mamma knew it.”
“Did she know all that you have told me?”
“Yes; all. And Mr. Tregear spoke to her, and she said that papa ought not to be told quite yet.”
Mrs. Finn could not but remember that the friend she had lost was not, among women, the one best able to give a girl good counsel in such a crisis.
“Why not yet, dear?”
“Well, because—. It is very hard to explain. In the first place, because Mr. Tregear himself does not wish it.”
“That is a very bad reason; the worst in the world.”
“Of course you will say so. Of course everybody would say so. But when there is one person whom one loves better than all the rest, for whom one would be ready to die, to whom one is determined that everything shall be devoted, surely the wishes of a person so dear as that ought to have weight.”
“Not in persuading you to do that which is acknowledged to be wrong.”
“What wrong? I am going to do nothing wrong.”
“The very concealment of your love is wrong, after that love has been not only given but declared. A girl’s position in such matters is so delicate, especially that of such a girl as you!”
“I know all about
