“A man cannot do what he pleases with himself. How can a man marry, so circumstanced as I am?”
She hesitated for a moment, and then she answered him—“A man may be very happy without marrying, I suppose.”
He also paused for many moments before he spoke again, and she then made a faint attempt to escape from him. But before she succeeded he had asked her a question which arrested her. “I wonder whether you would listen to me if I were to tell you a history?” Of course she listened, and the history he told her was the tale of his love for Violet Effingham.
“And she has money of her own?” Mary asked.
“Yes;—she is rich. She has a large fortune.”
“Then, Mr. Finn, you must seek someone else who is equally blessed.”
“Mary, that is untrue—that is ill-natured. You do not mean that. Say that you do not mean it. You have not believed that I loved Miss Effingham because she was rich.”
“But you have told me that you could love no one who is not rich.”
“I have said nothing of the kind. Love is involuntary. It does not often run in a yoke with prudence. I have told you my history as far as it is concerned with Violet Effingham. I did love her very dearly.”
“Did love her, Mr. Finn?”
“Yes;—did love her. Is there any inconstancy in ceasing to love when one is not loved? Is there inconstancy in changing one’s love, and in loving again?”
“I do not know,” said Mary, to whom the occasion was becoming so embarrassing that she no longer was able to reply with words that had a meaning in them.
“If there be, dear, I am inconstant.” He paused, but of course she had not a syllable to say. “I have changed my love. But I could not speak of a new passion till I had told the story of that which has passed away. You have heard it all now, Mary. Can you try to love me, after that?” It had come at last—the thing for which she had been ever wishing. It had come in spite of her imprudence, and in spite of her prudence. When she had heard him to the end she was not a whit angry with him—she was not in the least aggrieved—because he had been lost to her in his love for this Miss Effingham, while she had been so nearly lost by her love for him. For women such episodes in the lives of their lovers have an excitement which is almost pleasurable, whereas each man is anxious to hear his lady swear that until he appeared upon the scene her heart had been fancy free. Mary, upon the whole, had liked the story—had thought that it had been finely told, and was well pleased with the final catastrophe. But, nevertheless, she was not prepared with her reply. “Have you no answer to give me, Mary?” he said, looking up into her eyes. I am afraid that he did not doubt what would be her answer—as it would be good that all lovers should do. “You must vouchsafe me some word, Mary.”
When she essayed to speak she found that she was dumb. She could not get her voice to give her the assistance of a single word. She did not cry, but there was a motion as of sobbing in her throat which impeded all utterance. She was as happy as earth—as heaven could make her; but she did not know how to tell him that she was happy. And yet she longed to tell it, that he might know how thankful she was to him for his goodness. He still sat looking at her, and now by degrees he had got her hand in his. “Mary,” he said, “will you be my wife—my own wife?”
When half an hour had passed, they were still together, and now she had found the use of her tongue. “Do whatever you like best,” she said. “I do not care which you do. If you came to me tomorrow and told me you had no income, it would make no difference. Though to love you and to have your love is all the world to me—though it makes all the difference between misery and happiness—I would sooner give up that than be a clog on you.” Then he took her in his arms and kissed her. “Oh, Phineas!” she said, “I do love you so entirely!”
“My own one!”
“Yes; your own one. But if you had known it always! Never mind. Now you are my own—are you not?”
“Indeed yes, dearest.”
“Oh, what a thing it is to be victorious at last.”
“What on earth are you two doing here these two hours together?” said Barbara, bursting into the room.
“What are we doing?” said Phineas.
“Yes;—what are you doing?”
“Nothing in particular,” said Mary.
“Nothing at all in particular,” said Phineas. “Only this—that we have engaged ourselves to marry each other. It is quite a trifle—is it not, Mary?”
“Oh, Barbara!” said the joyful girl, springing forward into her friend’s arms; “I do believe I am the happiest creature on the face of this earth!”
LXVII
Job’s Comforters
Before Phineas had returned to London his engagement with Mary Flood Jones was known to all his family, was known to Mrs. Flood Jones, and was indeed known generally to all Killaloe. That other secret of his, which had reference to the probability of his being obliged to throw up his office, was known only to Mary herself. He thought that he had done all that honour required of him in telling her of his position before he had proposed;—so that she might on that ground refuse him if she were so minded. And yet he had known very well that such prudence on her part was not to be expected. If she loved him, of course she would say so when she was asked. And he had known that she loved him. “There may be delay,
