There was something in the tone in which these words were said which almost made Mary Lowther again decide against the man. The man had a home and an income, and was Squire of the parish; and therefore there need be no difficulty! When she compared Mr. Fenwick and Mr. Gilmore together, she found that she liked Mr. Fenwick the best. She thought him to be the more clever, the higher spirited, the most of a man of the two. She certainly was not the least in love with her friend’s husband; but then she was just as little in love with Mr. Gilmore.
At about half-past two Mr. Gilmore made his appearance, standing at the open window.
“May I come in?” he said.
“Of course you may come in.”
“Mrs. Fenwick is not here?”
“She is in the house, I think, if you want her.”
“Oh no. I hope you were not frightened last night. I have not seen Frank this morning; but I hear from Mr. Trumbull that there was something of a row.”
“There was a row, certainly. Mr. Fenwick struck some of the men, and he is afraid that he hurt one of them.”
“I wish he had broken their heads. I take it there was a son of one of my tenants there, who is about as bad as he can be. Frank will believe me now. I hope you were not frightened here.”
“I heard nothing of it till this morning.”
After that there was a pause. He had told himself as he came along that the task before him could not be easy and pleasant. To declare a passion to the girl he loves may be very pleasant work to the man who feels almost sure that his answer will not be against him. It may be an easy task enough even when there is a doubt. The very possession of the passion—or even its pretence—gives the man a liberty which he has a pleasure and a pride in using. But this is the case when the man dashes boldly at his purpose without preconcerted arrangements. Such pleasure, if it ever was a pleasure to him—such excitement at least, was come and gone with Harry Gilmore. He had told his tale, and had been desired to wait. Now he had come again at a fixed hour to be informed—like a servant waiting for a place—whether it was thought that he would suit. The servant out of place, however, would have had this advantage, that he would receive his answer without the necessity of further eloquence on his own part. With the lover it was different. It was evident that Mary Lowther would not say to him, “I have considered the matter, and I think that, upon the whole, you will do.” It was necessary that he should ask the question again, and ask it as a suppliant.
“Mary,” he said, beginning with words that he had fixed for himself as he came up the garden, “it is six weeks, I think, since I asked you to be my wife; and now I have come to ask you again.”
She made him no immediate answer, but sat as though waiting for some further effort of his eloquence.
“I do not think you doubt my truth, or the warmth of my affection. If you trust in them—”
“I do; I do.”
“Then I don’t know that I can say anything further. Nothing that I can say now will make you love me. I have not that sort of power which would compel a girl to come into my arms.”
“I don’t understand that kind of power—how any man can have it with any girl.”
“They say that it is so; but I do not flatter myself that it is so with me; and I do not think that it would be so with any man over you. Perhaps I may assure you that, as far as I know myself at present, all my future happiness must depend on your answer. It will not kill me—to be refused; at least, I suppose not. But it will make me wish that it would.” Having so spoken he waited for her reply.
She believed every word that he said. And she liked him so well that, for his own sake, she desired that he might be gratified. As far as she knew herself, she had no desire to be Harry Gilmore’s wife. The position was not even one in which she could allow herself to look for consolation on one side, for disappointments on the other. She had read about love, and talked about love; and she desired to be in love. Certainly she was not in love with this man. She had begun to doubt whether it would ever be given to her to love—to love as her friend Janet loved Frank Fenwick. Janet loved her husband’s very footsteps, and seemed to eat with his palate, hear with his ears, and see with his eyes. She was, as it were, absolutely a bone from her husband’s rib. Mary thought that she was sure that she could never have that same feeling towards Henry Gilmore. And yet it might come; or something might come which would do almost as well. It was likely that Janet’s nature was softer and sweeter than her own—more prone to adapt itself, like ivy to a strong tree. For herself, it might be, that she could never become as the ivy; but that, nevertheless, she might be the true wife of a true husband. But if ever she was to be the true wife of Harry Gilmore, she could not today say that it should be so.
“I suppose I must answer you,” she said, very gently.
“If you tell me that you are not ready to do so I will wait, and come again. I shall never change my mind. You may be sure of that.”
“But that is just what I may not do, Mr. Gilmore.”
“Who says so?”
“My own feelings tell me so. I
