He was walking home with Miss Brownlow across the park from church one Sunday morning. Sir Gregory never went to church; his age was supposed to be too great, or his infirmities too many. Mrs. Brownlow was in the pony carriage driving her nephew, and Walter Marrable was alone with Edith. There had been some talk of cousinship—of the various relationships of the family, and the like—and of the way in which the Marrables were connected. They two, Walter and Edith, were not cousins. She was related to the family only by her aunt’s marriage, and yet, as she said, she had always heard more of the Marrables than of the Brownlows.
“You never saw Mary Lowther?” Walter asked.
“Never.”
“But you have heard of her?”
“I just know her name—hardly more. The last time your uncle was here—Parson John, we were talking of her. He made her out to be wonderfully beautiful.”
“That was as long ago as last summer,” said the Captain, reflecting that his uncle’s account had been given before he and Mary Lowther had seen each other.
“Oh, yes;—ever so long ago.”
“She is wonderfully beautiful.”
“You know her, then, Captain Marrable?”
“I know her very well. In the first place, she is my cousin.”
“But ever so distant?”
“We are not first cousins. Her mother was a daughter of General Marrable, who was a brother of Sir Gregory’s father.”
“It is so hard to understand, is it not? She is wonderfully beautiful, is she?”
“Indeed, she is.”
“And she is your cousin—in the first place. What is she in the second place?”
He was not quite sure whether he wished to tell the story or not. The engagement was broken, and it might be a question whether, as regarded Mary, he had a right to tell it; and, then, if he did tell it, would not his reason for doing so be apparent? Was it not palpable that he was expected to marry this girl, and that she would understand that he was explaining to her that he did not intend to carry out the general expectation of the family? And, then, was he sure that it might not be possible for him at some future time to do as he was desired?
“I meant to say that, as I was staying at Loring, of course I met her frequently. She is living with a certain old Miss Marrable, whom you will meet some day.”
“I have heard of her, but I don’t suppose I ever shall meet her. I never go anywhere. I don’t suppose there are such stay-at-home people in the world as we are.”
“Why don’t you get Sir Gregory to ask them here?”
“Both he and my cousin are so afraid of having strange women in the house; you know, we never have anybody here; your coming has been quite an event. Old Mrs. Potter seems to think that an era of dissipation is to be commenced because she has been called upon to open so many pots of jam to make pies for you.”
“I’m afraid I have been very troublesome.”
“Awfully troublesome. You can’t think of all that had to be said and done about the stables! Do you have your oats bruised? Even I was consulted about that. Most of the people in the parish are quite disappointed because you don’t go about in your full armour.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late now.”
“I own I was a little disappointed myself when you came down to dinner without a sword. You can have no idea in what a state of rural simplicity we live here. Would you believe it?—for ten years I have never seen the sea, and have never been into any town bigger than Worcester—unless Hereford be bigger. We did go once to the festival at Hereford. We have not managed Gloucester yet.”
“You’ve never seen London?”
“Not since I was twelve years old. Papa died when I was fourteen, and I came here almost immediately afterwards. Fancy, ten years at Dunripple! There is not a tree or a stone I don’t know, and of course not a face in the parish.”
She was very nice; but it was out of the question that she should ever become his wife. He had thought that he might explain this to herself by letting her know that he had within the last few months become engaged to, and had broken his engagement with, his cousin, Mary Lowther. But he found that he could not do it. In the first place, she would understand more than he meant her to understand if he made the attempt. She would know that he was putting her on her guard, and would take it as an insult. And then he could not bring himself to talk about Mary Lowther, and to tell their joint secrets. He was discontented with himself and with Dunripple, and he repented that he had yielded in respect to his Indian service. Everything had gone wrong with him. Had he refused to accede to Mary’s proposition for a separation, and had he come to Dunripple as an engaged man, he might, he thought, have reconciled his uncle—or at least his Cousin Gregory—to
