“Do you know that he has complained of me to the bishop?”
“Yes—and the bishop took your part.”
“No thanks to your father, Lord St. George. Do you know that he has accused me publicly of the grossest vices; that he has—that he has—that he has—. There is nothing so bad that he hasn’t said it of me.”
“Upon my word, I think you are even with him, Mr. Fenwick, I do indeed.”
“What I have said, I have said to his face. I have made no accusation against him. Come, my lord, I am willing enough to let bygones be bygones. If Lord Trowbridge will condescend to say that he will drop all animosity to me, I will forgive him the injuries he has done me. But I cannot admit myself to have been wrong.”
“I never knew any man who would,” said Lord St. George.
“If the Marquis will put out his hand to me, I will accept it,” said the Vicar.
“Allow me to do so on his behalf,” said the son.
And thus the quarrel was presumed to be healed. Lord St. George went to the inn for his horse, and the Vicar, as he walked across to the vicarage, felt that he had been—done. This young lord had been very clever—and had treated the quarrel as though on even terms, as if the offences on each side had been equal. And yet the Vicar knew very well that he had been right—right without a single slip—right from the beginning to the end. “He has been clever,” he said to himself, “and he shall have the advantage of his cleverness.” Then he resolved that as far as he was concerned the quarrel should in truth be over.
LXI
Mary Lowther’s Treachery
While the Vicar was listening to the eloquence of Mr. Puddleham in the chapel, and was being cozened out of his just indignation by Lord St. George, a terrible scene was going on in the drawing-room of the vicarage. Mary Lowther, as the reader knows, had declared that she would wear mourning for her distant cousin, and had declined to appear at lunch before Lord St. George. Mrs. Fenwick, putting these things together, knew that much was the matter, but she did not know how much. She did not as yet anticipate the terrible state of things which was to be made known to her that afternoon.
Mary was quite aware that the thing must be settled. In the first place she must answer Captain Marrable’s letter. And then it was her bounden duty to let Mr. Gilmore know her mind as soon as she knew it herself. It might be easy enough for her to write to Walter Marrable. That which she had to say to him would be pleasant enough in the saying. But that could not be said till the other thing should be unsaid. And how was that unsaying to be accomplished? Nothing could be done without the aid of Mrs. Fenwick; and now she was afraid of Mrs. Fenwick—as the guilty are always afraid of those who will have to judge their guilt. While the children were at dinner, and while the lord was sitting at lunch, she remained up in her own room. From her window she could see the two men walking across the vicarage grounds towards the chapel, and she knew that her friend would be alone. Her story must be told to Mrs. Fenwick, and to Mrs. Fenwick only. It would be impossible for her to speak of her determination before the Vicar till he should have received a first notice of it from his wife. And there certainly must be no delay. The men were hardly out of sight before she had resolved to go down at once. She looked at herself in the glass, and sponged the mark of tears from her eyes, and smoothed her hair, and then descended. She never before had felt so much in fear of her friend; and yet it was her friend who was mainly the cause of this mischief which surrounded her, and who had persuaded her to evil. At Janet Fenwick’s instance she had undertaken to marry a man whom she did not love; and yet she feared to go to Janet Fenwick with the story of her repentance. Why not indignantly demand of her friend assistance in extricating herself from the injury which that friend had brought upon her?
She found Mrs. Fenwick with the children in the little breakfast parlour to which they had been banished by the coming of Lord St. George. “Janet,” she said, “come and take a turn with me in the garden.” It was now the middle of August, and life at the vicarage was spent almost as much out of doors as within. The ladies went about with parasols, and would carry their hats hanging in their hands. There was no delay therefore, and the two were on the gravel-path almost as soon as Mary’s request was made. “I did not show you my letter from Dunripple,” she said, putting her hand into her pocket; “but I might as well do so now. You will have to read it.”
She took out the document, but did not at once hand it to her companion. “Is there anything wrong, Mary?” said Mrs. Fenwick.
“Wrong. Yes;—very, very wrong. Janet, it is no use your talking to me. I have quite made up my mind. I cannot and I will not marry Mr. Gilmore.”
“Mary, this is insanity.”
“You may say what you please, but I am determined. I cannot and I will not. Will you help me out of my difficulty?”
“Certainly not in the way you mean;—certainly not. It cannot be either for your good or for his. After what has passed, how on earth could you bring yourself to make such a proposition to him?”
“I do not know; that is what I feel the most. I do not know how I shall tell him. But he must be told. I thought that perhaps Mr. Fenwick
