The Vicar of Bullhampton

England as a bachelor on his professional income, and yet surely he would be poorer as a married man with that £300 a year added to it, than he would have been without it, and also without a wife. But what girl that loves a man can be angry with him for such imprudence and such inconsistency? She had already told him that she would be ready, if it were necessary, to go with him to India. She had said so before she went up to her aunt’s room. He had replied that he hoped no such sacrifice would be demanded from her. “There can be no sacrifice on my part,” she had replied, “unless I am required to give up you.” Of course he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. There are moments in one’s life in which not to be imprudent, not to be utterly, childishly forgetful of all worldly wisdom, would be to be brutal, inhuman, and devilish. “Had he told Parson John?” she asked.

“Oh, yes!”

“And what does he say?”

“Just nothing. He raised his eyebrows, and suggested ‘that I had changed my ideas of life.’ ‘So I have,’ I said. ‘All right!’ he replied. ‘I hope that Block and Curling won’t have made any mistake about the £5,000.’ That was all he said. No doubt he thinks we’re two fools; but then one’s folly won’t embarrass him.”

“Nor will it embarrass Aunt Sarah,” said Mary.

“But there is this difference. If we come to grief, Parson John will eat his dinner without the slightest interference with his appetite from our misfortunes; but Aunt Sarah would suffer on your account.”

“She would, certainly,” said Mary.

“But we will not come to grief. At any rate, darling, we cannot consent to be made wise by the prospect of her possible sorrows on our behalf.”

It was agreed that on that afternoon Mary should write both to Mr. Gilmore and to Janet Fenwick. She offered to keep her letters, and show them, when written, to her lover; but he declared that he would prefer not to see them. “It is enough for me that I triumph,” he said, as he left her. When he had gone, she at once told her aunt that she would write the letters, and bring that to Mr. Gilmore to be read by her when they were finished.

“I would postpone it for awhile, if I were you,” said Aunt Sarah.

But Mary declared that any such delay would be unfair to Mr. Gilmore. She did write the letters before dinner, and they were as follows:⁠—

My dear Mr. Gilmore,

When last you came down to the Vicarage to see me I promised you, as you may perhaps remember, that if it should come to pass that I should engage myself to any other man, I would at once let you know that it was so. I little thought then that I should so soon be called upon to keep my promise. I will not pretend that the writing of this letter is not very painful to me; but I know that it is my duty to write it, and to put an end to a suspense which you have been good enough to feel on my account. You have, I think, heard the name of my cousin, Captain Walter Marrable, who returned from India two or three months ago. I found him staying here with his uncle, the clergyman, and now I am engaged to be his wife.

Perhaps it would be better that I should say nothing more than this, and that I should leave myself and my character and name to your future kindness⁠—or unkindness⁠—without any attempt to win the former or to decry the latter; but you have been to me ever so good and noble that I cannot bring myself to be so cold and short. I have always felt that your preference for me has been a great honour to me. I have appreciated your esteem most highly, and have valued your approbation more than I have been able to say. If it could be possible that I should in future have your friendship, I should value it more than that of any other person. God bless you, Mr. Gilmore. I shall always hope that you may be happy, and I shall hear with delight any tidings which may seem to show that you are so.

Pray believe that I am
Your most sincere friend,
Mary Lowther.

I have thought it best to tell Janet Fenwick what I have done.

Loring, Thursday.

Dearest Janet,

I wonder what you will say to my news? But you must not scold me. Pray do not scold me. It could never, never have been as you wanted. I have engaged myself to marry my cousin, Captain Walter Marrable, who is a nephew of Sir Gregory Marrable, and a son of Colonel Marrable. We shall be very poor, having not more than £300 a-year above his pay as a captain; but if he had nothing, I think I should do the same. Do you remember how I used to doubt whether I should ever have that sort of love for a man for which I used to envy you? I don’t envy you any longer, and I don’t regard Mr. Fenwick as being nearly so divine as I used to do. I have a Jupiter of my own now, and need envy no woman the reality of her love.

I have written to Mr. Gilmore by the same post as will take this, and have just told him the bare truth. What else could I tell him? I have said something horribly stilted about esteem and friendship, which I would have left out, only that my letter seemed to be heartless without it. He has been to me as good as a man could be; but was it my fault that I could not love him? If you knew how I tried⁠—how I tried to make believe to