Of course I used to ask myself what I should do with myself. I suppose every woman living has to ask and to answer that question. I used to try to think that it would be well not to think of the outer crust of myself. What did it matter whether things were soft to me or not? I could do my duty. And as this man was good, and a gentleman, and endowed with high qualities and appropriate tastes, why should he not have the wife he wanted? I thought that I could pretend to love him, till, after some fashion, I should love him; but as I think of it now, all this seems to be so horrid! I know now what to do with myself. To be his from head to foot! To feel that nothing done for him would be mean or distasteful! To stand at a washtub and wash his clothes, if it were wanted. Oh, Janet, I used to dread the time in which he would have to put his arm round me and kiss me! I cannot tell you what I feel now about that other he.
I know well how provoked you will be—and it will all come of love for me; but you cannot but own that I am right. If you have any justice in you, write to me and tell me that I am right.
Only that Mr. Gilmore is your great friend, and that, therefore, just at first, Walter will not be your friend, I would tell you more about him—how handsome he is, how manly, and how clever. And then his voice is like the music of the spheres. You won’t feel like being his friend at first, but you must look forward to his being your friend; you must love him—as I do Mr. Fenwick; and you must tell Mr. Fenwick that he must open his heart for the man who is to be my husband. Alas, alas! I fear it will be long before I can go to Bullhampton. How I do wish that he would find some nice wife to suit him!
Goodbye, dearest Janet. If you are really good, you will write me a sweet, kind, loving letter, wishing me joy. You must know all. Aunt Sarah has refused to congratulate me, because the income is so small. Nevertheless, we have not quarrelled. But the income will be nothing to you, and I do look forward to a kind word. When everything is settled, of course I will tell you.
The former letter of the two was shown to Miss Marrable. That lady was of opinion that it should not be sent; but would not say that, if to be sent, it could be altered for the better.
XXI
What Parson John Thinks About It
On that same Thursday, the Thursday on which Mary Lowther wrote her two despatches to Bullhampton, Miss Marrable sent a note down to Parson John, requesting that she might have an interview with him. If he were at home and disengaged, she would go down to him that evening, or he might, if he pleased, come to her. The former she thought would be preferable. Parson John assented, and very soon after dinner the private brougham came round from the Dragon, and conveyed Miss Marrable down to the rectory at Lowtown.
“I am going down to Parson John,” said she to Mary. “I think it best to speak to him about the engagement.”
Mary received the information with a nod of her head that was intended to be gracious, and Aunt Sarah proceeded on her way. She found her cousin alone in his study, and immediately opened the subject which had brought her down the hill. “Walter, I believe, has told you about this engagement, Mr. Marrable.”
“Never was so astonished in my life! He told me last night. I had begun to think that he was getting very fond of her, but I didn’t suppose it would come to this.”
“Don’t you think it very imprudent?”
“Of course it’s imprudent, Sarah. It don’t require any thinking to be aware of that. It’s downright stupid;—two cousins with nothing a year between them, when no doubt each of them might do very well. They’re wellborn, and well-looking, and clever, and all that. It’s absurd, and I don’t suppose it will ever come to anything.”
“Did you tell Walter what you thought?”
“Why should I tell him? He knows what I think without my telling him; and he wouldn’t care a pinch of snuff for my opinion. I tell you because you ask me.”
“But ought not something to be done to prevent it?”
“What can we do? I might tell him that I wouldn’t have him here any more, but I shouldn’t like to do that. Perhaps she’ll do your bidding.”
“I fear not, Mr. Marrable.”
“Then you may be quite sure he won’t do mine. He’ll go away and forget her. That’ll be the end of it. It’ll be as good as a year gone out of her life, and she’ll lose this other lover of hers at—what’s the name of the place? It’s a pity, but that’s what she’ll have to go through.”
“Is he so light as that?” asked Aunt Sarah, shocked.
“He’s about the same as other men, I take it; and she’ll
