“I will never be a millstone round anybody’s neck,” said Mary, walking out of the room. She felt that her aunt had been very cruel to her—had attacked her in her misery without mercy; and yet she knew that every word that had been uttered had been spoken in pure affection. She did not believe that her aunt’s chief purpose had been to save Walter from the fruits of an imprudent marriage. Had she so believed, the words would have had more effect on her. She saw, or thought that she saw, that her aunt was trying to save herself against her own will, and at this she was indignant. She was determined to persevere; and this endeavour to make her feel that her perseverance would be disastrous to the man she loved was, she thought, very cruel. She stalked upstairs with unruffled demeanour; but when there, she threw herself on her bed and sobbed bitterly. Could it be that it was her duty, for his sake, to tell him that the whole thing should be at an end? It was impossible for her to do so now, because she had sworn to him that she would be guided altogether by him in his present troubles. She must keep her word to him, whatever happened; but of this she was quite sure—that if he should show the slightest sign of a wish to be free from his engagement, she would make him free—at once. She would make him free, and would never allow herself to think for a moment that he had been wrong. She had told him what her own feelings were very plainly—perhaps, in her enthusiasm, too plainly—and now he must judge for himself and for her. In respect to her aunt, she would endeavour to avoid any further conversation on the subject till her lover should have decided finally what would be best for both of them. If he should choose to say that everything between them should be over, she would acquiesce—and all the world should be over for her at the same time.
While this was going on in Uphill Lane something of the same kind was taking place at the Lowtown Parsonage. Parson John became aware that his nephew had been with the ladies at Uphill, and when the young man came in for lunch, he asked some question which introduced the subject. “You’ve told them of this fresh trouble, no doubt.”
“I didn’t see Miss Marrable,” said the Captain.
“I don’t know that Miss Marrable much signifies. You haven’t asked Miss Marrable to be your wife.”
“I saw Mary, and I told her.”
“I hope you made no bones about it.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“I hope you told her that you two had had your little game of play, like two children, and that there must be an end of it.”
“No; I didn’t tell her that.”
“That’s what you have got to tell her in some kind of language, and the sooner you do it the better. Of course you can’t marry her. You couldn’t have done it if this money had been all right, and it’s out of the question now. Bless my soul! how you would hate each other before six months were over. I can understand that for a strong fellow like you, when he’s used to it, India may be a jolly place enough.”
“It’s a great deal more than I can understand.”
“But for a poor man with a wife and family;—oh dear! it must be very bad indeed. And neither of you have ever been used to that kind of thing.”
“I have not,” said the Captain.
“Nor has she. That old lady up there is not rich, but she is as proud as Lucifer, and always lives as though the whole place belonged to her. She’s a good manager, and she don’t run in debt;—but Mary Lowther knows no more of roughing it than a duchess.”
“I hope I may never have to teach her.”
“I trust you never may. It’s a very bad lesson for a young man to have to teach a young woman. Some women die in the learning. Some won’t learn it at all. Others do, and become dirty and rough themselves. Now, you are very particular about women.”
“I like to see them well turned out.”
“What would you think of your own wife, nursing perhaps a couple of babies, dressed nohow when she gets up in the morning, and going on in the same way till night? That’s the kind of life with officers who marry on their pay. I don’t say anything against it. If the man likes it—or rather if he’s able to put up with it—it may be all very well; but you couldn’t put up with it. Mary’s very nice now, but you’d come to be so sick of her, that you’d feel half like cutting her throat—or your own.”
“It would be the latter for choice, sir.”
“I dare say it would. But even that isn’t a pleasant thing to look forward to. I’ll tell you the truth about it, my boy. When you first came to me and told me that you were going to marry Mary Lowther, I knew it could not be. It was no business of mine; but I knew it could not be. Such engagements always get themselves broken off somehow. Now and again there are a pair of fools who go through with it;—but for the most part it’s a matter of kissing and lovers’ vows for a week or two.”
“You seem to know all about it, Uncle John.”
“I haven’t lived to be seventy without knowing something, I suppose. And now here you are without a shilling. I dare say, if the truth were known, you’ve a few debts here and there.”
“I may owe three or four hundred pounds or so.”
“As much as a year’s income;—and you talk of marrying a
