Early in October Captain Marrable was called up to town by letters from Messrs. Block and Curling, and according to promise wrote various letters to Mary Lowther, telling her of the manner in which his business progressed. All of these letters were shown to Aunt Sarah,—and would have been shown to Parson John were it not that Parson John declined to read them. But though the letters were purely cousinly,—just such letters as a brother might write,—yet Miss Marrable thought that they were dangerous. She did not say so; but she thought that they were dangerous. Of late Mary had spoken no word of Mr. Gilmore; and Aunt Sarah, through all this silence, was able to discover that Mr. Gilmore’s prospects were not becoming brighter. Mary herself, having quite made up her mind that Mr. Gilmore’s prospects, so far as she was concerned, were all over, could not decide how and when she should communicate the resolve to her lover. According to her present agreement with him, she was to write to him at once should she accept any other offer; and was to wait for six months if this should not be the case. Certainly, there was no rival in the field, and therefore she did not quite know whether she ought or ought not to write at once in her present circumstances of assured determination. She soon told herself that in this respect also she would go to her new-found brother for advice. She would ask him, and do just as he might bid her. Had he not already proved how fit a person he was to give advice on such a subject?
After an absence of ten days he came home, and nothing could exceed Mary’s anxiety as to the tidings which he should bring with him. She endeavoured not to be selfish about the matter; but she could not but acknowledge that, even as regarded herself, the difference between his going to India or staying at home was so great as to affect the whole colour of her life. There was, perhaps, something of the feeling of being subject to desertion about her, as she remembered that in giving up Mr. Gilmore she must also give up the Fenwicks. She could not hope to go to Bullhampton again, at least for many a long day. She would be very much alone if her new brother were to leave her now. On the morning after his arrival he came up to them at Uphill, and told them that the matter was almost settled. Messrs. Block and Curling had declared that it was as good as settled; the money would be saved, and there would be, out of the ￡20,000 which he had inherited, something over ￡4000 for him; so that he need not return to India. He was in very high spirits, and did not speak a word of his father’s iniquities.
“Oh, Walter, what a joy!” said Mary, with the tears streaming from her eyes.
He took her by both her hands, and kissed her forehead. At that moment Aunt Sarah was not in the room.
“I am so very, very happy,” she said, pressing her little hands against his.
Why should he not kiss her? Was he not her brother? And then, before he went, she remembered she had something special to tell him;—something to ask him. Would he not walk with her that evening? Of course he would walk with her.
“Mary, dear,” said her aunt, putting her little arm round her niece’s waist, and embracing her, “don’t fall in love with Walter.”
“How can you say anything so foolish, Aunt Sarah?”
“It would be very foolish to do so.”
“You don’t understand how completely different it is. Do you think I could be so intimate with him as I am if anything of the kind were possible?”
“I do not know how that may be.”
“Do not begrudge it me because I have found a cousin that I can love almost as I would a brother. There has never been anybody yet for whom I could have that sort of feeling.”
Aunt Sarah, whatever she might think, had not the heart to repeat her caution; and Mary, quite happy and contented with herself, put on her hat to run down the hill and meet her cousin at the great gates of the Lowtown Rectory. Why should he be dragged up the hill, to escort a cousin down again? This arrangement had, therefore, been made between them.
For the first mile or two the talk was all about Messrs. Block and Curling and the money. Captain Marrable was so full of his own purposes, and so well contented that so much should be saved to him out of the fortune he had lost, that he had, perhaps, forgotten that Mary required more advice. But when they had come to the spot on which they had before sat, she bade him stop and seat himself.
“And now what is it?” he said, as he rolled himself comfortably close to her side. She told her story, and explained her doubts, and asked for the revelations of his wisdom. “Are you quite sure about the propriety of this, Mary?” he said.
“The propriety of what, Walter?”
“Giving up a man who loves you so well, and who has so much to offer?”
“What was it you said yourself? Sure! Of course I am sure. I am quite sure. I do not love him. Did I not tell you that there could be no doubt after what you said?”
“I did not mean that my words should be so powerful.”
“They were powerful; but, independently of that, I am quite sure now. If I could do it myself, I should be false to him. I know that I do not love him.” He was not looking at her where he was lying, but was playing with a cigar-case which he had taken out, as though he were about to resume his smoking. But he did not open the case, or look towards her, or say a word to her. Two minutes had perhaps passed before she spoke again. “I suppose it would be best that I should write to him at once?”
“There is no one else, then, you care for, Mary?” he asked.
“No one,” she said, as though the question were nothing.
“It is all blank paper with you?”
“Quite blank,” she said, and laughed. “Do you know, I almost think it always will be blank.”
“By G——! it is not blank with me,” he said, springing up and jumping to his feet. She stared at him, not in the least understanding what he meant, not dreaming even that he was about to tell her his love secrets in reference to another. “I wonder what you think I’m made of, Mary;—whether you imagine I have any affection to bestow?”
“I do not in the least understand.”
“Look here, dear,” and he knelt down beside her as he spoke, “it is simply this, that you have become to me more than all the world;—that I love you better than my own soul;—that your beauty and sweetness, and soft, darling touch, are everything to me. And then you come to me for advice! I can only give you one bit of advice now, Mary.”
“And what is that?”
“Love me.”
“I do love you.”
“Ay, but love me and be my wife.”
She had to think of it; but she knew from the first moment that the thinking of it was a delight to her. She did not quite understand at first that her chosen brother might become her lover, with no other feeling than that of joy and triumph; and yet there was a consciousness that no other answer but one was possible. In the first place, to refuse him anything, asked in love, would be impossible. She could not say No to him. She had struggled often in reference to Mr. Gilmore, and had found it impossible to say Yes. There was now the same sort of impossibility in regard to the No. She couldn’t blacken herself with such a lie. And yet, though she was sure of this, she was so astounded by his declaration, so carried off her legs by the alteration in her position, so hard at work within herself with her new endeavour to change the aspect in which she must look at the man, that she could not even bring herself to think of answering him. If he would only sit down near her for awhile,—very near,—and not speak to her, she thought that she would be happy. Everything else was forgotten. Aunt Sarah’s caution, Janet Fenwick’s anger, poor Gilmore’s sorrow,—of all these she thought not at all, or only allowed her mind to dwell on them as surrounding trifles, of which it would be necessary that she, that they—they two who were now all in all to each other—must dispose; as they must, also, of questions of income, and such like little things. She was without a doubt. The man was her master, and had her in his keeping, and of course she would obey him. But she must settle her voice, and let her pulses become calm, and remember herself before she could tell him so. “Sit down again, Walter,” she said at last.
“Why should I sit?”
“Because I ask you. Sit down, Walter.”
“No. I understand how wise you will be, and how cold; and I understand, too, what a fool I have been.”
“Walter, will you not come when I ask you?”
“Why should I sit?”
“That I may try to tell you how dearly I love you.”
He did not sit, but he threw himself at her feet, and buried his face upon her lap. There were but few more words spoken then. When it comes to this, that a pair of lovers are content to sit and rub their feathers together like two birds, there is not much more need of talking. Before they had arisen, her fingers had been playing through his curly hair, and he had kissed her lips and cheeks as well as her forehead. She had begun to feel what it was to have a lover and to love him. She could already talk to him almost as though he were a part of herself, could whisper to him little words of nonsense, could feel that everything of hers was his, and everything of his was hers. She knew more clearly now even than she had done before that she had never loved Mr. Gilmore, and never could have loved him. And that other doubt had been solved for her. “Do you know,” she had said, not yet an hour ago, “that I think it always will be blank.” And now every spot of the canvas was covered.
“We must go home now,” she said at last.
“And tell Aunt Sarah,” he replied, laughing.
“Yes, and tell Aunt Sarah;—but not to-night. I can do nothing to-night but think about it. Oh, Walter, I am so happy!”