The Vicar of Bullhampton II

THE VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON

not write from Dunripple. I would send you Mrs. Brownlow’s letter, only perhaps it would not be quite fair. I dare say you will see it some day. She says ever so much about you, and as complimentary as possible. And then she declares her purpose to resign all rights, honours, pains, privileges, and duties of mistress of Dunripple into your hands as soon as you are Mrs. Marrable. And this she repeated yesterday with some stateliness, and a great deal of high-minded resignation. But I don’t mean to laugh at her, because I know she means to do what is right.

My own, own, Mary, write me a line instantly to say that it is right, —and to say also that you agree with me that as it is to be done, ’twere well it were done quickly.

Yours always, with all my heart, W. M.

It was of course necessary that Mary should consult with her aunt before she answered the second letter. Of that which she received from Mrs. Fenwick she determined to say nothing. Why should she ever mention to her aunt again a name so painful to her as that of Mr. Gilmore? The thinking of him could not be avoided. In this, the great struggle of her life, she had endeavoured to do right, and yet she could not acquit herself of evil. But the pain, though it existed, might at least be kept out of sight.

“And so you are to go and live at Dunripple at once,” said Miss Marrable.

“I suppose we shall.

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“Ah, well! It’s all right, I’m sure. Of course there is not a word to be said against it. I hope Sir Gregory won’t die before the Colonel. That’s all.”

“The Colonel is his father, you know.”

“I hope there may not come to be trouble about it, that’s all. I shall be very lonely, but of course I had to expect that.”

“You’ll come to us, Aunt Sarah? You’ll be as much there as here.”

“Thank you, dear. I don’t quite know about that. Sir Gregory is all very well; but one does like one’s own house.”

From all which Mary understood that her dear aunt still wished that she might have had her own way in disposing of her niece’s hand, —as her dear friends at Bullhampton had wished to have theirs.

The following were the answers from Mary to the two letters given above; —

Loring, 3rd September, 186—. Dear Janet,

I am very, very, very sorry. I do not know what more I can say. I meant to do well all through. When I first told Mr. Gilmore that it could not be as he wished it, I was right. When I made up my mind that it must be so at last, I was right also. I fear I cannot say so much of myself as to that middle step which I took, thinking it was best to do as I was bidden. I meant to be right, but of course I was wrong, and I am very, very sorry. Nevertheless, I am much obliged to you for writing to me. Of course I cannot but desire to know what he does. If he writes and seems to be happy on his travels, pray tell me.

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I have much to tell you of my own happiness, —though, in truth, I feel a remorse at being happy when I have caused so much unhappiness. Walter is to sell out and to live at Dunripple, and I also am to live there when we are married. I suppose it will not be long now. I am writing to him to-day, though I do not yet know what I shall say to him. Sir Gregory has assented, and arrangements are to be made, and lawyers are to be consulted, and we are to be what Walter calls deputy Squire and Squiress at Dunripple. Mrs. Brownlow and Edith Brownlow are still to live there, but I am to have the honour of ordering the dinner, and looking wise at the housekeeper. Of course I shall feel very strange at going into such a house. To you I may say how much nicer it would be to go to some place that Walter and I could have to ourselves, —as you did when you married. But I am not such a simpleton as to repine at that. So much has gone as I would have it that I only feel myself to be happier than I deserve. What I shall chiefly look forward to will be your first visit to Dunripple.

Your most affectionate friend, Mary Lowther.

The other letter, as to which Mary had declared that she had not as yet made up her own mind when she wrote to Mrs. Fenwick, was more difficult in composition.

Loring, 2nd September, 186—. Dearest Walter,

So it is all settled, and I am to be a deputy Squiress! I have no objection to urge. As long as you are the deputy Squire, I will be the deputy Squiress. For your sake, my dearest, I do most heart-

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ily rejoice that the affair is settled. I think you will be happier as a county gentleman than you would have been in the army; and as Dunripple must ultimately be your home, —I will say our home, —perhaps it is as well that you, and I also, should know it as soon as possible. Of course I am very nervous about Mrs. Brownlow and her daughter; but though nervous I am not fearful; and I shall prepare myself to like them.

As to that other matter, I hardly know what answer to make on so very quick a questioning. It was only the other day that it was decided that it was to be; —and there ought to be breathing time before one also decides when. But, dear Walter, I will do nothing to interfere with your prospects. Let me know what you think yourself; but remember, in thinking, that a little interval for purposes of sentiment and of stitching is always desired by the weaker vessel on such an occasion.

God bless you, my own one, Yours always and always, M. L.

In real truth, I will do whatever you bid me.

Of course, after that, the marriage was not very long postponed. Walter Marrable allowed that some grace should be given for sentiment, and some also for stitching, but as to neither did he feel that any long delay was needed. A week for sentiment, and two more for the preparation of bridal adornments, he thought would be sufficient. There was a compromise at last, as is usual in such cases, and the marriage took place about the middle of October. No doubt, at that time of year they went to Italy, —but of that the present narrator is not able to speak with any certainty. This, however, is certain, —

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that if they did travel abroad, Mary Marrable travelled in daily fear lest her unlucky fate should bring her face to face with Mr. Gilmore. Wherever they went, their tour, in accordance with a contract made by the baronet, was terminated within two months. For on Christmas Day Mrs. Walter Marrable was to take her place as mistress of the house at the dinner table.

The reader may, perhaps, desire to know whether things were made altogether smooth with the Colonel. On this matter Messrs. Block and Curling, the family lawyers, encountered very much trouble indeed. The Colonel, when application was made to him, was as sweet as honey. He would do anything for the interests of his dearest son. There did not breathe a father on earth who cared less for himself or his own position. But still he must live. He submitted to Messrs. Block and Curling whether it was not necessary that he should live. Messrs. Block and Curling explained to him very clearly that his brother, the baronet, had nothing to do with his living or dying, —and that towards his living he had already robbed his son of a large property. At last, however, he would not make over his life interest in the property, as it would come to him in the event of his brother dying before him, except on payment of an annuity on and from that date of £200 a year. He began by asking £500, and was then told that the Captain would run the chance and would sue his father for the £20,000 in the event of Sir Gregory dying before the Colonel.

Now the narrator will bid adieu to Mary Lowther, to Loring, and to Dunripple. The conduct of his heroine, as depicted in these pages, will, he fears, meet with the disapproba-

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the speedy prostration of its elder brother. All this was of course told in detail to the Vicar; but the Vicar refused even to be interested by it. “Of course he did,” said the Vicar. “If a man is to preach, what can he preach but his own views?”

The tidings to be made in a pleasant spirit were not long waited for, —or, at any rate, the first instalment of them. On the 2nd of September there arrived a large hamper full of partridges, addressed to Mrs. Fenwick in the Earl’s own handwriting. “The very first fruits,” said the Vicar, as he went down to inspect the plentiful provision thus made for the vicarage larder. Well; —it was certainly better to have partridges from Turnover than accusations of immorality and infidelity. The Vicar so declared at once, but his wife would not at first agree with him. “I really should have such pleasure in packing them up and sending them back,” said she.

“Indeed, you shall do nothing of the kind.”

“The idea of a basket of birds to atone for such insults and calumny as that man has heaped on you!”

“The birds will be only a first instalment,” said the Vicar, —and then there were more quips and quirks about that. It was presumed by Mr. Fenwick that the second instalment would be the first pheasants shot in October. But the second instalment came before September was over in the shape of the following note:—

Turnover Park, 20th September, 186—.

The Marquis of Trowbridge and the Ladies Sophie and Carolina Stowte request that Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick will do them the honour of coming to Turnover Park on Monday the 6th October, and staying till Saturday the 11th.

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“That’s an instalment indeed,” said Mrs. Fenwick. “And now what on earth are we to do?” The Vicar admitted that it had become very serious. “We must either go, and endure a terrible time of it,” continued Mrs. Fenwick, “or we must show him very plainly that we will have nothing more to do with him. I don’t see why we are to be annoyed, merely because he is a Marquis.”

“It won’t be because he is a Marquis.”

“Why then? You can’t say that you love the old man, or that the Ladies Sophie and Carolina Stowte are the women you’d have me choose for companions, or that that soapy, silky, humbugging Lord St. George is to your taste.”

“I am not sure about St. George. He can be everything to everybody, and would make an excellent bishop.”

“You know you don’t like him, and you know also that you will have a very bad time of it at Turnover.”

“I could shoot pheasants all the week.”

“Yes, —with a conviction at the time that the Ladies Sophie and Carolina were calling you an infidel behind your back for doing so. As for myself I feel perfectly certain that I should spar with them.”

“It isn’t because he’s a Marquis,” said the Vicar, carrying on his argument after a long pause. “If I know myself, I think I may say that that has no allurement for me. And, to tell the truth, had he been simply a Marquis, and had I been at liberty to indulge my own wishes, I would never have allowed myself to be talked out of my righteous anger by that soft-tongued son of his. But to us he is a man of the very greatest importance, because he owns the land on which the people live with whom

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we are concerned. It is for their welfare that he and I should be on good terms together; and therefore if you don’t mind the sacrifice, I think we’ll go.”

“What; —for the whole week, Frank?”

The Vicar was of opinion that the week might be judiciously curtailed by two days; and, consequently, Mrs. Fenwick presented her compliments to the Ladies Sophie and Carolina Stowte, and expressed the great pleasure which she and Mr. Fenwick would have in going to Turnover Park on the Tuesday, and staying till the Friday.

“So that I shall only be shooting two days,” said the Vicar, “which will modify the aspect of my infidelity considerably.”

They went to Turnover Castle. The poor old Marquis had rather a bad time of it for the hour or two previous to their arrival. It had become an acknowledged fact now in the county that Sam Brattle had had nothing to do with the murder of Farmer Trumbull, and that his acquaintance with the murderers had sprung from his desire to see his unfortunate sister settled in marriage with a man whom he at the time did not know to be disreputable. There had therefore been a reaction in favour of Sam Brattle, whom the county now began to regard as something of a hero. The Marquis, understanding all that, had come to be aware that he had wronged the Vicar in that matter of the murder. And then, though he had been told upon very good authority, —no less than that of his daughters, who had been so informed by the sisters of a most exemplary neighbouring curate, —that Mr. Fenwick was a man who believed “just next to nothing,” and would just as soon associate with a downright Pagan like old Brattle, as with any profess-

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