The Vicar of Bullhampton II

THE VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON

might it have been between him and this other girl? Edith Brownlow was not beautiful, not grand in her beauty as was Mary Lowther; but she was pretty, soft, lady-like, with a sweet dash of quiet pleasant humour, —a girl who certainly need not be left begging about the world for a husband. And this life at Dunripple was pleasant enough. Though the two elder Marrables were old and infirm, Walter was allowed to do just as he pleased in the house. He was encouraged to hunt. There was shooting for him if he wished it. Even the servants about the place, the gamekeeper, the groom, and the old butler, seemed to have recognised him as the heir. There would have been so comfortable an escape from the dilemma into which his father had brought him, —had he not made his visit to Loring.

“Why not?” demanded Gregory Marrable.

“A man cannot become attached to a girl by order, and what right have I to suppose that she would accept me?”

“Of course she would accept you. Why not? Everybody around her would be in your favour. And as to not falling in love with her, I declare I do not know a sweeter human being in the world than Edith Brownlow.”

Before the hunting season was over Captain Marrable had abandoned his intention of going to India, and had made arrangements for serving for awhile with his regiment in England. This he did after a discussion of some length with his uncle, Sir Gregory. During that discussion nothing was said about Edith Brownlow, and of course, not a word was said about Mary Lowther. Captain Marrable did not even know whether his uncle or his cousin was aware that that engage-

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ment had ever existed. Between him and his uncle there had never been an allusion to his marriage, but the old man had spoken of his nearness to the property, and had expressed his regret that the last heir, the only heir likely to perpetuate the name and title, should take himself to India in the pride of his life. He made no offer as to money, but he told his nephew that there was a home for him if he would give up his profession, or a retreat whenever his professional duties might allow him to visit it. Horses should be kept for him, and he should be treated in every way as a son of the family.

“Take my father at his word,” said Gregory Marrable. “He will never let you be short of money.”

After much consideration Walter Marrable did take Sir Gregory at his word, and abandoned for ever all idea of a further career in India.

As soon as he had done this he wrote to Mary Lowther to inform her of his decision. “It does seem hard,” he said in his letter, “that an arrangement which is in so many respects desirable, should not have been compatible with one which is so much more desirable.” But he made no renewed offer. Indeed he felt that he could not do so at the present moment, in honesty either to his cousin or to his uncle, as he had accepted their hospitality and acceded to the arrangements which they had proposed without any word on his part of such intention. A home had been offered to him at Dunripple, —to him in his present condition, but certainly not a home to any wife whom he might bring there, nor a home to the family which might come afterwards. He thought that he was doing the best that he could with himself by remaining in England, and the best

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also towards a possible future renewal of his engagement with Mary Lowther. But of that he said nothing in his letter to her. He merely told her the fact as it regarded himself, and told that somewhat coldly. Of Edith Brownlow, and of the proposition in regard to her, of course he said nothing.

It was the intention both of Sir Gregory and his son that the new inmate of the house should marry Edith. The old man, who, up to a late date had with weak persistency urged the match upon his son, had taken up the idea from the very first arrival of his nephew at Dunripple. Such an arrangement would solve all the family difficulties, and would enable him to provide for Edith as though she were indeed his daughter. He loved Edith dearly, but he could not bear that she should leave Dunripple, and it had grieved him sorely when he reflected that in coming years Dunripple must belong to relatives of whom he knew nothing that was good, and that Edith Brownlow must be banished from the house. If his son would have married Edith, all might have been well, but even Sir Gregory was at last aware that no such marriage as that could take place. Then had come the quarrel between the Colonel and the Captain, and the latter had been taken into favour. Colonel Marrable would not have been allowed to put his foot inside Dunripple House, so great was the horror which he had created. And the son had been feared too as long as the father and son were one. But now the father, who had treated the whole family vilely, had treated his own son most vilely, and therefore the son had been received with open arms. If only he could be trusted with Edith, —and if Edith and he might be made to trust each other, —all might be well. Of

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the engagement between Walter and Mary Lowther no word had ever reached Dunripple. Twice or thrice in the year a letter would pass between Parson John and his nephew, Gregory Marrable, but such letters were very short, and the parson was the last man in the world to spread the tittle-tattle of a lovestory. He had always known that that affair would lead to nothing, and that the less said about it the better.

Walter Marrable was to join his regiment at Windsor before the end of April. When he wrote to Mary Lowther to tell her of his plans he had only a fortnight longer for remaining in idleness at Dunripple. The hunting was over, and his life was simply idle. He perceived, or thought that he perceived, that all the inmates of the house, and especially his uncle, expected that he would soon return to them, and that they spoke of his work of soldiering as of a thing that was temporary. Mrs. Brownlow, who was a quiet woman, very reticent, and by no means inclined to interfere with things not belonging to her, had suggested that he would soon be with them again, and the housekeeper had given him to understand that his room was not to be touched. And then, too, he thought that he saw that Edith Brownlow was specially left in his way. If that were so it was necessary that the eyes of some one of the Dunripple party should be opened to the truth.

He was walking home with Miss Brownlow across the park from church one Sunday morning. Sir Gregory never went to church; his age was supposed to be too great, or his infirmities too many. Mrs. Brownlow was in the pony carriage driving her nephew, and Walter Marrable was alone with Edith. There had been some talk of cousinship, —of the various relation-

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ships of the family, and the like, —and of the way in which the Marrables were connected. They two, Walter and Edith, were not cousins. She was related to the family only by her aunt’s marriage, and yet, as she said, she had always heard more of the Marrables than of the Brownlows.

“You never saw Mary Lowther?” Walter asked. “Never.”

“But you have heard of her?”

“I just know her name, —hardly more. The last time your uncle was here, —Parson John, we were talking of her. He made her out to be wonderfully beautiful.”

“That was as long ago as last summer,” said the Captain, reflecting that his uncle’s account had been given before he and Mary Lowther had seen each other.

“Oh, yes; —ever so long ago.” “She is wonderfully beautiful.”

“You know her, then, Captain Marrable?”

“I know her very well. In the first place, she is my cousin.” “But ever so distant?”

“We are not first cousins. Her mother was a daughter of General Marrable, who was a brother of Sir Gregory’s father.” “It is so hard to understand, is it not? She is wonderfully

beautiful, is she?” “Indeed, she is.”

“And she is your cousin—in the first place. What is she in the second place?”

He was not quite sure whether he wished to tell the story or not. The engagement was broken, and it might be a question whether, as regarded Mary, he had a right to tell it; and,

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then, if he did tell it, would not his reason for doing so be apparent? Was it not palpable that he was expected to marry this girl, and that she would understand that he was explaining to her that he did not intend to carry out the general expectation of the family? And, then, was he sure that it might not be possible for him at some future time to do as he was desired?

“I meant to say that, as I was staying at Loring, of course I met her frequently. She is living with a certain old Miss Marrable, whom you will meet some day.”

“I have heard of her, but I don’t suppose I ever shall meet her. I never go anywhere. I don’t suppose there are such stay- at-home people in the world as we are.”

“Why don’t you get Sir Gregory to ask them here?”

“Both he and my cousin are so afraid of having strange women in the house; you know, we never have anybody here; your coming has been quite an event. Old Mrs. Potter seems to think that an era of dissipation is to be commenced because she has been called upon to open so many pots of jam to make pies for you.”

“I’m afraid I have been very troublesome.”

“Awfully troublesome. You can’t think of all that had to be said and done about the stables! Do you have your oats bruised? Even I was consulted about that. Most of the people in the parish are quite disappointed because you don’t go about in your full armour.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late now.”

“I own I was a little disappointed myself when you came down to dinner without a sword. You can have no idea in what a state of rural simplicity we live here. Would you believe it?—

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for ten years I have never seen the sea, and have never been into any town bigger than Worcester, —unless Hereford be bigger. We did go once to the festival at Hereford. We have not managed Gloucester yet.”

“You’ve never seen London?”

“Not since I was twelve years old. Papa died when I was fourteen, and I came here almost immediately afterwards. Fancy, ten years at Dunripple! There is not a tree or a stone I don’t know, and of course not a face in the parish.”

She was very nice; but it was out of the question that she should ever become his wife. He had thought that he might explain this to herself by letting her know that he had within the last few months become engaged to, and had broken his engagement with, his cousin, Mary Lowther. But he found that he could not do it. In the first place, she would understand more than he meant her to understand if he made the attempt. She would know that he was putting her on her guard, and would take it as an insult. And then he could not bring himself to talk about Mary Lowther, and to tell their joint secrets. He was discontented with himself and with Dunripple, and he repented that he had yielded in respect to his Indian service. Everything had gone wrong with him. Had he refused to accede to Mary’s proposition for a separation, and had he come to Dunripple as an engaged man, he might, he thought, have reconciled his uncle, —or at least his Cousin Gregory, —to his marriage with Mary. But he did not see his way back to that position now, having been entertained at his uncle’s house as his uncle’s heir for so long a time without having mentioned it.

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getting his old troubles; that it was understood that he was to be recognised as the heir; —and that there was a young lady in the case, the favourite of Sir Gregory.

He understood the world too well to say a word to Mary Lowther herself about her rival. Mary would have perceived his drift. But he expressed his ideas about Edith confidentially to Miss Marrable, fully alive to the fact that Miss Marrable would know how to deal with her niece. “It is by far the best thing that could have happened to him,” said the parson. “As for going out to India again, for a man with his prospects it was very bad.”

“But his cousin isn’t much older than he is,” suggested Miss Marrable.

“Yes he is, —a great deal older. And Gregory’s health is so bad that his life is not worth a year’s purchase. Poor fellow! they tell me he only cares to live till he has got his book out. The truth is that if Walter could make a match of it with Edith Brownlow, they might arrange something about the property which would enable him to live there just as though the place were his own. The Colonel would be the only stumblingblock, and after what he has done, he could hardly refuse to agree to anything.”

“They’d have to pay him,” said Miss Marrable.

“Then he must be paid, that’s all. My brother Gregory is wrapped up in that girl, and he would do anything for her welfare. I’m told that she and Walter have taken very kindly to each other already.”

It would be better for Mary Lowther that Walter Marrable should marry Edith Brownlow. Such, at least, was Miss Mar-

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