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THE AMERICAN SENATOR
“I didn’t suppose there was any secret,” said the brewer.
As Mr. Masters made no further remark it was of course conceived that he knew all about it and he was therefore treated
with some increased deference. But there was on that night
great triumph in the club as it was known as a fact that Goarly
had withdrawn his claim, and that the American Senator had
paid his money for nothing. It was moreover very generally
believed that Goarly was going to turn evidence against Scrobby in reference to the poison.
CHAPTER VII
MARY’S LETTER
The silent system in regard to Mary was carried on in
the attorney’s house for a week, during which her sufferings
were very great. From the first she made up her mind to oppose
her stepmother’s cruelty by sheer obstinacy. She had been told
that she must be made to marry Mr. Twentyman, and the injustice of that threat had at once made her rebel against her
stepmother’s authority. She would never allow her stepmother to make her marry any one. She put herself into a state of
general defiance and said as little as was said to her. But her father’s silence to her nearly broke her heart. On one or two occasions, as opportunity offered itself to her, she said little soft
words to him in privacy. Then he would partly relent, would
kiss her and bid her be a good girl, and would quickly hurry
away from her. She could understand that he suffered as well
as herself, and she perhaps got some consolation from the conviction. At last, on the following Saturday she watched her opportunity and brought to him when he was alone in his office
a letter which she had written to Larry Twentyman. “Papa,”
she said, “would you read that?” He took and read the letter,
which was as follows: —
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THE AMERICAN SENATOR
MY DEAR MR. TWENTYMAN,
Something was said about two months which are now very
nearly over. I think I ought to save you from the trouble of
coming to me again by telling you in a letter that it cannot
be as you would have it. I have thought of it a great deal and
have of course been anxious to do as my friends wish. And I am
very grateful to you, and know how good and how kind you are.
And I would do anything for you, — except this. But it never
can be. I should not write like this unless I were quite certain.
I hope you won’t be angry with me and think that I should
have spared you the trouble of doubting so long. I know now
that I ought not to have doubted at all; but I was so anxious
not to seem to be obstinate that I became foolish about it when
you asked me. What I say now is quite certain.
Dear Mr. Twentyman, I shall always think of you with esteem and regard, because I know how good you are; and I hope
you will come to like somebody a great deal better than me
who will always love you with her whole heart.
Yours very truly,
M
ARY MASTERS.
P.S. I shall show this letter to papa.
Mr. Masters read it as she stood by him, — and then read it
again very slowly rubbing one hand over the other as he did
so. He was thinking what he should do; — or rather what he
should say. The idea of stopping the letter never occurred to
him. If she chose to refuse the man of course she must do so;
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
and perhaps, if she did refuse him, there was no way better
than this. “Must it be so, Mary?” he said at last.
“Yes, papa.”
“But why?”
“Because I do not love him as I should have to love any
man that I wanted to marry. I have tried it, because you wished
it, but I cannot do it.”
“What will mamma say?”
“I am thinking more, papa, of you,” she said putting her
arm over his shoulder. “You have always been so good to
me, and so kind!” Here his heart misgave him, for he felt
that during the last week he had not been kind to her. “But
you would not wish me to give myself to a man and then
not to care for him.”
“No, my dear.”
“I couldn’t do it. I should fall down dead first. I have
thought so much about it, — for your sake; and have tried it
with myself. I couldn’t do it.”
“Is there anybody else, Mary?” As he asked the question
he held her hand beneath his own on the desk, but he did
not dare to look into her face. He had been told by his wife
that there was somebody else; — that the girl’s mind was running upon Mr. Surtees, because Mr. Surtees was a gentleman.
He was thinking of Mr. Surtees, and certainly not of Reginald
Morton.
To her the moment was very solemn and when the question was asked she felt that she could not tell her father a falsehood. She had gradually grown bold enough to assure herself
that her heart was occupied with that man who had travelled
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with her to Cheltenham; and she felt that that feeling alone
must keep her apart from any other love. And yet, as she had
no hope, as she had assured herself that her love was a burden to be borne and could never become a source of enjoyment, why should her secret be wrested from her? What good
would such a violation do? But she could not tell the falsehood, and therefore she held her tongue.
Gradually he looked up into her face, still keeping her hand
pressed on the desk under his. It was his left hand that so guarded her, while she stood by his right shoulder. Then he gently
wound his right arm round her waist and pressed her to him.
“Mary,” he said, “if it is so, had you not better tell me?” But she
was sure that she had better not mention that name even to
him. It was impossible that she should mention it. She would
have outraged to herself her own maiden modesty by doing so.
“Is it,” — he asked very softly, —” is it — Mr. Surtees?”
“Oh no!” she said quickly, almost escaping from the grasp of
his arm in her start.
Then he was absolutely at a loss. Beyond Mr. Surtees or
Larry Twentyman he did not know what possible lover Dillsborough could have afforded. And yet the very rapidity of
her answer when the curate’s name had been mentioned had
convinced him that there was some other person, — had increased the strength of that conviction which her silence had
produced. “Have you nothing that you can tell me, Mary?”
“No, papa.” Then he gave her back the letter and she left
the room without another word. Of course his sanction to
the letter had now been given, and it was addressed to Chowton Farm and posted before half an hour was over. She saw
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
him again in the afternoon of the same day and asked him to
tell her stepmother what she had done. “Mamma ought to
know,” she said.
“But you haven’t sent it.”
“Yes, papa; — it is in the post.”
Then it occurred to him that his wife would tell him that he
should have prevented the sending of the letter, — that he
should have destroyed it and altogether taken the matter with
a high hand. “You can’t tell her yourself?” he asked.
“I would rather you did. Mamma has been so hard to me
since I came home.”
He did tell his wife and she overwhelmed him by the violence of her reproaches. He could never have been in earnest, or he would not have allowed such a letter as that to pass
through his hands. He must be afraid of his own child. He did
not know his own duty. He had been deceiving her, — his
wife, — from first to last. Then she threw herself into a torrent of tears declaring that she had been betrayed. There had
been a conspiracy between them, and now everything might
go to the dogs, and she would not lift up her hands again to
save them. But before the evening came round she was again
on the alert, and again resolved that she would not even yet
give way. What was there in a letter more than in a spoken
word? She would tell Larry to disregard the letter. But first she
made a futile attempt to clutch the letter from the guardianship of the Post Office, and she went to the Postmaster assuring
him that there had been a mistake in the family, that a wrong
letter had been put into a wrong envelope, and begging that
the letter addressed to Mr. Twentyman might be given back to
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THE AMERICAN SENATOR
her. The Postmaster, half vacillating in his desire to oblige
a neighbour, produced the letter and Mrs. Masters put out her
hand to grasp it; but the servant of the public, — who had
been thoroughly grounded in his duties by one of those trusty
guardians of our correspondence who inspect and survey
our provincial post offices, — remembered himself at the last
moment and expressing the violence of his regret, replaced
the letter in the box. Mrs. Masters, in her anger and grief, condescended to say very hard things to her neighbour; — but
the man remembered his duty and was firm.
On that evening Larry Twentyman did not attend the Dillsborough Club, — having in the course of the week notified to
the attorney that he should be a defaulter. Mr. Masters himself
went over earlier than usual, his own house having become
very uncomfortable to him. Mrs. Masters for an hour sat expecting that Larry would come, and when the evening passed
away without his appearance, she was convinced that the unusual absence was a part of the conspiracy against her.
Larry did not get his letter till the Monday morning. On
the last Thursday and Saturday he had consoled himself for
his doubts with the U. R. U., and was minded to do so on
the Monday also. He had not gone to the club on Saturday
and had moped about Chowton all the Sunday in a feverish state because of his doubts. It seemed to him that the two
months would never be over. On the Monday he was out early
on the farm and then came down in his boots and breeches,
and had his red coat ready at the fire while he sat at breakfast.
The meet was fifteen miles off and he had sent on his hunter,
intending to travel thither in his dog cart. Just as he was cut-
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
ting himself a slice of beef the postman came, and of course he
read his letter. He read it with the carving knife in his hand,
and then he stood gazing at his mother. “What is it, Larry?” she
asked; “is anything wrong?”
“Wrong, — well; I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know
what you call wrong. I shan’t hunt; that’s all.” Then he threw
aside the knife and pushed away his plate and marched out of
the room with the open letter in his hand.
Mrs. Twentyman knew very well of his love, — as indeed
did nearly all Dillsborough; but she had heard nothing of
the two months and did not connect the letter with Mary Masters. Surely he must have lost a large sum of money. That was
her idea till she saw him again late in the afternoon.
He never went near the hounds that day or near his business. He was not then man enough for either. But he walked
about the fields, keeping out of sight of everybody. It was all
over now. It must be all over when she wrote to him a letter
like that. Why had she tempted him to thoughts of happiness
and success by that promise of two months’ grace? He supposed that he was not good enough; — or that she thought he
was not good enough. Then he remembered his acres, and his
material comforts, and tried to console himself by reflecting
that Mary Masters might very well do worse in the world. But
there was no consolation in it. He had tried his best because he
had really loved the girl. He had failed, and all the world, —
all his world, — would know that he had failed. There was not
a man in the club, — hardly a man in the hunt, — who was not
aware that he had offered to Mary Masters. During the last two
months he had not been so reticent as was prudent, and had
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almost boasted to Fred Botsey of success. And then how was
he to live at Chowton Farm without Mary Masters as his wife?
As he returned home he almost made up his mind that he
would not continue to live at Chowton Farm.
He came back through Dillsborough Wood; and there,
prowling about, he met Goarly. “Well, Mr. Twentyman,” said
the man, “I am making it all straight now with his Lordship.”
“I don’t care what you’re doing,” said Larry in his misery.
“You are an infernal blackguard and that’s the best of you.”
CHAPTER VIII
CHOWTON FARM FOR SALE
John Morton had returned to town soon after his walk into
Dillsborough and had there learned from different sources
that both Arabella Trefoil and Lord Rufford had gone or were
going to Mistletoe. He had seen Lord Augustus who, though
he could tell him nothing else about his daughter, had not
been slow to inform him that she was going to the house of her
noble uncle. When Morton had spoken to him very seriously about the engagement he declared that he knew nothing
about it, — except that he had given his consent if the settlements were all right. Lady Augustus managed all that. Morton
had then said that under those circumstances he feared he
must regard the honour which he had hoped to enjoy as being
beyond his reach. Lord Augustus had shrugged his shoulders
and had gone back to his whist, this interview having taken
place in the strangers’ room of his club. That Lord Rufford
was also going to Mistletoe he heard from young Glossop at
the Foreign Office. It was quite possible that Glossop had been
instructed to make this known to Morton by his sister Lady
Penwether. Then Morton declared that the thing was over and
that he would trouble himself no more about it. But this reso-
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