บทที่ บทที่ 57 · Chapter LVII

They numbered scarce eight summers when a name

Rose on their souls and stirred such motions there

As thrill the buds and shape their hidden frame

At penetration of the quickening air:

His name who told of loyal Evan Dhu,

Of quaint Bradwardine, and Vich Ian Vor,

Making the little world their childhood knew

Large with a land of mountain lake and scaur,

And larger yet with wonder, love, belief

Toward Walter Scott who living far away

Sent them this wealth of joy and noble grief.

The book and they must part, but day by day,

In lines that thwart like portly spiders ran

They wrote the tale, from Tully Veolan.

The evening that Fred Vincy walked to Lowick parsonage (he had begun to

see that this was a world in which even a spirited young man must

sometimes walk for want of a horse to carry him) he set out at five

o’clock and called on Mrs. Garth by the way, wishing to assure himself

that she accepted their new relations willingly.

He found the family group, dogs and cats included, under the great

apple-tree in the orchard. It was a festival with Mrs. Garth, for her

eldest son, Christy, her peculiar joy and pride, had come home for a

short holiday—Christy, who held it the most desirable thing in the

world to be a tutor, to study all literatures and be a regenerate

Porson, and who was an incorporate criticism on poor Fred, a sort of

object-lesson given to him by the educational mother. Christy himself,

a square-browed, broad-shouldered masculine edition of his mother not

much higher than Fred’s shoulder—which made it the harder that he

should be held superior—was always as simple as possible, and thought

no more of Fred’s disinclination to scholarship than of a giraffe’s,

wishing that he himself were more of the same height. He was lying on

the ground now by his mother’s chair, with his straw hat laid flat over

his eyes, while Jim on the other side was reading aloud from that

beloved writer who has made a chief part in the happiness of many young

lives. The volume was “Ivanhoe,” and Jim was in the great archery scene

at the tournament, but suffered much interruption from Ben, who had

fetched his own old bow and arrows, and was making himself dreadfully

disagreeable, Letty thought, by begging all present to observe his

random shots, which no one wished to do except Brownie, the

active-minded but probably shallow mongrel, while the grizzled

Newfoundland lying in the sun looked on with the dull-eyed neutrality

of extreme old age. Letty herself, showing as to her mouth and pinafore

some slight signs that she had been assisting at the gathering of the

cherries which stood in a coral-heap on the tea-table, was now seated

on the grass, listening open-eyed to the reading.

But the centre of interest was changed for all by the arrival of Fred

Vincy. When, seating himself on a garden-stool, he said that he was on

his way to Lowick Parsonage, Ben, who had thrown down his bow, and

snatched up a reluctant half-grown kitten instead, strode across Fred’s

outstretched leg, and said “Take me!”

“Oh, and me too,” said Letty.

“You can’t keep up with Fred and me,” said Ben.

“Yes, I can. Mother, please say that I am to go,” urged Letty, whose

life was much checkered by resistance to her depreciation as a girl.

“I shall stay with Christy,” observed Jim; as much as to say that he

had the advantage of those simpletons; whereupon Letty put her hand up

to her head and looked with jealous indecision from the one to the

other.

“Let us all go and see Mary,” said Christy, opening his arms.

“No, my dear child, we must not go in a swarm to the parsonage. And

that old Glasgow suit of yours would never do. Besides, your father

will come home. We must let Fred go alone. He can tell Mary that you

are here, and she will come back to-morrow.”

Christy glanced at his own threadbare knees, and then at Fred’s

beautiful white trousers. Certainly Fred’s tailoring suggested the

advantages of an English university, and he had a graceful way even of

looking warm and of pushing his hair back with his handkerchief.

“Children, run away,” said Mrs. Garth; “it is too warm to hang about

your friends. Take your brother and show him the rabbits.”

The eldest understood, and led off the children immediately. Fred felt

that Mrs. Garth wished to give him an opportunity of saying anything he

had to say, but he could only begin by observing—

“How glad you must be to have Christy here!”

“Yes; he has come sooner than I expected. He got down from the coach at

nine o’clock, just after his father went out. I am longing for Caleb to

come and hear what wonderful progress Christy is making. He has paid

his expenses for the last year by giving lessons, carrying on hard

study at the same time. He hopes soon to get a private tutorship and go

abroad.”

“He is a great fellow,” said Fred, to whom these cheerful truths had a

medicinal taste, “and no trouble to anybody.” After a slight pause, he

added, “But I fear you will think that I am going to be a great deal of

trouble to Mr. Garth.”

“Caleb likes taking trouble: he is one of those men who always do more

than any one would have thought of asking them to do,” answered Mrs.

Garth. She was knitting, and could either look at Fred or not, as she

chose—always an advantage when one is bent on loading speech with

salutary meaning; and though Mrs. Garth intended to be duly reserved,

she did wish to say something that Fred might be the better for.

“I know you think me very undeserving, Mrs. Garth, and with good

reason,” said Fred, his spirit rising a little at the perception of

something like a disposition to lecture him. “I happen to have behaved

just the worst to the people I can’t help wishing for the most from.

But while two men like Mr. Garth and Mr. Farebrother have not given me

up, I don’t see why I should give myself up.” Fred thought it might be

well to suggest these masculine examples to Mrs. Garth.

“Assuredly,” said she, with gathering emphasis. “A young man for whom

two such elders had devoted themselves would indeed be culpable if he

threw himself away and made their sacrifices vain.”

Fred wondered a little at this strong language, but only said, “I hope

it will not be so with me, Mrs. Garth, since I have some encouragement

to believe that I may win Mary. Mr. Garth has told you about that? You

were not surprised, I dare say?” Fred ended, innocently referring only

to his own love as probably evident enough.

“Not surprised that Mary has given you encouragement?” returned Mrs.

Garth, who thought it would be well for Fred to be more alive to the

fact that Mary’s friends could not possibly have wished this

beforehand, whatever the Vincys might suppose. “Yes, I confess I was

surprised.”

“She never did give me any—not the least in the world, when I talked to

her myself,” said Fred, eager to vindicate Mary. “But when I asked Mr.

Farebrother to speak for me, she allowed him to tell me there was a

hope.”

The power of admonition which had begun to stir in Mrs. Garth had not

yet discharged itself. It was a little too provoking even for _her_

self-control that this blooming youngster should flourish on the

disappointments of sadder and wiser people—making a meal of a

nightingale and never knowing it—and that all the while his family

should suppose that hers was in eager need of this sprig; and her

vexation had fermented the more actively because of its total

repression towards her husband. Exemplary wives will sometimes find

scapegoats in this way. She now said with energetic decision, “You made

a great mistake, Fred, in asking Mr. Farebrother to speak for you.”

“Did I?” said Fred, reddening instantaneously. He was alarmed, but at a

loss to know what Mrs. Garth meant, and added, in an apologetic tone,

“Mr. Farebrother has always been such a friend of ours; and Mary, I

knew, would listen to him gravely; and he took it on himself quite

readily.”

“Yes, young people are usually blind to everything but their own

wishes, and seldom imagine how much those wishes cost others,” said

Mrs. Garth. She did not mean to go beyond this salutary general

doctrine, and threw her indignation into a needless unwinding of her

worsted, knitting her brow at it with a grand air.

“I cannot conceive how it could be any pain to Mr. Farebrother,” said

Fred, who nevertheless felt that surprising conceptions were beginning

to form themselves.

“Precisely; you cannot conceive,” said Mrs. Garth, cutting her words as

neatly as possible.

For a moment Fred looked at the horizon with a dismayed anxiety, and

then turning with a quick movement said almost sharply—

“Do you mean to say, Mrs. Garth, that Mr. Farebrother is in love with

Mary?”

“And if it were so, Fred, I think you are the last person who ought to

be surprised,” returned Mrs. Garth, laying her knitting down beside her

and folding her arms. It was an unwonted sign of emotion in her that

she should put her work out of her hands. In fact her feelings were

divided between the satisfaction of giving Fred his discipline and the

sense of having gone a little too far. Fred took his hat and stick and

rose quickly.

“Then you think I am standing in his way, and in Mary’s too?” he said,

in a tone which seemed to demand an answer.

Mrs. Garth could not speak immediately. She had brought herself into

the unpleasant position of being called on to say what she really felt,

yet what she knew there were strong reasons for concealing. And to her

the consciousness of having exceeded in words was peculiarly

mortifying. Besides, Fred had given out unexpected electricity, and he

now added, “Mr. Garth seemed pleased that Mary should be attached to

me. He could not have known anything of this.”

Mrs. Garth felt a severe twinge at this mention of her husband, the

fear that Caleb might think her in the wrong not being easily

endurable. She answered, wanting to check unintended consequences—

“I spoke from inference only. I am not aware that Mary knows anything

of the matter.”

But she hesitated to beg that he would keep entire silence on a subject

which she had herself unnecessarily mentioned, not being used to stoop

in that way; and while she was hesitating there was already a rush of

unintended consequences under the apple-tree where the tea-things

stood. Ben, bouncing across the grass with Brownie at his heels, and

seeing the kitten dragging the knitting by a lengthening line of wool,

shouted and clapped his hands; Brownie barked, the kitten, desperate,

jumped on the tea-table and upset the milk, then jumped down again and

swept half the cherries with it; and Ben, snatching up the half-knitted

sock-top, fitted it over the kitten’s head as a new source of madness,

while Letty arriving cried out to her mother against this cruelty—it

was a history as full of sensation as “This is the house that Jack

built.” Mrs. Garth was obliged to interfere, the other young ones came

up and the _tête-à-tête_ with Fred was ended. He got away as soon as he

could, and Mrs. Garth could only imply some retractation of her

severity by saying “God bless you” when she shook hands with him.

She was unpleasantly conscious that she had been on the verge of

speaking as “one of the foolish women speaketh”—telling first and

entreating silence after. But she had not entreated silence, and to

prevent Caleb’s blame she determined to blame herself and confess all

to him that very night. It was curious what an awful tribunal the mild

Caleb’s was to her, whenever he set it up. But she meant to point out

to him that the revelation might do Fred Vincy a great deal of good.

No doubt it was having a strong effect on him as he walked to Lowick.

Fred’s light hopeful nature had perhaps never had so much of a bruise

as from this suggestion that if he had been out of the way Mary might

have made a thoroughly good match. Also he was piqued that he had been

what he called such a stupid lout as to ask that intervention from Mr.

Farebrother. But it was not in a lover’s nature—it was not in Fred’s,

that the new anxiety raised about Mary’s feeling should not surmount

every other. Notwithstanding his trust in Mr. Farebrother’s generosity,

notwithstanding what Mary had said to him, Fred could not help feeling

that he had a rival: it was a new consciousness, and he objected to it

extremely, not being in the least ready to give up Mary for her good,

being ready rather to fight for her with any man whatsoever. But the

fighting with Mr. Farebrother must be of a metaphorical kind, which was

much more difficult to Fred than the muscular. Certainly this

experience was a discipline for Fred hardly less sharp than his

disappointment about his uncle’s will. The iron had not entered into

his soul, but he had begun to imagine what the sharp edge would be. It

did not once occur to Fred that Mrs. Garth might be mistaken about Mr.

Farebrother, but he suspected that she might be wrong about Mary. Mary

had been staying at the parsonage lately, and her mother might know

very little of what had been passing in her mind.

He did not feel easier when he found her looking cheerful with the

three ladies in the drawing-room. They were in animated discussion on

some subject which was dropped when he entered, and Mary was copying

the labels from a heap of shallow cabinet drawers, in a minute

handwriting which she was skilled in. Mr. Farebrother was somewhere in

the village, and the three ladies knew nothing of Fred’s peculiar

relation to Mary: it was impossible for either of them to propose that

they should walk round the garden, and Fred predicted to himself that

he should have to go away without saying a word to her in private. He

told her first of Christy’s arrival and then of his own engagement with

her father; and he was comforted by seeing that this latter news

touched her keenly. She said hurriedly, “I am so glad,” and then bent

over her writing to hinder any one from noticing her face. But here was

a subject which Mrs. Farebrother could not let pass.

“You don’t mean, my dear Miss Garth, that you are glad to hear of a

young man giving up the Church for which he was educated: you only mean

that things being so, you are glad that he should be under an excellent

man like your father.”

“No, really, Mrs. Farebrother, I am glad of both, I fear,” said Mary,

cleverly getting rid of one rebellious tear. “I have a dreadfully

secular mind. I never liked any clergyman except the Vicar of Wakefield

and Mr. Farebrother.”

“Now why, my dear?” said Mrs. Farebrother, pausing on her large wooden

knitting-needles and looking at Mary. “You have always a good reason

for your opinions, but this astonishes me. Of course I put out of the

question those who preach new doctrine. But why should you dislike

clergymen?”

“Oh dear,” said Mary, her face breaking into merriment as she seemed to

consider a moment, “I don’t like their neckcloths.”

“Why, you don’t like Camden’s, then,” said Miss Winifred, in some

anxiety.

“Yes, I do,” said Mary. “I don’t like the other clergymen’s neckcloths,

because it is they who wear them.”

“How very puzzling!” said Miss Noble, feeling that her own intellect

was probably deficient.

“My dear, you are joking. You would have better reasons than these for

slighting so respectable a class of men,” said Mrs. Farebrother,

majestically.

“Miss Garth has such severe notions of what people should be that it is

difficult to satisfy her,” said Fred.

“Well, I am glad at least that she makes an exception in favor of my

son,” said the old lady.

Mary was wondering at Fred’s piqued tone, when Mr. Farebrother came in

and had to hear the news about the engagement under Mr. Garth. At the

end he said with quiet satisfaction, “_That_ is right;” and then bent

to look at Mary’s labels and praise her handwriting. Fred felt horribly

jealous—was glad, of course, that Mr. Farebrother was so estimable, but

wished that he had been ugly and fat as men at forty sometimes are. It

was clear what the end would be, since Mary openly placed Farebrother

above everybody, and these women were all evidently encouraging the

affair. He was feeling sure that he should have no chance of speaking

to Mary, when Mr. Farebrother said—

“Fred, help me to carry these drawers back into my study—you have never

seen my fine new study. Pray come too, Miss Garth. I want you to see a

stupendous spider I found this morning.”

Mary at once saw the Vicar’s intention. He had never since the

memorable evening deviated from his old pastoral kindness towards her,

and her momentary wonder and doubt had quite gone to sleep. Mary was

accustomed to think rather rigorously of what was probable, and if a

belief flattered her vanity she felt warned to dismiss it as

ridiculous, having early had much exercise in such dismissals. It was

as she had foreseen: when Fred had been asked to admire the fittings of

the study, and she had been asked to admire the spider, Mr. Farebrother

said—

“Wait here a minute or two. I am going to look out an engraving which

Fred is tall enough to hang for me. I shall be back in a few minutes.”

And then he went out. Nevertheless, the first word Fred said to Mary

was—

“It is of no use, whatever I do, Mary. You are sure to marry

Farebrother at last.” There was some rage in his tone.

“What do you mean, Fred?” Mary exclaimed indignantly, blushing deeply,

and surprised out of all her readiness in reply.

“It is impossible that you should not see it all clearly enough—you who

see everything.”

“I only see that you are behaving very ill, Fred, in speaking so of Mr.

Farebrother after he has pleaded your cause in every way. How can you

have taken up such an idea?”

Fred was rather deep, in spite of his irritation. If Mary had really

been unsuspicious, there was no good in telling her what Mrs. Garth had

said.

“It follows as a matter of course,” he replied. “When you are

continually seeing a man who beats me in everything, and whom you set

up above everybody, I can have no fair chance.”

“You are very ungrateful, Fred,” said Mary. “I wish I had never told

Mr. Farebrother that I cared for you in the least.”

“No, I am not ungrateful; I should be the happiest fellow in the world

if it were not for this. I told your father everything, and he was very

kind; he treated me as if I were his son. I could go at the work with a

will, writing and everything, if it were not for this.”

“For this? for what?” said Mary, imagining now that something specific

must have been said or done.

“This dreadful certainty that I shall be bowled out by Farebrother.”

Mary was appeased by her inclination to laugh.

“Fred,” she said, peeping round to catch his eyes, which were sulkily

turned away from her, “you are too delightfully ridiculous. If you were

not such a charming simpleton, what a temptation this would be to play

the wicked coquette, and let you suppose that somebody besides you has

made love to me.”

“Do you really like me best, Mary?” said Fred, turning eyes full of

affection on her, and trying to take her hand.

“I don’t like you at all at this moment,” said Mary, retreating, and

putting her hands behind her. “I only said that no mortal ever made

love to me besides you. And that is no argument that a very wise man

ever will,” she ended, merrily.

“I wish you would tell me that you could not possibly ever think of

him,” said Fred.

“Never dare to mention this any more to me, Fred,” said Mary, getting

serious again. “I don’t know whether it is more stupid or ungenerous in

you not to see that Mr. Farebrother has left us together on purpose

that we might speak freely. I am disappointed that you should be so

blind to his delicate feeling.”

There was no time to say any more before Mr. Farebrother came back with

the engraving; and Fred had to return to the drawing-room still with a

jealous dread in his heart, but yet with comforting arguments from

Mary’s words and manner. The result of the conversation was on the

whole more painful to Mary: inevitably her attention had taken a new

attitude, and she saw the possibility of new interpretations. She was

in a position in which she seemed to herself to be slighting Mr.

Farebrother, and this, in relation to a man who is much honored, is

always dangerous to the firmness of a grateful woman. To have a reason

for going home the next day was a relief, for Mary earnestly desired to

be always clear that she loved Fred best. When a tender affection has

been storing itself in us through many of our years, the idea that we

could accept any exchange for it seems to be a cheapening of our lives.

And we can set a watch over our affections and our constancy as we can

over other treasures.

“Fred has lost all his other expectations; he must keep this,” Mary

said to herself, with a smile curling her lips. It was impossible to

help fleeting visions of another kind—new dignities and an acknowledged

value of which she had often felt the absence. But these things with

Fred outside them, Fred forsaken and looking sad for the want of her,

could never tempt her deliberate thought.