harry gilmore, the prosperous country gentleman, the county magistrate, the man of acres, the nephew of mr. chamberlaine, respected by all who knew him,—with the single exception of the marquis of trowbridge,—was now so much reduced that he felt himself to be an inferior being to mr. cockey, with whom he breakfasted. he had come to loring, and now he was there he did not know what to do with himself. he had come there, in truth, not because he really thought he could do any good, but driven out of his home by sheer misery. he was a man altogether upset, and verging on to a species of insanity. he was so uneasy in his mind that he could read nothing. he was half-ashamed of being looked at by those who knew him; and had felt some relief in the society of mr. cockey till mr. cockey had become jovial with wine, simply because mr. cockey was so poor a creature that he felt no fear of him. but as he had come to loring, it was necessary that he should do something. he could not come to loring and go back again without saying a word to anybody. fenwick would ask him questions, and the truth would come out. there came upon him this morning an idea that he would not go back home;—that he would leave loring and go away without giving any reason to any one. he was his own master. no one would be injured by anything that he might do. he had a right to spend his income as he pleased. everything was distasteful that reminded him of bullhampton. but still he knew that this was no more than a madman’s idea;—that it would ill become him so to act. he had duties to perform, and he must perform them, let them be ever so distasteful. it was only an idea, made to be rejected; but, nevertheless, he thought of it.
to do something, however, was incumbent on him. after breakfast he sauntered up the hill and saw captain marrable enter the house in which mary lowther lived. he felt thoroughly ashamed of himself in thus creeping about, and spying things out,—and, in truth, he had not intended thus to watch his rival. he wandered into the churchyard, sat there sometime on the tombstones, and then again went down to the inn. mr. cockey was going to gloucester by an afternoon train, and invited him to join an early dinner at two. he assented, though by this time he had come to hate mr. cockey. mr. cockey assumed an air of superiority, and gave his opinions about matters political and social as though his companion were considerably below him in intelligence and general information. he dictated to poor gilmore, and laid down the law as to eating onions with beefsteaks in a manner that was quite offensive. nevertheless, the unfortunate man bore with his tormentor, and felt desolate when he was left alone in the commercial room, cockey having gone out to complete his last round of visits to his customers. “orders first and money afterwards,” cockey had said, and cockey had now gone out to look after his money.
gilmore sat for some half-hour helpless over the fire; and then starting up, snatched his hat, and hurried out of the house. he walked as quickly as he could up the hill, and rang the bell at miss marrable’s house. had he been there ten minutes sooner, he would have seen mary lowther tripping down the side path to meet her lover. he rang the bell, and in a few minutes found himself in miss marrable’s drawing-room. he had asked for miss marrable, had given his name, and had been shown upstairs. there he remained alone for a few minutes which seemed to him to be interminable. during these minutes miss marrable was standing in her little parlour downstairs, trying to think what she would say to mr. gilmore,—trying also to think why mr. gilmore should have come to loring.
after a few words of greeting miss marrable said that miss lowther was out walking. “she will be very glad, i’m sure, to hear good news from her friends at bullhampton.”
“they’re all very well,” said mr. gilmore.
“i’ve heard a great deal of mr. fenwick,” said miss marrable; “so much that i seem almost to be acquainted with him.”
“no doubt,” said mr. gilmore.
“your parish has become painfully known to the public by that horrible murder,” said miss marrable.
“yes, indeed,” said mr. gilmore.
“i fear that they will hardly catch the perpetrator of it,” said miss marrable.
“i fear not,” said mr. gilmore.
at this period of the conversation miss marrable found herself in great difficulty. if anything was to be said about mary lowther, she could not begin to say it. she had heard a great deal in favour of mr. gilmore. mrs. fenwick had written to her about the man; and mary, though she would not love him, had always spoken very highly of his qualities. she knew well that he had gone through oxford with credit, that he was a reading man,—so reputed, that he was a magistrate, and in all respects a gentleman. indeed, she had formed an idea of him as quite a pearl among men. now that she saw him, she could not repress a feeling of disappointment. he was badly dressed, and bore a sad, depressed, downtrodden aspect. his whole appearance was what the world now calls seedy. and he seemed to be almost unable to speak. miss marrable knew that mr. gilmore was a man disappointed in his love, but she did not conceive that love had done him all these injuries. love, however, had done them all. “are you going to stay long in this neighbourhood?” asked miss marrable, almost in despair for a subject.
then the man’s mouth was opened. “no; i suppose not,” he said. “i don’t know what should keep me here, and i hardly know why i’m come. of course you have heard of my suit to your niece.” miss marrable bowed her courtly little head in token of assent. “when miss lowther left us, she gave me some hope that i might be successful. at least, she consented that i should ask her once more. she has now written to tell me that she is engaged to her cousin.”
“there is something of the kind,” said miss marrable.
“something of the kind! i suppose it is settled; isn’t it?”
miss marrable was a sensible woman, one not easily led away by appearances. nevertheless, it is probable that had mr. gilmore been less lugubrious, more sleek, less “seedy,” she would have been more prone than she now was to have made instant use of captain marrable’s loss of fortune on behalf of this other suitor. she would immediately have felt that perhaps something might be done, and she would have been tempted to tell him the whole story openly. as it was she could not so sympathise with the man before her, as to take him into her confidence. no doubt he was mr. gilmore, the favoured friend of the fenwicks, the owner of the privets, and the man of whom mary had often said that there was no fault to be found with him. but there was nothing bright about him, and she did not know how to encourage him as a lover. “as mary has told you,” she said, “i suppose there can be no harm in my repeating that they are engaged,” said miss marrable.
“of course they are. i am aware of that. i believe the gentleman is related to you.”
“he is a cousin,—not very near.”
“and i suppose he has your good will?”
“as to that, mr. gilmore, i don’t know that i can do any good by speaking. young ladies in these days don’t marry in accordance with the wishes of their old aunts.”
“but miss lowther thinks so much of you! i don’t want to ask any questions that ought not to be asked. if this match is so settled that it must go on, why there’s an end of it. i’ll just tell you the truth openly, miss marrable. i have loved,—i do love your niece with all my heart. when i received her letter it upset me altogether, and every hour since has made the feeling worse. i have come here just to learn whether there may still possibly be a chance. you will not quarrel with me because i have loved her so well?”
“indeed no,” said miss marrable, whose heart was gradually becoming soft, and who was learning to forget the mud on mr. gilmore’s boots and trousers.
“i heard that captain marrable was,—at any rate, not a very rich man; that he could hardly afford to marry his cousin. i did hear, also, that the match might in other respects not be suitable.”
“there is no other objection, mr. gilmore.”
“it is the case, miss marrable, that these things sometimes come on suddenly and go off suddenly. i won’t deny that if i could have gained miss lowther’s heart without the interference of any interloper, it would have been to me a brighter joy than anything that can now be possible. a man cannot be proud of his position who seeks to win a woman who owns a preference for another man.” miss marrable’s heart had now become very soft, and she began to perceive, of her own knowledge, that mr. gilmore was at any rate a gentleman. “but i would take her in any way that i could get her. perhaps—that is to say, it might be—” and then he stopped.
should she tell him everything? she had a strong idea that it was her first duty to be true to her own sex and to her own niece. but were she to tell the man the whole story it would do her niece no harm. she still believed that the match with captain marrable must be broken off. even were this done it would be very long, she thought, before mary would bring herself to listen with patience to another suitor. but of course it would be best for them all that this episode in mary’s life should be forgotten and put out of sight as soon as possible. had not this dangerous captain come up, mary, no doubt,—so thought miss marrable,—would at last have complied with her friends’ advice, and have accepted a marriage which was in all respects advantageous. if the episode could only get itself forgotten and put out of sight, she might do so still. but there must be delay. miss marrable, after waiting for half a minute to consider, determined that she would tell him something. “no doubt,” she said, “captain marrable’s income is so small that the match is one that mary’s friends cannot approve.”
“i don’t think much of money,” he said.
“still it is essential to comfort, mr. gilmore.”
“what i mean to say is, that i am the last man in the world to insist upon that kind of thing, or to appear to triumph because my income is larger than another man’s.” miss marrable was now quite sure that mr. gilmore was a gentleman. “but if the match is to be broken off—”
“i cannot say that it will be broken off.”
“but it may be?”
“certainly it is possible. there are difficulties which may necessarily separate them.”
“if it be so, my feelings will be the same as they have always been since i first knew her. that is all that i have got to say.”
then she told him pretty nearly everything. she said nothing of the money which walter marrable would have inherited had it not been for colonel marrable’s iniquity; but she did tell him that the young people would have no income except the captain’s pay, and poor mary’s little fifty pounds a-year; and she went on to explain that, as far as she was concerned, and as far as her cousin the clergyman was concerned, everything would be done to prevent a marriage so disastrous as that in question, and the prospect of a life with so little of allurement as that of the wife of a poor soldier in india. at the same time she bade him remember that mary lowther was a girl very apt to follow her own judgment, and that she was for the present absolutely devoted to her cousin. “i think it will be broken off,” she said. “that is my opinion. i don’t think it can go on. but it is he that will do it; and for a time she will suffer greatly.”
“then i will wait,” said mr. gilmore. “i will go home, and wait again. if there be a chance, i can live and hope.”
“god grant that you may not hope in vain!”
“i would do my best to make her happy. i will leave you now, and am very thankful for your kindness. there would be no good in my seeing mary?”
“i think not, mr. gilmore.”
“i suppose not. she would only feel that i was teasing her. you will not tell her of my being here, i suppose?”
“it would do no good, i think.”
“none in the least. i’ll just go home and wait. if there should be anything to tell me—”
“if the match be broken off, i will take care that you shall hear it. i will write to janet fenwick. i know that she is your friend.”
then mr. gilmore left the house, descended the hill without seeing mary, packed up his things, and returned by the night train to westbury. at seven o’clock in the morning he reached home in a westbury gig, very cold, but upon the whole, a much more comfortable man than when he had left it. he had almost brought himself to think that even yet he would succeed at last.
