In obedience to one of those traditions before which the British parent lies prone, the moment that Mary Middleham was asked for and granted, the utmost care was taken that she should see as little as possible of the man with whom she was to spend her life. Spotless must she be brought out by the contractors, spotless be transferred to the purchaser. She was sent for from home, and home she went after a month of clearing up. There had been much to do; good-byes to say, some to avoid saying, if so it might be. Mr. Nunn, making her a presentation and a speech before his assembled seed-plots, also made her cry; but Mrs. James Germain, in the course of an icy tea-party, whereat the girl was present, unexplained, unaccounted for, and ignored, until the late entry of the Rector on the scene very nearly made her defiant. She had a spirit of her own—and there are ways of showing “persons their place” which spirited persons may not endure. At that tea-party—under Mrs. James’s politeness and the chill insolence of Mrs. Duplessis—the prosperity of Mr. John Germain’s love was like that of a bubble on a tobacco pipe—its iris globe throbbed towards inward collapse. His brother saved it to soar; he was charming—easy, homely, cool, and obviously glad to have her there. Touched profoundly, she became at once buoyant—as all young people must be if they are to live—and meek. When the company was gone he had her into his library, and discussed her affair as a settled, happily settled, thing—ending, rectorwise, with a little homily, in which he delicately but unmistakably showed her that she was going into a very new world and had better go in clean raiment. “Let there be no drawbacks to your future happiness, my dear, of your own providing. Marriage is the happiest of all states so long as it is a clear bargain. That is not always possible; with two people of an age much may be taken for granted. You are young, and your husband is not. He is wiser than you are and asks nothing better than to help you. Make him your friend before he makes you his wife; you will never regret it. And you may begin, I believe, by making a friend of his brother.” She replied brokenly, lamely, but she was deeply grateful—and he knew it. Atop of that came Miss de Speyne—the Honourable Hertha de Speyne—in a fast dog-cart to her cottage door, with an invitation to tea at the Park. She went—and had the sense to go in her simplest. Dress, manner, and looks appealed—Here am I, the girl as he found me, as I pleased him. Make what you please of me—if you please. Lady Cantacute could make no mistake in a matter of the sort—her manners were as fine as her instincts. His lordship, even more finely, varied nothing from his habits; and his daughter could not. There was no company, and all went well; after tea, better. Miss de Speyne invited her to walk; they sat in the rose-garden. By-and-by came a question. “I think you know a friend of mine—Mr. Senhouse?” This had to be explained. Mr. Senhouse, it appeared, was the gentleman-tinker of Mere Common. Mary sparkled as she admitted her acquaintance, and after that all was well indeed. His acts and opinions were debated. Miss de Speyne thought him cynical, and hinted at some unhealed wound; Miss Middleham could not admit that. She believed him sound, if not spear-proof.
“He spoke to me of my engagement, but not as anybody else would have done.”
“Did he like it?”
Mary blushed. “I could hardly say. He spoke very highly of Mr. Germain. He had met him here, he told me.”
“Yes. I wanted them to meet,” Miss de Speyne said—and Mary wondered.
“He told me, in the course of conversation, that he should never marry”—she said, presently; but Miss de Speyne, older than her new friend, held her peace.
At parting, the tall, splendid young woman clasped hands with her warmly. “Good-bye. It was nice of you to come. I wish I had known you before—but we’re such fools in the country.”
Mary said, “I hope you won’t forget me after I’m—” She felt delicate about this astounding marriage. But Miss Hertha reassured her. “When you’ve settled down, ask me and I shall come and see you. Of course, you’ll be asked here—but you needn’t come unless you like.” This was bracing; she began to believe in herself, to say that she had nothing to fear, and to believe it. But she found out her mistake within a little, when, in mid-August, she left Misperton Brand, crossed London, and found her sister Jinny awaiting her on the Blackheath platform.
Jinny, the tall, the pert, the very fair, strikingly attired, despising all mankind and ignoring all womankind, sailed to meet her, intending to be patroness still. It was soon to be seen that her claim was not disputed. “Well, Molly, so here you are. Hand out your traps. And, for Heaven’s sake, child, put your hat straight. Do you want all the world to know that you’re engaged?”
Mary laughed, her hands to her hat. “It’s all right, my dear,” she said. “I’ve come down alone.”
“If you’d come down with your Mr. Germain I should never have accused him of it, I assure you.” Miss Jinny tossed her head. “Too much the gentleman by half. Is that all you have? The rest in the van, I suppose. Well, child, you look well enough, I must say. So he agrees with you?” They kissed each other on both cheeks.
In the fly, Jinny enlarged upon the recent visit of Mr. Germain. “My dear! he fairly scared poor father. It was, ‘Yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir,’ from him all the time—and ‘any arrangements you wish, sir.’ I don’t see that sort of talk myself—but father was always a worm. What he made of me I really can’t say—you know my way with gentlemen—take me or leave me alone, is my rule. Well, he left me alone, and I managed to get over that, as you see. I’m still the same height in my stockings. So you mean to be ‘an old man’s darling,’ Molly? Every one to her taste, I suppose.”
“Oh, Jinny, he’s not old.”
“He could be your father, my dear—easily.”
“He’s not going to be, I assure you.”
“Well, we’ll see. I should hope not, of course. One thing’s as plain as my nose; your people won’t see much of you when you’re boxed up with that old——”
“Jinny, please!”
“Oh, if you want me to tell falsehoods, my dear, I’ll do my best to oblige you. I’ll call him young to myself until it comes easy. Practice makes perfect, they say. Why, here we are! This horse must have the glanders or something. Perhaps he thought Mr. Germain was after you. There’s a lot of sense in brute beasts.” All this, which shows the rights of elder, was meekly received.
Home-coming was nevertheless a sort of triumph. The younger girls—all tidied up—allowed her to kiss them as if she had become an aunt; father and mother made much of her; she must see in their faces a sort of anxious wonder—Can this be our Mary then? Can I have begotten this young lady? Can these breasts have nourished a Mrs. Germain? She was to have tea in her hat, which Jinny refused to do; but elaborately removed it and administered the kettle, the muffins, the slices of bread, the jam-pot. Blushing and successful as she showed, Mary would have put an end to this splendid isolation if she could. It was not possible until tea was over; but then, when her father made her a kind of speech—clearing his throat and frowning at one of the girls, who was speaking the deaf and dumb language to another under the table—then indeed Mary upset all ceremonial, by jumping up, and knocking down her chair, by throwing herself upon her mother’s lap, her arms around her mother’s neck, by hiding her face upon her mother’s breast and anointing that dear cradle with tears. Mr. Middleham’s little speech ended in a choking fit; the girls looked all their misery; and Jinny sniffed and hardened her heart. Mary had unbent, but she was made to see that all her people knew that it was a condescension.
The sisters slept together as of old, and Jinny must be wooed. For natural reasons Mary must have Jinny’s approbation, must coax and kiss and strain for it. Jinny was not easily won, but after a passionate while allowed the back of her mind to be seen. She sat up in bed and asked a series of questions. They were answered in low murmurs by a hiding Molly.
“Molly, how did you get off from Misperton?”
“Quite well.”
“H’m. Glad to hear it. No scenes?”
“Mrs. Germain was rather awful. She always hated me. The Rector was sweet to me. And oh! there was Miss de Speyne—I can’t tell you how kind she was. Certainly, we had a friend in common . . . but——”
“That’s not what I mean. You can manage them, I should hope. I know that I could. The Rectory, indeed—and you to go out before her! Molly, did you see him before you went?”
“Who do you mean?” said a suddenly sobered Molly.
“You know quite well who I mean.”
“John Rudd, I suppose. There’s nothing between us—now.”
“John Rudd! John Germain! There’s not............