Torquay was the place for the honeymoon; but Exeter was to be the end of that day’s stage. Mr. Germain’s valet put them into the train, handed his master the tickets, Mary her jewelcase, took off his hat and retired to an adjoining compartment. Everything was very easy, done with an absence of enthusiasm which might have chilled a more resolute heart than this bride’s. It was done, she reflected, as if a wedding was a matter of every day. Why, a budget of evening papers, Punch, Truth, and other things had been laid in order upon the opposite seat. Was he going to read all these? It was almost incredible—but after the events of the afternoon she could have believed anything. She felt her ring to make sure, and then her eye caught sight of the paper on the window—Reserved to Exeter—J. Germain, Esquire. Perhaps great people always reserved carriages when they travelled—perhaps a carriage would always be reserved for her when she went about alone. There would have been a maid if she had chosen; it had been proposed to her. She had laughed and said, “Of course not!” But he had taken his man-servant—and how could he? On his wedding journey! Had he taken him before—? This was his second wedding, she remembered. Anxiety as to whether the train could be caught might account for the bridegroom’s silence during the carriage journey. His watch was open in his hand. For some time, too, after the train moved, he kept silence. She found herself looking soberly at the little pointed toe of her shoe when her thoughts were broken in upon by the capture of her hand. The sudden attack made her heart beat; she blushed hotly, lost her command of experience. As if it had been the first advance he had ever made, she dared not raise her eyes. She must be wooed from the beginning if she was to be won.
This was the way to charm him; he was charmed. He called her his Mary, and asked, of what she was thinking? She didn’t know, couldn’t say. Was she thinking of their coming life together? No, not then. “I think constantly of that,” he told her and put his arm about her. She let him draw her closer as he developed his plans for their joint happiness. “Calm spaces for work together, my love—there is so much in which your help will be a pride to me—and something I do believe, in which I can be useful to you. We must keep up our languages—French, Italian, even Spanish (quite worth your while for Cervantes’ sake): I do think I can help you there. Then your music—I could not bear you to abandon that. I have a little surprise for you when I bring you to Southover—you shall see. Then riding. I think you don’t ride? You shall be under Musters’s care. Musters is an admirable fellow—you will like him. We ride together daily, I hope. Will you like that?”
“Yes, yes, I shall like everything. It will all be very wonderful to me—all quite new.”
He smiled, as if tolerant of a simplicity which could find daily horse-exercise wonderful—and she felt it. In her present state of acute sensibility she needed anything but this treatment. He should have taken her as an adorable dunce and laughed at her outright between his kisses, or he should have whirled her off her balance in the torrent of his ecstasy. But Mr. Germain never laughed—it was not a Germain’s habit—and ecstasy at four in the afternoon was not possible to him. He liked his cup of tea at a quarter past, and when that hour came proposed to Mary that she should give it him from her tea basket—Lady Barbara’s present.
She was thankful for the relief, and almost herself again in the bustle of preparation; she forgot her dumps, and when he burnt his fingers and said “Tut-tut!” she fairly laughed at him and took, and even returned, his kisses. Things were better; but he very nearly imperilled the position thus hardly won, by wiping his mouth with a silk pocket handkerchief. True, she had been eating bread and butter—but was this a time—?
They chatted after tea—first of Berkshire where her home was to be. He spoke of his “riverine property.” She could almost see the edge of his estate as they slipped away from the ragged fringe of Reading. Then, by natural stages, he was led to reflect upon the society she would meet about Southover. The Chaveneys—he thought she would like the Chaveneys; they were her nearest neighbours, five miles off. Sir George was asthmatic—a sufferer; but Lady Chaveney was a charming woman, a woman of the world. She had been a Scrope of Harfleet. The girls were quite pleasant young women; and there was a son—rather wild—an anxiety occasionally. Then there were—but her eyes were wide. Five miles off! Were those the nearest people? She had thought there was a town—was not Farlingbridge the post town? He considered Farlingbridge. Yes, Farlingbridge was a mile and a half from the Park gates—a market town of 2,000 souls. There was a Vicar, a worthy man, of the name of Burgess. He met Burgess, of course—on the Board of Guardians, for instance. There was a Colonel Dermott, too; yes, he had forgotten Dermott. Nobody else. Her “Oh, I see,” was his reproof; he was ashamed of himself. “Two thousand other people, of course! Everybody will be delighted to see you, my dearest. Don’t misunderstand me. They won’t call, probably—Foolish old customs die hard with us. But there won’t be a door in Farlingbridge which won’t be open to you. I shall go with you, if you will allow me. I have long wished to know more of my neighbours—but you know how sadly I have lived.” He drew her closely to him—“How I have lived so long without my Mary passes my comprehension! Do you remember that last July was not the first time I saw you?”
She was pleased, and showed that she was. She questioned him shyly. Had he seen her before this year? What had he thought? What made him notice her this time? His answers were in the right vein. He was allowed to be the lover—and so the moments passed, and Swindon with them. The train swung slowly by a crowded platform. He released her.
Silence succeeding, she relapsed at once into her desponding mood. She was embarked indeed—but on what a cruise! The Chaveneys—five miles away—Sir George and Lady Chaveney—She knew what that meant; how the County reckoned, from one great house to another. Why, if a Colonel Dermott, a Reverend Burgess were as nothing—from what a depth of blackness had she been dragged up! . . . A toy, an old man’s plaything, Jinny had called her . . . picked out of a village and put in a great house . . . five miles from anybody. . . .
During this time of long silence, of reverie, in the which, though his arm embraced her and his hand was against her side, his eyes were placidly shut, while hers gazed out of window, fixed and sombre, at the flying country, she suddenly started and became alert. Misgivings faded, a wash of warm colour—as of setting suns—stole comfortably about her. For a moment, it may be, she was conscious again of wide horizons. The train was rolling smoothly—so smoothly that its swiftness had to be felt for—over an open common backed by a green down. Furze-bushes dotted it, clumps of bramble; there was a pond, a dusty road, geese on the pond, a cottage by the road, with a woman taking linen from the hedge. Along the road, pushing to the West, went a cart, drawn by a white horse; the driver sat on the tilt, smoking, his elbows on his knees; a grey dog ran diligently beside. Could this be—? Could it be other? Oh, the great, free life! Oh, the beating heart! Oh, the long, long look! Mary strained against the arm of her husband; his hand felt her heart beat. He opened his eyes, looked at her, and smiled to see her eager gazing. But what mystery of change in women! The next moment she had turned to him, her eyes filled with wet. She turned, she looked wistfully upon him; her lip quivered. “My darling?”—and then she flung herself upon his breast. “Oh, take me, take me, keep me safe!” she cried. “I will be good to you, I will, I will! But you must love me always——”
“My sweet wife, can you doubt it? What has frightened my pet?” She hid her face on his shoulder. “Nothing—nothing—only thoughts. I’m not good, you know. I told you so—often.”
He pressed her closely to him. “Who is good? Who dares to ask for love? We ask for mercy—not love. But we can always give it. It is our b............