Miss Marrable heard the story of the Captain’s loss in perfect silence. Mary told it craftily, with a smile on her face, as though she were but slightly affected by it, and did not think very much on the change it might effect in her plans and those of her lover. “He has been ill-treated; has he not?” she said.

“Very badly treated. I can’t understand it, but it seems to me that he has been most shamefully treated.”

“He tried to explain it all to me; but I don’t know that he succeeded.”

“Why did the lawyers deceive him?”

“I think he was a little rash there. He took what they told him for more than it was worth. There was some woman who said that she would resign her claim; but when they came to look into it, she too had signed some papers and the money was all gone. He could recover it from his father by law, only that his father has got nothing.”

“And that is to be the end of it.”

“That is the end of our five thousand pounds,” said Mary, forcing a little laugh. Miss Marrable for a few moments made no reply. She sat fidgety in her seat, feeling that it was her duty to explain to Mary what must, in her opinion, be the inevitable result of this misfortune, and yet not knowing how to begin her task. Mary was partly aware of what was coming, and had fortified herself to reject all advice, to assert her right to do as she pleased with herself, and to protest that she cared nothing for the prudent views of worldly-minded people. But she was afraid of what was coming. She knew that arguments would be used which she would find it very difficult to answer; and, although she had settled upon certain strong words which she would speak, she felt that she would be driven at last to quarrel with her aunt. On one thing she was quite resolved. Nothing should induce her to give up her engagement,—short of the expression of a wish to that effect from Walter Marrable himself.

“How will this affect you, dear?” said Miss Marrable at last.

“I should have been a poor man’s wife any how. Now I shall be the wife of a very poor man. I suppose that will be the effect.”

“What will he do?”

“He has, aunt, made up his mind to go to India.”

“Has he made up his mind to anything else?”

“Of course, I know what you mean, aunt?”

“Why should you not know? I mean, that a man going out to India, and intending to live there as an officer on his pay, cannot be in want of a wife.”

“You speak of a wife as if she were the same as a coach-and-four, or a box at the opera,—a sort of luxury for rich men. Marriage, aunt, is like death, common to all.”

“In our position in life, Mary, marriage cannot be made so common as to be undertaken without foresight for the morrow. A poor gentleman is further removed from marriage than any other man.”

“One knows, of course, that there will be difficulties.”

“What I mean, Mary, is, that you will have to give it up.”

“Never, Aunt Sarah. I shall never give it up.”

“Do you mean that you will marry him now, at once, and go out to India with him, as a dead weight round his neck?”

“I mean that he shall choose about that.”

“It is for you to choose, Mary. Don’t be angry. I am bound to tell you what I think. You can, of course, act as you please; but I think that you ought to listen to me. He cannot go back from his engagement without laying himself open to imputation of bad conduct.”

“Nor can I.”

“Pardon me, dear. That depends, I think, upon what passes between you. It is at any rate for you to propose the release to him,—not to fix him with the burthen of proposing it.” Mary’s heart quailed as she heard this, but she did not show her feeling by any expression on her face. “For a man, placed as he is, about to return to such a climate as that of India, with such work before him as I suppose men have there,—the burden of a wife, without the means of maintaining her according to his views of life and hers—”

“We have no views of life. We know that we shall be poor.”

“It is the old story of love and a cottage,—only under the most unfavourable circumstances. A woman’s view of it is, of course, different from that of a man. He has seen more of the world, and knows better than she does what poverty and a wife and family mean.”

“There is no reason why we should be married at once.”

“A long engagement for you would be absolutely disastrous.”

“Of course, there is disaster,” said Mary. “The loss of Walter’s money is disastrous. One has to put up with disaster. But the worst of all disasters would be to be separated. I can stand anything but that.”

“It seems to me, Mary, that within the last few weeks your character has become altogether altered.”

“Of course it has.”

“You used to think so much more of other people than yourself.”

“Don’t I think of him, Aunt Sarah?”

“As of a thing of your own. Two months ago you did not know him, and now you are a millstone round his neck.”

“I will never be a millstone round anybody’s neck,” said Mary, walking out of the room. She felt that her aunt had been very cruel to her,—had attacked her in her misery without mercy; and yet she knew that every word that had been uttered had been spoken in pure affection. She did not believe that her aunt’s chief purpose had been to save Walter from the fruits of an imprudent marriage. Had she so believed, the words would have had more effect on her. She saw, or thought that she saw, that her aunt was trying to save herself against her own will, and at this she was indignant. She was determined to persevere; and this endeavour to make her feel that her perseverance would be disastrous to the man she loved was, she thought, very cruel. She stalked upstairs with unruffled demeanour; but when there, she threw herself on her bed and sobbed bitterly. Could it be that it was her duty, for his sake, to tell him that the whole thing should be at an end? It was impossible for her to do so now, because she had sworn to him that she would be guided altogether by him in his present troubles. She must keep her word to him, whatever happened; but of............