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 this she was quite sure,—that if he should show the slightest sign of a wish to be free from his engagement, she would make him free—at once. she would make him free, and would never allow herself to think for a moment that he had been wrong. she had told him what her own feelings were very plainly,—perhaps, in her enthusiasm, too plainly,—and now he must judge for himself and for her. in respect to her aunt, she would endeavour to avoid any further conversation on the subject till her lover should have decided finally what would be best for both of them. if he should choose to say that everything between them should be over, she would acquiesce,—and all the world should be over for her at the same time.

while this was going on in uphill lane something of the same kind was taking place at the lowtown parsonage. parson john became aware that his nephew had been with the ladies at uphill, and when the young man came in for lunch, he asked some question which introduced the subject. “you’ve told them of this fresh trouble, no doubt.”

“i didn’t see miss marrable,” said the captain.

“i don’t know that miss marrable much signifies. you haven’t asked miss marrable to be your wife.”

“i saw mary, and i told her.”

“i hope you made no bones about it.”

“i don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“i hope you told her that you two had had your little game of play, like two children, and that there must be an end of it.”

“no; i didn’t tell her that.”

“that’s what you have got to tell her in some kind of language, and the sooner you do it the better. of course you can’t marry her. you couldn’t have done it if this money had been all right, and it’s out of the question now. bless my soul! how you would hate each other before six months were over. i can understand that for a strong fellow like you, when he’s used to it, india may be a jolly place enough.”

“it’s a great deal more than i can understand.”

“but for a poor man with a wife and family;—oh dear! it must be very bad indeed. and neither of you have ever been used to that kind of thing.”

“i have not,” said the captain.

“nor has she. that old lady up there is not rich, but she is as proud as lucifer, and always lives as though the whole place belonged to her. she’s a good manager, and she don’t run in debt;—but mary lowther knows no more of roughing it than a duchess.”

“i hope i may never have to teach her.”

“i trust you never may. it’s a very bad lesson for a young man to have to teach a young woman. some women die in the learning. some won’t learn it at all. others do, and become dirty and rough themselves. now, you are very particular about women.”

“i like to see them well turned out.”

“what would you think of your own wife, nursing perhaps a couple of babies, dressed nohow when she gets up in the morning, and going on in the same way till night? that’s the kind of life with officers who marry on their pay. i don’t say anything against it. if the man likes it,—or rather if he’s able to put up with it,—it may be all very well; but you couldn’t put up with it. mary’s very nice now, but you’d come to be so sick of her, that you’d feel half like cutting her throat,—or your own.”

“it would be the latter for choice, sir.”

“i dare say it would. but even that isn’t a pleasant thing to look forward to. i’ll tell you the truth about it, my boy. when you first came to me and told me that you were going to marry mary lowther, i knew it could not be. it was no business of mine; but i knew it could not be. such engagements always get themselves broken off somehow. now and again there are a pair of fools who go through with it;—but for the most part it’s a matter of kissing and lovers’ vows for a week or two.”

“you seem to know all about it, uncle john.”

“i haven’t lived to be seventy without knowing something, i suppose. and now here you are without a shilling. i dare say, if the truth were known, you’ve a few debts here and there.”

“i may owe three or four hundred pounds or so.”

“as much as a year’s income;—and you talk of marrying a girl without a farthing.”

“she has twelve hundred pounds.”

“just enough to pay your own debts, and take you out to india,—so that you may start without a penny. is that the sort of career that will suit you, walter? can you trust yourself to that kind of thing, with a wife under your arm? if you were a man of fortune, no doubt mary would make a very nice wife; but, as it is,—you must give it up.”

whereupon captain marrable lit a pipe and took himself into the parson’s garden, thence into the stables and stable-yard, and again back to the garden, thinking of all this. there was not a word spoken by parson john which walter did not know to be true. he had already come to the conclusion that he must go out to india before he married. as for marrying mary at once and taking her with him this winter, that was impossible. he must go and look about him;—and as he thought of this he was forced to acknowledge to himself that he regarded the delay as a reprieve. the sooner the better had been mary’s view with him. though he was loath enough to entertain the idea of giving her up, he was obliged to confess that, like the condemned man, he desired a long day. there was nothing happy before him in the whole prospect of his life. of course he loved mary. he loved her very dearly. he loved her so dearly, that to have her taken from him would be to have his heart plucked asunder. so he swore to himself;—and yet he was in doubt whether it would not be better that his heart should be plucked asunder, than that she should be made to live in accordance with those distasteful pictures which his uncle had drawn for him. of himself he would not think at all. everything must be bad for him. what happiness could a man expect who had been misused, cheated, and mined by his own father? for himself it did not much matter what became of him; but he began to doubt whether for mary’s sake it would not be well that they should be separated. and then mary had thrust upon him the whole responsibility of a decision!