christmas came, and a month beyond christmas, and by the end of january captain marrable and miss lowther had agreed to regard all their autumn work as null and void,—to look back upon the love-making as a thing that had not been, and to part as friends. both of them suffered much in this arrangement,—the man being the louder in the objurgations which he made against his ill-fortune, and in his assurances to himself and others that he was ruined for life. and, indeed, no man could have been much more unhappy than was walter marrable in these days. to him was added the trouble, which he did not endeavour to hide from himself or mary, that all this misery came to him from his own father. before the end of november, sundry renewed efforts were made to save a portion of the money, and the lawyers descended so low as to make an offer to take ￡2000. they might have saved themselves the humiliation, for neither ￡2000 nor ￡200 could have been made to be forthcoming. walter marrable, when the time came, was painfully anxious to fight somebody; but he was told very clearly by messrs. block and curling, that there was nobody whom he could fight but his father, and that even by fighting his father, he would never obtain a penny. “my belief,” said mr. curling, “is, that you could put your father in prison, but that probably is not your object.” marrable was forced to own that that was not his object; but he did so in a tone which seemed to imply that a prison, were it even for life, would be the best place for his father. block and curling had been solicitors to the marrables for ever so many years; and though they did not personally love the colonel, they had a professional feeling that the blackness of a black sheep of a family should not be made public, at any rate by the family itself or by the family solicitors. almost every family has a black sheep, and it is the especial duty of a family solicitor to keep the family black sheep from being dragged into the front and visible ranks of the family. the captain had been fatally wrong in signing the paper which he had signed, and must take the consequences. “i don’t think, captain marrable, that you would save yourself in any way by proceeding against the colonel,” said mr. curling. “i have not the slightest intention of proceeding against him,” said the captain, in great dudgeon,—and then he left the office and shook the dust off his feet, as against block and curling as well as against his father.

after this,—immediately after it,—he had one other interview with his father. as he told his uncle, the devil prompted him to go down to portsmouth to see the man to whom his interests should have been dearer than to all the world beside, and who had robbed him so ruthlessly. there was nothing to be gained by such a visit. neither money nor counsel, nor even consolation would be forthcoming from colonel marrable. probably walter marrable felt in his anger that it would be unjust that his father should escape without a word to remind him from his son’s mouth of all that he had done for his son. the colonel held some staff office at portsmouth, and his son came upon him in his lodgings one evening as he was dressing to go out to dinner. “is that you, walter?” said the battered old reprobate, appearing at the door of his bed-room; “i am very glad to see you.”

“i don’t believe it,” said the son.

“well;—what would you have me say? if you’ll only behave decently, i shall be glad to see you.”

“you’ve given me an example in that way, sir; have you not? decency indeed!”

“now, walter, if you’re going to talk about that horrid money, i tell you at once, that i won’t listen to you.”

“that’s kind of you, sir.”

“i’ve been unfortunate. as soon as i can repay it, or a part of it, i will. since you’ve been back, i’ve done everything in my power to get a portion of it for you,—and should have got it, but for those stupid people in bedford row. after all, the money ought to have been mine, and that’s what i suppose you felt when you enabled me to draw it.”

“by heavens, that’s cool!”

“i mean to be cool;—i’m always cool. the cab will be here to take me to dinner in a very few minutes. i hope you will not think i am running away from you?”

“i don’t mean you to go till you’ve heard what i’ve got to say,” said the captain.

“then, pray say it quickly.” upon this, the colonel stood still and faced his son; not exactly with a look of anger, but assuming an appearance as though he were the person injured. he was a thin old man, who wore padded coats, and painted his beard and his eyebrows, and had false teeth, and who, in spite of chronic absence of means, always was possessed of clothes apparently just new from the hands of a west-end tailor. he was one of those men who, through their long, useless, ill-flavoured lives, always contrive to live well, to eat and drink of the best, to lie softly, and to go about in purple and fine linen,—and yet, never have any money. among a certain set colonel marrable, though well known, was still popular. he was good-tempered, well-mannered, sprightly in conversation, and had not a scruple in the world. he was over seventy, had lived hard, and must have known that there was not much more of it for him. but yet he had no qualms, and no fears. it may be doubted whether he knew that he was a bad man,—he, than whom you could find none worse though you were to search the country from one end to another. to lie, to steal,—not out of tills or pockets, because he knew the danger; to cheat—not at the card-table, because he had never come in the way of learning the lesson; to indulge every passion, though the cost to others might be ruin for life; to know no gods but his own bodily senses, and no duty but that which he owed to those gods; to eat all, and produce nothing; to love no one but himself; to have learned nothing but how to sit at table like a gentleman; to care not at all for his country, or even for his profession; to have no creed, no party, no friend, no conscience, to be troubled with nothing that touched his heart;—such had been, was, and was to be the life of colonel marrable. perhaps it was accounted to him as a merit by some that he did not quail at any coming fate. when his doctor warned him that he must go soon, unless he would refrain from this and that and the other,—so wording his caution that the colonel could not but know and did know, that let him refrain as he would he must go soon,—he resolved that he would refrain, thinking that the charms of his wretched life were sweet enough to be worth such sacrifice; but in no other respect did the caution affect him. he never asked himself whether he had aught even to regret before he died, or to fear afterwards.

there are many colonel marrables about in the world, known well to be so at clubs, in drawing-rooms, and by the tradesmen who supply them. men give them dinners and women smile upon them. the best of coats and boots are supplied to them. they never lack cigars nor champagne. they have horses to ride, and servants to wait upon them more obsequious than the servants of other people. and men will lend them money too,—well knowing that there is no chance of repayment. now and then one hears a horrid tale of some young girl who surrenders herself to such a one, absolutely for love! upon the whole the colonel marrables are popular. it is hard to follow such a man quite to the end and to ascertain whether or no he does go out softly at last, like the snuff of a candle,—just with a little stink.

“i will say it as quickly as i can,” said the captain. “i can gain nothing i know by staying here in your company.”

“not while you are so very uncivil.”

“civil, indeed! i have to-day made up my mind, not for your sake, but for that of the family, that i will not prosecute you as a criminal for the gross robbery which you have perpetrated.”

“that is nonsense, walter, and you know it as well as i do.”

“i am going back to india in a few weeks, and i trust i may never be called upon to see you again. i will not, if i can help it. it may be a toss-up which of us may die first, but this will be our last meeting. i hope you may remember on your death-bed that you have utterly ruined your son in every relation of life. i was engaged to marry a girl,—whom i loved; but it is all over, because of you.”

“i had heard of that, walter, and i really congratulate you on your escape.”

“i can’t strike you—”

“no; don’t do that.”

“because of your age, and because you are my father. i suppose you have no heart, and that i cannot make you feel it.”

“my dear boy, i have an appetite, and i must go and satisfy it.” so saying the colonel escaped, and the captain allowed his father to make his way down the stairs and into the cab before he followed.

though he had thus spoken to his father of his blasted hopes in regard to mary lowther, he had not as yet signified his consent to the measure by which their engagement was to be brought altogether to an end. the question had come to be discussed widely among their friends, as is the custom with such questions in such circumstances, and mary had been told from all sides that she was bound to give it up,—that she was bound to give it up for her own sake, and more especially for his; that the engagement, if continued, would never lead to a marriage, and that it would in the meantime be absolutely ruinous to her,—and to him. parson john came up and spoke to her with a strength for which she had not hitherto given parson john credit. her aunt sarah was very gentle with her, but never veered from her opinion that the engagement must of necessity be abandoned. mr. fenwick wrote to her a letter full of love and advice, and mrs. fenwick made a journey to loring to discuss the matter with her. the discussion between them was very long. “if you are saying this on my account,” said mary, “it is quite useless.”

“on what other account? mr. gilmore? indeed, indeed, i am not thinking of him. he is out of my mind altogether. i say it because i know it is impossible that you and your cousin should be married, and because such an engagement is destructive to both the parties.”

“for myself,” said mary, “it can make no difference.”

“it will make the greatest difference. it would wear you to pieces with a deferred hope. there is nothing so killing, so terrible, so much to be avoided. and then for him!— how is a man, thrown about on the world as he will be, to live in such a condition.”

the upshot of it all was that mary wrote a letter to her cousin proposing to surrender her engagement, and declaring that it would be best for them both that he should agree to accept her surrender. that plan which she had adopted before, of leaving all the responsibility to him, would not suffice. she had come to perceive during these weary discussions that if a way out of his bondage was to be given to walter marrable it must come from her action and not from his. she had intended to be generous when she left everything to him; but it was explained to her, both by her aunt and mrs. fenwick, that her generosity was of a kind which he could not use. it was for her to take the responsibility upon herself; it was for her to make the move; it was, in short, for her to say that the engagement should be over.

the very day that mrs. fenwick left her she wrote the letter, and captain marrable had it in his pocket when he went down to bid a last farewell to his father. it had been a sad, weary, tear-laden performance,—the writing of that letter. she had resolved that no sign of a tear should be on the paper, and she had rubbed the moisture away from her eyes a dozen times during the work lest it should fall. there was but little of intended pathos in it; there were no expressions of love till she told him at the end that she would always love him dearly; there was no repining,—no mention of her own misery. she used all the arguments which others had used to her, and then drew her conclusion. she remembered that were she to tell him that she would still be true to him, she would in fact be asking for some such pledge back from him; and she said not a word of any such constancy on her own part. it was best for both of them that the engagement should be broken off; and, therefore, broken off it was, and should be now and for ever. that was the upshot of mary lowther’s letter.

captain marrable when he received it, though he acknowledged the truth of all the arguments, loved the girl far too well to feel that this release gave him any comfort. he had doubtless felt that the engagement was a burthen on him,—that he would not have entered into it had he not felt sure of his diminished fortune, and that there was a fearful probability that it might never result in their being married; but not the less did the breaking up of it make him very wretched. an engagement for marriage can never be so much to a man as it is to a woman,—marriage itself can never be so much, can never be so great a change, produce such utter misery, or of itself be efficient for such perfect happiness,—but his love was true and steadfast, and when he learned that she was not to be his, he was as a man who had been robbed of his treasure. her letter was long and argumentative. his reply was short and passionate;—and the reader shall see it.

duke street, january, 186—.

dearest mary,

i suppose you are right. everybody tells me so, and no doubt everybody tells you the same. the chances are that i shall get bowled over; and as for getting back again, i don’t know when i can hope for it. in such a condition it would i believe be very wrong and selfish were i to go and leave you to think of me as your future husband. you would be waiting for that which would never come.

as for me, i shall never care for any other woman. a soldier can get on very well without a wife, and i shall always regard myself now as one of those useless but common animals who are called “not marrying men.” i shall never marry. i shall always carry your picture in my heart, and shall not think that i am sinning against you or any one else when i do so after hearing that you are married.

i need not tell you that i am very wretched. it is not only that i am separated from you, my own dear, dearest girl, but that i cannot refrain from thinking how it has come to pass that it is so. i went down to see my father yesterday. i did see him, and you may imagine of what nature was the interview. i sometimes think, when i lie in bed, that no man was ever so ill-treated as i have been.

dearest love, good-bye. i could not have brought myself to say what you have said, but i know that you are right. it has not been my fault, dear. i did love you, and do love you as truly as any man ever loved a woman.

yours with all my heart,

walter marrable.

i should like to see you once more before i start. is there any harm in this? i must run down to my uncle’s, but i will not go up to you if you think it better not. if you can bring yourself to see me, pray, pray do.

in answer to this mary wrote to him to say that she would certainly see him when he came. she knew no reason, she said, why they should not meet. when she had written her note she asked her aunt’s opinion. aunt sarah would not take upon herself to say that no such meeting ought to take place, but it was very evident that she thought that it would be dangerous.

captain marrable did come down to loring about the end of january, and the meeting did take place. mary had stipulated that she should be alone when he called. he had suggested that they should walk out together, as had been their wont; but this she had declined, telling him that the sadness of such a walk would be too much for her, and saying to her aunt with a smile that were she once again out with him on the towing-path, there would be no chance of their ever coming home. “i could not ask him to turn back,” she said, “when i should know that it would be for the last time.” it was arranged, therefore, that the meeting should take place in the drawing-room at uphill lane.

he came into the room with a quick, uneasy step, and when he reached her he put his arm round her and kissed her. she had formed certain little resolutions on this subject. he should kiss her, if he pleased, once again when he went,—and only once. and now, almost without a motion on her part that was perceptible, she took herself out of his arms. there should be no word about that if she could help it,—but she was bound to remember that he was nothing to her now but a distant cousin. he must cease to be her lover, though she loved him. nay,—he had so ceased already. there must be no more laying of her head upon his shoulder, no more twisting of her fingers through his locks, no more looking into his eyes, no more amorous pressing of her lips against his own. much as she loved him she must remember now that such outward signs of love as these would not befit her. “walter,” she said, “i am so glad to see you! and yet i do not know but what it would have been better that you should have stayed away.”

“why should it have been better? it would have been unnatural not to have met each other.”

“so i thought. why should not friends endure to say good-bye, even though their friendship be as dear as ours? i told aunt sarah that i should be angry with myself afterwards if i feared to tell you to come.”

“there is nothing to fear,—only that it is so wretched an ending,” said he.

“in one way i will not look on it as an ending. you and i cannot be married, walter; but i shall always have your career to look to, and shall think of you as my dearest friend. i shall expect you to write to me;—not at first, but after a year or so. you will be able to write to me then as though you were my brother.”

“i shall never be able to do that.”

“oh yes;—that is, if you will make the effort for my sake. i do not believe but what people can manage and mould their own wills if they will struggle hard enough. you must not be unhappy, walter.”

“i am not so wise or self-confident as you, mary. i shall be unhappy. i should be deceiving myself if i were to tell myself otherwise. there is nothing before me to make me happy. when i came home there was very little that i cared for, though i had the prospect of this money and thought that my cares in that respect were over. then i met you, and the whole world seemed altered. i was happy even when i found how badly i had been treated. now all that has gone, and i cannot think that i shall be happy again.”

“i mean to be happy, walter.”

“i hope you may, dear.”

“there are gradations in happiness. the highest i ever came to yet was when you told me that you loved me.” when she said that, he attempted to take her hand, but she withdrew from him, almost without a sign that she was doing so. “i have not quite lost that yet,” she continued, “and i do not mean to lose it altogether. i shall always remember that you loved me; and you will not forget that i too loved you.”

“forget it?—no, i don’t exactly think that i shall forget it.”

“i don’t know why it should make us altogether unhappy. for a time, i suppose, we shall be down-hearted.”

“i shall, i know. i can’t pretend to such strength as to say that i can lose what i want, and not feel it.”

“we shall both feel it, walter;—but i do not know that we must be miserable. when do you leave england?”

“nothing is settled. i have not had the heart to think of it. it will not be for a month or two yet. i suppose i shall stay out my regular indian time.”

“and what shall you do with yourself?”

“i have no plans at all, mary. sir gregory has asked me to dunripple, and i shall remain there probably till i am tired of it. it will be so pleasant, talking to my uncle of my father.”

“do not talk of him at all, walter. you will best forgive him by not talking of him. we shall hear, i suppose, of what you do from parson john.”

she had seated herself a little away from him, and he did not attempt to draw near to her again till at her bidding he rose to leave her. he sat there for nearly an hour, and during that time much more was said by her than by him. she endeavoured to make him understand that he was as free as air, and that she would hope some day to hear that he was married. in reply to this, he asserted very loudly that he would never call any woman his wife, unless unexpected circumstances should enable him to return and again ask for her hand. “not that you are to wait for me, mary,” he said. she smiled, but made no definite answer to this. she had told herself that it would not be for his welfare that she should allude to the possibility of a renewed engagement, and she did not allude to it.

“god bless you, walter,” she said at last, coming to him and offering him her hand.

“god bless you, for ever and ever, dearest mary,” he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her again and again. it was to be the last, and she did not seem to shun him. then he left her, went as far as the door,—and returned again. “dearest, dearest mary. you will give me one more kiss?”

“it shall be the last, walter,” she said. then she did kiss him, as she would have kissed her brother that was going from her, and escaping from his arms she left the room.

he had come to loring late on the previous evening, and on that same day he returned to london. no doubt he dined at his club, drank a pint of wine and smoked a cigar or two, though he did it all after a lugubrious fashion. men knew that he had fallen into great trouble in the matter of his inheritance, and did not expect him to be joyful and of pleasant countenance. “by george!” said little captain boodle, “if it was my governor, i’d go very near being hung for him; i would, by george!” which remark obtained a good deal of general sympathy in the billiard-room of that military club. in the meantime mary lowther at loring had resolved that she would not be lugubrious, and she sat down to dinner opposite to her aunt with a pleasant smile on her face. before the evening was over, however, she had in some degree broken down. “i fear i can’t get along with novels, aunt sarah,” she said. “don’t you think i could find something to do.” then the old lady came round the room and kissed her niece;—but she made no other reply.