The Vicar's Daughter - George MacDonald (read dune txt) 📗

in her mind; and, as she spoke, she withdrew her hands, “it mustn’t be. It is out of the question: I can’t look up to you,” she added, as simply as a child.

“I should think not,” he burst out. “That would be a fine thing! If you looked up to a fellow like me, I think it would almost cure me of looking up to you; and what I want is to look up to you every day and all day long: only I can do that whether you let me or not.”

“But I don’t choose to have a—a—friend to whom I can’t look up.”

“Then I shall never be even a friend,” he returned sadly. “But I would have tried hard to be less unworthy of you.”

At this precise moment, Marion caught sight of a pair of great round blue eyes, wide open under a shock of red hair, about three feet from the floor, staring as if they had not winked for the last ten minutes. The child looked so comical, that Marion, reading perhaps in her looks the reflex of her own position, could not help laughing. Roger started up in dismay, but, beholding the apparition, laughed also.

“Please, grannie,” said the urchin, “mother’s took bad, and want’s ye.”

“Run and tell your mother I shall be with her directly,” answered Marion; and the child departed.

“You told me I might come again,” pleaded Roger.

“Better not. I didn’t know what it would mean to you when I said it.”

“Let it mean what you meant by it, only let me come.”

“But I see now it can’t mean that. No: I will write to you. At all events, you must go now, for I can’t stop with you when Mrs. Foote”—

“Don’t make me wretched, Marion. If you can’t love me, don’t kill me. Don’t say I’m not to come and see you. I will come on Sundays, anyhow.”

The next day came the following letter:—

Dear Mr. Roger,—I am very sorry, both for your sake and my own, that I did not speak more plainly yesterday. I was so distressed for you, and my heart was so friendly towards you, that I could hardly think of any thing at first but how to comfort you; and I fear I allowed you, after all, to go away with the idea that what you wished was not altogether impossible. But indeed it is. If even I loved you in the way you love me, I should yet make every thing yield to the duties I have undertaken. In listening to you, I should be undermining the whole of my past labors; and the very idea of becoming less of a friend to my friends is horrible to me.

But much as I esteem you, and much pleasure as your society gives me, the idea you brought before me yesterday was absolutely startling; and I think I have only to remind you, as I have just done, of the peculiarities of my position, to convince you that it could never become a familiar one to me. All that friendship can do or yield, you may ever claim of me; and I thank God if I have been of the smallest service to you: but I should be quite unworthy of that honor, were I for any reason to admit even the thought of abandoning the work which has been growing up around me for so many years, and is so peculiarly mine that it could be transferred to no one else. Believe me yours most truly,

MARION CLARE

 

CHAPTER XLIII.

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT ROGER, AND ABOUT MR. BLACKSTONE.

 

After telling me the greater part of what I have just written, Roger handed me this letter to read, as we sat together that same Sunday evening.

“It seems final, Roger?” I said with an interrogation, as I returned it to him.

“Of course it is,” he replied. “How could any honest man urge his suit after that,—after she says that to grant it would be to destroy the whole of her previous life, and ruin her self-respect? But I’m not so miserable as you may think me, Wynnie,” he went on; “for don’t you see? though I couldn’t quite bring myself to go to-night, I don’t feel cut off from her. She’s not likely, if I know her, to listen to anybody else so long as the same reasons hold for which she wouldn’t give me a chance of persuading her. She can’t help me loving her, and I’m sure she’ll let me help her when I’ve the luck to find a chance. You may be sure I shall keep a sharp lookout. If I can be her servant, that will be something; yes, much. Though she won’t give herself to me—and quite right, too!—why should she?—God bless her!—she can’t prevent me from giving myself to her. So long as I may love her, and see her as often as I don’t doubt I may, and things continue as they are, I sha’n’t be down-hearted. I’ll have another pipe, I think.” Here he half-started, and hurriedly pulled out his watch, “I declare, there’s time yet!” he cried, and sprung to his feet. “Let’s go and hear what she’s got to say to-night.”

“Don’t you think you had better not? Won’t you put her out?” I suggested.

“If I understand her at all,” he said, “she will be more put out by my absence; for she will fear I am wretched, caring only for herself, and not for what she taught me. You may come or stay—I‘m off. You’ve done me so much good, Wynnie!” he added, looking back in the doorway. “Thank you a thousand times. There’s no comforter like a sister!”

“And a pipe,” I said; at which he laughed, and was gone.

When Percivale and I reached Lime Court, having followed as quickly as we could, there was Roger sitting in the midst, as intent on her words as if she had been, an old prophet, and Marion speaking with all the composure which naturally belonged to her.

When she shook hands with him after the service, a slight flush washed the white of her face with a delicate warmth,—nothing more. I said to myself, however, as we went home, and afterwards to my husband, that his case was not a desperate one.

“But what’s to become of Blackstone?” said Percivale.

I will tell my reader how afterwards he seemed to me to have fared; but I have no information concerning his supposed connection with this part of my story. I cannot even be sure that he ever was in love with Marion. Troubled he certainly was, at this time; and Marion continued so for a while,—more troubled, I think, than the necessity she felt upon her with regard to Roger will quite account for. If, however, she had to make two men miserable in one week, that might well cover the case.

Before the week was over, my husband received a note from Mr. Blackstone, informing him that he was just about to start for a few weeks on the Continent. When he returned I was satisfied from his appearance that a notable change had passed upon him: a certain indescribable serenity seemed to have taken possession of his whole being; every look and tone indicated a mind that knew more than tongue could utter,—a heart that had had glimpses into a region of content. I thought of the words, “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High,” and my heart was at rest about him. He had fared, I thought, as the child who has had a hurt, but is taken up in his mother’s arms and comforted. What hurt would not such comforting outweigh to the child? And who but he that has had the worst hurt man can receive, and the best comfort God can give, can tell what either is?

I was present the first time he met Marion after his return. She was a little embarrassed: he showed a tender dignity, a respect as if from above, like what one might fancy the embodiment of the love of a wise angel for such a woman. The thought of comparing the two had never before occurred to me; but now for the moment I felt as if Mr. Blackstone were a step above Marion. Plainly, I had no occasion to be troubled about either of them.

On the supposition that Marion had refused him, I argued with myself that it could not have been on the ground that she was unable to look up to him. And, notwithstanding what she had said to Roger, I was satisfied that any one she felt she could help to be a nobler creature; must have a greatly better chance of rousing all the woman in her; than one whom she must regard as needing no aid from her. All her life had been spent in serving and sheltering human beings whose condition she regarded with hopeful compassion: could she now help adding Roger to her number of such? and if she once looked upon him thus tenderly, was it not at least very possible, that, in some softer mood, a feeling hitherto unknown to her might surprise her consciousness with its presence,—floating to the surface of her sea from its strange depths, and leaning towards him with the outstretched arms of embrace?

But I dared not think what might become of Roger should his divine resolves fail,—should the frequent society of Marion prove insufficient for the solace and quiet of his heart. I had heard how men will seek to drown sorrow in the ruin of the sorrowing power,—will slay themselves that they may cause their hurt to cease, and I trembled for my husband’s brother. But the days went on, and I saw no sign of failure or change. He was steady at his work, and came to see us as constantly as before; never missed a chance of meeting Marion: and at every treat she gave her friends, whether at the house of which I have already spoken, or at Lady Bernard’s country-place in the neighborhood of London, whether she took them on the river, or had some one to lecture or read to them, Roger was always at hand for service and help. Still, I was uneasy; for might there not come a collapse, especially if some new event were to destroy the hope which he still cherished, and which I feared was his main support? Would his religion then prove of a quality and power sufficient to keep him from drifting away with the receding tide of his hopes and imaginations? In this anxiety perhaps I regarded too exclusively the faith of Roger, and thought too little about the faith of God. However this may be, I could not rest, but thought and thought, until at last I made up my mind to go and tell Lady Bernard all about it.

 

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE DEA EX.

 

“And you think Marion likes him?” asked Lady Bernard, when she had in silence heard my story.

“I am sure she likes him. But you know he is so far inferior to her,—in every way.”

“How do you know that? Questions are involved there which no one but God can determine. You must remember that both are growing. What matter if any two are unequal at a given moment, seeing their relative positions may be reversed twenty times in a thousand years? Besides, I doubt very much if any one who brought his favors with him would have the least chance with Marion. Poverty, to turn into wealth, is the one irresistible attraction for her; and, however duty may compel her to act, my impression is that she will not escape loving Roger.”

I need not say I