The Member's Wife. A novel

Chapter I

" Then you have refused him ? " " No, not decidedly. He urged me not to give a definite answer — to think it over." " Ah, he saw what was coming ; and you were glad to have time. I should have thought ' No ' would have been so easily said ; I think I know your mind." Sophia Langley glanced anxiously at her cousin's face as she spoke. Mary Molyneux looked straight before her, and her colour rose perceptibly. She answered in a lower voice, — " You cannot know my mind, since I myself do not know it." " Mary ! " Miss Langley's voice was full of surprise and — disappointment. " It is true. Everything I know about Sir George is to his credit. He is manly, frank, was a good son, and is " " Your inferior in every respect." Sophia spoke decidedly, even vehemently. " If you weakly yielded and gave in and married him, what would become of the future ■ — those large-hearted schemes you were so full of a short time ago ?

" " Sir George might help me to develop them." " Do you know him so little ? He is a useful parliamentary man, always votes in the right direction for his party ; but for you ! Tou, the brightest and cleverest of girls, to be tied for life to a man who is apparently in capable of originating anything, who is simply a ' safe ' man ! Mary, where would sympathy be? Why, he cannot understand, far less appreciate, you ; how then could he help your THE MEMBER S WIFE 3 " Love might teach him much, and he says he loves me." " I have no doubt he thinks he does, and probably does according to his very limited capacity. But the question in my mind is not what he does or does not do ; it is of deeper and fuller interest to me, it is what you think, what you feel ? Oh, dearest, dearest Mary, do not risk your own happiness !

You do not love this man, why should you sacrifice yourself? He might prevent your going forward, hamper your actions, cramp your energies — he might eventually kill the highest part of your nature ; and what return would he make? Mary Molyneux was disturbed and restless ; she was also feeling ill that day and less able than usual to argue any matter clearly. A feeling of illness to a girl who is, as a rule, completely and absolutely free from any indisposition, is an uncomfortable and novel experi ence. But she was outspoken and sincere, and, though with an effort, she answered frankly, — "lam notsure of myself, but honestly lately, when Sir George has been talking to me, I have felt that it would not be difficult to love him dearly ; I like him now so much and I admire his character ; as I said before, all I know of him is to his credit.

I think I could respect him, look up to him, turn to him for advice. My life is lonely in many ways, as you know, if it is not ungrateful to say so." " Lonely ! When I am always at your service ? " " I repeat it, I am not ungrateful," Mary said in a tone of real feeling ; " but you do not give me what I want. You see things as I see them. Your affection makes you echo my sentiments ; a man's view is different, wider, and often higher." " This from you ! successful essayist, and a celebrity — a first class ! I can hardly believe my ears ! " " What happiness have these honours given me ? I long for something real, something to hold on to through my empty life. I love intellectual work, I like mastering a difficulty, I like praise. I suppose we all do. But when there comes envy, dislike, carping. . . .

Success is an empty thing after all, unless there is some one — something else ! " " Oh, this is summer madness ! " exclaimed Sophia energetically. "Go on, Mary." " Some one," said Mary bravely, though her flushed face betrayed great effort, " who would rejoice in one's success, who would be proud of it, and proud of one ; in short, some one who loved one ! " she wound up firmly. " So you are like only every other girl one hears of, and long for a lover ! " She threw indescribable scorn into these words, but her expression as she looked at her cousin was a curious mixture of affection, surprise, and anxiety. " So in your own mind you have really settled this momentous question," she said after a significant pause. " You know I have settled nothing. If I had done so, I should not argue the point or allow you to discuss the question with me."

" Well, if I may speak plainly, dearest, if one who admires, and loves, and appreciates you may speak plainly to you, hear me ! You are wavering. Sir George's words and his declaration of attachment attract you solely because you are suffering from a sort of reaction. After a brilliant time, flushed with success, life with our good uncle and aunt is very dull and free from excitement ; there is nothing here in our quiet home life to touch the intellectual side of our natures. If under the pressure of this reaction you bind yourself, and in so doing commit a tremendous mistake, you will never get over it. I know your high strung nature ; you will do your best, and perish in the struggle." Mary Molyneux was impressed by this solemn warning ; but she made no answer. Sophia went on in a persuasive voice.

" If by an extraordinary accident Sir George had never seen you ; if he had retained the inclination he showed before you came to make love to me ; if I had married him, I might have led a good, contented, humdrum life, taken up flannel petticoats and the old women who wear them, and been quietly satisfied — and perhaps a happy woman. But you cannot do this, you would die of it." In this speech, uttered in a low voice and full of subtle complaining with an appropriate amount of action, Mary heard (womanlike) one part to the exclusion of the rest and answered it at once. " Did Sir George wish to make love to you, Sophia ? This is new to me. It is strange ; why then did he turn to me ? " " Can you ask this ? Because you are what you are. Oh yes ; Sir George is not really very much interested in anything just now.

His parliamentary duties sit very lightly on his shoulders, and his property is probably looked after by his factotum. His people wish him to marry. We are neither of us plain, we are not paupers, and we are neighbours. It all suited very well. And he is one of the men who think all women much the same, or he did think so till you came. You are so brilliant. And you have the knack of making people talk to you ; you at once attracted him Oh, I do not grudge it all to you. It was quite natural, only it shows what the man is, you see. "It is strange," Mary repeated slowly ; "only to-day he insisted that he had never had the slightest inclination to marry any girl till he met me." Sophia laughed incredulously. " All men say that, I believe. Well, Mary, I have said my say. Forgive me if my affection for you has made me speak very plainly ; but you know me of old.

I never shirk a duty in your direction. My real love for you out weighs every other consideration." Mary remained silent and gave no sign of response. She showed neither anxiety nor annoyance ; but she was perplexed and disturbed. It annoyed her to think that she had over-rated Sir George's love for her. She was vexed with herself for caring, and yet she did care, and this lowered her a little in her own eyes. She had very implicitly believed in Sir George's assurances, and imagined he was speaking from his heart, and she had felt response possible, and an unwonted feeling of rest and of coming happiness for both had thrilled her. She had not been sure enough to give the desired answer, but she had been near doing so. Now she felt she had been led by sentiment and foolishly pleased ; too ready to believe in the first pleading tones uttered by a man to her.

It was annoying, and it was evident that no amount of cultivation, no poise of the mind to view things dispassionately so long as they were unproved, helped one in this direction. Sophia watched her keenly. " I suppose Sir George will come for his answer to-morrow," she said, after a long silence. " He said he would come to-morrow morning. " If I may advise, dearest, do not see him yourself." "Why not?" " Because I am afraid that, carried away by his plausible statements, you might give him undue encouragement. If you said too much under an impulse of generosity, it would be fatal. If you raised undue expectations you would feel bound to act up to them afterwards — to keep an implied engagement at any cost to yourself." Mary Molyneux made no rejoinder. She was thinking deeply. She could not recall exactly what she had said to Sir George, and this troubled her.

At length she told Sophia she could come to no decision just then. Her cousin must wait. " Till when, dearest ? " " Till to-morrow morning. Sir George deserves consideration, and he shall have it from me. He may be fickle, but I am con vinced he is sincere and very honourable. I will, I think, see him myself. I must think it all well over." Sophia was disappointed. But she knew when her cousin was not in a pliable mood ; and wisely left her alone after imprinting an impassioned kiss on the only available bit of her person at the moment — the tip of her right ear. For Mary's chin was buried in her hands as she leaned upon the stone balcony before her, and her face was hardly visible. Sophia left her with a certain anxiety. She was not certain how far her words weighed with her cousin ; and she told herself that if Mary yielded now her own empire would be gone, and that from every point of view this marriage would be a disaster to herself.

Mary Molyneux married to Sir George Pemberley would be like every other woman. She would be lost to the great cause, the vindication of the equality of mind in the sex feminine with that of man. She would be also lost to her, and Sophia's love of power was limited only by her want of comprehension. Mary would be loyal to Sir George, and follow his lead, never hers. But besides all this, and deeper down, lay the sting of her own failure in the direction of Sir George. From the date of her own return to her uncle's house as a grown-up girl, Sophia had seen in Sir George the realisation of all her own hopes and wishes. She had taken the greatest pains to amuse him, to ingratiate herself with him, and he had been amused, and had apparently been impressed by her facile touch upon every conceivable subject.

He had appeared interested, but Sophia very much over-rated the impression she had made. Mary arrived, modest, simple, and bright ; accepting congratulations naturally, and not in the least spoiled by a success which was in those days unprecedented. From the moment of their meeting Sir George left Sophia's sallies unnoticed, and made no secret of the admiration and delight which filled him at the sight of the beautiful, mobile face of Mary Molyneux. Her dark eyes, now melancholy, now brimful of fun, fascinated him from the very first. The rare smile, the poise of her head, the rich low voice in which lay a peculiar vibration, with its distinct and high bred utterance, every trick of manner, every gesture, was noted and appreciated by the man who, singularly devoid of feminine relations, was unconsciously pining for the sympathy a woman — and a woman's love alone — can give.

Sir George was all too soon deeply, passionately in love ! He had not only never been in love with Sophia, but he had at times ungratefully thought her fatiguing. A restless and somewhat excitable man does not appreciate the shadow of his own qualities. He requires repose, and, what is rare, great repose and great calm without any dulness. There must for such a man be a quick, intuitive sympathy and a full appreciation. He knew by Mary's candid smile that she liked him, he knew equally well that love was a new idea to her, and that when he had spoken she was genuinely taken by surprise. But he did not know that there was so strong a bias in his favour that had he there and then pressed his point he might have had a more satisfactory answer. His love had made him chivalrously anxious not to take advantage of her emotion and sudden surprise.

He owed her surprise to the self-control he had always, up till then, exercised, for fear of being too abrupt and startling her too soon. When they parted, he was not hopeless or discouraged : she had been startled, but not displeased ; her vivid colour and her emotion betrayed no indifference, and this in itself was reassuring.

Chapter II

Mary leaned against that stone balcony for a very long time. She tried hard to see things clearly, and was anxious not to be swayed by the secret sense of inclination, the wish to rest her whole nature by accepting Sir George's proposal. She wanted to act rightly and justly ; she was conscious of a thrill of pleasurable emotion as she dwelt on companionship — and a lifelong companionship — with a second self, a friend to whom she might turn on all occasions ; one taking the larger views of life a man's position in the world enables him to take, who would in this way help her to use such gifts as she had so as to benefit others, and who would help her not to let her imperfections be a hindrance to her. It has been said, with a truth which is daily proved, that husband and wife become a conscience to each other.

Mary had never heard this said, but in her ideal of married life the thought occurred to her at this moment. She thought more of Sir George's happiness than of her own : could she really come up to his ideal and make him so happy ? Sophia took too low a view of his character as she took an exaggerated view of her own abilities. Affection sometimes warped judgment. Mary could not understand why she felt a sort of weight on her mind ; she mistook unaccustomed physical malaise for a warning against being precipitate. Sophia's words about Sir George's admiration for her, previous to Mary's appearance on the scene, preyed rather painfully on her mind. It was discouraging. Her head ached badly, and she was conscious of discomfort and irritable feelings she could only account for because of this disturbing episode in her life ; and she felt the air soothing and kept her place.

Below the big red house, from the stone balcony of which the girl looked out at this crisis of her life, stretched one of those exquisite pastoral landscapes the much-abused climate of England alone produces in perfection. The park was large, undulating, and very richly wooded : down in the lower part a sheet of water stretched as far as the eye could reach. The chief beauty of the grounds was the immense variety, not only in their undergrowth, but in the trees that flourished so well there. There were some wonderful silver firs, around which clung many a tradition, but no tradition revealed who had planted them so judiciously. Their great, magnificent stems and the gnarled and twisted branches broke the monotony of the well-trained oaks and beeches, and gave a characteristic beauty wanting in many a larger domain.

Some one, many generations ago, had understood what to plant and how to do it : against the darker pine-trees here and there appeared a wild cherry-tree, now in its tender green dress, later on to show up a cluster of white. Mary's eyes wandered from point to point, soothed by the natural beauty of the scene, while her mind was full of the momentous decision before her. It is said that thoroughly to enjoy the spring one must be young and unconscious of sorrow, but this is false ; natural beauty appeals also to an anxious and to a sorrowing heart ; the depressing influence of something gone, of an emptiness in our lives, is softened if not chased away by the radiant influence of coming spring which is so typical of hope ; and the rising sap in the young shoots, the budding of leaves, the promise of a fulness at hand comes home to us, — as it is meant to do, — raises our spirits and does not depress them.

To Mary, just at that moment ill without knowing it, everything came as a charm. The plaintive twittering of the chilled birds of a few weeks ago was gone, and, though the full throated notes were not as yet to be heard, there was the warbling of the lesser songsters and the quick, joyous movements of the happy pairs as they hopped from bough to bough in consultation, discussing the sites of their coming nests. At that moment if Sir George had been at hand and had pleaded his cause, Mary's answer would have been all he hoped for. Unfortunately for him Sir George was not there, and his antagonist was in possession of the field. Mary stood far longer than she knew, and she thought and thought. Her brain felt confused, she was shivering and very ill ; but she was full of courage and took her place at dinner ; then pleading fatigue went earlier to bed than usual.

When she left the room her aunt — who was very fond of her — was struck by her look of tiredness and followed her to the door to recommend some hot drink, which Mary accepted without remonstrance to avoid dis cussion. Mr. Molyneux, who was affectionately called " Old " Molyneux by his friends, was not an old man at all ; he was in the prime of life, extremely popular, and had many friends and not an enemy in sight. He was traditionally a Conservative — abused them roundly when there was any depression affecting rents, and was in no sense a keen politician unless an election forced him to take the trouble. His chief interests lay in his people, his property, and his health. He was never ill, and he attributed this entirely to a meritorious habit he had of living on tea and toast as a precautionary measure at breakfast whenever he felt a Uttle cross.

If he felt cross, he was certain it was liver, and he expected, when he ostentatiously starved himself, to have his symptoms respected, and that no disturbing news was to be given him. He was well off, having a very comfortable fortune independent of those fluctuating rents so disturbing to all landed proprietors ; so that his beautiful place was a pleasure and not an anxiety to him. And his being well off was a source of comfort and not of envy to his neighbours. Never was a man less ostentatious or less anxious to display his money in the eyes of those less prosperous than himself. If need existed he helped liberally, but his sub scriptions on any published list were exactly what his neighbours' were, and though those who wanted, knew where to go, and people had a very good idea how the money was obtained, there was nothing said in the way of com parison.

He delighted in doing a kindness in his own way ; and the delicacy of his way of showing kindness endeared him to the person who received it. He never claimed gratitude, and conceived, as these things gave him sincere pleasure, he was entitled to no credit. It was merely one way — his way — of being happy. He was strict as to poaching but very liberal about his game, and often he had some of the smaller farmers over to shoot, on the understanding that no game shot was sold, but distributed amongst the labourers of the respec tive farms. He never would be a magistrate, and disapproved of many sentences. Strict with his keepers, gardeners, and others who had to earn their wages, he was just and friendly ; and a glance of disapproval, a short, sharp word, from the Squire never lost its effect.

He had two weaknesses — one above men tioned, the subject of his health, the other a boyish love for circumventing his wife when he thought she was " managing " something. He was absolutely devoted to her, and never happy unless he found her at once when he wanted to consult her about something ; and he acknowledged her wisdom ; but every now and again he would take trouble and upset a plan she had made, by way of asserting his independence and showing that he was capable of having a will of his own, and of forming his own judgment. On his tea-and-toast days having punished his appetite in the morning, he was surprised to find himself ravenous for luncheon, and placed this healthy indication of returning appetite to his having had the good sense to eat so light a breakfast. The long ride he had probably taken on his pet cob counted for nothing.

He was very fond of his eldest brother's girl, Mary Molyneux, and had left the property to her — as was only just ; and he was also fond of Sophia, the only child of a sister who had made a very unprosperous and unfortunate marriage. She died, and so did her husband, and the Squire rescued and nursed her fortune and her little girl. If Sophia at times jarred upon him, he blamed heredity in some degree, and in as great a degree his wife's clear-sighted ness in the girl's direction, thinking also that she judged her a little severely for so kind hearted a woman. It was the one point on which the husband and wife did not quite agree. Both girls had been carefully brought up. Mary's mother, Lady Victoria Molyneux, had been killed by an accident abroad, and Mary, beautiful and an heiress, was much loved by her mother's family, who, being very highly born and not at all rich, were enthusiastic about a niece for whom they had never been asked to make the very smallest sacrifices, and who did the family so much credit.

Chapter III

The story of Mary's triumph as an essay writer, etc., was very simple. She had gone to stay with one of her aunts who was clever and brilliant. Her own children were too young to come out, and Mary had been a delightful girl to produce. This aunt, Lady Erlescombe, had presented her, and taken her to those brilliant balls and entertainments that fall naturally to any one placed amongst those who give these things, and Mary had much enjoyed it all. Then sudden mourning had come. Still her aunt entreated Mary to remain, and the girl took advantage of the enforced leisure and had joined University Extension and other classes now available to all. She had been admirably grounded, and knew what she knew thoroughly. When her opportunity came, she made every use of it : wrote an essay which surprised every one, because it showed rare comprehensiveness and much originality in treating subjects not always mastered by the mind feminine.

Her success, however, brought home to her, as it often does to womanly women, that a triumph has its drawbacks. Not only was she made conscious of detraction and jealousy; but she felt the want of any one human being who could sympathise and really quite appreciate what she had done. Nothing is more really trying to a clever girl. Her aunt was pleased, and wondered if it was worth so much trouble. Her uncle was charmed that Mary had succeeded in doing anything she wished to do, but thought it a little odd and was afraid of consequences : and it was Sir George and only Sir George who had shown that he understood her, who refrained from words of praise, and paid her the real compliment of arguing against her conclusions. Mary saw that under the reserved, quiet manner lay full comprehension of what she felt, and this made her like him.

She made up her mind that night to see him, tell him frankly her fears, her anxiety, and to how great an extent she felt towards him. If her present inclination satisfied him, she would marry him ; she would be quite frank and honest, this was his due : and she told herself that she did care for him, though she could not pretend to the affection he had expressed. But he would give her time, and deeper love might come. She rose and went across the passage to her cousin's room and told her what she had decided. Sophia was much disappointed. She tried to argue the point, but Mary stopped her and left the room, wondering why the floor appeared to run away from her, and why something seemed to make a curious noise in her head. That night was one of misery and pain ; all her sensations were confused ; and in the morning her maid found her so ill, that she fetched Mrs. Molyneux who promptly sent for the doctor.

Ill as she was, poor Mary remembered Sir George, and begged Sophia to go and meet him to say how ill she was, and that she must put off seeing him. Her words were very incoherent, and gave Sophia some slight excuse ; she never remembered afterwards exactly all that had passed ; at any rate she always said so. It was unfortunate that that very morning Mr. Molyneux thought himself sufficiently indisposed to indulge in tea and toast, always the signal for never troubling him with any anxieties. Purposely, Mrs. Molyneux made light of Mary's illness : purposely, Sophia did the same ; and when the doctor arrived he was so charged not to say anything to alarm the Squire, and the matter was so pressed upon him, that when the Squire met him and cross questioned him, he made out that it was a very trifling indisposition indeed.

Sir George arrived in due time. He hoped more than he feared ; but he was anxiously hurrying towards the house, when he was stopped in the avenue by Sophia. " I have come on a rather ungracious errand," she began, in a sympathetic voice. " I have come to meet you by Miss Molyneux's wish ; I am here as her ambassadress." Sir George was keenly, cruelly hurt. " May I ask why Miss Molyneux will not see me? " he asked, with some natural indigna tion. " She is not ill, I trust." " She is not very well. She wished me to see you for her. I am in her confidence." "I must beg you to excuse me, Miss Langley. I will wait till Miss Molyneux is well — till she is able to see me." Sophia sighed. " I am afraid you will be displeased and annoyed with me ; but perhaps my frankness now may save you pain hereafter.

My cousin does not love you, Sir George." Sir George was mortified, wounded, and felt that it was almost insulting to send this message through another person. " Did she say this ? " he asked hoarsely " Not in words. But I know it, and I feel it only kind and just to a man like you to tell this to you. I cannot bear you to build upon a false hope." " I will wait till Miss Molyneux is well enough to see me," persisted Sir George, his sense of unfair treatment showing in his whole manner. " As you like," said Sophia with a little touch of pride and regret in her voice. " You make it difficult for me to speak, and yet I should like to say something more ; perhaps I have no right to say it ? " " That is a question for your own consideration and yours only," said Sir George stiffly. " If I regarded my own comfort only, I should leave you now and say no more ; but I always feel anxious to save people from unnecessary pain, and especially people I respect and — like as I do you, Sir George."

" Miss Langley, you know evidently what has passed between your cousin and myself. I do not intend taking an answer from a third person. I love your cousin as I never thought I had it in me to love any one. Is it likely I am going to have the whole happiness of my life decided through an ambassadress ? .Every man is entitled to a direct answer, I can wait." He raised his hat and turned to go. " Stay," said Sophia; " do not leave me under any misapprehension. I was charged by my cousin to tell you she had a headache or some thing and could not see you. She hoped I would make you understand things. I have tried to do so ; I may have gone beyond my instructions, I regret it." She spoke with very real feeling, and her eyes expressed sorrow and sympathy. Still Sir George clung to his opinion. " A man is not worth his name if he allows himself to be put off in this way."