The Two Marys (complete)

Chapter I

My name is Mary Peveril. My father was the incumbent of a proprietary chapel in that populous region which lies between Holborn and the New Road — a space within which there is a great deal of wealth and comfort, a great deal of penury and pain, but neither grandeur nor abject misery. I like those streets, though I know there is no loveliness in them. I feel that I can breathe better when I come out into the largeness and spacious widths of the squares, and I take a pleasure which many people will laugh at in the narrow paved passages — crooked and bent like so many elbows, with their bookstalls and curious little shops. How often have I strayed about them with my father, holding on by his coat-skirts when I was little, by his arm when I grew tall, while he stood and gazed at the books which he could so seldom afford to buy. When he found a cheap one that pleased him, how his face brightened up ! While he looked at them I was not often thinking what the thoughts might be in his mind. What was 1 thinking of — swinging by the skirts of bis coat, or by his arm when I grew a great girl! How can I tell? Thinking how bright the twinkling lights were ; how funny life was, so full of people passing whom we never saw again — of paving-stones and shop-windows ; and droll with whispering airs that blew round the corners, and always seemed to want to tell you something ; and again more lights and more faces and more shop-windows. In winter these passages always felt warm and comfortable, and I had some theory about them which I scarcely remember now — something like tho theory of the poor man whom I once heard saying that he went into the streets by night because the gaslights made them so warm. The desolateness of such a forlorn being, seeking warmth in tho lighted streets, did not strike me when I heard that speech ; I only felt I understood him, and had frequently been conscious of the same feeling. But I remember very well how once, when I was swinging back a little upon papa’s arm, clinging to him, proud of showing that I belonged to him and was old enough to take his arm, yet separate from him, as youth so often is, thinking my own thoughts, living in another world, I all at once caught the illumination on his face as he fell upon a book ho wanted which was cheap enough to be bought. To think he should really care about such a tritle — he — papa, the clergyman whom everybody looked up to ; that ho should look as pleased about it as Ellen our servant did when she got a new dress ! I was half humiliated, half sympathetic. Poor papa ! "What a pity he could not buy a great many books when he cared so much for them. But yet, I think, a little sense of shamo on his behalf, and of humiliation, mingled with that more amiable thought ; that he should care so much about anything, seemed somehow a derogation from his dignity, a descent on his part into a less lofty place.

We lived in Southampton Street, in the end where there are no shops. We had two very white steps before our front-door, which was the brightest point about us. When anyone asked in that street where the clergyman of St. Mark’s lived, tho house was always pointed out by this: “No. 75, the house with the white steps.” I used to think for years and years that they were a natural feature, and had nothing to do with any work of man, or rather, woman. It was

The Tico Marys.

a shabby house inside. There were two little kitchens in the basement, two little parlours on the ground-floor, two little bedrooms above that, and on the top storey I think there were three divisions instead of two. One of the little parlours — the back one, which looked out upon a little square yard about the same size — was papa’s study. It was not a cheerful room, with that outlook upon four brick walls, and a little square bit of mouldy black soil in which flourished some poor tufts of grass, and the big water-butt in the foreground, where the water was black with soot — when there was any water at all. The room had a writing-table in it, always covered with books and papers, and papa’s chair — black haircloth, beginning to wear white at the edges — between the table and the fire, and two other black chairs standing against the opposite wall. It was divided by folding doors from the parlour, in which we lived. This room was furnished with a haircloth sofa, halfa-dozen chairs, a round table with a close-fitting oilcloth cover, and, thrust up into a comer, an old piano, upon which I practised sometimes, and which on other occasions served as a sideboard. There was a short Venetian blind at the lower part of the window to keep people from seeing in, and a chair in the recess, on which I used to sit and darn papa’s stockings and dream. Sometimes I read, but, generally, dreaming was more fun. I made out such nice new lives for myself and papa. Sometimes I would dream that we were quite different people from what we appeared to be — great people, rich and noble, with all kinds of grandeur belonging to us, though no one knew ; and how it would be found out all of a sudden, to the confusion of everybody who had ever been uncivil.

I used to trace out, as minutely as if I had seen it, every detail of what we were to do. I was Lady Mary in these visions ; and if anyone had called me so I should have been, I am sure, more shocked to think that it had been prematurely discovered than struck by the unreality of the title. It was not unreal to me. Sometimes it would take other shapes, and my imagination would content itself with the notion of someone dying and leaving us a fortune, and how we would wear mourning and do our very best to be sorry ; but the other idea was much the favourite. It was very sweet to me to think that, for all so humble and so unknown as we were, things would appear very different if people but kneio l The old life comes round me as I go back to it, the afternoon sounds in the street — vulgarsounds, but softened by summer air as much as if they had been the sweetest ; the drowsy tinkle of the muffin-man’s bell, the prolonged cry of “ water-cre-e-e-sses !" the sound of children’s voices and dogs barking, and distant wheels that always ground out an accompaniment ; and myself in the window, poor Mr. Peveril the clergyman’s daughter, to my own knowledge Lady Mary, and a Tery great, small person. I wonder which was the real Mary — she or L

I have heard that in poor mamma s time we were so fine as to have a drawing-room upstairs on the first floor, like Mrs. Stephens next door ; but that splendour was long, long over, for mamma died soon after I was born, and I was left all alone — a small baby, with papa on my hands to look after. I do not think, however, that I was at any time very sorry for this. I was sorry for her, who died so young, but not for myself ; I felt instinctively that, had she been there, always poking between papa and me, I should not have liked it, and that on the whole things were best as they were. The room which had been the drawing-room was papa’s bedroom, and I slept in the room behind, over his study. Ellen had the three little places up above all to herself, though one of them was called — I don’t know why— the spare room. In this little place we lived, and never asked ourselves whether' it was dingy or not. The walls were dark, with papers which had not been renewed so long as I could remember ; and the curtains were dark, and always had the look of being dusty, though, thanks to Ellen, they never were so in reality.

The Two Marys.

We had no pictures, except two old prints in the square, which was fine, but not from Raphael’s cartoons. One was the very amusing. I liked the passages about “ Miraculous draught of fishes,” and the Holborn with the bookstalls a great deal other “ Peter and John at the beautiful better. But we did not talk a great gate of the Temple.” How I remember deal even in these walks. Sometimes I those twisted pillars, and how many would be seized with a fit of inquiry, dreams have they twisted through ! But and would pester papa with a torrent of I never admired them, though they questions ; but at other times I fell back were part of my life. I should have into my dreams, and would be making liked a landscape better, or some pretty some splendid expedition as Lady Mary Lees like those one sometimes sees in all the time, while I hung, always a little the shop-windows. When the people behind him, on his arm, leaving him as who went to St. Mark’s talked of having undisturbed as, generally, he left me. I a lithograph of papa the thought made think of this calm of indifference now, me wild with excitement ; but the litho- when I look back upon it, with very odd graph was never done. feelings. Is it that one does not care so

It must not be supposed, however, long as one has those whom one loves that papa and I lived in that state of all to one’s self 1 It is only, I suppose, ecstatic delight in each other’s society where yOur rights are interfered with which one hears of often in books, that you grow violent about them. I There were no great demonstrations be- suppose it was the fact that we loved tween us. I led my own life by the each other — I him, and he me — that side of his, and he, I suppose, lived his made us happy ; but it was so natural to by me, like two parallel lines which never love each other that we thought little meet whatever you may please to do. about it, and I am afraid it would have 1 do not know that it occurred to mo to surprised mo a little in my secret heart think articulately that the happiness of if any one had told me that my happimy life depended on him. I did not ness depended upon papa, seek to sit in his study or to be near The way in which this tranquil ease him while ho worked, as I have heard of possession was disturbed was a very of girls doing. I was quite satisfied to gentle and gradual one — at least, so I be in the parlour while he was busy on can see now, though at the time it the other side of the closed doors ; in- appeared to me most abrupt and terrible, deed, until he ceased to be all mine, I My idea of my father was that he was accepted papa as calmly as I did the other old, as a child’s ideas generally are ; but accessories of my life. When he went he was not old. He was about five-andout to dinner, which was a very rare forty when I was fifteen. He was not occurrence, yet happened sometimes, I tall — and he stooped, which made him would make myself very comfortable look still less so. At fifteen I was as tall with a book over my tea. I was fond as he was. He had a handsome, refined °f going out with him ; but then, he was face, with very clear features, and a sort the only person who ever took me out, of ivory complexion. His hair was worn through amusing places, where there otf his temples, and there were a great were ishop-windows and crowds of people many lines in his face — partly with passing. I had not been brought up to trouble, partly with work ; but his smile have my walk regularly every day, like was the sweetest smile I ever saw, and well-educated children. I walked when he had a way of captivating everybody.

1 could. Sometimes I had an errand to I have heard it said since that this do — something to buy or order, which I power of fascination did not last, and did by myself in one of the shops of the that he grew melancholy and monotonous neighbourhood ; but this was an office I after the first few times you had seen hated, for I was too shy to go into a shop him ; and though I was very angry when with any pleasure ; and sometimes old I heard this first, I can with an effort Mrs. Tufnell would send for me to walk believe that it might be true. I suppose

The Two

it was the same faculty which showed itself at church, where there were always new people coming, who attended closely for a few’ weeks and then went away. He was like a man who gives you everything he has at once, and then has nothing more for you. At home he w’as silent, always kind, but never saying much. I scarcely recollect ever to have been scolded by him. Ellen scolded me, and so did old Mrs. Tufncll, and even Mrs. Stephens next door ; but papa only said, “ Poor child ! ” with the air of a compassionate spectator, when I was complained of to him. Our chief conversation Avas at meals, when he would sometimes talk a little, and tell me of things he had seen or heard ; and it was at tea one evening that he first brought forward the name of the other person who was henceforward to stand between us. No such thought Avas in his mind then, I am sure ; but he Avas more communicative than usual. He told me that he had seen a young lady on one of his visits, in a very strange place for such a person to be found in — in the back parlour of a small grocer’s shop which I kneAV quite well. He told me quite a long story about her — Iioav she Avas an orphan and had been left destitute, and had been obliged to go back to her mother’s family, who had been a governess in her day, and married much above her. Her father, too, Avas dead, having been of no use Avhatever in the AV’orld or to her, and there Avas no prospect before her but that of going out to be a governess — a thing AA’hich papa 6eemed to think a great hardship for her. I had been trained to believe that some such place Avould have to be mine as papa got older and I greAv a woman ; therefore I Avas not at all shocked by the suggestion. I 6aid : “ Has she heard of any nice situation, papa?” with the quietest matterof-fact acceptance of his Avords.

“ Heard of a situation ! You talk very much at your ease, Mary, — if you 6 sav this elegant, accomplished, refined girl,” said my father. “ Poor thing, I cannot bear to think that she should be ■driven to such a fate.”

I did not make any answer. I was

Marys.

surprised. It had never occurred to me that it was “ such a fate.” Most girls, it seemed to me, Avho were not great ladies Avere governesses, both in the little real Avorld Avith Avhich I Avas acquainted and in books.

“ Poor thing !” he said again. “ Poor thing ! how’ I wish there Avas any possible way of saving her. What a thing it is to be poor ! ”

“ But any situation would be better than staying Avith the Spicers,” I said. “ Think, papa — the Spicers ! I should not mind being a governess — I suppose I shall be, some day or other — but I should hate living in a parlour behind a shop.”

“ Well, Mary, I hope you will see her sometimes, and when you do see her you must be very kind to her,” said my father with a sigh ; and that night he dreAv his chair to the fire and tried to talk, Avhich Avas a thing that took me very much by surprise. But, unfortunately, I had a neAv book which was very interesting, and instead of responding to this unusual inclination, as I ought to haA r e done, I kept on reading, making pettish aud uncertain replies, until he greAv tired of the attempt and gave it up, and got a book too, as usual. He sighed a little as he did so, with a sort of disappointed air ; and through my reading and my interest in the story somehow I perceived this, and felt guilty aud uncomfortable all the rest of the evening. When I had finished my volume I Avas very conciliatory, and tried all I could to bring him back to the point Avhere he had given it up, but it Avas of no use. I have always found it exactly so in my experience. If you are too stupid, or too much occupied with yourself, to take just the right moment for explanations, you never can recover the thread which you have allowed to slip through your fingers. Even to this day I often Avonder what papa Avould have said to me that night had I let him speak. I have invented Avhole conversations, but they never were much satisfaction to me. To think out Avhat perhaps some one might have said is very different from hearing them say it

The Two Marys.

I was not at all pleased with myself that evening when I went to bed ; but perhaps this was partly because I had finished my novel and it was not satisfactory, and seemed, now it was over, such a poor sort of tiling to have preferred to a conversation with papa.

Nothing, however, happened for some time after this to put me on my guard.

I went on in my old careless way. I f he was out a little more than usual, I paid no attention. All that was quite natural. Of course he had his duties to attend to. He dined at Mrs. Tufncll’s once during this time, and was very particular about his tic, and about having his coat brushed. “It is quite nice,” I said ; “ it was well brushed on Monday morning before it was put away. Why, papa, I thought you did not like a fuss: how you laughed at me for being so particular about my sash when we went to the party at Mrs. Overend’s. Shouldn’t you like to have a sash too ? ”

V

He laughed, but he did not look like laughing ; and I remember stopping short in the middle of my tea, and laying down my book to ask myself if anything could be the matter with him. One or two odd people whom I did not know had come to see him of late. Was it possible he could bo ill 1 But no, he ate as usual, and he had looked quite ruddy when ho went out. So I took up my novel again, and helped myself to jam, and thought no more of it. I believe the whole business was decided, or the next thing to decided, that night.

I could if I liked have heard a great deal of what was said in the study while I sat at work in the parlour, and this was a thing which Mrs. Tufnell and Mrs. Stephens had often remarked. They thought it “not quite nice,” for, to be sure, people might say things to papa as their clergyman which they did not wish to bo overheard. But it could not well bo helped, for there was no other room where I could sit. I have said too that I could have heard if I liked ; but the fact was I did not care, and I never heard. When you are perfectly indifferent and used to anything, and know there is no mystery in it, it is astonishing how little you hear. I had got accustomed to the hum of voices from the study just as I had to the cries in the streets and tho muffin-man’s bell. Sometimes, I suppose, a word must have caught my ear now and then, but I paid no attention, and heard as if I heard it not. I was thinking of such very different things. One day, however, I did catch a few words which surprised me. It was a summer day. The back-door into tho little yard and all the windows everywhere were open. Tho noises in the street came into the house exactly as if we were living out of doors, but so softened by the warm air and the sunshine that they were pleasant instead of being disagreeable. Tho day was not hot, but only deliciously, genially warm. We had put up white curtains in the parlour, and the wind blew them softly about, flapping the wooden stretcher in the blind against the window-frame. I was in a muslin dress myself ; and I was happy without any reason, not in tho least knowing why. I came downstairs singing, as I had a way of doing, and went into the parlour and sat down in tho window'. I gave up singing when I sat down, partly because it might have disturbed papa, and partly because people stopped to listen as they wero passing. I was running up the breadths of my new frock, a blue print, which was as bright and pretty as the day, and, to tell the truth, did not care in the least what the voices wore saying on tho other side of the folding doors* I had made noise enough to demonstrate my presence, and, as nothing was ever hid from me, it never came into my head to listen. It was Spicer the grocer’s voice, I think, which attracted my ear at last. It was a strange, little, harsh, snappish voice, so unharmonious that it worried one like a dog barking ; and by degrees, as he talked and talked, some sort of vague association came into my mind — something which I had half forgotten. What was it I had heard about the Spicers ? I could not recollect all at once.

“ Governessing ain’t paradise,” said

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Spicer, “but it’s better perhaps than other things. Marrying a man as is in poor health, and at a troublesome time o’ life — and nothing to leave to them as comes after him ; that ain’t much, Mr. Peveril. A woman’s best married, I allow ; but marriage has consekenses, and when there’s no money — ”

I did not hear what my father said in reply, and indeed I did not care to hear. I was half annoyed, half amused, by Spicer’s queer little barking voice.

“ Forty-five, sir? no, it ain’t old — but it ain’t young neither. I’ve known many a man carried off at forty-five. Them things have all got to be considered ; though for that matter twenty-five would make little difference. The thing is, here’s a young woman as has a trade she can make her living by. A man comes in, marries her right off : they have a child or two in natural course, and then he goes and dies. Nothing more natural or more common. But then you see, Mr. Peveril, sir, here’s the question : what’s to become of her? And that’s the question I’ve got to consider. I’ve a family myself, and I can’t put myself in the way of having to support another man’s family; and a woman can’t go out and be a governess, it stands to reason, with two or three young uns on her hands.”

My father said something here in a very earnest, low, grave voice, which really attracted my curiosity for the first time. Whatever he was saying, he was very serious about it, and his tone, though I could not hear what he said, woke me up. Perhaps ho warned Spicer to talk low ; but at all events I heard nothing more for some time, except the grumbling and barking of the grocer’s voice, in a much subdued tone. They seemed to argue, and Spicer seemed to yield. At last ho got up to go away, and then I heard him deliver his final judgment on the matter, whatever it was, standing close to the folding doors.

“ You speaks fair, sir. I don’t say but what you speaks fair. Granting life and health, it’s a fine thing for her, and a honour for us. And taking the other side of the question, as I’m bound to take it, I wouldn’t say but the insurance makes a difference. A woman with a thousand pounds and a babby is no worse off than if she hadn’t neither— and Missis is better nor Miss in the way of setting up a school or such like. I may say, Mr. Peveril, as the insurance makes a great difference. A thousand pound ain’t much for a dependence; and if there was a lot of little uus — but to be sure, in them matters you must go on providence to a certain extent. I’ll think it over, sir — and I don’t see as I’ve any call to make objections, if her and you’s made up your minds.” Then there was a step towards the door, and then Spicer came to a stand-still once more. “ First thing,” he said, “ Mr. Peveril, is the insurance. You won’t put it off, sir ? I’ve known them as meant it every day o’ their lives, and never did it when all was done; and died and left their families without e’er a ■

“ It shall be done at once,” said my father peremptorily, and almost angrily; and then there was a begging of pardon, and a scraping and shuffling, and Spicer went away. I saw him go out, putting his hat on as he shut the door. I never liked Spicer — of course he was one of the parishioners, and papa could not refuse his advice to him or to any one ; but I made a face at him as he went away. I felt quite sure he was the sort of man one sometimes reads of in the newspapers, who put sand in the sugar, and sell bad tea to the poor people, and have light weights. This was in my mind along with a vague, faint curiosity as to what he had been talking about, when to my surprise papa came into the parlour. He came in quickly, with a flush on his face, and the most uneasy, uncomfortable look I ever saw a man have. Was he ashamed of something? — ashamed ! he — papa !

“I suppose you have heard all that Spicer has been saying, Mary,” he said to me, quite abruptly. He gave me one strange look, and then turned away, and gazed at the Beautiful gate of the Temple which hung over the mantelpiece as if he had never seen it before.

“Yes,” I said; and then it suddenly

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flashed upon me that Spicer’s talk had not been exactly of a kind to be overheard by a girl, and that this was why poor papa looked so embarrassed and uncomfortable. He felt that it was not proper for me. “ I heard a little of it,” I said instantly, “ but I never listen, you know, papa, and I don’t know in the least what he was talking about.”

Poor papa ! how delicate he was ; how shocked I should have heard anything I ought not to know — though it was not so dreadful after all, for of course everybody knows that when people are married they have babies. But he did not like to look me in the face ; he kept his back to me, and gazed at the twisted pillars.

“Mary,” he said, “I have a little explanation to make to you.”

“ An explanation 1 ” I looked at him over my blue print, wondering what it could be ; but it did not seem worth while to 8 top working, and I threaded my needle and made a knot on my thread while I waited for what he was going to say. Then suddenly my heart began to beat a little fast, and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps my dreams were about to become true, and that he knew all about it as well as I, and was just going to tell me I was Lady Mary, and he Earl

of . I had never been able to

choose a satisfactory title, and I could not invent one on the spur of the moment ; but instinctively I gave a glance from the window to see whether the beautiful carriage was in sight, coming to take us to our splendid home.