Margaret Oliphant - The Two Marys

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

“An explanation?” I looked at him over my blue print, wondering what it could be; but it did not seem worth while to stop 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.

“Perhaps I ought to have taken you into my confidence before,” he said, “for you have been brought up a lonely girl, and ought to feel for people who are lonely. I have been very lonely myself, very desolate, ever since your poor mother died.”

Here my heart gave a slight stir, and I felt angry, without knowing exactly why. Lonely? Why, he had always had me!

“When you are older,” he went on nervously, “you will feel what a dreadful thing the want of companionship is. You have been a good child, Mary, and done all you could for me. I should not have been able to live without you; but when a man has been used to a companion of – of his own standing, it is a great change to him to fall back upon a child.”

I grew angrier and angrier; I could scarcely tell why. A feeling of disappointment, of heart-sinking, of fury, came over me. I had never made much fuss about adoring my father, and so forth; but to find out all at once that he had never been satisfied – never happy —

“Do you mean me?” I said, quite hoarsely, feeling as if he had wronged me, deceived me, done everything that was cruel – but with no clear notion of what was coming even now.

“Whom else could I mean?” he said, quite gently. “You are a dear, good child, but you are only a child.”

Oh, how my heart swelled, till I thought it would burst! but I could not say anything. I began to tap my foot on the floor in my anger and mortification, but still I was so stupid I thought of nothing more.

“Don’t look as if you thought I blamed you, Mary,” said my father; “on the contrary, you have been a dear little housekeeper. But – do you remember, dear,” he went on, with his voice shaking a little, “that I told you once of a young lady who lived with the Spicers?”

It began to dawn upon me now. I turned round upon him, and stared at him. Oh, how pleased I was to see his eyes shrink, and the embarrassed look upon his face! I would not give him any quarter; I felt my own face growing crimson with shame, but I kept looking at him, compelling him to keep opposite to me, preventing him from hiding that blush. Oh, good heavens – an old man – a man of forty-five – a clergyman – my father! and there he sat, blushing like some ridiculous boy.

He faltered, but he kept on, not looking at me, “I see you remember,” he said, with his voice shaking like a flame in a draught of air. “She has no prospect but to go out as a governess, and I cannot see her do that. I have asked her to – to – share – our home. I have asked her to – to be your – best friend; that is, I mean, I have asked her to marry me, Mary. There! You must have seen that I have been disturbed of late. I am very glad there is no longer this secret between my little girl and me.”

And with that he kissed me quite suddenly and trembling, and went off again to the mantel-shelf, and stared up at Peter and John by the Beautiful gate.

For my part I sat quite still, as if the lightning had struck me. What ought I to do? I did not realise at first what had happened. I was struck dumb. I knew that I ought to do or say something, and I could not tell what. My lips stuck together – I could not now even open my mouth; and there he stood waiting. I suppose if I had possessed my wits at that moment I would have gone and kissed him or something. Even, I suppose, if I had stormed at him it would have been less idiotic – but I could say nothing; I was bewildered. I sat staring into the air with my mouth open, over my blue print.

At last he made an impatient movement, and I think said something to me, which roused me out of my stupefaction. Then – I do not know what impulse it was that moved me – I asked all at once, frightened, feeling I ought to say something, “What is her name, papa?”

“Mary Martindale,” he said.

I REMEMBER quite distinctly how people talked. They did not think I observed or listened, for I had always been a dreamy sort of girl, and never had attended much to what was said about me. At least so everybody thought. They said I had always to be shaken or pulled when anything was wanted of me, to make me listen – which is true enough, I believe; but nevertheless I was not half so absent as people thought at any time, and heard a great deal that I was not supposed to hear. And now my senses were all shaken up and startled into being. How well I recollect hearing old Mrs Tufnell and Mrs Stephens talking in the quiet front drawing-room in the Square, while I was in the little room behind, taking no notice, as they thought. They had given me a book and got rid of me, and though they all pretended to deplore my dreamy ways, I think on the whole it was rather a relief to get rid of a quick, inquisitive, fifteen-year-old girl, and to be able to talk in peace. It was twilight of the summer evening and we had taken tea, and the two ladies were seated at one of the windows looking out upon the Square. The windows had long, full, white curtains, hanging and fluttering from the roof to the carpet. They were seated against that soft white background in their black silk dresses, for Mrs Tufnell was old, and Mrs Stephens was a widow and always wore black. It was like a picture: and I, not being so happy as I used to be, sat with my book and read and listened both together. You may think this is nonsense; but I could do it. I see them now approaching their caps to each other, with little nods and shakes of their heads and the white curtains fluttering softly behind them. Mrs Tufnell was a great patroness of papa’s, and always went to St Mark’s regularly, and Mrs Stephens was our very nearest neighbour, living next door.

“I hope it will turn out the best thing that could happen for her ,” said Mrs Tufnell, nodding her head at me. They would not say any more lest they should attract my attention. “She has been greatly neglected, and left alone a great deal too much, – and I hear she is accomplished. Dear, dear, who would have thought that he, of all men in the world, would have taken such a step.”

“I don’t quite see that,” said Mrs Stephens; “he is a young man still, and nobody could suppose he would always be contented with his child’s company: besides, she is so cool and indifferent, as if she never thought it possible anything could happen: and I am sure she never did anything to make herself necessary or agreeable – ”

“Poor child!”

“You may say ‘poor child!’ but yet I blame her. A girl of fifteen is a woman to all intents and purposes. She ought to have seen that there was a great deal in her power by way of making him comfortable and herself pleasant. It’s rather hard to say the plain downright truth about it, you know, he being a clergyman and all that. Of course, when there is a young family one can say it is for their sake; but in this case there’s no possible excuse – he only wanted a wife, that’s all. I don’t blame him; but it’s a coming down – it’s a disturbance of one’s ideal – ”