"And why didn't the reverend gentleman claim the ground when the works were commenced?" demanded the indignant minister, turning now for the first time to the Vicar, and doing so with a visage full of wrath, and a graceful uplifting of his right hand.
"The reverend gentleman was very ignorant of matters with which he ought to have been better acquainted," said Mr. Fenwick himself.
"Very ignorant, indeed," said Mr. Puddleham. "My lord, I am inclined to think that we can assert our right to this chapel and maintain it.
My lord, I am of opinion that the whole hierarchy of the Episcopal Established Church in England cannot expel us. My lord, who will be the man to move the first brick from this sacred edifice?" And Mr.
Puddleham pointed up to the pulpit as though he knew well where that brick was ever to be found when duty required its presence. "My lord, I would propose that nothing should be done; and then let us see who will attempt to close this chapel door against the lambs of the Lord who come here for pasture in their need."
"The lambs shall have pasture and shall have their pastor," said St.
George, laughing. "We'll move this chapel to ground that is our own, and make everything as right as a trivet for you. You don't want to intrude, I'm sure."
Mr. Puddleham's eloquence was by no means exhausted; but at last, when they had left the chapel, and the ground immediately around the chapel which Mr. Puddleham would insist upon regarding as his own, they did manage to shake him off.
"And now, Mr. Fenwick," said Lord St. George, in his determined purpose to throw oil upon the waters, "what is this unfortunate quarrel between you and my father?"
"You had better ask him that, my lord."
"I have asked him, of course,--and of course he has no answer to make. No doubt you intended to enrage him when you wrote him that letter which he showed me."
"Certainly I did."
"I hardly see how good is to be done by angering an old man who stands high in the world's esteem."
"Had he not stood high, my lord, I should probably have passed him by."
"I can understand all that,--that one man should be a mark for another's scorn because he is a Marquis, and wealthy. But what I can't understand is, that such a one as you should think that good can come from it."
"Do you know what your father has said of me?"
"I've no doubt you both say very hard things of each other."
"I never said an evil thing of him behind his back that I have not said as strongly to his face," said Mr. Fenwick, with much of indignation in his tone.
"Do you really think that that mitigates the injury done to my father?" said Lord St. George.
"Do you know that he has complained of me to the bishop?"
"Yes,--and the bishop took your part."
"No thanks to your father, Lord St. George. Do you know that he has accused me publicly of the grossest vices; that he has,--that he has,--that he has--. There is nothing so bad that he hasn't said it of me."
"Upon my word, I think you are even with him, Mr. Fenwick, I do indeed."
"What I have said, I have said to his face. I have made no accusation against him. Come, my lord, I am willing enough to let bygones be bygones. If Lord Trowbridge will condescend to say that he will drop all animosity to me, I will forgive him the injuries he has done me.
But I cannot admit myself to have been wrong."
"I never knew any man who would," said Lord St. George.
"If the Marquis will put out his hand to me, I will accept it," said the Vicar.
"Allow me to do so on his behalf," said the son.
And thus the quarrel was presumed to be healed. Lord St. George went to the inn for his horse, and the Vicar, as he walked across to the vicarage, felt that he had been--done. This young lord had been very clever,--and had treated the quarrel as though on even terms, as if the offences on each side had been equal. And yet the Vicar knew very well that he had been right,--right without a single slip,--right from the beginning to the end. "He has been clever," he said to himself, "and he shall have the advantage of his cleverness." Then he resolved that as far as he was concerned the quarrel should in truth be over.
CHAPTER LXI.
MARY LOWTHER'S TREACHERY.
While the Vicar was listening to the eloquence of Mr. Puddleham in the chapel, and was being cozened out of his just indignation by Lord St. George, a terrible scene was going on in the drawing-room of the vicarage. Mary Lowther, as the reader knows, had declared that she would wear mourning for her distant cousin, and had declined to appear at lunch before Lord St. George. Mrs. Fenwick, putting these things together, knew that much was the matter, but she did not know how much. She did not as yet anticipate the terrible state of things which was to be made known to her that afternoon.
Mary was quite aware that the thing must be settled. In the first place she must answer Captain Marrable's letter. And then it was her bounden duty to let Mr. Gilmore know her mind as soon as she knew it herself. It might be easy enough for her to write to Walter Marrable.
That which she had to say to him would be pleasant enough in the saying. But that could not be said till the other thing should be unsaid. And how was that unsaying to be accomplished? Nothing could be done without the aid of Mrs. Fenwick; and now she was afraid of Mrs. Fenwick,--as the guilty are always afraid of those who will have to judge their guilt. While the children were at dinner, and while the lord was sitting at lunch, she remained up in her own room. From her window she could see the two men walking across the vicarage grounds towards the chapel, and she knew that her friend would be alone. Her story must be told to Mrs. Fenwick, and to Mrs. Fenwick only. It would be impossible for her to speak of her determination before the Vicar till he should have received a first notice of it from his wife. And there certainly must be no delay. The men were hardly out of sight before she had resolved to go down at once. She looked at herself in the glass, and spunged the mark of tears from her eyes, and smoothed her hair, and then descended. She never before had felt so much in fear of her friend; and yet it was her friend who was mainly the cause of this mischief which surrounded her, and who had persuaded her to evil. At Janet Fenwick's instance she had undertaken to marry a man whom she did not love; and yet she feared to go to Janet Fenwick with the story of her repentance. Why not indignantly demand of her friend assistance in extricating herself from the injury which that friend had brought upon her?
She found Mrs. Fenwick with the children in the little breakfast parlour to which they had been banished by the coming of Lord St.
George. "Janet," she said, "come and take a turn with me in the garden." It was now the middle of August, and life at the vicarage was spent almost as much out of doors as within. The ladies went about with parasols, and would carry their hats hanging in their hands. There was no delay therefore, and the two were on the gravel-path almost as soon as Mary's request was made. "I did not show you my letter from Dunripple," she said, putting her hand into her pocket; "but I might as well do so now. You will have to read it."
She took out the document, but did not at once hand it to her companion. "Is there anything wrong, Mary?" said Mrs. Fenwick.
"Wrong. Yes;--very, very wrong. Janet, it is no use your talking to me. I have quite made up my mind. I cannot and I will not marry Mr.
Gilmore."
"Mary, this is insanity."
"You may say what you please, but I am determined. I cannot and I will not. Will you help me out of my difficulty?"
"Certainly not in the way you mean;--certainly not. It cannot be either for your good or for his. After what has passed, how on earth could you bring yourself to make such a proposition to him?"
"I do not know; that is what I feel the most. I do not know how I shall tell him. But he must be told. I thought that perhaps Mr.
Fenwick would do it."
"I am quite sure he will do nothing of the kind. Think of it, Mary.
How can you bring yourself to be so false to a man?"
"I have not been false to him. I have been false to myself, but never to him. I told him how it was. When you drove me on--"
"Drove you on, Mary?"
"I do not mean to be ungrateful, or to say hard things; but when you made me feel that if he were satisfied I also might put up with it, I told him that I could never love him. I told him that I did love, and ever should love, Walter Marrable. I told him that I had nothing--nothing--nothing to give him. But he would take no answer but the one; and I did--I did give it him. I know I did; and I have never had a moment of happiness since. And now has come this letter.
Janet, do not be cruel to me. Do not speak to me as though everything must be stern and hard and cruel." Then she handed up the letter, and Mrs. Fenwick read it as they walked.
"And is he to be made a tool, because the other man has changed his mind?" said Mrs. Fenwick.
"Walter has never changed his mind."
"His plans, then. It comes to the same thing. Do you know that you will have to answer for his life, or for his reason? Have you not learned yet to understand the constancy of his nature?"