FOR a week or more after their betrothal these two lovers were very happy. To be sure there was a great deal of remark and some remonstrance addressed to Grace about the antecedents of the man she was going to marry. Various people spoke to her, and some even wrote, which is a strong step, asking her if she was aware that Oliver Wentworth had been supposed to be ‘wild’ or ‘gay,’ or something else of the same meaning. It is generally supposed that a village or a small town is the place for gossip, but I think Society is made up of a succession of villages, and that there is no place, not even London itself—that wilderness, that great Babylon—in which people are not talked about by their Christian names, and everything that can be discussed, with perhaps a little more, is not known about them. Ironborough was a very large town, but the Wentworths and the Goodhearts had both been settled there for a generation or two, and they were known to everybody. And not only was it known universally and much talked of that Oliver Wentworth had been ‘wild,’ and that he was poor, and consequently that he must be marrying solely for money; but it also raised a great ferment in the place that he should intend, instead of settling down (‘and thankful for that’) in Grace’s charming house, which her old uncle, a man very learned in the art of making himself comfortable, had made so perfect—to carry off his wife to London with him, and live there for the advantage of his work, forsooth! as if his work could be of any such consequence in the ménage, or as if he would ever earn enough to pay the house rent. Oliver was like so many other young men, a barrister with very little to do. He had managed to keep himself going by a few briefs and a little literature, as soon as he had fully convinced himself, by the process of spending everything else that he could lay his hands upon, that a man must live upon what he can make. He was not of so fine a fibre as some heroes, who feel themselves humiliated by their future wife’s fortune, and whom the possible suspicion of interested motives pursues everywhere; but at the same time he was not disposed to be his wife’s dependent, and he knew the world well enough to be aware that with the backing of her wealth he would probably make a great deal more of his profession than it had hitherto been possible for him to do. As for Grace herself, she talked of his profession, and of his work, and of the necessity for living where it would be most convenient to him, as if her entire fortune depended upon that, and Oliver’s work was to be the support of the new household. A girl without a penny, whose marriage was to promote her to the delightful charge of a house of her own, and whose every new bonnet was to come from the earnings of her husband, could not have been more completely absorbed in consideration of all that was necessary for his perfect convenience in his work. She bewildered even Mrs. Ford by the way she took up this idea.
‘I honour you for what you say, and I love you for it, Grace; but still you know Oliver’s profession is not what you would call very—lucrative, is it? and he could do his writing anywhere, you know!’
‘Indeed, I don’t know anything of the kind,’ said Grace, indignantly. ‘He has to be constantly in the House when it is sitting. He has to know everything that is going on. Would you think your husband was well treated if he was made to manage his work, say from the seaside or a country house, for your sake and the children’s, instead of being on the spot? You know you would not, Trix.’
‘Oh, well, perhaps that may be so; but then my husband—’ faltered Trix, with a troubled look. She would have said: ‘My husband is the breadwinner, and everything depends on him,’ but she was daunted by the look in Grace’s eyes, and actually did not dare to suggest that Oliver would be in a very different position. Mr. Wilbraham, the solicitor who managed Miss Goodheart’s affairs, interfered in the same way, with similar results. She was in a position of almost unexampled freedom for so young a woman. She had neither guardians nor trustees. There was nobody in the world who had a right to dictate to her or even authoritatively to suggest what she ought to do—for the reason that all she had had come to her as it were inadvertently, accidentally, because her uncle, who always said he intended to leave her nothing, had died without a will. Mr. Wilbraham was the only man in the world who had any right to say a word, and he had no real right, only the right of an old friend who had known her all her life, and knew everything about her. He said, when the settlement was being discussed (in which respect Mr. Wentworth’s behaviour was perfect—for all that he wished was to secure his wife in the undisturbed enjoyment of what was her own), that he hoped Miss Goodheart meant to remain, when she was married, among her own friends.
‘I don’t think you would like London after Ironborough,’ he said, with perfect sincerity; ‘and to get a house like this in town would cost you a fortune, you know.’
‘It is not a question of liking,’ said Grace, with all the calm of faith; ‘of course, we must live where Mr. Wentworth’s work requires him to live. He cannot carry on his profession in the country.’
‘The country!’ said Mr. Wilbraham, with a sneer which his politeness to an excellent client could only soften. ‘Does he call this the country? and Mr. Wentworth’s profession, if you will permit me to say so, has, so far as I know—’
‘It is the country though, you know,’ said Grace, preserving her temper, though with a little difficulty, ‘though not exactly what you could call fresh fields and pastures new.’
And when he looked up at her, Mr. Wilbraham made up his mind that it was best to say no more. A willful woman will have her way. Perhaps it was only the lavish and tender generosity of her nature, which would let no one see that she was conscious her position was different from that of the majority of women: but I think it went even a little further than this, and that Grace had got herself to believe that Oliver’s work was all in all. She talked to him about it, till he believed in it too, and they planned together the localities in which it would be best to look for a house, in a place which should be quiet so that he might not be disturbed, and yet near everything that he ought to frequent and see; a place where they would, have good air and space to breathe, and yet a place where his chambers, and his newspaper office, and the House should be easily accessible; in short, just such a house as a rising barrister, who was at the same time a man of letters, ought to have. Grace, especially, was very anxious that it should not be too far away. ‘As for me, you know, it does not matter a bit—one place is just the same as another to me; but everybody says a man’s work loses when he is not always on the spot,’ she said. Sometimes Oliver himself was tickled by her earnestness; but she was so very much in earnest that he fell into her tone, and did not even venture to laugh at himself, which was a thing he had been very apt to do.
And those consultations were very sweet. It is doubtful whether anything in life is so sweet as the talks and anticipations of two who have thus made up their minds to be one, while as yet life keeps its old shape, the shape which they feel they have outgrown, and all is anticipation. Everything loses a little when it is realised. No house, to give a small example, is ever so convenient, so delightful, so entirely adapted for happy habitation, as the one which these two reasonable people actually hoped to find To be Let in London. It was to have a hundred advantages which never come together; it was to be exactly at the right distance from the turmoil of town; it was to have rooms arranged just in this and that way; it was to be very capable of decoration, and yet to have a character of its own. Oliver’s library was to be the best room in the house, and yet the other sitting-rooms were to be best rooms too. ‘I will not endure to have you pushed into a dark room, as poor Mr. Ford is,’ said Grace. ‘The master of the house, on whom everything depends, should always have the best. To be sure poor Mr. Ford does his work in his office, which is some excuse; but your study, Oliver, will tell for so much. You must let me furnish it out of my own head.’
He laughed a little, and coloured, and said, ‘Seeing you will probably furnish it out of your own purse, Grace—’
At which she opened her eyes wide, and looked at him, then laughed too, a little, but gravely, as if it were not a subject for a jest, and said, ‘Oh, I see what you mean. You mean me to be the accountant, and all that. Well, I am pretty good at arithmetic, Oliver; and, of course, it might disturb your mind while you are busy, and I shall have nothing else to do.’
This was the way she took it, with a readiness of resource in parrying all allusions to her own wealth which was infinite, though whether she succeeded in this by dint of much thought, or whether it was entirely spontaneous, the suggestion of the moment, no one could quite make out. The result upon Oliver, as I have said, was that he began to believe in himself, too. Instead of laughing at his brief business, which had been his custom, he began to take himself and his work very seriously, and to think how he should apportion his time so as not to leave Grace too much alone—as if he had ever found any difficulty in finding time for whatever he wished to do! ‘It is a pity,’ he said, ‘that this season is just the busiest time, both in chambers and in politics; but I must make leisure to take you about a little, Grace. To think of taking you about, and seeing everything again, fresh, through your dear eyes, is almost too delightful. Would the time were here!’
‘It will come quite soon enough, Oliver. We have not even begun to look for the house yet, and there is all the furnishing and everything to do. Don’t you think you had better run up to town and begin operations? We may not be able, you know, just at once, to light upon the house.’
‘Don’t you think you had better come with me, Grace?’
‘I? Oh! Why should I go with you? Surely,’ she said, with a laugh and a blush, ‘you will be able to do that by yourself.’
‘How could I do it by myself? I am no longer myself. I am only half of myself. Come and I shall go; but I am not going to leave myself behind me, and stultify myself. I shall not even be one-half but only a fifth or sixth of myself: for there is you, who is the best part of me, and then my heart, which is next best, and my thoughts, which, along with my heart and you, really make up myself—all the best part.’
‘What an intolerable number of selfs!’ she said; though, perhaps, it was not very clever, it pleased her in that state of mind in which we are all so easily pleased. She said no more, however, and drew away from him, while he jumped to his feet at the opening of the door. The old butler came in with a letter on a tray. There was something sinister in the look of the letter. It was in a blue envelope, and was directed in a very common, informal hand—Immediate written on it in large letters.
‘Please, sir, Mrs. Ford’s man has come to say as they don’t know if it is anythink of importance; but ‘as brought it seeing as immediate’s on it, in case it should be business, sir; and here, sir, is a telegram as has come too.’
The butler gave a demure glance at his mistress, who was still blushing a good deal, as she had done when she pushed away the chair.
‘Thank you, Jenkins!’ said Oliver.
He took the letter and looked at it before he opened it. He thought he had seen the handwriting before, but could not remember where. He felt a little afraid of it; he could not tell why. He turned it over in his hand and hesitated, and would have liked to put it in his pocket and carry it away with him for perusal afterwards. What could be so Immediate as to require his attention now—a bill, perhaps? He ran over the list of possibilities in that way, and did not remember anything.
‘What is it, Oliver?’ said Grace. ‘Haven’t you opened it? Oh, but you must open it when it is marked Immediate. It must be business, of course.’
‘I should think it’s a hoax,’ he said slowly, ‘a circular, or something of that sort’ and crushed it in his hand. Then as she made a little outcry—‘Well, I’ll open it to please you. All women, I perceive, believe in letters,’ he said, with a smile.
The joke was but a small one at the best—it seemed smaller and smaller as he opened the envelope and read what was written within. Grace had gone away to re-arrange some flowers on the table, to leave him at liberty. She bent over them, taking out some that were beginning to fade, pulling them about a little till the moment should be over. It seemed to run into two or three minutes, and Oliver did not say anything or even move. He would generally say, ‘Oh, it is So-and-so!’—some friend who sent his congratulations. That was the chief subject of all their letters at the present time. They were letters which were handed from one to another with little notes of admiration. ‘Poor fellow, he is as pleased as possible.’ ‘What a nice letter, Oliver! I am sure he must be fond of you,’ and so forth, and so forth. But he said nothing about this. To be sure, it was business.
She turned round at last, not knowing what to do; wondering, when your bridegroom does not tell you of a thing, what is your duty in the circumstances. To ask, or to hold your tongue? Grace was not jealous, or ready to take offence. And she was very anxious to do her duty. What ought she to do?
He folded up the letter, as he heard her move, and turned towards her, but without raising his eyes. His face was clouded and dark. He put it into his pocket, and they sat down and began to talk, but not as before, though of the same subject.
At last he said, abruptly, ‘I think I will go up to town, Grace. You suggested it, you know,’ as if he had altogether forgotten all that he had said, which she had chidden him for, and loved him for, all that pleasant nonsense about himself.
She was startled for a moment; then replied quietly, ‘Yes, Oliver, I do think it will be the best way—’
He continued hesitating—faltering. ‘It is not for that only, my darling. This letter—I am afraid I shall have to go: a—a friend of mine has got into trouble. I—can’t exactly tell what it is; but wants me to go.’
‘Oh, how sorry I am!’ said Grace. ‘Dear Oliver, it is natural people should turn to you when they are in trouble. Who is he? Do I know him? Has he written to you about—’
‘I don’t suppose—he—knows anything about it. It is a friend I haven’t heard of for a long time. Not one for you to know, but in great trouble. Dying, the letter says.’
‘Oh, Oliver, go—go at once. Not for the world would I keep you from a dying man. Don’t tell me any more than you wish, dear. But can I do anything—can I send anything? Is he—oh, Oliver, forgive me—is he poor?’
‘Forgive you?’ he said. He held her close to him with a strain which was almost violent, as if he could not let her go. Then he said, ‘No, my darling, you can do nothing. I may have helped to make things worse, and I am at the height of happiness, while this poor creature—this poor—’
‘Oh, Oliver, go and comfort him,’ she said, ‘Don’t lose a train; don’t come back to any good-bye. Go—go!’ Then while he hold her in his arms she said, smiling, ‘It need not be a very long parting, I suppose?’
‘Any parting is long that takes me from you, Grace.’
‘But it is for love’s sake. Good-bye. I’ll do all I can do, Oliver. I’ll pray for you—and him.’
‘God bless you, my dear love—not good-bye—till we meet again.’
And then the door closed, and he was gone.
The day had grown dark, surely, all at once. It was a day in early spring, and very cloudy. A mass of dark vapour had blown up over the sweet sky; and what a change it was all in a moment, from that pretty fooling about himself and his other self to this sudden parting! But, then, it was an errand of mercy on which he was going. God be with him! And it could not be for long. Nothing, neither trouble nor suffering, nor death of friends, nor any created thing could separate them long.