CHAPTER III.

MARY LAWRIE.

There is nothing more difficult in the writing of a story than to

describe adequately the person of a hero or a heroine, so as to place

before the mind of the reader any clear picture of him or her who

is described. A courtship is harder still--so hard that we may say

generally that it is impossible. Southey's Lodore is supposed to have

been effective; but let any one with the words in his memory stand

beside the waterfall and say whether it is such as the words have

painted it. It rushes and it foams, as described by the poet, much

more violently than does the real water; and so does everything

described, unless in the hands of a wonderful master. But I have

clear images on my brain of the characters of the persons introduced.

I know with fair accuracy what was intended by the character as given

of Amelia Booth, of Clarissa, of Di Vernon, and of Maggie Tulliver.

But as their persons have not been drawn with the pencil for me by

the artists who themselves created them, I have no conception how

they looked. Of Thackeray's Beatrix I have a vivid idea, because

she was drawn for him by an artist under his own eye. I have now to

describe Mary Lawrie, but have no artist who will take the trouble

to learn my thoughts and to reproduce them. Consequently I fear that

no true idea of the young lady can be conveyed to the reader; and

that I must leave him to entertain such a notion of her carriage and

demeanour as must come to him at the end from the reading of the

whole book.

But the attempt must be made, if only for fashion sake, so that no

adventitious help may be wanting to him, or more probably to her, who

may care to form for herself a personification of Mary Lawrie. She

was a tall, thin, staid girl, who never put herself forward in any of

those walks of life in which such a young lady as she is called upon

to show herself. She was silent and reserved, and sometimes startled,

even when appealed to in a household so quiet as that of Mr

Whittlestaff. Those who had seen her former life had known that she

had lived under the dominion of her step-mother, and had so accounted

for her manner. And then, added to this, was the sense of entire

dependence on a stranger, which, no doubt, helped to quell her

spirit. But Mr Whittlestaff had eyes with which to see and ears with

which to hear, and was not to be taken in by the outward appearance

of the young lady. He had perceived that under that quiet guise and

timid startled look there existed a power of fighting a battle for

herself or for a friend, if an occasion should arise which should

appear to herself to be sufficient. He had known her as one of her

father's household, and of her step-mother's; and had seen probably

some little instance of self-assertion, such as had not yet made

itself apparent to Mrs Baggett.

A man who had met her once, and for a few minutes only, would

certainly not declare her to be beautiful. She, too, like Mr

Whittlestaff, was always contented to pass unobserved. But the chance

man, had he seen her for long, would surely remark that Miss Lawrie

was an attractive girl; and had he heard her talk freely on any

matter of interest, would have called her very attractive. She would

blaze up into sudden eloquence, and then would become shame-stricken,

and abashed, and dumfounded, so as to show that she had for a

moment forgotten her audience, and then the audience,--the chance

man,--would surely set his wits to work and try to reproduce in her a

renewal of that intimacy to which she had seemed to yield herself for

the moment.

But yet I am not describing her after the accepted fashion. I should

produce a catalogue of features, and tell how every one of them

was formed. Her hair was dark, and worn very plain, but with that

graceful care which shows that the owner has not slurred over her

toilet with hurried negligence. Of complexion it can hardly be said

that she had any; so little was the appearance of her countenance

diversified by a change of hue. If I am bound to declare her colour,

I must, in truth, say that she was brown. There was none even of that

flying hue which is supposed to be intended when a woman is called a

brunette. When she first came to Croker's Hall, health produced no

variation. Nor did any such come quickly; though before she had lived

there a year and a half, now and again a slight tinge of dark ruby

would show itself on her cheek, and then vanish almost quicker than

it had come. Mr Whittlestaff, when he would see this, would be

almost beside himself in admiration.

Her eyes were deep blue, so deep that the casual observer would not

at first recognise their colour. But when you had perceived that they

were blue, and had brought the fact home to your knowledge, their

blueness remained with you as a thing fixed for ever. And you would

feel, if you yourself were thoughtful and contemplative, and much

given to study a lady's eyes, that, such as they were, every lady

would possess the like if only it were given to her to choose.

Her nose was slight and fine, and perhaps lent to her face, of all

her features, its most special grace. Her lips, alas! were too thin

for true female beauty, and lacked that round and luscious fulness

which seems in many a girl's face to declare the purpose for which

they were made. Through them her white teeth would occasionally be

seen, and then her face was at its best, as, for instance, when she

was smiling; but that was seldom; and at other moments it seemed as

though she were too careful to keep her mouth closed.

But if her mouth was defective, the symmetry of her chin, carrying

with it the oval of her cheek and jaws, was perfect. How many a

face, otherwise lovely to look upon, is made mean and comparatively

base, either by the lengthening or the shortening of the chin! That

absolute perfection which Miss Lawrie owned, we do not, perhaps,

often meet. But when found, I confess that nothing to me gives so

sure an evidence of true blood and good-breeding.

Such is the catalogue of Mary Lawrie's features, drawn out with care

by one who has delighted for many hours to sit and look at them.

All the power of language which the writer possesses has been used

in thus reproducing them. But now, when this portion of his work

is done, he feels sure that no reader of his novel will have the

slightest idea of what Mary Lawrie was like.

An incident must now be told of her early life, of which she never

spoke to man, woman, or child. Her step-mother had known the

circumstance, but had rarely spoken of it. There had come across her

path in Norwich a young man who had stirred her heart, and had won

her affections. But the young man had passed on, and there, as far as

the present and the past were concerned, had been an end of it. The

young man had been no favourite with her step-mother; and her father,

who was almost on his death-bed, had heard what was going on almost

without a remark. He had been told that the man was penniless, and

as his daughter had been to him the dearest thing upon earth, he had

been glad to save himself the pain of expressing disapproval. John

Gordon had, however, been a gentleman, and was fit in all things to

be the husband of such a girl as Mary Lawrie,--except that he was

penniless, and she, also, had possessed nothing. He had passed on his

way without speaking, and had gone--even Mary did not know whither.

She had accepted her fate, and had never allowed the name of John

Gordon to pass her lips.

The days passed very quickly at Croker's Hall, but not so quickly but

that Mary knew well what was going on in Mr Whittlestaff's mind. How

is it that a girl understands to a certainty the state of a man's

heart in regard to her,--or rather, not his heart, but his purpose? A

girl may believe that a man loves her, and may be deceived; but she

will not be deceived as to whether he wishes to marry her. Gradually

came the conviction on Miss Lawrie's mind of Mr Whittlestaff's

purpose. And, as it did so, came the conviction also that she could

not do it. Of this he saw nothing; but he was instigated by it to

be more eager,--and was at the same time additionally abashed by

something in her manner which made him feel that the task before him

was not an easy one.

Mrs Baggett, who knew well all the symptoms as her master displayed

them, became angry with Mary Lawrie. Who was Mary Lawrie, that she

should take upon herself to deny Mr Whittlestaff anything? No

doubt it would, as she told herself, be better for Mrs Baggett in

many respects that her master should remain unmarried. She assured

herself that if a mistress were put over her head, she must retire

to Portsmouth,--which, of all places for her, had the dreariest

memories. She could remain where she was very well, while Mary Lawrie

remained also where she was. But it provoked her to think that the

offer should be made to the girl and should be refused. "What on

earth it is they sees in 'em, is what I never can understand. She

ain't pretty,--not to say,--and she looks as though butter wouldn't

melt in her mouth. But she's got it inside her, and some of them days

it'll come out." Then Mrs Baggett determined that she would have a

few words on the subject with Mary Lawrie.

Mary had now been a year and four months at Croker's Hall, and had,

under pressure from Mr Whittlestaff, assumed something of the manner

rather than of the airs of a mistress to Mrs Baggett. This the old

woman did not at all resent, because the reality of power was still

in her hands; but she could not endure that the idolatry of love

should always be present in her master's face. If the young woman

would only become Mrs Whittlestaff, then the idolatry would pass

away. At any rate, her master would not continue "to make an ass of

himself," as Mrs Baggett phrased it.

"Don't you think, Miss, as that Mr Whittlestaff is looking very

peeky?"

"Is he, Mrs Baggett?"

"'Deed and he is, to my thinking; and it's all along of you. He's got

a fancy into his mind,--and why shouldn't he have his fancy?"

"I don't know, I'm sure." But Mary did know. She did know what the

fancy was, and why Mr Whittlestaff shouldn't have it.

"I tell you fairly, Miss, there is nothing I hate so much as vagaries

in young women."

"I hope there are no vagaries to be hated in me, Mrs Baggett."

"Well, I'm not quite so sure. You do go as straightforward as most

on 'em; but I ain't quite sure but that there are a few twists and

twirls. What do you suppose he wants to be at?"

"How am I to say?" Then she bethought herself that were she to tell

the truth, she could say very well.

"Do you mean as you don't know?" said the old woman.

"Am I bound to tell you if I do know?"

"If you wish to do the best for him, you are. What's the good of

beating about the bush? Why don't you have him?"

Mary did not quite know whether it behoved her to be angry with the

old servant, and if so, how she was to show her anger. "You shouldn't

talk such nonsense, Mrs Baggett."

"That's all very well. It is all nonsense; but nonsense has to be

talked sometimes. Here's a gentleman as you owe everything to. If he

wanted your head from your shoulders, you shouldn't make any scruple.

What are you, that you shouldn't let a gentleman like him have his

own way? Asking your pardon, but I don't mean it any way out of

disrespect. Of course it would be all agin me. An old woman doesn't

want to have a young mistress over her head, and if she's my sperrit,

she wouldn't bear it. I won't, any way."

"Then why do you ask me to do this thing?"

"Because a gentleman like him should have his own way. And an old hag

like me shouldn't stand for anything. No more shouldn't a young woman

like you who has had so much done for her. Now, Miss Mary, you see

I've told you my mind freely."

"But he has never asked me."

"You just sit close up to him, and he'll ask you free enough. I

shouldn't speak as I have done if there had been a morsel of doubt

about it. Do you doubt it yourself, Miss?" To this Miss Lawrie did

not find it necessary to return any answer.

When Mrs Baggett had gone and Mary was left to herself, she could

not but think over what the woman had said to her. In the first

place, was she not bound to be angry with the woman, and to express

her anger? Was it not impertinent, nay, almost indecent, that the

woman should come to her and interrogate her on such a subject?

The inmost, most secret feelings of her heart had been ruthlessly

inquired into and probed by a menial servant, who had asked questions

of her, and made suggestions to her, as though her part in the affair

had been of no consequence. "What are you, that you shouldn't let

a gentleman like him have his own way?" Why was it not so much to

her as to Mr Whittlestaff? Was it not her all; the consummation

or destruction of every hope; the making or unmaking of her joy or

of her happiness? Could it be right that she should marry any man,

merely because the man wanted her? Were there to be no questions

raised as to her own life, her own contentment, her own ideas of what

was proper? It was true that this woman knew nothing of John Gordon.

But she must have known that there might be a John Gordon,--whom

she, Mary Lawrie, was required to set on one side, merely because Mr

Whittlestaff "wanted her." Mrs Baggett had been grossly impertinent

in daring to talk to her of Mr Whittlestaff's wants.

But then, as she walked slowly round the garden, she found herself

bound to inquire of herself whether what the woman said had not been

true. Did she not eat his bread; did she not wear his clothes; were

not the very boots on her feet his property? And she was there in his

house, without the slightest tie of blood or family connection. He

had taken her from sheer charity, and had saved her from the terrible

dependency of becoming a friendless governess. Looking out to the

life which she had avoided, it seemed to her to be full of abject

misery. And he had brought her to his own house, and had made her the

mistress of everything. She knew that she had been undemonstrative in

her manner, and that such was her nature. But her heart welled over

with gratitude as she thought of the sweetness of the life which he

had prepared for her. Was not the question true? "What am I, that I

should stand in the way and prevent such a man as that from having

what he wants?"

And then she told herself that he personally was full of good gifts.

How different might it have been with her had some elderly men

"wanted her," such as she had seen about in the world! How much was

there in this man that she knew that she could learn to love? And he

was one of whom she need in no wise be ashamed. He was a gentleman,

pleasant to look at, sweet in manner, comely and clean in appearance.

Would not the world say of her how lucky she had been should it come

to pass that she should become Mrs Whittlestaff? Then there were

thoughts of John Gordon, and she told herself that it was a mere

dream. John Gordon had gone, and she knew not where he was; and John

Gordon had never spoken a word to her of his love. After an hour's

deliberation, she thought that she would marry Mr Whittlestaff if he

asked her, though she could not bring herself to say that she would

"sit close up to him" in order that he might do so.