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Chapter XI - Mr. Carson's intentions revealed.
"O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only fault is loving thee?"
--BURNS.
"I can like of the wealth, I must confess,
Yet more I prize the man though moneyless:
I am not of their humour yet that can
For title or estate affect a man;
Or of myself one body deign to make
With him I loathe, for his possessions' sake."
--WITHER'S Fidelia.
Barton returned home after his encounter with Esther, uneasy and
dissatisfied. He had said no more than he had been planning to say
for years, in case she was ever thrown in his way, in the character
in which he felt certain he should meet her. He believed she
deserved it all, and yet he now wished he had not said it. Her
look, as she asked for mercy, haunted him through his broken and
disordered sleep; her form, as he last saw her, lying prostrate in
helplessness, would not be banished from his dreams. He sat up in
bed to try and dispel the vision. Now, too late, his conscience
smote him with harshness. It would have been all very well, he
thought, to have said what he did, if he had added some kind words,
at last. He wondered if his dead wife was conscious of that night's
occurrence; and he hoped not, for with her love for Esther he
believed it would embitter heaven to have seen her so degraded
and repulsed. For he now recalled her humility, her tacit
acknowledgment of her lost character; and he began to marvel if
there was power in the religion he had often heard of, to turn her
from her ways. He felt that no earthly power that he knew of could
do it, but there glimmered on his darkness the idea that religion
might save her. Still, where to find her again? In the wilderness
of a large town, where to meet with an individual of so little value
or note to any?
And evening after evening he paced the same streets in which he had
heard those footsteps following him, peering under every fantastic,
discreditable bonnet, in the hopes of once more meeting Esther, and
addressing her in a far different manner from what he had done
before. But he returned, night after night, disappointed in his
search, and at last gave it up in despair, and tried to recall his
angry feelings towards her, in order to find relief from his present
self-reproach.
He often looked at Mary, and wished she were not so like her aunt,
for the very bodily likeness seemed to suggest the possibility of a
similar likeness in their fate; and then this idea enraged his
irritable mind, and he became suspicious and anxious about Mary's
conduct. Now hitherto she had been so remarkably free from all
control, and almost from all inquiry concerning her actions, that
she did not brook this change in her father's behaviour very well.
Just when she was yielding more than ever to Mr. Carson's desire of
frequent meetings, it was hard to be so questioned concerning her
hours of leaving off work, whether she had come straight home, etc.
She could not tell lies; though she could conceal much if she were
not questioned. So she took refuge in obstinate silence, alleging
as a reason for it her indignation at being so cross-examined. This
did not add to the good feeling between father and daughter, and yet
they dearly loved each other; and in the minds of each, one
principal reason for maintaining such behaviour as displeased the
other, was the believing that this conduct would insure that
person's happiness.
Her father now began to wish Mary was married. Then this terrible
superstitious fear suggested by her likeness to Esther would be done
away with. He felt that he could not resume the reins he had once
slackened. But with a husband it would be different. If Jem Wilson
would but marry her! With his character for steadiness and talent!
But he was afraid Mary had slighted him, he came so seldom now to
the house. He would ask her.
"Mary, what's come o'er thee and Jem Wilson? You were great friends
at one time."
"Oh, folk say he is going to be married to Molly Gibson, and of
course courting takes up a deal o' time," answered Mary, as
indifferently as she could.
"Thou'st played thy cards badly, then," replied her father, in a
surly tone. "At one time he were desperate fond o' thee, or I'm
much mistaken. Much fonder of thee than thou deservedst."
"That's as people think," said Mary pertly, for she remembered that
the very morning before she had met Mr. Carson, who had sighed, and
swore, and protested all manner of tender vows that she was the
loveliest, sweetest, best, etc. And when she had seen him
afterwards riding with one of his beautiful sisters, had he not
evidently pointed her out as in some way or other an object worthy
of attention and interest, and then lingered behind his sister's
horse for a moment to kiss his hand repeatedly. So, as for Jem
Wilson, she could whistle him down the wind.
But her father was not in the mood to put up with pertness, and he
upbraided her with the loss of Jem Wilson till she had to bite her
lips till the blood came, in order to keep down the angry words that
would rise in her heart. At last her father left the house, and
then she might give way to her passionate tears.
It so happened that Jem, after much anxious thought, had determined
that day to "put his fortune to the touch, to win or lose all." He
was in a condition to maintain a wife in comfort. It was true his
mother and aunt must form part of the household: but such is not
an uncommon case among the poor, and if there were the advantages of
previous friendship between the parties, it was not, he thought, an
obstacle to matrimony. Both mother and aunt, he believed, would
welcome Mary. And, oh! what a certainty of happiness the idea of
that welcome implied.
He had been absent and abstracted all day long with the thought of
the coming event of the evening. He almost smiled at himself for
his care in washing and dressing in preparation for his visit to
Mary; as if one waistcoat or another could decide his fate in so
passionately a momentous thing. He believed he only delayed before
his little looking-glass for cowardice, for absolute fear of a girl.
He would try not to think so much about the affair, and he thought
the more.
Poor Jem! it is not an auspicious moment for thee!
"Come in," said Mary, as some one knocked at the door, while she sat
sadly at her sewing, trying to earn a few pence by working over
hours at some mourning.
Jem entered, looking more awkward and abashed than he had ever done
before. Yet here was Mary all alone, just as he had hoped to find
her. She did not ask him to take a chair, but after standing a
minute or two he sat down near her.
"Is your father at home, Mary?" said he, by way of making an
opening, for she seemed determined to keep silence, and went on
stitching away.
"No, he's gone to his Union, I suppose." Another silence. It was
no use waiting, thought Jem. The subject would never be led to by
any talk he could think of in his anxious, fluttered state. He had
better begin at once.
"Mary!" said he, and the unusual tone of his voice made her look up
for an instant, but in that time she understood from his countenance
what was coming, and her heart beat so suddenly and violently she
could hardly sit still. Yet one thing she was sure of; nothing he
could say should make her have him. She would show them all WHO
would be glad to have her. She was not yet calm after her father's
irritating speeches. Yet her eyes fell veiled before that
passionate look fixed upon her.
"Dear Mary! (for how dear you are, I cannot rightly tell you in
words.) It's no new story I'm going to speak about. You must ha'
seen and known it long; for since we were boy and girl I ha' loved
you above father and mother and all; and all I've thought on by day
and dreamt on by night has been something in which you've had a
share. I'd no way of keeping you for long, and I scorned to try and
tie you down; and I lived in terror lest some one else should take
you to himself. But now, Mary, I'm foreman in th' works, and, dear
Mary! listen," as she, in her unbearable agitation, stood up and
turned away from him. He rose too, and came nearer, trying to take
hold of her hand; but this she would not allow. She was bracing
herself up to refuse him, for once and for all.
"And now, Mary, I've a home to offer you, and a heart as true as
ever man had to love you and cherish you; we shall never be rich
folk, I dare say; but if a loving heart and a strong right arm can
shield you from sorrow, or from want, mine shall do it. I cannot
speak as I would like; my love won't let itself be put in words.
But, oh! darling, say you'll believe me, and that you'll be mine."
She could not speak at once; her words would not come.
"Mary, they say silence gives consent; is it so?" he whispered.
Now or never the effort must be made.
"No! it does not with me." Her voice was calm, although she
trembled from head to foot. "I will always be your friend, Jem, but
I can never be your wife."
"Not my wife?" said he mournfully. "O Mary, think awhile! you
cannot be my friend if you will not be my wife. At least, I can
never be content to be only your friend. Do think awhile! If you
say No, you will make me hopeless, desperate. It's no love of
yesterday. It has made the very groundwork of all that people call
good in me. I don't know what I shall be if you won't have me.
And, Mary, think how glad your father would be! It may sound vain,
but he's told me more than once how much he should like to see us
two married."
Jem intended this for a powerful argument, but in Mary's present
mood it told against him more than anything; for it suggested the
false and foolish idea that her father, in his evident anxiety to
promote her marriage with Jem, had been speaking to him on the
subject with some degree of solicitation.
"I tell you, Jem, it cannot be. Once for all, I will never marry
you."
"And is this the end of all my hopes and fears? the end of my life,
I may say, for it is the end of all worth living for!" His
agitation rose and carried him into passion. "Mary, you'll hear,
maybe, of me as a drunkard, and maybe as a thief, and maybe as a
murderer. Remember! when all are speaking ill of me, you will have
no right to blame me, for it's your cruelty that will have made me
what I feel I shall become. You won't even say you'll try and like
me; will you, Mary?" said he, suddenly changing his tone from
threatening despair to fond, passionate entreaty, as he took her
hand and held it forcibly between both of his, while he tried to
catch a glimpse of her averted face. She was silent, but it was
from deep and violent emotion. He could not bear to wait; he would
not hope, to be dashed away again; he rather in his bitterness of
heart chose the certainty of despair, and before she could resolve
what to answer, he flung away her hand and rushed out of the house.
"Jem! Jem!" cried she, with faint and choking voice. It was too
late; he left street after street behind him with his almost winged
speed, as he sought the fields, where he might give way unobserved
to all the deep despair he felt.
It was scarcely ten minutes since he had entered the house, and
found Mary at comparative peace, and now she lay half across the
dresser, her head hidden in her hands, and every part of her body
shaking with the violence of her sobs. She could not have told at
first (if you had asked her, and she could have commanded voice
enough to answer) why she was in such agonized grief. It was too
sudden for her to analyse, or think upon it. She only felt that by
her own doing her life would be hereafter blank and dreary. By-
and-bye her sorrow exhausted her body by its power, and she seemed
to have no strength left for crying. She sat down; and now thoughts
crowded on her mind. One little hour ago, and all was still unsaid,
and she had her fate in her own power. And yet, how long ago had
she determined to say pretty much what she did, if the occasion ever
offered.
It was as if two people were arguing the matter; that mournful
desponding communion between her former self, and her present self.
Herself, a day, an hour ago; and herself now. For we have every one
of us felt how a very few minutes of the months and years called
life, will sometimes suffice to place all time past and future in an
entirely new light; will make us see the vanity or the criminality
of the bygone, and so change the aspect of the coming time that we
look with loathing on the very thing we have most desired. A few
moments may change our character for life, by giving a totally
different direction to our aims and energies.
To return to Mary. Her plan had been, as we well know, to marry Mr.
Carson, and the occurrence an hour ago was only a preliminary step.
True; but it had unveiled her heart to her; it had convinced her
that she loved Jem above all persons or things. But Jem was a poor
mechanic, with a mother and aunt to keep; a mother, too, who had
shown her pretty clearly that she did not desire her for a
daughter-in-law: while Mr. Carson was rich, and prosperous, and
gay, and (she believed) would place her in all circumstances of ease
and luxury, where want could never come. What were these hollow
vanities to her, now she had discovered the passionate secret of her
soul? She felt as if she almost hated Mr. Carson, who had decoyed
her with his baubles. She now saw how vain, how nothing to her,
would be all gaieties and pomps, all joys and pleasures, unless she
might share them with Jem; yes, with him she had harshly rejected so
short a time ago. If he were poor, she loved him all the better.
If his mother did think her unworthy of him, what was it but the
truth? as she now owned with bitter penitence. She had hitherto
been walking in grope-light towards a precipice; but in the clear
revelation of that past hour she saw her danger, and turned away
resolutely and for ever.
That was some comfort: I mean her clear perception of what she
ought not to do; of what no luring temptation should ever again
induce her to hearken to. How she could best undo the wrong she had
done to Jem and herself by refusing his love was another anxious
question. She wearied herself by proposing plans, and rejecting
them.
She was roused to a consciousness of time by hearing the
neighbouring church clock strike twelve. Her father she knew might
be expected home any minute, and she was in no mood for a meeting
with him. So she hastily gathered up her work, and went to her own
little bedroom, leaving him to let himself in.
She put out her candle, that her father might not see its light
under the door; and sat down on her bed to think. But again,
turning things over in her mind again and again, she could only
determine at once to put an end to all further communication with
Mr. Carson, in the most decided way she could. Maidenly modesty
(and true love is ever modest) seemed to oppose every plan she could
think of, for showing Jem how much she repented her decision against
him, and how dearly she had now discovered that she loved him. She
came to the unusual wisdom of resolving to do nothing, but strive to
be patient, and improve circumstances as they might turn up.
Surely, if Jem knew of her remaining unmarried, he would try his
fortune again. He would never be content with one rejection; she
believed she could not in his place. She had been very wrong, but
now she would endeavour to do right, and have womanly patience,
until he saw her changed and repentant mind in her natural actions.
Even if she had to wait for years, it was no more than now it was
easy to look forward to, as a penance for her giddy flirting on the
one hand, and her cruel mistake concerning her feelings on the
other. So anticipating a happy ending in the course of her love,
however distant it might be, she fell asleep just as the earliest
factory bells were ringing. She had sunk down in her clothes, and
her sleep was unrefreshing. She wakened up shivery and chill in
body, and sorrow-stricken in mind, though she could not at first
rightly tell the cause of her depression.
She recalled the events of the night before, and still resolved to
adhere to the determinations she had then formed. But patience
seemed a far more difficult virtue this morning.
She hastened downstairs, and in her earnest, sad desire to do right,
now took much pains to secure a comfortable though scanty breakfast
for her father; and when he dawdled into the room, in an evidently
irritable temper, she bore all with the gentleness of penitence,
till at last her mild answers turned away wrath.
She loathed the idea of meeting Sally Leadbitter at her daily work;
yet it must be done, and she tried to nerve herself for the
encounter, and to make it at once understood, that having determined
to give up having anything further to do with Mr. Carson, she
considered the bond of intimacy broken between them.
But Sally was not the person to let these resolutions be carried
into effect too easily. She soon became aware of the present state
of Mary's feelings, but she thought they merely arose from the
changeableness of girlhood, and that the time would come when Mary
would thank her for almost forcing her to keep up her meetings and
communications with her rich lover.
So, when two days had passed over in rather too marked avoidance of
Sally on Mary's part, and when the former was made aware by Mr.
Carson's complaints that Mary was not keeping her appointments with
him, and that unless he detained her by force, he had no chance of
obtaining a word as she passed him in the street on her rapid walk
home, she resolved to compel Mary to what she called her own good.
She took no notice during the third day of Mary's avoidance as they
sat at work; she rather seemed to acquiesce in the coolness of their
intercourse. She put away her sewing early, and went home to her
mother, who, she said, was more ailing than usual. The other girls
soon followed her example, and Mary, casting a rapid glance up and
down the street, as she stood last on Miss Simmonds' doorstep,
darted homewards, in hopes of avoiding the person whom she was fast
learning to dread. That night she was safe from any encounter on
her road, and she arrived at home, which she found, as she expected,
empty; for she knew it was a club night, which her father would not
miss. She sat down to recover breath, and to still her heart, which
panted more from nervousness than from over-exertion, although she
had walked so quickly. Then she arose, and taking off her bonnet,
her eye caught the form of Sally Leadbitter passing the window with
a lingering step, and looking into the darkness with all her might,
as if to ascertain if Mary were returned. In an instant she
repassed and knocked at the house-door; but without awaiting an
answer, she entered.
"Well, Mary, dear" (knowing well how little "dear" Mary considered
her just then); "it's so difficult to get any comfortable talk at
Miss Simmonds', I thought I'd just step up and see you at home."
"I understood, from what you said, your mother was ailing, and that
you wanted to be with her," replied Mary, in no welcoming tone.
"Ay, but mother's better now," said the unabashed Sally. "Your
father's out, I suppose?" looking round as well as she could; for
Mary made no haste to perform the hospitable offices of striking a
match, and lighting a candle.
"Yes, he's out," said Mary shortly, and busying herself at last
about the candle, without ever asking her visitor to sit down.
"So much the better," answered Sally; "for to tell you the truth,
Mary, I've a friend at th' end of the road, as is anxious to come
and see you at home, since you're grown so particular as not to like
to speak to him in the street. He'll be here directly."
"O Sally, don't let him," said Mary, speaking at last heartily; and
running to the door, she would have fastened it, but Sally held her
hands, laughing meanwhile at her distress.
"Oh, please, Sally," struggling, "dear Sally! don't let him come
here, the neighbours will so talk, and father'll go mad if he hears;
he'll kill me, Sally, he will. Besides, I don't love him--I never
did. Oh, let me go," as footsteps approached; and then, as they
passed the house, and seemed to give her a respite, she continued,
"Do, Sally, dear Sally, go and tell him I don't love him, and that I
don't want to have anything more to do with him. It was very wrong,
I dare say, keeping company with him at all, but I'm very sorry, if
I've led him to think too much of me; and I don't want him to think
any more. Will you tell him this, Sally? and I'll do anything for
you, if you will."
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Sally, in a more relenting mood;
"I'll go back with you to where he's waiting for us; or rather, I
should say, where I told him to wait for a quarter of an hour, till
I seed if your father was at home; and if I didn't come back in that
time, he said he'd come here, and break the door open but he'd see
you."
"Oh, let us go, let us go," said Mary, feeling that the interview
must be, and had better be anywhere than at home, where her father
might return at any minute. She snatched up her bonnet, and was at
the end of the court in an instant; but then, not knowing whether to
turn to the right or to the left, she was obliged to wait for Sally,
who came leisurely up, and put her arm through Mary's with a kind of
decided hold, intended to prevent the possibility of her changing
her mind and turning back. But this, under the circumstances, was
quite different to Mary's plan. She had wondered more than once if
she must not have another interview with Mr. Carson; and had then
determined, while she expressed her resolution that it should be the
final one, to tell him how sorry she was if she had thoughtlessly
given him false hopes. For, be it remembered, she had the
innocence, or the ignorance, to believe his intentions honourable;
and he, feeling that at any price he must have her, only that he
would obtain her as cheaply as he could, had never undeceived her;
while Sally Leadbitter laughed in her sleeve at them both, and
wondered how it would all end--whether Mary would gain her point of
marriage, with her sly affectation of believing such to be Mr.
Carson's intention in courting her.
Not very far from the end of the street, into which the court where
Mary lived opened, they met Mr. Carson, his hat a good deal slouched
over his face, as if afraid of being recognised. He turned when he
saw them coming, and led the way without uttering a word (although
they were close behind) to a street of half-finished houses.
The length of the walk gave Mary time to recoil from the interview
which was to follow; but even if her own resolve to go through with
it had failed, there was the steady grasp of Sally Leadbitter, which
she could not evade without an absolute struggle.
At last he stopped in the shelter and concealment of a wooden fence,
put up to keep the building rubbish from intruding on the foot-
pavement. Inside this fence, a minute afterwards, the girls were
standing by him; Mary now returning Sally's detaining grasp with
interest, for she had determined on the way to make her a witness,
willing or unwilling, to the ensuing conversation. But Sally's
curiosity led her to be a very passive prisoner in Mary's hold.
With more freedom than he had ever used before, Mr. Carson put his
arm firmly round Mary's waist, in spite of her indignant resistance.
"Nay, nay! you little witch! Now I have caught you, I shall keep
you prisoner. Tell me now what has made you run away from me so
fast these few days--tell me, you sweet little coquette!"
Mary ceased struggling, but turned so as to be almost opposite to
him, while she spoke out calmly and boldly--
"Mr. Carson! I want to speak to you for once and for all. Since I
met you last Monday evening, I have made up my mind to have nothing
more to do with you. I know I've been wrong in leading you to think
I liked you; but I believe I didn't rightly know my own mind; and I
humbly beg your pardon, sir, if I've led you to think too much of
me."
For an instant he was surprised; the next, vanity came to his aid,
and convinced him that she could only be joking. He, young,
agreeable, rich, handsome! No! she was only showing a little
womanly fondness for coquetting.
"You're a darling little rascal to go on in this way! 'Humbly
begging my pardon if you've made me think too much of you.' As if
you didn't know I think of you from morning till night. But you
want to be told it again and again, do you?"
"No, indeed, sir, I don't. I would far liefer* that you should say
you would never think of me again, than that you should speak of me
in this way. For, indeed, sir, I never was more in earnest than I
am, when I say to-night is the last night I will ever speak to you."
*Liefer; rather.
"Yet had I LEVRE unwist for sorrow die."
--CHAUCER, Troilus and Creseide.
"Last night, you sweet little equivocator, but not last day. Ha,
Mary, I've caught you, have I?" as she, puzzled by his perseverance
in thinking her joking, hesitated in what form she could now put her
meaning.
"I mean, sir," she said sharply, "that I will never speak to you
again, at any time, after to-night."
"And what's made this change, Mary?" said he, seriously enough now.
"Have I done anything to offend you?" added he earnestly.
"No, sir," she answered gently, but yet firmly. "I cannot tell you
exactly why I've changed my mind; but I shall not alter it again;
and, as I said before, I beg your pardon if I've done wrong by you.
And now sir, if you please, good-night."
"But I do not please. You shall not go. What have I done, Mary?
Tell me. You must not go without telling me how I have vexed you.
What would you have me do?"
"Nothing, sir, but" (in an agitated tone), "oh! let me go! You
cannot change my mind; it's quite made up. Oh, sir! why do you hold
me so tight? If you WILL know why I won't have anything more to do
with you, it is that I cannot love you. I have tried, and I really
cannot."
This naive and candid avowal served her but little. He could not
understand how it could be true. Some reason lurked behind. He was
passionately in love. What should he do to tempt her? A thought
struck him.
"Listen! Mary. Nay, I cannot let you go till you have heard me. I
do love you dearly; and I won't believe but what you love me a very
little, just a very little. Well, if you don't like to own it,
never mind! I only want now to tell you how much I love you, by
what I am ready to give up for you. You know (or perhaps you are
not fully aware) how little my father and mother would like me to
marry you. So angry would they be, and so much ridicule should I
have to brave, that of course I have never thought of it till now.
I thought we could be happy enough without marriage." (Deep sank
those words into Mary's heart.) "But now, if you like, I'll get a
licence to-morrow morning--nay, to-night, and I'll marry you in
defiance of all the world, rather than give you up. In a year or
two my father will forgive me, and meanwhile you shall have every
luxury money can purchase, and every charm that love can devise to
make your life happy. After all, my mother was but a factory girl."
(This was said to himself, as if to reconcile himself to this bold
step.) "Now, Mary, you see how willing I am to--to sacrifice a good
deal for you; I even offer you marriage, to satisfy your little
ambitious heart; so now, won't you say, you can love me a little,
little bit?"
He pulled her towards him. To his surprise, she still resisted.
Yes! though all she had pictured to herself for so many months in
being the wife of Mr. Carson was now within her grasp, she resisted.
His speech had given her but one feeling, that of exceeding great
relief. For she had dreaded, now she knew what true love was, to
think of the attachment she might have created; the deep feeling her
flirting conduct might have called out. She had loaded herself with
reproaches for the misery she might have caused. It was a relief to
gather that the attachment was of that low despicable kind which can
plan to seduce the object of its affection; that the feeling she had
caused was shallow enough, for it only pretended to embrace self, at
the expense of the misery, the ruin, of one falsely termed beloved.
She need not be penitent to such a plotter! that was the relief.
"I am obliged to you, sir, for telling me what you have. You may
think I am a fool; but I did think you meant to marry me all along;
and yet, thinking so, I felt I could not love you. Still I felt
sorry I had gone so far in keeping company with you. Now, sir, I
tell you, if I had loved you before, I don't think I should have
loved you now you have told me you meant to ruin me; for that's the
plain English of not meaning to marry me till just this minute. I
said I was sorry, and humbly begged your pardon; that was before I
knew what you were. Now I scorn you, sir, for plotting to ruin a
poor girl. Goodnight."
And with a wrench, for which she had reserved all her strength, she
flew off like a bolt. They heard her flying footsteps echo down the
quiet street. The next sound was Sally's laugh, which grated on Mr.
Carson's ears, and keenly irritated him.
"And what do you find so amusing, Sally?" asked he.
"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon. I humbly beg your pardon, as Mary
says, but I can't help laughing to think how she's outwitted us."
(She was going to have said, "outwitted you," but changed the
pronoun.)
"Why, Sally, had you any idea she was going to fly out in this
style?"
"No, I hadn't, to be sure. But if you did think of marrying her,
why (if I may be so bold as to ask) did you go and tell her you had
no thought of doing otherwise by her? That was what put her up at
last!"
"Why, I had repeatedly before led her to infer that marriage was not
my object. I never dreamed she could have been so foolish as to
have mistaken me, little provoking romancer though she be! So I
naturally wished her to know what a sacrifice of prejudice, of--of
myself, in short, I was willing to make for her sake; yet I don't
think she was aware of it after all. I believe I might have any
lady in Manchester if I liked, and yet I was willing and ready to
marry a poor dressmaker. Don't you understand me now? and don't you
see what a sacrifice I was making to humour her? and all to no
avail."
Sally was silent, so he went on--
"My father would have forgiven any temporary connection, far sooner
than my marrying one so far beneath me in rank."
"I thought you said, sir, your mother was a factory girl," remarked
Sally rather maliciously.
"Yes, yes!--but then my father was in much such a station; at any
rate, there was not the disparity there is between Mary and me."
Another pause.
"Then you mean to give her up, sir? She made no bones of saying she
gave you up."
"No; I do not mean to give her up, whatever you and she may please
to think. I am more in love with her than ever; even for this
charming capricious ebullition of hers. She'll come round, you may
depend upon it. Women always do. They always have second thoughts,
and find out that they are best in casting off a lover. Mind, I
don't say I shall offer her the same terms again."
With a few more words of no importance, the allies parted.
Content of Chapter XI - Mr. Carson's intentions revealed. [Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell's novel: Mary Barton]
_
Read next: Chapter XII - Old Alice's bairn.
Read previous: Chapter X - Return of the prodigal.
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