Mr. Farebrother was silent for a minute or more, and
then, as they turned and paused under the shadow of
a maple at the end of a grassy walk, said, “I
understand that you resist any attempt to fetter you,
but either your feeling for Fred Vincy excludes your
entertaining another attachment, or it does not:
either he may count on your remaining single until
he shall have earned your hand, or he may in any case
be disappointed. Pardon me, Mary—you
know I used to catechise you under that name—but
when the state of a woman’s affections touches
the happiness of another life—of more lives
than one—I think it would be the nobler
course for her to be perfectly direct and open.”
Mary in her turn was silent, wondering not at Mr.
Farebrother’s manner but at his tone, which
had a grave restrained emotion in it. When the
strange idea flashed across her that his words had
reference to himself, she was incredulous, and ashamed
of entertaining it. She had never thought that
any man could love her except Fred, who had espoused
her with the umbrella ring, when she wore socks and
little strapped shoes; still less that she could be
of any importance to Mr. Farebrother, the cleverest
man in her narrow circle. She had only time to
feel that all this was hazy and perhaps illusory;
but one thing was clear and determined—her
answer.
“Since you think it my duty, Mr. Farebrother,
I will tell you that I have too strong a feeling for
Fred to give him up for any one else. I should
never be quite happy if I thought he was unhappy for
the loss of me. It has taken such deep root in
me— my gratitude to him for always loving
me best, and minding so much if I hurt myself, from
the time when we were very little. I cannot
imagine any new feeling coming to make that weaker.
I should like better than anything to see him worthy
of every one’s respect. But please tell
him I will not promise to marry him till then:
I should shame and grieve my father and mother.
He is free to choose some one else.”
“Then I have fulfilled my commission thoroughly,”
said Mr. Farebrother, putting out his hand to Mary,
“and I shall ride back to Middlemarch forthwith.
With this prospect before him, we shall get Fred
into the right niche somehow, and I hope I shall live
to join your hands. God bless you!”
“Oh, please stay, and let me give you some tea,”
said Mary. Her eyes filled with tears, for something
indefinable, something like the resolute suppression
of a pain in Mr. Farebrother’s manner, made
her feel suddenly miserable, as she had once felt when
she saw her father’s hands trembling in a moment
of trouble.
“No, my dear, no. I must get back.”
In three minutes the Vicar was on horseback again,
having gone magnanimously through a duty much harder
than the renunciation of whist, or even than the writing
of penitential meditations.
