CHAPTER IX.
'I suppose it had better be so,' Marie Bromar had said to her lover,when in set form he made his proposition. She had thought very muchabout it, and had come exactly to that state of mind. She didsuppose that it had better be so. She knew that she did not lovethe man. She knew also that she loved another man. She did noteven think that she should ever learn to love Adrian Urmand. Shehad neither ambition in the matter, nor even any feeling of prudenceas regarded herself. She was enticed by no desire of position, orlove of money. In respect to all her own feelings about herself shewould sooner have remained at the Lion d'Or, and have waited uponthe guests day after day, and month after month. But yet she hadsupposed 'that it had better be so.' Her uncle wished it,--wishedit so strongly that she believed it would be impossible that shecould remain an inmate in his house, unless she acceded to hiswishes. Her aunt manifestly thought that it was her duty to acceptthe man, and could not understand how so manifest a duty, going handin hand as it did with so great an advantage, should be made amatter of doubt. She had not one about her to counsel her to holdby her own feelings. It was the practice of the world around herthat girls in such matters should do as they were bidden. And then,stronger than all, there was the indifference to her of the man sheloved!
Marie Bromar was a fine, high-spirited, animated girl; but it mustnot be thought that she was a highly educated lady, or that time hadbeen given to her amidst all her occupations, in which she couldallow her mind to dwell much on feelings of romance. Her life hadever been practical, busy, and full of action. As is ever the casewith those who have to do chiefly with things material, she wasthinking more frequently of the outer wants of those around her,than of the inner workings of her own heart and personalintelligence. Would the bread rise well? Would that bargain shehad made for poultry suffice for the house? Was that lot of winewhich she had persuaded her uncle to buy of a creditable quality?Were her efforts for increasing her uncle's profits compatible withsatisfaction on the part of her uncle's guests? Such were thequestions which from day to day occupied her attention and filledher with interest. And therefore her own identity was not strong toher, as it is strong to those whose business permits them to lookfrequently into themselves, or whose occupations are of a nature toproduce such introspection. If her head ached, or had she lamed herhand by any accident, she would think more of the injury to thehousehold arising from her incapacity than of her own pain. It isso, reader, with your gardener, your groom, or your cook, if youwill think of it. Till you tell them by your pity that they are thesufferers, they will think that it is you who are most affected bytheir ailments. And the man who loses his daily wage because he isill complains of his loss and not of his ailment. His own identityis half hidden from him by the practical wants of his life.
Had Marie been disappointed in her love without the appearance ofany rival suitor, no one would have ever heard of her love. HadGeorge Voss married, she would have gone on with her work without asign of outward sorrow; or had he died, she would have wept for himwith no peculiar tears. She did not expect much from the worldaround her, beyond this, that the guests should not complain abouttheir suppers as long as the suppers provided were reasonably good.Had no great undertaking been presented to her, the performance ofno heavy task demanded from her, she would have gone on with herwork without showing even by the altered colour of her cheek thatshe was a sufferer. But this other man had come,--this AdrianUrmand; and a great undertaking was presented to her, and theperformance of a heavy task was demanded from her. Then it wasnecessary that there should be identity of self and introspection.She had to ask herself whether the task was practicable, whether itsperformance was within the scope of her powers. She told herself atfirst that it was not to be done; that it was one which she wouldnot even attempt. Then as she looked at it more frequently, as shecame to understand how great was the urgency of her uncle; as shecame to find, in performing that task of introspection, howunimportant a person she was herself, she began to think that theattempt might be made. 'I suppose it had better be so,' she hadsaid. What was she that she should stand in the way of so manywishes? As she had worked for her bread in her uncle's house atGranpere, so would she work for her bread in her husband's houseat Basle. No doubt there were other things to be joined to herwork,--things the thought of which dismayed her. She had foughtagainst them for a while; but, after all, what was she, that sheshould trouble the world by fighting? When she got to Basle shewould endeavour to see that the bread should rise there, and thewine be sufficient, and the supper such as her husband might wishit to be.
Was it not the manifest duty of every girl to act after thisfashion? Were not all marriages so arranged in the world aroundher? Among the Protestants of Alsace, as she knew, there was somegreater latitude of choice than was ever allowed by the stricterdiscipline of Roman Catholic education. But then she was a RomanCatholic, as was her aunt; and she was too proud and too grateful toclaim any peculiar exemption from the Protestantism of her uncle.She had resolved during those early hours of the morning that 'ithad better be so.' She thought that she could go through with itall, if only they would not tease her, and ask her to wear herSunday frock, and force her to sit down with them at table. Letthem settle the day--with a word or two thrown in by herself toincrease the distance--and she would be absolutely submissive, oncondition that nothing should be required of her till the day shouldcome. There would be a bad week or two then while she was beingcarried off to her new home; but she had looked forward and had toldherself that she would fill her mind with the care of one man'shouse, as she had hitherto filled it with the care of the house ofanother man.
'So it is all right,' said her aunt, rushing up to her with warmcongratulations, ready to flatter her, prone to admire her. Itwould be something to have a niece married to Adrian Urmand, thesuccessful young merchant of Basle. Marie Bromar was already in heraunt's eyes something different from her former self.
'I hope so, aunt.'
'Hope so; but it is so, you have accepted him?'
'I hope it is right, I mean.'
'Of course it is right' said Madame Voss. 'How can it be wrong fora girl to accept the man whom all her friends wish her to marry? Itmust be right. And your uncle will be so happy.'
'Dear uncle!'
'Yes, indeed. He has been so good; and it has made me wretched tosee that he has been disturbed. He has been as anxious that youshould be settled well, as though you had been his own. And thiswill be to be settled well. I am told that M. Urmand's house is oneof those which look down upon the river from near the church; thevery best position in all the town. And it is full of everything,they say. His father spared nothing for furniture when he wasmarried. And they say that his mother's linen was quite a sight tobe seen. And then, Marie, everybody acknowledges that he is such anice-looking young man!'
But it was not a part of Marie's programme to be waked up toenthusiasm--at any rate by her aunt. She said little or nothing,and would not even condescend to consider that interesting question,of the day of the wedding. 'There is quite time enough for allthat, Aunt Josey,' she said, as she got up to go about her work.Aunt Josey was almost inclined to resent such usage, and would havedone so, had not her respect for her niece been so great.
Michel did not return till near seven, and walking straight throughhis wife's room to Marie's seat of office, came upon his niecebefore he had seen any one else. There was an angry look about hisbrow, for he had been trying to teach himself that he was ill-usedby his niece, in spite of that half-formed resolution to release herfrom persecution if she were still firm in her opposition to themarriage. 'Well,' he said, as soon as he saw her,--'well, how is itto be?' She got off her stool, and coming close to him put up herface to be kissed. He understood it all in a moment, and the wholetone and colour of his countenance was altered. There was no manwhose face would become more radiant with satisfaction than that ofMichel Voss--when he was satisfied. Please him--and imme
diatelythere would be an effort on his part to please everybody around him.'My darling, my own one,' he said, 'it is all right.' She kissedhim again and pressed his arm, but said not a word. 'I am so glad,'he exclaimed; 'I am so glad!' And he knocked off his cap with hishand, not knowing what he was doing. 'We shall have but a poorhouse without you, Marie--a very poor house. But it is as it oughtto be. I have felt for the last year or two, as you have sprung upto be such a woman among us, my dear, that there was only one placefit for such a one. It is proper that you should be mistresswherever you are. It has wounded me--I don't mind saying it now--ithas wounded me to see you waiting on the sort of people that comehere.'
'I have only been too happy, uncle, in doing it.'
'That's all very well; that's all very well, my dear. But I amolder than you, and time goes quick with me. I tell you it made meunhappy. I thought I wasn't doing my duty by you. I was beginningto know that you ought to have a house and servants of your own.People say that it is a great match for you; but I tell them that itis a great match for him. Perhaps it is because you've been my ownin a way, but I don't see any girl like you round the country.'
'You shouldn't say such things to flatter me, Uncle Michel.'
'I choose to say what I please, and think what I please, about myown girl,' he said, with his arm close wound round her. 'I say it'sa great match for Adrian Urmand, and I am quite sure that he willnot contradict me. He has had sense enough to know what sort of ayoung woman will make the best wife for him, and I respect him forit. I shall always respect Adrian Urmand because he has knownbetter than to take up with one of your town-bred girls, who neverlearn anything except how to flaunt about with as much finery ontheir backs as they can get their people to give them. He mighthave had the pick of them at Basle,--or at Strasbourg either, forthe matter of that; but he has thought my girl better than them all;and I love him for it--so I do. It was to be expected that a youngfellow with means to please himself should choose to have agood-looking wife to sit at his table with him. Who'll blame him forthat? And he has found the prettiest in all the country round. Buthe has wanted something more than good looks,--and he has got agreat deal more. Yes; I say it, I, Michel Voss, though I am youruncle;--that he has got the pride of the whole country round. Mydarling, my own one, my child!'
All this was said with many interjections, and with sundry pauses inthe speech, during which Michel caressed his niece, and pressed herto his breast, and signified his joy by all the outward modes ofexpression which a man so demonstrative knows how to use. This wasa moment of great triumph to him, because he had begun to despair ofsuccess in this matter of the marriage, and had told himself on thisvery morning that the affair was almost hopeless. While he had beenup in the wood, he had asked himself how he would treat Marie inconsequence of her disobedience to him; and he had at last succeededin producing within his own breast a state of mind that was notperhaps very reasonable, but which was consonant with his character.He would let her know that he was angry with her,--very angry withher; that she had half broken his heart by her obstinacy; but afterthat she should be to him his own Marie again. He would not throwher off, because she disobeyed him. He could not throw her off,because he loved her, and knew of no way by which he could get ridof his love. But he would be very angry, and she should know of hisanger. He had come home wearing a black cloud on his brow, andintending to be black. But all that was changed in a moment, andhis only thought now was how to give pleasure to this dear one. Itis something to have a niece who brings such credit on the family!
Marie as she listened to his praise and his ecstasies, knowing by asure instinct every turn of his thoughts, tried to take joy toherself in that she had given joy to him. Though he was her uncle,and had in fact been her master, he was actually the one real friendwhom she had made for herself in her life. There had been a monthor two of something more than friendship with George Voss; but shewas too wise to look much at that now. Michel Voss was the onebeing in the world whom she knew best, of whom she thought most,whose thoughts and wishes she had most closely studied, whoseinterests were ever present to her mind. Perhaps it may be said ofevery human heart in a sound condition that it must be speciallytrue to some other one human heart; but it may certainly be so saidof every female heart. The object may be changed from time totime,--may be changed very suddenly, as when a girl's devotion istransferred with the consent of all her friends from her mother toher lover; or very slowly, as when a mother's is transferred fromher husband to some favourite child; but, unless self-worship bepredominant, there is always one friend to whom the woman's breastis true,--for whom it is the woman's joy to offer herself insacrifice. Now with Marie Bromar that one being had been her uncle.She prospered, if he prospered. His comfort was her comfort. Evenwhen his palate was pleased, there was some gratification akin toanimal enjoyment on her part. It was ease to her, that he should beat his ease in his arm-chair. It was mirth to her, that he shouldlaugh. When he was contented she was satisfied. When he wasruffled she was never smooth. Her sympathy with him was perfect;and now that he was radiant with triumph, though his triumph camefrom his victory over herself, she could not deny him the pleasureof triumphing with him.
'Dear uncle,' she said, still caressing him, 'I am so glad that youare pleased.'
'Of course it will be a poor house without you, Marie. As for me,it will be just as though I had lost my right leg and my right arm.But what! A man is not always to be thinking of himself. To seeyou treated by all the world as you ought to be treated,--as Ishould choose that my own daughter should be treated,--that is whatI have desired. Sometimes when I've thought of it all when I'vebeen alone, I have been mad with myself for letting it go on as ithas done.'
'It has gone on very nicely, I think, Uncle Michel.' She knew howworse than useless it would be now to try and make him understandthat it would be better for them both that she should remain withhim. She knew, to the moving of a feather, what she could do withhim and what she could not. Her immediate wish was to enable him todraw all possible pleasure from his triumph of the day, andtherefore she would say no word to signify that his glory wasfounded on her sacrifice.
Then again came up the question of her position at supper, but therewas no difficulty in the arrangement made between them. The onegala evening of grand dresses--the evening which had been intendedto be a gala, but which had turned out to be almost funereal--wasover. Even Michel Voss himself did not think it necessary thatMarie should come in to supper with her silk dress two nightsrunning; and he himself had found that that changing of his coat hadimpaired his comfort. He could eat his dinner and his supper in hisbest clothes on Sunday, and not feel the inconvenience; but on otheroccasions those unaccustomed garments were as heavy to him as a suitof armour. There was, therefore, nothing more said about clothes.Marie was to dispense her soup as usual,--expressing a confidentassurance that if Peter were as yet to attempt this special branchof duty, the whole supper would collapse,--and then she was to takeher place at the table, next to her uncle. Everybody in the house,everybody in Granpere, knew that the marriage had been arranged, andthe old lady who had been so dreadfully snubbed by Marie, hadforgiven the offence, acknowledging that Marie's position on thatevening had been one of difficulty.
But these arrangements had reference only to two days. After twodays, Adrian was to return to Basle, and to be seen no more atGranpere till he came to claim his bride. In regard to the choiceof the day, Michel declared roundly that no constraint should be putupon Marie. She should have her full privileges, and no one shouldbe allowed to interfere with her. On this point Marie had broughtherself to be almost indifferent. A long engagement was a state ofthings which would have been quite incompatible with such abetrothal. Any delay that could have been effected would have beena delay, not of months, but of days,--or at most of a week or two.She had made up her mind that she would not be afraid of herwedding. She would teach herself to have no dread either of the manor of the th
ing. He was not a bad man, and marriage in itself washonourable. She formed ideas also of some future true friendshipfor her husband. She would endeavour to have a true solicitude forhis interests, and would take care, at any rate, that nothing wassquandered that came into her hands. Of what avail would it be toher that she should postpone for a few days the beginning of afriendship that was to last all her life? Such postponement couldonly be induced by a dread of the man, and she was firmly determinedthat she would not dread him. When they asked her, therefore, shesmiled and said very little. What did her aunt think?
Her aunt thought that the marriage should be settled for theearliest possible day,--though she never quite expressed herthoughts. Madame Voss, though she did not generally obtain muchcredit for clear seeing, had a clearer insight to the state of herniece's mind than had her husband. She still believed that Marie'sheart was not with Adrian Urmand. But, attributing perhaps no verygreat importance to a young girl's heart, and fancying that she knewthat in this instance the young girl's heart could not have its ownway, she was quite in favour of the Urmand marriage. And if theywere to be married, the sooner the better. Of that she had nodoubt. 'It's best to have it over always as soon as possible,' shesaid to her husband in private, nodding her head, and looking muchwiser than usual.
'I won't have Marie hurried,' said Michel.
'We had better say some day next month, my dear,' said Madame Voss,again nodding her head. Michel, struck by the peculiarity of hervoice, looked into her face, and saw the unaccustomed wisdom. Hemade no answer, but after a while nodded his head also, and went outof the room a man convinced. There were matters between women, hethought, which men can never quite understand. It would be very badif there should be any slip here between the cup and the lip; and,no doubt, his wife was right.
It was Madame Voss at last who settled the day,--the 15th ofOctober, just four weeks from the present time. This she did inconcert with Adrian Urmand, who, however, was very docile in herhands. Urmand, after he had been accepted, soon managed to bringhimself back to that state of mind in which he had before regardedthe possession of Marie Bromar as very desirable. For somefour-and-twenty hours, during which he had thought himself to beill-used, and had meditated a retreat from Granpere, he had contrivedto teach himself that he might possibly live without her; but as soonas he was accepted, and when the congratulations of the men and womenof Granpere were showered down upon him in quick succession,--sothat the fact that the thing was to be became assured to him,--hesoon came to fancy again that he was a man as successful in love ashe was in the world's good, and that this acquisition of Marie'shand was a treasure in which he could take delight. He undoubtedlywould be ready by the day named, and would go home and prepareeverything for Marie's arrival.
They were very little together as lovers during those two days, butit was necessary that there should be an especial parting. 'She isup-stairs in the little sitting-room,' Aunt Josey said; and up-stairsto the little sitting-room Adrian Urmand went.
'I am come to say good-bye,' said Urmand.
'Good-bye, Adrian,' said Marie, putting both her hands in his, andoffering her cheek to be kissed.
'I shall come back with such joy for the 15th,' said he.
She smiled, and kissed his cheek, and still held his hand.'Adrian,' she said.
'My love?'
'As I believe in the dear Jesus, I will do my best to be a good wifeto you.' Then he took her in his arms, and kissed her close, andwent out of the room with tears streaming down his cheeks. He knewnow that he was in truth a happy man, and that God had been good tohim in this matter of his future wife.