Chapter VIII

HOW BESSY PRYOR RECEIVED TWO LETTERS FROM LAUNAY.

The same post brought Bessy two letters from England about the middle of August, both of which the reader shall see;--but first shall be given that which Bessy read the last. It was from Mrs. Miles, and had been sent when she was beginning to think that her aunt was still resolved not to write to her. The letter was as follows, and was written on square paper, which in these days is only used even by the old-fashioned when the letter to be sent is supposed to be one of great importance.

“My dear Bessy,--Though I had told you not to write to me, still I
am glad to hear that you are well, and that your new home has been
made as comfortable for you as circumstances will permit. Launay
has not been comfortable since you went. I miss you very much. You
have become so dear to me that my life is sad without you. My days
have never been bright, but now they are less so than ever. I
should scruple to admit so much as this to you, were it not that I
intend it as a prelude to that which will follow.

“We have been sent into this world, my child, that we may do our
duties, independent of that fleeting feeling which we call
happiness. In the smaller affairs of life I am sure you would never
seek a pleasure at the cost of your conscience. If not in the
smaller things, then certainly should you not do so in the greater.
To deny yourself, to remember the welfare of others, when
temptation is urging you to do wrong, then do that which you know
to be right,--that is your duty as a Christian, and especially your
duty as a woman. To sacrifice herself is the special heroism which
a woman can achieve. Men who are called upon to work may gratify
their passions and still be heroes. A woman can soar only by
suffering.

“You will understand why I tell you this. I and my son have been
born into a special degree of life which I think it to be my duty
and his to maintain. It is not that I or that he may enjoy any
special delights that I hold fast to this opinion, but that I may
do my part towards maintaining that order of things which has made
my country more blessed than others. It would take me long to
explain all this, but I know you will believe me when I say that
an imperative sense of duty is my guide. You have not been born
into that degree. That this does not affect my own personal feeling
to you, you must know. You have had many signs how dear you are to
me. At this moment my days are heavy to bear because I have not my
Bessy with me,--my Bessy who has been so good to me, so loving,
such an infinite blessing that to see the hem of her garments, to
hear the sound of her foot, has made things bright around me. Now,
there is nothing to see, nothing to hear, that is not unsightly and
harsh of sound. Oh, Bessy, if you could come back to me!

“But I have to do that duty of which I have spoken, and I shall do
it. Though I were never to see you again I shall do it. I am used
to suffering, and sometimes think it wrong even to wish that you
were back with me. But I write to you thus that you may understand
everything. If you will say that you will give him up, you shall
return to me and be my own, own beloved child. I tell you that you
are not of the same degree. I am bound to tell you so. But you
shall be so near my heart that nothing shall separate us.

“You two cannot marry while I am living. I do not think it possible
that you should be longing to be made happy by my death. And you
should remember that he cannot be the first to break away from this
foolish engagement without dishonour. As he is the wealthy one, and
the higher born, and as he is the man, he ought not to be the first
to say the word. You may say it without falsehood and without
disgrace. You may say it, and all the world will know that you have
been actuated only by a sense of duty. It will be acknowledged that
you have sacrificed yourself,--as it becomes a woman to do.

“One word from you will be enough to assure me. Since you came to
me you have never been false. One word, and you shall come back to
me and to Launay, my friend and my treasure! If it be that there
must be suffering, we will suffer together. If tears are necessary
there shall be joint tears. Though I am old still I can understand.
I will acknowledge the sacrifice. But, Bessy, my Bessy, dearest
Bessy, the sacrifice must be made.

“Of course he must live away from Launay for awhile. The fault will
have been his, and what of inconvenience there may be he must
undergo. He shall not come here till you yourself shall say that
you can bear his presence without an added sorrow.

“I know you will not let this letter be in vain. I know you will
think it over deeply, and that you will not keep me too long
waiting for an answer. I need hardly tell you that I am

“Your most loving friend,

M. MILES.”

When Bessy was reading this, when the strong words with which her aunt had pleaded her cause were harrowing her heart, she had clasped in her hand this other letter from her lover. This too was written from Launay.

“My own dearest Bessy,--It is absolutely only now that I have found
out where you are, and have done so simply because the people at
the rectory could not keep the secret. Can anything be more absurd
than supposing that my mother can have her way by whisking you
away, and shutting you up in Normandy? It is too foolish! She has
sent for me, and I have come like a dutiful son. I have, indeed,
been rejoiced to see her looking again so much like herself. But I
have not extended my duty to obeying her in a matter in which my
own future happiness is altogether bound up; and in which, perhaps,
the happiness of another person may be slightly concerned. I have
told her that I would venture to say nothing of the happiness of
the other person. The other person might be indifferent, though I
did not believe it was so; but I was quite sure of my own. I have
assured her that I know what I want myself, and that I do not mean
to abandon my hope of achieving it. I know that she is writing to
you. She can of course say what she pleases.

“The idea of separating two people who are as old as you and I, and
who completely know our own minds,--you see that I do not really
doubt as to yours,--is about as foolish as anything well can be. It
is as though we were going back half a dozen centuries into the
tyrannies of the middle ages. My object shall be to induce her to
let you come home and be married properly from Launay. If she will
not consent by the end of this month I shall go over to you, and we
must contrive to be married at Avranches. When the thing has been
once done all this rubbish will be swept away. I do not believe for
a moment that my mother will punish us by any injustice as to
money.

“Write and tell me that you agree with me, and be sure that I shall
remain, as I am, always altogether your own,

“Truly and affectionately,

PHILIP MILES.”

When Bessy Pryor began to consider these two letters together, she felt that the task was almost too much for her. Her lover’s letter had been the first read. She had known his handwriting, and of course had read his the first. And as she had read it everything seemed to be of rose colour. Of course she had been filled with joy. Something had been done by the warnings of Miss Gregory, something, but not much, to weaken her strong faith in her lover. The major-general had been worldly and untrue, and it had been possible that her Philip should be as had been the major-general. There had been moments of doubt in which her heart had fainted a little; but as she read her lover’s words she acknowledged to herself how wrong she had been to faint at all. He declared it to be “a matter in which his own future happiness was altogether bound up.” And then there had been his playful allusion to her happiness, which was not the less pleasant to her because he had pretended to think that the “other person might be indifferent.” She pouted her lips at him, as though he were present while she was reading, with a joyous affectation of disdain. No, no; she could not consent to an immediate marriage at Avranches. There must be some delay. But she would write to him and explain all that. Then she read her aunt’s letter.

It moved her very much. She had read it all twice before there came upon her a feeling of doubt, an acknowledgment to herself that she must reconsider the matter. But even when she was only reading it, before she had begun to consider, her former joy was repressed and almost quenched. So much of it was too true, terribly true. Of course her duty should be paramount. If she could persuade herself that duty required her to abandon Philip, she must abandon him, let the suffering to herself or to others be what it might. But then, what was it that duty required of her? “To sacrifice herself is the special heroism which a woman can achieve.” Yes, she believed that. But then, how about sacrificing Philip, who, no doubt, was telling the truth when he said that his own happiness was altogether bound up in his love?

She was moved too by all that which Mrs. Miles said as to the grandeur of the Launay family. She had learned enough of the manners of Launay to be quite alive to the aristocratic idiosyncrasies of the old woman. She, Bessy Pryor, was nobody. It would have been well that Philip Launay should have founded his happiness on some girl of higher birth. But he had not done so. King Cophetua’s marriage had been recognised by the world at large. Philip was no more than King Cophetua, nor was she less than the beggar-girl. Like to like in marriages was no doubt expedient,--but not indispensable. And though she was not Philip’s equal, yet she was a lady. She would not disgrace him at his table, or among his friends. She was sure that she could be a comfort to him in his work.

But the parts of the old woman’s letter which moved her most were those in which she gave full play to her own heart, and spoke, without reserve, of her own love for her dearest Bessy. “My days are heavy to bear because I have not my Bessy with me.” It was impossible to read this and not to have some desire to yield. How good this lady had been to her! Was it not through her that she had known Philip? But for Mrs. Miles, what would her own life have been? She thought that had she been sure of Philip’s happiness, could she have satisfied herself that he would bear the blow, she would have done as she was asked. She would have achieved her heroism, and shown the strength of her gratitude, and would have taken her delight in administering to the comforts of her old friend,--only that Philip had her promise. All that she could possibly owe to all the world beside must be less, so infinitely less, than what she owed to him.

She would have consulted Miss Gregory, but she knew so well what Miss Gregory would have advised. Miss Gregory would only have mentioned the major-general and her own experiences. Bessy determined, therefore, to lie awake and think of it, and to take no other counsellor beyond her own heart.