"I could not love a man who is ridiculous," said Mary, not choosing to go deeper. "Fred has sense and knowledge enough to make him respectable, if he likes, in some good worldly business, but I can never imagine him preaching and exhorting, and pronouncing blessings, and praying by the sick, without feeling as if I were looking at a caricature.
His being a clergyman would be only for gentility's sake, and I think there is nothing more contemptible than such imbecile gentility.
I used to think that of Mr. Crowse, with his empty face and neat umbrella, and mincing little speeches. What right have such men to represent Christianity--as if it were an institution for getting up idiots genteelly--as if--" Mary checked herself. She had been carried along as if she had been speaking to Fred instead of Mr. Farebrother.
"Young women are severe: they don't feel the stress of action as men do, though perhaps I ought to make you an exception there.
But you don't put Fred Vincy on so low a level as that?""No, indeed, he has plenty of sense, but I think he would not show it as a clergyman. He would be a piece of professional affectation.""Then the answer is quite decided. As a clergyman he could have no hope?"Mary shook her head.
"But if he braved all the difficulties of getting his bread in some other way--will you give him the support of hope?
May he count on winning you?"
"I think Fred ought not to need telling again what I have already said to him," Mary answered, with a slight resentment in her manner.
"I mean that he ought not to put such questions until he has done something worthy, instead of saying that he could do it."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.