III.
"I think, Mary," Miss Robertson said to her friend, "you don't need to be afraid of your brother marrying in a hurry."
"Afraid?" said Mary.
"Yes. Now, confess you wouldn't like it. You would not like to be shunted, you know."
"Well I should not, but I should like to see him happy, and if he got a good wife—"
"Ay, but what wife would you think good enough for him? There's the rub."
"I hope he'll be wisely guided," Mary said.
"So do I; but, as I said, I don't think you need be afraid: he won't be in a hurry—he does not even care for a flirtation."
"Oh no: my brother is always in earnest whatever he does—in thorough earnest. I don't think he could even imagine such a thing as a flirtation."
"Well, he is very much stupider than I take him to be if he couldn't."
"He is not stupid: it is the want of stupidity or silliness that makes trifling of that kind impossible to him," said Mary.
"It's a pity," her friend said. "What's the use of taking things so seriously? I think a little flirtation a nice amusement, very much suited to young people."
"To some young people: I should not like to try it. I should be sure to burn my fingers."
"Singe your heart, you mean; but it goes off in a little, I suppose, for I can't speak from experience."
"No, I trust not."
"Do you know," said Miss Robertson, "that I have a great ambition for your brother? I think it a thousand pities that he should settle here. I am far more ambitious for him than you are, or than I believe he is for himself."
"It seemed the best opening that offered at the time," said Mary.
"A far inferior man would suit this place just as well. He'll work himself to death, and nobody be the wiser or the better, whereas if he had been in town he would have come to the surface, and might have been driving his carriage shortly. That little thick-set, red-haired, bulldog-looking man that was here the other night—Dr. What's-his-name, your nearest medical neighbor?—that's the kind of man for a country doctor. He has the bodily strength and the rough-and-ready manners for the place: he is not too bright or good for human nature's daily drugs. Were you present when he told about his attendance on Sir James Grieve, the great man of his district?"
"No, I did not hear him speak of that."
"Sir James had a cold, and there was an ado made about it as if there had not been another man in the world. The doctor was nights in the house, and there were consultations and forms and ceremonies, and as many fykes, he said, and his time was uselessly taken up, and other patients neglected; and he could not charge at all in proportion. Even as it was, Sir James went over every item of his account singly, and had it explained. Imagine your brother going through all that if the earl of Birndale takes a cold!"
"He would not go through it: he would give what attendance he thought necessary, and if his charge were called in question he would decline payment altogether: that's what he would do."
"And how would it work, do you think?"
"It would work well: upright, honorable dealing always works well in the long run."
"But in the short? Why, the displeasure of the earl would be enough to ruin him. Upright, honorable conduct is often its own reward. Now, our little red-haired friend can put his manners in a strait-jacket for a time and accommodate himself to the whims of the gentry; and he is not squeamish in money-matters, so that he gets money, and enough of it."
"James is very contented here, and he likes better to live in the country than in the town: so do I, but I must say I could wish him to achieve reputation; it may be wrong, but I wish it;" and her eyes sparkled.
"Wrong!" said Miss Robertson: "it's perfectly right, and what he should do and will do; only, as I said, I think it a pity he settled here."
"I like reputation," said Mary, "because it is the result of great ability well and thoroughly used: I hope mine is not a vulgar ambition."
"Oh dear, no!" said Miss Robertson; "but a quack has often a far greater reputation than an honest man."
"Well, but people are always known sooner or later."
"Yes, sooner or later," echoed Miss Robertson: "I hope your brother will be known sooner."
"Do you know," said Mary, "we are so happy as we are that it is a shame to wish for anything better or different: I really don't know two happier people."
"Just allow me to be a third: I am very happy too. The idea of calling this world a vale of tears!"
"By the way," said Mary, "did you see the Ladies Moor ride past to-day? It is the first time I have seen them. I think I never saw such a face as the youngest has: they say her sister, the duchess of Dover, is a great beauty, but surely she can't be more lovely than Lady Louisa."
"Yes, I met them when I was walking, and I was as much struck as you: I am sure they don't get their beauty from their father: he is a coarse-looking man."
"I don't know where they get it, but they have it, certainly," said Mary: "that girl will drive some people crazy yet."
"Do you think beauty has so much power?" asked Miss Robertson.
"Oh, power! I know nothing like it: it is an intense pleasure to me to see a face like Lady Louisa's."
"And yet beauty has not brought happiness to the duchess of Dover."
"We need not moralize about it," said Mary. "She is unhappy, not because of her beauty, but in spite of it; besides, though she and her husband don't get on together, she may have other sources of happiness. It would give me great happiness to know that people got pleasure by merely looking at me."
"Her Grace of Dover may have got accustomed to that kind of pleasure by this time. I hope her sister may have a happier lot: it must be horridly provoking to be a duchess and unhappy," said Miss Robertson.
"'Provoking' is hardly the word for the situation, I think," said Mary.
"To seem to have a thing and not to have it is very provoking," Miss Robertson said; "besides, other people may hope for some turn of affairs that will make things better, but what can she hope for? Why, she has everything this world can give."
"Her case seems a very sad one—all glitter and no gold," Miss Brunton said.