'Morwenna, my dear. To be sure, I understand how you feel. But I think you have to remember that you are still exceeding young.' Morwenna's heart sank at this, for she saw now, instantly saw, imminent defeat. Whenever anyone told her she was young-
.
.
Her mother went on speaking for
some mi
nutes; and she scarcely
listened, staring into an
almost unfaceable future. It was, an appreciable time before her mother's voice broke through the, darkness and the bitternes
s and the fear. `Of course, it
could be said that you need not marry at all - at least, not yet. This young man whom you misfortunately and injudiciously: met
-
such a marriage is hardly to be considered, is it? You don't even suggest it. I know you see that yourself. But the other choice, this Mr Whitworth. I think you must be very careful before you do anything which will discourage him. I quite see that your
your feeling for one young man will make it more difficult to entertain the same or a similar feeling for another. But I think you must take that into account and try to overcome it.'
`And if I fail, mama?'
Mrs Chynoweth kissed her daughter. `Try not. For your
own sake. And for all our sakes.'
`You ask me to do it for your sake?'
`No, no, not just for my sake. Though I should find much happiness in it -
not just selfish happiness, I assure you. Take the widest view you can of this. Oh, I so wish I could put an old head on your shoulders so that you could consider it wisely and thoughtfully and from the experience which you cannot yet have had. I ask you to consider it for your own, sake first: a
better marriage than you could
really ever hope to make again; an assured position in society; enough money; a personable young husband with great prospects in the church; security for the rest of your life; and a good religious life. It is what any girl would jump at. I know how much, your father would have rejoiced at the thought of his daughter marrying into the church. Then, after you have thought of that, consider the great generosity of Mr Warleggan in making this marriage possible, and whether it is seemly that you should reject it. Finally, only then, spare a' thought to my own pleasure at such a ma
tch. And relief, my dear
I have to confess it. Relief. Not that I wish to lose you or would not welcome you home with open arms, but there; are three others, as you well know, all younger, and our means are small. You know how delicate I am and how much of a struggle it has been for us since your father died. Do not let this be of major concern to you
`Oh, but it is, it is!'
`Not of major concern, my child. It is your own future you must consider first and foremost. And it is because of
your own future that I hope and pray you will make, a wise
decision.
But I
am sure Mr Whitworth will spea
k
to you in the course of the next day or two. Please think carefully how you shall reply.'
Mr Whitworth spoke to her. He found her
-
not by chance left alone-in the garde
n in the late afternoon.
She had been for a walk with
her mother almost as far as the cliffs, when they had carefully avoided the subject and talked about church happenings in the deanery of Bodmin; then when they returned her mother had had to go indoors to rest from the exertion, and Elizabeth, who had come to meet them, was mysteriously called away. So Mr Whitworth, seeing her alone, bore down on her and they walked round the garden together.
As has been said, Ossie's dealings with women in the main had been either on the superficial, drawing-room level or on that of passing over a couple of silver coins for an hour in an upstairs room. His courtship with his first wife had been brief and simple, for before their marriage she had adored him, a condition which he had thought very natural in a woman and one which had made formal words unnecessary. This slightly hostile young creature had been approached once and had met him with a half-rejection. It was off-putting, to have to say it all again, especially without the
absolute certainty of success.
Nor was a garden quite the situation he would have chosen, but time pressed and his sense of
amour
propre
would not let him shirk to opportunity.
He broke off, from a remark about the failure of the summer crops and stiffly said:
`Miss Chynoweth
-
Morwenna . . . You will know of the further discussions which have taken place between your cousin Mr Warleggan and myself regarding our marriage, regarding this proposal of marriage which I have made, regarding this offer I have made for your hand. You may feel that in all this I have addressed myself
too much to your, guardian and
too little to yourself. But when we last spoke I acquainted you with my feelings, and you gave me to understand that you required time to consider my offer, time to prepare yourself for so important a step. In the meantime, therefore, it seemed proper to me, not to press my suit personally but to attempt to discover from your guardian from time to
time what your sentiments were and how far they had progressed.'
He stopped and put a hand up to his stock, adjusted it, returned his hand to its customary place with the other behind his back. He flattered himself that so
far he had not
stammered or hesitated.
`Yes,' said Morwenna.
`Last night I spoke again to Mr Warleggan, and before
dinner today I had some conv
erse with your charming mother.’
They both told me what I wished to hear.' `Did they?'
'They did. But . . . in orde
r that my happiness should be
complete, I need to receive the same information from your own lips.'
Morwenna looked down at a bed of Canterbury bells, nodding their heads gently in the breeze. Then she stared across the lawn to the old grey stone of the house. A little to the
left of the
m was the ornamental pond where Drake had
had his fun with the frogs. Beyond that and further to the left, just over the fold of the bill, was the coppice where Drake and she had first met. That wind
ow up on the first floor of the
house was the one from which she had sometimes watched for his coming, and from which she had seen him leave for the last time,
walking slowly down the drive,
his figure dwindling until it disappeared beyond the gates. So had gone her love and her life.
`Mr Whitworth,' she said. `I-'
`Osborne.'
`Osborne, I d
o not know what I can say ...'
`You know what I want you to say.'
'Yes, yes, but ... You see, forgive me; if you wish me to tell you that I love you, then I cannot do this. If -
if that is what you need, what you mean you need to make your happiness complete, then
-
then I cannot supply it. I am, deeply conscious of my failure.'
Osborne stared at her
and swallowed and then stared away. '
`I am told,' Morwenna said, `that I . . .' She stopped.
`Pray go on. Pray speak plainly.'
`What may happen if we should marry I do not know. I am told such feelings grow ...'
`You have been told, aright.'
`But, Mr Whitworth, I would not
-
could not be honest
w
ith you if I pretended to - to
feelings, emotions which I do not have. You tell me that you wish to marry me. If knowing what I have now told you, you still
wish this, then I will
marry you. Even though-'
'That is
what I wished to heard it,
is
all I wished to hear!'
'All for the present. Much will be added in marriage, Feeling
s that you are not yet aware of
! You are too young to understand. You mus
t believe me. I will guide you,
' He took her hand, which was cold. Her hands were always cold. He hated that. `I have no doubts at all. You shall be the mother to my daughters and in due course will have children of your own. The vicarage is
ready. During the summer the
necessary repairs have been com
pleted, for the previous v
icar allowed it to become run down. The chimney has been rebuilt and the dry rot taken out. It is a house you may enter into at once.'
`It is not
that,' Morwenna murmured. `The house, I am sure-'
`I wish to be back on Sunday, for I have made no arrangements for a locum to read the prayers. Being new in the district and having a number of distinguished parishioners who customarily attend, I would not wish to cancel the ordinary and prescribed Sunday service. We can be married on
Friday and return
the same day
Morwenna choked. `Friday? This Friday? But it is impossible! How can that b
e? It is impossible, I tell you
. ' She stopped, realizing that if she were to go through with this and if she were to make any attempt to begin a new life such as had been dictated for her, she must
keep the
antagonism out of her voice. `I'm sorry - but it is impossible isn't it? Arrangements c
ould not be made in the time!'
`Venturing,' said Ossie; `to build on the information I had received, and on my belief that time and reflection would override your hesitations, I did make some arrangements. Last week I obtained a licence from the bishop in Exeter, and we can be married in your own church before we return to Truro.'
Morwenna felt as if the last, vestiges of hope were being stripped from her, as if every door of retreat, however temporary, was being slammed as she approached it.
`Mr Whitworth, please-'
`Osborne
’
`Osborne ... I have no clothes, no bridal thing
s! There is nothing ready! You
must give me time, give me more time. . . .'
His face tautened, He was far more sure
of himself now. `My love, you
have had six months to think of this. That is
surely' time enough. As for clothes who is going to care? Your mother has no money for a bridal outfit,
' he, added with some contempt
-
she has already told me so
-
but you have
a white frock; Mrs Warleggan will have a veil; it will not be difficult to improvise. Then when we are married there will be provision made for your day and evening clothes. As. my wife you will be properly and suitably dressed. A wedding should be a religious ceremony, not an occasion for vulgar display.'
`But Friday is but three days! Could it not be arranged for September? I have promised to stay here for old Miss Poldark's birthday. That is in two weeks' time. A little longer -'
Ossie would not release her hand. An urgency was creeping through him, as if the contact brought him a new contagion. `No . , . It must be now. Morwenna, look at me.'
She glanced up, eyes smeared, looked away again. `It must be now,' he said, and for the first time stumbled over his words. `It must be this week. I need you. My
-
my children need you. Besides, when would there be another time when both your mother and mine were under the same roof? What better church to celebrate it in than the family church of the Warleggans who have so befriended you?'
So at about the time that Drake Came was nursing his damaged arm in the wood above Quimper and trying not to ask for more water which he knew his friends must risk discovery to fetch, Morwenna Chy
noweth was preparing to abandon
her maiden name in the Gothic church of St Sawle. Elizabeth had done more thin lend her a veil of old lace: she had produced her first wedding frock, twelve years old and never worn since; too short for Morwenna and too tight but in three days of intensive sewing Elizabeth and Mrs Amelia Chynoweth had worked wonders so that on the day' it fitted well enough, and no one unable to see beneath the surface could have guessed at the contrivances that had gone on.
There were only a dozen people in the church, and after it a quiet wedding breakfast at Trenwith; just, the family; and Ossie and Morwenna in the centre of it all: Ossie looking at his most extreme in a new coat of ribbed orange velvet with double lapels
-
the inner ones green striped
-
and the palest lavender stock, all bro
ught with him specially for the
occasion; while Morwenna sat like a shy madonna, the whiteness of her clothes making her skin look dark but silky; smiling when expected to smile but with absent eyes, a shell fro
m which the spirit had tried to
fly but found itself chained.
And George watched it, all with a composed, quietly satisfied manner. Defeat to him did not mean what it meant for most people: to him it was only an occasion for regrouping his pieces and shifting his ground. He had accepted and given way to Ross's threats after caref
ul deliberation, having weighed
the risks of defiance and calculated the advantages of a civilized, tactical withdrawal. He had not allowed hot blood to sway him. He had observed that by withdrawing the charge he could move back to his original position and bring the marriage with Osborne Whitworth into being after all. It had been
a considerable gain for
a small loss of face. On the whole he was content with the exchange.
After the
breakfast a hurried farewell
with Agatha protesting like a wounded bat in the background and the rest of the family coming to the door to see them off in the coach that George' had lent them. Thereafter three hours of lurching and bumping, during which Osborne never seemed for a second to cease to be touching her: her arm, her knee, her shoulder, her hand or her face; until at last they were descending the steep rutted hill into Truro. Then jogging over the cobbles, through the town to St Margaret's church on the other side, through gates and up a short muddy drive and they were entering the house; two servants bobbing curtsies and two tiny girls in the charge of a nursemaid, staring, staring, fingers in mouths, and up into a bedroom smelling of old wood and fresh paint. And after that one hour to herself and then supper, just the two of them waited on by a manservant, and some good food which she toyed with and some canary wine of which she drank enough to subdue the fit of shivering that had threatened to overtake her.
And all the time Osborne talking in a loud voice a voice just like his mother's. All day he had been jolly, but it was as if his jollity were put on
to hide his true feelings not t
o express them. Several times he rose from the table during supper to kiss her hand and once he kissed her neck, but a shrinking movement, however nearly controlled, prevented him from doing that again. But all the time his eyes were heavy on her. She looked for love in them but saw only lust, and a small measure of resentment. It was as if she had, only just failed to escape him and he still bore a grudge against her for ha
ving tried.