P.S. I forgot to say that the girl Tisha would not hear of Marriage with Noke, once she had discovered his perfidy. It is a double pity if she must be ruin’d, for she hath a high spirit, and more honesty, I believe, than her deeds declare. P.P.S. Mrs Dewdney now tells me (Wednesday morn.) that the Baileys are for marrying their girl to Tom Shellett, your cowherd. He is no match for her and is urged to the business, I fancy, more by promise of a plump dowry than by affection or even (which were at least a better reason than cupidity) by the enticement of her person. Tisha is not yet persuaded to it, but since her mother promises to shut the door against her if she refuse, there is small doubt of the issue.
Within an hour of receiving this letter, Jack Marden shewed it to Celia.
‘I’ve escaped a great deal of vexation, it seems. But at poor Father Gaudy’s expense.’
As she read the letter she said to herself: He is too sure of me, or he would not ask me to read so squalid a story. Were I his wife already he could hardly treat me with less ceremony. She was not in fact shocked or offended: the lower orders being so remote from her world, their misdemeanours were as little embarrassing to discuss as the habits of farmyard creatures. But she wondered whether Jack did not take her too much for granted, and this speculation, this fear, this conviction—for the matter grew worse with thinking on it—was born of the fancy that she had perhaps been too easy with him, and by yielding her heart too readily had encouraged him to think himself irresistible. She was not vain: she thought Jack wonderful and herself not at all so. But she was afraid—for now her light fancy had suddenly assumed the dimensions of terror—lest by impulsiveness, by the very honesty of her love, she had made herself of less account in his sight. The fear kindled a flush in her cheeks.
‘I think you need not pity him overmuch.’ She handed back the letter. Her voice and manner were cool.
He was bewildered, and cursed himself for a clumsy fool. ‘Need I not?’ he said. ‘And, pray, why?’
There was constraint between them, and she avoided looking at him. ‘It would seem to have amused him, this vulgar comedy.’
‘I did not read his letter so,’ said Marden. ‘I have the greatest respect and love for Father Gandy, and he is not the man to think lightly of such a matter, even did his cloth permit it.’ This was true, but its implications did less than justice both to the priest’s urbane temper and to Marden’s own honesty. ‘I assure you, my dear Celia, he is the worthiest of men.’
‘I have no doubt of it,’ she answered. ‘I find he is far too worthy a man to think harshly of a woman, so she be pretty, no matter how grossly she has smirched her sex’s honour. No doubt you are with him in that?’
Marden summoned an uneasy laugh. He came nearer and took her hand. ‘But are you not forgetting, my love, that he is our spiritual father? Who am I—who are we—to pit our judgement against his?’