This visit was a type of many which followed it during the long summer days of that year. Grace was borne along upon a stream of reasonings, arguments, and persuasions, supplemented, it must be added, by inclinations of her own at times. No woman is without aspirations, which may be innocent enough within certain limits; and Grace had been so trained socially, and educated intellectually, as to see clearly enough a pleasure in the position of wife to such a man as Fitzpiers. His material standing of itself, either present or future, had little in it to give her ambition, but the possibilities of a refined and cultivated inner life, of subtle psychological intercourse, had their charm. It was this rather than any vulgar idea of marrying well which caused her to float with the current, and to yield to the immense influence which Fitzpiers exercised over her whenever she shared his society.
Any observer would shrewdly have prophesied that whether or not she loved him as yet in the ordinary sense, she was pretty sure to do so in time.
One evening just before dusk they had taken a rather long walk together, and for a short cut homeward passed through the shrubberies of Hintock House--still deserted, and still blankly confronting with its sightless shuttered windows the surrounding foliage and slopes. Grace was tired, and they approached the wall, and sat together on one of the stone sills--still warm with the sun that had been pouring its rays upon them all the afternoon.
"This place would just do for us, would it not, dearest," said her betrothed, as they sat, turning and looking idly at the old facade.
"Oh yes," said Grace, plainly showing that no such fancy had ever crossed her mind. "She is away from home still," Grace added in a minute, rather sadly, for she could not forget that she had somehow lost the valuable friendship of the lady of this bower.
"Who is?--oh, you mean Mrs. Charmond. Do you know, dear, that at one time I thought you lived here."
"Indeed!" said Grace. "How was that?"
He explained, as far as he could do so without mentioning his disappointment at finding it was otherwise; and then went on:
"Well, never mind that. Now I want to ask you something. There is one detail of our wedding which I am sure you will leave to me.
My inclination is not to be married at the horrid little church here, with all the yokels staring round at us, and a droning parson reading."
"Where, then, can it be? At a church in town?"
"No. Not at a church at all. At a registry office. It is a quieter, snugger, and more convenient place in every way."
"Oh," said she, with real distress. "How can I be married except at church, and with all my dear friends round me?"
"Yeoman Winterborne among them."
"Yes--why not? You know there was nothing serious between him and me "
"You see, dear, a noisy bell-ringing marriage at church has this objection in our case: it would be a thing of report a long way round. Now I would gently, as gently as possible, indicate to you how inadvisable such publicity would be if we leave Hintock, and I purchase the practice that I contemplate purchasing at Budmouth-- hardly more than twenty miles off. Forgive my saying that it will be far better if nobody there knows where you come from, nor anything about your parents. Your beauty and knowledge and manners will carry you anywhere if you are not hampered by such retrospective criticism."
"But could it not be a quiet ceremony, even at church?" she pleaded.
"I don't see the necessity of going there!" he said, a trifle impatiently. "Marriage is a civil contract, and the shorter and ******r it is made the better. People don't go to church when they take a house, or even when they make a will."
"Oh, Edgar--I don't like to hear you speak like that."
"Well, well--I didn't mean to. But I have mentioned as much to your father, who has made no objection; and why should you?"
She gave way, deeming the point one on which she ought to allow sentiment to give way to policy--if there were indeed policy in his plan. But she was indefinably depressed as they walked homeward.