Mrs. Lockhart’s house at Hammersmith had been considered a good house in
its day, and was still decent and comfortable. It stood on a small side
street which branched off from the main road in the direction of the
river, and was built of dark red brick, with plain white-sashed windows.
It occupied the centre of an oblong plot of ground about half an acre in
extent, with a high brick wall all round it, except in front, where
space was left for a wrought-iron gate, hung between two posts, with an
heraldic animal of ambiguous species sitting upright on each of them.
The straight path which led from this gate to the front door of the
house was paved with broad square flagstones, kept very clean. In the
midst of the grass-plot on the left, as you entered, was a dark-hued
cedar of Lebanon, whose flattened layers of foliage looked out of
keeping with the English climate and the character of English trees. At
the back of the house was an orchard, comprising three ancient
apple-trees and the lifeless stump of the fourth; some sunflowers and
hollyhocks, alternating with gooseberry bushes, were planted along the
walls, which, for the most part, were draped in ivy. The interior of the
building showed a wide hall, giving access to a staircase, which, after
attaining a broad landing, used as a sort of an open sitting-room, and
looking out through a window upon the back garden, mounted to the region
of bed-rooms. The ground floor was divided into three rooms and a
kitchen, all of comfortable dimensions, and containing sober and
presentable furniture. In the drawing-room, moreover, hung a portrait,
taken in 1805, of the deceased master of the establishment; and a
miniature of the same gentleman, in a gold-rimmed oval frame, reposed
upon Mrs. Lockhart’s work-table. The sideboard in the dining-room
supported a salver and some other articles of plate which had belonged
to Mrs. Lockhart’s family, and which, when she surrendered her maiden
name of Fanny Pell, had been included in her modest dowry. For the rest,
there was a small collection of books, ranged on some shelves sunk into
the wall on either side of the drawing-room mantel-piece; and fastened
against the walls were sundry spoils of war, such as swords, helmets and
flint-lock muskets, which the Major had brought home from his campaigns.
Their stern and battle-worn aspect contrasted markedly with the gentle
and quiet demeanor of the dignified old lady who sat at the little table
by the window, with her sewing in her hands.
Mrs. Lockhart, as has been already intimated, had been a very lovely
girl, and, allowing for the modifications wrought by age, she had not,
at sixty-six, lost the essential charm which had distinguished her at
sixteen. Her social success had, during four London seasons, been
especially brilliant; and, although her fortune was at no time great,
she had received many highly eligible offers of marriage; and his Royal
Highness the Prince of Wales had declared her to be “a doosid sweet
little creature.” She had kept the citadel of her heart through many
sieges, and, save on one occasion, it had never known the throb of
passion up to the period of her marriage with Lieutenant Lockhart. But,
two years previous to that event, being then in her eighteenth year, she
had crossed the path of the famous Tom Grantley, who, at four-and-thirty
years of age, had not yet passed the meridian of his renown. He was of
Irish family and birth, daring, fascinating, generous and dangerous with
both men and women; accounted one of the handsomest men in Europe, a
fatal duelist, a reckless yet fortunate gambler, a well-nigh
irresistible wooer in love, and in political debate an orator of
impetuous and captivating eloquence. His presence and bearing were lofty
and superb; and he was one of those whose fiat in manners of fashion was
law. When only twenty-one years old, he had astonished society by
eloping with Edith, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Seabridge, a girl
not less remarkable for beauty than for a spirit and courage which were
a match for Tom Grantley’s own. The Earl had never forgiven this wild
marriage, and Tom having already seriously diminished his patrimony by
extravagance, the young couple were fain to make a more than passing
acquaintance with the seamy side of life. But loss of fortune did not,
for them, mean loss either of heart or of mutual love, and during five
years of their wedded existence there was nowhere to be found a more
devoted husband than Tom Grantley, or a wife more affectionate and loyal
than Lady Edith. And when she died, leaving him an only child, it was
for some time a question whether Tom would not actually break his heart.
He survived his loss, however, and, having inherited a fresh fortune
from a relative, he entered the world again and dazzled it once more.
But he was never quite the same man as previously; there was a sternness
and bitterness underlying his character which had not formerly been
perceptible. During the ensuing ten years he was engaged in no fewer
than thirteen duels, in which it was generally understood that the honor
of some unlucky lady or other was at stake, and in most of these
encounters he either wounded or killed his man. In his thirteenth affair
he was himself severely wounded, the rapier of his antagonist
penetrating the right lung; the wound healed badly, and probably
shortened his life by many years, though he did not die until after
reaching the age of forty. At the time of his meeting with Fanny Pell
he was moving about London, a magnificent wreck of a man, with great
melancholy blue eyes, a voice sonorously musical, a manner and address
of grave and exquisite courtesy. Gazing upon that face, whose noble
beauty was only deepened by the traces it bore of passion and pain,
Fanny Pell needed not the stimulus of his ominous reputation to yield
him first her awed homage, and afterwards her heart. But Tom, on this
occasion, acted in a manner which, we may suppose, did something toward
wiping away the stains of his many sins. He had been attracted by the
gentle charm of the girl, and for a while he made no scruple about
attracting her in turn. There was a maidenly dignity and
straightforwardness about Fanny Pell, however, which, while it won upon
Grantley far more than did the deliberate and self-conscious
fascinations of other women, inspired at the same time an unwonted
relenting in his heart. Feeling that here was one who might afford him
something vastly deeper and more valuable than the idle pride of
conquest and possession with which he was only too familiar, he
bethought himself to show his recognition of the worth of that gift in
the only way that was open to him--by rejecting it. So, one day, looking
down from his majestic height into her lovely girlish face, he said with
great gentleness, “My dear Miss Fanny, it has been very kind of you to
show so much goodness to a broken-down old scamp like myself, who’s old
enough to be your father; and faith! I feel like a father to ye, too!
Why, if I’d had a little girl instead of a boy, she might have had just
such a sweet face as yours, my dear. So you’ll not take it ill of
me--will ye now!--if I just give you a kiss on the forehead before I go
away. Many a woman have I seen and forgotten, who’ll maybe not forget me
in a hurry; but your fair eyes and tender voice I never will forget, for
they’ve done more for me than ever a father confessor of ’em all!
Good-by, dear child; and if ever any man would do ye wrong--though,
sure, no man that has as much heart as a fish would do that--tell him to
’ware Tom Grantley! and as true as there’s a God in heaven, and a Tom
Grantley on earth, I’ll put my bullet through the false skull of him.
That’s all, my child: only, when ye come to marry some fine honest chap,
as soon ye will, don’t forget to send for your old friend Tom to come
and dance at your wedding.”
Poor Fanny felt as if her heart were being taken out of her innocent
bosom; but she was by nature so quiet in all her ways that all she did
was to stand with her glistening eyes uplifted toward the splendid
gentleman, her lips tremulous, and her little hands hanging folded
before her. And Tom, who was but human after all, and had begun to fear
that he had undertaken at least as much as he was capable of performing,
kissed her, not on her forehead, but on her mouth, and therewith took
his leave hurriedly, and without much ceremony. And Fanny never saw him
again; but she never forgot him, nor he her; though two years afterwards
she married Lieutenant Lockhart, and was a faithful and loving wife to
him for five-and-forty years. The honest soldier never thought of asking
why she named their first child Tom; and when the child died, and Mrs.
Lockhart put on mourning, it never occurred to him that Tom Grantley’s
having died in the same month of the same year had deepened the folds of
his wife’s crape. But so it is that the best of us have our secrets, and
those who are nearest to us suspect it not.
For the rest, Mrs. Lockhart’s life was a sufficiently adventurous and
diversified one. War was a busy and a glorious profession in those days;
and the sweet-faced lady accompanied her husband on several of his
campaigns, cheerfully enduring any hardships; or awaited his return at
home, amidst the more trying hardships of suspense and fear. During
that time when the nations paused for a moment to watch France cut off
her own head as a preliminary to entering upon a new life, Captain
Lockhart (as he was then) and his wife happened to be on that side of
the Channel, and saw many terrible historical sights; and the Captain,
who was no friend to revolution in any shape, improved an opportunity
for doing a vital service for a distinguished French nobleman, bringing
the latter safely to England at some risk to his own life. A year or two
later Mrs. Lockhart’s second child was born, this time a daughter; and
then followed a few summers and winters of comparative calm, the
monotony of which was only partially relieved by such domestic events as
the trial of Warren Hastings, the acting of Kemble and the classic
buffoonery of Grimaldi. Then the star of Nelson began to kindle, and
Captain Lockhart, reading the news, kindled also, and secretly glanced
at his honorable sword hanging upon the wall; yet not so secretly but
that his wife detected and interpreted the glance, and kissed her little
daughter with a sigh. And it was not long before Arthur Wellesley went
to Spain, and Captain Lockhart, along with many thousand other loyal
Englishmen, followed him thither; and Mrs. Lockhart and little Marion
stayed behind and waited for news. The news that chiefly interested her
was that her husband was promoted to be Major for gallant conduct on the
field of battle; then that he was wounded; and, finally, that he was
coming home. Home he came, accordingly, a glorious invalid; but even
this was not to be the end of trouble and glory. England still had need
of her best men, and Major Lockhart was among those who were responsible
for the imprisonment of the Corsican Ogre in St. Helena. It was between
this period and the sudden storm that culminated at Waterloo, that the
happiest time of all the married life of the Lockharts was passed. He
had saved a fair sum of money, with part of which he bought the house
in Hammersmith; and upon the interest of the remainder, in addition to
his half-pay, he was able to carry on existence with comfort and
respectability. Marion was no longer the odd little creature in short
skirts that she had been when the Major kissed her good-by on his
departure for the Peninsular War, but a well-grown and high-spirited
young lady, with the features of her father, and a character of her own.
She was passionately devoted to the gray-haired veteran, and was never
tired of listening to his famous histories; of cooking his favorite
dishes; of cutting tobacco for his pipe; of sitting on the arm of his
chair, with her arm about his neck, and her cheek against his. “Marion
has the stuff of a soldier in her,” the Major used to declare; whereupon
the mother would silently thank Providence that Marion was not a boy. It
had only been within the last five or six years that Marion had really
believed that she was not, or might not become, a boy after all; a not
uncommon hallucination with those who are destined to become more than
ordinarily womanly.
When the event occurred which widowed France of her Emperor and Mrs.
Lockhart of her husband (much the worst catastrophe of the two, in that
lady’s opinion), the prospects of the household in Hammersmith seemed in
no respect bright. The Major’s half-pay ceased with the Major, and the
widow’s pension was easier to get in theory than in practice. The
interest of the small capital was not sufficient by itself to meet the
current expenses, though these were conducted upon the most economical
scale; and Marion, upon whose shoulders all domestic cares devolved, was
presently at her wit’s end how to get on. She did all the cooking
herself, and much of the washing, though Mrs. Lockhart strongly
protested against the latter, because Marion’s hands were of remarkably
fine shape and texture, being, in fact, her chief beauty from the
conventional point of view, and washing would make them red and ugly.
Marion affirmed, with more sincerity than is commonly predicable of such
sayings, that her hands were made to use, and that she did not care
about them except as they were useful; and she went on with her washing
in spite of protestations. But even this did not cover deficiencies; and
then there was the wardrobe question. Marion, however, pointed out that,
in the first place, she had enough clothes on hand to last her for a
long time, especially as she had done growing; and, secondly, that she
could easily manage all necessary repairs and additions herself. To this
Mrs. Lockhart replied that young ladies must be dressed like young
ladies; that good clothes were a necessary tribute to good society; and
that in order to be happily and genteelly married, a girl must make the
most of her good points, and subdue her bad ones, by the adornments of
costume. This was, no doubt, very true; but marriage was a thing which
Marion never could hear proposed, even by her own mother, with any
patience; and, as a consequence, to use marriage as an argument in
support of dress, was to insure the rejection of the argument. Marriage,
said Marion, was, to begin with, a thing to which her whole character
and temperament were utterly opposed. She was herself too much like a
man ever to care for a man, or not to despise him. In the next place, if
a girl had not enough in her to win an honest man’s love, in spite of
any external disadvantages, then the best thing for her would be not to
be loved at all. Love, this young dissenter would go on to observe, is
something sacred, if it is anything; and so pure and sensitive, that it
were infinitely better to forego it altogether than to run the least
risk of getting it mixed up with any temporal or expedient
considerations. And since, she would add, it seems to be impossible
nowadays ever to get love in that unsullied and virginal condition, she
for her part intended to give it a wide berth if ever it came in her
way--which she was quite sure it never would; because it takes two to
make a bargain, and not only would she never be one of the two, but, if
she were to be so, she thanked God that she had so ugly a face and so
unconciliating a temper that no man would venture to put up with her;
unless, perhaps, she were possessed of five or ten thousand a year; from
which misfortune it was manifestly the beneficent purpose of Providence
to secure her. The upshot of this diatribe was that she did not care how
shabby and ungenteel her clothes were, so long as they were clean and
covered her; and that even if she could afford to hire a dressmaker, she
would still prefer to do her making and mending herself; because no one
so well as herself could comprehend what she wanted.
“You should not call yourself ugly, Marion,” her mother would reply: “at
any rate, you should not think yourself ugly. A girl generally appears
to others like what she is in the habit of thinking herself to be. Half
the women who are called beauties are not really beautiful; but they
have persuaded themselves that they are so, and then other people
believe it. People in this world so seldom take the pains to think or to
judge for themselves; they take what is given to them. Besides, to think
a thing, really does a great deal toward making it come true. If you
think you are pretty, you will grow prettier every day. And if you keep
on talking about being ugly.... You have a very striking, intelligent
face, my dear, and your smile is very charming indeed.”
Marion laughed scornfully. “Believing a lie is not the way to invent
truth,” she said. “All the imagination in England won’t make me
different from what I am. Whether I am ugly or not, I’m not a fool, and
I shan’t give anybody the right to call me one by behaving as if I
fancied I were somebody else. I am very well as I am,” she continued,
wringing out a towel and spreading it out on the clothes-horse to dry.
“I should be too jealous and suspicious to make a man happy, and I don’t
mean to try it. You don’t understand that; but you were made to be
married, and I wasn’t, and that’s the reason.”
Nevertheless, the income continued to be insufficient, and inroads
continued to be made on the capital, much to the friendly distress of
Sir Francis Bendibow, the head of the great banking-house of Bendibow
Brothers, to whose care the funds of the late Major Lockhart had been
intrusted “The first guinea you withdraw from your capital, my dear
madam,” he had assured Mrs. Lockhart, with his usual manner of
impressive courtesy, “represents your first step on the road that leads
to bankruptcy.” The widow admitted the truth of the maxim; but
misfortunes are not always curable in proportion as they are undeniable;
though that seemed to be Sir Francis’ assumption. Mrs. Lockhart began to
suffer from her anxieties. Marion saw this, and was in despair. “What a
good-for-nothing thing a woman is!” she exclaimed bitterly. “If I were a
man I would earn our living.” She understood something of music, and
sang and played with great refinement and expression: but her talent in
this direction was natural, not acquired, and she was not sufficiently
grounded in the science of the accomplishment to have any chance of
succeeding as a teacher. What was to be done?
“What do you say to selling the house and grounds, and going into
lodgings?” she said one day.
“It would help us for a time, but not for always,” the mother replied.
“Lodgings are so expensive.”
“The house is a great deal bigger than we need,” said Marion.
“We should be no better off if it were smaller,” said Mrs. Lockhart.
There was a long pause. Suddenly Marion jumped to her feet, while the
light of inspiration brightened over her face. “Why, mother, what is to
prevent us letting our spare rooms to lodgers?” she cried out.
“Oh, that would be impossible!” returned the mother in dismay. “The
rooms that your dear father used to live in!”
“That is what we must do,” answered Marion firmly; and in the end, as we
have seen, that was what they did.