Adrian really bore the news he had heard with creditable
disinterestedness, and admirable repression of anything beneath the
dignity of a philosopher. When one has attained that felicitous point of
wisdom from which one sees all mankind to be fools, the diminutive
objects may make what new moves they please, one does not marvel at them:
their sedateness is as comical as their frolic, and their frenzies more
comical still. On this intellectual eminence the wise youth had built
his castle, and he had lived in it from an early period. Astonishment
never shook the foundations, nor did envy of greater heights tempt him to
relinquish the security of his stronghold, for he saw none. Jugglers he
saw running up ladders that overtopped him, and air-balloons scaling the
empyrean; but the former came precipitately down again, and the latter
were at the mercy of the winds; while he remained tranquil on his solid
unambitious ground, fitting his morality to the laws, his conscience to
his morality, his comfort to his conscience. Not that voluntarily he cut
himself off from his fellows: on the contrary, his sole amusement was
their society. Alone he was rather dull, as a man who beholds but one
thing must naturally be. Study of the animated varieties of that one
thing excited him sufficiently to think life a pleasant play; and the
faculties he had forfeited to hold his elevated position he could
serenely enjoy by contemplation of them in others. Thus:--wonder at
Master Richard's madness: though he himself did not experience it, he was
eager to mark the effect on his beloved relatives. As he carried along
his vindictive hunch of cake, he shaped out their different attitudes of
amaze, bewilderment, horror; passing by some personal chagrin in the
prospect. For his patron had projected a journey, commencing with Paris,
culminating on the Alps, and lapsing in Rome: a delightful journey to
show Richard the highways of History and tear him from the risk of
further ignoble fascinations, that his spirit might be altogether bathed
in freshness and revived. This had been planned during Richard's absence
to surprise him.
Now the dream of travel was to Adrian what the love of woman is to the
race of young men. It supplanted that foolishness. It was his Romance,
as we say; that buoyant anticipation on which in youth we ride the airs,
and which, as we wax older and too heavy for our atmosphere, hardens to
the Hobby, which, if an obstinate animal, is a safer horse, and conducts
man at a slower pace to the sexton. Adrian had never travelled. He was
aware that his romance was earthly and had discomforts only to be evaded
by the one potent talisman possessed by his patron. His Alp would hardly
be grand to him without an obsequious landlord in the foreground: he must
recline on Mammon's imperial cushions in order to moralize becomingly on
the ancient world. The search for pleasure at the expense of discomfort,
as frantic lovers woo their mistresses to partake the shelter of a but
and batten on a crust, Adrian deemed the bitterness of beggarliness. Let
his sweet mistress be given him in the pomp and splendour due to his
superior emotions, or not at all. Consequently the wise youth had long
nursed an ineffectual passion, and it argued a great nature in him, that
at the moment when his wishes were to be crowned, he should look with
such slight touches of spleen at the gorgeous composite fabric of
Parisian cookery and Roman antiquities crumbling into unsubstantial
mockery. Assuredly very few even of the philosophers would have turned
away uncomplainingly to meaner delights the moment after.
Hippias received the first portion of the cake.
He was sitting by the window in his hotel, reading. He had fought down
his breakfast with more than usual success, and was looking forward to
his dinner at the Foreys' with less than usual timidity.
"Ah! glad you've come, Adrian," he said, and expanded his chest. "I was
afraid I should have to ride down. This is kind of you. We'll walk down
together through the park. It's absolutely dangerous to walk alone in
these streets. My opinion is, that orange-peel lasts all through the
year now, and will till legislation puts a stop to it. I give you my
word I slipped on a piece of orange-peel yesterday afternoon in
Piccadilly, and I thought I was down! I saved myself by a miracle."
"You have an appetite, I hope?" asked Adrian.
"I think I shall get one, after a bit of a walk," chirped Hippias. "Yes.
I think I feel hungry now."
"Charmed to hear it," said Adrian, and began unpinning his parcel on his
knees. "How should you define Folly?" he checked the process to inquire.
"Hm!" Hippias meditated; he prided himself on being oracular when such
questions were addressed to him. "I think I should define it to be a
slide."
"Very good definition. In other words, a piece of orange-peel; once on
it, your life and limbs are in danger, and you are saved by a miracle.
You must present that to the Pilgrim. And the monument of folly, what
would that be?"
Hippias meditated anew. "All the human race on one another's shoulders."
He chuckled at the sweeping sourness of the instance.
"Very good," Adrian applauded, "or in default of that, some symbol of the
thing, say; such as this of which I have here brought you a chip."
Adrian displayed the quarter of the cake.
"This is the monument made portable--eh?"
"Cake!" cried Hippias, retreating to his chair to dramatize his intense
disgust. "You're right of them that eat it. If I--if I don't mistake,"
he peered at it, "the noxious composition bedizened in that way is what
they call wedding-cake. It's arrant poison! Who is it you want to kill?
What are you carrying such stuff about for?"
Adrian rang the bell for a knife. "To present you with your due and
proper portion. You will have friends and relatives, and can't be saved
from them, not even by miracle. It is a habit which exhibits, perhaps,
the unconscious inherent cynicism of the human mind, for people who
consider that they have reached the acme of mundane felicity, to
distribute this token of esteem to their friends, with the object
probably" (he took the knife from a waiter and went to the table to slice
the cake) "of enabling those friends (these edifices require very
delicate incision--each particular currant and subtle condiment hangs to
its neighbour--a wedding-cake is evidently the most highly civilized of
cakes, and partakes of the evils as well as the advantages of
civilization!)--I was saying, they send us these love-tokens, no doubt
(we shall have to weigh out the crumbs, if each is to have his fair
share) that we may the better estimate their state of bliss by passing
some hours in purgatory. This, as far as I can apportion it without
weights and scales, is your share, my uncle!"
He pushed the corner of the table bearing the cake towards Hippias.
"Get away!" Hippias vehemently motioned, and started from his chair.
"I'll have none of it, I tell you! It's death! It's fifty times worse
than that beastly compound Christmas pudding! What fool has been doing
this, then? Who dares send me cake? Me! It's an insult."
"You are not compelled to eat any before dinner," said Adrian, pointing
the corner of the table after him, "but your share you must take, and
appear to consume. One who has done so much to bring about the marriage
cannot in conscience refuse his allotment of the fruits. Maidens, I
hear, first cook it under their pillows, and extract nuptial dreams
therefrom--said to be of a lighter class, taken that way. It's a capital
cake, and, upon my honour, you have helped to make it--you have indeed!
So here it is."
The table again went at Hippias. He ran nimbly round it, and flung
himself on a sofa exhausted, crying: "There!... My appetite's gone for
to-day!"
"Then shall I tell Richard that you won't touch a morsel of his cake?"
said Adrian, leaning on his two hands over the table and looking at his
uncle.
"Richard?"
"Yes, your nephew: my cousin: Richard! Your companion since you've been
in town. He's married, you know. Married this morning at Kensington
parish church, by licence, at half-past eleven of the clock, or twenty
to. Married, and gone to spend his honeymoon in the Isle of Wight, a
very delectable place for a month's residence. I have to announce to you
that, thanks to your assistance, the experiment is launched, sir!"
"Richard married!"
There was something to think and to say in objection to it, but the wits
of poor Hippias were softened by the shock. His hand travelled half-way
to his forehead, spread out to smooth the surface of that seat of reason,
and then fell.
"Surely you knew all about it? you were so anxious to have him in town
under your charge...."
"Married?" Hippias jumped up--he had it. "Why, he's under age! he's an
infant."
"So he is. But the infant is not the less married. Fib like a man and
pay your fee--what does it matter? Any one who is breeched can obtain a
licence in our noble country. And the interests of morality demand that
it should not be difficult. Is it true--can you persuade anybody that
you have known nothing about it?"
"Ha! infamous joke! I wish, sir, you would play your pranks on somebody
else," said Hippias, sternly, as he sank back on the sofa. "You've done
me up for the day, I can assure you."
Adrian sat down to instil belief by gentle degrees, and put an artistic
finish to the work. He had the gratification of passing his uncle
through varied contortions, and at last Hippias perspired in conviction,
and exclaimed, "This accounts for his conduct to me. That boy must have
a cunning nothing short of infernal! I feel...I feel it just here, he
drew a hand along his midriff.
"I'm not equal to this world of fools," he added faintly, and shut his
eyes. "No, I can't dine. Eat? ha!...no. Go without me!"
Shortly after, Hippias went to bed, saying to himself, as he undressed,
"See what comes of our fine schemes! Poor Austin!" and as the pillow
swelled over his ears, "I'm not sure that a day's fast won't do me good."
The Dyspepsy had bought his philosophy at a heavy price; he had a right
to use it.
Adrian resumed the procession of the cake.
He sighted his melancholy uncle Algernon hunting an appetite in the Row,
and looking as if the hope ahead of him were also one-legged. The
Captain did not pass with out querying the ungainly parcel.
"I hope I carry it ostentatiously enough?" said Adrian.
"Enclosed is wherewithal to quiet the alarm of the land. Now may the
maids and wives of Merry England sleep secure. I had half a mind to fix
it on a pole, and engage a band to parade it. This is our dear Richard's
wedding-cake. Married at half-past eleven this morning, by licence, at
the Kensington parish church; his own ring being lost he employed the
ring of his beautiful bride's lachrymose land-lady, she standing adjacent
by the altar. His farewell to you as a bachelor, and hers as a maid, you
can claim on the spot if you think proper, and digest according to your
powers."
Algernon let off steam in a whistle. "Thompson, the solicitor's
daughter!" he said. "I met them the other day, somewhere about here. He
introduced me to her. A pretty little baggage.
"No." Adrian set him right. "'Tis a Miss Desborough, a Roman Catholic
dairymaid. Reminds one of pastoral England in the time of the
Plantagenets! He's quite equal to introducing her as Thompson's
daughter, and himself as Beelzebub's son. However, the wild animal is in
Hymen's chains, and the cake is cut. Will you have your morsel?"
"Oh, by all means!--not now." Algernon had an unwonted air of
reflection.--" Father know it?"
"Not yet. He will to-night by nine o'clock."
"Then I must see him by seven. Don't say you met me." He nodded, and
pricked his horse.
"Wants money!" said Adrian, putting the combustible he carried once more
in motion.
The women were the crowning joy of his contemplative mind. He had
reserved them for his final discharge. Dear demonstrative creatures!
Dyspepsia would not weaken their poignant outcries, or self-interest
check their fainting fits. On the generic woman one could calculate.
Well might The Pilgrim's Scrip say of her that, "She is always at
Nature's breast"; not intending it as a compliment. Each woman is Eve
throughout the ages; whereas the Pilgrim would have us believe that the
Adam in men has become warier, if not wiser; and weak as he is, has
learnt a lesson from time. Probably the Pilgrim's meaning may be taken
to be, that Man grows, and Woman does not.
At any rate, Adrian hoped for such natural choruses as you hear in the
nursery when a bauble is lost. He was awake to Mrs. Doria's maternal
predestinations, and guessed that Clare stood ready with the best form of
filial obedience. They were only a poor couple to gratify his
Mephistophelian humour, to be sure, but Mrs. Doria was equal to twenty,
and they would proclaim the diverse ways with which maidenhood and
womanhood took disappointment, while the surrounding Forey girls and
other females of the family assembly were expected to develop the finer
shades and tapering edges of an agitation to which no woman could be
cold.
All went well. He managed cleverly to leave the cake unchallenged in a
conspicuous part of the drawing-room, and stepped gaily down to dinner.
Much of the conversation adverted to Richard. Mrs. Doria asked him if he
had seen the youth, or heard of him.
"Seen him? no! Heard of him? yes!" said Adrian. "I have heard of him.
I heard that he was sublimely happy, and had eaten such a breakfast that
dinner was impossible; claret and cold chicken, cake and"--
"Cake at breakfast!" they all interjected.,
"That seems to be his fancy just now."
"What an extraordinary taste!"
"You know, he is educated on a System."
One fast young male Forey allied the System and the cake in a miserable
pun. Adrian, a hater of puns, looked at him, and held the table silent,
as if he were going to speak; but he said nothing, and the young
gentleman vanished from the conversation in a blush, extinguished by his
own spark.
Mrs. Doria peevishly exclaimed, "Oh! fish-cake, I suppose! I wish he
understood a little better the obligations of relationship."
"Whether he understands them, I can't say," observed Adrian, "but I
assure you he is very energetic in extending them."
The wise youth talked innuendoes whenever he had an opportunity, that his
dear relative might be rendered sufficiently inflammable by and by at the
aspect of the cake; but he was not thought more than commonly mysterious
and deep.
"Was his appointment at the house of those Grandison people?" Mrs. Doria
asked, with a hostile upper-lip.
Adrian warmed the blindfolded parties by replying, "Do they keep a beadle
at the door?"
Mrs. Doria's animosity to Mrs. Grandison made her treat this as a piece
of satirical ingenuousness. "I daresay they do," she said.
"And a curate on hand?"
"Oh, I should think a dozen!"
Old Mr. Forey advised his punning grandson Clarence to give that house a
wide berth, where he might be disposed of and dished-up at a moment's
notice, and the scent ran off at a jest.
The Foreys gave good dinners, and with the old gentleman the excellent
old fashion remained in permanence of trooping off the ladies as soon as
they had taken their sustenance and just exchanged a smile with the
flowers and the dessert, when they rose to fade with a beautiful accord,
and the gallant males breathed under easier waistcoats, and settled to
the business of the table, sure that an hour for unbosoming and imbibing
was their own. Adrian took a chair by Brandon Forey, a barrister of
standing.
"I want to ask you," he said, "whether an infant in law can legally bind
himself."
"If he's old enough to affix his signature to an instrument, I suppose he
can," yawned Brandon.
"Is he responsible for his acts?"
"I've no doubt we could hang him."
"Then what he could do for himself, you could do for him?"
"Not quite so much; pretty near."
"For instance, he can marry?"
"That's not a criminal case, you know."
"And the marriage is valid?"
"You can dispute it."
"Yes, and the Greeks and the Trojans can fight. It holds then?"
"Both water and fire!"
The patriarch of the table sang out to Adrian that he stopped the
vigorous circulation of the claret.
"Dear me, sir!" said Adrian, "I beg pardon. The circumstances must
excuse me. The fact is, my cousin Richard got married to a dairymaid
this morning, and I wanted to know whether it held in law."
It was amusing to watch the manly coolness with which the announcement
was taken. Nothing was heard more energetic than, "Deuce he has!" and,
"A dairymaid!"
"I thought it better to let the ladies dine in peace," Adrian continued.
"I wanted to be able to console my aunt"--
"Well, but--well, but," the old gentleman, much the most excited, puffed-
-"eh, Brandon? He's a boy, this young ass! Do you mean to tell me a boy
can go and marry when he pleases, and any troll he pleases, and the
marriage is good? If I thought that I'd turn every woman off my
premises. I would! from the housekeeper to the scullery-maid. I'd have
no woman near him till--till"--
"Till the young greenhorn was grey, sir?" suggested Brandon.
"Till he knew what women are made of, sir!" the old gentleman finished
his sentence vehemently. "What, d'ye think, will Feverel say to it, Mr.
Adrian?"
"He has been trying the very System you have proposed sir--one that does
not reckon on the powerful action of curiosity on the juvenile
intelligence. I'm afraid it's the very worst way of solving the
problem."
"Of course it is," said Clarence. "None but a fool!"--
"At your age," Adrian relieved his embarrassment, "it is natural, my dear
Clarence, that you should consider the idea of an isolated or imprisoned
manhood something monstrous, and we do not expect you to see what amount
of wisdom it contains. You follow one extreme, and we the other. I
don't say that a middle course exists. The history of mankind shows our
painful efforts to find one, but they have invariably resolved themselves
into asceticism, or laxity, acting and reacting. The moral question is,
if a naughty little man, by reason of his naughtiness, releases himself
from foolishness, does a foolish little man, by reason of his
foolishness, save himself from naughtiness?"
A discussion, peculiar to men of the world, succeeded the laugh at Mr.
Clarence. Then coffee was handed round and the footman informed Adrian,
in a low voice, that Mrs. Doria Forey particularly wished to speak with
him. Adrian preferred not to go in alone. "Very well," he said, and
sipped his coffee. They talked on, sounding the depths of law in Brandon
Forey, and receiving nought but hollow echoes from that profound cavity.
He would not affirm that the marriage was invalid: he would not affirm
that it could not be annulled. He thought not: still he thought it would
be worth trying. A consummated and a non-consummated union were two
different things....
"Dear me!" said Adrian, "does the Law recognize that? Why, that's almost
human!"
Another message was brought to Adrian that Mrs. Doria Forey very
particularly wished to speak with him.
"What can be the matter?" he exclaimed, pleased to have his faith in
woman strengthened. The cake had exploded, no doubt.
So it proved, when the gentlemen joined the fair society. All the
younger ladies stood about the table, whereon the cake stood displayed,
gaps being left for those sitting to feast their vision, and intrude the
comments and speculations continually arising from fresh shocks of wonder
at the unaccountable apparition. Entering with the half-guilty air of
men who know they have come from a grosser atmosphere, the gallant males
also ranged themselves round the common object of curiosity.
"Here! Adrian!" Mrs. Doria cried. "Where is Adrian? Pray, come here.
Tell me! Where did this cake come from? Whose is it? What does it do
here? You know all about it, for you brought it. Clare saw you bring it
into the room. What does it mean? I insist upon a direct answer. Now
do not make me impatient, Adrian."
Certainly Mrs. Doria was equal to twenty. By her concentrated rapidity
and volcanic complexion it was evident that suspicion had kindled.
"I was really bound to bring it," Adrian protested.
"Answer me!"
The wise youth bowed: "Categorically. This cake came from the house of a
person, a female, of the name of Berry. It belongs to you partly, partly
to me, partly to Clare, and to the rest of our family, on the principle
of equal division for which purpose it is present...."
"Yes! Speak!"
"It means, my dear aunt, what that kind of cake usually does mean."
"This, then, is the Breakfast! And the ring! Adrian! where is Richard?"
Mrs. Doria still clung to unbelief in the monstrous horror.
But when Adrian told her that Richard had left town, her struggling hope
sank. "The wretched boy has ruined himself!" she said, and sat down
trembling.
Oh! that System! The delicate vituperations gentle ladies use instead of
oaths, Mrs. Doria showered on that System. She hesitated not to say that
her brother had got what he deserved. Opinionated, morbid, weak, justice
had overtaken him. Now he would see! but at what a price! at what a
sacrifice!
Mrs. Doria, commanded Adrian to confirm her fears.
Sadly the wise youth recapitulated Berry's words. "He was married this
morning at half-past eleven of the clock, or twenty to twelve, by
licence, at the Kensington parish church."
"Then that was his appointment!" Mrs. Doria murmured.
"That was the cake for breakfast!" breathed a second of her sex.
"And it was his ring!" exclaimed a third.
The men were silent, and made long faces.
Clare stood cold and sedate. She and her mother avoided each other's
eyes.
"Is it that abominable country person, Adrian?"
"The happy damsel is, I regret to say, the Papist dairymaid," said
Adrian, in sorrowful but deliberate accents.
Then arose a feminine hum, in the midst of which Mrs. Doria cried,
"Brandon!" She was a woman of energy. Her thoughts resolved to action
spontaneously.
"Brandon," she drew the barrister a little aside, "can they not be
followed, and separated? I want your advice. Cannot we separate them?
A boy! it is really shameful if he should be allowed to fall into the
toils of a designing creature to ruin himself irrevocably. Can we not,
Brandon?"
The worthy barrister felt inclined to laugh, but he answered her
entreaties: "From what I hear of the young groom I should imagine the
office perilous."
"I'm speaking of law, Brandon. Can we not obtain an order from one of
your Courts to pursue them and separate them instantly?"
"This evening?"
"Yes!"
Brandon was sorry to say she decidedly could not.
"You might call on one of your Judges, Brandon."
Brandon assured her that the Judges were a hard-worked race, and to a man
slept heavily after dinner.
"Will you do so to-morrow, the first thing in the morning? Will you
promise me to do so, Brandon?--Or a magistrate! A magistrate would send
a policeman after them. My dear Brandon! I beg--I beg you to assist us
in this dreadful extremity. It will be the death of my poor brother. I
believe he would forgive anything but this. You have no idea what his
notions are of blood."
Brandon tipped Adrian a significant nod to step in and aid.
"What is it, aunt?" asked the wise youth. "You want them followed and
torn asunder by wild policemen?"
"To-morrow!" Brandon queerly interposed.
"Won't that be--just too late?" Adrian suggested.
Mrs. Doria, sighed out her last spark of hope.
"You see," said Adrian....
"Yes! yes!" Mrs. Doria did not require any of his elucidations. "Pray be
quiet, Adrian, and let me speak. Brandon! it cannot be! it's quite
impossible! Can you stand there and tell me that boy is legally married?
I never will believe it! The law cannot be so shamefully bad as to
permit a boy--a mere child--to do such absurd things. Grandpapa!" she
beckoned to the old gentleman. "Grandpapa! pray do make Brandon speak.
These lawyers never will. He might stop it, if he would. If I were a
man, do you think I would stand here?"
"Well, my dear," the old gentleman toddled to compose her, "I'm quite of
your opinion. I believe he knows no more than you or I. My belief is
they none of them know anything till they join issue and go into Court.
I want to see a few female lawyers."
"To encourage the bankrupt perruquier, sir?" said Adrian. "They would
have to keep a large supply of wigs on hand."
"And you can jest, Adrian!" his aunt reproached him. "But I will not be
beaten. I know--I am firmly convinced that no law would ever allow a boy
to disgrace his family and ruin himself like that, and nothing shall
persuade me that it is so. Now, tell me, Brandon, and pray do speak in
answer to my questions, and please to forget you are dealing with a
woman. Can my nephew be rescued from the consequences of his folly? Is
what he has done legitimate? Is he bound for life by what he has done
while a boy?
"Well--a," Brandon breathed through his teeth. "A--hm! the matter's so
very delicate, you see, Helen."
"You're to forget that," Adrian remarked.
"A--hm! well!" pursued Brandon. "Perhaps if you could arrest and divide
them before nightfall, and make affidavit of certain facts"...
"Yes?" the eager woman hastened his lagging mouth.
"Well...hm! a...in that case...a... Or if a lunatic, you could prove him
to have been of unsound mind."...
"Oh! there's no doubt of his madness on my mind, Brandon."
"Yes! well! in that case... Or if of different religious persuasions"...
"She is a Catholic!" Mrs. Doria joyfully interjected.
"Yes! well! in that case...objections might be taken to the form of the
marriage... Might be proved fictitious... Or if he's under, say,
eighteen years"...
"He can't be much more," cried Mrs. Doria. "I think," she appeared to
reflect, and then faltered imploringly to Adrian, "What is Richard's
age?"
The kind wise youth could not find it in his heart to strike away the
phantom straw she caught at.
"Oh! about that, I should fancy," he muttered; and found it necessary at
the same time to duck and turn his head for concealment. Mrs. Doria
surpassed his expectations.
"Yes I well, then..." Brandon was resuming with a shrug, which was meant
to say he still pledged himself to nothing, when Clare's voice was heard
from out the buzzing circle of her cousins: "Richard is nineteen years
and six months old to-day, mama."
"Nonsense, child."
"He is, mama." Clare's voice was very steadfast.
"Nonsense, I tell you. How can you know?"
"Richard is one year and nine months older than me, mama."
Mrs. Doria fought the fact by years and finally by months. Clare was too
strong for her.
"Singular child!" she mentally apostrophized the girl who scornfully
rejected straws while drowning.
"But there's the religion still!" she comforted herself, and sat down to
cogitate.
The men smiled and looked vacuous.
Music was proposed. There are times when soft music hath not charms;
when it is put to as base uses as Imperial Caesar's dust and is taken to
fill horrid pauses. Angelica Forey thumped the piano, and sang: "I'm a
laughing Gitana, ha-ha! ha-ha!" Matilda Forey and her cousin Mary
Branksburne wedded their voices, and songfully incited all young people
to Haste to the bower that love has built, and defy the wise ones of the
world; but the wise ones of the world were in a majority there, and very
few places of assembly will be found where they are not; so the glowing
appeal of the British ballad-monger passed into the bosom of the
emptiness he addressed. Clare was asked to entertain the company. The
singular child calmly marched to the instrument, and turned over the
appropriate illustrations to the ballad-monger's repertory.
Clare sang a little Irish air. Her duty done, she marched from the
piano. Mothers are rarely deceived by their daughters in these matters;
but Clare deceived her mother; and Mrs. Doria only persisted in feeling
an agony of pity for her child, that she might the more warrantably pity
herself--a not uncommon form of the emotion, for there is no juggler like
that heart the ballad-monger puts into our mouths so boldly. Remember
that she saw years of self-denial, years of a ripening scheme, rendered
fruitless in a minute, and by the System which had almost reduced her to
the condition of constitutional hypocrite. She had enough of bitterness
to brood over, and some excuse for self-pity.
Still, even when she was cooler, Mrs. Doria's energetic nature prevented
her from giving up. Straws were straws, and the frailer they were the
harder she clutched them.
She rose from her chair, and left the room, calling to Adrian to follow
her.
"Adrian," she said, turning upon him in the passage, "you mentioned a
house where this horrible cake...where he was this morning. I desire you
to take me to that woman immediately."
The wise youth had not bargained for personal servitude. He had hoped he
should be in time for the last act of the opera that night, after
enjoying the comedy of real life.
"My dear aunt"...he was beginning to insinuate.
"Order a cab to be sent for, and get your hat," said Mrs. Doria.
There was nothing for it but to obey. He stamped his assent to the
Pilgrim's dictum, that Women are practical creatures, and now reflected
on his own account, that relationship to a young fool may be a vexation
and a nuisance. However, Mrs. Doria compensated him.
What Mrs. Doria intended to do, the practical creature did not plainly
know; but her energy positively demanded to be used in some way or other,
and her instinct directed her to the offender on whom she could use it in
wrath. She wanted somebody to be angry with, somebody to abuse. She
dared not abuse her brother to his face: him she would have to console.
Adrian was a fellow-hypocrite to the System, and would, she was aware,
bring her into painfully delicate, albeit highly philosophic, ground by a
discussion of the case. So she drove to Bessy Berry simply to inquire
whither her nephew had flown.
When a soft woman, and that soft woman a sinner, is matched with a woman
of energy, she does not show much fight, and she meets no mercy. Bessy
Berry's creditor came to her in female form that night. She then beheld
it in all its terrors. Hitherto it had appeared to her as a male, a
disembodied spirit of her imagination possessing male attributes, and the
peculiar male characteristic of being moved, and ultimately silenced, by
tears. As female, her creditor was terrible indeed. Still, had it not
been a late hour, Bessy Berry would have died rather than speak openly
that her babes had sped to make their nest in the Isle of Wight. They
had a long start, they were out of the reach of pursuers, they were safe,
and she told what she had to tell. She told more than was wise of her to
tell. She made mention of her early service in the family, and of her
little pension. Alas! her little pension! Her creditor had come
expecting no payment--come; as creditors are wont in such moods, just to
take it out of her--to employ the familiar term. At once Mrs. Doria
pounced upon the pension.
"That, of course, you know is at an end," she said in the calmest manner,
and Berry did not plead for the little bit of bread to her. She only
asked a little consideration for her feelings.
True admirers of women had better stand aside from the scene.
Undoubtedly it was very sad for Adrian to be compelled to witness it.
Mrs. Doria was not generous. The Pilgrim may be wrong about the sex not
growing; but its fashion of conducting warfare we must allow to be
barbarous, and according to what is deemed the pristine, or wild cat,
method. Ruin, nothing short of it, accompanied poor Berry to her bed
that night, and her character bled till morning on her pillow.
The scene over, Adrian reconducted Mrs. Doria to her home. Mice had been
at the cake during her absence apparently. The ladies and gentlemen
present put it on the greedy mice, who were accused of having gorged and
gone to bed.
"I'm sure they're quite welcome," said Mrs. Doria. "It's a farce, this
marriage, and Adrian has quite come to my way of thinking. I would not
touch an atom of it. Why, they were married in a married woman's ring!
Can that be legal, as you call it? Oh, I'm convinced! Don't tell me.
Austin will be in town to-morrow, and if he is true to his principles, he
will instantly adopt measures to rescue his son from infamy. I want no
legal advice. I go upon common sense, common decency. This marriage is
false."
Mrs. Doria's fine scheme had become so much a part of her life, that she
could not give it up. She took Clare to her bed, and caressed and wept
over her, as she would not have done had she known the singular child,
saying, "Poor Richard! my dear poor boy! we must save him, Clare! we must
save him!" Of the two the mother showed the greater want of iron on this
occasion. Clare lay in her arms rigid and emotionless, with one of her
hands tight-locked. All she said was: "I knew it in the morning, mama."
She slept clasping Richard's nuptial ring.
By this time all specially concerned in the System knew it. The
honeymoon was shoring placidly above them. Is not happiness like another
circulating medium? When we have a very great deal of it, some poor
hearts are aching for what is taken away from them. When we have gone
out and seized it on the highways, certain inscrutable laws are sure to
be at work to bring us to the criminal bar, sooner or later. Who knows
the honeymoon that did not steal somebody's sweetness? Richard Turpin
went forth, singing "Money or life" to the world: Richard Feverel has
done the same, substituting "Happiness" for "Money," frequently synonyms.
The coin he wanted he would have, and was just as much a highway robber
as his fellow Dick, so that those who have failed to recognize him as a
hero before, may now regard him in that light. Meanwhile the world he
has squeezed looks exceedingly patient and beautiful. His coin chinks
delicious music to him. Nature and the order of things on earth have no
warmer admirer than a jolly brigand or a young man made happy by the
Jews.