In the shadowy library light, when there was dawn out of doors, Edward
sat with his father, and both were silent, for Edward had opened his
heart, and his father had breathed some of the dry stock of wisdom on
it. Many times Edward rose to go; and Sir William signalled with his
finger that he should stay: an impassive motion, not succeeded by
speech. And, in truth, the baronet was revolving such a problem as a
long career of profitable banking refreshed by classical exercitations
does not help us to solve. There sat the son of his trust and his pride,
whose sound and equal temperament, whose precocious worldly wit, whose
precise and broad intelligence, had been the visionary comfort of his
paternal days to come; and his son had told him, reiterating it in
language special and exact as that of a Chancery barrister unfolding
his case to the presiding judge, that he had deceived and wronged
an under-bred girl of the humbler classes; and that, after a term of
absence from her, he had discovered her to be a part of his existence,
and designed “You would marry her?” Sir William asked, though less
forcibly than if he could have put on a moral amazement.
“That is my intention, sir, with your permission,” Edward replied
firmly, and his father understood that he had never known this young
man, and dealt virtually with a stranger in his son--as shrewd a blow as
the vanity which is in paternal nature may have to endure.
He could not fashion the words, “Cerritus fuit,” though he thought
the thing in both tenses: Edward's wits had always been too clearly in
order: and of what avail was it to repeat great and honoured prudential
maxims to a hard-headed fellow, whose choice was to steer upon the
rocks? He did remark, in an undertone,--
“The 'misce stultitiam' seems to be a piece of advice you have adopted
too literally. I quote what you have observed of some one else.”
“It is possible, sir,” said Edward. “I was not particularly sparing when
I sat in the high seat. 'Non eadem est aetas, non mens.' I now think
differently.”
“I must take your present conduct as the fruit of your premature
sagacity, I suppose. By the same rule, your cousin Algernon may prove to
be some comfort to his father, in the end.”
“Let us hope he will, sir. His father will not have deserved it so well
as mine.”
“The time is morning,” said Sir William, looking at his watch, and
bestowing, in the bitterness of his reflections, a hue of triumph on the
sleep of his brother upstairs. “You are your own master, Edward. I will
detain you no more.”
Edward shook his limbs, rejoicing.
“You prepare for a life of hard work,” Sir William resumed, not without
some instigation to sternness from this display of alacrity. “I counsel
you to try the Colonial Bar.”
Edward read in the first sentence, that his income would be restricted;
and in the second, that his father's social sphere was no longer to be
his.
“Exactly, sir; I have entertained that notion myself,” he said; and his
breast narrowed and his features grew sharp.
“And, if I may suggest such matters to you, I would advise you to see
very little company for some years to come.”
“There, sir, you only anticipate my previously formed resolution. With
a knavery on my conscience, and a giddy-pated girl on my hands, and
the doors of the London world open to me, I should scarcely have been
capable of serious work. The precious metal, which is Knowledge, sir,
is only to be obtained by mining for it; and that excellent occupation
necessarily sends a man out of sight for a number of years. In the
meantime, 'mea virtute me involvo.'”
“You need not stop short,” said his father, with a sardonic look for the
concluding lines.
“The continuation is becoming in the mouth of a hero; but humbler
persons must content themselves not to boast the patent fact, I think.”
Edward warmed as he spoke. “I am ready to bear it. I dislike poverty;
but, as I say, I am ready to bear it. Come, sir; you did me the honour
once to let me talk to you as a friend, with the limits which I have
never consciously overstepped; let me explain myself plainly and
simply.”
Sir William signified, “Pray speak,” from the arms of his chair! and
Edward, standing, went on: “After all, a woman's devotion is worth
having, when one is not asked for the small change every ten minutes. I
am aware of the philosophic truth, that we get nothing in life for which
we don't pay. The point is, to appreciate what we desire; and so we
reach a level that makes the payment less--” He laughed. Sir William
could hardly keep back the lines of an ironical smile from his lips.
“This,” pursued the orator, “is not the language for the Colonial Bar.
I wish to show you that I shall understand the character of my vocation
there. No, sir; my deeper wish is that you may accept my view of the
sole course left to a man whose sense of honour is of accord with
the inclination of his heart, and not in hostility to his clearer
judgement.”
“Extremely forensic,” said Sir William, not displeased by the promise of
the periods.
“Well, sir, I need not remark to you that rhetoric, though it should
fail to convey, does not extinguish, or imply the absence of emotion in
the speaker; but rather that his imagination is excited by his theme,
and that he addresses more presences than such as are visible. It is,
like the Roman mask, fashioned for large assemblages.”
“By a parity of reasoning, then,”--Sir William was seduced into
colloquy,--“an eternal broad grin is not, in the instance of a dualogue,
good comedy.”
“It may hide profound grief.” Edward made his eyes flash. “I find I can
laugh; it would be difficult for me to smile. Sir, I pray that you will
listen to me seriously, though my language is not of a kind to make you
think me absolutely earnest in what I say, unless you know me.”
“Which, I must protest, I certainly do not,” interposed Sir William.
“I will do my best to instruct you, sir. Until recently, I have not
known myself. I met this girl. She trusted herself to me. You are aware
that I know a little of men and of women; and when I tell you that I
respect her now even more than I did at first--much more--so thoroughly,
that I would now put my honour in her hands, by the counsel of my
experience, as she, prompted by her instinct and her faith in me,
confided hers to mine,--perhaps, even if you persist in accusing me
of rashness, you will allow that she must be in the possession of
singularly feminine and estimable qualities. I deceived her. My object
in doing so was to spare you. Those consequences followed which can
hardly fail to ensue, when, of two living together, the woman is at a
disadvantage, and eats her heart without complaining. I could have borne
a shrewish tongue better, possibly because I could have answered it
better. It is worse to see a pale sad face with a smile of unalterable
tenderness. The very sweetness becomes repugnant.”
“As little boys requiring much medicine have anticipated you by noting
in this world,” observed Sir William.
“I thank you for the illustration.” Edward bowed, but he smarted. “A man
so situated lives with the ghost of his conscience.”
“A doubtful figure of speech,” Sir William broke in. “I think you should
establish the personality before you attempt to give a feature to the
essence. But, continue.”
Edward saw that by forfeiting simplicity, in order to catch his father's
peculiar cast of mind, he had left him cold and in doubt as to the
existence of the powerful impulse by which he was animated. It is a
prime error in the orator not to seize the emotions and subdue the
humanity of his hearers first. Edward perceived his mistake. He had,
however, done well in making a show of the unabated vigour of his wits.
Contempt did not dwell in the baronet's tone. On the contrary, they
talked and fenced, and tripped one another as of old; and, considering
the breach he had been compelled to explode between his father and
himself, Edward understood that this was a real gain.
He resumed: “All figures of speech must be inadequate--”
“Ah, pardon me,” said Sir William, pertinaciously; “the figure I alluded
to was not inadequate. A soap-bubble is not inadequate.”
“Plainly, sir, in God's name, hear me out,” cried Edward. “She--what
shall I call her? my mistress, my sweetheart, if you like--let the name
be anything 'wife' it should have been, and shall be--I left her, and
have left her and have not looked on her for many months. I thought I
was tired of her--I was under odd influences--witchcraft, it seems. I
could believe in witchcraft now. Brutal selfishness is the phrase for my
conduct. I have found out my villany. I have not done a day's sensible
work, or had a single clear thought, since I parted from her. She has
had brain-fever. She has been in the hospital. She is now prostrate with
misery. While she suffered, I--I can't look back on myself. If I had to
plead before you for more than manly consideration, I could touch you. I
am my own master, and am ready to subsist by my own efforts; there is no
necessity for me to do more than say I abide by the choice I make, and
my own actions. In deciding to marry her, I do a good thing--I do a just
thing. I will prove to you that I have done a wise thing.
“Let me call to your recollection what you did me the honour to remark
of my letters from Italy. Those were written with her by my side. Every
other woman vexed me. This one alone gives me peace, and nerve to work.
If I did not desire to work, should I venture to run the chances of
an offence to you? Your girls of society are tasteless to me. And they
don't makes wives to working barristers. No, nor to working Members.
“They are very ornamental and excellent, and, as I think you would
call them, accomplished. All England would leap to arms to defend their
incontestible superiority to their mothers and their duties. I have not
the wish to stand opposed to my countrymen on any question, although
I go to other shores, and may be called upon to make capital out of
opposition. They are admirable young persons, no doubt. I do not offer
you a drab for your daughter-in-law, sir. If I rise, she will be equal
to my station. She has the manners of a lady; a lady, I say; not of the
modern young lady; with whom, I am happy to think, she does not come
into competition. She has not been sedulously trained to pull her way,
when she is to go into harness with a yokefellow.
“But I am laying myself open to the charge of feeling my position weak,
seeing that I abuse the contrary one. Think what you will of me, sir,
you will know that I have obeyed my best instinct and my soundest
judgement in this matter; I need not be taught, that if it is my destiny
to leave England I lose the association with him who must ever be my
dearest friend. And few young men can say as much of one standing in the
relation of father.”
With this, Edward finished; not entirely to his satisfaction; for he had
spoken with too distinct a sincerity to please his own critical taste,
which had been educated to delight in acute antithesis and culminating
sentences--the grand Biscayan billows of rhetorical utterance, in
comparison wherewith his talk was like the little chopping waves of a
wind-blown lake. But he had, as he could see, produced an impression.
His father stood up.
“We shall be always friends; I hope,” Sir William said. “As regards a
provision for you, suitable to your estate, that will be arranged. You
must have what comforts you have been taught to look to. At the same
time, I claim a personal freedom for my own actions.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Edward, not conceiving any new development in
these.
“You have an esteem for Mrs. Lovell, have you not?”
Edward flushed. “I should have a very perfect esteem for her, if--” he
laughed slightly--“you will think I want everybody to be married and in
the traces now; she will never be manageable till she is married.”
“I am also of that opinion,” said Sir William. “I will detain you no
longer. It is a quarter to five in the morning. You will sleep here, of
course.”
“No, I must go to the Temple. By the way, Algy prefers a petition for
Sherry. He is beginning to discern good wine from bad, which may be a
hopeful augury.”
“I will order Holmes to send some down to him when he has done a week's
real duty at the Bank.”
“Sooner or later, then. Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning.” Sir William shook his son's hand.
A minute after, Edward had quitted the house. “That's over!” he said,
sniffing the morning air gratefully, and eyeing certain tinted wisps of
cloud that were in a line of the fresh blue sky.