“How say you! do you not yet begin to apprehend a comfort? some allay
of sweetness in the bitter waters?”
_Charles Lamb._
It was twelve o’clock before I got back to my lodgings. I had done my
best to cheer my uncle up, and certainly left him a great deal calmer
than I had found him. You may believe he had asked me no questions
about my visit to Thistlewood; the poor man could think and speak of
nothing else but his daughter.
For myself, I never seriously reflected how far I was to be considered
affected by Conny’s unnatural conduct until I reached my lodgings.
Then, in the stillness of my sitting-room, with nothing to distract my
attention but the picture of my landlady’s husband, with a great moon
shining solemnly in through the window, and all the trees breathless in
the night, I could think.
To think was to be shocked. What a depth of duplicity was in that
child! Did I _now_ know why she hadn’t answered my letter! Oh fool,
fool, ever to have given her a thought! For what had she encouraged me?
for what had she simpered and blushed when I had looked and sighed?
for what had she allowed me, that Sunday evening, to coquette with her
hair and the rose? for what had she called Mr. Curling “that nice young
man?” for what had she given me reason to believe that her heart was
entirely vacant, and that, if I would be patient, she would some day or
other permit my image to take up a permanent lodging there? I say for
what? and echo answered, Sot!
She had thrust me between her mother and herself, so that my elegant
shape might hide from her mamma’s eyes the love-making she and that
rascal Curling were enjoying behind me.
I had been made a tool of. Confusion! how that cashier must have
sniggered at me when I wasn’t looking! how, when I had treated him with
the lordly affability that is the marked characteristic of contempt,
how must he have revelled in the reflection that he and his sweetheart
were making, between them, the most consummate ass that ever walked on
two legs, of the very fine gentleman!
Here were the dregs of the nauseating dose, and, phew! filthy and
bitter they were. It was no medicine. It was rank poison; and my love,
sadly emaciated already, and worn out for want of proper nourishment,
gave a kick, and expired. Yes, that night,
Down dropped my love,
My love dropped dead!
Blow out your candle, Eugenio, and the sudden extinction of the flame
shall illustrate the awful abruptness with which _my_ flame perished.
From that night, from that hour of pride made wretched by contempt,
Conny was no more to me than the scarecrow that nods its blind head at
the birds and flaps its idle rags along the breeze. I was in her power
once. My heart had palpitated in the golden meshes of her hair like a
robin in a fowler’s net. I was hers--she might have married me. But
she had preferred a cashier. She had chosen for her partner a banker’s
clerk with frizzy hair; for a breast to lean on, a bosom shaped like
a pigeon-pie. Was I going to gnash my teeth and hurl ghastly looks at
the moon? Does Abraham Levi burst into tears when a customer finds
something more striking and splendid in a piece of paste than in a
fine stone? I was a diamond, she might have worn me: she had chosen
a Brummagem article instead, and by heavens, Eugenio! no liquid gem
distilled from my eyes should add one grain of worth to her outrageous
choice!
I was at Grove End early next morning, and was met by my uncle, who,
without a word, put the letter he had just received from Conny into my
hands.
“I prophesied you would hear from her,” said he, and began to read.
What a queer letter it was! how tender, sorrowful, triumphant, and
pert! Not a hint of regret. Curling and she were married, and there
was only one thing wanting to complete her happiness--her papa’s and
mamma’s forgiveness. Her dearest papa might be angry with her at
first; but when he should grow calm, he would see how much better it
was for her to marry the man she loved, and live happily all her life,
than be forced into a union with _one_ for whom, though she liked
and respected him for some things, she could never have the least
affection. (Oh, you deceiver! oh, you little humbug!) Her dear Theodore
hadn’t much money; indeed, he had none at all; and would her dear papa
(how they _dear_ you, these little women!) mind sending her a cheque,
_uncrossed_? She looked forward eagerly to his reply, in which she was
quite sure he would tell her that she and dear Theodore were forgiven,
and then her happiness would be to return to dear old Updown, and
settle down in some little cottage, which Theodore would be able to
maintain by his salary at the bank. Her dear papa and mamma might be
sure that dear Theodore wanted nothing from them but his rights; that
he was willing to work for what he should get; and that he _looked_ to
receive nothing with his darling Conny, whom he had married because it
would have broken his heart to see her Charlie’s wife, and because he
worshipped the ground she trod on.
This was the gist of the letter; but I can convey no notion of its
mixture of love and sauciness.
I returned it to my uncle, without comment, and asked after my aunt.
“She has been far from well during the night,” he answered, “slept but
little, and cried frequently. But this letter has cheered her up. It
has done me good too. Now that I know she is married, I can look about
me again, and think over what is to be done. But oh! my boy, what a
wretched day was yesterday to your aunt and me!”
“Of course,” I replied, “you will write to her to return to Updown.”
“I don’t know what I shall do yet,” he said, shaking his head, and
striding about the room to conceal the nervous tremors that from time
to time shook his frame. “Should not such disobedience be punished?
shall no rebuke follow such heartlessness?”
“No, no! don’t let us talk of punishing her. She is very young: she has
acted, I admit, with great thoughtlessness; but remember, if ever a
girl wants sympathy, and demands the love of her father and mother, it
is when she is newly married. Let me go to London, and be the bearer of
your and her mother’s goodwill and forgiveness, and bring them home.”
“Charlie,” he exclaimed, grasping my hand, “I honour you for your kind
heart.”
I blushed, and looked a protest.
“She has deceived you,” he continued, “and if you can forgive her,
ought not we, her parents, to do so? But I must think awhile, and
confer with my wife before I act. Conny ought to know the torture of
suspense, and be made to feel a little the grief and fear she has
caused us. It is fortunate you have returned, for I could not do
without you at the bank now.”
It was clear to me that the greatest kindness I could do him was to
leave him alone. I therefore declined his invitation to breakfast, and
returned to my lodgings, where breakfast awaited me, and then repaired
to the bank.
Mr. Spratling was very glad to see me, and instantly began to talk of
Curling. Wasn’t it wonderful? Wasn’t he cunning, just? Only the day
before he had run away with Miss Hargrave, he had said he meant to ask
the governor for a holiday, when Mr. Charles came back.
“He seemed to be afraid of meeting you,” Mr. Spratling told me. “He
asked Mr. Hargrave several times when you were expected. I daresay he
thought you would find out his game.”
Perhaps he did. Perhaps in his quiet, cautious way, he was jealous
of Conny, and thought if he should give me time to make love to her
again, I might win her away from him. He had very well known that I had
her mamma on my side; that if my uncle had suspected his daughter’s
attachment, I should have had him on my side too; that I could claim
to be a gentleman; that I was a prospective partner in the bank; in a
word, that I was hedged about with every condition calculated to secure
me a triumph; whilst he on his side had literally nothing whatever
to make him hopeful but Conny’s promises, which caprice might at any
moment cause her to break.
I looked at his vacant stool, and thought of him sitting there and
laughing internally at the trick he and Conny were playing me; of
the grinning that must have gone on behind my back, when my cousin
mockingly repeated the language I had addressed to her, and mimicked
the attitudes of entreaty which I had no doubt unconsciously thrown
myself into whilst begging her to tell me that--
Pshaw! never mind. It is all past. I never really loved her. I thought
her bewitchingly pretty, and wanted to possess her; I thought it would
be the agreeablest pastime to play with her sunny hair, and trace my
haunting face in her deep eyes. It was a young man’s fancy. I fancied
her. But could that mean I _loved_ her, when the first puff that came
blew my flame out, and left my heart free for thy clearer radiance, my
T.?
Mortifying, fearfully mortifying the whole thing was, I agree. To be
made ridiculous in the eyes of a cashier who touched his hat when
he met me in the street and often called me Sir; to be jilted for a
lean banker’s clerk whose learning lay in his ledger, the horizon of
whose mind was the circle of a sovereign; who wrote like a copy-book,
and counted like the sums in Colenso--as accurately, I mean (faugh!
I wouldn’t give twopence for such plebeian parts!). Yes, fearfully
mortifying all this was. How many years have passed since then? It
matters not--but though my waistcoats of that epoch would require
another foot added to them to bring the buttons and the button-holes
together upon my present dignified figure, I cannot recur to this one
great sackcloth-and-ashes experience of mine without feeling my spleen
enlarged under my left ribs, and my multifarious perceptions grow
jaundiced.
God knows whether I should have felt so magnanimously disposed towards
the runaway couple had my heart been as much concerned in the matter
as it ought to have been. All the morning I was resolving, should my
uncle show himself stubborn, to plead their cause and petition his
forgiveness.
Could I have done this had the injury been deadly? and wouldn’t the
injury have been deadly had I adored Conny as I imagined I did?
Well, Mr. John Halifax, perhaps I _might_ have shammed a forgiving
spirit; I _might_ have acted in such a way, as to make her fancy I
bore no grudge. But I didn’t sham, you dear model of a gentleman. I
_did_ forgive her, John. Nay, I even congratulated myself that she had
put it out of my power to show that since my visit to Thistlewood my
sentiments had undergone a change. Had she not run away, I must have
transformed my aunt into an implacable enemy by suggesting that I was
no longer her daughter’s humble, obedient slave; I should have lost
my uncle’s good opinion by exhibiting a character he would mistakenly
regard as unstable and even insincere--for though he objected to my
marriage with Conny, depend upon it he would not have relished my
defection; and lastly, I should have been placed in the extremely
awkward position of having to give Conny to know that my love was not
based upon that permanent rock of sentiment which I had more than once
sworn, with some degree of violence, that it was.
In short, fortune had dealt me the very cards I should have chosen from
the pack, had choice been given me. I preserved my dignity. I could now
turn to Theresa without the faintest chance of being called inconstant.
My pride could still enjoy, with undiminished gust, the lamentations my
aunt would be certain to raise over her abortive hopes; and I could
preserve my credit with Theresa, who, on hearing of Conny’s doings,
would instantly account for the surprising change that had come over my
dream!
My uncle came to the bank at one o’clock, and finding there was little
or no business doing, called me into his private office.
“Charlie,” said he, “my wife and I have made up our minds as to the
course to be pursued. I shall go to London this afternoon, and bring my
daughter and her husband back with me to-morrow.”
“The very thing you should do.”
“I won’t say that we are not both of us showing very great weakness in
forgiving Conny so easily; but she is our only child--and the mother’s
heart yearns for her.”
“And so does yours.”
“I wish it didn’t, I wish I could be severe and obdurate. But we
can’t--we oughtn’t to fight against our instincts. The young people
must live with us until I can furnish a home for them; and, as for
Curling, there is nothing for it but to let him keep his position
here. The eyes of the whole town are upon us, and it won’t do to seem
ashamed.”
“Certainly not. I know what my father would suggest: that we all went
about, forthwith, boasting of our new connexion, and appearing so
proud, as scarcely to be civil to the poorer neighbours. After all,
what is there to be ashamed of? Curling is not ungentlemanly; he is
rather mercantile, perhaps; but he is certain to borrow some graces
from his wife, and to make as good a figure in society as most young
men.”
“I’d have given five thousand pounds rather than this should have
happened; but as it _has_ happened, we must make the best of it. The
first thing to be done is to get them married properly. My wife, I
fear, will give us trouble. She talks as if she loathed Curling, and
though she professes to be willing to do anything now, I fear that when
the time comes she will never consent to be seen with him out of doors,
or to prove, by her behaviour, that the marriage is not a disgrace.”
“We must reason with her.”
“Yes, yes. Sufficient unto the day--this is a contingent evil: we have
enough to do to deal with the present. I was so grieved and worried
last night, that I totally forgot to ask you about your visit. What do
you think of Theresa?”
“I like her very much,” I answered, guardedly.
“Did they make you welcome?”
“They did indeed.”
“Do you think my scheme as disagreeable as it struck you a fortnight
ago?” he asked, smiling languidly.
“We’ll talk about this another time,” I answered, uneasily. “Let us get
Conny home, and make her comfortable, before we trouble ourselves with
other matters.”
“Ay, you are right,” he exclaimed, falling quickly back into the one
absorbing trouble, from which he had momentarily diverged. “I can
leave you in charge here, can’t I? and I must ask you, after the bank
is closed, to go and keep my poor wife company. She will be very dull
and depressed during my absence.”
“I’ll try to cheer her up,” I said.
“Soften her as much as you can, Charlie. She is all tenderness now for
her child; but the moment she has got her again, she may grow severe.
After all, the poor girl will need her kindness. I daresay she has
fretted a great deal whilst thinking of us all. She will have missed
her comforts, her pretty bed-room, our kisses in the morning. Eh?
shouldn’t she be kindly received?”
“Yes, and she will be, I am sure,” I replied, moved by the tears that
sprang to his eyes.
He squeezed my hand, bade God bless me, and left the bank.
There being nothing to do, I thought I could not better occupy my time
than by writing to Theresa. So down I sat at my uncle’s desk, and
wrote four pages. There was a great deal to tell: Conny’s flight to be
related, and a funeral oration to be delivered over my love. “I may
tell _you_,” I said, “that I am not so broken-hearted as I ought to
be. I am pained by her conduct for her father’s and mother’s sake, but
has anybody a right to expect me to have any personal feelings in the
matter, beyond a proper sense of gratefulness that her pretty face and
capricious smiles can no longer keep me awake o’ nights, nor prevent
me from enjoying my food? Ah, Theresa! you may indeed value yourself
on your perceptions. I am afraid I never really loved Conny. How will
this confession affect me with you? I beg and implore that you won’t
consider mine a fickle nature. I could be true and faithful as Abelard,
could I but find a girl who would be my Eloïsa. I made a mistake. I
admired Conny, and mistook the delight with which I used to watch her
young face and profound eyes for love. I won’t pretend to think that I
could have exhibited my present fortitude, were it not for you. There
is not a quality that goes to the making of my mind, that would not
have smarted and throbbed under this elopement. Practically, I have
been snubbed, sneered at, utilised, dropped, cut, disliked, morally
kicked, and hopelessly sat upon; all which unpardonable treatment I
might laugh at, had Conny been the only insulter; but to suffer such
indignities at the hands of Mr. Curling!--Theresa, let your pride bleed
for me. Let me know I have your sympathy. The briefest assurance that
your opinion of me is not lowered because I haven’t broken my heart
over Conny, will give me all the strength I need to support the very
crushing sense of contempt that visits me, whenever I reflect on their
duplicity and my humiliation.” And so on, and so on.
I was as nearly as possible telling her that I had left my heart
behind me at Thistlewood. Who isn’t bold in a letter? Consider the
qualifications a goose-quill and a sheet of paper confer! The stammerer
speaks fluently, without a gasp; Ignorance pronounces all his h’s;
Timidity is as courageous as a wild beast; Modesty makes love without
a blush; Poverty, by hiding his rags, can request a loan without
losing his dignity. I added a postscript, in which I inserted certain
sentiments which, had I had her with me, I don’t think I could have got
my tongue to utter. I then sealed the letter, and walked with it to
the post, satisfied that seldom had love been so well hinted at, that
seldom had the heart’s defection been so eloquently defended by the
submission of more incontrovertible reasons.
The phaeton fetched me at four o’clock, and took me to Grove End. I
found my aunt extremely wretched. She thanked me for coming, and asked
me what I thought of Conny’s letter.
“Why,” I answered, “she doesn’t represent herself as feeling
miserable; and that I consider a good sign.”
“I cannot conceive,” the poor lady cried, “how she could have the
courage and the cruelty to act with such wicked daring. I seem in a
dream. Every moment I expect to see her come in and laugh at me for
imagining that she could be guilty of eloping with such a man. How my
husband jeered me for saying that his clerk was a dangerous person! And
now he is our son-in-law: now we are all fastened together for life,
and degraded for ever!”
“No, no: not degraded. My dear aunt, Mr. Curling is quite as
gentlemanly as the majority of young men. Look at the sons-in-law one
meets with everywhere! Elopements take place in the highest families.
Only last year Lady Florence Miller ran away with her music-master;
and mesalliances are so frequent and expected, that I can assure you,
if two or three years pass without a groom, or a dancing master, or an
usher, running away with a female member of the aristocracy, the _Court
Journal_ languishes, high life becomes uneasy, and aristocratic circles
grow haggard with a sense of want. I admit that Mr. Curling is not such
a man as you would have chosen for Conny to marry, but she might have
done worse.”
“No, she couldn’t have done worse. So pretty as she is, with such good
prospects, she might have married anybody. The cruellest part of it
all is her deceitfulness. She knew I wanted her to marry you, and she
pretended to yield to my wishes, only that she might blind my eyes to
her affection for that Curling. Didn’t she encourage you?”
“Yes, yes,” I groaned. “But I forgive her. I forgive them both. They
have found out that Heaven made them for each other; they are married,
and we must now help to render them happy.”
“Long ago, at the first hint of danger I gave,” cried my afflicted
aunt, “your uncle ought to have turned that young man away.”
And here she began to weep and sob wild reproaches, and to beg me to
tell her if she were not the most unfortunate woman that was ever born,
to bring a child into the world that could turn upon its parents in
their old age; until dinner was announced, when she took my arm; and we
walked into the room with such faces upon us, as mutes might grow sick
with envy to see.
I can’t say I enjoyed the evening that followed. My aunt went into
hysterics twice, and wrung my nerves with violent agitations of
distress and horror. She was not a strong-minded woman, and took to
her woe hungrily. I watched her tears with the keenest apprehensions,
dreading fresh outbreaks of the sobs, and short yells, and rapid
heel-taps with which she had twice favoured me.
However, she calmed down when it was getting near bed-time, and I
then seized the opportunity of impressing upon her the necessity of
receiving her daughter lovingly, and above all, of treating Mr. Curling
in such a way as should put it out of the servants’ power to spread the
truth.
“Our policy,” said I, “is to contrive, by our behaviour to Mr.
Curling, to let the neighbours know that the only thing we regretted
in the whole affair was the elopement; that we were never averse to
Conny’s marriage with Mr. Curling, but only desired that she should
wait until the young man had gained a better position. If the subject
is discussed before me, depend upon it I shall be explicit enough.
The facts are these, I shall say: Mr. Curling was impatient of the
delay Mr. Hargrave insisted upon before he sanctioned their marriage,
and worked upon Conny’s sensibilities to elope with him. It is the
plot of the old comedy, repeated afresh: the heroine running away
with the man everybody had agreed should be her husband. Had they
waited a few months, I shall say, they would have been married in
state, and champagne, sweetmeats and speeches would have made the
union respectable. But they chose to elope and antedate their bliss
by express train to Doctor’s Commons. These things have happened ever
since the better part of Adam manifested itself in the shape of Eve.
They happen most frequently in high life; and an elopement, so far from
being regarded as a disgrace, is universally held to be a first-class
sign of politeness and breeding. That’s how I shall talk, aunt; and I
would advise you to do the same.”
I fancy my reasoning impressed her. She always had a high opinion of my
knowledge of human nature, and believed the world contained not many
persons who were my equals in elegance of deportment and accuracy of
judgment in matters of fashion and behaviour. I left her at eleven
o’clock, not sorry to escape into the cool night, where, amid the
stillness, I could dedicate my thoughts to Theresa.