“Wounds, Dolly! this marrying be dear work!”
_Doves in a Cage._
Curling was at his post next morning when I reached the bank. Marriage
seemed to agree with him, for he looked uncommonly well. He greeted
me nervously, but his embarrassment speedily fell before my cordial
manner. Was I going to be haughty and distant? No, indeed! Infinitely
more should I have preferred a good kicking to his suspicion that I
was mortified by his triumph, and hated him because he had won Conny’s
love. Good heavens! Wasn’t he welcome to it? He began to mumble
something in my ear about a regret that his and Conny’s stratagem
should have involved my feelings--but I cut him very short. No doubt
Conny had instructed him in this apology, and I silenced him bluntly,
expressly that she might learn how distasteful to me was all reference
to distressing folly.
He smiled feebly and said,
“I beg your pardon; I wouldn’t have alluded to the subject had I not
thought an explanation was due.”
“I understand,” I answered, “and now about Mr. Acorn’s promissory
note?” And so the matter ended.
My uncle’s greeting to him was very gentle. He asked tenderly after
Conny, and whether she was going to Grove End during the morning.
Curling replied that as they were to dine there, he did not believe she
would start before him. They then retired into the back office and left
me to think of Theresa.
Now that _she_ was at Grove End, it was delightful to feel that my
residence, too, was there. I was very much in love with her, and what
was strange, I could hug this passion without in any sense feeling that
I was exhibiting surprising weakness in so speedily yielding to a new
fascination whilst the corpse of the old one was still warm.
Not being a Scotchman, I am incapable of going into the metaphysics of
this thing. However, I may point out that there was some difference
between the love I had felt for Conny and the love that I now felt
for Theresa. To begin with, I deny that I ever _did_ love Conny. Oh
yes, you may turn back to other chapters and point me out several most
condemnatory phrases; but don’t judge people by phrases. There is only
one alphabet, but there are a hundred passions; and admiration will
express itself in the language of love, precisely as if it were the
most perfect and enduring devotion.
I had loved Conny for her face and figure. _Voilà tout._ She had not
one intellectual charm, that I can remember, to fascinate me. Reading
her character in the light thrown upon it by her elopement, I found,
let me tell you, a very great deal that was decidedly objectionable.
This was enough to confirm my indifference.
Now it was quite otherwise with Theresa. I won’t pretend that I didn’t
immensely admire her handsome face, and fine eyes, and noble figure,
and that they were not the first cause of my loving her. But during my
stay at Thistlewood, I had discovered many qualities in her which, had
I not been influenced in a great measure by Conny, would have settled
the question there and then, and dismissed me to Updown as much in love
as ever man was. It was enough that Conny should turn out a regular
little trickster, who had trifled with my feelings merely to fool me
at last, to send my thoughts trooping to Theresa. Here was a foil upon
which her fine qualities of head and heart could not fail to glisten
brightly. Long before had the memory of her eccentric reception of
me been transmuted by the alchemy of admiration into a pungent and a
piquant reminiscence; so _that_ could not deform my opinion of her.
Here, then, my love was based upon altogether different ground from
that on which I had built my first and unsubstantial passion. There
were physical graces to charm me; there were mental characteristics
to fascinate me. A love was now inspired that was every day to gain
greater strength; and thus I could start on my new amatory career with
a conviction that, whether I should win Theresa’s love or not, my
devotion would never be met with a heartless betrayal.
I never left the bank to return to Grove End with more pleasure than I
did on that day. Uncle Dick had returned to Thistlewood by the mid-day
train, and I found Theresa thoroughly domiciled, sitting at the open
drawing-room window with some work in her hand. A bright look lighted
up her face when she saw me.
“When will Conny be here?” she asked.
“Very shortly, I expect. How have you been amusing yourself?”
“Aunt and I went for a drive this afternoon,” she answered, laying down
her work, and joining me on the lawn. “Hasn’t uncle Tom returned with
you?”
“He remained behind with the phaeton to drive the turtle doves over,”
said I. “The truth is, he wants Updown to see him and them together. We
all stand in awe of gossip.”
“Aunt is much more reasonable than she was last evening,” exclaimed
Theresa. “The talking-to Papa gave her has done her no harm. She is, I
think, slowly beginning to see that her husband’s view is the soundest,
and that Conny might have done a very great deal worse, though she
might also have done a very great deal better. Mothers are nearly
always the last to come round in these matters. I wonder why?”
“Perhaps because they have more to do with their daughters than the
papas have, and therefore the daughters’ mistakes touch them more
nearly. That’s only one reason--and no reason at all. Women--I don’t
say all women--no, no, Theresa, not all--are not very liberal in their
views of life or of each other. Mothers and daughters are no exception.”
“You are quite right. Women are not liberal-minded.”
“In many things they are, and, queerly enough, in directions where men
are bigoted. But in matters of dress and sentiment, they are often
prodigiously intolerant.”
“Having been deceived by a girl,” said she, with a sweet laugh, “it is
perfectly fair that you should _have at_ the whole sex.”
“Pray,” I entreated earnestly, “pray don’t refer to that piece of
folly. Had I met you before I met Conny, it never could have happened.”
She curtsied, perhaps to hide a little blush; and then asked me if I
had ridden since my return from Thistlewood.
“I haven’t had time yet: but I shall hope to do so frequently now that
you are here. And we’ll have some pistol-shooting too, if you like.”
“Oh, Papa objects, so I mean to give up the unmaidenly pastime.”
“You are very dutiful. Perhaps, on the whole, it _is_ rather
unmaidenly, especially when you take aim at sober-minded and meditative
young gentlemen.”
“Am I _never_ to be allowed to forget my nonsense!” she exclaimed,
looking annoyed.
“And am I never to be allowed to forget mine?” I answered. “But I’ll
enter into an agreement with you, Theresa, never to remind you of
_your_ nonsense, if you will promise never to remind me of mine.”
“I agree.”
“So then, my wrong-headed _penchant_ for Conny is to be forgotten as if
no such a thing had ever been?”
“Well, I’ll do my best to forget.”
“I am afraid you will never see anything to like in me until you _do_
forget.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked, quickly.
“No girl can possibly have any respect or regard for a man she
considers a flirt.”
“Oh, if you _will_ have your theories about your sex, it is better, for
your peace of mind, that they should not be contradicted.... Here’s the
phaeton!”
Yes, there it was, Conny next the coachman, Curling and his _beau-père_
behind.
The two cousins kissed each other profusely--in short, as only young
girls _can_ kiss. Nothing could surpass Theresa’s gracefully cordial
reception of little Conny, and her polite greeting to Mr. Curling.
Conny looked bewitchingly pretty. She gave me her hand and smiled at me
with her eyes. Ah, my child, those smiles can’t affect me now. Don your
loveliest airs, strike your most irresistible attitude, you would find
in me an unmoved spectator.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed.
I can watch you as one at a puppet-show. Tender is the tint of your
cheeks, heavenly the azure of your eyes, snow-like your pearly teeth;
but to me, my dear, you are no more than a cunning contrivance of
beauty; the sweetest dummy, from which I can turn away with the
lightest sigh, to think that I could ever have been so weak as to
bestow a thought upon you.
She left us to seek her mamma, and then we got talking, as people not
absolutely at their ease will talk--about the weather. Theresa was
admirably lady-like in her manner to Mr. Curling. The poor fellow was a
good deal embarrassed, but all things considered acquitted himself very
tolerably.
My uncle watched his niece narrowly. He evidently wanted her good
opinion for his son-in-law, and smiled with ghastly approval every time
the young man spoke.
I caught Curling regarding her with great admiration, and even awe;
which put me into the best possible temper with him, so pleased was I
that he should see what a splendid substitute fortune had provided me
with in the room of the young lady he had married.
The trying moment presently came, when my aunt stepped out of the
house, followed by Conny. Theresa and I fell back with the instinctive
horror of people of sensibility who apprehend a shock. However, nothing
very disagreeable happened. There was something, indeed, unpleasantly
chilling in the hard smile with which my aunt gave Curling her hand and
in the hasty manner with which she withdrew it; but the effect, to us
lookers-on at least, was somewhat qualified by the broad, nervous smile
with which my uncle superintended the greeting.
As for Curling, his politeness was cringing. He smiled if his
mother-in-law turned her head, listened with painful eagerness to be
agreeable if she opened her mouth, agreed with her before he well knew
what she had said, and in every respect showed himself thoroughly
afraid of her.
“I don’t think he is going the right way to work to make her respect
him,” I whispered to Theresa.
“Poor fellow!” she answered. “I wonder Conny had the heart to bring him
here. I should be sorry to subject my husband to such treatment.”
“What do you think of him?”
“He seems gentlemanly enough.”
“Could you have run off with him, Theresa?”
“As soon with O’Twist!”
I had made up my mind to have Conny given me to take into dinner; but
to my great relief and pleasure, she took her papa’s arm, Curling
conducted Mrs. Hargrave, and I was left to Theresa. Curling and his
mother-in-law walked in front of us from the drawing-room, and I had
great difficulty to retrain myself from bursting into a fit of laughter
on catching sight of my aunt’s face, and watching the contemptuous air
with which she waddled alongside her new connexion. Theresa begged me
not to speak to her, lest she should lose her self-control. The sight
was, indeed, ludicrous enough; and one of the servants, at all events,
saw the joke, for she turned rapidly away as my aunt entered the
dining-room and emitted a laugh over the sideboard, which made my uncle
look smartly round under the impression, I believe, that a cork had
flown.
The dinner was not a very lively affair. Nothing but the having Theresa
at my side saved me from wishing myself a hundred miles away. In vain
my uncle strove to be cheerful; in vain he told his best stories; in
vain he indulged in little flirting allusions to matrimony, and winked
out, so to speak, those little modest jokes which are universally held
to be permissible on the occasion of the presence of a newly married
couple. God knows no man ever tried to laugh more resolutely than I
did; but my hoarse notes were as destitute of mirth as a raven’s croak.
Had I wept I should have shown myself more sympathetic; for my uncle’s
humour tottered on the very verge of tears.
Theresa did all she could: tried her relations on twenty different
subjects, then out of sheer weariness took refuge in silence.
Curling was so nervous, he could scarcely eat. I felt for him--yes,
my whole heart went out to him--when he knocked a wine-glass full of
claret over the table-cloth. The wine wasn’t redder than his face, I
promise you.
“Don’t bother,” said my uncle, seeing the poor fellow spoon the wine up.
“Sprinkle some salt over it,” said Conny, looking abject.
It was plain to everybody that Theodore had been scarcely able to
handle his knife and fork for nervousness, that though he might have
known how to behave with perfect propriety, fear of his mother-in-law
bereft him of his knowledge and hurried him into _grossièretés_. For
instance, he refused to begin until the others were helped; insisted
upon passing whatever was set before him to Mrs. Hargrave; eat up
his bread in a trice and hopelessly entangled himself in a wild
complication of knives, forks, spoons, and glasses. I doubt if he would
have committed a single blunder had my aunt been absent. Ah, Eugenio,
_you_ know what it is to have a mother-in-law watching you with a
foregone prejudice of the bitterest kind rankling in her eyes. I know
a young man whom his mother-in-law made so anxious and apprehensive
that, before dinner was over, he had kicked both his boots off under
the table, and would have joined the ladies in his socks had not a
good-natured footman directed his attention to the state of his feet.
Tears were in Conny’s eyes before the dessert was brought in; and I
felt so heartily sorry for the poor girl and her yet more-to-be-pitied
husband, that addressing my uncle, I exclaimed,
“Aren’t we going to drink to the happiness of the bride and
bridegroom?” hoping that the hearty expression of our good wishes would
render them happier and force some of the acidity out of my aunt’s face.
“Certainly,” he replied.
We then filled our glasses and all spoke at once, to the effect that
the young people would enjoy a long life and unbounded happiness:
Theresa speaking very feelingly and my aunt nodding her head with a
face that expressed everything but the prevailing sentiment.
Now I really believe this toast would have ended in putting us all into
a better temper, had well been let alone; for even as we drank, Conny
smiled and looked much gratified.
But judge my surprise, when, after an interval of not less than
five minutes, I observed Mr. Curling, who had been pulling at his
watchguard in a fashion that threatened to tear the waistcoat off his
back, rise, and in rising knock his chair over, which however, nobody
offered to pick up, that he might not be interrupted. In a very faint
and difficult voice, he thanked us for our good wishes, which, he
particularly desired his mother-in-law to believe, he should strive his
utmost to deserve. He next informed us that he was never considered a
good speaker, and that if he didn’t express all the gratitude he felt,
it was not because he didn’t feel it, but because he hadn’t the words.
Here I hoped he would sit down. But there are two notorious
difficulties in public and unpremeditated speaking, of which every
nervous man who has ever got upon his legs is but too keenly sensible:
the first difficulty is to know how to begin, and the second is to
know when to stop. On such an occasion, and in such company, it would
probably have taxed the wit of a Disraeli not to have said something
offensive. Mr. Curling wanted Mr. Disraeli’s wit, and the result
therefore was, he, to the confusion of everybody, began to apologise
for eloping with Conny; assuring us, and the servants who stood choking
at the door, that he never would have been guilty of such a mistake had
he not worshipped the ground his ker-ker-Conny trod on.
This was too much for my aunt. It was bad enough that so delicate
a matter should have been referred to at all: of its peculiar
inopportuneness at that moment, one had only to glance at the giggling
servants to understand. In a loud, angry voice, she begged him to
cease, burst into tears, and rushed out of the room.
Curling _did_ cease; and, forgetting in his nervousness that his chair
was upset, sat down before any of us could cry out: the consequence
of which was that he tumbled head over heels, pulling the table-cloth
with him, and covering himself with his unique collection of glass and
cutlery.
There was instantly a scramble. My uncle, who thought Curling had
fainted, shouted to the servants for brandy. Conny, weeping bitterly,
fell on her knees and picked the broken glass away from the carpet near
her husband’s head. Theresa turned pale, and clasped her hands; but I,
suspecting by the young fellow lying still that he couldn’t get up,
laid hold of his arm and pulled him on to his legs.
Now then Conny’s affection displayed itself. She clung to her husband,
kissed him, asked him if he was hurt and where, behaved herself
altogether so pathetically that I felt myself a wretch for having
laughed to see him fall.
“Do let us go home!” she cried, turning to her papa. “We are _so_ much
happier alone. Theodore never wanted to come, and mamma will break his
heart.”
Ay, and his neck too, she might have added.
“Yes, yes! go home! go home!” exclaimed my poor uncle. “Tell James, one
of you, to bring the phaeton round. I have acted cruelly in subjecting
you both to this.”
“I’m not hurt,” said Curling, rubbing his back, obviously relieved by
the prospect of an immediate release.
“Why didn’t somebody pick up that chair?” exclaimed my uncle.
“I should have done so,” replied Conny, “but I didn’t like to interrupt
Theodore, for fear of breaking the thread of his ideas. Mary, go and
get me my hat, it’s in mamma’s bed-room.”
In a few minutes the phaeton was ready, the young couple, wearing now
far cheerfuller faces than we who were left behind, jumped up, and off
they drove.
“The next time they come to dinner,” said my uncle, wiping his forehead
with a pocket handkerchief, “shall be at somebody else’s invitation.
I’ll never subject the poor things to such treatment again whilst I
have breath in my body.”