“When a man loves tenderly as I do, solicitude and anxiety are
natural.”
_All in the Wrong._
You will kindly imagine, on commencing this chapter, that I have been
three weeks at the bank. My progress during this time was not very
remarkable; but I was beginning to understand a good deal that had
threatened to remain for ever unintelligible to me. I could now add up
a pretty long row of figures, without being thrown by the effort into
great mental distress and confusion; I began to understand why Mr.
Jones was allowed to overdraw his account, when Mr. Robinson’s cheques
were dismissed with two terrible letters, or a mild “please refer to
drawer.” I knew the object of pass-books, and the difference between
current and deposit accounts. I could also comprehend the purport and
import of bills, promissory notes, and such-like documents; and why
Mr. Brown, the rich grazier, who didn’t particularly want money, was
charged one per cent. above the Bank rate if he borrowed, and why Mr.
Smith, who very particularly wanted money, was charged four, and even
five per cent. above the Bank rate if _he_ borrowed.
For all this increasing knowledge of mine, I was not a little indebted
to Mr. Curling, whom to recompense for his very obliging disposition,
I did my utmost to like. But whether it was owing to that unfortunate
ring of his, or to his curly black hair, or to the cut of his clothes,
or to a lurking suspicion that he was in love with Conny, I never could
succeed in transforming my gratitude into a feeling of friendship. We
had no sympathies in common. He once asked me to take a walk with him,
and I went; but I passed a very stupid time. He could scarcely talk
upon any other subject than business and bank rates, and stock lists
and exchange prices. When by a very free discussion of my own affairs,
I invited him to be equally candid, I found him excessively cautious.
He listened to and encouraged _me_ in my gossip about my father and my
life at Longueville, but somehow contrived without positively seeming,
to be absolutely silent on the subject of his own history. He had
lodgings near the bank, and out of curiosity I accepted his invitation
one day to spend an evening with him. I found that he didn’t smoke. He
pretended to like the smell of my pipe, but I was so sure that he did
not, that I put it aside, and he didn’t ask me to resume it. He had
only one room. His bed was up in the corner; there were some books on
the mantelpiece, and writing materials on a table near the window. He
apologised for the meanness of his accommodation, and told me he had
no other resources outside his salary, which was the only piece of
personal information that, I think, I ever succeeded in getting from
him. I had tried several times since I had known him to induce him to
talk about Conny, in order to ascertain what his sentiments really
were towards her; but he was never to be coaxed out of his shell. I
rather hoped, now, that the whiskey-and-water would make him more
candid; and, not without tact, turned the conversation upon my cousin.
But he had one of those folding minds which, like the tubes of a
telescope, slide deftly one within another, so that, without appearing
to evade me, he yet succeeded in compressing himself entirely out of my
reach. He asked me a week or two afterwards to spend another evening
with him; but I declined under some pretence or other, and he never
repeated his invitation.
Meanwhile, I was a constant visitor at Grove End. My aunt and uncle
never varied in their kindness. Indeed, had not the former been old
enough to be my mother, I might fairly have considered that she was
head over ears in love with me. She was perpetually referring to me for
my opinions; seemed indeed to regard me as the very glass of fashion
and the mould of form, and to accept me as an unerring standard of
breeding and taste. She was never more proud than when she had me by
her side in the carriage, and returned the bows of her friends in the
street.
I should have been fearfully dull, but for Grove End. A more
dead-and-alive town than Updown I very much question if even Wales
could produce. Not so much as a street organ found its way there. The
only excitement that ever I heard of was a magic lantern, the property
of the rector, who now and then lent it out, when the Charity School
children stood in need of a little recreation. It is very true that the
surrounding country was beautiful, and there was some fishing to be
had in the river. But I am one of those people who soon get tired of
natural scenery. Nothing is prettier to read about than cool glades,
and sunny hay-fields, and the smell of violets, and the lazy lowing of
cattle, and the metallic echo of the scythe being sharpened, and the
songs of the rustics. A gentleman will sit down in the library of his
club in Piccadilly, and declare himself, amid a glowing description
of rural beauties, an ardent admirer of the country, which he never
explores further than Richmond. I remember some verses written by
Captain Morris, which my father, who had known the author, was very
fond of quoting:
“Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among trees
And chatter their transports in groves if they please;
But a house is much more to _my_ taste than a tree,
And for groves! oh! a fine grove of chimneys for me!”
I say that I should have been sick of Updown and the natural scenery
around it in less than a week, had it not been for Grove End. But
_there_ I found a human interest, powerful enough to inform the country
for miles round with an extraordinary attraction.
Yes, Eugenio! before I had known my cousin three weeks I was in love
with her. How could I look into her fathomless blue eyes, and not sink
deep--deep--deep out of sight? How could I take her little snow-white
hand and not wish to hold it for ever? My aunt encouraged me. It was
_her_ fault. I noticed that she was always fond of leaving Conny and
me alone; that she contrived that Conny and I should sit side by side
at the dinner-table; and that Conny should accompany us in our drives,
which we used to take after the bank was closed, the carriage often
calling for me at my lodgings.
I remember one fine evening at the latter end of June, that I left
the drawing-room and strolled on to the lawn, and seated myself under
a fine old oak tree. I wanted Conny to join me, and hoped she would
take the hint, or that her mamma would send her with a cigar; for as
I have said, Mrs. Hargrave took great pleasure in seeing us together.
I made up my mind, if Conny came, to tell her that I loved her. I was
suffering at that moment from an access. Everybody knows that love
is an intermittent fever, and that the delirium is very powerful at
times. I had sat next to her at table; I had said something soft to
her, and lo! she had turned her eyes slowly up to mine. Heavens! what
did I read there? A sensibility that transported me! Could I question
that my unspoken love was recognised and shared? Oh, Eugenio! either
hold thy tongue, or agree with me instantly, that the spirit hath a
voice which makes itself audible to the spirit of the beloved, albeit
no human language is uttered. Of course the eyes can talk. They are
faculties given to women to convey thoughts which all the terms and all
the definitions in Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary put together, could never
express. I had read a profound and inspiring truth in Conny’s eyes.
Her tongue could no more have said it than _my_ eyes could have looked
it, beautiful and piercing as my poor fat Pauline used to consider
them. That truth had sent me to the old oak tree, and now kept me
pensively waiting for her to come forth.
But her mother came instead. The kind old lady stepped on to the lawn,
and seeing me, approached and took a seat at my side.
“Why, how is it you are not smoking?” she asked.
“The fact is,” I answered, “I--I--to tell you the truth, I don’t know.”
“Isn’t this a beautiful evening?”
“Beautiful indeed.”
“Would you care to go back to Longueville?” she inquired, rather slyly,
I thought.
I looked her full in the face, and she laughed.
“I don’t think you would.”
“No, indeed. I am perfectly satisfied to remain where I am.”
“Thomas says you are getting on bravely at the bank. I know he is very
anxious that you should learn: for he has some scheme for you, which
he won’t tell me. You see, wives don’t always know their husbands’
affairs.”
“I know he has some scheme, and I am sure it is a generous one. I am
getting on--thanks to Mr. Curling, I know a good deal now, though, when
I first began, I thought I should never be able to learn the work.”
“What do you think of this Mr. Curling? Do you like him?”
“I ought to: he deserves that I should.”
“Well,” said my aunt, “_I_ don’t. I am sure he is a very sly person,
and I dislike slyness in man or woman. When he visited this house he
used to pay Conny a great deal of attention, but always in a sly way.
In doing so, he took a very great liberty, considering his position in
life, although my husband laughs at me, and declares that I troubled
myself more than the occasion needed.”
“Mr. Curling is certainly no match for Conny,” said I.
“Match!” cried my aunt, warmly, “I should think not. Why, all that we
know of him is, that he comes from London, from which place he answered
an advertisement that Thomas put in the papers for a clerk. I have no
wish to say anything harsh of the young man; but he obliges me to think
of what he is when he pays my daughter attention.”
“I can’t make head or tail of him,” I answered. “I have frequently
tried to get him to talk about Conny, but he always contrives to glide
away from the subject.”
“Yes, yes! he _is_ sly--I have always said he is sly.”
“But, after all, aunt, what matters it if Mr. Curling _does_ admire
Conny? People can only be prevented from touching--not from looking.”
“Oh, Mr. Curling is welcome to admire,” replied my aunt, with pleasant
disdain. “All that I want to be assured of is, that Conny doesn’t care
about him.”
“I don’t think she does; at least,” I added, with a twinge of
jealousy, “she has never given me to understand by word or look that
she cares a farthing for him. If I thought she did----”
“What?” asked my aunt anxiously, seeing that I paused.
“No matter,” I answered gloomily, folding my arms Lara-wise.
“I hope, Charlie, you have no reason to fear she _does_ like that young
man? If I really believed this to be the case, I should desire my
husband to dismiss him at once. I wouldn’t have such a scandal--no! not
to save my life.”
“My dear aunt, it is you who make me suspicious. _I_ myself have heard
and seen nothing. They don’t write to each other, I suppose?”
“Write! I should think not!”
“And they never meet each other alone?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then I hardly see that there is anything to fear. If Conny were in
love with Curling--the mere idea puts me in a passion!--I say, if Conny
were silly enough to waste her priceless affection on a fellow of that
kind, you would soon find it out. Something or other would happen.
Either she’d meet him alone and be seen, or one of their letters would
be intercepted.”
“Yes, the mere idea _is_ enough to put one in a passion. As to her
meeting him alone or writing to him, that is out of the question. She
is my child, and I can answer for her conduct.”
“Oh, she tells her own story. She is deliciously artless and womanly,
and inexpressibly pretty.”
“She is as God made her,” said my aunt, meekly.
“My father would be charmed with her. After a course of sophistication,
such as you meet with among French women, such English simplicity, such
quiet artless sweetness as Conny’s is a pure luxury.”
“You and she get on very well together, don’t you?”
“I should be very miserable if I thought she didn’t like me.”
“You needn’t be,” answered my aunt, with a smiling nod, “for I know she
does like you.”
“Really!” I cried, with a dramatic start.
“Why shouldn’t she?” and here she paid me a compliment I need not
repeat.
“Pray spare my lovely blushes,” I said, laughing. “But it doesn’t
follow because you are so kind as to like me that Conny should. Mothers
and daughters seldom agree in taste----”
Here, unfortunately, my uncle came out, followed by Conny, just as
our conversation was growing thrillingly interesting. But for this
interruption, I should have told my aunt that I was in love with
her daughter, asked her consent, and inquired whether she thought a
proposal for marriage would be agreeable to my uncle. As for _her_,
I had eyes to see, and ears to hear, and therefore knew that she was
decidedly in my favour, and needed no entreaty to become my warm ally.
It was plain that Mr. Curling was a nightmare of hers, and had I been
a trickster, nothing would have been easier for me than to have played
upon her fears, and compassed my ends speedily through them. But I
had too good an opinion of myself to condescend to stratagems of any
kind. Conny should love me for myself--not through any compulsion on
her mamma’s part. As yet, I was practically ignorant of her feelings
towards me; a certain theory had indeed been inspired by her eyes; but
talk as you will of the language of the soul, we are never heartily
satisfied until we have listened to the language of the lips.
The opportunity for acquainting her with my sentiments was gone for
that night, for my uncle stuck to me during the rest of the time we
were out of doors, talking chiefly about banking business, to which
I had to listen in order to gratify him by my replies; and when we
returned to the house we all sat in the drawing-room, so that any
confidential talk was out of the question.