“Then suppose I promised, in the first place, not to tell Miss Margaret

that I had spoken to you about her at all. And suppose I promised, in

the second place, that, if you told me when you and Miss Margaret go

out together, I would only speak to her while she was in your sight, and

would leave her the moment you wished me to go away. Don’t you think you

could venture to help me, if I promised all that?”

“Well, Sir, that would make a difference, to be sure. But then, it’s

master I’m so afraid of--couldn’t you speak to master first, Sir?”

“Suppose you were in Miss Margaret’s place, would you like to be made

love to, by your father’s authority, without your own wishes being

consulted first? would you like an offer of marriage, delivered like a

message, by means of your father? Come, tell me honestly, would you?”

She laughed, and shook her head very expressively. I knew the strength

of my last argument, and repeated it: “Suppose you were in Miss

Margaret’s place?”

“Hush! don’t speak so loud,” resumed the girl in a confidential whisper.

“I’m sure you’re a gentleman. I should like to help you--if I could only

dare to do it, I should indeed!”

“That’s a good girl,” I said. “Now tell me, when does Miss Margaret go

out to-day; and who goes with her?”

“Dear! dear!--it’s very wrong to say it; but I must. She’ll go out with

me to market, this morning, at eleven o’clock. She’s done it for the

last week. Master don’t like it; but Missus begged and prayed she might;

for Missus says she won’t be fit to be married, if she knows nothing

about housekeeping, and prices, and what’s good meat, and what isn’t,

and all that, you know.”

“Thank you a thousand times! you have given me all the help I want. I’ll

be here before eleven, waiting for you to come out.”

“Oh, please don’t, Sir--I wish I hadn’t told you--I oughtn’t, indeed I

oughtn’t!”

“No fear--you shall not lose by what you have told me--I promise all I

said I would promise--good bye. And mind, not a word to Miss Margaret

till I see her!”

As I hurried away, I heard the girl run a few paces after me--then

stop--then return, and close the garden gate, softly. She had evidently

put herself once more in Miss Margaret’s place; and had given up all

idea of further resistance as she did so.

How should I occupy the hours until eleven o’clock? Deceit

whispered:--Go home; avoid even the chance of exciting suspicion, by

breakfasting with your family as usual. And as deceit counselled, so I

acted.

I never remember Clara more kind, more ready with all those trifling

little cares and attentions which have so exquisite a grace, when

offered by a woman to a man, and especially by a sister to a brother, as

when she and I and my father assembled together at the breakfast-table.

I now recollect with shame how little I thought about her, or spoke

to her on that morning; with how little hesitation or self-reproach I

excused myself from accepting an engagement which she wished to make

with me for that day. My father was absorbed in some matter of business;

to _him_ she could not speak. It was to me that she addressed all her

wonted questions and remarks of the morning. I hardly listened to them;

I answered them carelessly and briefly. The moment breakfast was over,

without a word of explanation I hastily left the house again.

As I descended the steps, I glanced by accident at the dining-room

window. Clara was looking after me from it. There was the same anxious

expression on her face which it had worn when she left me the evening

before. She smiled as our eyes met--a sad, faint smile that made her

look unlike herself. But it produced no impression on me then: I had no

attention for anything but my approaching interview with Margaret.

My life throbbed and burned within me, in that direction: it was all

coldness, torpor, insensibility, in every other.

I reached Hollyoake Square nearly an hour before the appointed time. In

the suspense and impatience of that long interval, it was impossible to

be a moment in repose. I walked incessantly up and down the square, and

round and round the neighbourhood, hearing each quarter chimed from a

church clock near, and mechanically quickening my pace the nearer the

time came for the hour to strike. At last, I heard the first peal of the

eventful eleven. Before the clock was silent, I had taken up my position

within view of the gate of North Villa.

Five minutes passed--ten--and no one appeared. In my impatience, I could

almost have rung the bell and entered the house, no matter who might

be there, or what might be the result. The first quarter struck; and

at that very moment I heard the door open, and saw Margaret, and the

servant with whom I had spoken, descending the steps.

They passed out slowly through the garden gate, and walked down the

square, away from where I was standing. The servant noticed me by one

significant look, as they went on. Her young mistress did not appear

to see me. At first, my agitation was so violent that I was perfectly

incapable of following them a single step. In a few moments I recovered

myself; and hastened to overtake them, before they arrived at a more

frequented part of the neighbourhood.

As I approached her side, Margaret turned suddenly and looked at me,

with an expression of anger and astonishment in her eyes. The next

instant, her lovely face became tinged all over with a deep, burning

blush; her head drooped a little; she hesitated for a moment; and then

abruptly quickened her pace. Did she remember me? The mere chance that

she did, gave me confidence: I--

--No! I cannot write down the words that I said to her. Recollecting the

end to which our fatal interview led, I recoil at the very thought of

exposing to others, or of preserving in any permanent form, the words

in which I first confessed my love. It may be pride--miserable, useless

pride--which animates me with this feeling: but I cannot overcome it.

Remembering what I do, I am ashamed to write, ashamed to recall, what

I said at my first interview with Margaret Sherwin. I can give no good

reason for the sensations which now influence me; I cannot analyse them;

and I would not if I could.

Let it be enough to say that I risked everything, and spoke to her. My

words, confused as they were, came hotly, eagerly, and eloquently from

my heart. In the space of a few minutes, I confessed to her all, and

more than all, that I have here painfully related in many pages. I made

use of my name and my rank in life--even now, my cheeks burn while I

think of it--to dazzle her girl’s pride, to make her listen to me

for the sake of my station, if she would not for the sake of my suit,

however honourably urged. Never before had I committed the meanness of

trusting to my social advantages, what I feared to trust to myself. It

is true that love soars higher than the other passions; but it can stoop

lower as well.

Her answers to all that I urged were confused, commonplace, and chilling

enough. I had surprised her--frightened her--it was impossible she could

listen to such addresses from a total stranger--it was very wrong of me

to speak, and of her to stop and hear me--I should remember what became

me as a gentleman, and should not make such advances to her again--I

knew nothing of her--it was impossible I could really care about her

in so short a time--she must beg that I would allow her to proceed

unhindered.

Thus she spoke; sometimes standing still, sometimes moving hurriedly

a few steps forward. She might have expressed herself severely, even

angrily; but nothing she could have said would have counteracted

the fascination that her presence exercised over me. I saw her face,

lovelier than ever in its confusion, in its rapid changes of expression;

I saw her eloquent eyes once or twice raised to mine, then instantly

withdrawn again--and so long as I could look at her, I cared not what I

listened to. She was only speaking what she had been educated to speak;

it was not in her words that I sought the clue to her thoughts and

sensations; but in the tone of her voice, in the language of her eyes,

in the whole expression of her face. All these contained indications

which reassured me. I tried everything that respect, that the persuasion

of love could urge, to win her consent to our meeting again; but she

only answered with repetitions of what she had said before, walking

onward rapidly while she spoke. The servant, who had hitherto lingered

a few paces behind, now advanced to her young mistress’s side, with a

significant look, as if to remind me of my promise. Saying a few parting

words, I let them proceed: at this first interview, to have delayed them

longer would have been risking too much.

As they walked away, the servant turned round, nodding her head and

smiling, as if to assure me that I had lost nothing by the forbearance

which I had exercised. Margaret neither lingered nor looked back. This

last proof of modesty and reserve, so far from discouraging, attracted

me to her more powerfully than ever. After a first interview, it was the

most becoming virtue she could have shown. All my love for her before,

seemed as nothing compared with my love for her now that she had left

me, and left me without a parting look.

What course should I next pursue? Could I expect that Margaret, after

what she had said, would go out again at the same hour on the morrow?

No: she would not so soon abandon the modesty and restraint that she had

shown at our first interview. How communicate with her? how manage most

skilfully to make good the first favourable impression which vanity

whispered I had already produced? I determined to write to her.

How different was the writing of that letter, to the writing of those

once-treasured pages of my romance, which I had now abandoned for ever!

How slowly I worked; how cautiously and diffidently I built up sentence

after sentence, and doubtingly set a stop here, and laboriously rounded

off a paragraph there, when I toiled in the service of ambition! Now,

when I had given myself up to the service of love, how rapidly the pen

ran over the paper; how much more freely and smoothly the desires of the

heart flowed into words, than the thoughts of the mind! Composition was

an instinct now, an art no longer. I could write eloquently, and yet

write without pausing for an expression or blotting a word--It was the

slow progress up the hill, in the service of ambition; it was the swift

(too swift) career down it, in the service of love!

There is no need to describe the contents of my letter to Margaret; they

comprised a mere recapitulation of what I had already said to her. I

insisted often and strongly on the honourable purpose of my suit; and

ended by entreating her to write an answer, and consent to allow me

another interview.

The letter was delivered by the servant. Another present, a little more

timely persuasion, and above all, the regard I had shown to my promise,

won the girl with all her heart to my interests. She was ready to help

me in every way, as long as her interference could be kept a secret from

her master.

I waited a day for the reply to my letter; but none came. The servant

could give me no explanation of this silence. Her young mistress had not

said one word to her about me, since the morning when we had met.

Still not discouraged, I wrote again. The letter contained some lover’s

threats this time, as well as lover’s entreaties; and it produced its

effect--an answer came.

It was very short--rather hurriedly and tremblingly written--and simply

said that the difference between my rank and hers made it her duty to

request of me, that neither by word nor by letter should I ever address

her again.

“Difference in rank,”--that was the only objection then! “Her duty”--it

was not from inclination that she refused me! So young a creature; and

yet so noble in self-sacrifice, so firm in her integrity! I resolved to

disobey her injunction, and see her again. My rank! What was my rank?

Something to cast at Margaret’s feet, for Margaret to trample on!

Once more I sought the aid of my faithful ally, the servant. After

delays which half maddened me with impatience, insignificant though

they were, she contrived to fulfil my wishes. One afternoon, while

Mr. Sherwin was away at business, and while his wife had gone out, I

succeeded in gaining admission to the garden at the back of the house,

where Margaret was then occupied in watering some flowers.

She started as she saw me, and attempted to return to the house. I

took her hand to detain her. She withdrew it, but neither abruptly

nor angrily. I seized the opportunity, while she hesitated whether to

persist or not in retiring; and repeated what I had already said to her

at our first interview (what is the language of love but a language of

repetitions?). She answered, as she had answered me in her letter: the

difference in our rank made it her duty to discourage me.

“But if this difference did not exist,” I said: “if we were both living

in the same rank, Margaret--”

She looked up quickly; then moved away a step or two, as I addressed her

by her Christian name.

“Are you offended with me for calling you Margaret so soon? I do not

think of you as Miss Sherwin, but as Margaret--are you offended with me

for speaking as I think?”

No: she ought not to be offended with me, or with anybody, for doing

that.

“Suppose this difference in rank, which you so cruelly insist on, did

not exist, would you tell me not to hope, not to speak then, as coldly

as you tell me now?”

I must not ask her that--it was no use--the difference in rank _did_

exist.

“Perhaps I have met you too late?--perhaps you are already--”

“No! oh, no!”--she stopped abruptly, as the words passed her lips. The

same lovely blush which I had before seen spreading over her face, rose

on it now. She evidently felt that she had unguardedly said too much:

that she had given me an answer in a case where, according to every

established love-law of the female code, I had no right to expect one.

Her next words accused me--but in very low and broken tones--of having

committed an intrusion which she should hardly have expected from a

gentleman in my position.

“I will regain your better opinion,” I said, eagerly catching at the

most favourable interpretation of her last words, “by seeing you for the

next time, and for all times after, with your father’s full permission.

I will write to-day, and ask for a private interview with him. I will

tell him all I have told you: I will tell him that you take a rank in

beauty and goodness, which is the highest rank in the land--a far higher

rank than mine--the only rank I desire.” (A smile, which she vainly

strove to repress, stole charmingly to her lips.) “Yes, I will do this;

I will never leave him till his answer is favourable--and then what

would be yours? One word, Margaret; one word before I go--”

I attempted to take her hand a second time; but she broke from me, and

hurried into the house.

What more could I desire? What more could the modesty and timidity of a

young girl concede to me?

The moment I reached home, I wrote to Mr. Sherwin. The letter was

superscribed “Private;” and simply requested an interview with him on a

subject of importance, at any hour he might mention. Unwilling to trust

what I had written to the post, I sent my note by a messenger--not one

of our own servants, caution forbade that--and instructed the man to

wait for an answer: if Mr. Sherwin was out, to wait till he came home.

After a long delay--long to _me;_ for my impatience would fain have

turned hours into minutes--I received a reply. It was written on

gilt-edged letter-paper, in a handwriting vulgarised by innumerable

flourishes. Mr. Sherwin presented his respectful compliments, and

would be happy to have the honour of seeing me at North Villa, if quite

convenient, at five o’clock to-morrow afternoon.

I folded up the letter carefully: it was almost as precious as a letter

from Margaret herself. That night I passed sleeplessly, revolving in

my mind every possible course that I could take at the interview of the

morrow. It would be a difficult and a delicate business. I knew nothing

of Mr. Sherwin’s character; yet I must trust him with a secret which I

dared not trust to my own father. Any proposals for paying addresses

to his daughter, coming from one in my position, might appear open

to suspicion. What could I say about marriage? A public, acknowledged

marriage was impossible: a private marriage might be a bold, if

not fatal proposal. I could come to no other conclusion, reflect as

anxiously as I might, than that it was best for me to speak candidly at

all hazards. I could be candid enough when it suited my purpose!

It was not till the next day, when the time approached for my interview

with Mr. Sherwin, that I thoroughly roused myself to face the

plain necessities of my position. Determined to try what impression

appearances could make on him, I took unusual pains with my dress; and

more, I applied to a friend whom I could rely on as likely to ask no

questions--I write this in shame and sorrow: I tell truth here, where it

is hard penance to tell it--I applied, I say, to a friend for the loan

of one of his carriages to take me to North Villa; fearing the risk

of borrowing my father’s carriage, or my sister’s--knowing the common

weakness of rank-worship and wealth-worship in men of Mr. Sherwin’s

order, and meanly determining to profit by it to the utmost. My friend’s

carriage was willingly lent me. By my directions, it took me up at the

appointed hour, at a shop where I was a regular customer.

X.

On my arrival at North Villa, I was shown into what I presumed was the

drawing-room.

Everything was oppressively new. The brilliantly-varnished door cracked

with a report like a pistol when it was opened; the paper on the walls,

with its gaudy pattern of birds, trellis-work, and flowers, in gold,

red, and green on a white ground, looked hardly dry yet; the showy

window-curtains of white and sky-blue, and the still showier carpet of

red and yellow, seemed as if they had come out of the shop yesterday;

the round rosewood table was in a painfully high state of polish; the

morocco-bound picture books that lay on it, looked as if they had never

been moved or opened since they had been bought; not one leaf even

of the music on the piano was dogs-eared or worn. Never was a richly

furnished room more thoroughly comfortless than this--the eye ached at

looking round it. There was no repose anywhere. The print of the Queen,

hanging lonely on the wall, in its heavy gilt frame, with a large crown

at the top, glared on you: the paper, the curtains, the carpet glared

on you: the books, the wax-flowers in glass-cases, the chairs in flaring

chintz-covers, the china plates on the door, the blue and pink glass

vases and cups ranged on the chimney-piece, the over-ornamented

chiffoniers with Tonbridge toys and long-necked smelling bottles on

their upper shelves--all glared on you. There was no look of shadow,

shelter, secrecy, or retirement in any one nook or corner of those four

gaudy walls. All surrounding objects seemed startlingly near to the eye;

much nearer than they really were. The room would have given a nervous

man the headache, before he had been in it a quarter of an hour.

I was not kept waiting long. Another violent crack from the new door,

announced the entrance of Mr. Sherwin himself.

He was a tall, thin man: rather round-shouldered; weak at the knees, and

trying to conceal the weakness in the breadth of his trowsers. He wore

a white cravat, and an absurdly high shirt collar. His complexion

was sallow; his eyes were small, black, bright, and incessantly in

motion--indeed, all his features were singularly mobile: they were

affected by nervous contractions and spasms which were constantly

drawing up and down in all directions the brow, the mouth, and the

muscles of the cheek. His hair had been black, but was now turning to a

sort of iron-grey; it was very dry, wiry, and plentiful, and part of

it projected almost horizontally over his forehead. He had a habit of

stretching it in this direction, by irritably combing it out, from time

to time, with his fingers. His lips were thin and colourless, the lines

about them being numerous and strongly marked. Had I seen him under

ordinary circumstances, I should have set him down as a little-minded

man; a small tyrant in his own way over those dependent on him;

a pompous parasite to those above him--a great stickler for the

conventional respectabilities of life, and a great believer in his own

infallibility. But he was Margaret’s father; and I was determined to be

pleased with him.

He made me a low and rather a cringing bow--then looked to the window,

and seeing the carriage waiting for me at his door, made another bow,

and insisted on relieving me of my hat with his own hand. This done, he

coughed, and begged to know what he could do for me.

I felt some difficulty in opening my business to him. It was necessary

to speak, however, at once--I began with an apology.

“I am afraid, Mr. Sherwin, that this intrusion on the part of a perfect

stranger--”

“Not entirely a stranger, Sir, if I may be allowed to say so.”

“Indeed!”

“I had the great pleasure, Sir, and profit, and--and, indeed,

advantage--of being shown over your town residence last year, when the

family were absent from London. A very beautiful house--I happen to be

acquainted with the steward of your respected father: he was kind enough

to allow me to walk through the rooms. A treat; quite an intellectual

treat--the furniture and hangings, and so on, arranged in such a chaste

style--and the pictures, some of the finest pieces I ever saw--I was

delighted--quite delighted, indeed.”

He spoke in under-tones, laying great stress upon particular words that

were evidently favourites with him--such as, “indeed.” Not only his

eyes, but his whole face, seemed to be nervously blinking and winking

all the time he was addressing me, In the embarrassment and anxiety

which I then felt, this peculiarity fidgetted and bewildered me more

than I can describe. I would have given the world to have had his back

turned, before I spoke to him again.

“I am delighted to hear that my family and my name are not unknown to

you, Mr. Sherwin,” I resumed. “Under those circumstances, I shall feel

less hesitation and difficulty in making you acquainted with the object

of my visit.”

“Just so. May I offer you anything?--a glass of sherry, a--”

“Nothing, thank you. In the first place, Mr. Sherwin, I have reasons

for wishing that this interview, whatever results it may lead to, may

be considered strictly confidential. I am sure I can depend on your

favouring me thus far?”

“Certainly--most certainly--the strictest secrecy of course--pray go

on.”

He drew his chair a little nearer to me. Through all his blinking and

winking, I could see a latent expression of cunning and curiosity in his

eyes. My card was in his hand: he was nervously rolling and unrolling

it, without a moment’s cessation, in his anxiety to hear what I had to

say.

“I must also beg you to suspend your judgment until you have heard me

to the end. You may be disposed to view--to view, I say, unfavourably at

first--in short, Mr. Sherwin, without further preface, the object of my

visit is connected with your daughter, with Miss Margaret Sherwin--”

“My daughter! Bless my soul--God bless my soul, I really can’t

imagine--”

He stopped, half-breathless, bending forward towards me, and crumpling

my card between his fingers into the smallest possible dimensions.

“Rather more than a week ago,” I continued, “I accidentally met Miss

Sherwin in an omnibus, accompanied by a lady older than herself--”

“My wife; Mrs. Sherwin,” he said, impatiently motioning with his

hand, as if “Mrs. Sherwin” were some insignificant obstacle to the

conversation, which he wished to clear out of the way as fast as

possible.

“You will not probably be surprised to hear that I was struck by Miss

Sherwin’s extreme beauty. The impression she made on me was something

more, however, than a mere momentary feeling of admiration. To speak

candidly, I felt--You have heard of such a thing as love at first sight,

Mr. Sherwin?”

“In books, Sir.” He tapped one of the morocco-bound volumes on the

table, and smiled--a curious smile, partly deferential and partly

sarcastic.

“You would be inclined to laugh, I dare say, if I asked you to believe

that there is such a thing as love at first sight, _out_ of books. But,

without dwelling further on that, it is my duty to confess to you, in

all candour and honesty, that the impression Miss Sherwin produced on me

was such as to make me desire the privilege of becoming acquainted with

her. In plain words, I discovered her place of residence by following

her to this house.”

“Upon my soul this is the most extraordinary proceeding----!”

“Pray hear me out, Mr. Sherwin: you will not condemn my conduct, I

think, if you hear all I have to say.”

He muttered something unintelligible; his complexion turned yellower; he

dropped my card, which he had by this time crushed into fragments; and

ran his hand rapidly through his hair until he had stretched it out like

a penthouse over his forehead--blinking all the time, and regarding me

with a lowering, sinister expression of countenance. I saw that it

was useless to treat him as I should have treated a gentleman. He had

evidently put the meanest and the foulest construction upon my delicacy

and hesitation in speaking to him: so I altered my plan, and came to the

point abruptly--“came to business,” as he would have called it.

“I ought to have been plainer, Mr. Sherwin; I ought perhaps to have told

you at the outset, in so many words, that I came to--” (I was about

to say, “to ask your daughter’s hand in marriage;” but a thought of my

father moved darkly over my mind at that moment, and the words would not

pass my lips).

“Well, Sir! to what?”

The tone in which he said this was harsh enough to rouse me. It gave me

back my self-possession immediately.

“To ask your permission to pay my addresses to Miss Sherwin--or, to be

plainer still, if you like, to ask of you her hand in marriage.”

The words were spoken. Even if I could have done so, I would not have

recalled what I had just said; but still, I trembled in spite of myself

as I expressed in plain, blunt words what I had only rapturously thought

over, or delicately hinted at to Margaret, up to this time.

“God bless me!” cried Mr. Sherwin, suddenly sitting back bolt upright

in his chair, and staring at me in such surprise, that his restless

features were actually struck with immobility for the moment--“God

bless me, this is quite another story. Most gratifying, most

astonishing--highly flattered I am sure; highly indeed, my dear Sir!

Don’t suppose, for one moment, I ever doubted your honourable feeling.

Young gentlemen in your station of life do sometimes fail in respect

towards the wives and daughters of their--in short, of those who are

not in their rank exactly. But that’s not the question--quite a

misunderstanding--extremely stupid of me, to be sure. _Pray_ let me

offer you a glass of wine!”

“No wine, thank you, Mr. Sherwin. I must beg your attention a little

longer, while I state to you, in confidence, how I am situated with

regard to the proposals I have made. There are certain circumstances--”

“Yes--yes?”

He bent forward again eagerly towards me, as he spoke; looking more

inquisitive and more cunning than ever.

“I have acknowledged to you, Mr. Sherwin, that I have found means

to speak to your daughter--to speak to her twice. I made my advances

honourably. She received them with a modesty and a reluctance worthy of

herself, worthy of any lady, the highest lady in the land.” (Mr. Sherwin

looked round reverentially to his print of the Queen; then looked back

at me, and bowed solemnly.) “Now, although in so many words she directly

discouraged me--it is her due that I should say this--still, I think I

may without vanity venture to hope that she did so as a matter of duty,

more than as a matter of inclination.”

“Ah--yes, yes! I understand. She would do nothing without my authority,

of course?”

“No doubt that was one reason why she received me as she did; but she

had another, which she communicated to me in the plainest terms--the

difference in our rank of life.”

“Ah! she said that, did she? Exactly so--she saw a difficulty there?

Yes--yes! high principles, Sir--high principles, thank God!”

“I need hardly tell you, Mr. Sherwin, how deeply I feel the delicate

sense of honour which this objection shows on your daughter’s part. You

will easily imagine that it is no objection to _me,_ personally. The

happiness of my whole life depends on Miss Sherwin; I desire no

higher honour, as I can conceive no greater happiness, than to be

your daughter’s husband. I told her this: I also told her that I would

explain myself on the subject to you. She made no objection; and I am,

therefore, I think, justified in considering that if you authorised the

removal of scruples which do her honour at present, she would not feel

the delicacy she does now at sanctioning my addresses.”

“Very proper--a very proper way of putting it. Practical, if I may be

allowed to say so. And now, my dear Sir, the next point is: how about

your own honoured family--eh?”

“It is exactly there that the difficulty lies. My father, on whom I am

dependent as the younger son, has very strong prejudices--convictions I

ought perhaps to call them--on the subject of social inequalities.”

“Quite so--most natural; most becoming, indeed, on the part of your

respected father. I honour his convictions, sir. Such estates, such

houses, such a family as his--connected, I believe, with the nobility,

especially on your late lamented mother’s side. My dear Sir, I

emphatically repeat it, your father’s convictions do him honour; I

respect them as much as I respect him; I do, indeed.”

“I am glad you can view my father’s ideas on social subjects in so

favourable a light, Mr. Sherwin. You will be less surprised to hear how

they are likely to affect me in the step I am now taking.”

“He disapproves of it, of course--strongly, perhaps. Well, though

my dear girl is worthy of any station; and a man like me, devoted to

mercantile interests, may hold his head up anywhere as one of the props

of this commercial country,” (he ran his fingers rapidly through his

hair, and tried to look independent), “still I am prepared to admit,

under all the circumstances--I say under all the circumstances--that his

disapproval is very natural, and was very much to be expected--very much

indeed.”

“He has expressed no disapproval, Mr. Sherwin.”

“You don’t say so!”

“I have not given him an opportunity. My meeting with your daughter

has been kept a profound secret from him, and from every member of my

family; and a secret it must remain. I speak from my intimate knowledge

of my father, when I say that I hardly know of any means that he would

not be capable of employing to frustrate the purpose of this visit, if I

had mentioned it to him. He has been the kindest and best of fathers

to me; but I firmly believe, that if I waited for his consent, no

entreaties of mine, or of any one belonging to me, would induce him to

give his sanction to the marriage I have come to you to propose.”

“Bless my soul! this is carrying things rather far, though--dependent as

you are on him, and all that. Why, what on earth can we do--eh?”

“We must keep both the courtship and the marriage secret.”

“Secret! Good gracious, I don’t at all see my way--”

“Yes, secret--a profound secret among ourselves, until I can divulge my

marriage to my father, with the best chance of--”

“But I tell you, Sir, I can’t see my way through it at all. Chance! what

chance would there be, after what you have told me?”

“There might be many chances. For instance, when the marriage

was solemnised, I might introduce your daughter to my father’s

notice--without disclosing who she was--and leave her, gradually and

unsuspectedly, to win his affection and respect (as with her beauty,

elegance, and amiability, she could not fail to do), while I waited

until the occasion was ripe for confessing everything. Then if I said

to him, ‘This young lady, who has so interested and delighted you, is my

wife;’ do you think, with that powerful argument in my favour, he could

fail to give us his pardon? If, on the other hand, I could only say,

‘This young lady is about to become my wife,’ his prejudices would

assuredly induce him to recall his most favourable impressions, and

refuse his consent. In short, Mr. Sherwin, before marriage, it would be

impossible to move him--after marriage, when opposition could no longer

be of any avail, it would be quite a different thing: we might be sure

of producing, sooner or later, the most favourable results. This is why

it would be absolutely necessary to keep our union secret at first.”

I wondered then--I have since wondered more--how it was that I contrived

to speak thus, so smoothly and so unhesitatingly, when my conscience was

giving the lie all the while to every word I uttered.

“Yes, yes; I see--oh, yes, I see!” said Mr. Sherwin, rattling a bunch of

keys in his pocket, with an expression of considerable perplexity;

“but this is a ticklish business, you know--a very queer and ticklish

business indeed. To have a gentleman of your birth and breeding for a

son-in-law, is of course--but then there is the money question.

Suppose you failed with your father after all--_my_ money is out in my

speculations--_I_ can do nothing. Upon my word, you have placed me in a

position that I never was placed in before.”

“I have influential friends, Mr. Sherwin, in many directions--there are

appointments, good appointments, which would be open to me, if I

pushed my interests. I might provide in this way against the chance of

failure.”

“Ah!--well--yes. There’s something in that, certainly.”

“I can only assure you that my attachment to Miss Sherwin is not of a

nature to be overcome by any pecuniary considerations. I speak in all

our interests, when I say that a private marriage gives us a chance for

the future, as opportunities arise of gradually disclosing it. My offer

to you may be made under some disadvantages and difficulties, perhaps;

for, with the exception of a very small independence, left me by my

mother, I have no certain prospects. But I really think my proposals

have some compensating advantages to recommend them--”

“Certainly! most decidedly so! I am not insensible, my dear Sir, to the

great advantage, and honour, and so forth. But there is something so

unusual about the whole affair. What would be my feelings, if your

father should not come round, and my dear girl was disowned by the

family? Well, well! that could hardly happen, I think, with her

accomplishments and education, and manners too, so distinguished--though

perhaps I ought not to say so. Her schooling alone was a hundred a-year,

Sir, without including extras--”

“I am sure, Mr. Sherwin--”

“--A school, Sir, where it was a rule to take in no thing lower than

the daughter of a professional man--they only waived the rule in

my case--the most genteel school, perhaps, in all London! A

drawing-room-deportment day once every week--the girls taught how

to enter a room and leave a room with dignity and ease--a model of a

carriage door and steps, in the back drawing-room, to practise the girls

(with the footman of the establishment in attendance) in getting into

a carriage and getting out again, in a lady-like manner! No duchess has

had a better education than my Margaret!--”

“Permit me to assure you, Mr. Sherwin--”

“And then, her knowledge of languages--her French, and Italian, and

German, not discontinued in holidays, or after she left school (she has

only just left it); but all kept up and improved every evening, by the

kind attention of Mr. Mannion--”

“May I ask who Mr. Mannion is?” The tone in which I put this question,

cooled his enthusiasm about his daughter’s education immediately. He

answered in his former tones, and with one of his former bows:

“Mr. Mannion is my confidential clerk, Sir--a most superior person, most

highly talented, and well read, and all that.”

“Is he a young man?”

“Young! Oh, dear no! Mr. Mannion is forty, or a year or two more, if

he’s a day--an admirable man of business, as well as a great scholar.

He’s at Lyons now, buying silks for me. When he comes back I shall be

delighted to introduce---”

“I beg your pardon, but I think we are wandering away from the point, a

little.”

“I beg _yours_--so we are. Well, my dear Sir, I must be allowed a day or

two--say two days--to ascertain what my daughter’s feelings are, and to

consider your proposals, which have taken me very much by surprise,

as you may in fact see. But I assure you I am most flattered, most

honoured, most anxious--“.

“I hope you will consider my anxieties, Mr. Sherwin, and let me know the

result of your deliberations as soon as possible.”

“Without fail, depend upon it. Let me see: shall we say the second day

from this, at the same time, if you can favour me with a visit?”

“Certainly.”

“And between that time and this, you will engage not to hold any

communication with my daughter?”

“I promise not, Mr. Sherwin--because I believe that your answer will be

favourable.”

“Ah, well--well! lovers, they say, should never despair. A little

consideration, and a little talk with my dear girl--really now, won’t

you change your mind and have a glass of sherry? (No again?) Very well,

then, the day after tomorrow, at five o’clock.”

With a louder crack than ever, the brand-new drawing-room door was

opened to let me out. The noise was instantly succeeded by the rustling

of a silk dress, and the banging of another door, at the opposite end of

the passage. Had anybody been listening? Where was Margaret?

Mr. Sherwin stood at the garden-gate to watch my departure, and to make

his farewell bow. Thick as was the atmosphere of illusion in which I now

lived, I shuddered involuntarily as I returned his parting salute, and

thought of him as my father-in-law!

XI.

The nearer I approached to our own door, the more reluctance I felt to

pass the short interval between my first and second interview with Mr.

Sherwin, at home. When I entered the house, this reluctance increased to

something almost like dread. I felt unwilling and unfit to meet the eyes

of my nearest and dearest relatives. It was a relief to me to hear that

my father was not at home. My sister was in the house: the servant said

she had just gone into the library, and inquired whether he should tell

her that I had come in. I desired him not to disturb her, as it was my

intention to go out again immediately.

I went into my study, and wrote a short note there to Clara; merely

telling her that I should be absent in the country for two days. I had

sealed and laid it on the table for the servant to deliver, and was

about to leave the room, when I heard the library door open. I instantly

drew back, and half-closed my own door again. Clara had got the book she

wanted, and was taking it up to her own sitting-room. I waited till she

was out of sight, and then left the house. It was the first time I had

ever avoided my sister--my sister, who had never in her life asked a

question, or uttered a word that could annoy me; my sister, who had

confided all her own little secrets to my keeping, ever since we had

been children. As I thought on what I had done, I felt a sense of

humiliation which was almost punishment enough for the meanness of which

I had been guilty.

I went round to the stables, and had my horse saddled immediately. No

idea of proceeding in any particular direction occurred to me. I

simply felt resolved to pass my two days’ ordeal of suspense away from

home--far enough away to keep me faithful to my promise not to see

Margaret. Soon after I started, I left my horse to his own guidance, and

gave myself up to my thoughts and recollections, as one by one they rose

within me. The animal took the direction which he had been oftenest used

to take during my residence in London--the northern road.

It was not until I had ridden half a mile beyond the suburbs that I

looked round me, and discovered towards what part of the country I was

proceeding. I drew the rein directly, and turned my horse’s head back

again, towards the south. To follow the favourite road which I had so

often followed with Clara; to stop perhaps at some place where I

had often stopped with her, was more than I had the courage or the

insensibility to do at that moment.

I rode as far as Ewell, and stopped there: the darkness had overtaken

me, and it was useless to tire my horse by going on any greater

distance. The next morning, I was up almost with sunrise; and passed

the greater part of the day in walking about among villages, lanes, and

fields, just as chance led me. During the night, many thoughts that I

had banished for the last week had returned--those thoughts of evil omen

under which the mind seems to ache, just as the body aches under a dull,

heavy pain, to which we can assign no particular place or cause.

Absent from Margaret, I had no resource against the oppression that

now overcame me. I could only endeavour to alleviate it by keeping

incessantly in action; by walking or riding, hour after hour, in the

vain attempt to quiet the mind by wearying out the body. Apprehension of

the failure of my application to Mr. Sherwin had nothing to do with the

vague gloom which now darkened my thoughts; they kept too near home

for that. Besides, what I had observed of Margaret’s father, especially

during the latter part of my interview with him, showed me plainly

enough that he was trying to conceal, under exaggerated surprise and

assumed hesitation, his secret desire to profit at once by my

offer; which, whatever conditions might clog it, was infinitely more

advantageous in a social point of view, than any he could have hoped

for. It was not his delay in accepting my proposals, but the burden

of deceit, the fetters of concealment forced on me by the proposals

themselves, which now hung heavy on my heart.

That evening I left Ewell, and rode towards home again, as far as

Richmond, where I remained for the night and the forepart of the next

day. I reached London in the afternoon; and got to North Villa--without

going home first--about five o’clock.

The oppression was still on my spirits. Even the sight of the house

where Margaret lived failed to invigorate or arouse me.

On this occasion, when I was shown into the drawing-room, both Mr. and

Mrs. Sherwin were awaiting me there. On the table was the sherry which

had been so perseveringly pressed on me at the last interview, and by it

a new pound cake. Mrs. Sherwin was cutting the cake as I came in, while

her husband watched the process with critical eyes. The poor woman’s

weak white fingers trembled as they moved the knife under conjugal

inspection.

“Most happy to see you again--most happy indeed, my dear Sir,” said Mr.

Sherwin, advancing with hospitable smile and outstretched hand. “Allow

me to introduce my better half, Mrs. S.”

His wife rose in a hurry, and curtseyed, leaving the knife sticking

in the cake; upon which Mr. Sherwin, with a stern look at her,

ostentatiously pulled it out, and set it down rather violently on the

dish.

Poor Mrs. Sherwin! I had hardly noticed her on the day when she got into

the omnibus with her daughter--it was as if I now saw her for the first

time. There is a natural communicativeness about women’s emotions. A

happy woman imperceptibly diffuses her happiness around her; she has an

influence that is something akin to the influence of a sunshiny day.

So, again, the melancholy of a melancholy woman is invariably, though

silently, infectious; and Mrs. Sherwin was one of this latter order. Her

pale, sickly, moist-looking skin; her large, mild, watery, light-blue

eyes; the restless timidity of her expression; the mixture of useless

hesitation and involuntary rapidity in every one of her actions--all

furnished the same significant betrayal of a life of incessant fear

and restraint; of a disposition full of modest generosities and meek

sympathies, which had been crushed down past rousing to self-assertion,

past ever seeing the light. There, in that mild, wan face of hers--in

those painful startings and hurryings when she moved; in that tremulous,

faint utterance when she spoke--_there,_ I could see one of those

ghastly heart-tragedies laid open before me, which are acted and

re-acted, scene by scene, and year by year, in the secret theatre of

home; tragedies which are ever shadowed by the slow falling of the black

curtain that drops lower and lower every day--that drops, to hide all at

last, from the hand of death.

“We have had very beautiful weather lately, Sir,” said Mrs. Sherwin,

almost inaudibly; looking as she spoke, with anxious eyes towards her

husband, to see if she was justified in uttering even those piteously

common-place words. “Very beautiful weather to be sure,” continued the

poor woman, as timidly as if she had become a little child again, and

had been ordered to say her first lesson in a stranger’s presence.

“Delightful weather, Mrs. Sherwin. I have been enjoying it for the

last two days in the country--in a part of Surrey (the neighbourhood of

Ewell) that I had not seen before.”

There was a pause. Mr. Sherwin coughed; it was evidently a warning

matrimonial peal that he had often rung before--for Mrs. Sherwin

started, and looked up at him directly.

“As the lady of the house, Mrs. S., it strikes me that you might offer

a visitor, like this gentleman, some cake and wine, without making any

particular hole in your manners!”

“Oh dear me! I beg your pardon! I’m very sorry, I’m sure”--and she

poured out a glass of wine, with such a trembling hand that the decanter

tinkled all the while against the glass. Though I wanted nothing, I

ate and drank something immediately, in common consideration for Mrs.

Sherwin’s embarrassment.

Mr. Sherwin filled himself a glass--held it up admiringly to the

light--said, “Your good health, Sir, your very good health;” and drank

the wine with the air of a connoisseur, and a most expressive smacking

of the lips. His wife (to whom he offered nothing) looked at him all the

time with the most reverential attention.

“You are taking nothing yourself, Mrs. Sherwin,” I said.

“Mrs. Sherwin, Sir,” interposed her husband, “never drinks wine, and

can’t digest cake. A bad stomach--a very bad stomach. Have another glass

yourself. Won’t you, indeed? This sherry stands me in six shillings a

bottle--ought to be first-rate wine at that price: and so it is.

Well, if you won’t have any more, we will proceed to business. Ha! ha!

business as _I_ call it; pleasure I hope it will be to _you_.”

Mrs. Sherwin coughed--a very weak, small cough, half-stifled in its

birth.

“There you are again!” he said, turning fiercely towards her--“Coughing

again! Six months of the doctor--a six months’ bill to come out of my

pocket--and no good done--no good, Mrs. S.”

“Oh, I am much better, thank you--it was only a little--”

“Well, Sir, the evening after you left me, I had what you may call

an explanation with my dear girl. She was naturally a little confused

and--and embarrassed, indeed. A very serious thing of course, to decide

at her age, and at so short a notice, on a point involving the happiness

of her whole life to come.”

Here Mrs. Sherwin put her handkerchief to her eyes--quite noiselessly;

for she had doubtless acquired by long practice the habit of weeping in

silence. Her husband’s quick glance turned on her, however, immediately,

with anything but an expression of sympathy.

“Good God, Mrs. S.! what’s the use of going on in that way?” he said,

indignantly. “What is there to cry about? Margaret isn’t ill, and isn’t

unhappy--what on earth’s the matter now? Upon my soul this is a most

annoying circumstance: and before a visitor too! You had better leave me

to discuss the matter alone--you always _were_ in the way of business,

and it’s my opinion you always will be.”

Mrs. Sherwin prepared, without a word of remonstrance, to leave the

room. I sincerely felt for her; but could say nothing. In the impulse

of the moment, I rose to open the door for her; and immediately repented

having done so. The action added so much to her embarrassment that she

kicked her foot against a chair, and uttered a suppressed exclamation of

pain as she went out.

Mr. Sherwin helped himself to a second glass of wine, without taking the

smallest notice of this.

“I hope Mrs. Sherwin has not hurt herself?” I said. “Oh dear no! not

worth a moment’s thought--awkwardness and nervousness, nothing else--she

always was nervous--the doctors (all humbugs) can do nothing with

her--it’s very sad, very sad indeed; but there’s no help for it.”

By this time (in spite of all my efforts to preserve some respect

for him, as Margaret’s father) he had sunk to his proper place in my

estimation.

“Well, my dear Sir,” he resumed, “to go back to where I was interrupted

by Mrs. S. Let me see: I was saying that my dear girl was a little

confused, and so forth. As a matter of course, I put before her all the

advantages which such a connection as yours promised--and at the same

time, mentioned some of the little embarrassing circumstances--the

private marriage, you know, and all that--besides telling her of certain

restrictions in reference to the marriage, if it came off, which I

should feel it my duty as a father to impose; and which I shall proceed,

in short, to explain to you. As a man of the world, my dear Sir, you

know as well as I do, that young ladies don’t give very straightforward

answers on the subject of their prepossessions in favour of young

gentlemen. But I got enough out of her to show me that you had made

pretty good use of your time--no occasion to despond, you know--I leave

_you_ to make her speak plain; it’s more in your line than mine, more a

good deal. And now let us come to the business part of the transaction.

All I have to say is this:--if you agree to my proposals, then I agree

to yours. I think that’s fair enough--Eh?”

“Quite fair, Mr. Sherwin.”

“Just so. Now, in the first place, my daughter is too young to be

married yet. She was only seventeen last birthday.”

“You astonish me! I should have imagined her three years older at

least.”

“Everybody thinks her older than she is--everybody, my dear Sir--and she

certainly looks it. She’s more formed, more developed I may say, than

most girls at her age. However, that’s not the point. The plain fact is,

she’s too young to be married now--too young in a moral point of view;

too young in an educational point of view; too young altogether. Well:

the upshot of this is, that I could not give my consent to Margaret’s

marrying, until another year is out--say a year from this time. One

year’s courtship for the finishing off of her education, and the

formation of her constitution--you understand me, for the formation of

her constitution.”

A year to wait! At first, this seemed a long trial to endure, a trial

that ought not to be imposed on me. But the next moment, the delay

appeared in a different light. Would it not be the dearest of privileges

to be able to see Margaret, perhaps every day, perhaps for hours at a

time? Would it not be happiness enough to observe each development of

her character, to watch her first maiden love for me, advancing nearer

and nearer towards confidence and maturity the oftener we met? As I

thought on this, I answered Mr. Sherwin without further hesitation.

“It will be some trial,” I said, “to my patience, though none to my

constancy, none to the strength of my affection--I will wait the year.”

“Exactly so,” rejoined Mr. Sherwin; “such candour and such

reasonableness were to be expected from one who is quite the gentleman.

And now comes my grand difficulty in this business--in fact, the little

stipulation I have to make.”

He stopped, and ran his fingers through his hair, in all directions; his

features fidgetting and distorting themselves ominously, while he looked

at me.

“Pray explain yourself, Mr. Sherwin. Your silence gives me some

uneasiness at this particular moment, I assure you.”

“Quite so--I understand. Now, you must promise me not to be

huffed--offended, I should say--at what I am going to propose.”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, then, it may seem odd; but under all the circumstances--that is

to say, as far as the case concerns you personally--I want you and my

dear girl to be married at once, and yet not to be married exactly, for

another year. I don’t know whether you understand me?”

“I must confess I do not.”

He coughed rather uneasily; turned to the table, and poured out another

glass of sherry--his hand trembling a little as he did so. He drank off

the wine at a draught; cleared his throat three or four times after it;

and then spoke again.

“Well, to be still plainer, this is how the matter stands: If you were

a party in our rank of life, coming to court Margaret with your father’s

full approval and permission when once you had consented to the year’s

engagement, everything would be done and settled; the bargain would

have been struck on both sides; and there would be an end of it. But,

situated as you are, I can’t stop here safely--I mean, I can’t end the

agreement exactly in this way.”

He evidently felt that he got fluent on wine; and helped himself, at

this juncture, to another glass.

“You will see what I am driving at, my dear Sir, directly,” he

continued. “Suppose now, you came courting my daughter for a year, as

we settled; and suppose your father found it out--we should keep it a

profound secret of course: but still, secrets are sometimes found out,

nobody knows how. Suppose, I say, your father got scent of the thing,

and the match was broken off; where do you think Margaret’s reputation

would be? If it happened with somebody in her own station, we might

explain it all, and be believed: but happening with somebody in yours,

what would the world say? Would the world believe you had ever intended

to marry her? That’s the point--that’s the point precisely.”

“But the case could not happen--I am astonished you can imagine it

possible. I have told you already, I am of age.”

“Properly urged--very properly, indeed. But you also told me, if you

remember, when I first had the pleasure of seeing you, that your father,

if he knew of this match, would stick at nothing to oppose it--_at

nothing_--I recollect you said so. Now, knowing this, my dear

Sir--though I have the most perfect confidence in _your_ honour, and

_your_ resolution to fulfil your engagement--I can’t have confidence in

your being prepared beforehand to oppose all your father might do if he

found us out; because you can’t tell yourself what he might be up to, or

what influence he might set to work over you. This sort of mess is not

very probable, you will say; but if it’s at all possible--and there’s

a year for it to be possible in--by George, Sir, I must guard against

accidents, for my daughter’s sake--I must indeed!”

“In Heaven’s name, Mr. Sherwin, pass over all these impossible

difficulties of yours! and let me hear what you have finally to

propose.”

“Gently, my dear Sir! gently, gently, gently! I propose to begin with:

that you should marry my daughter--privately marry her--in a week’s

time. Now, pray compose yourself!” (I was looking at him in speechless

astonishment.) “Take it easy; pray take it easy! Supposing, then, you

marry her in this way, I make one stipulation. I require you to give me

your word of honour to leave her at the church door; and for the space

of one year never to attempt to see her, except in the presence of a

third party. At the end of that time, I will engage to give her to you,

as your wife in fact, as well as in name. There! what do you say to

that--eh?”

I was too astounded, too overwhelmed, to say anything at that moment;

Mr. Sherwin went on:

“This plan of mine, you see, reconciles everything. If any accident

_does_ happen, and we are discovered, why your father can do nothing to

stop the match, because the match will have been already made. And,

at the same time, I secure a year’s delay, for the formation of her

constitution, and the finishing of her accomplishments, and so forth.

Besides, what an opportunity this gives of sailing as near the wind as

you choose, in breaking the thing, bit by bit, to your father, without

fear of consequences, in case he should run rough after all. Upon my

honour, my dear Sir, I think I deserve some credit for hitting on this

plan--it makes everything so right and straight, and suits of course

the wishes of all parties! I need hardly say that you shall have

every facility for seeing Margaret, under the restrictions--under the

restrictions, you understand. People may talk about your visits; but

having got the certificate, and knowing it’s all safe and settled, I

shan’t care for that. Well, what do you say? take time to think, if you

wish it--only remember that I have the most perfect confidence in your

honour, and that I act from a fatherly feeling for the interests of my

dear girl!” He stopped, out of breath from the extraordinary volubility

of his long harangue.

Some men more experienced in the world, less mastered by love than I

was, would, in my position, have recognised this proposal an unfair

trial of self-restraint--perhaps, something like an unfair humiliation

as well. Others have detected the selfish motives which suggested it:

the mean distrust of my honour, integrity, and firmness of purpose which

it implied; and the equally mean anxiety on Sherwin’s part to clench

his profitable bargain at once, for fear it might be repented of. I

discerned nothing of this. As soon as I had recovered from the natural

astonishment of the first few moments, I only saw in the strange plan

proposed to me, a certainty of assuring--no matter with what sacrifice,

what hazard, or what delay--the ultimate triumph of my love. When Mr.

Sherwin had ceased speaking, I replied at once:

“I accept your conditions--I accept them with all my heart.”

He was hardly prepared for so complete and so sudden an acquiescence in

his proposal, and looked absolutely startled by it, at first. But

soon resuming his self-possession--his wily, “business-like”

self-possession--he started up, and shook me vehemently by the hand.

“Delighted--most delighted, my dear Sir, to find how soon we understand

each other, and that we pull together so well. We must have another

glass; hang it, we really must! a toast, you know; a toast you can’t

help drinking--your wife! Ha! ha!--I had you there!--my dear, dear

Margaret, God bless her!”

“We may consider all difficulties finally settled then,” I said, anxious

to close my interview with Mr. Sherwin as speedily as possible.

“Decidedly so. Done, and double done, I may say. There will be a

little insurance on your life, that I shall ask you to effect for dear

Margaret’s sake; and perhaps, a memorandum of agreement, engaging to

settle a certain proportion of any property you may become possessed of,

on her and her children. You see I am looking forward to my grandfather

days already! But this can wait for a future occasion--say in a day or

two.”

“Then I presume there will be no objection to my seeing Miss Sherwin

now?”

“None whatever---at once, if you like. This way, my dear Sir; this way,”

and he led me across the passage, into the dining-room.

This apartment was furnished with less luxury, but with more bad taste

(if possible) than the room we had just left. Near the window sat

Margaret--it was the same window at which I had seen her, on the evening

when I wandered into the square, after our meeting in the omnibus. The

cage with the canary-bird hung in the same place. I just noticed--with

a momentary surprise--that Mrs. Sherwin was sitting far away from

her daughter, at the other end of the room; and then placed myself by

Margaret’s side. She was dressed in pale yellow--a colour which gave new

splendour to her dark complexion and magnificently dark hair. Once more,

all my doubts, all my self-upbraidings vanished, and gave place to the

exquisite sense of happiness, the glow of joy and hope and love which

seemed to rush over my heart, the moment I looked at her.

After staying in the room about five minutes, Mr. Sherwin whispered to

his wife, and left us. Mrs. Sherwin still kept her place; but she said

nothing, and hardly turned to look round at us more than once or twice.

Perhaps she was occupied by her own thoughts; perhaps, from a motive of

delicacy, she abstained even from an appearance of watching her daughter

or watching me. Whatever feelings influenced her, I cared not to

speculate on them. It was enough that I had the privilege of speaking

to Margaret uninterruptedly; of declaring my love at last, without

hesitation and without reserve.

How much I had to say to her, and how short a time seemed to be left me

that evening to say it in! How short a time to tell her all the thoughts

of the past which she had created in me; all the self-sacrifice to which

I had cheerfully consented for her sake; all the anticipations of future

happiness which were concentrated in her, which drew their very breath

of life, only from the prospect of her rewarding love! She spoke but

little; yet even that little it was a new delight to hear. She smiled

now; she let me take her hand, and made no attempt to withdraw it.

The evening had closed in; the darkness was stealing fast upon us; the

still, dead-still figure of Mrs. Sherwin, always in the same place

and the same attitude, grew fainter and fainter to the eye, across the

distance of the room--but no thought of time, no thought of home ever

once crossed my mind. I could have sat at the window with Margaret

the long night through; without an idea of numbering the hours as they

passed.

Ere long, however, Mr. Sherwin entered the room again, and effectually

roused me by approaching and speaking to us. I saw that I had stayed

long enough, and that we were not to be left together again, that

night. So I rose and took my leave, having first fixed a time for seeing

Margaret on the morrow. Mr. Sherwin accompanied me with great ceremony

to the outer door. Just as I was leaving him, he touched me on the arm,

and said in his most confidential tones:

“Come an hour earlier, to-morrow; and we’ll go and get the licence

together. No objection to that--eh? And the marriage, shall we say this

day week? Just as _you_ like, you know--don’t let me seem to dictate.

Ah! no objection to that, either, I see, and no objection on Margaret’s

side, I’ll warrant! With respect to consents, in the marrying part of

the business, there’s complete mutuality--isn’t there? Good night: God

bless you!”

XII.

That night I went home with none of the reluctance or the apprehension

which I had felt on the last occasion, when I approached our own door.

The assurance of success contained in the events of the afternoon, gave

me a trust in my own self-possession--a confidence in my own capacity

to parry all dangerous questions--which I had not experienced before.

I cared not how soon, or for how long a time, I might find myself in

company with Clara or my father. It was well for the preservation of my

secret that I was in this frame of mind; for, on opening my study door,

I was astonished to see both of them in my room.

Clara was measuring one of my over-crowded book-shelves, with a piece of

string; and was apparently just about to compare the length of it with

a vacant space on the wall close by, when I came in. Seeing me, she

stopped; and looked round significantly at my father, who was standing

near her, with a file of papers in his hand.

“You may well feel surprised, Basil, at this invasion of your

territory,” he said, with peculiar kindness of manner--“you must,

however, apply there, to the prime minister of the household,” pointing

to Clara, “for an explanation. I am only the instrument of a domestic

conspiracy on your sister’s part.”

Clara seemed doubtful whether she should speak. It was the first time I

had ever seen such an expression in her face, when she looked into mine.

“We are discovered, papa,” she said, after a momentary silence, “and we

must explain: but you know I always leave as many explanations as I can

to you.”

“Very well,” said my father smiling; “my task in this instance will be

an easy one. I was intercepted, Basil, on my way to my own room by your

sister, and taken in here to advise about a new set of bookcases for

you, when I ought to have been attending to my own money matters.

Clara’s idea was to have had these new bookcases made in secret, and put

up as a surprise, some day when you were not at home. However, as you

have caught her in the act of measuring spaces, with all the skill of

an experienced carpenter, and all the impetuosity of an arbitrary young

lady who rules supreme over everybody, further concealment is out of the

question. We must make a virtue of necessity, and confess everything.”

Poor Clara! This was her only return for ten days’ utter neglect--and

she had been half afraid to tell me of it herself. I approached and

thanked her; not very gratefully, I am afraid, for I felt too confused

to speak freely. It seemed like a fatality. The more evil I was doing

in secret, evil to family ties and family principles, the more good was

unconsciously returned to me by my family, through my sister’s hands.

“I made no objection, of course, to the bookcase plan,” continued my

father. “More room is really wanted for the volumes on volumes that you

have collected about you; but I certainly suggested a little delay in

the execution of the project. The bookcases will, at all events, not be

required here for five months to come. This day week we return to the

country.”

I could not repress a start of astonishment and dismay. Here was a

difficulty which I ought to have provided for; but which I had most

unaccountably never once thought of, although it was now the period

of the year at which on all former occasions we had been accustomed to

leave London. This day week too! The very day fixed by Mr. Sherwin for

my marriage!

“I am afraid, Sir, I shall not be able to go with you and Clara so soon

as you propose. It was my wish to remain in London some time longer.” I

said this in a low voice, without venturing to look at my sister. But I

could not help hearing her exclamation as I spoke, and the tone in which

she uttered it.

My father moved nearer to me a step or two, and looked in my face

intently, with the firm, penetrating expression which peculiarly

characterized him.

“This seems an extraordinary resolution,” he said, his tones and manner

altering ominously while he spoke. “I thought your sudden absence for

the last two days rather odd; but this plan of remaining in London by

yourself is really incomprehensible. What can you have to do?”

An excuse--no! not an excuse; let me call things by their right names

in these pages--a _lie_ was rising to my lips; but my father checked the

utterance of it. He detected my embarrassment immediately, anxiously as

I strove to conceal it.

“Stop,” he said coldly, while the red flush which meant so much when it

rose on _his_ cheek, began to appear there for the first time. “Stop! If

you must make excuses, Basil, I must ask no questions. You have a secret

which you wish to keep from me; and I beg you _will_ keep it. I have

never been accustomed to treat my sons as I would not treat any other

gentlemen with whom I may happen to be associated. If they have private

affairs, I cannot interfere with those affairs. My trust in their honour

is my only guarantee against their deceiving me; but in the intercourse

of gentlemen that is guarantee enough. Remain here as long as you like:

we shall be happy to see you in the country, when you are able to leave

town.”

He turned to Clara. “I suppose, my love, you want me no longer. While I

settle my own matters of business, you can arrange about the bookcases

with your brother. Whatever you wish, I shall be glad to do.” And he

left the room without speaking to me, or looking at me again. I sank

into a chair, feeling disgraced in my own estimation by the last words

he had spoken to me. His trust in my honour was his only guarantee

against my deceiving him. As I thought over that declaration, every

syllable of it seemed to sear my conscience; to brand Hypocrite on my

heart.

I turned towards my sister. She was standing at a little distance from

me, silent and pale, mechanically twisting the measuring-string, which

she still held between her trembling fingers; and fixing her eyes upon

me so lovingly, so mournfully, that my fortitude gave way when I looked

at her. At that instant, I seemed to forget everything that had passed

since the day when I first met Margaret, and to be restored once more

to my old way of life and my old home-sympathies. My head drooped on my

breast, and I felt the hot tears forcing themselves into my eyes.

Clara stepped quietly to my side; and sitting down by me in silence, put

her arm round my neck.

When I was calmer, she said gently:

“I have been very anxious about you, Basil; and perhaps I have allowed

that anxiety to appear more than I ought. Perhaps I have been accustomed

to exact too much from you--you have been too ready to please me. But I

have been used to it so long; and I have nobody else that I can speak to

as I can to you. Papa is very kind; but he can’t be what you are to me

exactly; and Ralph does not live with us now, and cared little about me,

I am afraid, when he did. I have friends, but friends are not--”

She stopped again; her voice was failing her. For a moment, she

struggled to keep her self-possession--struggled as only women can--and

succeeded in the effort. She pressed her arm closer round my neck; but

her tones were steadier and clearer when she resumed:

“It will not be very easy for me to give up our country rides and walks

together, and the evening talk that we always had at dusk in the old

library at the park. But I think I can resign all this, and go away

alone with papa, for the first time, without making you melancholy by

anything I say or do at parting, if you will only promise that when you

are in any difficulty you will let me be of some use. I think I could

always be of use, because I should always feel an interest in anything

that concerned you. I don’t want to intrude on your secret; but if that

secret should ever bring you trouble or distress (which I hope and pray

it may not), I want you to have confidence in my being able to help you,

in some way, through any mischances. Let me go into the country, Basil,

knowing that you can still put trust in me, even though a time should

come when you can put trust in no one else--let me know this: _do_ let

me!”

I gave her the assurance she desired--gave it with my whole heart. She

seemed to have recovered all her old influence over me by the few simple

words she had spoken. The thought crossed my mind, whether I ought not

in common gratitude to confide my secret to her at once, knowing as I

did, that it would be safe in her keeping, however the disclosure might

startle or pain her, I believe I should have told her all, in another

minute, but for a mere accident--the trifling interruption caused by a

knock at the door.

It came from one of the servants. My father desired to see Clara on some

matter connected with their impending departure for the country. She was

unfit enough to obey such a summons at such a time; but with her usual

courage in disciplining her own feelings into subserviency to the

wishes of any one whom she loved, she determined to obey immediately

the message which had been delivered to her. A few moments of silence;

a slight trembling soon repressed; a parting kiss for me; these few

farewell words of encouragement at the door; “Don’t grieve about what

papa has said; you have made _me_ feel happy about you, Basil; I will

make _him_ feel happy too,” and Clara was gone.

With those few minutes of interruption, the time for the disclosure of

my secret had passed by. As soon as my sister was out of the room, my

former reluctance to trust it to home-keeping returned, and remained

unchanged throughout the whole of the long year’s probation which I had

engaged to pass. But this mattered little. As events turned out, if

I had told Clara all, the end would have come in the same way, the

fatality would have been accomplished by the same means.

I went out shortly after my sister had left me. I could give myself to

no occupation at home, for the rest of that night; and I knew that it

would be useless to attempt to sleep just then. As I walked through

the streets, bitter thoughts against my father rose in my mind--bitter

thoughts against his inexorable family pride, which imposed on me the

concealment and secrecy, under the oppression of which I had already

suffered so much--bitter thoughts against those social tyrannies, which

take no account of human sympathy and human love, and which my father

now impersonated, as it were, to my ideas. Gradually these reflections

merged in others that were better. I thought of Clara again; consoling

myself with the belief, that, however my father might receive the news

of my marriage, I might count upon my sister as certain to love my

wife and be kind to her, for my sake. This thought led my heart back to

Margaret--led it gently and happily. I went home, calmed and reassured

again--at least for the rest of the night.

The events of that week, so fraught with importance for the future of my

life, passed with ominous rapidity.

The marriage license was procured; all remaining preliminaries with Mr.

Sherwin were adjusted; I saw Margaret every day, and gave myself up more

and more unreservedly to the charm that she exercised over me, at each

succeeding interview. At home, the bustle of approaching departure; the

farewell visitings; the multitudinous minor arrangements preceding a

journey to the country, seemed to hurry the hours on faster and faster,

as the parting day for Clara, and the marriage day for me, drew near.

Incessant interruptions prevented any more lengthened or private

conversations with my sister; and my father was hardly ever accessible

for more than five minutes together, even to those who specially wished

to speak with him. Nothing arose to embarrass or alarm me now, out of my

intercourse with home.

The day came. I had not slept during the night that preceded it; so I

rose early to look out on the morning.

It is strange how frequently that instinctive belief in omens and

predestinations, which we flippantly term Superstition, asserts its

natural prerogative even over minds trained to repel it, at the moment

of some great event in our lives. I believe this has happened to many

more men than ever confessed it; and it happened to me. At any former

period of my life, I should have laughed at the bare imputation of a

“superstitious” feeling ever having risen in my mind. But now, as I

looked on the sky, and saw the black clouds that overspread the

whole firmament, and the heavy rain that poured down from them, an

irrepressible sinking of the heart came over me. For the last ten days

the sun had shone almost uninterruptedly--with my marriage-day came

the cloud, the mist and the rain. I tried to laugh myself out of the

forebodings which this suggested, and tried in vain.

The departure for the country was to take place at an early hour. We

all breakfasted together; the meal was hurried over comfortlessly and

silently. My father was either writing notes, or examining the steward’s

accounts, almost the whole time; and Clara was evidently incapable of

uttering a single word, without risking the loss of her self-possession.

The silence was so complete, while we sat together at the table, that

the fall of the rain outside (which had grown softer and thicker as the

morning advanced), and the quick, quiet tread of the servants, as they

moved about the room, were audible with a painful distinctness. The

oppression of our last family breakfast in London, for that year, had

an influence of wretchedness which I cannot describe--which I can never

forget.

At last the hour of starting came. Clara seemed afraid to trust herself

even to look at me now. She hurriedly drew down her veil the moment the

carriage was announced. My father shook hands with me rather coldly. I

had hoped he would have said something at parting; but he only bade me

farewell in the simplest and shortest manner. I had rather he would have

spoken to me in anger than restrained himself as he did, to what the

commonest forms of courtesy required. There was but one more slight,

after this, that he could cast on me; and he did not spare it. While my

sister was taking leave of me, he waited at the door of the room to

lead her down stairs, as if he knew by intuition that this was the last

little parting attention which I had hoped to show her myself.

Clara whispered (in such low, trembling tones that I could hardly hear

her):

“Think of what you promised in your study, Basil, whenever you think of

_me:_ I will write often.”

As she raised her veil for a moment, and kissed me, I felt on my own

cheek the tears that were falling fast over hers. I followed her and

my father down stairs. When they reached the street, she gave me her

hand--it was cold and powerless. I knew that the fortitude she had

promised to show, was giving way, in spite of all her efforts to

preserve it; so I let her hurry into the carriage without detaining

her by any last words. The next instant she and my father were driven

rapidly from the door.

When I re-entered the house, my watch showed me that I had still an hour

to wait, before it was time to go to North Villa.

Between the different emotions produced by my impressions of the scene I

had just passed through, and my anticipations of the scene that was yet

to come, I suffered in that one hour as much mental conflict as most men

suffer in a life. It seemed as if I were living out all my feelings in

this short interval of delay, and must die at heart when it was over.

My restlessness was a torture to me; and yet I could not overcome it. I

wandered through the house from room to room, stopping nowhere. I took

down book after book from the library, opened them to read, and put them

back on the shelves the next instant. Over and over again I walked to

the window to occupy myself with what was passing in the street; and

each time I could not stay there for one minute together. I went into

the picture-gallery, looked along the walls, and yet knew not what I was

looking at. At last I wandered into my father’s study--the only room I

had not yet visited.

A portrait of my mother hung over the fireplace: my eyes turned towards

it, and for the first time I came to a long pause. The picture had an

influence that quieted me; but what influence I hardly knew. Perhaps

it led my spirit up to the spirit that had gone from us--perhaps those

secret voices from the unknown world, which only the soul can listen to,

were loosed at that moment, and spoke within me. While I sat looking up

at the portrait, I grew strangely and suddenly calm before it. My memory

flew back to a long illness that I had suffered from, as a child, when

my little cradle-couch was placed by my mother’s bedside, and she used

to sit by me in the dull evenings and hush me to sleep. The remembrance

of this brought with it a dread imagining that she might now be hushing

my spirit, from her place among the angels of God. A stillness and awe

crept over me; and I hid my face in my hands.

The striking of the hour from a clock in the room, startled me back to

the outer world. I left the house and went at once to North Villa.

Margaret and her father and mother were in the drawing-room when I

entered it. I saw immediately that neither of the two latter had passed

the morning calmly. The impending event of the day had exercised its

agitating influence over them, as well as over me. Mrs. Sherwin’s

face was pale to her very lips: not a word escaped her. Mr. Sherwin

endeavoured to assume the self-possession which he was evidently far

from feeling, by walking briskly up and down the room, and talking

incessantly--asking the most common-place questions, and making the most

common-place jokes. Margaret, to my surprise, showed fewer symptoms of

agitation than either of her parents. Except when the colour came and

went occasionally on her cheek, I could detect no outward evidences of

emotion in her at all.

The church was near at hand. As we proceeded to it, the rain fell

heavily, and the mist of the morning was thickening to a fog. We had

to wait in the vestry for the officiating clergyman. All the gloom and

dampness of the day seemed to be collected in this room--a dark, cold,

melancholy place, with one window which opened on a burial-ground

steaming in the wet. The rain pattered monotonously on the pavement

outside. While Mr. Sherwin exchanged remarks on the weather with the

clerk, (a tall, lean man, arrayed in a black gown), I sat silent, near

Mrs. Sherwin and Margaret, looking with mechanical attention at the

white surplices which hung before me in a half-opened cupboard--at the

bottle of water and tumbler, and the long-shaped books, bound in brown

leather, which were on the table. I was incapable of speaking--incapable

even of thinking--during that interval of expectation.

At length the clergyman arrived, and we went into the church--the

church, with its desolate array of empty pews, and its chill, heavy,

week-day atmosphere. As we ranged ourselves round the altar, a confusion

overspread all my faculties. My sense of the place I was in, and even of

the ceremony in which I took part, grew more and more vague and doubtful

every minute. My attention wandered throughout the whole service. I

stammered and made mistakes in uttering the responses. Once or twice

I detected myself in feeling impatient at the slow progress of the

ceremony--it seemed to be doubly, trebly longer than its usual length.

Mixed up with this impression was another, wild and monstrous as if

it had been produced by a dream--an impression that my father had

discovered my secret, and was watching me from some hidden place in

the church; watching through the service, to denounce and abandon me

publicly at the end. This morbid fancy grew and grew on me until the

termination of the ceremony, until we had left the church and returned

to the vestry once more.

The fees were paid; we wrote our names in the books and on the

certificate; the clergyman quietly wished me happiness; the clerk

solemnly imitated him; the pew-opener smiled and curtseyed; Mr. Sherwin

made congratulatory speeches, kissed his daughter, shook hands with me,

frowned a private rebuke at his wife for shedding tears, and, finally,

led the way with Margaret out of the vestry. The rain was still falling,

as they got into the carriage. The fog was still thickening, as I stood

alone under the portico of the church, and tried to realise to myself

that I was married.

_Married!_ The son of the proudest man in England, the inheritor of a

name written on the roll of Battle Abbey, wedded to a linen-draper’s

daughter! And what a marriage! What a condition weighed on it! What a

probation was now to follow it! Why had I consented so easily to Mr.

Sherwin’s proposals? Would he not have given way, if I had only been

resolute enough to insist on my own conditions?

How useless to inquire! I had made the engagement and must abide by

it--abide by it cheerfully until the year was over, and she was mine

for ever. This must be my all-sufficing thought for the future. No more

reflections on consequences, no more forebodings about the effect of the

disclosure of my secret on my family--the leap into a new life had

been taken, and, lead where it might, it was a leap that could never be

retraced!

Mr. Sherwin had insisted, with the immovable obstinacy which

characterises all feeble-minded people in the management of their

important affairs, that the first clause in our agreement (the leaving

my wife at the church-door) should be performed to the letter. As a due

compensation for this, I was to dine at North Villa that day. How should

I employ the interval that was to elapse before the dinner-hour?

I went home, and had my horse saddled. I was in no mood for remaining in

an empty house, in no mood for calling on any of my friends--I was fit

for nothing but a gallop through the rain. All my wearing and depressing

emotions of the morning, had now merged into a wild excitement of body

and mind. When the horse was brought round, I saw with delight that the

groom could hardly hold him. “Keep him well in hand, Sir,” said the man,

“he’s not been out for three days.” I was just in the humour for such a

ride as the caution promised me.

And what a ride it was, when I fairly got out of London; and the

afternoon brightening of the foggy atmosphere, showed the smooth, empty

high road before me! The dashing through the rain that still fell; the

feel of the long, powerful, regular stride of the horse under me; the

thrill of that physical sympathy which establishes itself between the

man and the steed; the whirling past carts and waggons, saluted by the

frantic barking of dogs inside them; the flying by roadside alehouses,

with the cheering of boys and half-drunken men sounding for an instant

behind me, then lost in the distance--this was indeed to occupy, to

hurry on, to annihilate the tardy hours of solitude on my wedding day,

exactly as my heart desired!

I got home wet through; but with my body in a glow from the exercise,

with my spirits boiling up at fever heat. When I arrived at North Villa,

the change in my manner astonished every one. At dinner, I required no

pressing now to partake of the sherry which Mr. Sherwin was so fond

of extolling, nor of the port which he brought out afterwards, with a

preliminary account of the vintage-date of the wine, and the price of

each bottle. My spirits, factitious as they were, never flagged. Every

time I looked at Margaret, the sight of her stimulated them afresh. She

seemed pre-occupied, and was unusually silent during dinner; but her

beauty was just that voluptuous beauty which is loveliest in repose. I

had never felt its influence so powerful over me as I felt it then.

In the drawing-room, Margaret’s manner grew more familiar, more

confident towards me than it had ever been before. She spoke to me in

warmer tones, looked at me with warmer looks. A hundred little incidents

marked our wedding-evening--trifles that love treasures up--which still

remain in my memory. One among them, at least, will never depart from

it: I first kissed her on that evening.

Mr. Sherwin had gone out of the room; Mrs. Sherwin was at the other end

of it, watering some plants at the window; Margaret, by her father’s

desire, was showing me some rare prints. She handed me a magnifying

glass, through which I was to look at a particular part of one of the

engravings, that was considered a master-piece of delicate workmanship.

Instead of applying the magnifying test to the print, for which I cared

nothing, I laughingly applied it to Margaret’s face. Her lovely lustrous

black eye seemed to flash into mine through the glass; her warm, quick

breathing played on my cheek--it was but for an instant, and in that

instant I kissed her for the first time. What sensations the kiss gave

me then!--what remembrances it has left me now!

It was one more proof how tenderly, how purely I loved her, that, before

this time, I had feared to take the first love-privilege which I had

longed to assert, and might well have asserted, before. Men may not

understand this; women, I believe, will.

The hour of departure arrived; the inexorable hour which was to separate

me from my wife on my wedding evening. Shall I confess what I felt, on

the first performance of my ill-considered promise to Mr. Sherwin? No: I

kept this a secret from Margaret; I will keep it a secret here.

I took leave of her as hurriedly and abruptly as possible--I could not

trust myself to quit her in any other way. She had contrived to slip

aside into the darkest part of the room, so that I only saw her face

dimly at parting.

I went home at once. When I lay down to sleep--then the ordeal which I

had been unconsciously preparing for myself throughout the day, began

to try me. Every nerve in my body, strung up to the extremest point

of tension since the morning, now at last gave way. I felt my limbs

quivering, till the bed shook under me. I was possessed by a gloom and

horror, caused by no thought, and producing no thought: the thinking

faculty seemed paralysed within me, altogether. The physical and mental

reaction, after the fever and agitation of the day, was so sudden and

severe, that the faintest noise from the street now terrified--yes,

literally terrified me. The whistling of the wind--which had risen since

sunset--made me start up in bed, with my heart throbbing, and my blood

all chill. When no sounds were audible, then I listened for them to

come--listened breathlessly, without daring to move. At last, the agony

of nervous prostration grew more than I could bear--grew worse even than

the child’s horror of walking in the darkness, and sleeping alone on the

bed-room floor, which had overcome me, almost from the first moment when

I laid down. I groped my way to the table and lit the candle again; then

wrapped my dressing-gown round me, and sat shuddering near the light, to

watch the weary hours out till morning.

And this was my wedding-night! This was how the day ended which had

begun by my marriage with Margaret Sherwin!