PART II._Basil_笔趣阁

AN epoch in my narrative has now arrived. Up to the time of my marriage,

I have appeared as an active agent in the different events I have

described. After that period, and--with one or two exceptional

cases--throughout the whole year of my probation, my position changed

with the change in my life, and became a passive one.

During this interval year, certain events happened, some of which, at

the time, excited my curiosity, but none my apprehension--some affected

me with a temporary disappointment, but none with even a momentary

suspicion. I can now look back on them, as so many timely warnings which

I treated with fatal neglect. It is in these events that the history

of the long year through which I waited to claim my wife as my own,

is really comprised. They marked the lapse of time broadly and

significantly; and to them I must now confine myself, as exclusively as

may be, in the present portion of my narrative.

It will be first necessary, however, that I should describe what was the

nature of my intercourse with Margaret, during the probationary period

which followed our marriage.

Mr. Sherwin’s anxiety was to make my visits to North Villa as few as

possible: he evidently feared the consequences of my seeing his daughter

too often. But on this point, I was resolute enough in asserting my own

interests, to overpower any resistance on his part. I required him

to concede to me the right of seeing Margaret every day--leaving all

arrangements of time to depend on his own convenience. After the due

number of objections, he reluctantly acquiesced in my demand. I was

bound by no engagement whatever, limiting the number of my visits to

Margaret; and I let him see at the outset, that I was now ready in my

turn, to impose conditions on him, as he had already imposed them on me.

Accordingly, it was settled that Margaret and I were to meet every day.

I usually saw her in the evening. When any alteration in the hour of my

visit took place, that alteration was produced by the necessity (which

we all recognised alike) of avoiding a meeting with any of Mr. Sherwin’s

friends.

Those portions of the day or the evening which I spent with Margaret,

were seldom passed altogether in the Elysian idleness of love. Not

content with only enumerating his daughter’s school-accomplishments to

me at our first interview, Mr. Sherwin boastfully referred to them again

and again, on many subsequent occasions; and even obliged Margaret to

display before me, some of her knowledge of languages--which he never

forgot to remind us had been lavishly paid for out of his own pocket. It

was at one of these exhibitions that the idea occurred to me of making

a new pleasure for myself out of Margaret’s society, by teaching her

really to appreciate and enjoy the literature which she had evidently

hitherto only studied as a task. My fancy revelled by anticipation in

all the delights of such an employment as this. It would be like acting

the story of Abelard and Heloise over again--reviving all the poetry and

romance in which those immortal love-studies of old had begun, with none

of the guilt and none of the misery that had darkened their end.

I had a definite purpose, besides, in wishing to assume the direction of

Margaret’s studies. Whenever the secret of my marriage was revealed, my

pride was concerned in being able to show my wife to every one, as the

all-sufficient excuse for any imprudence I might have committed for her

sake. I was determined that my father, especially, should have no other

argument against her than the one ungracious argument of her birth--that

he should see her, fitted by the beauty of her mind, as well as by all

her other beauties, for the highest station that society could offer.

The thought of this gave me fresh ardour in my project; I assumed my new

duties without delay, and continued them with a happiness which never

once suffered even a momentary decrease.

Of all the pleasures which a man finds in the society of a woman whom he

loves, are there any superior, are there many equal, to the pleasure

of reading out of the same book with her? On what other occasion do the

sweet familiarities of the sweetest of all companionships last so long

without cloying, and pass and re-pass so naturally, so delicately, so

inexhaustibly between you and her? When is your face so constantly close

to hers as it is then?--when can your hair mingle with hers, your cheek

touch hers, your eyes meet hers, so often as they can then? That is, of

all times, the only time when you can breathe with her breath for hours

together; feel every little warming of the colour on her cheek marking

its own changes on the temperature of yours; follow every slight

fluttering of her bosom, every faint gradation of her sighs, as if

_her_ heart was beating, _her_ life glowing, within yours. Surely it is

then--if ever--that we realize, almost revive, in ourselves, the love

of the first two of our race, when angels walked with them on the same

garden paths, and their hearts were pure from the pollution of the fatal

tree!

Evening after evening passed away--one more happily than another--in

what Margaret and I called our lessons. Never were lessons of literature

so like lessons of love. We read oftenest the lighter Italian poets--we

studied the poetry of love, written in the language of love. But, as for

the steady, utilitarian purpose I had proposed to myself of practically

improving Margaret’s intellect, that was a purpose which insensibly and

deceitfully abandoned me as completely as if it had never existed. The

little serious teaching I tried with her at first, led to very poor

results. Perhaps, the lover interfered too much with the tutor; perhaps,

I had over-estimated the fertility of the faculties I designed to

cultivate--but I cared not, and thought not to inquire where the fault

lay, then. I gave myself up unreservedly to the exquisite sensations

which the mere act of looking on the same page with Margaret procured

for me; and neither detected, nor wished to detect, that it was I

who read the difficult passages, and left only a few even of the very

easiest to be attempted by her.

Happily for my patience under the trial imposed on me by the terms on

which Mr. Sherwin’s restrictions, and my promise to obey them, obliged

me to live with Margaret, it was Mrs. Sherwin who was generally selected

to remain in the room with us. By no one could such ungrateful duties of

supervision as those imposed on her, have been more delicately and more

considerately performed.

She always kept far enough away to be out of hearing when we whispered

to each other. We rarely detected her even in looking at us. She had a

way of sitting for hours together in the same part of the room, without

ever changing her position, without occupation of any kind, without

uttering a word, or breathing a sigh. I soon discovered that she was not

lost in thought, at these periods (as I had at first supposed): but lost

in a strange lethargy of body and mind; a comfortless, waking trance,

into which she fell from sheer physical weakness--it was like the

vacancy and feebleness of a first convalescence, after a long illness.

She never changed: never looked better, never worse. I often spoke

to her: I tried hard to show my sympathy, and win her confidence and

friendship. The poor lady was always thankful, always spoke to me

gratefully and kindly, but very briefly. She never told me what were her

sufferings or her sorrows. The story of that lonely, lingering life

was an impenetrable mystery for her own family--for her husband and her

daughter, as well as for me. It was a secret between her and God.

With Mrs. Sherwin as the guardian to watch over Margaret, it may easily

be imagined that I felt none of the heavier oppressions of restraint.

Her presence, as the third person appointed to remain with us, was not

enough to repress the little endearments to which each evening’s lesson

gave rise; but was just sufficiently perceptible to invest them with the

character of stolen endearments, and to make them all the more precious

on that very account. Mrs. Sherwin never knew, I never thoroughly knew

myself till later, how much of the secret of my patience under my year’s

probation lay in her conduct, while she was sitting in the room with

Margaret and me.

In this solitude where I now write--in the change of life and of all

life’s hopes and enjoyments which has come over me--when I look back to

those evenings at North Villa, I shudder as I look. At this moment,

I see the room again--as in a dream--with the little round table, the

reading lamp, and the open books. Margaret and I are sitting together:

her hand is in mine; my heart is with hers. Love, and Youth, and

Beauty--the mortal Trinity of this world’s worship--are there, in that

quiet softly-lit room; but not alone. Away in the dim light behind, is a

solitary figure, ever mournful and ever still. It is a woman’s form;

but how wasted and how weak!--a woman’s face; but how ghastly and

changeless, with those eyes that are vacant, those lips that are

motionless, those cheeks that the blood never tinges, that the freshness

of health and happiness shall never visit again! Woeful, warning figure

of dumb sorrow and patient pain, to fill the background of a picture of

Love, and Beauty, and Youth!

I am straying from my task. Let me return to my narrative: its course

begins to darken before me apace, while I now write.

The partial restraint and embarrassment, caused at first by the strange

terms on which my wife and I were living together, gradually vanished

before the frequency of my visits to North Villa. We soon began to speak

with all the ease, all the unpremeditated frankness of a long intimacy.

Margaret’s powers of conversation were generally only employed to lead

me to exert mine. She was never tired of inducing me to speak of my

family. She listened with every appearance of interest, while I

talked of my father, my sister, or my elder brother; but whenever she

questioned me directly about any of them, her inquiries invariably

led away from their characters and dispositions, to their personal

appearance, their every-day habits, their dress, their intercourse with

the gay world, the things they spent their money on, and other topics of

a similar nature.

For instance; she always listened, and listened attentively, to what I

told her of my father’s character, and of the principles which regulated

his life. She showed every disposition to profit by the instructions I

gave her beforehand, about how she should treat his peculiarities when

she was introduced to him. But, on all these occasions, what really

interested her most, was to hear how many servants waited on him; how

often he went to Court; how many lords and ladies he knew; what he said

or did to his servants, when they committed mistakes; whether he was

ever angry with his children for asking him for money; and whether he

limited my sister to any given number of dresses in the course of the

year?

Again; whenever our conversation turned on Clara, if I began by

describing her kindness, her gentleness and goodness, her simple winning

manners--I was sure to be led insensibly into a digression about her

height, figure, complexion, and style of dress. The latter subject

especially interested Margaret; she could question me on it, over and

over again. What was Clara’s usual morning dress? How did she wear her

hair? What was her evening dress? Did she make a difference between a

dinner party and a ball? What colours did she prefer? What dressmaker

did she employ? Did she wear much jewellery? Which did she like best in

her hair, and which were most fashionable, flowers or pearls? How many

new dresses did she have in a year; and was there more than one maid

especially to attend on her?

Then, again: Had she a carriage of her own? What ladies took care of

her when she went out? Did she like dancing? What were the fashionable

dances at noblemen’s houses? Did young ladies in the great world

practise the pianoforte much? How many offers had my sister had? Did she

go to Court, as well as my father? What did she talk about to gentlemen,

and what did gentlemen talk about to her? If she were speaking to a

duke, how often would she say “your Grace” to him? and would a duke get

her a chair, or an ice, and wait on her just as gentlemen without titles

waited on ladies, when they met them in society?

My replies to these and hundreds of other questions like them, were

received by Margaret with the most eager attention. On the favourite

subject of Clara’s dresses, my answers were an unending source of

amusement and pleasure to her. She especially enjoyed overcoming the

difficulties of interpreting aright my clumsy, circumlocutory phrases

in attempting to describe shawls, gowns, and bonnets; and taught me the

exact millinery language which I ought to have made use of with an arch

expression of triumph and a burlesque earnestness of manner, that

always enchanted me. At that time, every word she uttered, no matter how

frivolous, was the sweetest of all music to my ears. It was only by the

stern test of after-events that I learnt to analyse her conversation.

Sometimes, when I was away from her, I might think of leading her

girlish curiosity to higher things; but when we met again, the thought

vanished; and it became delight enough for me simply to hear her speak,

without once caring or considering what she spoke of.

Those were the days when I lived happy and unreflecting in the broad

sunshine of joy which love showered round me--my eyes were dazzled; my

mind lay asleep under it. Once or twice, a cloud came threatening, with

chill and shadowy influence; but it passed away, and then the sunshine

returned to me, the same sunshine that it was before.

II.

The first change that passed over the calm uniformity of the life at

North Villa, came in this manner:

One evening, on entering the drawing-room, I missed Mrs. Sherwin; and

found to my great disappointment that her husband was apparently

settled there for the evening. He looked a little flurried, and was more

restless than usual. His first words, as we met, informed me of an event

in which he appeared to take the deepest interest.

“News, my dear sir!” he said. “Mr. Mannion has come back--at least two

days before I expected him!”

At first, I felt inclined to ask who Mr. Mannion was, and what

consequence it could possibly be to me that he had come back. But

immediately afterwards, I remembered that this Mr. Mannion’s name had

been mentioned during my first conversation with Mr. Sherwin; and then

I recalled to mind the description I had heard of him, as “confidential

clerk;” as forty years of age; and as an educated man, who had made his

information of some use to Margaret in keeping up the knowledge she had

acquired at school. I knew no more than this about him, and I felt no

curiosity to discover more from Mr. Sherwin.

Margaret and I sat down as usual with our books about us.

There had been something a little hurried and abrupt in her manner

of receiving me, when I came in. When we began to read, her attention

wandered incessantly; she looked round several times towards the door.

Mr. Sherwin walked about the room without intermission, except when

he once paused on his restless course, to tell me that Mr. Mannion was

coming that evening; and that he hoped I should have no objection to be

introduced to a person who was “quite like one of the family, and well

enough read to be sure to please a great reader like me.” I asked myself

rather impatiently, who was this Mr. Mannion, that his arrival at his

employer’s house should make a sensation? When I whispered something of

this to Margaret, she smiled rather uneasily, and said nothing.

At last the bell was rung. Margaret started a little at the sound.

Mr. Sherwin sat down; composing himself into rather an elaborate

attitude--the door opened, and Mr. Mannion came in.

Mr. Sherwin received his clerk with the assumed superiority of the

master in his words; but his tones and manner flatly contradicted them.

Margaret rose hastily, and then as hastily sat down again, while the

visitor very respectfully took her hand, and made the usual inquiries.

After this, he was introduced to me; and then Margaret was sent away to

summon her mother down stairs. While she was out of the room, there was

nothing to distract my attention from Mr. Mannion. I looked at him with

a curiosity and interest, Which I could hardly account for at first.

If extraordinary regularity of feature were alone sufficient to make

a handsome man, then this confidential clerk of Mr. Sherwin’s was

assuredly one of the handsomest men I ever beheld. Viewed separately

from the head (which was rather large, both in front and behind) his

face exhibited, throughout, an almost perfect symmetry of proportion.

His bald forehead was smooth and massive as marble; his high brow and

thin eyelids had the firmness and immobility of marble, and seemed

as cold; his delicately-formed lips, when he was not speaking, closed

habitually, as changelessly still as if no breath of life ever passed

them. There was not a wrinkle or line anywhere on his face. But for the

baldness in front, and the greyness of the hair at the back and sides

of his head, it would have been impossible from his appearance to have

guessed his age, even within ten years of what it really was.

Such was his countenance in point of form; but in that which is the

outward assertion of our immortality--in expression--it was, as I now

beheld it, an utter void. Never had I before seen any human face

which baffled all inquiry like his. No mask could have been made

expressionless enough to resemble it; and yet it looked like a mask.

It told you nothing of his thoughts, when he spoke: nothing of his

disposition, when he was silent. His cold grey eyes gave you no help in

trying to study him. They never varied from the steady, straightforward

look, which was exactly the same for Margaret as it was for me; for Mrs.

Sherwin as for Mr. Sherwin--exactly the same whether he spoke or whether

he listened; whether he talked of indifferent, or of important matters.

Who was he? What was he? His name and calling were poor replies to those

questions. Was he naturally cold and unimpressible at heart? or had some

fierce passion, some terrible sorrow, ravaged the life within him, and

left it dead for ever after? Impossible to conjecture! There was the

impenetrable face before you, wholly inexpressive--so inexpressive that

it did not even look vacant--a mystery for your eyes and your mind to

dwell on--hiding something; but whether vice or virtue you could not

tell.

He was dressed as unobtrusively as possible, entirely in black; and was

rather above the middle height. His manner was the only part of him that

betrayed anything to the observation of others. Viewed in connection

with his station, his demeanour (unobtrusive though it was) proclaimed

itself as above his position in the world. He had all the quietness and

self-possession of a gentleman. He maintained his respectful bearing,

without the slightest appearance of cringing; and displayed a decision,

both in word and action, that could never be mistaken for obstinacy

or over-confidence. Before I had been in his company five minutes, his

manner assured me that he must have descended to the position he now

occupied.

On his introduction to me, he bowed without saying anything. When he

spoke to Mr. Sherwin, his voice was as void of expression as his face:

it was rather low in tone, but singularly distinct in utterance. He

spoke deliberately, but with no emphasis on particular words, and

without hesitation in choosing his terms.

When Mrs. Sherwin came down, I watched her conduct towards him. She

could not repress a slight nervous shrinking, when he approached and

placed a chair for her. In answering his inquiries after her health, she

never once looked at him; but fixed her eyes all the time on Margaret

and me, with a sad, anxious expression, wholly indescribable, which

often recurred to my memory after that day. She always looked more or

less frightened, poor thing, in her husband’s presence; but she seemed

positively awe-struck before Mr. Mannion.

In truth, my first observation of this so-called clerk, at North Villa,

was enough to convince me that he was master there--master in his own

quiet, unobtrusive way. That man’s character, of whatever elements it

might be composed, was a character that ruled. I could not see this

in his face, or detect it in his words; but I could discover it in the

looks and manners of his employer and his employer’s family, as he now

sat at the same table with them. Margaret’s eyes avoided his countenance

much less frequently than the eyes of her parents; but then he rarely

looked at her in return--rarely looked at her at all, except when common

courtesy obliged him to do so.

If any one had told me beforehand, that I should suspend my ordinary

evening’s occupation with my young wife, for the sake of observing the

very man who had interrupted it, and that man only Mr. Sherwin’s

clerk, I should have laughed at the idea. Yet so it was. Our books lay

neglected on the table--neglected by me, perhaps by Margaret too, for

Mr. Mannion.

His conversation, on this occasion at least, baffled all curiosity as

completely as his face. I tried to lead him to talk. He just answered

me, and that was all; speaking with great respect of manner and phrase,

very intelligibly, but very briefly. Mr. Sherwin--after referring to

the business expedition on which he had been absent, for the purchase

of silks at Lyons--asked him some questions about France and the French,

which evidently proceeded from the most ludicrous ignorance both of the

country and the people. Mr. Mannion just set him right; and did no more.

There was not the smallest inflection of sarcasm in his voice, not the

slightest look of sarcasm in his eye, while he spoke. When we talked

among ourselves, he did not join in the conversation; but sat quietly

waiting until he might be pointedly and personally addressed again. At

these times a suspicion crossed my mind that he might really be studying

my character, as I was vainly trying to study his; and I often turned

suddenly round on him, to see whether he was looking at me. This was

never the case. His hard, chill grey eyes were not on me, and not on

Margaret: they rested most frequently on Mrs. Sherwin, who always shrank

before them.

After staying little more than half an hour, he rose to go away. While

Mr. Sherwin was vainly pressing him to remain longer, I walked to the

round table at the other end of the room, on which the book was placed

that Margaret and I had intended to read during the evening. I was

standing by the table when he came to take leave of me. He just glanced

at the volume under my hand, and said in tones too low to be heard at

the other end of the room:

“I hope my arrival has not interrupted any occupation to-night, Sir.

Mr. Sherwin, aware of the interest I must feel in whatever concerns the

family of an employer whom I have served for years, has informed me in

confidence--a confidence which I know how to respect and preserve--of

your marriage with his daughter, and of the peculiar circumstances

under which the marriage has been contracted. I may at least venture to

congratulate the young lady on a change of life which must procure her

happiness, having begun already by procuring the increase of her mental

resources and pleasures.” He bowed, and pointed to the book on the

table.

“I believe, Mr. Mannion,” I said, “that you have been of great

assistance in laying a foundation for the studies to which I presume you

refer.”

“I endeavoured to make myself useful in that way, Sir, as in all others,

when my employer desired it.” He bowed again, as he said this; and then

went out, followed by Mr. Sherwin, who held a short colloquy with him in

the hall.

What had he said to me? Only a few civil words, spoken in a very

respectful manner. There had been nothing in his tones, nothing in his

looks, to give any peculiar significance to what he uttered. Still, the

moment his back was turned, I found myself speculating whether his words

contained any hidden meaning; trying to recall something in his voice or

manner which might guide me in discovering the real sense he attached

to what he said. It seemed as if the most powerful whet to my curiosity,

were supplied by my own experience of the impossibility of penetrating

beneath the unassailable surface which this man presented to me.

I questioned Margaret about him. She could not tell me more than I knew

already. He had always been very kind and useful; he was a clever man,

and could talk a great deal sometimes, when he chose; and he had taught

her more of foreign languages and foreign literature in a month, than

she had learned at school in a year. While she was telling me this,

I hardly noticed that she spoke in a very hurried manner, and busied

herself in arranging the books and work that lay on the table. My

attention was more closely directed to Mrs. Sherwin. To my surprise, I

saw her eagerly lean forward while Margaret was speaking, and fix her

eyes on her daughter with a look of penetrating scrutiny, of which I

could never have supposed a person usually so feeble and unenergetic

to be capable. I thought of transferring to her my questionings on the

subject of Mr. Mannion; but at that moment her husband entered the room,

and I addressed myself for further enlightenment to him.

“Aha!”--cried Mr. Sherwin, rubbing his hands triumphantly--“I knew

Mannion would please you. I told you so, my dear Sir, if you remember,

before he came. Curious looking person--isn’t he?”

“So curious, that I may safely say I never saw a face in the slightest

degree resembling his in my life. Your clerk, Mr. Sherwin, is a complete

walking mystery that I want to solve. Margaret cannot give me much help,

I am afraid. When you came in, I was about to apply to Mrs. Sherwin for

a little assistance.”

“Don’t do any such thing! You’ll be quite in the wrong box there.

Mrs. S. is as sulky as a bear, whenever Mannion and she are in company

together. Considering her behaviour to him, I wonder he can be so civil

to her as he is.”

“What can you tell me about him yourself, Mr. Sherwin?”

“I can tell you there’s not a house of business in London has such a

managing man as he is: he’s my factotum--my right hand, in short; and

my left too, for the matter of that. He understands my ways of doing

business; and, in fact, carries things out in first-rate style. Why,

he’d be worth his weight in gold, only for the knack he has of keeping

the young men in the shop in order. Poor devils! they don’t know how he

does it; but there’s a particular look of Mr. Mannion’s that’s as bad

as transportation and hanging to them, whenever they see it. I’ll pledge

you my word of honour he’s never had a day’s illness, or made a single

mistake, since he’s been with me. He’s a quiet, steady-going, regular

dragon at his work--he is! And then, so obliging in other things. I’ve

only got to say to him: ‘Here’s Margaret at home for the holidays;’ or,

‘Here’s Margaret a little out of sorts, and going to be nursed at home

for the half-year--what’s to be done about keeping up her lessons? I

can’t pay for a governess (bad lot, governesses!) and school too.’--I’ve

only got to say that; and up gets Mannion from his books and his

fireside at home, in the evening--which begins to be something, you

know, to a man of his time of life--and turns tutor for me, gratis; and

a first-rate tutor, too! That’s what I call having a treasure! And yet,

though he’s been with us for years, Mrs. S. there won’t take to him!--I

defy her or anybody else to say why, or wherefore!”

“Do you know how he was employed before he came to you?”

“Ah! now you’ve hit it--that’s where you’re right in saying he’s a

mystery. What he did before I knew him, is more than I can tell--a good

deal more. He came to me with a capital recommendation and security,

from a gentleman whom I knew to be of the highest respectability. I had

a vacancy in the back office, and tried him, and found out what he was

worth, in no time--I flatter myself I’ve a knack at that with everybody.

Well: before I got used to his curious-looking face, and his quiet

ways, I wanted badly enough to know something about him, and who his

connections were. First, I asked his friend who had recommended

him--the friend wasn’t at liberty to answer for anything but his perfect

trustworthiness. Then I asked Mannion himself point-blank about it, one

day. He just told me that he had reasons for keeping his family affairs

to himself--nothing more--but you know the way he has with him; and,

damn it, he put the stopper on me, from that time to this. I wasn’t

going to risk losing the best clerk that ever man had, by worrying

him about his secrets. They didn’t interfere with business, and didn’t

interfere with me; so I put my curiosity in my pocket. I know nothing

about him, but that he’s my right-hand man, and the honestest fellow

that ever stood in shoes. He may be the Great Mogul himself, in

disguise, for anything I care! In short, you may be able to find out all

about him, my dear Sir; but I can’t.”

“There does not seem much chance for me, Mr. Sherwin, after what you

have said.”

“Well: I’m not so sure of that--plenty of chances here, you know.

You’ll see him often enough: he lives near, and drops in constantly

of evenings. We settle business matters that won’t come into business

hours, in my private snuggery up stairs. In fact, he’s one of the

family; treat him as such, and get anything out of him you can--the more

the better, as far as regards that. Ah! Mrs. S., you may stare, Ma’am;

but I say again, he’s one of the family; may be, he’ll be my partner

some of these days--you’ll have to get used to him then, whether you

like it or not.”

“One more question: is he married or single?”

“Single, to be sure--a regular old bachelor, if ever there was one yet.”

During the whole time we had been speaking, Mrs. Sherwin had looked

at us with far more earnestness and attention than I had ever seen her

display before. Even her languid faculties seemed susceptible of active

curiosity on the subject of Mr. Mannion--the more so, perhaps, from her

very dislike of him. Margaret had moved her chair into the background,

while her father was talking; and was apparently little interested

in the topic under discussion. In the first interval of silence, she

complained of headache, and asked leave to retire to her room.

After she left us, I took my departure: for Mr. Sherwin evidently had

nothing more to tell me about his clerk that was worth hearing. On my

way home, Mr. Mannion occupied no small share of my thoughts. The idea

of trying to penetrate the mystery connected with him was an idea

that pleased me; there was a promise of future excitement in it of no

ordinary kind. I determined to have a little private conversation with

Margaret about him; and to make her an ally in my new project. If there

really had been some romance connected with Mr. Mannion’s early life--if

that strange and striking face of his was indeed a sealed book which

contained a secret story, what a triumph and a pleasure, if Margaret and

I should succeed in discovering it together!

When I woke the next morning, I could hardly believe that this

tradesman’s clerk had so interested my curiosity that he had actually

shared my thoughts with my young wife, during the evening before. And

yet, when I next saw him, he produced exactly the same impression on me

again.

III.

Some weeks passed away; Margaret and I resumed our usual employments and

amusements; the life at North Villa ran on as smoothly and obscurely as

usual--and still I remained ignorant of Mr. Mannion’s history and Mr.

Mannion’s character. He came frequently to the house, in the evening;

but was generally closeted with Mr. Sherwin, and seldom accepted

his employer’s constant invitation to him to join the party in

the drawing-room. At those rare intervals when we did see him, his

appearance and behaviour were exactly the same as on the night when I

had met him for the first time; he spoke just as seldom, and resisted

just as resolutely and respectfully the many attempts made on my part to

lead him into conversation and familiarity. If he had really been trying

to excite my interest, he could not have succeeded more effectually. I

felt towards him much as a man feels in a labyrinth, when every fresh

failure in gaining the centre, only produces fresh obstinacy in renewing

the effort to arrive at it.

From Margaret I gained no sympathy for my newly-aroused curiosity. She

appeared, much to my surprise, to care little about Mr. Mannion; and

always changed the conversation, if it related to him, whenever it

depended upon her to continue the topic or not.

Mrs. Sherwin’s conduct was far from resembling her daughter’s, when I

spoke to her on the same subject. She always listened intently to what

I said; but her answers were invariably brief, confused, and sometimes

absolutely incomprehensible. It was only after great difficulty that I

induced her to confess her dislike of Mr. Mannion. Whence it proceeded

she could never tell. Did she suspect anything? In answering this

question, she always stammered, trembled, and looked away from me. “How

could she suspect anything? If she did suspect, it would be very wrong

without good reason: but she ought not to suspect, and did not, of

course.”

I never obtained any replies from her more intelligible than these.

Attributing their confusion to the nervous agitation which more or less

affected her when she spoke on any subject, I soon ceased making any

efforts to induce her to explain herself; and determined to search for

the clue to Mr. Mannion’s character, without seeking assistance from any

one.

Accident at length gave me an opportunity of knowing something of his

habits and opinions; and so far, therefore, of knowing something about

the man himself.

One night, I met him in the hall at North Villa, about to leave the

house at the same time that I was, after a business-consultation in

private with Mr. Sherwin. We went out together. The sky was unusually

black; the night atmosphere unusually oppressive and still. The roll

of distant thunder sounded faint and dreary all about us. The sheet

lightning, flashing quick and low in the horizon, made the dark

firmament look like a thick veil, rising and falling incessantly, over

a heaven of dazzling light behind it. Such few foot-passengers as passed

us, passed running--for heavy, warning drops were falling already from

the sky. We quickened our pace; but before we had walked more than

two hundred yards, the rain came down, furious and drenching; and the

thunder began to peal fearfully, right over our heads.

“My house is close by,” said my companion, just as quietly and

deliberately as usual--“pray step in, Sir, until the storm is over.”

I followed him down a bye street; he opened a door with his own key; and

the next instant I was sheltered under Mr. Mannion’s roof.

He led me at once into a room on the ground floor. The fire was blazing

in the grate; an arm-chair, with a reading easel attached, was placed by

it; the lamp was ready lit; the tea-things were placed on the table;

the dark, thick curtains were drawn close over the window; and, as if to

complete the picture of comfort before me, a large black cat lay on the

rug, basking luxuriously in the heat of the fire. While Mr. Mannion

went out to give some directions, as he said, to his servant, I had

an opportunity of examining the apartment more in detail. To study the

appearance of a man’s dwelling-room, is very often nearly equivalent to

studying his own character.

The personal contrast between Mr. Sherwin and his clerk was remarkable

enough, but the contrast between the dimensions and furnishing of the

rooms they lived in, was to the full as extraordinary. The apartment I

now surveyed was less than half the size of the sitting-room at North

Villa. The paper on the walls was of a dark red; the curtains were of

the same colour; the carpet was brown, and if it bore any pattern, that

pattern was too quiet and unpretending to be visible by candlelight. One

wall was entirely occupied by rows of dark mahogany shelves, completely

filled with books, most of them cheap editions of the classical works of

ancient and modern literature. The opposite wall was thickly hung with

engravings in maple-wood frames from the works of modern painters,

English and French. All the minor articles of furniture were of the

plainest and neatest order--even the white china tea-pot and tea-cup

on the table, had neither pattern nor colouring of any kind. What a

contrast was this room to the drawing-room at North Villa!

On his return, Mr. Mannion found me looking at his tea-equipage. “I

am afraid, Sir, I must confess myself an epicure and a prodigal in two

things,” he said; “an epicure in tea, and a prodigal (at least for a

person in my situation) in books. However, I receive a liberal salary,

and can satisfy my tastes, such as they are, and save money too. What

can I offer you, Sir?”

Seeing the preparations on the table, I asked for tea. While he was

speaking to me, there was one peculiarity about him that I observed.

Almost all men, when they stand on their own hearths, in their own

homes, instinctively alter more or less from their out-of-door manner:

the stiffest people expand, the coldest thaw a little, by their own

firesides. It was not so with Mr. Mannion. He was exactly the same man

at his own house that he was at Mr. Sherwin’s.

There was no need for him to have told me that he was an epicure in tea;

the manner in which he made it would have betrayed that to anybody. He

put in nearly treble the quantity which would generally be considered

sufficient for two persons; and almost immediately after he had

filled the tea-pot with boiling water, began to pour from it into the

cups--thus preserving all the aroma and delicacy of flavour in the herb,

without the alloy of any of the coarser part of its strength. When we

had finished our first cups, there was no pouring of dregs into a basin,

or of fresh water on the leaves. A middle-aged female servant, neat and

quiet, came up and took away the tray, bringing it to us again with the

tea-pot and tea-cups clean and empty, to receive a fresh infusion from

fresh leaves. These were trifles to notice; but I thought of other

tradesmen’s clerks who were drinking their gin-and-water jovially, at

home or at a tavern, and found Mr. Mannion a more exasperating mystery

to me than ever.

The conversation between us turned at first on trivial subjects, and

was but ill sustained on my part--there were peculiarities in my present

position which made me thoughtful. Once, our talk ceased altogether;

and, just at that moment, the storm began to rise to its height. Hail

mingled with the rain, and rattled heavily against the window. The

thunder, bursting louder and louder with each successive peal, seemed

to shake the house to its foundations. As I listened to the fearful

crashing and roaring that seemed to fill the whole measureless void of

upper air, and then looked round on the calm, dead-calm face of the man

beside me--without one human emotion of any kind even faintly pictured

on it--I felt strange, unutterable sensations creeping over me; our

silence grew oppressive and sinister; I began to wish, I hardly knew

why, for some third person in the room--for somebody else to look at and

to speak to.

He was the first to resume the conversation. I should have imagined it

impossible for any man, in the midst of such thunder as now raged above

our heads, to think or talk of anything but the storm. And yet, when he

spoke, it was merely on a subject connected with his introduction to

me at North Villa. His attention seemed as far from being attracted or

impressed by the mighty elemental tumult without, as if the tranquillity

of the night were uninvaded by the slightest murmur of sound.

“May I inquire, Sir,” he began, “whether I am right in apprehending that

my conduct towards you, since we first met at Mr. Sherwin’s house, may

have appeared strange, and even discourteous, in your eyes?”

“In what respect, Mr. Mannion?” I asked, a little startled by the

abruptness of the question.

“I am perfectly sensible, Sir, that you have kindly set me the example,

on many occasions, in trying to better our acquaintance. When such

advances are made by one in your station to one in mine, they ought to

be immediately and gratefully responded to.”

Why did he pause? Was he about to tell me he had discovered that my

advances sprang from curiosity to know more about him than he was

willing to reveal? I waited for him to proceed.

“I have only failed,” he continued, “in the courtesy and gratitude you

had a right to expect from me, because, knowing how you were situated

with Mr. Sherwin’s daughter, I thought any intrusion on my part, while

you were with the young lady, might not be so acceptable as you, Sir, in

your kindness, were willing to lead me to believe.”

“Let me assure you,” I answered; relieved to find myself unsuspected,

and really impressed by his delicacy--“let me assure you that I fully

appreciate the consideration you have shown--”

Just as the last words passed my lips, the thunder pealed awfully over

the house. I said no more: the sound silenced me.

“As my explanation has satisfied you, Sir,” he went on; his clear

and deliberate utterance rising discordantly audible above the long,

retiring roll of the last burst of thunder--“may I feel justified in

speaking on the subject of your present position in my employer’s house,

with some freedom? I mean, if I may say so without offence, with the

freedom of a friend.”

I begged he would use all the freedom he wished; feeling really desirous

that he should do so, apart from any purpose of leading him to talk

unreservedly on the chance of hearing him talk of himself. The profound

respect of manner and phrase which he had hitherto testified--observed

by a man of his age, to a man of mine--made me feel ill at ease. He was

most probably my equal in acquirements: he had the manners and tastes

of a gentleman, and might have the birth too, for aught I knew to the

contrary. The difference between us was only in our worldly positions.

I had not enough of my father’s pride of caste to think that this

difference alone, made it right that a man whose years nearly doubled

mine, whose knowledge perhaps surpassed mine, should speak to me as Mr.

Mannion had spoken up to this time.

“I may tell you then,” he resumed, “that while I am anxious to commit no

untimely intrusion on your hours at North Villa, I am at the same time

desirous of being something more than merely inoffensive towards you. I

should wish to be positively useful, as far as I can. In my opinion

Mr. Sherwin has held you to rather a hard engagement--he is trying your

discretion a little too severely I think, at your years and in your

situation. Feeling thus, it is my sincere wish to render what connection

and influence I have with the family, useful in making the probation you

have still to pass through, as easy as possible. I have more means of

doing this, Sir, than you might at first imagine.”

His offer took me a little by surprise. I felt with a sort of shame,

that candour and warmth of feeling were what I had not expected from

him. My attention insensibly wandered away from the storm, to attach

itself more and more closely to him, as he went on:

“I am perfectly sensible,” he resumed, “that such a proposition as I

now make to you, proceeding from one little better than a stranger, may

cause surprise and even suspicion, at first. I can only explain it, by

asking you to remember that I have known the young lady since childhood;

and that, having assisted in forming her mind and developing her

character, I feel towards her almost as a second father, and am

therefore naturally interested in the gentleman who has chosen her for a

wife.”

Was there a tremor at last in that changeless voice, as he spoke?

I thought so; and looked anxiously to catch the answering gleam of

expression, which might now, for the first time, be softening his iron

features, animating the blank stillness of his countenance. If any such

expression had been visible, I was too late to detect it. Just as I

looked at him he stooped down to poke the fire. When he turned towards

me again, his face was the same impenetrable face, his eye the same

hard, steady, inexpressive eye as before.

“Besides,” he continued, “a man must have some object in life for his

sympathies to be employed on. I have neither wife nor child; and no near

relations to think of--I have nothing but my routine of business in the

day, and my books here by my lonely fireside, at night. Our life is not

much; but it was made for a little more than this. My former pupil at

North Villa is my pupil no longer. I can’t help feeling that it would

be an object in existence for me to occupy myself with her happiness and

yours; to have two young people, in the heyday of youth and first love,

looking towards me occasionally for the promotion of some of their

pleasures--no matter how trifling. All this will seem odd and

incomprehensible to _you._ If you were of my age, Sir, and in my

position, you would understand it.”

Was it possible that he could speak thus, without his voice faltering,

or his eye softening in the slightest degree? Yes: I looked at him and

listened to him intently; but here was not the faintest change in his

face or his tones--there was nothing to show outwardly whether he

felt what he said, or whether he did not. His words had painted such a

picture of forlornness on my mind, that I had mechanically half raised

my hand to take his, while he was addressing me; but the sight of him

when he ceased, checked the impulse almost as soon as it was formed.

He did not appear to have noticed either my involuntary gesture, or its

immediate repression; and went on speaking.

“I have said perhaps more than I ought,” he resumed. “If I have not

succeeded in making you understand my explanation as I could wish, we

will change the subject, and not return to it again, until you have

known me for a much longer time.”

“On no account change the subject, Mr. Mannion,” I said; unwilling

to let it be implied that I would not put trust in him. “I am deeply

sensible of the kindness of your offer, and the interest you take in

Margaret and me. We shall both, I am sure, accept your good offices--”

I stopped. The storm had decreased a little in violence: but my

attention was now struck by the wind, which had risen as the thunder and

rain had partially lulled. How drearily it was moaning down the street!

It seemed, at that moment, to be wailing over _me;_ to be wailing over

_him;_ to be wailing over all mortal things! The strange sensations I

then felt, moved me to listen in silence; but I checked them, and spoke

again.

“If I have not answered you as I should,” I continued, “you must

attribute it partly to the storm, which I confess rather discomposes

my ideas; and partly to a little surprise--a very foolish surprise, I

own--that you should still be able to feel so strong a sympathy with

interests which are generally only considered of importance to the

young.”

“It is only in their sympathies, that men of my years can, and do,

live their youth over again,” he said. “You may be surprised to hear a

tradesman’s clerk talk in this manner; but I was not always what I am

now. I have gathered knowledge, and suffered in the gathering. I have

grown old before my time--my forty years are like the fifty of other

men--”

My heart beat quicker--was he, unasked, about to disclose the mystery

which evidently hung over his early life? No: he dropped the subject

at once, when he continued. I longed to ask him to resume it, but could

not. I feared the same repulse which Mr. Sherwin had received: and

remained silent.

“What I was,” he proceeded, “matters little; the question is what can

I do for you? Any aid I can give, may be poor enough; but it may be of

some use notwithstanding. For instance, the other day, if I mistake not,

you were a little hurt at Mr. Sherwin’s taking his daughter to a party

to which the family had been invited. This was very natural. You

could not be there to watch over her in your real character, without

disclosing a secret which must be kept safe; and you could not know

what young men she might meet, who would imagine her to be Miss Sherwin

still, and would regulate their conduct accordingly. Now, I think I

might be of use here. I have some influence--perhaps in strict truth I

ought to say great influence--with my employer; and, if you wished it,

I would use that influence to back yours, in inducing him to forego, for

the future, any intention of taking his daughter into society, except

when you desire it. Again: I think I am not wrong in assuming that you

infinitely prefer the company of Mrs. Sherwin to that of Mr. Sherwin,

during your interviews with the young lady?”

How he had found that out? At any rate, he was right; and I told him so

candidly.

“The preference is on many accounts a very natural one,” he said; “but

if you suffered it to appear to Mr. Sherwin, it might, for obvious

reasons, produce a most unfavourable effect. I might interfere in the

matter, however, without suspicion; I should have many opportunities of

keeping him away from the room, in the evening, which I could use if you

wished it. And more than that, if you wanted longer and more frequent

communication with North Villa than you now enjoy, I might be able to

effect this also. I do not mention what I could do in these, and in

other matters, in any disparagement, Sir, of the influence which you

have with Mr. Sherwin, in your own right; but because I know that in

what concerns your intercourse with his daughter, my employer _has_

asked, and _will_ ask my advice, from the habit of doing so in other

things. I have hitherto declined giving him this advice in your affairs;

but I will give it, and in your favour and the young lady’s, if you and

she choose.”

I thanked him--but not in such warm terms as I should have employed, if

I had seen even the faintest smile on his face, or had heard any change

in his steady, deliberate tones, as he spoke. While his words attracted,

his immovable looks repelled me, in spite of myself.

“I must again beg you”--he proceeded--“to remember what I have already

said, in your estimate of the motives of my offer. If I still appear to

be interfering officiously in your affairs, you have only to think that

I have presumed impertinently on the freedom you have allowed me, and

to treat me no longer on the terms of to-night. I shall not complain of

your conduct, and shall try hard not to consider you unjust to me, if

you do.”

Such an appeal as this was not to be resisted: I answered him at once

and unreservedly. What right had I to draw bad inferences from a man’s

face, voice, and manner, merely because they impressed me, as out of the

common? Did I know how much share the influence of natural infirmity,

or the outward traces of unknown sorrow and suffering, might have had in

producing the external peculiarities which had struck me? He would

have every right to upbraid me as unjust--and that in the strongest

terms--unless I spoke out fairly in reply.

“I am quite incapable, Mr. Mannion,” I said, “of viewing your offer with

any other than grateful feelings. You will find I shall prove this by

employing your good offices for Margaret and myself in perfect faith,

and sooner perhaps than you may imagine.”

He bowed and said a few cordial words, which I heard but

imperfectly--for, as I addressed him, a blast of wind fiercer than

usual, rushed down the street, shaking the window shutter violently as

it passed, and dying away in a low, melancholy, dirging swell, like a

spirit-cry of lamentation and despair.

When he spoke again, after a momentary silence, it was to make some

change in the conversation. He talked of Margaret--dwelling in terms of

high praise rather on her moral than on her personal qualities. He

spoke of Mr. Sherwin, referring to solid and attractive points in

his character which I had not detected. What he said of Mrs. Sherwin

appeared to be equally dictated by compassion and respect--he even

hinted at her coolness towards himself, considerately attributing it

to the involuntary caprice of settled nervousness and ill-health. His

language, in touching on these subjects, was just as unaffected, just as

devoid of any peculiarities, as I had hitherto found it when occupied by