THERE IS A GULF FIXED.
"Do you think that you could be happier as the wife of such a one as
Daniel Thwaite, a creature infinitely beneath you, separated as you
would be from all your kith and kin, from all whose blood you share,
from me and from your family, than you would be as the bearer of a
proud name, the daughter and the wife of an Earl Lovel,--the mother
of the earl to come? I will not speak now of duty, or of fitness, or
of the happiness of others which must depend upon you. It is natural
that a girl should look to her own joys in marriage. Do you think
that your joy can consist in calling that man your husband?"
It was thus that the Countess spoke to her daughter, who was then
lying worn out and ill on her bed in Keppel Street. For three days
she had been subject to such addresses as this, and during those
three days no word of tenderness had been spoken to her. The Countess
had been obdurate in her hardness,--still believing that she might
thus break her daughter's spirit, and force her to abandon her
engagement. But as yet she had not succeeded. The girl had been
meek and, in all other things, submissive. She had not defended her
conduct. She had not attempted to say that she had done well in
promising to be the tailor's bride. She had shown herself willing by
her silence to have her engagement regarded as a great calamity, as a
dreadful evil that had come upon the whole Lovel family. She had not
boldness to speak to her mother as she had spoken on the subject to
the Earl. She threw herself entirely upon her promise, and spoke of
her coming destiny as though it had been made irrevocable by her own
word. "I have promised him, mamma, and have sworn that it should be
so." That was the answer which she now made from her bed;--the answer
which she had made a dozen times during the last three days.
"Is everybody belonging to you to be ruined because you once spoke a
foolish word?"
"Mamma, it was often spoken,--very often, and he does not wish that
anybody should be ruined. He told me that Lord Lovel might have the
money."
"Foolish, ungrateful girl! It is not for Lord Lovel that I am
pleading to you. It is for the name, and for your own honour. Do you
not constantly pray to God to keep you in that state of life to which
it has pleased Him to call you;--and are you not departing from it
wilfully and sinfully by such an act as this?" But still Lady Anna
continued to say that she was bound by the obligation which was upon
her.
On the following day the Countess was frightened, believing that the
girl was really ill. In truth she was ill,--so that the doctor who
visited her declared that she must be treated with great care. She
was harassed in spirit,--so the doctor said,--and must be taken away,
so that she might be amused. The Countess was frightened, but still
was resolute. She not only loved her daughter,--but loved no other
human being on the face of the earth. Her daughter was all that she
had to bind her to the world around her. But she declared to herself
again and again that it would be better that her daughter should
die than live and be married to the tailor. It was a case in which
persecution even to the very gate of the grave would be wise and
warrantable,--if by such persecution this odious, monstrous marriage
might be avoided. And she did believe that persecution would avail at
last. If she were only steady in her resolve, the girl would never
dare to demand the right to leave her mother's house and walk off to
the church to be married to Daniel Thwaite, without the countenance
of a single friend. The girl's strength was not of that nature. But
were she, the Countess, to yield an inch, then this evil might come
upon them. She had heard that young people can always beat their
parents if they be sufficiently obdurate. Parents are soft-hearted to
their children, and are prone to yield. And so would she have been
soft-hearted, if the interests concerned had been less important,
if the deviation from duty had been less startling, or the union
proposed less monstrous and disgraceful. But in this case it behoved
her to be obdurate,--even though it should be to the very gates of
the grave. "I swear to you," she said, "that the day of your marriage
to Daniel Thwaite shall be the day of my death."
In her straits she went to Serjeant Bluestone for advice. Now, the
Serjeant had hitherto been opposed to all compromise, feeling certain
that everything might be gained without the sacrifice of a single
right. He had not a word to say against a marriage between the two
cousins, but let the cousin who was the heiress be first placed in
possession of her rights. Let her be empowered, when she consented
to become Lady Lovel, to demand such a settlement of the property as
would be made on her behalf if she were the undisputed owner of the
property. Let her marry the lord if she would, but not do so in order
that she might obtain the partial enjoyment of that which was all her
own. And then, so the Serjeant had argued, the widowed Countess would
never be held to have established absolutely her own right to her
name, should any compromise be known to have been effected. People
might call her Countess Lovel; but, behind her back, they would say
that she was no countess. The Serjeant had been very hot about it,
especially disliking the interference of Sir William. But now, when
he heard this new story, his heat gave way. Anything must be done
that could be done;--everything must be done to prevent such a
termination to the career of the two ladies as would come from a
marriage with the tailor.
But he was somewhat dismayed when he came to understand the condition
of affairs in Keppel Street. "How can I not be severe?" said the
Countess, when he remonstrated with her. "If I were tender with
her she would think that I was yielding. Is not everything at
stake,--everything for which my life has been devoted?" The Serjeant
called his wife into council, and then suggested that Lady Anna
should spend a week or two in Bedford Square. He assured the Countess
that she might be quite sure that Daniel Thwaite should find no
entrance within his doors.
"But if Lord Lovel would do us the honour to visit us, we should be
most happy to see him," said the Serjeant.
Lady Anna was removed to Bedford Square, and there became subject to
treatment that was milder, but not less persistent. Mrs. Bluestone
lectured her daily, treating her with the utmost respect, paying to
her rank a deference, which was not indeed natural to the good lady,
but which was assumed, so that Lady Anna might the better comprehend
the difference between her own position and that of the tailor. The
girls were told nothing of the tailor,--lest the disgrace of so
unnatural a partiality might shock their young minds; but they
were instructed that there was danger, and that they were always,
in speaking to their guest, to take it for granted that she was
to become Countess Lovel. Her maid, Sarah, went with her to the
Serjeant's, and was taken into a half-confidence. Lady Anna was never
to be left a moment alone. She was to be a prisoner with gilded
chains,--for whom a splendid, a glorious future was in prospect, if
only she would accept it.
"I really think that she likes the lord the best," said Mrs.
Bluestone to her husband.
"Then why the mischief won't she have him?" This was in October, and
that November term was fast approaching in which the cause was set
down for trial.
"I almost think she would if he'd come and ask her again. Of course,
I have never mentioned the other man; but when I speak to her of Earl
Lovel, she always answers me as though she were almost in love with
him. I was inquiring yesterday what sort of a man he was, and she
said he was quite perfect. 'It is a thousand pities,' she said, 'that
he should not have this money. He ought to have it, as he is the
Earl.'"
"Why doesn't she give it to him?"
"I asked her that; but she shook her head and said, that it could
never be. I think that man has made her swear some sort of awful
oath, and has frightened her."
"No doubt he has made her swear an oath, but we all know how the gods
regard the perjuries of lovers," said the Serjeant. "We must get the
young lord here when he comes back to town."
"Is he handsome?" asked Alice Bluestone, the younger daughter, who
had become Lady Anna's special friend in the family. Of course they
were talking of Lord Lovel.
"Everybody says he is."
"But what do you say?"
"I don't think it matters much about a man being handsome,--but he is
beautiful. Not dark, like all the other Lovels; nor yet what you call
fair. I don't think that fair men ever look manly."
"Oh no," said Alice, who was contemplating an engagement with a
black-haired young barrister.
"Lord Lovel is brown,--with blue eyes; but it is the shape of his
face that is so perfect,--an oval, you know, that is not too long.
But it isn't that makes him look as he does. He looks as though
everybody in the world ought to do exactly what he tells them."
"And why don't you, dear, do exactly what he tells you?"
"Ah,--that is another question. I should do many things if he told
me. He is the head of our family. I think he ought to have all this
money, and be a rich great man, as the Earl Lovel should be."
"And yet you won't be his wife?"
"Would you,--if you had promised another man?"
"Have you promised another man?"
"Yes;--I have."
"Who is he, Lady Anna?"
"They have not told you, then?"
"No;--nobody has told me. I know they all want you to marry Lord
Lovel,--and I know he wants it. I know he is quite in love with you."
"Ah;--I do not think that. But if he were, it could make no
difference. If you had once given your word to another man, would you
go back because a lord asked you?"
"I don't think I would ever give my word without asking mamma."
"If he had been good to you, and you had loved him always, and he had
been your best friend,--what would you do then?"
"Who is he, Lady Anna?"
"Do not call me Lady Anna, or I shall not like you. I will tell you,
but you must not say that I told you. Only I thought everybody knew.
I told Lord Lovel, and he, I think, has told all the world. It is Mr.
Daniel Thwaite."
"Mr. Daniel Thwaite!" said Alice, who had heard enough of the case to
know who the Thwaites were. "He is a tailor!"
"Yes," said Lady Anna proudly; "he is a tailor."
"Surely that cannot be good," said Alice, who, having long since felt
what it was to be the daughter of a serjeant, had made up her mind
that she would marry nothing lower than a barrister.
"It is what you call bad, I dare say."
"I don't think a tailor can be a gentleman."
"I don't know. Perhaps I wasn't a lady when I promised him. But I
did promise. You can never know what he and his father did for us.
I think we should have died only for them. You don't know how we
lived;--in a little cottage, with hardly any money, with nobody to
come near us but they. Everybody else thought that we were vile and
wicked. It is true. But they always were good to us. Would not you
have loved him?"
"I should have loved him in a kind of way."
"When one takes so much, one must give in return what one has to
give," said Lady Anna.
"Do you love him still?"
"Of course I love him."
"And you wish to be his wife?"
"Sometimes I think I don't. It is not that I am ashamed for myself.
What would it have signified if I had gone away with him straight
from Cumberland, before I had ever seen my cousins? Supposing that
mamma hadn't been the Countess--"
"But she is."
"So they say now;--but if they had said that she was not, nobody
would have thought it wrong then for me to marry Mr. Thwaite."
"Don't you think it wrong yourself?"
"It would be best for me to say that I would never marry any one at
all. He would be very angry with me."
"Lord Lovel?"
"Oh no;--not Lord Lovel. Daniel would be very angry, because he
really loves me. But it would not be so bad to him as though I became
Lord Lovel's wife. I will tell you the truth, dear. I am ashamed to
marry Mr. Thwaite,--not for myself, but because I am Lord Lovel's
cousin and mamma's daughter. And I should be ashamed to marry Lord
Lovel."
"Why, dear?"
"Because I should be false and ungrateful! I should be afraid to
stand before him if he looked at me. You do not know how he can look.
He, too, can command. He, too, is noble. They believe it is the money
he wants, and when they call him a tailor, they think that he must be
mean. He is not mean. He is clever, and can talk about things better
than my cousin. He can work hard and give away all that he earns. And
so could his father. They gave all they had to us, and have never
asked it again. I kissed him once,--and then he said I had paid all
my mother's debt." Alice Bluestone shrank within herself when she was
told by this daughter of a countess of such a deed. It was horrid
to her mind that a tailor should be kissed by a Lady Anna Lovel.
But she herself had perhaps been as generous to the black-browed
young barrister, and had thought no harm. "They think I do not
understand,--but I do. They all want this money, and then they accuse
him, and say he does it that he may become rich. He would give up all
the money,--just for me. How would you feel if it were like that with
you?"
"I think that a girl who is a lady, should never marry a man who is
not a gentleman. You know the story of the rich man who could not
get to Abraham's bosom because there was a gulf fixed. That is how
it should be;--just as there is with royal people as to marrying
royalty. Otherwise everything would get mingled, and there would soon
be no difference. If there are to be differences, there should be
differences. That is the meaning of being a gentleman,--or a lady."
So spoke the young female Conservative with wisdom beyond her
years;--nor did she speak quite in vain.
"I believe what I had better do would be to die," said Lady Anna.
"Everything would come right then."
Some day or two after this Serjeant Bluestone sent a message up to
Lady Anna, on his return home from the courts, with a request that
she would have the great kindness to come down to him in his study.
The Serjeant had treated her with more than all the deference due to
her rank since she had been in his house, striving to teach her what
it was to be the daughter of an Earl and probable owner of twenty
thousand a year. The Serjeant, to give him his due, cared as little
as most men for the peerage. He vailed his bonnet to no one but a
judge,--and not always that with much ceremonious observance. But now
his conduct was a part of his duty to a client whom he was determined
to see established in her rights. He would have handed her her cup
of tea on his knees every morning, if by doing so he could have made
clear to her eyes how deep would be her degradation were she to marry
the tailor. The message was now brought to her by Mrs. Bluestone,
who almost apologized for asking her to trouble herself to walk
down-stairs to the back parlour. "My dear Lady Anna," said the
Serjeant, "may I ask you to sit down for a moment or two while I
speak to you? I have just left your mother."
"How is dear mamma?" The Serjeant assured her that the Countess was
well in health. At this time Lady Anna had not visited her mother
since she had left Keppel Street, and had been told that Lady Lovel
had refused to see her till she had pledged herself never to marry
Daniel Thwaite. "I do so wish I might go to mamma!"
"With all my heart I wish you could, Lady Anna. Nothing makes such
heart-burning sorrow as a family quarrel. But what can I say? You
know what your mother thinks?"
"Couldn't you manage that she should let me go there just once?"
"I hope that we can manage it;--but I want you to listen to me first.
Lord Lovel is back in London." She pressed her lips together and
fastened one hand firmly on the other. If the assurance that was
required from her was ever to be exacted, it should not be exacted by
Serjeant Bluestone. "I have seen his lordship to-day," continued the
Serjeant, "and he has done me the honour to promise that he will dine
here to-morrow."
"Lord Lovel?"
"Yes;--your cousin, Earl Lovel. There is no reason, I suppose, why
you should not meet him? He has not offended you?"
"Oh no.--But I have offended him."
"I think not, Lady Anna. He does not speak of you as though there
were offence."
"When we parted he would hardly look at me, because I told him--. You
know what I told him."
"A gentleman is not necessarily offended because a lady does not
accept his first offer. Many gentlemen would be offended if that were
so;--and very many happy marriages would never have a chance of being
made. At any rate he is coming, and I thought that perhaps you would
excuse me if I endeavoured to explain how very much may depend on the
manner in which you may receive him. You must feel that things are
not going on quite happily now."
"I am so unhappy, Serjeant Bluestone!"
"Yes, indeed. It must be so. You are likely to be placed,--I think I
may say you certainly will be placed,--in such a position that the
whole prosperity of a noble and ancient family must depend on what
you may do. With one word you can make once more bright a fair name
that has long been beneath a cloud. Here in England the welfare of
the State depends on the conduct of our aristocracy!" Oh, Serjeant
Bluestone, Serjeant Bluestone! how could you so far belie your
opinion as to give expression to a sentiment utterly opposed to your
own convictions! But what is there that a counsel will not do for a
client? "If they whom Fate and Fortune have exalted, forget what the
country has a right to demand from them, farewell, alas, to the glory
of old England!" He had found this kind of thing very effective with
twelve men, and surely it might prevail with one poor girl. "It is
not for me, Lady Anna, to dictate to you the choice of a husband. But
it has become my duty to point out to you the importance of your own
choice, and to explain to you, if it may be possible, that you are
not like other young ladies. You have in your hands the marring or
the making of the whole family of Lovel. As for that suggestion of
a marriage to which you were induced to give ear by feelings of
gratitude, it would, if carried out, spread desolation in the bosom
of every relative to whom you are bound by the close ties of noble
blood." He finished his speech, and Lady Anna retired without a word.