Any one who has tried to speak with another for five minutes in
private, without the pomp and circumstance of demanding an interview,
will know that it is almost impossible to find the opportunity,
unless the person be one's own wife. There is always something comes
in the way just at the very moment--something unforeseen and
unlikely,--especially if one be very anxious upon the subject. If the
matter be of no importance, the opportunity presents itself at every
turn; but if one be very, very desirous to unburden a full heart, or
tell a tale of love, or give a valuable hint, or plead the cause of
one's self, or any one else, without the freezing influence of a
formal conference, one may wait hours and days--nay, weeks and months,
sometimes--without finding five minutes open in the whole day.
As soon as breakfast was over, Edward de Vaux followed Marian into the
music-room; and when Marian left him, he came to tell his friend and
Isadore that they proposed making a riding party to see something in
the neighbourhood. Manners went up in his room to prepare; and, as he
found himself on the stairs alone with De Vaux, he had his hand in his
pocket to produce the letter, when Miss Falkland's step sounded close
by them, and her voice invited her cousin to come with her, and see a
little present she had bought for Marian's birthday. As soon as
Manners was equipped for riding, he went to De Vaux's room,
calculating--as he usually dressed in half the time that his friend
expended on such exertions--that he would find him there: but no one
was in the apartment but a servant, who told him that Mr. De Vaux had
gone down. As he passed along one of the corridors, he saw De Vaux
sauntering across the lawn towards the gates of the stable-yard; but
ere he could catch him, his friend was surrounded by grooms and
servants, receiving his orders concerning the horses; and as they
turned again towards the house. Marian and Miss Falkland were standing
in their riding dresses on the steps.
"Well, I must wait," thought Manners, reflecting sagely on the
difficulties of executing punctually even so simple a commission as
that which he had undertaken. "Well, I must wait till we go to dress
for dinner; then I am sure to find my opportunity."
He was not destined, however, to remain burdened with his secret so
long. The ride was pleasant, but did not extend far; and on the return
of the party, while Manners and De Vaux stood looking at their boots
in the hall, Miss Falkland and her cousin retired to change their
dress, and the opportunity was not lost.
"Now we are alone," said Manners, "let me execute a commission with
which I am charged towards you, De Vaux, and which has teased me all
the morning."
"Not a challenge, I hope," replied the other; "for it seems a solemn
embassy."
"No, no, nothing of the kind," answered his friend; "but the fact
is--"
"Please, sir," said Colonel Manners' servant, opening the glass doors,
"I believe the young mare is throwing out a splint; and I did not like
to--"
"Well, well," said Manners, somewhat impatiently, "I will come and see
her myself, presently--I am engaged just now." The man withdrew; and
resuming his discourse at the precise point where he had left off,
Manners continued, "The fact is, that gipsy, of whom I was speaking
this morning, charged me with a letter to you, which I promised to
deliver in private, and when you were likely to be able to read it
without interruption."
"A gipsy!" said De Vaux, knitting his brows; "the circle of my
acquaintance has extended itself farther than I thought, and in a
class, also, equally beyond my wishes and anticipations: but are you
sure there is no mistake? does he really mean me?"
"There is the letter," replied Manners, "with your titles, _nomen
and cognomen_, as clearly superscribed as ever I saw them
written:--Captain the Honourable Edward de Vaux, with many et
caeteras."
"And in a good hand, and on tolerably clean paper," said De Vaux,
taking the letter, and gazing on the back. "Why, this gipsy of yours
must be a miracle, Manners."
"He is a very extraordinary person, certainly," answered his
companion, "both in his ideas and his deportment, which are equally
above his class."
"Nay, he must be a miracle--a complete miracle!" said De Vaux,
laughing, "if he can mend kettles and write such an address as that,
with the same good right hand. But this must be a begging letter."
"I think not," replied Manners: "it would not surprise me to find that
he knows more of you than you imagine; but, at all events, read the
letter."
De Vaux turned the letter, looked at the seal, which offered a very
good impression, though one with which he was not acquainted, and
then, tearing open the paper, read the contents. The very first words
made his eye strain eagerly upon the page; a few lines more rendered
him deadly pale; and though, as he went on, his agitation did not
increase, yet the intensity of his gaze upon the sheet before him was
not at all diminished; and when he had concluded it, after staring
vacantly in his companion's face for a moment, he again turned to the
letter, and read it attentively over once more.
"I am afraid I have brought you evil tidings, De Vaux," said Colonel
Manners, who had watched with some anxiety the changes upon the
countenance of his friend: "if so, can I serve you? You know Charles
Manners; and I need scarcely say how much pleasure it will give me to
do any thing for you."
"I must think, Manners--I must think," replied De Vaux: "these are
strange tidings indeed, and vouched boldly too; but I doubt whether I
have a right to communicate them to any one but the person they affect
next to myself. However, I must think ere I act at all. Forgive me for
not making you a sharer of them; and excuse me now, for I am much
agitated, and hardly well."
"Let me be no restraint upon you, De Vaux," answered his friend. "If I
can serve you, tell me; if I can alleviate any thing you suffer by
sympathy, let me share in what you feel; but do not suppose for a
moment that I even desire to hear any thing that it may be proper to
keep to your own bosom. Leave me now, without ceremony: but take care
how you act, De Vaux; for I see there is matter of much importance in
your mind; and you are, sometimes at least, in military affairs, a
little hasty."
"I will be as cool and thoughtful as yourself, my friend," replied De
Vaux; "but I am agitated, and the best place for me is my own room."
Thus saying, he left his friend, not a little surprised, indeed, that
such a letter from such a person should have had the power to produce
on the mind of a man like De Vaux the extreme agitation which he had
just witnessed. De Vaux, he well knew, was not one to give credence to
any thing lightly, or to yield to any slight feeling which a first
impression might produce; but, in the present instance, it was evident
that his friend had received a shock from some tidings which had been
totally unexpected, but which must have been probable, as well as
unpleasant, to produce such an effect. The extraordinary fact,
however, that news of such importance should be left to the
transmission of such a man as the gipsy--so separated by station, and
state, and circumstances, from the person whom they concerned--was of
course a matter of much astonishment to Colonel Manners; and surprise
divided his bosom with anxiety and sympathy for his friend.
It is a very disagreeable thing to have any two feelings thus making a
shuttlecock of our attention; or, when they are very eager, struggling
for it with mutual pertinacity; but the only way to act under such
circumstances is, to treat them like two quarrelsome boys; and,
shutting them up together, leave them to fight it out without
interruption. Such was the plan which Colonel Manners now proposed to
pursue; and, consequently, quitting the hall where his conversation
with De Vaux had taken place, he walked straight to the library, and
opened the door.
What happened next was not without its importance; but as the mind may
be at this moment more anxious concerning De Vaux than concerning his
companion, we will follow him up the staircase as lightly as possible;
enter his chamber, lay our hand upon his bosom, draw the curtain, and
show the reader the scene within. But it may be as well first to look
at that letter upon the table before which he is sitting, with his
left hand upon his brow, and his right partly covering the sheet of
paper which had so disturbed him. If one can draw it gently out from
underneath his fingers, while his eyes are shut and his thoughts are
busy, one may read what follows:--
"To Captain Edward de Vaux." Here, be it remarked, that there was a
difference between the superscription and the address; the latter
having borne, "To Captain the Honourable Edward de Vaux," while in the
inside was merely written, "To Captain Edward de Vaux."
The difference may appear insignificant; but, in the present instance,
and with the commentary of the epistle itself thereon, it signifies a
great deal. However, the letter went on:--
"_To Captain Edward de Vaux_.
"Sir: I shall make no excuse for addressing you, as I am fully
justified therein; and you yourself, however great the pain I may
inflict upon you, will eventually admit that I am so. You are about, I
understand, to unite your fate to a young lady of rank and fortune;
and it is more than possible that mutual affection and mutual good
feelings would render your union happy. Nevertheless, believing you to
be a man of honour, I feel sure that you would not like to lead any
one into such an alliance with expectations which are not alone
doubtful, but fallacious. It is therefore necessary that you should
know more precisely how you are situated; and I hesitate not to inform
you, that on the title and estates held by your father you have no
earthly right to calculate; that, should you marry Miss de Vaux, you
bring with you nothing but your commission as a captain in the army;
and that whatever you expect from your parent will most certainly go
to another person. Your first conclusion--as a world in which there
are so many villains is naturally suspicious--will be, that this
letter is written either by some one who intends to set up some unjust
claim to your rightful inheritance, by some disappointed suitor of
your bride, or by some malevolent envier of another's happiness. Such,
however, is not the fact. The person who writes this owes some
gratitude to your family; not so much for what was accomplished, as
for what your grandfather sought to accomplish in his favour. You may
have heard the story--in which case you will give more credence to the
present letter--or you may not have heard the story: but still, the
way to satisfy yourself is open before you. Either resolve to question
your father boldly concerning the points herein contained; or, if you
would have the facts proved so that you cannot doubt them, come alone
to the gipsies' tents, in the sand-pit on Morley Down, this evening or
early to-morrow morning, and inquire for
"Pharold."
Now, under any ordinary circumstances, the only course which De Vaux
would have pursued might have been, to twist up the paper into any
strange and fanciful form that the whim of the moment suggested, and
put it into the first fire he met with, giving it hardly a second
thought. But there were circumstances totally distinct from, and
independent of, the letter itself, which gave it a degree of
importance far above that which it intrinsically possessed. Edward de
Vaux, though he had a slight recollection of a dark-eyed, beautiful
creature, whom in his infancy he had called mother, lost all
remembrance of her at a particular period of his life, and had never
since, that he knew of, heard her name mentioned. He passed, it is
true, for Lord Dewry's legitimate son, was received as such in
society, and admitted as such by his own family and relations. But, if
so, how was it he had never seen a picture of his mother among those
of his ancestors, and beside that of his father, which stood in the
gallery, and represented him as a man of about thirty-five years of
age?--How was it he had never heard his mother's jewels mentioned,
though those of the two baronesses who had preceded her were often
referred to? How was it that his aunt, Mrs. Falkland, as he inferred
from many facts, had never seen his mother? How was it that his father
had never spoken her name in his hearing? All this had often struck
him as something very extraordinary; and a thousand minor
circumstances, which cannot be here recapitulated, had shown him that
there was some mystery in regard to his family, which had frequently
given him pain. Since his return, however, something more had
occurred: two or three words had been spoken by his father, during
their dispute concerning Colonel Manners, which had startled him at
the time with a suspicion which he had instantly banished, but which
now came up again with fearful confirmation of the tidings he had just
received. Lord Dewry had declared that he could be deprived of the
entailed estates of the barony by a single word. At the time, that
expression had but slightly alarmed him; for, well knowing the
violence of his father's disposition, and the acts and words of almost
insane vehemence to which any opposition would drive him, he had
instantly concluded that it was a meaningless threat, spoken to punish
him for the spirit of resistance he had displayed. But now it came
back in its full force; and he asked himself, what could such words
mean, if he were a legitimate child? The estates were entailed on the
male heir; he himself was the only male heir in the present line; and
if by birth he were the lawful son of Lord Dewry, no earthly power
could deprive him of the lands of his forefathers. But his father, who
had been educated for the bar before he succeeded to the title, had
told him that a word would take them from him. A stranger now repeated
the same tale, and pointed more directly to the same conclusion; and
all his former recollections changed his bitter doubts into a terrible
certainty.
Edward de Vaux bent down his head upon his hands, and covered his
eyes, with a feeling of shame and degradation that was hardly
supportable. It was not alone one well of bitterness that was opened
upon him; but, in whatever direction he turned his thoughts, new gall
and wormwood was poured into his cup. If there had been aught on earth
of which he had been proud--and, in that instance, his pride, though
bridled and restrained by better feelings, had been great;--if there
had been any thing on earth of which he had been proud, it had been of
his clear descent from thirteen generations of noble ancestors. He had
taken a delight, even from boyhood, in tracing the recorded history of
each, and in proving that there had not been one, from the founder of
the family to his own immediate parent, who had not been well
deserving of the rank and station that they held in their native land.
He had drawn from his noble birth the moral which noble birth should
always afford; and had determined that he, too, would deserve the
title that they had received for great deeds; that he, too, would
transmit the jewel of hereditary virtue to his children as an
heirloom, unimpaired in passing through his hands. He knew that, in
the words of a great natural poet,--
"The rank is but the guinea's stamp--
The man's the gold for a' that;"
and he felt that, to bear the name of noble, without being noble in
his heart, was but to carry the die of value upon inferior metal, and
pass upon society a base and worthless counterfeit. But all such
thoughts, such remembrances, and aspirations were now at an end. He
could no longer look back to mighty men amid his forefathers, for the
world's law cut the link between him and them. He had no longer a
proud name to keep up and adorn with noble actions, for he was an
illegitimate son, who had unrightfully usurped the name and station
which belonged not to him. His best support, his noblest designs, his
most generous purposes, were cast down, and his heart was laid
prostrate along with them.
But this was not all: he was now a beggar! the estates were entailed,
and descended with the title; and though his father lived in somewhat
gloomy retirement, yet the state with which he had surrounded his
solitude De Vaux well knew could have left little accumulation from
the revenues of his property. Here, then, were new evils to be
encountered. Accustomed to luxury, and ease, and plenty, without one
thought of that sordid ore, the want of which cramps so many a noble
spirit, and stifles so many a great design, he had lived free from one
of the greatest burdens upon man. He had never been lavish or
extravagant, for such was not a part of his nature; but he had been
generous and liberal to others, as well as at ease himself; and now he
felt that every expense must be measured and gauged by considerations
of economy; that every guinea must be weighed and estimated before it
was parted with; that he must look upon money in a light that he had
never done before; that he must make it a continual object of thought;
that his mind, like the traveller in the land of the Lilliputians,
must be painfully pinioned down on every side by the irritating ties
of petty cares; that his ease must be at an end, and his generosity
cease.
There was more, however, far more bitter kept mingling in the draught.
Round the idea of one's mother the mind of man clings with fond
affection. It is the first sweet, deep thought stamped upon our infant
hearts, when yet soft and capable of receiving the most profound
impressions, and all the after-feelings of the world are more or less
light in comparison. I do not know that even in our old age we do not
look back to that feeling as the sweetest we have known through life.
Our passions and our wilfulness may lead us far from the object of our
filial love; we learn even to pain her heart, to oppose her wishes, to
violate her commands; we may become wild, headstrong, and angry at her
counsels or her opposition; but when death has stilled her monitory
voice, and nothing but calm memory remains to recapitulate her virtues
and good deeds, affection, like a flower beaten to the ground by a
past storm, raises up her head and smiles among the tears. Round that
idea, as we have said, the mind clings with fond affection; and even
when the early period of our loss forces memory to be silent, fancy
takes the place of remembrance, and twines the image of our dead
parent with a garland of graces, and beauties, and virtues, which we
doubt not that she possessed. Thus had it been with De Vaux: he could
just call to mind a face that had appeared to him very beautiful, and
a few kind and tender words from the lips of her he had called mother;
but he had fancied her all that was good, and gentle, and virtuous;
and now that he was forced to look upon her as a fallen being, as one
who had not only forgotten virtue herself, but, in sin, had brought
him into the world, to degradation and shame, what could be his
feelings towards her?
Horrid! horrid is it to say, that the world should take unto itself
that awful power claimed by Almighty Omniscience, of visiting the sins
of the fathers upon the children, and of making the guiltless
offspring more than share the punishment inflicted on the offending
parent! But so De Vaux felt that the world does, and that, in his
instance, it was not alone the usual contemptible sneer, or still more
contemptible neglect, that he was destined to meet; but that he must
expect all the venomous pity and malignant compassion which his fall,
more than his situation, would excite, and which the hard and
unfeeling beings of the earth affect to experience for those they wish
most powerfully to depress.
Such accumulated feelings were all bitter enough; but there was one
more bitter still, more filled with agony and degradation. De Vaux, as
we have seen, was engaged to a being full of beauty, and grace, and
gentleness, by promises which united them to each other, not alone as
persons of high rank and fortune, having found a fitting alliance; but
as two people who had known each other from infancy, had grown up in
affection, and had for many a year looked forward to their marriage as
the means of securing to both the utmost degree of human happiness for
life; as the binding on of a talisman, that would shut out from their
domestic hearth all the evil things of earth. With De Vaux, these
feelings, these anticipations, were even stronger. He loved Marian
with the fullest, deepest, most passionate attachment. Towards her his
heart was all fire and thrilling energy; and, though there were times
when he somewhat doubted that her feelings were of as powerful a kind
towards him, yet he believed that she loved him as much as she could
love; and perhaps even her slight reserve made him love her the more
ardently. The day for their marriage was already fixed; the bridal
ornaments were all prepared; their future life had, in the
conversation of that very day, been laid out before them as on a map,
and Edward de Vaux had as much doubted, when he sprang from his horse,
that Marian, in all her beauty, was to be his bride within three short
weeks, as he doubted of his own existence.
Now, however, what were his feelings?--now that his situation was
changed in every particular,--that in fortune, and in station, he had
fallen at once from the situation in which she had promised him her
hand; and when he felt that he had no right to claim from Marian de
Vaux the execution of a promise which she had made under different
circumstances, and to which he believed that all her friends would, of
course, be opposed, as soon as his real position became known? He felt
that he had no right either to ask or to expect it; and the darkest
image that presented itself to his mind was, the loss of her he loved,
for ever. Nor did this image come before him vague and undefined, as a
thing of remote possibility,--though even then the apprehension would
have been terrible enough,--but, in his present state of despondency,
it appeared as an undoubted and inevitable certainty--as a thing that
must and would take place. He felt as if Marian were _already_ lost to
him for ever, and the bright bubble of his happiness irreparably
broken. He fancied, also,--he could not help imagining, that something
like contempt would mingle in the pity that she felt for him. She was
herself so pure,--delicacy, modesty, and virtue so characterized her
every movement, and her every word,--that he tortured himself with
believing that a part of the reprobation and scorn with which she must
think of his mother, would fall upon himself. "She will look upon me
as the child of vice," he thought; "she will see in me the offspring
of guilt and shame, and will easily make up her mind to the
separation. She is always so reasonable, and so willing to do what she
considers right, at any sacrifice, that her mind will soon be tutored
to forget Edward de Vaux. Were she of that warm, ardent, deep-feeling
nature that casts fate and happiness upon one die, I might hope that
she would still cling to me: but it is in vain thinking of it--I have
no reason to hope it. She will follow the dictates of common sense and
prudence, and abandon an alliance which all her friends would now
oppose."
Poor Marian! thus did her unhappy lover contrive to wring his own
heart even with her very virtues. After thinking for at least an hour
in gloomy silence, a faint hope crossed his mind, that he might have
mistaken the import of the letter--that his apprehensions might have
deceived him. Experience, gained from the consequences of our faults,
almost always, sooner or later, gives us a vague, unsatisfactory
consciousness that such things exist in our bosom; and Edward de Vaux
did know that he was given to torment himself needlessly. He therefore
read the letter over again, and read it carefully; but, on doing so,
his first impression was but the more confirmed.
"Yet it might be false," he thought; "the whole tale might be false,
or might refer to something else, and be the mere blunder of some
ignorant and presumptuous person." But then the remembrance of his
father's words returned, and all that had before seemed strange
regarding his mother came up before his mind; and he once more gave
himself up to despair.
What was to be done, became the next question. There was just a
sufficient portion of doubt mingled with his feelings to hold him
tortured in suspense, without being enough to approach the limit of
hope. This state, of course, he could have borne no longer under any
circumstances; but his situation in regard to Marian rendered it
absolutely necessary that he should put an end to all doubt upon the
business. And yet it was terrible, most terrible, to feel that it must
be his own hand which tore away the veil that concealed the obstacles
to his marriage--that it must be his own hand that cast away his
happiness for ever. The thought might cross his mind of letting things
take their course--of choosing to disbelieve the letter--of treating
it with contempt, and of proceeding with Marian to the altar, to
secure the blessing of her hand, at least, before the rest was
snatched from him. But if it did cross his mind, it was but as the
image of a thing that might be with some men, but could never be with
him. It occupied not a moment's consideration--it left no trace behind
it. To investigate the matter instantly, and to the bottom, became his
determination; and, having done so, to make the result known to those
interested, and at once place himself fearlessly in the situation
which he had alone a right to fill. He did get that there might be
circumstances in the story which he was about to hear which might
render it necessary to conceal it from the public ear, in
consideration for the feelings of his father, or of others. But to
Marian, at least, the facts must be told; she was too deeply
implicated in it all to be left in ignorance of what touched her whole
future happiness; and De Vaux resolved that not only should she be
told, but that no lips but his own should tell it, as he well knew how
a few explicative words, or a well-turned round of phrases, may
pervert a plain tale from its true meaning. "I will trust none," he
thought; "and, whatever the truth may be, from my lips alone shall she
first hear it."
The course to be pursued in his investigation became the next
question. Two were pointed out in the letter itself; but from the
first, that of applying to his father, he shrank with irresistible
repugnance. It was not alone that De Vaux, as is common--we might
almost say universal--among men, possessed more physical than moral
courage; that he feared the fierce and angry mood of his father,
irritated as he had been by late opposition, and loved not to venture
upon a discussion with him, which would rouse every dark and stormy
passion into fiery activity; but he feared himself also: he feared
that anguish and anger, and the haughty irritation with which he was
sure to be encountered, might make him forget himself, and say words
that no after-sorrow could recall. There might still be a doubt, too,
upon even the very subject of his fears, and he felt that were those
fears unfounded, his father might justly look upon it as little better
than a gross personal insult, were he asked if he had passed his
illegitimate son upon the world as legitimate, and promoted his union
with the heiress of a large fortune, under the pretence of his being
heir to an honourable name and great possessions.
De Vaux might believe that such conduct was not impossible; he might
also think that his father was not actuated in so doing by the mean
and sordid views which, at first sight, seem the only motives
assignable for such behaviour. Various circumstances might have
occurred, in earlier years, to make his father acknowledge an unreal
marriage with his mother; considerations for her feelings, or for his
own respectability, might be among the rest. Once having said so, and
spoken of himself as of a legitimate child, Edward de Vaux knew well
that his father's proud and reserved nature might have made him ever
after silent upon the subject, till explanation became almost
impossible; and the deceit he had practised or permitted might have
been rather the result of haughty reserve than of cunning artifice.
De Vaux felt that, however, ere he presumed to insinuate to his father
a bare suspicion of his having committed such an act, he must have
much better information and clearer proof to justify the charge. When
such evidence was once obtained, he might communicate the discovery he
had made to Lord Dewry by letter, and thus avoid that painful
collision which a personal discussion of the matter must induce; or,
if he found that the evidence was faulty or inconclusive; that there
was motive for suspicion against the person who tendered it, or that
the whole was an interested calumny, he might lay it before his
father, as an affair which required him to investigate the assertions,
and punish the authors of them.
The determination, therefore, was taken to visit the gipsy himself;
and the only consideration that remained was, whether to go alone, or
to ask Manners to accompany him. From the latter idea he shrank, as,
in that case, he must have exposed to his friend doubts and
apprehensions which were bitterly humiliating, and might even
compromise the secrets of others, to whom his friend was a stranger,
in a manner which he had no right to do. The letter, also, bade him
come alone; and, on reading it over once more, everything tended to
make him give credence both to the sincerity of the writer and the
accuracy of the facts. He had a faint remembrance, too, of having
heard the name of Pharold mentioned by his aunt, as connected with the
early days of her family; and the fact of the writer having referred
him, in the first instance, to his own father, tended to show that
there existed no design against himself personally. Besides, De Vaux
was not a man to entertain fears of any kind for his own safety; and,
as he clearly saw that Manners was totally ignorant of the contents of
the letter which he had brought him, he determined to go alone, and
investigate the matter thoroughly.
His next question to his own heart was, "and, in the meantime, what
shall be my conduct towards Marian? How shall I behave while I expect
and believe that a few more hours will alter our situation towards
each other for ever, and render that conduct wrong which was perfectly
consistent with our engagement towards each other? If I change my
manner, she may think my affection cooled, and feel herself unkindly
treated. But then," he thought again, bitterly enough, "but then that
will but serve to smooth the way to the change which is ultimately to
take place; and perhaps it had better be reached by some such
intermediate step." The next moment, again, his wavering thoughts
turned to the other side, and he demanded whether he had any right
to give her one instant's pain more than necessary. The reply was
ready:--"No, no! that were cruel and unkind indeed; and should I do
so, and my fears prove false, my behaviour would necessarily, from all
the circumstances of the case, remain unexplained--a dark blot upon my
affection towards her. Yet, hereafter, if she should learn that such
tidings have been in my possession,--that such doubts have been justly
working in my mind,--will she not think it wrong, and even deceitful,
of me to treat her as my promised bride, when I know that she never
can be such?"
What was to be done? De Vaux, according to the old scholastic term,
had got himself between the horns of a dilemma; and we must pause for
one moment, in order to inquire how far he was art and part in putting
himself into that situation. It is wonderful, most wonderful, how
people deceive themselves in this world, and how they go on arguing
with themselves on both sides of the question for an hour together,
affecting to be puzzled, and asking themselves what is to be done,
when, from the very first, they have determined, in secret counsel,
what to do; and all this logic and disquisition has solely been for
the purpose of bewildering _reason_, or _duty_, or _conscience_, or
any other of those personified qualities of the soul, which the great
parliament of man's passions choose to look upon as _the public_, _the
spectators_.
Now, at that point of De Vaux's cogitations wherein he thought, and
rejected the idea, of admitting Manners to his confidence in the
matter before him, as is fully displayed three or four pages back, a
fancy struck him, which instantly changed into a secret resolution,
not to make Manners his confidant in the business, but to open his
whole heart to Marian de Vaux; and although it needed scarcely any
argument to prove that she, whose fate was the most strictly bound up
with his own, whose affection he certainly possessed, and whose good
sense he never doubted, was the person, of all others, in whom he
ought to confide; yet, some idle cant that he had read in some foolish
book, or heard from some foolish people, about the absurdity of
trusting a woman; some silly sneer or insignificant jest, magnified
into a bugbear through the mist of memory, had power enough to make
him hide his own determination from himself; and, in the first
instance, go the roundabout path we have traced, in order to prove
that he had no other resource but to tell her the whole affair, ere he
boldly admitted his resolution even to his own heart, and brought
forward the true and upright motives on which it was founded. So weak
is human nature!
As soon as this was done, the matter was no longer difficult; all
embarrassment in regard to his conduct was removed, and he felt that
what was kindest and what was most affectionate, was also the most
just and the most reasonable. Whatever was the truth of the assertions
contained in the letter he had received, and to whatever facts it
alluded, it pointed principally at his union with Marian, and the
disparity of fortune and rank which the writer affirmed to exist
between them. She, therefore, was a person principally concerned; and
on her ultimate decision their fate must rest. De Vaux feared not that
any loss of fortune could affect Marian's regard: he could not have
loved her had he supposed it would; but he did fear that the stigma,
which he believed might rest upon his birth, and which he himself felt
as so deeply humiliating, might make a difference in her feelings;
and, when backed by the counsel and arguments of some of her maternal
relations, might make her resolves unfavourable to his hopes. But
still, in telling her all, from the beginning, in concealing nothing,
in acting at once affectionately and candidly, he felt that he was
establishing the best claim to continued affection and esteem: he
felt, too, that, if there had been deceit on any part, such conduct
would be the best proof to all that he was as free as day from any
participation in it, and that, whatever were the result, his honour
and his name would be clear.
His determination, therefore, was backed by every motive, but still it
required great delicacy in executing it. It was necessary not to shock
or to pain her--he loved too much to do so--and yet to be perfectly
explicit. It was requisite to tell her all, and to leave her fully
convinced of his unalterable love; yet perfectly free to form her own
decision on her future conduct. The hour, too, and the manner, were
matters for consideration, and he resolved not to delay, but let the
communication be made immediately, and as a matter of importance. It
would require time, however; and, as it was already late, he was
obliged to make up his mind that the visit to the gipsy must take
place on the following morning: he only paused, then, to recover his
composure completely, and to think of the best method of telling
Marian the whole, in such a manner as to give her the least pain, yet
show his confidence and affection the most clearly.
He accordingly sat still, and laid it out like the plan of a battle;
but in this he was very wrong; as, by so doing, he naturally presented
Marian to his fancy in the light of the enemy. The consequences were,
that his own private little demon instantly saw his advantage, and,
whispering in De Vaux's ear, made his irritable and irritated spirit
believe that Marian would act in a thousand different ways, which he
could not blame, yet did not like. The fiend, who well knows how to
seize probabilities, took hold of every particular point in Marian's
character which could give him any thing to cling to; and De Vaux saw,
in the glass of fancy, her beautiful countenance looking upon him as
calmly and as reasonably as ever, without a shade of agitation passing
over its placid sweetness during the whole time that he, with
difficulty, and hesitation, and agony of spirit, and humiliation of
heart, was telling her all his anxieties and apprehensions. He saw, in
the same magic glass, the very spot of the room where she would stand,
and the fine easy line of her figure, all displaying perfect composure
and graceful ease; and he heard the soft, sweet modulations of her
voice, calm, gentle, but unaltered; and at length he thought, "I know
perfectly what she will say when she hears it: she will declare that I
am too hasty in my conclusions; that I must see the gipsy, or whatever
he may be, and hear the whole of what he has to say; for that the
matter is too important to be judged of hastily, and that when we know
the whole, and have had time to consider, we can decide: or she will
speak of consulting my aunt, or her great uncle Lord Westerham, or any
other of those cold, disinterested people who can give proper advice
upon the subject: and yet I do my aunt injustice; for though of a
decided nature, she is not of a cold-hearted one."
Thus, then, did he torment himself for some minutes, taking as much
pains to make himself miserable as if there were not quite enough pain
in this world without our seeking it. Nor did he stop here; but went
on in the same train till he had almost wrought himself out of the
determination of telling Marian at all, though he ultimately came back
to his first resolution. It is not to be concealed that all this
hesitation, and a great deal of this anguish, proceeded from his
having fallen into the common error of giving the reins over to
imagination, and believing that he had placed them safely in the hands
of reason. Had he acted wisely, he would not have sat down to fancy
any thing upon the subject at all, but he would have risen up, on the
contrary, as soon as his resolution was taken, and, seeking out her he
loved, would have told her all his doubts and fears, without thinking
at all previously either of what he would say or what she would say.
Nature, left alone to work her own way, in a thousand instances out
of a thousand and one does it gracefully; but if one calls in to
counsel her all the host of man's passions, prejudices, faults, and
foibles--though judgment may be present too--yet, nine times out
often, the multitude of counsellors, in this case, produces any thing
but safety. Neither is there ever any use of long consideration in
circumstances like those we have mentioned. What we will do always
requires thought; how we will do it, seldom, if ever. Trust to your
own heart, if you have a good one; and if it be bad, the sooner you
hurry it through the business the better. It is equally vain thinking
what we will say ourselves, for we are sure never to say it; and still
more fruitless to fancy what other people will say, for we know
nothing about it.
De Vaux, however, was in some respects a curious compound of very
different principles. With all his errors and with all his faults, he
had a great deal of candour; and, however keen he might be in
investigating and lashing the motives of other people, he was not half
so strict an inquisitor into their failings as he was into his own. As
a consequence of this, though the knowledge often lay dormant, he did
know, as we have often before hinted, with extraordinary accuracy, all
the turnings and windings, the intricacies and the absurdities of his
own nature; and as soon as the rush of passions was over, his
conscience--like the power of the law restored after a popular
tumult--would mount the tribunal, and sit in judgment on his own
heart. Often, too--like the same power exerting itself to repress
anarchy--his better judgment would rise up against the crowd of wild
images presented by an irritable fancy, and after a short struggle
would regain its power.
Thus, in the present instance he felt, after a while, that he was but
anticipating more misery when he had already sufficient to endure;
and, doing in the end what he ought to have done at first, he started
up, and went to seek Marian, in order to give her the opportunity of
letting her own conduct speak for itself.