TRUE LOVE.
IF any one had told me, so lately as last week, that Sam and myself
would be sworn allies upon matters of the deepest interest, within
fifty years of such a prophecy, I should have considered him as great a
liar as the greatest statesman of the present period prove themselves
daily out of their own mouths. Although I had not then the benefit
of knowing how the most righteous of mankind deceive us, I knew well
enough that the world is full of rogues, for no man can visit Covent
Garden twice without having that conviction forced upon him. And Sam
Henderson’s quiet grins at my “greenness” naturally led me to ponder
just a little upon the possibility of his trafficking upon it. However,
I am glad to say, and still hold to it, that neither then, nor even in
my later troubles, which were infinitely deeper than any yet recounted,
did I ever pass into the bitter shadow through which all men are beheld
as liars.
The difficulty was to know what to do next. If I did nothing, which
was the easiest thing to do—and a course to which my bashfulness and
ignorance inclined me—the foulest of all foul wrongs might triumph;
the sweetest and most lovable of all the fair beings, who are sent
among the coarser lot to renew their faith in goodness, might even by
virtue of her own excellence become a sacrifice to villainy. I knew
that my darling had that strong sense of justice, without which pure
gentleness is as a broken reed; and I felt that she also had a keen
perception of the good and the bad, as they appear in men. But, alas! I
knew also that she loved her father before any one on earth, and almost
worshipped him, which he deserved for his character at large, but not
so entirely for his conduct to herself. He was always kind and loving
to her when the state of things permitted it; but the bent of his
nature was towards peace, and in the strange home, which had swallowed
him, there was no peace, either by day or night, if he even dared to
show that he loved his own child. The blackest falsehoods were told
about her, and the lowest devices perpetually plied—as I discovered
later on—to estrange the father from the daughter, and rob them of
their faith in one another. But this part of her story I mean to pass
over with as light a step as possible, for to dwell on such matters
stirs the lower part of nature, and angers us without the enlargement
of good wrath. We must try to forgive, when we cannot forget, and
endeavour not to hope—whenever faith allows us—that the cruel and
inhuman may be basted with red pepper for more than a millennium of the
time to come.
But as yet I had none of this clemency in me. Youth has a stronger
and far more militant sense of justice than middle age. I was fired
continually with indignation, and often clenched my fists, and was
eager to rush at a wall with no door in it, when my uncle’s tale and
Sam’s confirmation came into my head like a whirlwind. “What a fool I
am, what a helpless idiot!” I kept on muttering to myself; “the murder
will be done before I move.”
I could see no pretext, no prospect whatever, no possibility of
interference; and my uncle (to whom I confided my misery) could only
shake his head, and say—“Very bad job, my boy. You must try to make the
best of it.”
Probably it would have made the worst of me, and left me to die an
old bachelor, if it had not been for a little chance, such as no one
would think much of. Time was drawing on, without a sign of sunshine
in it; when to pick up a very small crumb of comfort, and recall the
happiest day I had ever known yet, I went to my cupboard, and pulled
out a simple sketch in water colours, which I had made of the stricken
pear-tree; after some one had made of it the luckiest tree that ever
died. She had not finished her work of art, partly through sweet talk
with me; and I hoped to surprise her and compare our portraits, when
she should come to complete her drawing. Now as I glanced, and sighed,
and gazed, and put in a little touch with listless hands, my good
genius stood behind me, in the form of a little old woman, holding in
one hand a bucket, and in the other a scrubbing-brush.
“Lor’, how bootiful ’e have dooed ’un!” Tabby Tapscott cried, as if
she would like to have a turn at it with her reeking brush. “A can zee
every crinkle crankum of they leaveses, and a girt bumble-drum coom to
sniff at ’un. Her cudn’t do ’un half so natteral as thiccy, if her was
to coom a dizen taimes, for kissy-kissy talk like. Think I didn’t clap
eyes upon ’e both? Good as a plai it wor, and the both of ’e vancying
nobbody naigh! Lor’, I niver zee nort more amoosin!”
“Then all I can say is, you ought to have that bucket of slops thrown
over you. What business of yours, you inquisitive old creature?”
“That be vaine manners after arl as I dooed, to vetch ’un here for you
to carr’ on with! Ha, ha, ha, I cud tell ’e zummat now, if so be I was
mainded to. But I reckon ’e wud goo to drow boocket auver Tabby?”
This renewed my courtesy at once, for I had great faith in Tabby’s
devices; and after some coying, and the touch of a crooked sixpence,
she told me her plan, which was simplicity itself, so that I wondered
at my own dulness. I was to find out where Captain Fairthorn lived,
which could be done with the greatest ease; and then to call and make a
point of seeing him, on the plea of presenting him with a perfect copy,
such as his daughter had no time to finish. Who could tell that good
luck might not afford me a glimpse at, or even a few words with, the
one who was never absent from my mind? And supposing there were no such
bliss as that, at least I could get some tidings of her, and possibly
find a chance of doing something more. Be it as it might, I could make
things no worse; and anything was better than this horrible suspense.
I consulted my uncle about this little scheme, and he readily fell in
with it; for he could not bear to see me going about my work as if my
heart were not in it, and searching the papers in dread of bad news
every morning. And finding that I could be of use to him in London, he
proposed that I should go that very night in the fruit-van, with Selsey
Bill, and the thief-boy—that is to say, the boy who kept watch against
thieves, of whom there are scores in the market.
When I found my way, towards the middle of the day, to that wild
weald—as it then was—of London, which is now a camp of Punch-and-Judy
boxes strung with balconies, it took me some minutes to become
convinced that I was not in a hop-ground turned upside down. Some
mighty contractor was at work in a breadth and depth of chaos; and
countless volcanoes of piled clay, which none but a demon could have
made to burn, were uttering horizontal fumes, not at all like honest
smoke in texture, but tenfold worse to cope with. Some thousands of
brawny navvies, running on planks (at the head pirate’s order) with
skeleton barrows before them, had contrived (with the aid of ten
thousand tin pots) to keep their throats clear and their insides going.
Not one of them would stop to tell me where I was; all gave a nod and
went on barrowing; perhaps they were under conditions, such as occur to
most of us in the barrow-drive of life, when to pause for a moment is
to topple over.
After shouting in vain to these night-capped fellows, I saw through the
blue mist of drifting poison, a young fellow, perhaps about twenty-one,
who seemed to be clerk of the works, or something; and I felt myself
fit to patronize him, being four or five years his elder, and at
least to that amount his bigger. But for his better he would not have
me, and snapped in such a style that I seemed to belong almost to a
past generation. “Fairthorn?” he said. “Yes, I may have heard of him.
Elderly gent—wears goggles, and goes in for thunderbolts. Don’t hang
out here, stops business. Three turns to the left, and ask the old
applewoman.”
I was much inclined to increase his acquaintance with apples, by giving
him one to his eye—external, and not a treasure; but before I could
even return his contempt, he was gone, and left me in the wilderness.
At last I found a boy who was looking after pots, and for twopence he
not only led me truly, but enlightened me largely as to this part of
the world. He showed me where the “Great Shebissun” was to be, and
how all the roads were to be laid out, and even shook his head (now
twelve years old) as to the solvency of this “rum rig.” He dismissed me
kindly—with his salary doubled—at the gate of the great philosopher;
and with his finger to his nose gave parting counsel.
“Best not go in, young man. The old codger can blow you to bits, by
turning a handle, and the old cat’ll scratch your wig off. But there’s
a stunnin’ gal—ah, that’s what you’re after! I say, young covey, if
you’re game for a bit of sweet’artin’ on the sly, I’ll show yer the
very nick for it.” He pointed to a gate between two old trees, and
overhung with ivy. “How does I know?” he said, anticipating briskly any
doubt on my part; “s’help me taters, it’s the only place round here as
I never took a pot of beer to.”
Anxious as I was, I smiled a little at this criterion of a
trysting-place, and then did my utmost to fix in mind the bearings of
this strange neighbourhood. Although I knew the busy parts of London
well enough, of the vast spread of out-skirts I knew little, except
the ups and downs of the great roads through them, and here and there
a long look-out from the top of Notting Hill, or any other little
eminence. Even so I had only lost my eyes in a mighty maze of things
to come, and felt a deep wonder of pity for the builders, who were
running up houses they could never fill. The part I was now exploring
lay between the two great western roads, and was therefore to me an
unknown land. But I felt pretty sure that the house now before me had
been quite lately a mere country mansion, with grounds not overlooked,
and even meadows of its own, where cows might find it needful to low to
one another, and a horse might go a long way to find a gate to scratch
against.
Even now there was a cattle-pond (the dregs of better days) near the
gate that led up from the brickfields; and half a dozen ancient Scotch
firs leaned in a whispering attitude towards one another; perhaps they
alone were left of a goodly group, trembling at every axe that passed.
The house itself was long, low, and red, and full of little windows,
upon whose sills a straggling ilex leaned its elbows here and there,
and sparrows held a lively chivvy. There was not a flower in the beds
in front, and the box-edging of the walks was as high and broad as a
wheel-barrow. Two large cedars, one at either corner of the sodden
grass-plot, looked like mighty pencils placed to mark the extent of the
building.
Descrying no one (except an ancient dog of mighty stature, and of some
race unknown to me, who came up in a friendly manner) I summoned all
my courage, with good manners at the back of it, and pulled a great
bell-handle hanging, like a butcher’s steelyard, between two mossy
piers of stone. There was no sound of any bell inside, and I was
counting the time for another pull, when the door was opened some few
inches, and sharp black eyes peered out at me.
“Subscription Bible? No, thank you, young man. Cook was put into
County-court last time.”
I did not know what she meant, until I saw that she was glancing at the
poor portfolio, of my own make, which held my unpretentious drawing. “I
am not come for any subscription,” I said, drawing back from the door,
as she seemed to suspect that I would try to push it open. “I have the
pleasure of knowing Captain Fairthorn, and I wish to see him.”
“Don’t think you can,” she answered sharply; “but if you will tell me
what your business is, I will ask the Mistress about it. You may come,
and wait here, while I go to her. Scrape your boots first, and don’t
bring in any clay.”
This did not sound very gracious; but I obeyed her orders with my best
smile, and producing two very fine pears, laid them on the black marble
chimney-piece of the hall. Her sallow face almost relaxed to a smile.
“Young man from the country? Well, take a chair a minute, while I go
and ask for orders about you.” With these words she hastened up an old
oak staircase, and left me at leisure to look about.
The hall was a large but not lofty chamber, panelled with some dark
wood, and hung with several grimy paintings. Two doors at either end
led from it, as well as the main staircase in the middle, and a narrow
stone passage at one corner. The fireplace was large, but looked as
if it had more to do with frost than fire; and the day being chilly
and very damp, with an east wind crawling along the ground, I began to
shiver, for my feet were wet from the wilderness of clay I had waded
through. But presently the sound of loud voices caught my ear, and
filled me with hot interest.
One of the doors at the further end was not quite closed, and the room
beyond resounded with some contention. “What a fool you are to make
such a fuss!” one feminine voice was exclaiming—“Oh, don’t reason
with her,” cried another, “the poor stupe isn’t worth it. The thing
is settled, and so what is the use of talking? How glad I shall be to
see the last of her wicked temper and perpetual sulks. And I am sure
you will be the same, Jerry. Nothing surprises me so much as Mamma’s
wonderful patience with her. Why, she hasn’t boxed her ears since
Saturday!”
“It isn’t only that,” replied the first; “but, Frizzy, consider the
indulgences she has had. A candle to go to bed with, almost every
night, and a sardine, positively one of our sardines, for her dinner,
the day before yesterday. Why, she’ll want to be dining with us, the
next thing! The more she is petted, the worse she gets. Now don’t you
aspire to dine with us, you dear, you darling, don’t you now?”
“I am sure I never do,” replied a gentle voice, silvery even now,
though quivering with tears; “I would rather have bread and water by
myself in peace, than be scolded, and sneered at, and grudged every
mouthful. Oh, what have I done to deserve it all?”
“I told you what would come of reasoning with her,” said the one who
had been called “Frizzy”—probably Miss Euphrasia Bulwrag; “it simply
makes her outrageous, Jerry. Ever since she came back from Sunbury,
there has simply been no living with her. And she looks upon us as her
enemies, because we are resolved that she shall do what is best for
her. Lady Hotchpot—what can sound better? And then she can eat and
drink all day long, which seems to be all she cares for.”
“That’s a little mistake of yours,” answered Miss Jerry, or Geraldine;
“I know her tricks even better than you do. She cares for something,
or somebody, some clodhopper, or chawbacon, down in that delightful
village. Why, you can’t say ‘Sunbury,’ in the most innocent manner,
without her blushing furiously. But she’s so cunning—I can’t get out of
her who the beloved chawbacon is. Come now, Kitty, make a clean breast
of it. I believe it’s the fellow that bets down there, and lives by
having families of horses. Sir Cumberleigh told me all about him, and
had a rare laugh; you should have seen him laugh, when I said that our
Kitty was smitten. Well, I hoped she had a little more principle than
that. And you’d think that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth!”
“Butter never gets a chance”—I heard my darling say, and knew by her
voice that the sweetest temper in the world was roused at last—“your
mother never lets it go into my mouth; while you have it thicker than
your bread almost. But I’ll thank you to enjoy among yourselves, or
with any old rake you may fawn upon, your low and most ignorant gossip
about me. You had better not strike me. Your mother may. But I will not
take it from either of you; nor from both together.”
I could scarcely contain myself, I assure you; and if the young
tyrants had fallen upon her, I must have got into a nice position—in
the old, but not in the new sense of “nice”—that of bodily conflict
with women. Luckily, however, these were cowards, as behoved such
creatures; and I verily believe that my angel (if driven—as no angel
should be—into a free fight) would have made a bad record of both of
them.
I was hovering, as it were, upon my legs, burning to dash into the
room, yet shuddering at the strange intrusion, when Miss Fairthorn
came out very quietly, and holding her handkerchief to her streaming
eyes. The door was banged behind her, as if by a kick, and a loud
contemptuous laugh came through it. What I did is a great deal more
than I can tell; for I must have been carried far beyond myself, by
pity, indignation, and ardent love.
“Oh, don’t!” said Kitty, as I stood before her, almost before she could
have used her eyes, being overcome with weeping; but the glance she
gave me had told the thing that I cared for most in earth or heaven.
And the strangest point was that we felt no surprise at being together
in this wondrous way. To me it seemed right that she should fall into
my arms; and to her it seemed natural that I should drop from heaven.
“Oh, don’t!” said Kitty, but she let me do it.
I kissed away her tears, and I cannot tell you whether they gave me
more bliss or pain; I stroked her softly nestling hair, as if it all
belonged to me; and I played with her pretty fingers, putting them
one by one between my great things, to make the thrilling process
last. Then I looked once more into her lovely eyes—the wells of all my
life-springs now—and lo, their tears were flown; and hope, and woman’s
faith, and heaven’s own love, were beaming from their lustrous depth,
as the light that proves the jewel true!
“Darling of my life,” was all I said; and she only answered—
“Yes, dear.”