LONDON.
I am an orphan. My father, who was a curate in the Church of England,
died when I was sixteen years of age, leaving me totally unprovided
for. I need not trouble the reader with the vicissitudes of fortune
which left me, when I was entering my twenty-second year, a shopman in
the establishment of Mr. John Conder, hosier and outfitter, of Holborn.
I had been a clerk in a city firm; but the firm failed. For some months
after that I was out of employment. At last I was compelled to enter
Mr. Conder's service. I had been with him for two years, acting as
salesman, errand-boy--anything, when one day an accident changed the
whole course of my life.
* * * * *
It was about three o'clock on a broiling July afternoon, 187-. I had to
leave a parcel at the Langham Hotel, and another at a house in Wimpole
Street. Having discharged my mission at the Langham Hotel, I crossed
Portland Place and turned down Chandos Street to get into Cavendish
Square. Chandos Street is a very quiet street; and as I turned the
corner of the Langham Hotel the only person I could see before me was
a tall young lady with a very graceful and aristocratic carriage, who
was walking in the direction that I was going. She was just under the
tree that grows by the Langham Hotel opposite to the Medical Society
of England, when she put her hand in one of those large pockets that
ladies wear at the back of their dresses to take out her handkerchief.
In taking out the handkerchief, she unconsciously dropped a blue velvet
purse on the pavement, and walked on without noticing it. I immediately
ran forward and picked it up, and came up to her, with the parcel under
my left arm and the purse in my right hand, saying:
"I beg your pardon, madam; you have dropped your purse."
"Miss" would have been the expression that most men in my position
would have used; but I had a habit of saying ma'am, or madam, to ladies.
She started at being spoken to, but recovering herself at once said, in
a very clear but soft and musical voice:
"Oh, thank you so very much. There are papers in it of great
importance."
I put the purse in her hands, which I could not help noticing were very
long and slender. She put down her parasol, and opened it, and having
given in an instant a glance at a compartment in the purse in which
there were some papers, and a glance at me, she took out what I could
see must be several sovereigns, and said:
"The purse was of great importance to me on account of some papers that
it contains. I would willingly have given a large reward for it. Will
you allow me to offer you this for your kindness in restoring it to me?
You cannot think how much obliged I am to you."
All this was said in the same clear and silvery tone, but with a
diffident and apologetic manner, as if she were conscious that she was
running the risk of giving offense. Perhaps it was this that affected
me. Had she spoken in the way in which people usually do when they
give such rewards, I should possibly have taken the shining sovereigns
that she held in her slender hand, and there the matter would have
ended. But there was something in the way in which she addressed me
that touched me to the quick. She seemed, so at least I imagined, to
feel that she was speaking to one that had belonged to her own class,
to one at least to whom some apology was due for making him such an
offer. Besides this, it was, perhaps, the first time in my life since
I had grown up that I had ever spoken to a lady except on a mere
matter of business. But here was a beautiful, refined, high-bred girl,
speaking to me not merely as an equal, but actually in a tone of almost
supplication. Beautiful? I took that on trust. Her slender, graceful
figure was clad in a rich but simple polonaise that showed its lovely
contour to perfection. The upper part of her face was hidden, at
least from my diffident gaze, by a rather heavy veil; but the piquant
chin, the shining teeth, and mobile lips, with the transparency of
her complexion, were enough. There are times when we experience the
thoughts and emotions of a lifetime in a moment. That I was a gentleman
by birth I had never forgotten--I was prevented from doing so by the
contrast between my present and my past surroundings. That I was
talking to a lady whose equal I was in rank, I now for the first time
felt. It was then with an angry flush, and, I am afraid, a not very
gracious manner, that I replied:
"No, thank you, madam. I don't require to be paid for such a small
service."
"I beg your pardon," she said, while the blush on her face seemed to
grow deeper. "I am very sorry if I have offended you; but you have done
me a very great service, and I would like to have shown my gratitude if
it were possible. You will forgive me, I hope, for my rudeness?"
"I have nothing to forgive, madam," I replied in a more courteous tone.
"I am very happy to be of service to you, and I am only surprised that
you should think so small a matter----"
I was trying to find words to finish the sentence, when she said:
"Excuse me for asking you a question, but are you in business?"
"Yes, madam," I said; "I am with Mr. Conder, of Holborn."
She paused for a minute, and then continued in a firmer and more
collected manner:
"Do not think me rude if I ask whether you have been in business long?"
Something told me that she wanted to know my history. So, in a very
few words, I told her who I was, and how I came to be in my present
position.
When I had finished, she said in a manner that gave me more pleasure
than I can describe:
"Then your father was a clergyman."
It was not the tribute that was paid to my parentage by the respectful
manner in which the words were uttered that pleased me so much as the
equality that both the words and the way in which they were spoken
seemed in some indefinable manner to establish between us. It seemed to
me to be the most deliciously delicate and pointed way of saying, "Then
you are a gentleman, and my equal."
I could have thanked her more for the few words that had escaped her
than if she had given me ten times the money that was in her purse.
However, I merely acknowledged her last remark, which was spoken rather
to herself than to me, by saying--
"Yes, madam."
We had nearly got to the corner of Cavendish Square by this time. There
was another momentary pause, and then she startled me by saying in a
perfectly easy and unconstrained manner:
"Pardon me for asking you another question. You must for the present
give me credit for not being actuated by any idle or impertinent
motive. Are you married, or, if not, is there any one that you at
present think of marrying?"
"No, madam," I answered, "I am not, and I have not any thought of being
married."
She paused for a moment, and I was beginning to wonder what would come
next, when she asked abruptly:
"At what time will you be disengaged this evening?"
I use the word "abruptly" to denote the suddenness and precision
with which the question was put, for her manner was too refined and
self-possessed to be characterized as abrupt in the usual sense of that
word.
"We leave business at a little after eight," I replied.
"Then you could be at York Place, Baker Street, at nine--or say
half-past nine?" she said.
"Yes, madam," I answered, "I could easily be there by half-past nine."
"Then would you call at No. 41 York Place at half-past nine to-night?"
"Certainly, madam."
"Now one word," she said. "Ask for Miss Grey when the door is opened.
But do not tell any one about this interview. You will see to-night why
you ought not to do so in your own interest. In the meantime keep your
own counsel. You will promise me that?"
"Certainly, madam."
"You remember the address--or had you not better take it down?"
"Not at all, madam; the address is No. 41 York Place; Baker Street."
"Then I shall expect you at half-past nine o'clock. Good-bye."
She bowed, and, turning round the corner of Cavendish Place, walked
quickly toward Regent Street.
Was I married, or was there any one that I thought of marrying? What
could she mean, I wondered, as I looked for a moment after the slight
and graceful figure? My coming to see her that evening must have
something to do with my marrying somebody? Was it herself? If so, would
I marry her? I never thought for a moment about money in connection
with the matter. Partly on account of the veil she wore, partly from
the strangeness and hurry of our interview, and my own bashfulness,
I had not seen her face, at least not so as to be able to form any
picture of it. And yet, there was no doubt in my mind as to the answer.
Marry her? Why, already I was madly in love with her. In love with a
woman whose face you have never clearly seen? It may seem absurd, but
so it was. I could not recognize her face since I had never really
seen it. But the erect and graceful form, and the dignified carriage
of the head, I could have recognized amongst ten thousand figures,
and with the mind that gave the grace and loveliness to her presence
and words, I felt that I was in love forever. How far all this was
due to the effect of the peculiar circumstances of our interview on
my imagination, at that time of life when the imagination is most
powerful, and how long my passion would have lasted if things had
taken any ordinary course, I cannot say; but for the present I was, in
downright earnest, madly in love with a form, a voice, and a presence,
to which my fancy, taking the key from the little of the face that I
had seen, added a countenance whose loveliness and wisdom and purity
the mere imagination could not bring into being.
So I went on to Wimpole Street, where I delivered the parcel, and then
returned to Holborn, speculating all the way on the one momentous
question, Whom did she want me to marry? Was it herself? Now I had
learned in what somebody has termed the University of Adversity an art
which appears to me to be of even greater practical importance than the
arts that are taught at the better-endowed universities. It was the
art of taking a candid and unprejudiced view of my own affairs. And,
before I got back to Mr. Conder's, my facility in this art had assured
me that, whatever might be the ultimate solution of the mystery, there
was not, as far as she was concerned, a scintilla of love in the
matter. For a few minutes I had some idea of its being a case of love
at first sight on her part. But on a little reflection I saw that the
quiet business-like manner in which she had asked her questions, and
made the appointment, were quite inconsistent with the enthusiasm and
self-forgetfulness which accompany the sentiments that arise from love.
After what seemed to me to be the longest evening I had ever known, I
found myself at the door of 41 York Place.
Then a question arose that gave me keen anxiety for a minute or two.
Ought I to ring or knock? To ring seemed timid--almost cowardly. Yet
what sort of knock could I give? As a messenger from a shop I had no
right to give other than that single knock which had often given me so
much anguish. Coming on such an invitation such a knock was clearly
out of place. And yet a double knock--at least a loud one--might seem
presumptuous--seem imperative. So at last I gave a knock which I
intended to be a very quiet double knock, but which, I am afraid, was a
very queer and tremulous one, and in a minute or so the door was opened
by a maid-servant.
"Is Miss Grey----" I was going, in my nervousness, to say "at home,"
but I checked myself and substituted the more general particle "in?"
"She will be here in a few minutes, sir. Will you walk into the parlor?"
"Sir!" I had not been addressed as such before since a time that seemed
like a phase of my being in another world. She showed me across the
hall into a large room that was only partly lighted by an oil-lamp on a
round table, and said:
"Will you be seated, sir? Miss Grey will be here in a minute or two."
Saying this, she closed the door.
It was a large room, papered with a rich but gloomy-looking red
paper. Several bookcases stood against the walls, stored as far as
I could see with well-bound volumes. The furniture was simple but
massive. Two or three substantial-looking arm-chairs, several equally
substantial-looking ordinary chairs, a mantel-piece of solid-looking
marble on which were a few somber-looking ornaments, and a marble
clock, and in the center of the room, a heavy round mahogany table on
which were a few books, and the lamp, which seemed only to show the
darkness of the room. I sat down with a palpitating heart, for there
was something weird about the whole scene. It was twenty-seven minutes
past nine by the clock when the servant shut the door, so that I was
three minutes before my time. The minute hand of the clock was just
pointing to the half-hour when a carriage drove up to the house, and a
minute afterward the hall-door opened, and then a tall female figure
glided noiselessly into the room, and, having shut the parlor door,
said, as I rose:
"Please be seated; you must excuse me for wearing this veil until we
have finished a conversation which I shall make as brief as possible."
I recognized the voice of Miss Grey, but it was if anything more calm
than when we parted. I sat down again on a chair at some distance from
the table, whilst the lady drew her chair near to the table and took
out of her pocket a notebook and pencil. She had on a cloak that hid
her form, but I thought I could detect the same grace and dignity of
carriage.
"As we are strangers," she continued, "you will, I hope, pardon me for
making a remark that would otherwise be highly impertinent. But your
conduct to-day has satisfied me that in speaking to you I am speaking
to a high-minded gentleman, who, if he should decline the proposition
which I am going to make, will at least feel in honor bound to observe
silence both about this interview and the names I shall have to
mention."
I bowed. This speech, with what had preceded it, taught me more of the
art of love--an art that the reader will find, if he cares to follow
my fortunes, was to become useless to me--than Ovid and all the other
poets and philosophers could have done. It is not beauty, any more
than dress or wealth, that creates affection, it is manner; and the
essence of that manner which produces the mystic complex emotion which
we denote by the term "love" is that it is an exposition of genuine
deference for the individual--for himself or herself alone--and apart
from all such accidents as rank, or wealth, or position. I therefore
bowed, and she proceeded.
"My solicitor is Mr. Chambers, of 52 Bedford Row. You will find that
he is a gentleman who holds the highest position in his profession.
Another friend of mine who would act in this matter is Mr. Charles
Duke, of Duke, Furnival & Company, the well-known bankers of Lombard
Street. Now I have asked you to come here to-night to put this question
to you. Would you marry me within the next week or fortnight, and
promise on your word of honor never to attempt to know who I am, or
to live with me, or to exercise any marital rights, if you had the
guaranty of these two gentlemen that you would be paid five hundred
pounds every quarter for the rest of your life? That would be two
thousand pounds a year. But the condition is that we are married in
this house; that you leave the house immediately after the ceremony,
and that you never afterward try to know anything about me."
She had finished speaking, speaking throughout in the same calm,
measured, and yet easy intonation. If she had carved the words out on
marble they could not have stood more clearly before me. I was silent.
"Two thousand pounds a year." All, more than all, the wealth I had ever
hoped to acquire suddenly realized. And yet, what was the condition on
which I was to possess it? The words of the condition seemed to stand
before me, but their meaning was not very clear except in its effects.
As well ask a man who has just received a stunning blow to diagnose the
reasons why the blow has stunned him, as have asked me to explain why
the condition on which I was to receive this wealth seemed to turn the
wealth itself into ashes. The tears came into my eyes, and I remained
silent.
"You love some woman, and I should be taking you from her? If so, tell
me. God forbid I should do so."
This time she spoke in a tone of sadness and feeling. Why did I not
tell her that I did love a woman; that I loved her with my whole soul,
and that that woman was herself? That is what a great many people
will think a man of spirit would have done. As far as spirit means
pride, it was pride that prevented me from even thinking of doing
such a thing. Here was a lady, wealthy, refined, highly educated, and
highly bred. She had made a plain, business-like proposition to me in
a plain, business-like manner. What right had I to introduce into the
discussion an element of the possibility of which she had clearly never
even dreamt? True, I was a gentleman by birth, but I was a shopman by
position. To have avowed my love for her would have been as grotesque
as if I were to declare my passion for the next lady who came into Mr.
Conder's shop. Of all this I was keenly sensible, for there could be
no greater gall to my pride than the tone in which she spoke, which
seemed as if she were unconscious that she could be loved by such as I.
Instinctively I knew that if I deviated in the least from the purely
commercial programme she was dictating, the whole matter would come to
an abrupt and final conclusion. I would have liked, goodness knows,
to have said that I would obey her behest without reward. But that, I
saw, would alter the whole spirit of the contract in such a way as to
destroy the contract itself, and thus place us everlastingly apart. If
we once went through the form of marriage, there was just a possibility
of her yet being my wife in a higher sense. If I returned to Mr.
Conder's shop we were parted forever.
This being clearly before my mind, I braced myself up by a strong
effort, and said:
"No, madam. I told you the truth to-day. You are not taking me from any
woman. But I am surprised, it is a great change for me--I perfectly
understand the proposition you have made. We are to go through a
form of marriage, and I am never to seek to know anything about you
afterward. Yes, madam, I pledge my word of honor to abide by the
contract."
She then asked me some questions about myself, taking notes of my
answers--who my parents were, where I was born, and so forth. If she
had been a barrister in full practice she could not have made the
examination more searching and condensed. The examination over she took
down my address both at Mr. Conder's and at 8 Charlton Crescent, High
Street, Islington, and then said:
"To-day is Tuesday. You will hear from Mr. Chambers by Saturday morning
at the latest--probably before that--in the meantime, will you promise
me that you will not talk to anybody about what has occurred? You will
see afterward that it will be for your own benefit not to let the world
know how you have become possessed of the means that will be yours."
"You may be sure, madam," I answered, "that I shall keep my own
counsel. I know nobody that I should be disposed to make a confidante
of. And even if I did, I should respect your wishes."
"Now," she continued, "there is only one other matter that we need
discuss at present. In your present circumstances it is unnecessary
for you to return to Mr. Conder, and it is only right that you should
at once have the means to live in a manner suitable to your future
position. I shall, if you will allow me, instruct Mr. Chambers to
see Mr. Conder in the morning and tell him that you have been left a
legacy which makes you independent. This will probably be the best way
to explain the matter so as to avoid exciting curiosity and gossip.
When the necessary arrangements have been made you will be credited
by Messrs. Duke, Furnival & Company with a thousand pounds to begin
with. In the meantime, you must let me return you the purse you gave me
to-day."
She rose and put the purse in my hands, and then said:
"You will very likely hear from Mr. Chambers in the course of Thursday,
but by Saturday morning at the latest. I do not think we have anything
more to say at present." She opened the door, I followed her into the
hall. She opened the hall-door; I could not think of anything more to
say than "Good-night, madam."
She bowed, and said very graciously:
"Good-night."
The door closed, and I found myself on the steps with my hat in one
hand and the soft velvet purse in the other. It seemed all like a
dream. However, I put my hat on my head and the purse in my pocket,
and walked down Baker Street toward Oxford Street. When I got through
Portman Square I turned up Lower Seymour Street, as I wanted to be
quiet, and dreaded the uproar of Oxford Street. I walked on looking
for some quiet place where I could sit down for a few minutes and
collect myself; I looked into one or two public-houses, but turned away
in disgust at the noisy crowds I saw inside them. At length I found
a quiet-looking tavern, and entered at the private bar, which I was
pleased to find I had to myself. Having called for a glass of ale I sat
down. There was no one but myself in the house at the time, so after
serving me the young lady went back to the bar-parlor. I took out the
purse and, after looking to satisfy myself that no one could observe
me, kissed it. It was made of soft blue velvet, with a gold clasp, and
felt weighty and bulky. I knew, of course, that there was money in it,
but so much was I thinking of the giver, and so little of the gift,
that, if my curiosity had not been suddenly excited, I should probably
have taken it home unopened.
I was seized, however, by a sudden curiosity, and opened it. In one
compartment were a number of sovereigns. In the other two compartments
there were rolls of paper. I took out one of these rolls, and, to
my astonishment, found ten ten-pound Bank of England notes. Having
replaced them, I took out the other roll and found that it was made
up of five twenty-pound notes. More than two hundred pounds! With
trembling hands I replaced the notes, and put the purse in my pocket
again. Was it a mistake? So enormous did the amount seem to me that,
for a moment, I thought she must have made some mistake. But a minute's
reflection satisfied me on that point. It was only consistent with what
she had promised, and with what she had the evident ability to do. I
had, then, two hundred pounds that I could call my own! For a moment
I sat dazed at the fortune, as it seemed, that I was carrying about
with me. When I began to realize that the money was my own, my first
definite emotion was a feeling of dread, almost of guilt, at having so
much money about me that I could do as I pleased with; and then the
thought from which the emotion had unconsciously sprung began to evolve
itself, and to present itself more and more clearly to my mind.
I was acting in a manner that belied my real character and motives.
I was, to all outward appearance, the mere hireling, the paid puppet
of the woman who was in reality the mistress of my soul. At first I
thought of going back to York Place to return the purse, and tell
her that in obeying her wishes I was actuated by sentiment and not
by avarice. But a very little reflection told me that if I acted in
such a manner there would be fixed between the wealthy lady and the
penniless shop-boy an impassable gulf. She might, and probably would,
misconstrue my motives. What she would certainly do, if she were still
at York Place, for I had no proof that she lived there, would be to
wish me good-night, and shut the door against me forever. The only
possibility of winning her, I could see clearly, was to take the means
that were thus offered to educate and fit myself for the sphere of
society in which she lived, and trust to the chapter of accidents for
an opportunity of meeting her and gaining her affection. So, resolving
that I would make myself worthy to be her husband, and little doubting,
in the fondness of the moment, that when I had done so we should meet,
I got up and made my way home.
I went to Mr. Conder's shop the next morning, as I thought it would
be more friendly, and more dignified, to see him myself before we
parted. And, as I anticipated, he made no difficulty in terminating
our engagement when I told him that I had come in for a few thousand
pounds! After I left him I went to a shop where they sold ready-made
clothes, to get some things for immediate use.
Three o'clock was the time that was arranged for these clothes to be
delivered at Charlton Crescent. The intervening time I employed in
going to different places in the city to pay some debts I owed, and
then took a 'bus to the Angel, and got to Charlton Crescent at about
ten minutes past three.
When I opened the door Mrs. Duncan (my landlady) came out of her parlor
in a great state of excitement to tell me that there was a large
parcel, and a letter, and a telegram in my bedroom; and that the letter
had been left about half an hour before by such a fashionable-looking
young gentleman, who had asked so particularly whether I had left any
word before I went out as to when I would be likely to return.
I ran up to my bedroom. There, sure enough, was a large brown paper
parcel on my bed, and on the chest of drawers a telegram and a letter,
both of which were addressed to:
James Brooke, Esq., 8 Charlton Crescent, Islington, N.
The handwriting on the envelope of the letter attracted my attention. I
guessed that the letter was from Mr. Chambers. But it was not addressed
in the legal hand that I associated with a lawyer's letter. On the
contrary, it was addressed in a very flowing and gentlemanly hand. I
opened the telegram first, and read:
"William Chambers, 52 Bedford Row, W. C, to James Brooke, Esq., 8
Charlton Crescent, High Street, Islington, N.
"Please favor me with a call immediately you receive this. It is
important that I should see you at once."
It had been handed in at the post-office at ten minutes past eleven
o'clock. I then opened the letter, which ran as follows:
52 Bedford Row, W. C, July, 187-.
"DEAR SIR.--I was in hopes that you would have been at home when
my telegram was delivered. I wish to see you at your earliest
convenience, so if you should get this letter in time to be at my
office by six o'clock P.M., I shall be glad to see you this evening.
If not I shall expect to see you at the above address at ten o'clock
to-morrow (Thursday) morning.--I remain, yours faithfully,
WILLIAM CHAMBERS."
James Brooke, Esq.
It took me a little time to dress, but I got to Bedford Row shortly
before five o'clock, and, after waiting for a few minutes in the
outside office, was shown into Mr. Chambers' private room.
To tell the truth, I had been getting rather anxious as to the
reception I should get from Mr. Chambers. Unless there was some
deep reason which I could not fathom, or even guess at, it seemed
hardly likely that any solicitor would encourage Miss Grey to marry
a penniless shop-boy. It was only while I was on my way to Bedford
Row that I had begun to see the matter in this light; and I had been
preparing myself for an encounter with an imaginary lawyer who was as
hard-featured as he was sure to be hard-headed. The appearance and
manners, however, of the gentleman about whom I had been speculating
rather vaguely, but very anxiously, gave me a complete surprise.
He was a tall, spare man with gray hair and whiskers, and a very kindly
and intellectual countenance.
When I entered his room he came forward and shook hands with me very
cordially, and then asked me to sit down in an arm-chair by his desk.
After a few casual remarks, in which he mentioned that he had not gone
to see Mr. Conder lest I might have seen him myself, and, perhaps, have
given some version of the matter that would not tally with his, he
continued:
"I have seen Miss Grey this morning, and she has told me of what took
place yesterday. One of my principal objects in wishing to see you thus
early is to place before you, as soon as possible--so that you may have
time to consider the matter--what appears to me to be the real aspect
of the case as far as you are concerned. I am a good deal older than
you are, and have seen a great deal more of the world than you have,
and, whether you may act on the advice that I am about to give you or
not, you will, I am sure, when you have reflected on it, come to the
conclusion that it is at least sensible, and well meant.
"Miss Grey has, then, I understand, proposed that you shall marry her
on the condition that she settles £2,000 a year on you, while you
pledge yourself never to seek to know her real name or anything more
about her. And you have accepted the conditions. Am I right?"
"Quite right, sir."
"Now, my dear Mr. Brooke, if I were at your age, and if I were situated
as you were when the offer was made to you, I am perfectly sure that I
should have done exactly as you have done. But, if I had done so, I am
sure that I should afterward have been the most miserable man alive.
Two thousand a year is a fine income, but believe me, that money,
like everything else, can be bought too dearly. In this case you are
surrendering yourself to a bondage which, at present, you can hardly
understand. That is a consideration I wish most strongly to impress
upon you, and I ask you to reflect most seriously upon it. On the other
hand, there is the question, What are you to do if this arrangement is
broken off? It would be most cruel and unjust, it would be absurd, to
ask you to break off the engagement unless you were otherwise provided
for. That is a matter I have carefully considered with Miss Grey; and,
as she is solely responsible for the engagement, I am authorized by
her to say that if you wish to do that which I most strongly advise
you for your own happiness to do, namely, to abandon the engagement,
she will acknowledge the obligation that her conduct has imposed upon
her by giving me £2,000 to hand over to you. Now, think well of the
two sides of the question. On the one hand you are doomed to a life of
celibacy--married to a woman whom you can never meet again. Wealthy,
it is true; but whether wealth would be worth having under such
circumstances, it is for you, from your knowledge of yourself, to say.
On the other hand, with youth, and health, and brains, you start in
the race of life with a clear £2,000. I have myself no interest in the
matter. You are a stranger to me; Miss Grey is merely a client. But I
should be false to my duty, and unworthy of my position as a solicitor,
if I did not warn you of the probable consequences of acting rashly in
this matter."
He paused as if to invite some comment from me on what he had said. I
must have looked perplexed, for I had, indeed, a question to ask him,
a question that was suggested in some way, I do not know why, by his
remarks; but how to put it into words I did not know. Seeing that I was
confused, and thinking, probably, that I was weighing the issue he had
put to me, he continued:
"Perhaps you would like to consider the matter. I shall be here every
day between ten and six, and shall be very happy to see you at any
time you like to look in. Do not stand on any ceremony about coming to
see me. It will give me the greatest pleasure to discuss the matter
with you, and, as far as I can, advise you. Do you know the motto that
Von Moltke, the great Prussian general, took for his crest after the
Franco-German war?"
"No, sir."
"Well, it is four German words, 'Erst wagen, denn tragen.' Literally it
means, 'First think, then act,' or, to use our own slang phrase, 'Look
before you leap.' Take my advice and follow the motto of the Prussian
general."
"Mr. Chambers," I said, "there is a question I should like to ask you,
and yet I do not know how to express it."
"When the Roman Catholics go to confession," said Mr. Chambers, "they
say what they please to their confessor, because they know that they
are protected by what is termed the seal of confession, that is, by the
obligation of the priest never, under any circumstances, to divulge
what has passed during confession. The obligation of a solicitor to his
client is exactly similar. So far I have been acting in this matter as
solicitor to both sides. You may regard yourself as a client of mine
at present; and you may speak to me with the perfect assurance that
anything you may say is as secret as if it were whispered into the
tomb."
"It is difficult," I replied, "to ask the question so as not to be
misunderstood, or, at least, so as not to run the risk of giving
offense. Yet, acting as I am in the dark, I think I am entitled to ask
it. You and I, sir, are, as you have said, strangers. Miss Grey is so
much a stranger to me that I have never clearly seen her face. For Miss
Grey I have the most profound respect. That I have the most implicit
confidence in you, the fact of my putting the question to you will
show. Speaking, then, as one who knows nothing, to you who know all,
or at the least much more than I do, I ask you, as man to man, this
question:
"Do I in any way compromise my honor if I marry Miss Grey in the way
that is proposed?"
We had been looking each other straight in the face while I spoke.
When I had finished, he said, without the slightest change on his
countenance, which I had been trying without success to read:
"Why do you ask?"
"Because," I replied firmly, "if that is so I renounce the whole
matter."
"But if it is not so?"
"Then I shall marry Miss Grey." I stopped there; I did not think it
prudent to say what I felt tempted to say, and what would have been the
truth, that I wanted no reward for doing as she wished. For a moment
he gave me a look that was searching without being obtrusive. Then he
said:
"I believe that if any words of mine could balk you in your purpose it
would be the greatest kindness that was ever done you; but I have to
speak the truth. As man to man, Miss Grey is a pure-minded and virtuous
woman, and your honor is not in any way compromised by marrying her."
"Then, sir, you have my final decision."
"I hope not," said Mr. Chambers, very gravely. "A wise man is always
prepared to change his mind if fresh knowledge or reflection should
make it expedient to do so. Will you look in on me to-morrow afternoon
at about this hour? In the meantime, think well of what I have said;
remember that liberty, like health, is a thing the value of which we
only realize when we have lost it, and that you are sacrificing one of
the most precious attributes of liberty if you doom yourself to a life
of enforced celibacy."
He saw me to the door, where he shook hands warmly with me, and I left
promising to see him the following afternoon.
It is not necessary to do more than describe very briefly what took
place during the next ten or eleven days. On Saturday the marriage was
fixed for the following Monday week. In the meantime I removed to a
set of chambers in Adelphi Terrace, from which there was a fine view
of the river. Mr. Chambers tried several times very hard to alter my
resolution, and materially increased the offer of £2,000, if I would
give up the marriage; but as his arguments did not apply to the motives
which really influenced me, they were rather irrelevant.
One thing that he was surprised at, I could see, was my indifference
as to how the money was to be secured to me. The way in which it was
done eventually was by a letter to me from Mr. Duke and himself, making
themselves and their executors jointly and severally liable to pay me
£500 every quarter so long as I abstained from claiming the lady to
whom I was about to be married, as my wife. This letter, I may mention,
was given to me without any solicitation on my part; for the monetary
portion of the transaction was most repulsive to my feelings. I signed
without reading the marriage settlement. When Mr. Chambers began, in an
apologetic manner, to intimate the reasons why this should be done, I
saved him the trouble of entering upon any explanation by saying that
the reasons were too obvious to need being repeated, and that I had no
wish to pry into Miss Grey's affairs.
On the following Thursday week £1,000 was placed to my credit at
Messrs. Duke, Furnival & Company's bank, and on the Monday after, at
seven o'clock in the evening, the marriage took place, by special
license, at 41 York Place, in the parlor where I had had the interview
with Miss Grey.
I walked up to the house at a few minutes to seven o'clock, and was
shown into the same parlor by the same servant. I had not been in
the room for more than a minute when Mr. Chambers came in looking
very fresh and smiling. After a few casual remarks he gave me the
wedding-ring, which I was to put on the bride's finger. He had hardly
done so when a young clergyman came in in full canonicals, and after
him Mr. Duke with a lady who wore a white veil of such a thick texture
that it would have been impossible, had I tried, to distinguish her
features. The service began at once. I had been previously "coached"
by Mr. Chambers, and got through my part of the ceremony pretty well;
but her responses were given in a much more steady tone than mine were.
The only bit of information that I gained from the marriage service
was that her name was Catherine. Otherwise I might as well have been
married to a being in another world as to the cold statuesque form
which was standing by my side, and which was presently to vanish from
my sight forever. The service over, she sat down while I replied to the
questions of the clergyman and signed the marriage register. Then, in
accordance with our previous arrangements, Mr. Chambers and I quietly
left the room and went up-stairs to a richly furnished drawing-room.
Here he left me for a few minutes, and then returned, saying:
"I think we may leave now. You will do me the pleasure, I hope, to dine
with me this evening."
We descended the stairs, and had just got to the hall-door, which Mr.
Chambers was in the act of opening, when the parlor door opened, the
veiled figure of the lady I had married came out, bowed slightly to
both of us--more to me, I thought, than to Mr. Chambers--said in a
voice in which I could detect no expression or emotion, "Farewell,"
glided lightly up the stairs, and disappeared. We both bowed; I could
find no word in answer. Mr. Chambers opened the door; in a minute it
was shut behind us, and we were walking toward Oxford Street.