IN WHICH MRS. ST. FELIX REFUSES A SPLENDID OFFER WHICH I AM DULY
EMPOWERED TO MAKE TO HER.
I left old Nanny as soon as she was more composed, for I was so anxious
to have some conversation with old Anderson. I did not call on my
father, as it was not a case on which he was likely to offer any
opinion, and I thought it better that the secret which I possessed
should be known but to one other person. I refer to the knowledge which
I had obtained relative to the husband of Mrs St. Felix, who, it
appeared, was not hanged, as supposed by her. The information received
from Spicer accounted for Mrs St. Felix's conduct when any reference
was made to her husband, and I was now aware how much pain she must have
suffered when his name was mentioned. I found Anderson alone in his
office, and I immediately made him acquainted with what I had learnt,
and asked him his opinion as to the propriety of communicating it to
Mrs St. Felix. Anderson rested his head upon his hand for some time in
silence; at last he looked up at me.
"Why, Tom, that she suffers much from the supposed ignominious fate of
her husband is certain, but it is only occasionally; her spirits are
good, and she is cheerful, except when reminded of it by any casual
observation. That it would prove a great consolation to her to know
that her husband did not forfeit his life on the scaffold is true; but
what then? he is said to have entered the King's service under another
name, and, of course, there is every probability of his being alive and
well at this moment. Now she is comparatively tranquil and composed;
but consider what anxiety, what suspense, what doubts, must ever fill
her mind, must oppress her waking hours, must haunt her in her dreams,
after she is made acquainted with his possible existence. Hope deferred
maketh the heart sick; and her existence would be one of continued
tumult, of constant anticipation, and I may say of misery. He may be
dead, and then will her new-born hopes be crushed when she has
ascertained the fact; he may never appear again, and she may linger out
a life of continual fretting. I think, Tom, that were she my daughter,
and I in possession of similar facts, I would not tell her--at least,
not at present. We may be able to make inquiries without her knowledge.
We know his name; an advertisement might come to his eyes or ears; and,
moreover, you have the telescope, which may be of use if it is
constantly seen in your hands. Let us at present do all we can without
her knowledge, and leave the result in the hands of Providence, who, if
it thinks fit, will work by its own means. Are you of my opinion, Tom?"
"When I came to ask your advice, Anderson, it was with the intention of
being guided by it, even if it had not coincided with my own opinion,
which, now that I have heard your reasons, it certainly does.
By-the-bye, I have not yet called upon Mrs St. Felix, and I will go
now. You will see old Nanny again?"
"I will, my boy, this evening. Good bye! I'm very busy now, for the
officers will inspect to-morrow morning."
I quitted the hospital, and had arrived in Church Street, when, passing
the doctor's house on my way to Mrs St. Felix, Mr Thomas Cobb, who had
become a great dandy, and, in his own opinion at least, a great doctor,
called to me, "Saunders, my dear fellow, just come in, I wish to speak
with you particularly." I complied with his wishes. Mr Cobb was
remarkable in his dress. Having sprung up to the height of at least six
feet in his stockings, he had become remarkably thin and spare, and the
first idea that struck you when you saw him was that he was all
pantaloons; for he wore blue cotton net tight pantaloons, and his
Hessian boots were so low, and his waistcoat so short, that there was at
least four feet, out of the sum total of six, composed of blue cotton
net, which fitted very close to a very spare figure. He wore no cravat,
but a turn-down collar with a black ribbon, his hair very long, with a
very puny pair of moustachios on his upper lip, and something like a
tuft on his chin. Altogether, he was a strange-looking being,
especially when he had substituted for his long coat a short nankeen
jacket, which was the case at the time I am speaking of.
"Well, Mr Cobb, what may be your pleasure with me? You must not detain
me long, as I was about to call on Mrs St. Felix."
"So I presumed, my dear sir," replied he; "and for that very reason I
requested you to walk in. Take a chair. Friendship, Tom, is a great
blessing; it is one of the charms of life. We have known each other
long, and it is to tax your friendship that I have requested you to come
in."
"Well, be as quick as you can, that's all," replied I.
"_Festina lente_, as Dr Tadpole often says, adding that it is Latin for
hat and boots. I am surprised at his ignorance of the classics; any
schoolboy ought to know that _caput_ is the Latin for hat, and _Bootes_
for boots. But lately I have abandoned the classics, and have given up
my soul to poetry."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; `Friendship and Love' is my toast, whenever I am called upon at
the club. What does Campbell say?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"I'll tell you, Tom:--
"`Without the smile from heav'nly beauty won,
Oh, what were man? A world without a sun.'"
"Well, I daresay it's all true," replied I; "for if a woman does not
smile upon a man he's not very likely to marry her, and therefore has no
chance of having a _son_."
"Tom, you have no soul for poetry."
"Perhaps not; I have been too busy to read any."
"But you should; youth is the age of poetry."
"Well, I thought it was the time to work; moreover, I don't understand
how youth can be age. But pray tell me, what is it you want of me, for
I want to see Mrs St. Felix before dinner-time."
"Well, then, Tom, I am in love--deeply, desperately, irrevocably, and
everlastingly in love."
"I wish you well out of it," replied I, with some bitterness. "And pray
with whom may you be so dreadfully in love--Anny Whistle?"
"Anny Whistle!--to the winds have I whistled her long ago. No, that was
a juvenile fancy. Hear me. I am in love with the charming widow."
"What, Mrs St. Felix?"
"Yes. Felix means happy in Latin, and my happiness depends upon her. I
must either succeed, or--Tom, do you see that bottle?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's laudanum; that's all."
"But, Tom, you forget; you certainly would not supplant your patron,
your master, I may say your benefactor--the doctor?"
"Why not? he has tried, and failed. He has been trying to make an
impression upon her these ten years, but it's _no go_. Ain't I a
doctor, as good as he? Ay, better, for I'm a young doctor, and he is an
old one! All the ladies are for me now. I'm a very rising young man."
"Well, don't rise much higher, or your head will reach up to the shop
ceiling. Have you anything more to say to me?"
"Why, I have hardly begun. You see, Tom, the widow looks upon me with a
favourable eye, and more than once I have thought of popping the
question over the counter; but I never could muster up courage, my love
is so intense. As the poet says--
"`Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, howe'er so witty;
The beggar that is dumb, you know,
Deserves our double pity.'
"Now, Tom, I wish to tax your friendship. I wish you to speak for me."
"What, speak to Mrs St. Felix?"
"Yes, be my ambassador. I have attempted to write some verses; but
somehow or another I never could find rhymes. The poetic feeling is in
me, nevertheless. Tell me, Tom, will you do what I ask?"
"But what makes you think that the widow is favourably inclined?"
"What? why, her behaviour, to be sure. I never pass her but she laughs
or smiles. And then the doctor is evidently jealous; accuses me of
making wrong mixtures; of paying too much attention to dress; of reading
too much; always finding fault. However, the time may come--I repeat my
request; Tom, will you oblige me? You ought to have a fellow-feeling."
This last remark annoyed me. I felt convinced that Mrs St. Felix was
really laughing at him, so I replied, "I shall not refuse you, but
recollect that he who has been so unsuccessful himself, is not likely to
succeed for others. You shall have your answer very soon."
"Thanks, Tom, thanks. My toast, as I said before, when called upon, is
`Friendship and Love.'"
I quitted the shop, and went into that of Mrs St. Felix, who, I
thought, looked handsomer than ever.
"Come at last, Tom!" said the widow, extending her hand. "I thought you
would have called yesterday. Your sister was here."
"I have been less pleasantly engaged. You know that Spicer is dead."
"One of the pensioners--I never saw him that I know of, but I heard old
Ben mention his death this morning, and that you were with him: was he a
friend of yours?"
"No, indeed, I thought you knew something of him, or I should not have
mentioned his name." I then changed the conversation, telling her what
had passed at Deal, and listening to her remarks upon old Nanny, my
mother, and our mutual acquaintances.
"And the doctor--how is he?"
"As busy as ever: I'm sorry, however, that he complains very much of Tom
Cobb, and says that he must dismiss him. He has made some very serious
mistakes in mixing the medicines, and nearly killed five or six people."
"Had he killed them outright, their deaths must have been laid at your
door," replied I, very seriously.
"Good Heavens! what do you mean, Tom?"
"I mean this, that your bright eyes have fascinated him; and that, to
use his own expression, he is deeply, desperately, irrevocably, and
everlastingly in love with _you_."
Here Mrs St. Felix burst out in a laugh, so violent that I thought that
it would end in hysterics. As soon as she had recovered herself,
continued:--
"It is all true, and independent of the five or six people half killed,
you will have to answer for a _whole_ death besides, for Tom has
intimated to me that if he fails in his suit he will have recourse to
the big bottle of laudanum. You must further know that he has taxed my
friendship to make known to you his deplorable condition, being unequal
to the task himself."
"He must be mad," observed Mrs St. Felix, quietly.
"He flatters himself that you have given him encouragement. I asked him
in what way; he says you always laugh at him."
"True as the Bible--I can't help laughing at such a droll figure as he
makes of himself. Mercy on me! what are men made of? Well, Tom, I'm
sure I ought to be flattered, for (let it be a secret between us, Tom)
this is the second offer I have received within these twenty-four
hours."
"The doctor, I presume; Tom says that he is jealous."
"I mention no names. This is all very foolish."
"But you have not yet rejected both: Tom awaits his answer."
"Tell him anything that you please. By-the-bye, you may just as well
add that instead of taking the laudanum, he had better resort to his old
remedy--of liquorice and water. It will look just as killing in the
phial, and not be quite so fatal in its results."
"I shall certainly execute your commission in as delicate a way as I
possibly can."
"Do, Tom, and pray let me hear no more of this nonsense, for, ridiculous
as it may appear, it is to me very painful. Leave me now--I am nervous
and low-spirited. Good bye. Come this evening with your sister, I
shall be better then."
Mrs St. Felix went into the back parlour, and I left the shop. I had
turned the wrong way, almost forgetting to give Tom his answer, when I
recollected myself, and returned to the doctor's house.
"Well?" said Tom, eagerly.
"Why," replied I, hardly having made my mind up what to say, yet not
wishing to hurt his feelings, "the fact is, Tom, that the widow has a
very good opinion of you."
"I knew that," interrupted Tom.
"And if she were ever to marry again--why, you would have quite as good
a chance as the doctor."
"I was sure of that," said he.
"But at present, the widow--for reasons which she cannot explain to
anybody--cannot think of entering into any new engagement."
"I see--no regular engagement."
"Exactly so; but as soon as she feels herself at liberty--"
"Yes," said Tom, breathless.
"Why, then she'll send, I presume, and let you know."
"I see, then, I may hope."
"Why, not exactly--but there will be no occasion to take laudanum."
"Not a drop, my dear fellow, depend upon it."
"There is no saying what may come to pass, you see, Tom: two, or three,
or four years may--"
"Four years--that's a very long time."
"Nothing to a man sincerely in love."
"No, nothing--that's very true."
"So all you have to do is to follow up your profession quietly and
steadily, and wait and see what time may bring forth."
"So I will--I'll wait twenty years, if that's all."
I wished Tom good bye, thinking that it was probable that he would wait
a great deal longer; but at all events, he was pacified and contented
for the time, and there would be no great harm done, even if he did
continue to make the widow the object of his passion for a year or two
longer. It would keep him out of mischief, and away from Anny Whistle.
On my return home I met with a severe shock, in consequence of
information which my mother did not scruple to communicate to me.
Perhaps it was all for the best, as it broke the last link of an unhappy
attachment. She informed me very abruptly that the shutters of Mr
Wilson's house were closed in consequence of his having received
intelligence of the death of Lady ---. Poor Janet had expired in her
first confinement, and the mother and child were to be consigned to the
same tomb. This intelligence drove me to my chamber, and I may be
considered weak, but I shed many tears for her untimely end. I did not
go with my sister to Mrs St. Felix, but remained alone till the next
day, when Virginia came, and persuaded me to walk with her to the
hospital, as she had a message for my father.
After we had seen my father we walked down to the hospital terrace, by
the riverside. We had not been there but a few minutes when we heard
Bill Harness strike up with his fiddle:--
"Oh, cruel was my parents as tore my love from me,
And cruel was the press-gang as took him off to sea
And cruel was the little boat as row'd him from the strand,
But crueller the big ship as sail'd him from the land.
Sing tura-la, tura-la, tura-lara hey.
"Oh, cruel was the water as bore my love from Mary,
And cruel was the fair wind as wouldn't blow contrary;
And cruel was the captain, his boatswain, and his men,
As didn't care a farding if we never meet again.
Sing tura-la, tura-la, tura-lara hey.
"Oh, cruel was th' engagement in which my true love fought,
And cruel was the cannon-ball as knock'd his right eye out;
He used to ogle me with peepers full of fun,
But now he looks askew at me, because he's only one.
Sing tura-la, etcetera, etcetera."
"Eh! wid your tura-la. You call dat singing?" cried Opposition Bill,
stumping up, with his fiddle in his hand. "Stop a little. How you do,
Mr Tom? how you do, pretty lady? Now I sing you a song, and show dat
fellow how to make music. Stop a little, Miss Virginny."
"Well," said Bill Harness, "I'll just let you sing, that Miss Saunders
may judge between us."
Virginia felt half inclined to go away; but as the pensioners always
treated her with as much respect as any of the ladies of the officers of
the hospital, I pressed her arm that she might stay. Opposition Bill
then struck up as follows, saying, "Now I give you a new `Getting
upstairs.'"
"On board of a man-of-war dey hauled me one day,
And pitch me up de side just like one truss of hay.
Such a getting upstairs I nebber did see,
Such a getting upstairs.
"Dey show me de mast head, and tell me I must go,
I tumble on de rattling, and break my lilly toe.
Such a getting upstairs I nebber did see, etcetera.
"Dey pipe de hands up anchor, and Massa Boatswain's cane
Come rattle on our backs, for all de world like rain.
Such a getting upstairs, etcetera.
"And den dey man de rigging, the topsails for to reef,
And up we scull together, just like a flock of sheep.
Such a getting upstairs, etcetera.
"Dey send de boats away, a Frenchman for to board,
We climb de side with one hand, de oder hold de sword.
Such a getting upstairs, etcetera.
"Now here I sent to Greenwich because I lost a leg,
And ab to climb up to de ward upon my wooden peg.
Such a getting upstairs, etcetera.
"Dere, now; I ask you, Mister Tom, and de young lady, which sing best,
dat fellow, or your humble servant Bill--dat's me?"
"You sing very well, Bill," said Virginia, laughing, "but I'm not able
to decide such a difficult point."
"Nor more can I; it is impossible to say which I like best," continued
I. "We must go home now, so good bye."
"Thanky you, Mister Tom; thanky you, Missy. I see you wish to spare him
feelings; but I know what you tink in your heart."
Virginia and I now left the hospital. There was one subject which was
often discussed between my sister and me, which was, my situation with
regard to Bramble and Bessy. I had no secrets from her, and she
earnestly advised me to try if I could not make up my mind to an union
with a person of whom I could not possibly speak but with the highest
encomiums.
"Depend upon it, my dear Tom," said she, "she will make you a good wife;
and with her as a companion, you will soon forget the unhappy attachment
which has made you so miserable. I am not qualified from experience to
advise you on this point, but I have a conviction in my own mind that
Bessy is really just the sort of partner for life who will make you
happy. And then, you owe much to Bramble, and you are aware how happy
it would make him; and as her partiality for you is already proved, I do
wish that you would think seriously upon what I now say. I long to see
and make her acquaintance, but I really long much more to embrace her as
a sister."
I could not help acknowledging that Bessy was as perfect as I could
expect any one to be, where none are perfect. I admitted the truth and
good sense of my sister's reasoning, and the death of Janet contributed
not a little to assist her arguments; but she was not the only one who
appeared to take an interest in this point: my father would hint at it
jocosely, and Mrs St. Felix did once compliment me on my good fortune
in having the chance of success with a person whom every one admired and
praised. The party, however, who had most weight with me was old
Anderson, who spoke to me unreservedly and seriously.
"Tom," said he, "you must be aware that Bramble and I are great friends,
and have been so for many years. He has no secrets from me, and I have
no hesitation in telling you that his regards and affections are so
equally bestowed between you and his adopted child, that it is difficult
for himself to say to which he is the most attached; further, as he has
told me, his fervent and his dearest wish--the one thing which will make
him happy, and the only one without which he will not be happy, although
he may be resigned--is that an union should take place between you and
Bessy. I am not one of those who would persuade you to marry her out of
gratitude to Bramble. Gratitude may be carried too far; but she is, by
all accounts, amiable and beautiful, devoted to excess, and capable of
any exertion and any sacrifice for those she loves; and, Tom, she loves
you. With her I consider that you have every prospect of being happy in
the most important step in life. You may say that you do not love her,
although you respect, and admire, and esteem her: granted; but on such
feelings towards a woman is the firmest love based, and must eventually
grow. Depend upon it, Tom, that that hasty and violent attachment which
is usually termed love, and which so blinds both parties that they
cannot before marriage perceive each other's faults, those matches which
are called love matches, seldom or ever turn out happily. I do not mean
to say but that they sometimes do; but, like a lottery, there are many
blanks for one prize. Believe me, Tom, there is no one who has your
interest and welfare at heart more than I have. I have known you since
you were a child, and have watched you with as much solicitude as any
parent. Do you think, then, that I would persuade you to what I thought
would not contribute to your happiness? Do, my dear boy, make Bramble,
Bessy, yourself, and all of us happy, by weaning yourself from the
memory of one who was undeserving of you, and fixing your affections
upon her who will be as steadfast and as true to you as the other was
false and capricious."
I promised Anderson that I would think seriously of what he said; and I
kept my word, using all my endeavours to drive the image of Janet from
my memory, and substitute that of Bessy. I often recalled the latter to
my mind as she lay, beautiful and motionless after her having rescued
her father from the waves, and at last dwelt upon the image with
something more than interest. The great point when you wish to bring
yourself to do anything is to make up your mind to it. I did so, and
soon found that Bessy was rapidly gaining possession of my heart.
I remained several days at Greenwich. My mother was still as busy as
ever, attempting to obtain lodgers in her house who were people of
family, and this unwearied system was a source of great vexation to my
sister. "Oh, Tom," she would sometimes say, "I almost wish sometimes,
selfish as it is, that you were married to Bessy, for then I should be
able to live with you, and escape from this persecution."
"Better marry yourself, dear," replied I.
"There is but little chance of that, Tom," replied Virginia, shaking her
head.
On my return to Deal I found Bramble had remained at the cottage ever
since my departure. Our greeting was warm, and when I went over to
Bessy, for the first time since she had returned from school, I kissed
her. She coloured up, poor girl, burst into tears, and hastened to her
own room.
"I hope that was in earnest, Tom," said Bramble, fixing his eye upon me
inquiringly, "otherwise it was cruel."
"It was indeed, father," replied I, taking him by the hand.
"Then all's right, and God bless you, my dear good boy. You don't know
how happy you have made me--yes, and now I will say it--poor Bessy
also."