MISS DOCIMER.
"I tell you fairly that I think you altogether wrong;--that it is
cowardly, unmanly, and disgraceful. I don't mean, you see, to put
what you call a fine point upon it."
"No, you don't."
"It is one of those matters on which a person must speak the truth or
not speak at all. I should not have spoken unless you forced it upon
me. You don't care for her in the least."
"That's true. I do not know that I am especially quick at what you
call caring for young ladies. If I care for anybody it is for you."
"I suppose so; but that may as well be dropped for the present. You
mean to marry this girl simply because she has got a lot of money?"
"Exactly that;--as you before long will marry some gentleman only
because he has got money."
"You have no right to say so because I am engaged to no man. But if
I were so it is quite different. Unless I marry I can be nobody. I
can have no existence that I can call my own. I have no other way of
pushing myself into the world's notice. You are a man."
"You mean to say that I could become a merchant or a lawyer,--be a
Lord Chancellor in time, or perhaps an Archbishop of Canterbury."
"You can live and eat and drink and go where you wish without being
dependent on any one. If I had your freedom and your means do you
think that I would marry for money?"
In this dialogue the main part was taken by Mr. Frank Houston, whose
ambition it was to marry Miss Gertrude Tringle, and the lady's
part by his cousin and intimate friend, Miss Imogene Docimer. The
scene was a walk through a pine-forest on the southern slopes of
the Tyrolean Alps, and the occasion had been made a little more
exhilarating than usual by the fact that Imogene had been strongly
advised both by her brother, Mr. Mudbury Docimer, and by her
sister-in law, Mrs. Mudbury Docimer, not to take any more distant
rambles with her far-away cousin Frank Houston. In the teeth of that
advice this walk was taken, and the conversation in the pine-wood had
at the present moment arrived at the point above given.
"I do not know that any two persons were ever further asunder in
an argument than you and I in this," said Frank, not in the least
disconcerted by the severe epithets which had been applied to him.
"I conceive that you are led away by a desire to deceive yourself,
whereas hypocrisy should only be used with the object of deceiving
others."
"How do I deceive myself?"
"In making believe that men are generally different from what they
are;--in trying to suppose that I ought to be, if I am not, a hero.
You shall not find a man whose main object is not that of securing
an income. The clergyman who preaches against gold licks the ground
beneath the minister's feet in order that he may become a bishop. The
barrister cares not with what case he may foul his hands so long as
he may become rich. The man in trade is so aware of his own daily
dishonesty that he makes two separate existences for himself, and
endeavours to atone for his rascality in the City by his performance
of all duties at the West End. I regard myself to be so infinitely
cleaner in my conscience than other men that I could not bring myself
to be a bishop, an attorney-general, or a great merchant. Of all the
ways open to me this seems to me to be the least sordid. I give her
the only two things which she desires,--myself and a position. She
will give me the only thing I desire, which is some money. When you
marry you'll make an equally fine bargain,--only your wares will be
your beauty."
"You will not give her yourself;--not your heart."
"Yes, I shall. I shall make the most of her, and shall do so by
becoming as fond of her as I can. Of course I like breeding. Of
course I like beauty. Of course I like that aroma of feminine charm
which can only be produced by a mixture of intellect, loveliness,
taste, and early association. I don't pretend to say that my future
would not be much sweeter before me with you as my wife,--if only
either of us had a sufficiency of income. I acknowledge that. But
then I acknowledge also that I prefer Miss Tringle, with £100,000,
to you with nothing; and I do not think that I ought to be called
unmanly, disgraceful, and a coward, because I have courage enough
to speak the truth openly to a friend whom I trust. My theory of
life shocks you, not because it is uncommon, but because it is not
commonly declared."
They were silent for a while as they went on through the path, and
then Miss Docimer spoke to him in an altered voice. "I must ask you
not to speak to me again as one who by any possibility could have
been your wife."
"Very well. You will not wish me to abandon the privilege of thinking
of past possibilities?"
"I would,--if it were possible."
"Quite impossible! One's thoughts, I imagine, are always supposed to
be one's own."
"You know what I mean. A gentleman will always spare a woman if he
can do so; and there are cases, such as have been ours, in which it
is a most imperative duty to do so. You should not have followed us
when you had made up your mind about this young lady."
"I took care to let you know, beforehand, that I intended it."
"You should not have thrown the weight upon me. You should not even
have written to me."
"I wonder what you would have said then,--how loudly you would have
abused me,--had I not written! Would you not have told me then that
I had not the courage to be open with you?" He paused for an answer,
but she made none. "But I do recognise the necessity of my becoming
subject to abuse in this state of affairs. I have been in no respect
false, nor in any way wanting in affection. When I suggested to you
that £600 a-year between us, with an increasing family, and lodgings
in Marylebone, would be uncomfortable, you shuddered at the prospect.
When I explained to you that you would have the worst of it because
my club would be open to me, you were almost angry with me because I
seemed to imply that there could be any other than one decision."
"There could only be one decision,--unless you were man enough to
earn your bread."
"But I wasn't. But I ain't. You might as well let that accident pass,
sans dire. Was there ever a moment in which you thought that I should
earn my bread?"
"Never for a moment did I endow you with the power of doing anything
so manly."
"Then why throw it in my teeth now? That is not fair. However, I do
own that I have to be abused. I don't see any way in which you and I
are to part without it. But you need not descend to Billingsgate."
"I have not descended to Billingsgate, Mr. Houston."
"Upper-world Billingsgate! Cowardice, as an accusation from a woman
to a man, is upper-world Billingsgate. But it doesn't matter. Of
course I know what it means. Do you think your brother wants me to go
away at once?"
"At once," she said.
"That would be disagreeable and absurd. You mean to sit to me for
that head?"
"Certainly not."
"I cannot in the least understand why not. What has a question of
art to do with marriage or giving in marriage? And why should Mrs.
Docimer be so angry with me, when she has known the truth all along?"
"There are questions which it is of no avail to answer. I have come
out with you now because I thought it well that we should have a
final opportunity of understanding each other. You understand me at
any rate."
"Perfectly," he said. "You have taken especial care on this occasion
to make yourself intelligible."
"So I intended. And as you do understand me, and know how far I am
from approving your philosophy, you can hardly wish to remain with us
longer." Then they walked on together in absolute silence for above a
mile. They had come out of the wood, and were descending, by a steep
and narrow path, to the village in which stood the hotel at which the
party was staying. Another ten minutes would take them down to the
high road. The path here ran by the side of a rivulet, the course
of which was so steep that the waters made their way down in a
succession of little cataracts. From the other side of the path was
a fence, so close to it, that on this particular spot there was room
only for one to walk. Here Frank Houston stepped in front of his
companion, so as to stop her. "Imogene," he said, "if it is intended
that I am to start by the diligence for Innspruck this evening, you
had better bid me farewell at once."
"I have bidden you farewell," she said.
"Then you have done it in so bitter a mood that you had better try
your hand at it again. Heaven only knows in what manner you or I may
meet again."
"What does it matter?" she asked.
"I have always felt that the hearts of men are softer than the hearts
of women. A woman's hand is soft, but she can steel her heart when
she thinks it necessary, as no man can do. Does it occur to you at
this moment that there has been some true affection between you and
me in former days?"
"I wish it did not."
"It may be so that I wish it also; but there is the fact. No wishing
will enable me to get rid of it. No wishing will save me from the
memory of early dreams and sweet longings and vain triumphs. There is
the remembrance of bright glory made very sad to me by the meanness
of the existing truth. I do not say but that I would obliterate it if
I could; but it is not to be obliterated; the past will not be made
more pleasant to me by any pretence of present indignation. I should
have thought that it would have been the same with you."
"There has been no glory," she said, "though I quite acknowledge the
meanness."
"There has been at any rate some love."
"Misplaced. You had better let me pass on. I have, as you say,
steeled myself. I will not condescend to any tenderness. In my
brother's presence and my sister's I will wish you good-bye and
express a hope that you may be successful in your enterprises. Here,
by the brook-side, out upon the mountain-path, where there is no one
to hear us but our two selves, I will bid you no farewell softer than
that already spoken. Go and do as you propose. You have my leave.
When it shall have been done there shall never be a word spoken by me
against it. But, when you ask me whether you are right, I will only
say that I think you to be wrong. It may be that you owe nothing to
me; but you owe something to her, and something also to yourself.
Now, Mr. Houston, I shall be glad to pass on."
He shrugged his shoulders and then stepped out of the path, thinking
as he did so how ignorant he had been, after all that had passed, of
much of the character of Imogene Docimer. It could not be, he had
thought, but that she would melt into softness at last. "I will not
condescend to any tenderness," she had said, and it seemed that she
would be as good as her word. He then walked down before her in
silence, and in silence they reached the inn.
"Mr. Houston," said Mrs. Docimer, before they sat down to dinner
together, "I thought it was understood that you and Imogene should
not go out alone together again."
"I have taken my place to Innspruck by the diligence this evening,"
he answered.
"Perhaps it will be better so, though both Mudbury and I will be
sorry to lose your company."
"Yes, Mrs. Docimer, I have taken my place. Your sister seemed to
think that there would be great danger if I waited till to-morrow
morning when I could have got a pleasant lift in a return carriage. I
hate travelling at night and I hate diligences. I was quite prepared
to post all the way, though it would have ruined me,--only for this
accursed diligence."
"I am sorry you should be inconvenienced."
"It does not signify. What a man without a wife may suffer in that
way never does signify. It's just fourteen hours. You wouldn't like
Docimer to come with me."
"That's nonsense. You needn't go the whole way unless you like. You
could sleep at Brunecken."
"Brunecken is only twelve miles, and it might be dangerous."
"Of course you choose to turn everything into ridicule."
"Better that than tears, Mrs. Docimer. What's the good of crying? I
can't make myself an elder son. I can't endow Imogene with a hundred
thousand pounds. She told me just now that I might earn my bread, but
she knows that I can't. It's very sad. But what can be got by being
melancholy?"
"At any rate you had better be away from her."
"I am going,--this evening. Shall I walk on, half a stage, at once,
without any dinner? I wish you had heard the kind of things she said
to me. You would not have thought that I had gone to walk with her
for my own pleasure."
"Have you not deserved them?"
"I think not;--but nevertheless I bore them. A woman, of course, can
say what she pleases. There's Docimer,--I hope he won't call me a
coward."
Mr. Docimer came out on the terrace, on which the two were standing,
looking as sour as death. "He is going by the diligence to Innspruck
this afternoon," said Mrs. Docimer.
"Why did he come? A man with a grain of feeling would have remained
away."
"Now, Docimer," said Frank, "pray do not make yourself unpleasant.
Your sister has been abusing me all the morning like a pickpocket,
and your wife looks at me as though she would say just as much if she
dared. After all, what is it I have done that you think so wicked?"
"What will everybody think at home," said Mrs. Docimer, "when they
know that you're with us again? What chance is she to have if you
follow her about in this way?"
"I shall not follow her very long," said Frank. "My wings will soon
be cut, and then I shall never fly again." They were at this time
walking up and down the terrace together, and it seemed for awhile
that neither of them had another word to say in the matter of the
dispute between them. Then Houston went on again in his own defence.
"Of course it is all bad," he said. "Of course we have all been
fools. You knew it, and allowed it; and have no right to say a word
to me."
"We thought that when your uncle died there would have been money,"
said Docimer, with a subdued growl.
"Exactly; and so did I. You do not mean to say that I deceived either
you or her?"
"There should have been an end of it when that hope was over."
"Of course there should. There should never have been a dream that
she or I could marry on six hundred a year. Had not all of us been
fools, we should have taken our hats off and bade each other farewell
for ever when the state of the old man's affairs was known. We were
fools; but we were fools together; and none of us have a right to
abuse the others. When I became acquainted with this young lady at
Rome, it had been settled among us that Imogene and I must seek our
fortunes apart."
"Then why did you come after her?" again asked Mr. Docimer.
At this moment Imogene herself joined them on the terrace. "Mary,"
she said to her sister-in-law, "I hope you are not carrying on this
battle with Mr. Houston. I have said what there was to be said."
"You should have held your tongue and said nothing," growled her
brother.
"Be that as it may I have said it, and he quite understands what I
think about it. Let us eat our dinner in peace and quietness, and
then let him go on his travels. He has the world free before him,
which he no doubt will open like an oyster, though he does not carry
a sword." Soon after this they did dine, and contented themselves
with abusing the meat and the wine, and finding fault with Tyrolese
cookery, just as though they had no deeper cares near their hearts.
Precisely at six the heavy diligence stopped before the hotel door,
and Houston, who was then smoking with Docimer on the terrace, got
up to bid them adieu. Mrs. Docimer was kind and almost affectionate,
with a tear in her eye. "Well, old fellow," said Docimer, "take
care of yourself. Perhaps everything will turn up right some of
these days." "Good-bye, Mr. Houston," said Imogene, just giving him
her hand to touch in the lightest manner possible. "God bless you,
Imogene," said he. And there was a tear also in his eye. But there
was none in hers, as she stood looking at him while he prepared
himself for his departure; nor did she say another word to him as he
went. "And now," said she, when the three of them were left upon the
terrace, "I will ask a great favour of you both. I will beg you not
to let there be another word about Mr. Houston among us." After that
she rambled out by herself, and was not seen again by either of them
that evening.
When she was alone she too shed her tears, though she felt impatient
and vexed with herself as they came into her eyes. It was not perhaps
only for her lost love that she wept. Had no one known that her love
had been given and then lost she might have borne it without weeping.
But now, in carrying on this vain affair of hers, in devoting herself
to a lover who had, with her own consent, passed away from her, she
had spent the sweet fresh years of her youth, and all those who knew
her would know that it had been so. He had told her that it would be
her fate to purchase for herself a husband with her beauty. It might
be so. At any rate she did not doubt her own beauty. But, if it were
to be so, then the romance and the charm of her life were gone. She
had quite agreed that six hundred a year, and lodgings in Marylebone,
would be quite unendurable; but what was there left for her that
would be endurable? He could be happy with the prospect of Gertrude
Tringle's money. She could not be happy, looking forward to that
unloved husband who was to be purchased by her beauty.