THE HOUSE IN TOTHILL FIELDS.
In her turn Esther had been awakened, as she was every morning, by a
sort of dull buzzing, which for a space continued and finally died away.
It was Reuben droning the morning prayers in the lower hall in presence
of his mother and the aged servant, Maud. She raised herself upon her
elbow and glanced about her with an expression of disgust. However,
there was nothing displeasing to the sight about the chamber. To be
sure, the appointments were of the simplest description, and the walls
were bare; but everything exhaled the perfection of neatness and
propriety. The window opened upon extensive meadows, called Tothill
Fields, where some years later rose the quarter known as Pimlico. On
this side no building intercepted the light of day; consequently the
fresh, pure radiance of morning flooded the room, flecking the draperies
and white furniture. But Esther for a long time had indulged herself in
a dream of luxury and grandeur. It seemed to her that each night renewed
for her special benefit the story of Cinderella. During the entire
evening she walked in her glory beneath the fire of glances, like a
little queen, envied, admired, adored, tasting, as an homage more
enduring than the applause of men, the jealousy of her comrades. The
curtain having fallen, the beautiful costume replaced by a modest gown
of some dark stuff, she escaped from the scene of her triumph with her
arm firmly locked in that of Mrs. Marsham. When she awoke in the morning
there was nothing to prevent her from believing that it had all been a
dream, and that she was after all only an ordinary little being destined
to set a good example to her neighbors, and be the joy of some
commonplace, honest husband. What was there in store for her but to
share this insipid existence, take her part in the usual housework, and
listen to the babble of her aunt, who represented simple, tender
devotion, as Reuben was the exponent of the suspicious and fierce kind?
But patience! It would not be long ere emancipation would lend her wings
to escape from this irksome prison.
More than ever this morning was she disposed to view her surroundings
with a disapproving and dissatisfied eye. When should she have a boudoir
like Lady Vereker's, and a gilded coach, a footman with a plumed hat, a
great nobleman for her husband, subject to her caprices, sighing at her
feet, and breathing soft nothings in the pretty, affected language,
mingled with French, which the heroes in the fashionable plays made use
of? Like Lord Mowbray, she deceived herself on the score of love, but
after a different fashion. He saw in it but the satisfaction of the
senses; she, the triumph of vanity. To be forever and a day the
personage she appeared to be three evenings out of the week, from seven
o'clock until ten; to be in reality ingenuous, anxious, coquettish, and
impassioned; to play the comedy, and play it to the life, amidst men who
were by no means acting; to heave real sighs, shed genuine tears, commit
actual follies,--such was her idea of happiness, which would have been
perverse had it not been childish.
Scarcely was she dressed ere she received a tender missive from Lady
Vereker which informed her of the result of their evening's frolic. One
of her ladyship's cousins, an officer in the Guards, had rescued her
from her dilemma. For hours she had sought her companion; then she had
gone home, "heaping reproaches upon herself and calling herself every
manner of barbarous name." For she felt in her heart that "she should
never taste of perfect bliss if separated from her incomparable friend,
and that it would be inhuman long to deprive her of her presence." This
jargon, which passed in the fashionable world of that day, was new to
Esther, and she replied in a similar vein, assuring her noble
protectress that, had she listened to the dictates of her heart, she
would have flown to her: but circumstances obliged her to defer the joy
for which she sighed so ardently; the circumstances being a guitar
lesson, a new _role_ to study, and a second sitting with Sir Joshua.
In fact, the guitar master, Mr. O'Flannigan, shortly made his appearance
upon horseback, the animal being as lean and lanky as himself. He was an
Irish gentleman, descended from the kings of his native land. He was
wont to prate of vast domains which had fallen two centuries before his
birth into the hands of the English. Thanks to the revolt of the
American colonies, which Ireland was preparing to imitate, Mr.
O'Flannigan had hopes of regaining his family rights and possessions.
Meanwhile he rambled about London, darned his own stockings, and gave
music lessons. Moreover, he occasionally relieved old Hopkins, the
prompter at Drury Lane Theatre; but whatever he did, he did with innate
nobility and elegance. He could bow with a grace almost equal to that of
any Frenchman, having passed one week of his youth in Paris, "the
capital of elegance and good taste."
It was averred that, like the majority of his countrymen, he must have
kissed the famous Blarney stone which communicates to the lips which
have pressed it the gift of suave falsehood. But the persons who spoke
in that way were his enemies. And who has not an enemy? Mr. O'Flannigan
possessed his share of those troublesome individuals, although he had
obliged at least three of them to bite the dust.
"What! Three men stretched upon the ground? Three men killed by you
single-handed?"
"All of that, miss!"
His brow clouded at the recollection; he declined to enlarge upon the
subject; whereupon, since no one wished to wound his feelings by
insisting upon details, he would recount the entire dreadful tale even
unto the bitter end. One was an Italian, of the princely house of
Castellamare; he understood the secret thrust, you know,--the famous
secret thrust! Poor man! His death had served no great purpose. To-day
the violets bloom upon his grave. Another was a German baron,--a boor
who, in passing Mr. O'Flannigan, had knocked over his glass of milk with
the tip of his sword and had not known enough to beg his pardon,--a man
so tall and stout that he could not have passed through yonder door; yet
this Colossus had fallen before little O'Flannigan!
[Illustration]
"But why renew these cruel memories? It is a frightful thing for a
sensible, philosophic man thus to give the _coup de grace_ to a
fellow-man! Now, then, Miss Woodville, if you please. One--two--we are
in the key of _fa_."
One day Mrs. Marsham found O'Flannigan in the midst of explaining to his
pupil the principles of his favorite art. With her left hand upon her
hip, her body proudly curved, her cheeks aglow, and her eyes dancing
with pleasure, Esther attacked and parried imaginary thrusts, while she
poked with a long cane the bony old body of O'Flannigan, who applauded
rapturously, though he rubbed his sides.
"Are you mad, monsieur?" she cried. "Giving fencing lessons to my
niece!"
"Madame, I am the humblest of your servants!"
O'Flannigan performed the sword salute with the cane he held in his
hand, and attempted to deposit a kiss upon the mitten of the Quakeress,
who found herself quite disarmed in spite of herself by such a display
of courtesy and high breeding.
"Come, come, Monsieur O'Flannigan," she breathed; "suppose you return to
your music."
"At your command, madame.--Now, then, mademoiselle; one--two--three. We
are in the key of _sol_!"
After the Irishman's departure, Esther passed the remainder of the
morning in walking up and down the little garden, studying the charming
_role_ of Beatrice in "Much Ado about Nothing," which she was to play in
a few days. Then came the dinner hour, which reunited Mrs. Marsham, her
son Reuben, Esther, and the ancient Maud; since, in accordance with the
usage of the sect, the servants consorted with their masters and sat at
table with them. Moreover, Maud was no ordinary servant. She possessed
the sense of second sight. At certain hours she prophesied and spoke in
a strange tongue which no one understood. "The Spirit is upon her!" they
were wont to say respectfully upon such occasions. Very deaf and
purblind, even with her double vision Maud could not see the spiders'
webs which festooned the ceiling; she could hear "voices," though not
that of her mistress when it called her. Any one in the wide world
except the Marshams would have quickly recognized the inconvenience of
having a vaticinal cook.
At the dinner-table the dangers which Esther had encountered upon the
preceding night became the topic of conversation. Mother and son
regarded the event from their own standpoints. The former blessed
Providence who had guided the girl through her peril safe and sound;
the latter cursed the malice of the men who had madly risked their lives
in breaking a minister's windows for the glorification of a stupid
soldier. How many there were who would have permitted themselves to be
killed for Rodney, who would not have raised a finger for Christ! Esther
uttered not a word concerning Lord Mowbray; she simply spoke of the
excellent gentleman who had escorted her home.
"The brave man!" said Mrs. Marsham. "I long to know and thank him."
"I saw him leaving, or rather flying, like a malefactor," muttered
Reuben. "Would he not have remained to receive our thanks, if he had
thought he deserved them?"
"Virtue is diffident, my son; her right hand knoweth not what her left
hand doeth."
Reuben only replied by an imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. The
repast over, Maud returned to her kitchen, where she held forth all
alone for several long hours. Mrs. Marsham installed herself in her
rush-seated chair and adjusted a pair of silver-and-horn spectacles upon
the tip of her nose, the rigid steel mounting of which suggested the
curved arch of some ancient bridge. She selected one of her favorite
books, the "Pilgrim's Progress," or the life of George Fox, which for
thirty years had fascinated her timid, childish imagination. Soon the
regular breathing, like the purring of a great drowsy cat, informed
Esther that her aunt was in Morpheus's arms. Indeed, she had fallen
asleep with an ecstatic smile upon her features. Perhaps she dreamed
that she walked in a fair garden, attended by angels, and that one came
to her, clothed in white raiment, with a lily in his right hand, and
said to her, "Good morrow, my good Mrs. Marsham. How are you? My father
will be rejoiced to see you." And then, stooping, he would gather stars
from the _parterre_ of heaven and arrange them in a bouquet for the
elect; for Mrs. Marsham was frequently favored with such dreams, and
upon awakening she would recount them to her friends as did the
personages in the Old Testament. She was forever searching some
explanation of them, since she considered them in the light of celestial
visions.
"She sleeps, and is happy," said Reuben in a lowered tone. "Would that I
could find repose!"
"Why can you not?" asked Esther negligently.
"Because my heart is troubled by the thought of the iniquities which are
committed in Israel. Sometimes it seems to me that I am a scapegoat, and
that all the sins of England are upon me."
"Rather a heavy burden, my poor cousin!"
"Oh, do not laugh, Esther; for it is you who are to be pitied; it is for
you that I weep."
"For me?"
"Yes, for you, and because of your fatal beauty."
"Fatal! I take the compliment from whence it comes, and am charmed to
know that you consider me even passing fair. But pray tell me why my
beauty is fatal."
"Listen and give heed, Esther. You have read the Holy Scriptures?"
"Yes."
"When God imprints upon the face and body of woman a charm which renders
the wisest fools, there is a hidden reason which should be visible if we
would but open our eyes. He has created her for the salvation or the
perdition of a variety of men. Eve worked the ruin of Adam; Bethsheba
unconsciously corrupted the holy king; Delilah delivered Samson over to
his enemies; Salome snatched from Herod's luxury the condemnation of the
Precursor. On the contrary, Ruth exhaled joy and consolation about her;
Esther softened the anger of a terrible king and saved the people of
God; Jabel drove a nail into the temple of Sisera; Judith delivered
Bethulia by cutting off the head of Holofernes. Which will you be, a
Delilah or a Judith?"
"Neither, I hope. In the first place, pray do not count upon me to cut
off anybody's head. I am a sorry coward, and I have a horror of seeing
blood. The other day I saw a dog with a bleeding paw, and I thought I
should faint."
"Ah!" exclaimed Reuben bitterly, "better were it to cause the impious to
lose every drop of blood in his veins than to inspire a single evil
thought in the just. I feel within myself that it is a sin to look upon
you; my will totters when for too long a space my eyes have rested upon
those shoulders, that slender form, those brilliant eyes, that bud-like
mouth. Sometimes it seems to me that I would suffer eternal damnation
for you, and that I should find an abominable pleasure in it! How many
times have I prayed God to destroy those adorable features which it has
pleased him to create! Willingly would I obliterate and annihilate
them!"
"Are you going mad?" cried Esther in alarm. "And yet you say you love
me!"
"Yes," replied Reuben: "we alone know how to love, because we alone know
how to hate,--we, the sons of the saints whose hearts are full of
bitterness and sorrow. They do not love who live in joy and pleasure. My
love increases with the tears that it causes me to shed, with the
combats that I undergo for you, and, moreover, with the fury that I
experience against those who raise their eyes upon your beauty!"
Involuntarily he had raised his voice. The old lady awoke with a start.
"Naughty children!" she murmured querulously. "Quarrelling again?--you
who were born to understand one another, and to be happy!"