"It is really time that a properly-qualified governess had charge of
those girls," observed my wife, as Mary and Kate after a more than
usually boisterous romp with their papa, left the room for bed. I may
here remark, _inter alia_, that I once surprised a dignified and
highly-distinguished judge at a game of blindman's buff with his
children, and very heartily he appeared to enjoy it too. "It is really
time that a properly-qualified governess had charge of those girls. Susan
May did very well as a nursery teacher, but they are now far beyond her
control. _I_ cannot attend to their education, and as for you"--The
sentence was concluded by a shrug of the shoulders and a toss of the
head, eloquently expressive of the degree of estimation in which _my_
governing powers were held.
"Time enough, surely, for that," I exclaimed, as soon as I had composed
myself; for I was a little out of breath. "They may, I think, rub along
with Susan for another year or two, Mary is but seven years of age"--
"Eight years, if you please. She was eight years old last Thursday
three weeks."
"Eight years! Then we must have been married nine; Bless me, how the time
has flown: it seems scarcely so many weeks!"
"Nonsense," rejoined my wife with a sharpness of tone and a rigidity of
facial muscle which, considering the handsome compliment I had just paid
her, argued, I was afraid, a foregone conclusion. "You always have
recourse to some folly of that sort whenever I am desirous of entering
into a serious consultation on family affairs."
There was some truth in this, I confess. The "consultations" which I
found profitable were not serious ones with my wife upon domestic
matters; leading, as they invariably did, to a diminution instead of an
increase of the little balance at the banker's. If such a proposition
could therefore be evaded or adjourned by even an extravagant compliment,
I considered it well laid out. But the expedient, I found, was one which
did not improve by use. For some time after marriage it answered
remarkably well; but each succeeding year of wedded bliss marked its
rapidly-declining efficacy.
"Well, well; go on."
"I say it is absolutely necessary that a first-rate governess should be
at once engaged. Lady Maldon has been here to-day, and she"--
"Oh, I thought it might be her new ladyship's suggestion. I wish the
'fountain of honor' was somewhat charier of its knights and ladies, and
then perhaps"--
"What, for mercy's sake, are you running on about?" interrupted the lady
with peremptory emphasis. "Fountains of honor, forsooth! One would
suppose, to hear you talk in that wild, nonsensical way, that you were
addressing a bench of judges sitting in _banco_, instead of a sensible
person solicitous for her and your children's welfare."
"Bless the woman," thought I; "what an exalted idea she appears to have
of forensic eloquence! Proceed, my love," I continued; "there is a
difference certainly; and I am all attention."
"Lady Maldon knows a young lady--a distant relative, in deed, of
hers--whom she is anxious to serve"--
"At our expense."
"How can you be so ungenerous? Edith Willoughby is the orphan daughter of
the late Reverend Mr. Willoughby, curate of Heavy Tree in Warwickshire, I
believe; and was specially educated for a first-class governess and
teacher. She speaks French with the true Parisian accent, and her
Italian, Lady Maldon assures me, is pure Tuscan"--
"He-e-e-m!"
"She dances with grace and elegance; plays the harp and piano with skill
and taste; is a thorough _artiste_ in drawing and painting; and is,
moreover, very handsome--though beauty, I admit, is an attribute which in
a governess might be very well dispensed with."
"True; unless, indeed, it were catching."
I need not prolong this connubial dialogue. It is sufficient to state
that Edith Willoughby was duly installed in office on the following day;
and that, much to my surprise, I found that her qualifications for the
charge she had undertaken were scarcely overcolored. She was a
well-educated, elegant, and beautiful girl, of refined and fascinating
manners, and possessed of one of the sweetest, gentlest dispositions that
ever charmed and graced the family and social circle. She was, I often
thought, for her own chance of happiness, too ductile, too readily
yielding to the wishes and fancies of others. In a very short time I came
to regard her as a daughter, and with my wife and children she was
speedily a prodigious favorite. Mary and Kate improved rapidly under her
judicious tuition, and I felt for once positively grateful to busy Lady
Maldon for her officious interference in my domestic arrangements.
Edith Willoughby had been domiciled with us about two years, when Mr.
Harlowe, a gentleman of good descent and fine property, had occasion to
call several times at my private residence on business relating to the
purchase of a house in South Audley Street, the title to which exhibited
by the venders was not of the most satisfactory kind. On one occasion he
stayed to dine with us, and I noticed that he seemed much struck by the
appearance of our beautiful and accomplished governess. His evident
emotion startled and pained me in a much higher degree than I could have
easily accounted for even to myself. Mr. Harlowe was a widower, past his
first youth certainly, but scarcely more than two or three-and-thirty
years of age, wealthy, not ill-looking, and, as far as I knew, of average
character in society. Surely an excellent match, if it should come to
that, for an orphan girl rich only in fine talents and gentle affections.
But I could not think so. I disliked the man--_instinctively_ disliked
and distrusted him; for I could assign no very positive motive for my
antipathy.
"The reason why, I cannot tell,
But I don't like thee, Dr. Fell."
These lines indicate an unconquerable feeling which most persons have, I
presume, experienced; and which frequently, I think, results from a kind
of cumulative evidence of uncongeniality or unworthiness, made up of a
number of slight indices of character, which, separately, may appear of
little moment, but altogether, produce a strong, if undefinable, feeling
of aversion. Mr. Harlowe's manners were bland, polished, and insinuating;
his conversation was sparkling and instructive; but a cold sneer seemed
to play habitually about his lips, and at times there glanced forth a
concentrated, polished ferocity--so to speak--from his eyes, revealing
hard and stony depths, which I shuddered to think a being so pure and
gentle as Edith might be doomed to sound and fathom. That he was a man of
strong passions and determination of will, was testified by every curve
of his square, massive head, and every line of his full countenance.
My aversion--reasonable or otherwise, as it might be--was not shared by
Miss Willoughby; and it was soon apparent that, fascinated, intoxicated
by her extreme beauty (the man was, I felt, incapable of love in its
high, generous, and spiritual sense), Mr. Harlowe had determined on
offering his hand and fortune to the unportioned orphan. He did so, and
was accepted. I did not conceal my dislike of her suitor from Edith; and
my wife--who, with feminine exaggeration of the hints I threw out, had
set him down as a kind of polished human tiger--with tears intreated her
to avoid the glittering snare. We of course had neither right nor power
to push our opposition beyond friendly warning and advice; and when we
found, thanks to Lady Maldon, who was vehemently in favor of the
match--to, in Edith's position, the dazzling temptation of a splendid
establishment, and to Mr. Harlowe's eloquent and impassioned
pleadings--that the rich man's offer was irrevocably accepted, we of
course forebore from continuing a useless and irritating resistance. Lady
Maldon had several times very plainly intimated that our aversion to the
marriage arose solely from a selfish desire of retaining the services of
her charming relative; so prone are the mean and selfish to impute
meanness and selfishness to others.
I might, however, I reflected, be of service to Miss Willoughby, by
securing for her such a marriage settlement as would place her beyond the
reach of one possible consequence of caprice and change. I spoke to Mr.
Harlowe on the subject; and he, under the influence of headstrong, eager
passion, gave me, as I expected, _carte blanche_. I availed myself of the
license so readily afforded: a deed of settlement was drawn up, signed,
sealed, and attested in duplicate the day before the wedding; and Edith
Willoughby, as far as wealth and position in society were concerned, had
undoubtedly made a surprisingly good bargain.
It happened that just as Lady Maldon, Edith Willoughby, and Mr. Harlowe
were leaving my chambers after the execution of the deed, Mr. Ferret the
attorney appeared on the stairs. His hands were full of papers, and he
was, as usual, in hot haste; but he stopped abruptly as his eye fell upon
the departing visitors, looked with startled earnestness at Miss
Willoughby, whom he knew, and then glanced at Mr. Harlowe with an
expression of angry surprise. That gentleman, who did not appear to
recognize the new-comer, returned his look with a supercilious,
contemptuous stare, and passed on with Edith--who had courteously saluted
the inattentive Mr. Ferret--followed by Lady Maldon.
"What is the meaning of that ominous conjunction?" demanded Mr. Ferret as
the affianced pair disappeared together.
"Marriage, Mr. Ferret! Do you know any just cause or impediment why they
should not be joined together in holy wedlock?"
"The fellow's wife is dead then?"
"Yes; she died about a twelvemonth ago. Did you know her?"
"Not personally; by reputation only. A country attorney, Richards of
Braintree, for whom I transact London business sent me the draught of a
deed of separation--to which the unfortunate lady, rather than continue
to live with her husband, had consented--for counsel's opinion. I had an
interview with Mr. Harlowe himself upon the business; but I see he
affects to have forgotten me. I do not know much of the merits of the
case, but according to Richards--no great shakes of a fellow, between
ourselves--the former Mrs. Harlowe was a martyr to her husband's
calculated virulence and legal--at least not _illegal_, a great
distinction, in my opinion, though not so set down in the
books--despotism. He espoused her for her wealth: that secured, he was
desirous of ridding himself of the incumbrance to it. A common case!--and
now, if you please, to business."
I excused myself, as did my wife, from being present at the wedding; but
everything, I afterwards heard, passed off with great _éclat_. The
bridegroom was all fervor and obsequiousness; the bride all bashfulness
and beauty. The "happy pair," I saw by the afternoon newspapers, were to
pass the honeymoon at Mr. Harlowe's seat, Fairdown Park. The evening of
the marriage-day was anything, I remember, but a pleasant one to me. I
reached home by no means hilariously disposed, where I was greeted, by
way of revival, with the intelligence that my wife, after listening with
great energy to Lady Maldon's description of the wedding festivities for
two tremendous hours, had at last been relieved by copious hysteria, and
that Mary and Kate were in a fair way--if the exploit could be
accomplished by perseverance--of crying themselves to sleep. These were
our bridal compliments; much more flattering, I imagine, if not quite so
honey-accented, as the courtly phrases with which the votaries and the
victims of Hymen are alike usually greeted.
Time, business, worldly hopes and cares, the triumphs and defeats of an
exciting profession, gradually weakened the impression made upon me by
the gentle virtues of Edith Willoughby; and when, about fifteen months
after the wedding, my wife informed me that she had been accosted by Mrs.
Harlowe at a shop in Bond Street, my first feeling was one of surprise,
not untinged with resentment, for what I deemed her ungrateful neglect.
"She recognized you then?" I remarked.
"Recognized me! What do you mean?"
"I thought perhaps she might have forgotten your features, as she
evidently has our address."
"If you had seen," replied my wife, "how pale, how cold, how utterly
desolate she looked, you would think less hardly of her. As soon as she
observed me, a slight scream escaped her; and then she glanced eagerly
and tremblingly around like a startled fawn. Her husband had passed out
of the shop to give, I think, some direction to the coachman. She
tottered towards me, and clasping me in her arms, burst into a passion of
tears. "Oh, why--why," I asked as soon as I could speak, "why have you
not written to us?" "I dared not!" she gasped. "But oh tell me, do
you--does your husband remember me with kindness? Can I still reckon on
his protection--his support?" I assured her you would receive her as your
own child: the whispered words had barely passed my lips, when Mr.
Harlowe, who had swiftly approached us unperceived, said, "Madam, the
carriage waits." His stern, pitiless eye glanced from his wife to me, and
stiffly bowing, he said, "Excuse me for interrupting your conversation;
but time presses. Good-day." A minute afterwards, the carriage drove
off."
I was greatly shocked at this confirmation of my worst fears; and I
meditated with intense bitterness on the fate of a being of such meek
tenderness exposed to the heartless brutalities of a sated sensualist
like Harlowe. But what could be done? She had chosen, deliberately,
and after warning, chosen her lot, and must accept the consequences of
her choice. In all the strong statutes, and sharp biting laws of
England, there can be found no clause wherewith to shield a woman from
the "regulated" meanness and despotism of an unprincipled husband.
Resignation is the sole remedy, and therein the patient must minister
to herself.
On the morning of the Sunday following Edith's brief interview with my
wife, and just as we were about to leave the house to attend divine
service, a cab drove furiously up to the door, and a violent summons by
both knocker and bell announced the arrival of some strangely-impatient
visitor. I stepped out upon the drawing-room landing, and looked over the
banister rail, curious to ascertain who had honored me with so peremptory
a call. The door was quickly opened, and in ran, or rather staggered,
Mrs. Harlowe, with a child in long clothes in her arms.
"Shut--shut the door!" she faintly exclaimed, as she sank on one of the
hall seats. "Pray shut the door--I am pursued!"
I hastened down, and was just in time to save her from falling on the
floor. She had fainted. I had her carried up stairs, and by the aid of
proper restoratives, she gradually recovered consciousness. The child, a
girl about four months old, was seized upon by Mary and Kate, and carried
off in triumph to the nursery. Sadly changed, indeed, as by the sickness
of the soul, was poor Edith. The radiant flush of youth and hope
rendering her sweet face eloquent of joy and pride, was replaced by the
cold, sad hues of wounded affections and proud despair. I could read in
her countenance, as in a book, the sad record of long months of wearing
sorrow, vain regrets, and bitter self-reproach. Her person, too, had lost
its rounded, airy, graceful outline, and had become thin and angular.
Her voice, albeit, was musical and gentle as ever, as she murmured, on
recovering her senses, "You will protect me from my--from that man?" As I
warmly pressed her hand, in emphatic assurance that I would shield her
against all comers, another loud summons was heard at the door. A minute
afterwards, a servant entered, and announced that Mr. Harlowe waited for
me below. I directed he should be shown into the library; and after
iterating my assurance to Edith that she was quite safe from violence
beneath my roof, and that I would presently return to hear her
explanation of the affair, I went down stairs.
Mr. Harlowe, as I entered, was pacing rapidly up and down the apartment.
He turned to face me; and I thought he looked even more perturbed and
anxious than vengeful and angry. He, however, as I coldly bowed, and
demanded his business with me, instantly assumed a bullying air and tone.
"Mrs. Harlowe is here: she has surreptitiously left South Audley Street
in a hired cab, and I have traced her to this house."
"Well?"
"Well! I trust it is well; and I insist that she instantly return to
her home."
"Her _home_!"
I used the word with an expression significative only of my sense of the
sort of "home" he had provided for the gentle girl he had sworn to love
and cherish; but the random shaft found a joint in his armor at which it
was not aimed. He visibly trembled, and turned pale.
"She has had time to tell you all then! But be assured, sir, that nothing
she has heard or been told, however true it may be--_may_ be, remember,
I say--can be legally substantiated except by myself."
What could the man mean? I was fairly puzzled: but, professionally
accustomed to conceal emotions of surprise and bewilderment, I coldly
replied--"I have left the lady who has sought the protection of her true
'home,' merely to ascertain the reason of this visit."
"The reason of my visit!" he exclaimed with renewed fury: "to reconvey
her to South Audley Street. What else? If you refuse to give her up, I
shall apply to the police."