"She has two eyes so soft and brown;
Take care!
She gives a side glance, and looks down;
Beware! beware!
Trust her not; she is fooling thee."
So the days went on. The stream of visitors usual in a country house
during the hunting season flowed in and out of Kerton Manor without any
remarkable specimen showing itself above the surface. One individual,
perhaps, I ought to except, the curate of the parish, who was a very
constant visitor.
His appearance was not fascinating: he had a long, narrow head, thatched
with straight, scanty hair; little, protruding eyes, and a complexion of
a bright unvarying red--in fact, he was very like a prawn.
It was soon evident that the Rev. Samuel Foster was helplessly smitten
by Miss Raymond, or, as Forrester elegantly expressed it, "hard hit in
the wings, and crippled for flying!" Helplessly, I say, but not
hopelessly; for that wicked little creature, acting perhaps under
private orders, gave him all sorts of treacherous encouragement. I never
saw any human being evolve so much caloric under excitement as he did,
except one young woman whom I met ages ago--(a most estimable person;
her Sunday-school was a model)--whose only way of evincing any emotion,
either of anger, fear, pain, or pleasure, was--a profuse perspiration.
Mr. Foster not only got awfully hot, but electrical into the bargain.
His thin hairs used to stand out distinctly and in relief from his head
and face, just like a person on the glass tripod. Charley suggested
insulating him unawares, and getting a flash out of his knuckles, if not
out of his brain. In truth, it was piteous to see the struggle between
passion and nervousness that raged perpetually within him. He would
stand for some time casting _lamb's_-eyes at the object of his
affections--to the amorous audacity of the full-grown sheep he never
soared--then suddenly, without the slightest provocation, he would
discharge at her a compliment, elaborate, long-winded, Grandisonian, as
a raw recruit fires his musket, shutting his eyes, and incontinently
take to flight, without waiting to see the effect of his shot. If he had
spent half the time and pains on his sermons that he did on his
small-talk (I believe he used to write out three or four foul copies of
each sentence previously at home), what a boon it would have been to his
unlucky audience on Sundays!
Why is it that the great proportion of our pastors seem to conspire
together with one consent to make the periodical duty of listening to
them as hard as possible? Can they imagine there is profit or pleasure
in a discourse wandering wearily round in a circle, or dragging a slow
length along of truisms and trivialities? In the best of congregations
there can be but few alchemists; and, without that science, who is to
extract the essence of Truth from the _moles incongesta_ of crass
moralities?
To persuade or dissuade you must interest the head or the heart. I
admire those who can do either successfully, but I do protest against
those clerical tyrants who shelter themselves behind their license to
fire at us their ruthless platitudes. If such could only struggle
against that strong temptation of our fallen nature--the delight of
hearing one's own sweet voice--so as to concentrate now and then! The
best orators, spiritual and mundane, have been brief sometimes.
I am no theologian, but I take leave to doubt if, in the elaborate
divinity of fourteen epistles, the apostle of the Gentiles ever went so
straight to his hearer's heart as in that farewell charge, when the
elders of Ephesus gathered round him on the sea-sand, "Sorrowing most of
all for the words that he spake, that they should see his face no more."
Do you remember Canning and the clergyman? When the latter asked him,
"How did you like my sermon? I endeavored not to be tedious;" I always
fancy the statesman's weary, wistful look, which would have been
compassionate but for a sense of personal injury, as he answered, in his
mild voice, "And yet--_you were_."
Well, the flirtation went on its way rejoicing, to the intense amusement
of all of us, especially of Forrester, till one day his cousin came into
Guy's study, who had just returned from hunting, looking rather
frightened, like a child who has let fall a valuable piece of china--it
was only an honest man's heart that she had broken. Slowly the truth
came out; Mr. Foster had proposed to her that afternoon in the park.
We, far off in the drawing-room, heard the shrill whistle with which
Livingstone greeted the intelligence.
"You accepted him, of course?" he said.
"O Guy!" Miss Raymond answered, blushing more than ever. (I'll back a
woman against the world for expressing half a chapter by a simple
interjection; Lord Burleigh's nod is nothing to it.) "But, indeed," she
went on, "I'm very sorry about it; I never saw any one look so unhappy
before. Do you know I think I saw the tears standing in his eyes; and I
only guessed at the words when he said 'God bless you!'"
"Ah bah!" replied Guy, with his most cynical smile on his lip; "he'll
recover. Who breaks his heart in these days, especially for such little
dots of things as you? But, Bella mia, how do you think Mr. Bruce would
approve of all these innocent amusements?"
It was no blush now, but a dead waxen whiteness, that came over the
beautiful face, even down to the chin. The soft brown eyes grew fixed
and wild with an imploring terror. "You won't tell him?" she gasped out;
and then stood quivering and shuddering. Guy was very much surprised: he
had never believed greatly in his cousin's affection for her betrothed;
but here there were signs, not only of the absence of love, but of the
presence of physical fear.
"My dear child," he said, very kindly, "don't alarm yourself so
absurdly. I have not the honor of Mr. Bruce's confidence; and if I had,
how could I tell him of an affair where _I_ have been most to blame?
I'll speak to Foster; he must not show his disappointment even before
Uncle Henry. You will be quite safe, you see. But, mind, I won't allow
_any one_ to frighten or vex my pet cousin." His countenance lowered as
he spoke, and there was a threat in his eyes.
As the cloud darkened on his face, the light came back on Isabel
Raymond's. She took his hand--all fibre and sinew, like an
oak-bough--into her slender fingers and pressed it hard. In good truth,
a woman at her need could ask no better defender than he who stood by
her side then, tall, strong, black-browed, and terrible as Saul. "Thank
you so much, dear Guy," she whispered. "If you speak to Mr. Foster, you
will tell him how _very_ sorry I am!" and then she left him.
Guy did speak to the curate, I hope gently. At all events, we never
laughed at him again. How could we, when we saw him going about his
daily duties, honestly and bravely, and always, when in presence,
struggling with his great sorrow, so as not by word or look to
compromise the thoughtless child who had won his heart for her
amusement, and thrown it away for her convenience?
I have been disciplined since by what I have felt and seen, and I see
now how ungenerous we had been.
What right had we to make of that man a puppet for our amusement,
because he was shy, and stupid, and slow? He was as true in his
devotion, as honorable in all his wishes, as confident in his hopes till
they were blasted, as any one that has gone a wooing since the first
whisper of love was heard in Eden. If his despair was less crushing than
that of other men, it was because his principles were stronger to
endure, and perhaps because his temperament was more tranquil and cold.
As I have said, he did his day's work thoroughly, and that helped him
through a good deal. But, to the utmost of his nature, I believe he did
suffer. And could the long train of those whom disappointment has made
maniacs or suicides do more?
Let us not trust too much to the absence of feeling in these seemingly
impassive organizations.
I wonder how often the executors of old college fellows, or of
hard-faced bankers and bureaucrats, have been aggravated by finding in
that most secret drawer, which ought to have held a codicil or a jewel,
a tress, a glove, or a flower? The searcher looks at the object for a
moment, and then throws it into the rubbish-basket, with a laugh if he
is good-natured, with a curse if he is vicious and disappointed. Let it
lie there--though the dead miser valued it above all his bank-stock, and
kissed it oftener than he did his living and lawful wife and
children--what is it worth now? Say, as the grim Dean of St. Patrick
wrote on _his_ love-token, "Only a woman's hair."
Now these men, unknown to their best friend perhaps, had gone through
the affliction which is so common that it is hard to speak of it without
launching into truisms. This sorrow has made some men famous, by forcing
them out into the world and shutting the door behind them. It has made
the fortunes of some poets, who choose the world for their confidant,
setting their bereavement to music, and bewailing Eurydice in charming
volumes, that are cheap at "3_s._ 6_d._ in cloth, lettered." It has made
some--I think the best and bravest--somewhat silent for the rest of
their lives. I read some lines the other day wise enough to have sprung
from an older brain than Owen Meredith's.
"They were pedants who could speak--
Grander souls have passed unheard;
Such as felt all language weak;
Choosing rather to record
Secrets before Heaven, than break
Faith with angels, by a word--"
Yes, many men have their Rachel; but--there being a prejudice against
bigamy--few have even the Patriarch's luck, to marry her at last; for
the wife _de convenance_ generally outlives her younger sister; and so,
one afternoon, we turn again from a grave in Ephrata-Green Cemetery,
somewhat drearily, into our tent pitched in the plains of Belgravia,
where Leah--(there was ever jealousy between those two)--meets us with a
sharp glance of triumph in her "tender eyes."
We have known pleasanter _tête-à-têtes_--have we not?--than that which
we undergo that evening at dinner, though our companion seems disposed
to be especially lively. We have not much appetite; but our _carissima
sposa_ tells us "not to drink any more claret, or we shall never be fit
to take her to Lady Shechem's _conversazione_." Of all nights in the
year, would she let us off duty on this one? "There are to be some very
pleasant people there," she says, "though none, perhaps, that _you
particularly care about_." (Thank you, my love; I understand that
good-natured allusion perfectly, and am proportionately grateful.) Her
voice sounds shriller than usual as she says this, and leaves us to put
some last touches to her toilette. So we order a fresh bottle,
notwithstanding the warning, and fall to thinking. How low and soft
_that other_ voice was, and, even when a little reproachful, how rarely
sweet! _She_ would scarcely have invented that last taunt if matters
had turned out differently. Then we think of our respected
father-in-law, Sir Joseph Leyburn, of Harran Park--a mighty county
magistrate and cattle-breeder. He got Ishmael Deadeye, the poacher,
transported last year, and took the prize for Devons at the Great
Mesopotamian Agricultural with a brindled bull. We remember his weeping
at the wedding-breakfast over the loss of his eldest treasure, and
wonder if he was an arrant humbug, or only a foolish, fond old man,
inclining morosely toward the former opinion. We don't seem to care much
about Sir Roland de Vaux, the celebrated geologist, whom we shall have
the privilege of meeting this evening. What are strata to us, when our
thoughts will not go lower than about _eight feet_ underground? We shall
be rather bored than otherwise by Dr. Sternhold, that eminent Christian
divine, who passes his leisure hours in proving St. Paul to have been an
unsound theologian and a weak dialectician. Why should Mr. Planet, the
intrepid traveler, be always inflicting Jerusalem upon us, as if no one
had ever visited the Holy Land before him? Our ancestors did so five
hundred years ago, and did not make half the fuss about it; and _they_
had a skirmish or two there worth speaking of, while we don't believe a
word of Planet's encounter with those three Arabs on the Hebron road.
Pooh! there's no more peril in traversing the Wilderness of Cades than
in going up to the Grands Mulets. We are not worthy of those
distinguished men, and would prefer the society of hard-riding Dick
Foley of the Blues. He had a few feelings in common with us once on a
certain point (how we hated him then), and he won't wonder if we are
duller than usual this evening. Perhaps his own nerve will scarcely be
as iron as usual in the Grand Military, to come off in the course of the
week.
Well, the bottle is out, and Mademoiselle Zelpa comes to say that
"Madame is ze raidèe." So one glass of Cognac neat, as a _chasse_ (to
more things than good Claret), and then--let us put on our whitest tie
and our most attractive smile, and "go forth, for she is gone."