_Spark._ “Very droll and extravagantly comic, I must confess; ha, ha,
ha!”
_The Country Girl._
I made haste to dress, not caring a fig that Theresa should see my
beard--which to tell the truth, owing to my being fair, was scarcely
perceptible--and went down-stairs, keeping a sharp lookout for O’Twist,
from whom I might have I knew not what to dread.
The drawing-room door was open, and on entering, I found Theresa
arranging some freshly-picked flowers in a vase. She instantly dropped
her work on seeing me, and exclaimed very petulantly,
“I wish people would knock when they come into a room.”
“I’ll knock when I wear a livery,” I replied, “not before.”
“Do you sometimes wear a livery?” she inquired.
“Miss Hargrave,” I exclaimed sternly, “I beg that you will cease your
badinage. During the short time I have been in your house, I have
had to submit to very bad treatment. It is absurd to pretend that
the behaviour you show to me is the behaviour you show to others. My
conviction is that you have falsified your character only that you
may drive me back to Updown. You have attained your end. I leave you
to-day; but I shall take care,” I added, feeling myself grow red in the
face, “before I go, to acquaint your father with the singular rudeness
you have been pleased to treat his guest with. Did I imagine that you
had the faintest perception of your duty as a hostess, I might be
tempted to complain to you of the insolence I have met with from that
scoundrel footman of yours, O’Twist. But he has no doubt been licensed
by _your_ behaviour, and thinks himself perfectly privileged to enter
my room at night, take unwarrantable liberties with the window, and
steal my razor.”
There was an expression on her face, as she listened to me, which
suggested that every moment she was about to burst into a fit of
laughter. She heard me to the end, and then said,
“Have you made up your mind to go to-day?”
“Yes,” I cried, indignantly. “I shall only wait to see my uncle.”
“Then,” said she, coolly, “I will spare your nerves the anguish of a
meeting.”
“A what?” I exclaimed.
“Since you have been in this house,” she replied, “your behaviour to
me has been _most_ insulting. You have pretended to be deaf when I
spoke to you. You have ridiculed my book-learning. You have, I am sure,
made the most odious comparisons between me and my cousin Constance;
and lastly, you took the unwarrantable liberty of telling my father
of my reception of you in the avenue yesterday, and earning me a
reprimand. I had resolved that nothing less than a duel could wipe away
the disgrace you have sought to cast upon me; but since you are leaving
us, I need not exact this proof of a courage you _boast_ of, but which
I thoroughly question!”
“Are you mad?” I burst out. “But you are. O’Twist is mad! you are all
mad! And if I were to stay here another day, I should go mad too! A
duel--with a _woman_!”
“Pray,” said she, scornfully, “don’t try to make my sex a defence for
your fears. If you have a mind to prove your courage, there are two
pistols upstairs, and I shall be happy to accompany you to the back of
the avenue at once. My father will not be down for another hour, so we
need fear no interruption.”
“God help you!” said I. And I added, “What a fool I was to leave Grove
End! There, at least, they know how to treat a gentleman.”
“A gentleman!” she exclaimed. “I am very sure that were you to behave
to Conny as you have behaved to me----”
“Are you aware,” I interrupted her, “that in mentioning the name of
Conny, you are speaking of the sweetest and most womanly of girls? who
would no more insult me as you do, than I would knowingly insult you?”
“Do you like her?”
“Like her? I love her!” I exclaimed.
“Are you in earnest?” she asked.
“Of course I am. I loved her from the moment I set eyes on her. I would
marry her to-morrow. I am only waiting until I have taught her to love
me, to marry her.”
She stared for a moment or two with an expression of profound
incredulity in her eyes; and almost immediately a deep and burning
blush overspread her cheeks. I seemed to witness a change come over her
as astounding as any that was ever wrought by Harlequin’s wand. “If I
had _only_ known!” she exclaimed, and hurried out of the room.
I stamped my foot with impatience.
“What _is_ the meaning of all this?” I cried. “What earthly motive can
these relations have for surrounding, and bewildering, and insulting me
with their confounded conundrums?”
I paced about the room waiting for Theresa to return, when I at least
expected she would enter into a full explanation of her extraordinary
behaviour. Half-an-hour passed, and I was still alone. The grounds
looked tempting; I entered them, and began with regular steps to
measure the wide extent of the lawn, cudgelling my brains the while for
a clue to Theresa’s conduct, and reviling the sluggish habits of my
uncle, which delayed my hope of being enlightened.
Presently O’Twist came out of the house. He approached me with the most
humble aspect that can be figured, and on my halting, stood still,
twitching a fore-lock.
“I humbly ax your honour’s pardon for de liberty I took wid your honour
last night. It wor all a mistake, sor; and Miss Theresa’s bid me come
to you now and apoologise.”
“What do you mean by a mistake?” I inquired, severely.
“Why, sor, I was desired to kape me eye upon you, and at night-time to
look in upon your honour in bed, to see dat de moon didn’t shine upon
your head, sor; for I was tould dat you were not in your right sinses,
and dat de moon so excited your honour, dat dere was no telling what
moorderous thricks you moightn’t be playin’ wid de household.”
“And who told you all this?”
“Miss Theresa, and she bid me tell you it was herself as set me to
watch you, sor.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, a light beginning to break. “And did she order you
to take my razor away?”
“Dat was me own sthrategem.”
“And pray how come you to find out now that I am not mad?”
“Why, yer honour, you’re not de gintleman Miss Theresa tort you. I’m
sure, sir, I’m very much ashamed of de inconvainance and throuble I’ve
put your honour tew, and most humbly ax your pardon.”
Here his hand vibrated at his forehead.
“All right; say no more. I can see you are not to blame,” I replied,
inwardly grappling with a very elusive idea that had been suggested by
the man’s apologies. He retired, looking very contrite and ashamed, and
I resumed my walk.
It was clear now that my first perceptions of my cousin’s character
were right, and that the extravagant part she had played was assumed,
though for what motive I had yet to learn. Before long, O’Twist came
out again, and asked me, with an air of obsequious deference, if I
would take breakfast.
“I’ll wait,” I answered, “for my uncle,” who, as I spoke, threw open
his bed-room window, waved his hand, and called out that he would be
with me in a few minutes. Those few minutes lasted a long time. I
grew so tired of waiting; that I returned to the house. It was nearly
half-past ten, and I had not breakfasted! What is the meaning of all
this? I thought. Is it my uncle’s turn now to play me a trick? At last
I heard his boots creaking on the stairs, and he came into the room
slowly, with the air of a man oppressed with trouble.
“I hardly know how to face you,” he exclaimed, taking my hand. “I am
ashamed of myself, ashamed of my daughter, ashamed of my house--of
everything! I have heard the whole story from Theresa, and have no
words to express my annoyance to think that you should have been
made the victim of so flagrant a violation of the commonest rules of
politeness and hospitality.”
“Before I can answer you,” I said, “pray help me out of the fog in
which I am still involved. What _is_ the meaning of all this?”
“Breakfast, sor,” cried O’Twist from the door.
“Of course you have breakfasted!” exclaimed my uncle.
“Not yet.”
“Not breakfasted! and how long is it since you left your room?”
“Two hours.”
“Heaven forgive us!” he groaned; “it is not enough that they should
wantonly insult you--they mean to starve you as well! Come!” he cried,
catching me by the arm, and hurrying me into the dining-room, “not a
word--not a word until you have breakfasted.”
His distress was really genuine; and I felt for him. I could not better
show my sympathy than by attending to his requests; and so, without a
word, fell to the capital repast before me. For his part, he ate little
or nothing; all his time was employed in watching me; and had I been
wronged in the most atrocious manner, I don’t think his face could have
expressed keener remorse.
“Pray,” said I, at last, “don’t allow a trifle like this to vex you.”
“My boy,” he answered, wiping his forehead with an immense
pocket-handkerchief; “I am fifty-five years of age, and this is the
very first occasion in my life on which a guest of mine has had reason
to complain of the treatment he has received under my roof. Were you a
stranger to me, the indignities that have been heaped upon you would
be felt by me keenly enough; but you are my brother’s son, and have a
particular claim upon our kindness. I consider that no apologies we can
make ought to entitle us to your forgiveness.”
“You really judge the matter too seriously. If I had less conceit and
more penetration, I should have seen at once that Theresa was acting a
feigned part. But where is she? I don’t think she has breakfasted.”
“She is hiding her face for shame.”
“Please beg her not to do so.”
“She is the most extraordinary creature on the face of the earth,” he
exclaimed. “What do you think was her reason for making such a donkey
of herself? She has told me her story--and, as you have finished
breakfast, you shall hear it.”
He pushed his chair from the table, and began to speak with great
energy.
“She was under the impression that you had come here with the intention
of making love to, and marrying her. I had previously told her exactly
the nature of your uncle Tom’s scheme, and that I liked it, and should
be well pleased to see it carried out. She heard me without offering a
single remark. She asked no questions about you--but simply inquired
when you were coming. And now she has confessed to me that she was
determined not to be married to any man by _contrivance_. I knew she
had a proud nature--but I never suspected she was so silly as to
suppose that, unless she should really love you well enough to be your
wife, I should wish her to marry you.”
“Ah!” I cried: “then her object was to disgust me.”
“Precisely; and what does the minx do? She hangs about the avenue until
she spies you coming, and then salutes you with a pistol shot! She
repels your politeness with the most uncouth rudeness! In order still
further to embarrass and disgust you, she coolly tells O’Twist that
you are not always in your right senses, and desires him to keep his
eye on you whenever he has the opportunity of doing so, particularly
during meal-times, lest you should snatch up a knife, and attempt to
murder one of us! A better tool than O’Twist for her sorry purposes she
couldn’t have hit upon. He is not only credulous, but superstitious,
and, but for this discovery, would have teazed your soul out of you.
The idiot believes every word she says, and obeys her injunctions with
even more zeal than she could have hoped for. She had told him to enter
your room at night (not doubting he would awaken and terrify you), and
pull down your blind, should he find it up, lest the moonshine should
unduly excite you. The trick was so far clever, that she might depend
at least upon both of you thinking the other mad. God knows how the
joke might have ended, had you lost your temper. Then again, when I ask
her to play and sing, she breaks into hideous noises, so resolved is
she that you shall think her repulsive in every possible point of view.”
“No, no. Not from every point of view--she couldn’t deform her beauty.
But the truth is, she wanted to drive me out of the house.”
“Yes, that was her object; and it is impossible to conjecture what
other tricks she might not have played you, had you not told her you
were in love with Conny.” (I blushed. Somehow or other I felt ashamed
that _he_ should know this.) “_Then_ her false character fell from
her. She saw the blunder she had perpetrated, the unnecessary cruelty
of her tricks; her own conduct terrified her, and I pledge you my word,
when I left her, she was crying like a child.”
“Oh, pray,” I cried, starting up, “let me go and assure her----”
“Let her cry,” he interrupted me. “There may be more hysteria than
remorse in her tears--though I am sure she is sorry enough. She imposed
too heavy a part on herself; the imposture was too much for her
strength. She never could have persisted in it. Her true nature would
have broken through and would have betrayed her extraordinary motives.”
“While her deception lasted, it was very clever. I really gave her
credit for being the unmannerly young person she enacted. To be sure, I
found it hard to reconcile her beauty with her gross behaviour, and, no
doubt, had she carried on her deceit much longer, I should have found
her out. But, before that could have happened, she would have gained
her object, for I had fully made up my mind to leave you to-day.”
“Nonsense! I wouldn’t have permitted it. I noticed that her behaviour
was very extraordinary; but to tell you frankly the truth, I thought
the whole thing a mere piece of coquetry. After that singing bout of
hers, I was persuaded that her reason for acting so strangely was
merely to make her real nature and capacities more striking, by the
force of contrast when she chose to exhibit them. Women will descend to
any absurdities to gain admiration.”
“She evidently didn’t want me to admire her,” said I, laughing.
“Not the least galling part of the business is the doubt her deceit
implies of _me_. Could she--could you imagine for a moment that I could
ever sanction her marriage with a man she didn’t love? If she can
suspect that I would part with her on commercial grounds only, she does
me a far greater wrong than she has done you.”
“It is her reserve that has brought all this about,” said I. “Had she
asked a few questions, nothing could have happened to trouble us.”
“She _is_ reserved--shy, as I told you--and confoundedly proud. She
owned to me just now, that the idea of her becoming your wife in order
to carry out her uncle’s and my wishes was abhorrent to her. ‘If I am
to be loved, papa,’ she said, ‘I must be loved without regard to the
wishes or objections of outsiders.’”
“My views exactly,” I exclaimed, “I never came here with the intention
of making love to her. I wanted to know her and enjoy your hospitality
and society, and uncle Tom could have no right to expect more from
me. I always was and always shall be opposed to marriages ‘of
convenience,’” I continued warmly. “A man and a woman are brought
together without love, without sympathy, without probably one interest
in common, save that of mutual disgust. How can they be happy? You may
tell them that their marriage will fill their pockets with money; but
how many pounds sterling does an ounce of pure love cost? Where are
they to go to market for their everyday moral wants? I am too poor, and
I hope too wise to sneer at money; but in my humble opinion the man who
should set to work to make a map of human life, would not blunder in
putting all the best things outside the money line.”