“A ship and a woman are ever repairing.”
_Jacula Prudentum._
My conversation did not terminate with that very fine philosophical
stroke you have just read; but it is not worth while recording what
followed, as it consisted entirely of apologies and excuses on my
uncle’s side, and polite protests and entreaties on mine.
Indeed, now that the trick was exposed and Theresa repentant, I was
inclined to witness something exceedingly diverting in the whole
performance, and to think my cousin no ordinary genius for so cleverly
planning and so bravely executing a very repulsive part. I could not
quite believe that she was so repentant as her papa represented her.
Somewhat ashamed of herself she might indeed be, not so much on account
of her vagaries, as because she had so instantly dropped her mask on
hearing I was in love with Conny. There was a confession of weakness in
this she would not like to remember.
Meanwhile my uncle was extraordinarily polite. The kind-hearted old
man was obviously anxious to make me all the amends in his power. He
planned a fishing excursion, a riding party, a drive to some famous
ruins; he begged me to suggest my own amusements. He had an engagement
at half-past eleven to meet some man on business at the village,
whither he asked me to accompany him. I told him I should prefer
rambling amongst the trees in the grounds, the truth being, I wanted to
see Theresa and become friends with her.
“Very well,” said he; “do whatever you please. I shall be back by
lunch-time, and then we’ll think over some way of getting rid of the
afternoon.”
His horse was saddled and brought to the door; he sprang upon it in
fine style considering his great bulk, and with a kindly nod at me,
trotted slowly down the avenue.
Seeing no signs of Theresa, I thought I could not better pass the time
than by writing a description of my reception and adventures to Conny,
and went into the house meaning to settle down to a long letter. As I
passed through the hall, I noticed the album lying upon the table in
the drawing-room. So I took hold of the book, and, like an honest lover
that I was, fell to a maudlin perusal of my mistress’s countenance.
But very often my eyes wandered to Theresa’s handsome face, and though
my heart reproached me for the involuntary judgment, I could not help
confessing that of the two cousins Conny was decidedly the inferior
in every physical respect. Nothing more natural, of course, being a
fair man, than that when I had two pretty girls before me, she of the
dark eyes should touch me more nearly than she of the blue. You will
understand, I am speaking now as a connoisseur--of the effect produced
upon my mind; it was a criticism with which my heart had nothing to do.
I was leaving the drawing-room, _en route_ for the library, where I
expected to find pen and paper, when I met my cousin face to face. She
blushed and stood still--I think she had imagined I had gone out with
her father--then promptly held out her hand, which you may believe I
took readily enough.
“What do you think of me?” she asked.
“What, but that you are a very fine actress, and acquitted yourself to
perfection in as difficult a part as you could have chosen.”
“If you had only told me that you were in love with Conny, I should
have been as anxious as papa to make you welcome,” she said.
“We are both in an explanatory humour,” I replied, “so let us sit down
and talk the matter out.”
She seated herself--very differently, I promise you, from the awkward
fashion in which she had hitherto performed that action--her manner,
indeed, was abrupt, but that was owing to nervousness; for the rest,
she was as subdued as Katherine after five acts of Petruchio.
“Your father tells me,” said I, “you were under the impression I had
come here to make love to you on Stock Exchange principles, and marry
you as a commercial undertaking. Nothing under yonder sky could be
wider from the truth than that.”
“When papa informed me of your proposed visit,” she answered,
keeping her eyes bent downwards--and now that she was womanly
and well-behaved, I could appreciate the surprising length of her
eyelashes, and the abundant folds of her rich brown hair--“he quite
gave me to understand that it was his and Tom’s wish that I should
marry you. I said nothing--but I inwardly vowed that no earthly power
should induce me to accept a man’s hand under any other conditions than
my own. I did not wish to pain papa by expressing the opinions I felt,
and so resolved to make you disgusted with me, and drive you out of the
house as soon as possible.”
“You succeeded in everything.”
“I am very sorry,” she continued, blushing again, though meeting my
eyes; “you didn’t deserve such bad treatment. Had you been a fop, or a
silly fellow, I should not regret tormenting you. But you are neither,
and bore your sufferings so good-naturedly, that my conscience pricked
me every time I forced a sneer, or answered you rudely.”
“Had you treated me twenty times more rudely than you did,” I answered,
“you have said more than enough to entitle you to the fullest
forgiveness. I applaud your motives highly, and think so well of your
resolution not to be made love to without your consent, that I am only
surprised you should have behaved with so much moderation.”
“Don’t be ironical. Moderation! Think of O’Twist last night!”
“Poor O’Twist! had I not thought him mad, I should have thrashed him.
But I was really afraid not only to raise my hand, but even to show my
indignation, not knowing what might become of me, should the lunatic’s
rage be excited!”
“I can only repeat,” said she, “that I am very sorry it has happened. I
will not say so again: for one apology is enough, when you are sincere.
Papa was too emphatic. He fully impressed me with the idea that a
marriage between us was settled, and--and I was _determined_ not to be
married in such an off-hand way.”
And then a bright blush glowed in those cheeks, which, a few hours
before, I could have sworn were incapable of blushing; she tried to
smile, but looked terribly confused and nervous.
“You must have a great deal of courage to handle a pistol as you do,”
said I, willing to relieve her by changing the subject. “All the girls
I have known would rather play with a black beetle than gunpowder.”
“I began to shoot long before I heard you were coming,” she answered,
quickly.
“Yes, I know. Your father says you are a capital shot.”
“I believe I am. You will think the pastime very unfeminine; but it is
a caprice of mine, and papa is very indulgent.”
“You are also a very courageous rider, I hear.”
“There are very few horses I should fear to mount.”
“And now, Theresa, will you confess that your favourite author is not
the ‘Family Herald?’”
She laughed outright at this, and exclaimed:
“The most wonderful part of it all is, that I should ever have got you
to believe the nonsense I talked.”
“It is no proof of my stupidity, but of your cleverness.”
“Oh, how rude I was!” she cried, looking at me almost gaily, and losing
her subdued manner. “How you stared when I refused to take your arm
and to give you my cup to put down! I was silly to misbehave myself so
to _you_; but rather than allow any man to hang about me with sickly
compliments, owing wholly to commercial inspirations, I would have
acted ten times more boldly and rudely, and never have rested until I
had driven him out of the house, detesting my very name!”
“I believe you,” said I, amused by the gleam in her eyes, and by her
recurrence to some points of the character she had discarded.
“But we won’t talk of it. Tell me about yourself and Conny. Are you
engaged?”
“No. Uncle Tom refuses his consent; and I ought to add that Conny isn’t
positively in love with me yet--at least she says she isn’t.”
“I don’t suppose Tom’s sanction would trouble you much, would it?”
she asked, making me smile, not only by her familiar reference to her
uncle, but by her off-hand manner, which, now that it was associated
with nothing of rudeness, I found extremely agreeable, piquant, and
characteristic.
“If Conny loved me, her father’s consent, I believe, would follow. Her
mamma is strongly on my side.”
“I should never bother about relations’ opinions much,” said she.
“People only marry each other, not each other’s family. Why does Tom
object?”
“Because I’ve got no money.”
She pondered my reply for a little in silence, then took up the album,
opened it at Conny’s picture, and mused over it.
“She is very pretty, isn’t she? Her fair hair will keep her a young
looking woman when she is far beyond middle-age. I only wonder she
hasn’t married long ago. But they live as quietly at Grove End as we
do, and their neighbours are about as cheerful and hospitable as ours.”
She closed the album and added, “If you marry her, I hope you’ll both
be happy. You’ll find her staunch, I am sure, if once you succeed in
winning her love.”
“I am sure of that, too. What deep eyes she has! Her character has
sometimes puzzled me. Her mind is so nimble, that it seems to be
frisking about in a dozen meanings at once.”
“That kind of nimbleness makes a woman charming. Your plain-speaker is
rarely followed by the men.”
“There are so few men of whom anything complimentary can be said, that
there is little marvel we should shun candid women. It would have done
me good had you continued your downright part for a week or two; you
would have taught me to know some of my weaknesses. As it is, I should
say I have not lost less than three pounds weight of conceit since
yesterday.”
“But what have I lost? First impressions are everything--and I question
if you will ever overcome the dislike of me I tried to produce.”
“I am not so stubborn as you think. But you hate compliments, and so
I’ll hold my tongue, lest I should be misconstrued.”
To this she made no reply; but, leaving her chair, went to the window,
where she stood for a minute or two. I could not help watching her fine
figure with admiration. Had Conny been present I could not have admired
Theresa less. I had already heard and seen enough to enable me to judge
how odious the character she had assumed must have been to her, and the
glad relief with which she had flung it aside. But what resolution was
hers to give her strength to carry out so singular an imposture! What
force of character needful to beat down and silence those instincts
which, as certainly as she was a woman, would clamour for quite a
different construction from what she was determined I should put upon
her nature!
“I desired the footman,” said she, approaching me, “to apologise to
you this morning; but in order to get him to do so, I had to invent a
little fable, which, no doubt, you will call a fib. I told him you were
not the gentleman I had expected--leaving him to make out the riddle as
his Irish brains best could. In one sense, you are _not_ the gentleman
I had expected. Still, unavoidable as the equivocation was, it annoys
me intensely. True it is that one folly begets another, and a worse. I
must devise some expiation. Exact some penance--I promise you shall be
obeyed.”
Now where was my wit, that I didn’t say something handsome? ’Twas ever
thus. A capital answer occurred next day. But it was too late.
“I want nothing but your good opinion. I have innocently put you to a
great deal of trouble. All I require is your forgiveness for having
made you very uneasy.”
“Then let us shake hands and be good friends; as cousins we ought to
like each other. And since there is no likelihood of our being married,
there is no reason why we should be enemies.”
I pressed her hand warmly, laughing at her queer speech, and her blunt
manner; but admiring too.
At this moment the door opened, and in came my uncle, who had
evidently entered the house by one of the side doors.
“I wish persons would knock when they come into a room,” I whispered
with soft significance, releasing her hand, and catching sight of the
conscious blush with which she received the remark she had herself
greeted me with not very long before.
My uncle here burst into a roar of laughter.
“Good friends, hey?” cried he; “now, then, we shall be happy!”
And running up to the piano, he strummed and sang:
Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha! ha! the wooing o’t!
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha! ha! the wooing o’t;
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty dizzie dee?
She may gae to France for me!
Ha! ha! the wooing o’t!
Than which nothing could be more ludicrously inappropriate.
“I thought you weren’t coming back until lunch-time,” said I.
“I met a fellow with a message from my man to say he couldn’t meet me,”
he answered.