What a fool I had been--what an idiot--to have thrown away my chances as
I had done! I had wished for "the roc's egg" to complete my happiness;
and I had obtained it with a vengeance.
My roc's egg had been the "open sesame" to Mrs Clyde's castle. I had
sighed for it, striven for it, gained it at last; and, a fine mess I had
made of it, all things considered!
What must she think me?
An ill-bred, untutored, unlicked cub, most probably!
I did not let myself off easily, I promise you. My conscience gave it
to me well, and I could find no satisfactory terms in which I could
express my opinion of my own surly behaviour.
I think if some people only knew the bitter pangs that social culprits
afterwards experience within themselves for their slips and slidings by
the way, they would be less harsh in their judgments and unsparing in
their condemnation than they usually are. Sending him to Coventry is a
poor punishment in comparison with the offender's own remorse. He finds
the "labor et opus redintegrare gradum" hard enough, without that
Rhadamanthus, "society," making the ascent slippery for him!
As I recalled the incidents of the evening, I could not help allowing to
my conscience that Mr Mawley the curate, whom I disliked, had shown
himself a gentleman, where I had only acted like a snob; while Horner, a
man whom I, in my conceit, had looked down upon and affected to despise
as an empty-headed fop and nonentity, was a prince beside me!
They had but played their respective social parts, and accepted the
gifts that the gods provided; while I--dunder-headed dolt that I was--
had conducted myself worse than a budding school-boy who had but just
donned swallow-tails, and made his first entry into society!
Jealousy had been the cause of it all, of course; but, although I have
always held, and will continue to believe, that the presence of that
"green-eyed monster," as the passion is euphuistically termed, is
inseparable from all cases of real, thorough, heart-felt, engrossing
love--still, jealousy is no excuse for ill-manners. "Noblesse oblige"
always. There is no half-way medium; no middle course to take.
Then, fancy my being such a brute as to quarrel with Min, merely because
she could not avoid being courteous to her guests! The fact of their
being personally obnoxious to me, did not affect the scale one way or
the other; she could not help _that_. I doubt whether she even knew it.
I was unable to forgive myself, and wondered if she would excuse my
conduct, and speak to me again; although, I really deserved social
extinction.
But, I surely could not belie her angel nature, I thought? When she
came to know all I had suffered that evening, and the miserable self-
upbraidings I had since endured, she would pity me, and forgive me,
forgetting all that had occurred "as a dream when one awaketh?" I was
sure she would; and I gained renewed courage from the impression.
I now bethought me how I should next present myself before her. In
accordance with the usages of conventionality, it would be right for me
to make an early call at Mrs Clyde's, in recognition of her late
assembly; and, unless I should chance to meet Min out alone, I would
have no chance of making my apology before then, while, even on that
occasion, the presence of her mother might prevent my speaking to her as
openly as I wished. What should I do?
I determined, under the circumstances, and from the fact of our being
such old friends--she had said so herself, had she not?--that I would
make her a little peace-offering, in the shape of a present of some sort
or other.
This did not occur to me with the idea of propitiating her as an
offended goddess, sacrifices being out of date in the existing era--
except those to Moloch! No, such a thought never occurred to me for a
moment.
Min was not the class of girl whose pardon or good-will could be
purchased, as is frequently the case, perhaps, with others of her sex!
What suggested the scheme to me was, my not having made her any birthday
gift, as her other friends, without exception, had done. It is "never
too late to mend;" so, why should I not take her a little present now,
to show her that she lived in my heart and had not been intentionally
forgotten? If she accepted my offering, good. I should then be certain
that she extenuated my gaucherie at her party, whether I got speech with
her or no. Yes, that would be the proper course for me to pursue.
Would you not have thought so in a like contingency?
The present being decided on, what should I get for her? Flowers,
photographs, books, music, and all those delicate nothings, which people
generally tender as souvenirs for other people's acceptance, she had in
abundance.
None of these would do at all. I wanted her to have some special, out-
of-the-way something from me, which would always call the giver before
her mind whenever she saw it. You may think my wish a selfish one,
perhaps, but we generally like to be remembered by those we love. I
think so, at least; and, I do not believe I am a very exceptional
individual.
What should my gift be? It would not be proper for me to offer, nor was
it likely that her mother would allow her to accept, anything very
valuable, or of intrinsic worth: such as a watch, which I first thought
of. Besides, she had a watch already--one that kept time, unlike most
ladies' "time-keepers"--and a particularly pretty one it was, too; so,
that was out of the question at once. Jewellery would be just as
inadmissible. What on earth should my present consist of?
Why, a bird, of course! How stupid I was growing, to be sure! I really
had become quite dull. A bird would be the very thing of all others to
suit her, so I need not worry my brains any longer. She had plenty of
flowers in her bay window conservatory, besides a tiny crystal fountain,
that leaped and sparkled to the astounding altitude of some eighteen
inches, and which, on festive occasions, ran Florida-water or Eau-de-
Cologne. In addition to these, she required, to my mind, a bird to
complete the effect of the whole. A bird she, accordingly, should have.
I had often heard her say that she loved birds dearly. Not wild
songsters, however, who sing best in their native freedom of the skies,
like the spotted-breasted, circle-carolling lark, the thicket-haunting
blackbird, and the sweet-throated thrush.--It would have afforded her no
pleasure to prison up one of these in a cage. But, a little fledgling
that had never known what it was to roam at its own sweet will, and who,
when offered the liberty of the air, would hardly care to "take
advantage of the situation;" _that_ would be the bird which she would
like to have, I was certain.
I knew just such an one. I had him, in fact. He was "Dicky Chips:"--
the funniest, quaintest, most intelligent, and most amusing little
bullfinch you ever clapped eyes on.