Mr. Incledon was a man of whom people said that any girl might be glad
to marry him; and considering marriage from an abstract point of view,
as one naturally does when it does not concern one’s self, this was
entirely true. In position, in character, in appearance, and in
principles, he was everything that could be desired: a good man, just,
and never consciously unkind; nay, capable of generosity when it was
worth his while and he had sufficient inducement to be generous. A man
well educated, who had been much about the world, and had learned the
toleration which comes by experience; whose opinions were worth hearing
on almost every subject; who had read a great deal, and thought a
little, and was as much superior to the ordinary young man of society in
mind and judgment as he was in wealth. That this kind of man often fails
to captivate a foolish girl, when her partner in a valse, brainless,
beardless, and penniless, succeeds without any trouble in doing so, is
one of those mysteries of nature which nobody can penetrate, but which
happens too often to be doubted. Even in this particular, however, Mr.
Incledon had his advantages. He was not one of those who, either by
contempt for the occupations of youth or by the gravity natural to
maturer years, allow themselves to be pushed aside from the lighter part
of life--he still danced, though not with the absolute devotion of
twenty, and retained his place on the side of youth, not permitting
himself to be shelved. More than once, indeed, the young officers from
the garrison near, and the young scions of the county families, had
looked on with puzzled non-comprehension, when they found themselves
altogether distanced in effect and popularity by a mature personage whom
they would gladly have called an old fogy had they dared. These young
gentlemen of course consoled their vanity by railing against the
mercenary character of women who preferred wealth to everything. But it
was not only his wealth upon which Mr. Incledon stood. No girl who had
married him need have felt herself withdrawn to the grave circle in
which her elders had their place. He was able to hold his own in every
pursuit with men ten years his juniors, and did so. Then, too, he had
almost a romantic side to his character; for a man so well off does not
put off marrying for so long without a reason, and though nobody knew of
any previous story, any “entanglement,” which would have restrained him,
various picturesque suggestions were afloat; and even failing these, the
object of his choice might have laid the flattering unction to her soul
that his long waiting had been for the realization of some perfect
ideal, which he found only in her.
This model of a marriageable man took his way from the White House in a
state of mind less easily described than most of his mental processes.
He was not excited to speak of, for an interview between a lover of
thirty-five and the mother of the lady is not generally exciting; but he
was a little doubtful of his own perfect judiciousness in the step he
had just taken. I can no more tell you why he had set his heart on Rose
than I can say why she felt no answering inclination towards him--for
there were many other girls in the neighborhood who would in many ways
have been more suitable to a man of his tastes and position. But Rose
was the one woman in the world for him, by sheer caprice of nature; just
as reasonable, and no more so, as that other caprice which made him,
with all his advantages and recommendations, not the man for her. If
ever a man was in a position to make a deliberate choice, such as men
are commonly supposed to make in matrimony, Mr. Incledon was the man;
yet he chose just as much and as little as the rest of us do. He saw
Rose, and some power which he knew nothing of decided the question at
once for him. He had not been thinking of marriage, but then he made up
his mind to marry; and whereas he had on various occasions weighed the
qualities and the charms of this one and the other, he never asked
himself a question about her, nor compared her with any other woman, nor
considered whether she was suited for him, or anything else about her.
This was how he exercised that inestimable privilege of choice which
women sometimes envy. But, having once received this conviction into his
mind, he had never wavered in his determination to win her. The question
in his mind now was, not whether his selection was the best he could
have made, but whether it was wise of him to have entrusted his cause to
the mother rather than to have spoken to Rose herself. He had remained
in the background during those dreary months of sorrow. He had sent
flowers and game and messages of inquiry; but he had not thrust himself
upon the notice of the women, till their change of residence gave token
that they must have begun to rouse themselves for fresh encounter with
the world. When he was on his way to the White House he had fully
persuaded himself that to speak to the mother first was the most
delicate and the most wise thing he could do. For one thing, he could
say so much more to her than he could to Rose; he could assure her of
his good-will and of his desire to be of use to the family, should he
become a member of it. Mr. Incledon did not wish to bribe Mrs. Damerel
to be on his side. He had indeed a reasonable assurance that no such
bribe was necessary, and that a man like himself must always have a
reasonable mother on his side. This he was perfectly aware of, as indeed
any one in his senses would have been. But as soon as he had made his
declaration to Mrs. Damerel, and had left the White House behind, his
thoughts began to torment him with doubts of the wisdom of this
proceeding. He saw very well that there was no clinging of enthusiastic
love, no absolute devotedness of union, between this mother and
daughter, and he began to wonder whether he might not have done better
had he run all the risks and broached the subject to Rose herself, shy
and liable to be startled as she was. It was perhaps possible that his
own avowal, which must have had a certain degree of emotion in it, would
have found better acceptation with her than the passionless statement of
his attentions which Mrs. Damerel would probably make. For it never
dawned upon Mr. Incledon’s imagination that Mrs. Damerel would support
his suit not with calmness, but passionately--more passionately,
perhaps, than would have been possible to himself. He could not have
divined any reason why she should do so, and naturally he had not the
least idea of the tremendous weapons she was about to employ in his
favor. I don’t think, for very pride and shame, that he would have
sanctioned the use of them, had he known.
It happened, however, by chance, that as he walked home in the wintry
twilight he met Mrs. Wodehouse and her friend Mrs. Musgrove, who were
going the same way as he was, on their way to see the Northcotes, who
had lately come to the neighborhood. He could not but join them so far
in their walk, nor could he avoid the conversation which was inevitable.
Mrs. Wodehouse indeed was very eager for it, and began almost before he
could draw breath.
“Did you see Mrs. Damerel after all?” she asked. “You remember I met you
when you were on your way?”
“Yes; she was good enough to see me,” said Mr. Incledon.
“And how do you think she is looking? I hear such different accounts;
some people say very ill, some just as usual. I have not seen her,
myself,” said Mrs. Wodehouse, slightly drawing herself up, “except in
church.”
“How was that?” he said, half amused. “I thought you had always been
great friends.”
Upon this he saw Mrs. Musgrove give a little jerk to her friend’s cloak,
in warning, and perceived that Mrs. Wodehouse wavered between a desire
to tell a grievance and the more prudent habit of self-restraint.
“Oh!” she said, with a little hesitation; “yes, of course we were always
good friends. I had a great admiration for our late good rector, Mr.
Incledon. What a man he was! Not to say a word against the new one, who
is very nice, he will never be equal to Mr. Damerel. What a fine mind he
had, and a style, I am told, equal to the very finest preachers! We must
never hope to hear such sermons in our little parish again. Mrs. Damerel
is a very good woman, and I feel for her deeply; but the attraction in
that house, as I am sure you must have felt, was not her, but him.”
“I have always had a great regard for Mrs. Damerel,” said Mr. Incledon.
“Oh, yes, yes! I am sure--a good wife and an excellent mother and all
that; but not the fine mind, not the intellectual conversation, one used
to have with the dear rector,” said good Mrs. Wodehouse, who had about
as much intellect as would lie on a sixpence; and then she added,
“perhaps I am prejudiced; I never can get over a slight which I am sure
she showed to my son.”
“Ah! what was that?”
Mrs. Musgrove once more pulled her friend’s cloak, and there was a great
deal more eagerness and interest than the occasion deserved in Mr.
Incledon’s tone.
“Oh, nothing of any consequence! What do you say, dear?--a mistake?
Well, I don’t think it was a mistake. They thought Edward was going
to--yes, _that_ was a mistake, if you please. I am sure he had many
other things in his mind a great deal more important. But they
thought--and though common civility demanded something different, and I
took the trouble to write a note and ask it, I do think--but, however,
after the words I had with her to-day, I no longer blame Rose. Poor
child! I am always very sorry for poor Rose.”
“Why should you be sorry for Miss Damerel? Was she one of those who,
slighted your son? I hope Mr. Edward Wodehouse is quite well.”
“He is very well, I thank you, and getting on so satisfactorily; nothing
could be more pleasant. Oh, you must not think Edward cared! He has seen
a great deal of the world, and he did not come home to let himself be
put down by the family of a country clergyman. That is not at all what I
meant; I am sorry for Rose, however, because of a great many things. She
ought to go out as a governess or companion, or something of that sort,
poor child! Mrs. Damerel may try, but I am sure they never can get on as
they are doing. I hear that all they have to depend on is about a
hundred and fifty a year. A family can never live upon that, not with
their habits, Mr. Incledon; and therefore I think I may well say _poor_
Rose!”
“I don’t think Miss Damerel will ever require to make such a sacrifice,”
he said, hurriedly.
“Well, I only hope you are right,” said Mrs. Wodehouse. “Of course you
know a great deal more about business matters than I do, and perhaps
their money is at higher interest than we think for; but if I were Rose
I almost think I should see it to be my duty. Here we are at Mrs.
Northcote’s, dear. Mr. Incledon, I am afraid we must say good-by.”
Mr. Incledon went home very hot and fast after this conversation. It
warmed him in the misty, cold evening, and seemed to put so many weapons
into his hand. Rose, his Rose, go out as a governess or companion! He
looked at the shadow of his own great house standing out against the
frosty sky, and laughed to himself as he crossed the park. She a
dependent, who might to-morrow if she pleased be virtual mistress of
Whitton and all its wealth! He would have liked to say to these women,
“In three months Rose will be the great lady of the parish, and lay down
the law to you and the Green, and all your gossiping society.” He would
even in a rare fit of generosity have liked to tell them, on the spot,
that this blessedness was in Rose’s power, to give her honor in their
eyes, whether she accepted him or not; which was a very generous impulse
indeed, and one which few men would have been equal to--though indeed as
a matter of fact Mr. Incledon did not carry it out. But he went into the
lonely house where everything pleasant and luxurious, except the one
crowning luxury of some one to share it with, awaited him, in a glow of
energy and eagerness, resolved to go back again to-morrow and plead his
cause with Rose herself, and win her, not prudentially through her
mother, but by his own warmth of love and eloquence. Poor Rose in June!
In the wintry setting of the White House she was not much like the
rector’s flower-maiden, in all her delicate perfection of bloom, “queen
rose of the rosebud garden,” impersonation of all the warmth, and
sweetness, and fragrance, and exquisite simple profusion of summer and
nature. Mr. Incledon’s heart swelled full of love and pity as he thought
of the contrast--not with passion, but soft tenderness, and a delicious
sense of what it was in his power to do for her, and to restore her to.
He strayed over the rooms which he had once shown to her, with a natural
pride in their beauty, and in all the delicate treasures he had
accumulated there, until he came to the little inner room with its
gray-green hangings, in which hung the Perugino, which, since Rose had
seen it, he had always called his Raphael. He seemed to see her too,
standing there looking at it, a creature partaking something of that
soft divinity, an enthusiast with sweet soul and looks congenial to that
heavenly art. I do not know that his mind was of a poetical turn by
nature, but there are moments when life makes a poet of the dullest; and
on this evening the lonely, quiet house within the parks and woods of
Whitton, where there had been neither love, nor anything worth calling
life, for years, except in the cheery company of the servants’ hall,
suddenly got itself lighted up with ethereal lights of tender
imagination and feeling. The illumination did not show outwardly, or it
might have alarmed the Green, which was still unaware that the queen of
the house had passed by there, and the place lighted itself up in
prospect of her coming.
After dinner, however, Mr. Incledon descended from these regions of
fancy and took a step which seemed to himself a very clever as well as
prudent, and at the same time a very friendly, one. He had not
forgotten, any more than the others had, that summer evening on the lawn
at the rectory, when young Wodehouse had strayed down the hill with
Rose, out of sight of the seniors of the party, and though all his
active apprehensions on that score had been calmed down by Edward’s
departure, yet he was too wise not to perceive that there was something
in Mrs. Wodehouse’s disjointed talk more than met the eye at the first
glance.
Mr. Incledon had a friend who was one of the Lords of the Admiralty, and
upon whom he could rely to do him a service; a friend whom he had never
asked for anything--for what was official patronage to the master of
Whitton? He wrote him a long and charming letter, which, if I had only
room for it, or if it had anything to do except incidentally with this
simple history, would give the reader a much better idea of his
abilities and social charms than anything I can show of him here. In it
he discussed the politics of the moment, and that gossip on a dignified
scale about ministers and high officials of state which is half
history--and he touched upon social events in a light and amusing
strain, with that half cynicism which lends salt to correspondence; and
he told his friend half gayly, half seriously, that he was beginning to
feel somewhat solitary, and that dreams of marrying, and marrying soon,
were stealing into his mind. And he told him about his Perugino (“which
I fondly hope may turn out an early Raphael”), and which it would
delight him to show to a brother connoisseur. “And, by the bye,” he
added, after all this, “I have a favor to ask of you which I have kept
to the end like a lady’s postscript. I want you to extend the ægis of
your protection over a fine young fellow in whom I am considerably
interested. His name is Wodehouse, and his ship is at present on that
detestable slave trade service which costs us so much money and does so
little good. He has been a long time in the service, and I hear he is a
very promising young officer. I should consider it a personal favor if
you could do something for him; and (N. B.) it would be a still greater
service to combine promotion with as distant a post as possible. His
friends are anxious to keep him out of the way for private reasons--the
old ‘entanglement’ business, which, of course, you will understand; but
I think it hard that this sentence of banishment should be conjoined
with such a disagreeable service. Give him a gunboat, and send him to
look for the Northwest passage, or anywhere else where my lords have a
whim for exploring! I never thought to have paid such a tribute to your
official dignity as to come, hat in hand, for a place, like the rest of
the world. But no man, I suppose, can always resist the common impulse
of his kind; and I am happy in the persuasion that to you I will not
plead in vain.”
I am afraid that nothing could have been more disingenuous than this
letter. How it worked, the reader will see hereafter; but, in the mean
time, I cannot defend Mr. Incledon. He acted, I suppose, on the old and
time-honored sentiment that any stratagem is allowable in love and war,
and consoled himself for the possible wrong he might be doing (only a
possible wrong, for Wodehouse might be kept for years cruising after
slaves, for anything Mr. Incledon knew) by the unquestionable benefit
which would accompany it. “A young fellow living by his wits will find a
gunboat of infinitely more service to him than a foolish love affair
which never could come to anything,” his rival said to himself.
And after having sealed this letter, he returned into his fairy land. He
left the library where he had written it, and went to the drawing-room
which he rarely used, but which was warm with a cheerful fire and
lighted with soft wax-lights for his pleasure, should he care to enter.
He paused at the door a moment and looked at it. The wonders of
upholstery in this carefully decorated room, every scrap of furniture in
which had cost its master thought, would afford pages of description to
a fashionable American novelist, or to the refined chronicles of the
“Family Herald;” but I am not sufficiently learned to do them justice.
The master of the house, however, looked at the vacant room with its
softly burning lights, its luxurious vacant seats, its closely drawn
curtains, the books on the tables which no one ever opened, the pictures
on the walls which nobody looked at (except on great occasions), with a
curious sense at once of desolation and of happiness. How dismal its
silence was! not a sound but the dropping of the ashes from the fire, or
the movement of the burning fuel; and he himself a ghost looking into a
room which might be inhabited by ghosts for aught he knew. Here and
there, indeed, a group of chairs had been arranged by accident so as to
look as if they were occupied, as if one unseen being might be
whispering to another, noiselessly smiling, and pointing at the
solitary. But no, there was a pleasanter interpretation to be given to
that soft, luxurious, brightly-colored vacancy; it was all prepared and
waiting, ready for the gentle mistress who was to come.
How different from the low-roofed drawing-room at the White House, with
the fireplace at one end of the long room, with the damp of ages in the
old walls, with draughts from every door and window, and an indifferent
lamp giving all the light they could afford! Mr. Incledon, perhaps,
thought of that, too, with an increased sense of the advantages he had
to offer; but lightly, not knowing all the discomforts of it. He went
back to his library after this inspection, and the lights burned on, and
the ghosts, if there were any, had the full enjoyment of it till the
servants came to extinguish the candles and shut up everything for the
night.