GOLDEN DREAMS.
First Love!
Do not they look and sound just as fresh as ever--those two pretty
words? And yet, they have been harder worked than the tritest of
school-copies, by successive generations of romancists in prose and
rhyme, from Anacreon and Sappho down to that more modern and practical
enthusiast, who, in a simile that must come home to every maid and
matron in Belgravia (about five P.M. daily), exclaims, "A first love is
like the first cup of tea--all others like the second." The heresy was
worse than Antinomian that would cavil at feelings allowed by common
consent to be divinely delicious. Take warning by Tantalus; beware of
misbehaviour at the celestial table; when nectar and ambrosia are set
before you, accept them gratefully, without discussing too curiously
their flavour. Perhaps it is best so; perhaps the children's plan is
wisest--"Open your mouth and shut your eyes."
Why is it then that, at this moment, I feel inclined to be hyper
critical and disparaging? Truly, there is no accounting for moods, any
more than for tastes; the claret last night was undeniable, and the
morning weather (for a wonder) is perfect; there is not a shadow of an
excuse for evil tempers. Can it be that the pet theme has really been
over-rated; and will it turn out that, after all, there's something
quite as sweet in life as Love's young dream?
See--we have given the _sacerrima verba_ every chance: they stand in a
line by themselves, at the head of the chapter, producing a striking and
rather pictorial effect. Pictorial--I wish the word had not been
written, for association brings back the feeling with which we have
looked on some late acquisitions to our National Gallery, procured at
nearly their weight in gold. "A good thing in its way, but--hardly worth
the money." It would be very difficult, I suppose, to convince our
sisters that it is advantageous for man or woman to go through a certain
amount of mild preparatory training, before either is brought out for
the last grand match against Time. Shall we suggest to Amoret the bride
that Fidelio's affections, since they first gushed out from the remote
fountain-head, have rippled and murmured--not unmusically--through a
dozen _lovelets_ at least, caressing on the way several fragrant
water-lilies and delicate lady-ferns, before they poured a full
undivided volume into the one deep channel, through which (let us hope)
they will flow on peacefully for evermore? And then, shall we hint that
she ought rather to rejoice thereat than chafe or complain? It were
boldly--it were rashly done. However respectable our antecedents--if we
could bring testimonials to character signed by ten responsible
housewives (which I very much doubt if Sir Galahad himself could have
obtained)--the lady would infallibly inscribe our name, foremost, on the
Black List of those dangerous and detrimental acquaintances who were the
bane of the Beloved's life, before she came--another Pucelle--to the
rescue; thenceforward we should certainly "have our tea in a mug,"
whenever these fair hands had to pour it.
Yet, Madonna, if you would deign to look at the subject dispassionately,
you could scarcely help perceiving that the very guilelessness and
simplicity which make a First Love so charming and romantic, detract
somewhat from its actual value. It is a very pleasant and charitable
frame of mind, which "hopeth all things and believeth all things;" but
it involves a certain deficiency in discrimination and, I think, in
appreciative power. The Object may possibly be superlative in beauty,
goodness, or talent; but what is our opinion worth, if we have had no
practical experience of the other two degrees? Unless the paired doves
take flight at once to some uncolonized island in the Pacific,
And there securely build, and there
Securely hatch their young--
each must stand comparison, in aftertime, with other birds, tame and
wild, whose plumage glistens with every gorgeous variety of colour,
whose notes sink and swell through all the scales of harmony. Then it is
the old story over and over again. Madame Ste. Colombe does not care so
much for modest merit, and considers meekness rather a tame and insipid
virtue, since the keen black eyes of haughty, handsome Count Aquila told
her a flattering tale; sober drab and fawn no longer seem a becoming
apparel since Prince Percinet (the Duchess's favourite lory) dazzled her
with his Court suit of crimson and gold. Her innocent consort never
dreams, of course, of repining; but he confesses to an intimate friend
that cooing _does_ sometimes sound rather monotonous: he heard a few
days ago, for the first time, Lady Philomelle sing. Surely it were
better to endure loneliness a little longer--ay, even till "black turns
grey"--than to discover that we are unworthily or unsuitably matched,
when to change our mate would be a double sin. There are matrimonial
mistakes enough, Heaven knows, made as it is; but, if every one were to
marry their first love, a decade of Judges more untiring than Sir
Cresswell would be insufficient to settle the differences of aspirants
to dis-union.
This is the "wrong side of the stuff," of course; it would be easy to
quote thousands of opposite instances--of the Anderson type--where no
shadow of discontent has clouded a long life of happiness. Still, the
danger remains: you can no more ignore it than you can any other
disagreeable fact, or public nuisance; but it will probably be lessened
if one or both of the contracting parties have had practical experience
enough to enable them to know their own minds once for all. The wise old
Stagyrite, after discussing different sorts of courage, places high that
of [Greek: Empeiria]: shall we not, too, honour and value most the Love
which has been matured and educated by a course of preliminary and
lighter experiments?
If we have wandered far, through many gardens--finding in each flowers
fragrant and beautiful, but never a one worthy to be placed in our
breast--do we love her less, when we choose her at last--our own
Provence Rose? Was it not well that we should review and admire other
fair pictures wrought by the Great Artist, before we bought what we
hold to be His masterpiece, at the price of all our life's treasure? Had
we not acquired some cunning of the lapidary, by studying the properties
of less precious gems, could we value your pure perfections aright, O
Margarita, pearl of pearls?
(In spite of that last sentimental sentence, which, I swear, was
elaborated solely as a peace-offering to Them, I feel a comfortable
conviction of having left the prejudices of every feminine reader in
precisely the same state as I found them when we broached the subject.)
If you disagree entirely with these premises, you will hardly allow that
Miss Vavasour's frame of mind was either correct or justifiable on this
same August morning. It would be difficult to conceive any human being
more thoroughly and perfectly happy. Yet it was not the bliss of
ignorance, nor even of unconscious innocence. In some things demoiselle
was rather advanced for her years: she could form opinions of her own,
for instance, and hold to them, pretty decidedly. Some of our
maiden-recruits contrive to acquire a tolerable knowledge of their
regiment and its proceedings before they actually join: they have
probably several friends who have passed their drill; and these are by
no means loth to communicate any intelligence likely to instruct or
amuse the aspirant. So, though Helen had not yet been presented, few of
the _historiettes_ of the last two seasons (fitted for ears polite and
virginal) had failed to reach her, directly or circuitously. In more
than one of these Alan Wyverne's name had figured prominently. Lady
Mildred had not spoken unfairly or untruly when she characterized her
daughter's temperament as somewhat jealous and exacting; but the
jealousy was not retrospective. Helen decided, very wisely, to bury the
past, with its possible peccadilloes, and to accept her present position
frankly, without one _arriere pensee_.
It seemed rather a pleasant position, too, as she sate in the deep,
cushioned recess of one of the oriel windows of the picture-gallery; the
play of light through the painted panes falling fitfully on the grand
masses of her glossy hair, and lending a brighter flush to her fair
cheek than even happiness could give it; her clasped hands resting on
her cousin's shoulder, as he half reclined on the black-bear skin at her
feet--(Alan was decidedly Oriental in his choice of postures)--her head
bent forward and low, so as to lose not one of many murmured words.
Would it have been better if a suspicion had crossed her mind, just
then, that the voice she listened to was indebted possibly to long
practice in similar scenes for the dangerous melody of its monotone? I
think not; there is no falser principle than judging from results.
The line of demarcation between the cousin and the lover is proverbially
faint, so much so, indeed, as sometimes to become quite imaginary. There
is one advantage about this, certainly; the transition into the
affianced state is not so abrupt as to make either of the parties feel
awkward or shy; while on the other hand, their transports are probably
more moderate and rational. In the present case there was not much
danger of extravagance in this way. Wyverne, as a rule, was the
personification of tranquillity, and Helen--though impulsive and quick
tempered enough herself--held demonstrative damsels in very great scorn.
Still it would be difficult, if not impossible, to transcribe their
conversation that morning, up to a certain point.
Fortunately, one is not expected to do anything of the kind. Where the
story is meant to be melo-dramatic, it is necessary sometimes to give a
good strong scene of passion and temptation, in which either guilt or
innocence triumphs tremendously; but the male writers of the present day
seem pretty well agreed that it is best to leave _domestic_ love
passages (where everything is said and done under parental sanction)
quite alone. An odd authoress or so does now and then attempt to give us
a sort of expurgated edition, which is about as much like the reality as
the midnight sun glimmering faintly over the North Cape resembles that
which blazes over Sahara. You will observe, that even those dauntless
and unscrupulous French _romanciers_ of the physiological school rather
shirk these scenes.
Perhaps occasionally a curious melancholy feeling mingles with this our
masculine reserve. It may be that Mnemosyne (she can be stern enough, at
times, you know) stands on the threshold of the half-open door and warns
us back with uplifted finger; it may be that of all in the book, we
should have to draw hardest on our imagination for this particular
chapter. In either case it would not be a very attractive one to have to
begin. There is something dreary in sitting down to an elaborate
description of luxuries or riches that have passed away from us long
ago, or which have hitherto eluded us altogether. I am not inclined to
laugh much at Mr. Scrivener's enthusiasm (he writes the "high-life"
tales for the _Dustpan_ and other penny periodicals) when he dilates on
the splendours of Lady Hermegild's boudoir, hung with mauve velvet and
silver, or on the glories of the Duke of Devorgoil's banquet, where
everything is served on the purest gold profusely embossed with
diamonds. He lingers over the details with an extraordinary gusto, and
goes into minutiae which (if they were not grossly incorrect) would imply
an intimate personal acquaintance with the scenes he describes. Now, Mr.
Scrivener's father is a very meritorious grocer, in the Tottenham
Court-road, and the most aristocratic assembly Jack ever attended was a
party at Hackney, where (unfortunately for his prudence) he met his
pretty little wife. But I know that he composes these gorgeous chapters
in a close stifling room, not much bigger or better furnished than that
of Hogarth's poet, with the same wail of sickly children in his ears
(the walls are like paper in those suburban lodgings) and with the
notice lying on the mantelpiece that the acceptance comes due on Monday,
which he must mortgage his brains to meet. I think the incongruity is
too sad to be absurd.
Do you see the parallel? Velvet and gold are comfortable and costly, but
they are not the most precious trifles that a man may lose or win; bills
are very stubborn inconveniences but there are debts yet harder to meet,
on which we pay heavier usury.
Whether that pair in the picture-gallery made themselves in anywise
ridiculous, either by word or deed, in the course of the morning, is a
question between themselves and their consciences; for the only
witnesses were the members of their ancestry on the walls, who looked
down on the proceedings with the polite indifference of well-bred people
who have seen a good deal of that sort of business in their time, and
have found out that "this, too, is vanity." At the moment when we
intrude on the _tete-a-tete_, its component parts were in a very
decorous and rational condition; in fact they had resolved themselves
into a sort of committee of supply, and were discussing the financial
affairs of the future. It was delightful to observe the perfect gravity
and good faith with which they approached the subject; though it would
have been difficult to decide which of the two was most hopelessly and
absolutely ignorant of all matters pertaining to domestic economy.
Wyverne was especially great on the point of retrenchment, as far as his
own personal expenses were concerned.
"You have no idea how much I shall save by giving up hunting," he was
saying; "I don't care nearly so much for it as I did, so it is hardly a
sacrifice" (he really _thought_ he was speaking the truth); "my present
stud is too small to be of much use, and I hate being mounted. So that's
settled. I shall have no difficulty in getting rid of my horses; Vesey
will give me four hundred for Red Lancer any day; and Cuirassier ought
to fetch three. Only fancy, Helen, what one will be able to do with
seven hundred sovereigns! You must have a brougham to yourself, even if
we stay at the great house in town, and it will be useful in the
country, for I suppose people will want us to dine with them sometimes.
We must have our saddle-horses of course--Maimouna carries you
beautifully already--I shall never let you give up riding, if only for
the memory of yesterday afternoon; and that will be all, besides the
ponies that Uncle Hubert gave you on your last birthday."
"But, dear Alan," his cousin objected, "it seems to me, all those horses
will cost more to keep than your hunters do now; for, you know, you
always stay somewhere throughout the season, where they get board and
lodging."
"Don't entangle yourself in calculations, child," Wyverne answered; "you
haven't an idea how expensive hunting from other people's houses is;
sending on, costs a fortune. I should like you to see my accounts for
last season" (he said this with intense gravity, just as if he had kept
them regularly); "I am certain I shall save two hundred a year at the
lowest computation. Yes, we can do it easily. I saw Harry Conway the
other day (he married that pretty Kate Carlyon two years ago); he began
telling me of his rectory in Herefordshire, what a lovely garden his
wife had, and how all the country admired the Welsh ponies she drove.
Now, I know their income does not touch six hundred pounds. We can
double that, at all events, O cousin, cautious beyond your years!"
The part of Dame Prudence was in reality so entirely foreign to Miss
Vavasour's nature and habits, that it amused her very much to play it,
so she still tried to look solemn, but the laugh would not be dissembled
in her eyes.
"An Abbey is a more expensive residence than a rectory, _M. le
Financier_, even if the Lady Abbess should not be enthusiastic about
flower-gardens. Have you formed any plans as to our life in the North? I
mean to make Mrs. Grant teach me housekeeping; and I shall be so severe
about the weekly bills! I can fancy the butchers and bakers trembling
when they bring up their little red books to be settled."
"Certainly, _il faut vivre_; I quite admit the necessity of that. I have
no doubt we shall do wonderfully well. I shall slay a good number of
creatures, finned, furred, and feathered, and one does not get tired of
game easily. We must not have any one to stay with us, except in the
shooting-season; though I believe the chief cost of guests is the claret
they drink; fortunately there is a Red Sea of that in the cellars. And
now, my Helen, prepare to open your great eyes very extensively; I mean
to annihilate your scruples with my last idea in economy. When the
present stock is exhausted (it's not large) the supply of champagne at
the Abbey will be cut off until I come into another inheritance."
He enunciated the words rather sententiously and solemnly, evidently
feeling the confidence and self-satisfaction that might be pardonable in
a Chancellor of the Exchequer who has thought of a new and productive
tax that cannot possibly hurt or offend anybody, or in a calculator who
has elaborated a scheme for materially reducing the national debt. This
time Miss Vavasour's musical laugh was not repressed.
"Don't go any further, Alan; Prudence owns herself vanquished by that
last tremendous retrenchment. I begin to think we shall manage
perfectly; perhaps there is no danger of absolute penury. Whenever I
find the larder is empty, and that there are no means of filling it, I
shall bring in the Spur in the Dish with my own hands; you were born
near enough the Border to know, then, that you and your lances must go
out on the foray."
"That's right," Wyverne said; "they say nothing stimulates one to
exertion like appreciation, and I've got an exertion before me this
morning, in the shape of letter-writing, that I don't much fancy. It's a
question of Bernard Haldane. (I can never call him and your father
'uncle' in the same breath, but he did marry my aunt, you know.) He must
be absurdly rich by this time; and when I did not in the least want it,
I believe I was to have been his heir. So I might still have been, they
tell me, if I had been utterly and irretrievably ruined, and had come to
him in the form of the pauper. But he never forgave the poor little
salvage out of the wreck which made me independent of his bounty. Very
odd old man, that, and intensely disagreeable, I own; but still I wish,
now, you two had met. I do believe you would have melted the
misanthrope, and a very trifling thaw in that quarter would be of
material advantage to us just at this juncture."
Miss Vavasour's haughty lip curled perceptibly; her face did not care to
conceal some aversion and disdain.
"I should certainly spare myself the annoyance of writing that letter,
if I were you, Alan. I don't think mendicancy would suit you at any
time, and it is rather early to begin the trade. _I_ should hardly
succeed better, even if I had the chance of trying. If I have any
fascinations, I think I will keep them for some other subjects than odd,
disagreeable, old men."
Wyverne was not in the least inclined to chafe at her tone; in truth,
admiration left no place for anger; it would have been hard to quarrel
with her, she looked so handsome in her scorn. He knew, too, that her
pride was only half selfish, and that she would have dreaded humiliation
for his sake, more than for her own. So he smiled quite pleasantly, as
he answered,
"O Queen, let your imperial mind be set at rest. Your bond-servant had
no intention of making obeisance to any other tyrant. Do I look like one
of 'the petitioners who will ever pray?' (He certainly did _not_ at that
moment.) I only meant to convey a piece of simple intelligence, which
perhaps Mr. Haldane is entitled to in courtesy, and leave him to think
and act as he would. But I told you I disliked doing even this; and I
hesitated till I consulted your mother on the point after breakfast. She
decided at once that I ought to do so. I own her look, as she said it,
would have puzzled me, if I had not given up long ago trying to decipher
'my lady's' countenance. I imagine she expects not much will result. I'm
sure _I_ don't. But if Plutus were only to part with a poor thousand, it
would help me to furnish two or three rooms prettily at the Abbey for
you and your friends. My pet, you will look like Nell in the Curiosity
Shop, in that dismal grey house, with its faded old-fashioned
furniture."
Helen was accusing herself already of having been unjust and unkind. Her
conscience smote her yet more keenly as her cousin spoke these last
words. When she laid her hand on his mouth to stop him, it was half
meant as a caress. Wyverne pressed the lithe white fingers against his
lips, and made them linger there not unwillingly; but his mood, usually
so equable and gay, had become strangely variable since yesterday. The
dark hour came on suddenly now. His face seemed to gather anything but
light from the bright loveliness on which he gazed. Helen's hand was
dropped almost abruptly, and he went on muttering low to himself, as if
unconscious of her presence.
"Esau was wiser than I. He _sold_ his birthright at all events: I gave
mine away. God help us! Instead of these miserable shifts and
subterfuges, I ought at this moment to be talking about the fresh
setting of my mother's diamonds. I wonder who wore them at the last
drawing-room! I took my own ruin too lightly. I suppose that is why it
stands out so black and dismal, when I have brought another down to
share it. Ah me! If the struggle and the remorse begin so early, what
will the end be?"
She broke in quickly, her fingers trembling as she twined them in his,
and her cheeks glowing with her passionate earnestness.
"Alan, how can you speak so? Do you want to make me feel more selfish
than I do already? I might have known what it would come to when you
proposed selling Red Lancer, and I ought to have resisted then. You
would sacrifice all your own pursuits and pleasures to me and my
fancies, and you take nothing in return except"--(the word-music could
scarcely be heard here)--"except--my my dear love. See, _I_ do not fear
or doubt for one instant. Am I to teach you courage--you that I have
always heard quoted for daring since I was a little child?"
We have read in the _Magic Ring_ how the draught mixed by Gerda, the
sorceress, for Arinbiorn, before the great sea-king went forth to fight,
doubled the strength of his arm and the sway of his battle-axe. Glamour
more potent yet may be drawn from brilliant dark eyes, whose imperial
light is softened, not subdued, by tears that are destined never to
fall. A tamer spirit than Wyverne's would have leapt up, ready for any
contest, under the influence of Helen's glance, when she finished
speaking. Very scanty are the relics that abide with us of the old-time
chivalry; but our dames and demoiselles still play their part as
gallantly and gracefully as ever. Even "Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast,"
when bound to the battle, will scarcely lack a maiden to brace on his
armour.
Alan rose to his feet and leant over his cousin where she sate. He
forgot to be ashamed of his own weakness; he felt so proud of his
beautiful prize, as he wound his arm round her delicate waist and drew
her close to his side, till the little head nestled on his shoulder and
his lips touched her ear as they whispered,
"My own brave darling! you shall never have to revive me again. The dead
past may bury its dead; my last moan is made; henceforward will we not
hope, even against hope."
In spite of his newly-born confidence, he scarcely repressed a start and
a shiver, as, looking up during the happy silence that ensued, he seemed
to be answered by the earnest melancholy eyes of the last Baron
Vavasour.
There are certain pictures, you know, whose gaze always follows you,
however often you may change your position. This portrait was one of
such. It ought to have been excepted from the other ancestors, when we
spoke of the unconcern with which they regarded the proceedings of their
descendants. It was a very remarkable face, as I have said before, and
by far the most peculiar feature in it were those same eyes.
Notwithstanding their soft beauty, there was something dark and
dangerous about them, as if the devil that lurked in their languid
depths _would_ look out sometimes. They were just the eyes from which an
Italian would dread the _jetta-tura_, seeming to threaten not only evil
to others, but misfortune to their owner. In Fulke Vavasour's life
certainly both promises were amply fulfilled. If those scornful lips
could have spoken now, one might have guessed at the import of the
words.
"No change since my time. Those old commonplaces about faith and hope
and love are not worn out yet; but it amuses me to hear them again now
and then--not too often. I could repeat them glibly enough myself once,
and perhaps I believed in them a little. I am wiser now, and so will you
be, _beau cousin_, before you have done. I had my romance, of course.
You know how that was cut short one cold morning on Tower-hill; but you
_don't_ know where yours will end."
Some ideas like these shot across Wyverne's mind, but he had no time to
give them form or distinctness, even if he had wished to indulge in such
absurdity, for one of the doors of the gallery opened just then, and
though the drawing aside of the heavy _portiere_ gave them a moment's
grace, the cousins had scarcely time to resume an erect and decorous
posture before their _tete-a-tete_ was ended.