WOOING BY PROXY.
The medical report of Marmaduke Heath was more than cheering; it was
confident. "One of the very best features of that young man's case is
this," said Dr. Sitwell, "he does not give way. Foolish youths of his
age will sometimes, as it were, fall in love with Death, until it is
absolutely close beside them, poor fellows, when they shrink from him
like the best of us."
"You should rather say the worst of us, Dr. Sitwell," observed my tutor.
"Well, sir, as far as my experience goes," returned the doctor,
cheerfully, "and I have 'assisted,' as Mr. Gerard here will have
it, at the demise of many persons of the very first respectability, few
of us are apt to welcome death; the majority, contrary to what is
vulgarly believed, pay him no sort of attention whatsoever."
"And yet," remarked Mr. Harvey Gerard, slily, "he came over before the
Conqueror, and possesses a considerable amount of land all over the
country."
"True, sir, true," replied the doctor, gravely; "and those are
attributes which should always command respect. With regard, however, to
our young patient, he seems determined, notwithstanding his sufferings,
to be cheerful, and bear up. I have told him how essential it is to do
so, and the young gentleman is most reasonable, I am sure. 'I do not
want to die, I wish to live,' were his very words--a most satisfactory
and sensible state of mind. Fairburn Hall--he did not say this, but I
knew what was passing through his brain quite well--Fairburn Hall, and
one of the oldest baronetcies in the kingdom, are something to live
<i>for</i>--that is a great point in cases of this kind."
I am sure I felt thankful and glad to hear this account of my dear
friend; yet I could not help wishing that Dr. Sitwell had been as
correct in the cause of Marmaduke's clinging to life, as in the fact
itself. For I too was stricken with love for Lucy Gerard, and would have
laid down my life to kiss her finger tip. It is the fashion now to jeer
at that which is called First Love, as though affection were not worth
having until it has first exhausted itself upon a score of objects; nay,
perhaps, the thing itself is as extinct as the Dodo. In my day, however,
the Great Three-Hundred-a-Year Marriage-Question was not yet broached,
and gentlemen did not complainingly publish their rejections at the
hands of the fair sex in the "Times" newspaper. Nearly half a century
has passed over my head since the time of which I write, and has not
spared its snows, and yet, I swear to you, my old heart glows again, and
on my withered cheek there comes a blush as I call, to mind the time
when first I met that pure and fair young girl.
The worship of a lad is never lasting, it is said, although I know not
upon what authority--society so seldom permitting the experiment to be
made, that the <i>dictum</i> can hardly be established; but while it does
last, at least, how clear and steady is the incense! how honest is the
devotion! how complete the sacrifice! Since I have been an old fogey, it
has been confided to me by more than one ancient flirt that they still
experience a rapture when they chance to catch the affection of a boy.
They are kinder to him than they are to older men; they let him down
easy; they respect the infatuation which they themselves have long lost
the power of entertaining. How delicious, then, must such a conquest be
to a maiden of seventeen! I claim for myself the possession of no
tenderer nor truer feelings than other lads, but I know that a queen
might have accepted the heart-homage which I paid to Lucy Gerard. And
never was fealty more disinterested. I have written down not a little to
my discredit; let me then say this much in my own favour. From the
moment that Marmaduke Heath spoke to me as he did, upon his bed of
sickness, of our host's daughter, I determined within myself not only to
stand aside, and let him win her if he could, but to help him by all
means within my power. If he lived for her alone, should I endeavour to
slay him? If a promise, however distant, of a bright and happy future
seemed at length to be held out for him whose life had been so saddened
and so bitter, should I strive to make it void? I could not <i>afford</i> to
lose her; no. I would have given all that I had in the world to hear her
whisper, "I love you;" I would have beggared myself, I say, for those
mere words; but could <i>he</i>, poor lad, afford the loss of her so well?
Doubtless, in modern eyes, we both appear mere foolish victims of
calf-love; green hobbardy-hoys, dazzled with the first flutter of a
petticoat. As for me, let it be so received, and welcome, although, my
young male readers, this is to be said, You never saw Lucy Gerard.
Otherwise you would wonder little at my--well, at my poor folly. But
with respect to Marmaduke, it must be admitted that his was not an
ordinary case. Although a boy in years, he had long been sitting on the
shores of old romance, and had probably more of the divine faculty for
Love within him than all the ardent souls of five-and-thirty put
together, who are at this moment turning their eyes about them for a
suitable young person with whose income to unite their own. Since his
mother died, he had scarcely beheld a virtuous woman, with the exception
of dear Mrs. Myrtle, the housekeeper at the Rectory, whose appearance
was calculated to excite respect rather than the sentimental emotions;
and now he had suddenly been brought face to face with one whose equal
for form and feature, for gentleness and graciousness, for modesty and
courage, these eyes have never yet beheld. I have done. There shall be
no more ecstasies, reader; an old man thanks you that you have borne
with his doting garrulity even thus long.
Since the days of Earl Athelwold, and probably long before them, the
wooing by proxy has been held to be a perilous undertaking; we cannot
take the fingers of a fair lady within our own, and say, "This is not my
hand at all," as though we were Bishop Berkeley; or still more, "This is
somebody else's hand," which it manifestly is not. If credit is to be
given to such protestations at all, there is no knowing where to stop;
and yet we must be doing something tender, or we are not performing our
duty as deputy. But how tenfold are the dangers of this enterprise, when
the delegate of another has at one time contemplated performing the
mission in question upon his own account. Of this peril--although fully
determined to speak a good word for Marmaduke--I was well aware; I even
considered within myself whether it would not be safer, upon the whole,
to return at once to Fairburn Rectory, lest I should do my friend an
involuntary wrong. Yes, I was walking in the garden at the Dovecot after
breakfast, considering this, when I came upon Lucy Gerard herself, and
flight became impossible to me, being mortal. I was pacing a winding
path that ran beside the lawn, but was hidden from it by a glittering
wall of laurel, and lo! there she stood, unconscious of my advent,
beside--what? a statue? a sun-dial? No, a rose-tree, striving upwards by
help of a little cross of white marble. Her face was westward, so that
the morning sun shone like a glory on the wealth of hair that rippled
down her shoulders: beside her indoor garments she wore only a little
braided apron, full of pockets that held scissors, pruning-knife, the
thing which is called "bass" I believe, and other horticultural
weapons, and on her head the tiniest straw-hat, with a brim obviously
intended to shelter more than one--a perfect garden-saint; and at her
prayers! for while I looked, she knelt upon the grass-border (to shake
some insect from a rose, I at first thought, or remove a faded leaf),
and so, with bowed head, remained for several minutes. When she arose,
and saw me hesitating whether to advance or retreat, she blushed a
little, but in her usual quiet tone begged me not to be disturbed. "You
could not know that this is forbidden ground here; it was my fault, who
ought to have told you; our own folks all know it, and so few guests
ever come to the Dovecot, that it never struck me, Mr. Meredith, to give
you a Trespass notice."
"But since I am here, Miss Gerard, and the intrusion has been made--most
innocently, I assure you--may I not be suffered to satisfy what,
believe me, is not a mere vulgar curiosity?"
"I do not think," returned the young lady, with some hesitation, "that
my father would object to your knowing our little secret; you are going
to remain with us some time, he hopes, and--yes, I am sure you will
respect what with us is held so secret. This cross and rose-tree are set
above my little sister's grave. See, that is what we used to call
her--LITTLE ELLA. She of whom I spoke to you in the drawing-room
yesterday."
I daresay my stupid face exhibited more of astonishment than sympathy.
No wonder, thought I, that the doctor called Mr. Gerard a sectary, and
that Mr. Long was so cold and distant in his manner!
"You seem surprised, Mr. Meredith, that my father should have acted
thus--should have placed the tomb of his dear child where he can always
come to weep and pray at it, and not amid the long dank grasses in
Crittenden churchyard. Is it so very rare a thing to bury those we love
elsewhere than in a churchyard?"
"I only know one other instance," said I, "and that is in the Heath
family."
"Indeed," replied Miss Gerard, gravely, moving away as though not
wishing to converse of ordinary things in that sacred neighbourhood, "I
trust we have but little in common with <i>them</i>."
"Truly, I can scarcely imagine that you and they are of the same
species," replied I, with irrepressible admiration, "you who do not even
know what wickedness is!"
"What! I? Oh, but I am sometimes very, very wicked, I assure you,"
replied Miss Gerard. She looked so serious, nay, so sad, that I could
have taken up her little hand and kissed it, there and then, to comfort
her. But would such a course of conduct assist poor Marmaduke? thought
I, and fortunately in time.
"There is one of the Heath family," said I, "at all events, whose good
qualities will go far to atone for the shortcomings of his adversaries,
if he only lives to exercise them."
That "if he only lives" I considered to be very diplomatic; it was
enlisting a tender sympathy for his perilous condition to start with.
"Dr. Sitwell says that there is little danger," replied Miss Gerard,
quietly.
"I know better," observed I, confidentially; "his life or death hangs
upon a thread, a chance."
"Good heavens! Mr. Meredith, what can you mean? The brain, we are
assured, is quite uninjured."
"My dear Miss Gerard," returned I, "it is not his brain that is
affected; it is his heart. His recovery, I am positively certain,
depends upon you."
"Upon me! Mr. Meredith?" replied she, while a blush sprung from neck to
forehead on the instant, as though a white rose should become a red
one--"upon <i>me</i>?"
"Yes, dear young lady; that is, upon you and your good father. This lad
will find here, for the first time in his young life, peace and
tenderness--a new existence, if you only choose, will expand around him,
such as he has never even dreamt of. I do not ask you to be kind to him,
for you cannot be otherwise than kind; but consider his sad
condition--fatherless, motherless, and having for his only relative a
wretch whose atrocity is unspeakable, what reason has he to wish for
life? But you, you may teach him to feel that existence has something
else to offer than sorrow, and shame, and fear."
"Alas, sir! I am nothing," returned Miss Gerard. "But if your friend
desire a teacher to whom fear and shame are unknown, and whom sorrow has
rendered wise, not sad, he will find one in my dear father. Oh, Mr.
Meredith, if you knew him as I know him, how tender he is as well as
strong, you would go straight to <i>him</i>! What I have of help within me,
if I have anything, is derived from him alone."
"There are some maladies," said I, "against which not the most skilful
physician can avail without a gentle nurse to smooth the pillow. I am
sure I need say no more, except to assure you that what ever kind
offices you may bestow upon Marmaduke Heath, will not be wasted upon an
unworthy object. He is most honourable, generous, warm-hearted--"
"And very fortunate," interrupted Miss Gerard, cordially, "in having a
friend to be thus enthusiastic for him in his absence!"
Her eyes sparkled with pleasure; and she held out her hand frankly as
she spoke. I took it, and pressed it for an instant. A shock of joy
passed through my frame; my whole being trembled with ecstasy. Passion
took me by storm, and for one glorious moment held the very citadel of
my soul; but it was for the last time, believe me, Marmaduke, the last
time in all my life. Fifty years have come and gone, with their full
share of pleasure and pain, but have never brought a moment of bliss
like that, nor such icy despair as the thought of thee, my friend,
caused to succeed it!
I write not in self-praise. I was not so mad as to suppose that Lucy
Gerard would have ever stooped to love Peter Meredith when once she had
known Marmaduke Heath. If he had so endeared himself to <i>me</i>, a selfish
boy, who knew not half his gifts, or, at least, knew not how to value
them--that I thus rudely broke my own brief love-dream for his sake,
would he not draw <i>her</i> towards him, laden with all her wealth of heart
and brain, as the moon draws the wave! It was so afterwards; but I knew
it then, as though it had already been. Yet, Marmaduke, yet I gave you
something, for it was all I had, when I laid at your feet, to form a
stepping-stone for you, my own heart. You trod upon it, my dear and
faithful friend--But, thank heaven! you never knew that you did so. I
wonder whether Lucy ever knew!