NOVELISTS should never allow themselves to weary of the study of real
life. If they observed this duty conscientiously, they would give us
fewer pictures chequered with vivid contrasts of light and shade;
they would seldom elevate their heroes and heroines to the heights of
rapture--still seldomer sink them to the depths of despair; for if we
rarely taste the fulness of joy in this life, we yet more rarely savour
the acrid bitterness of hopeless anguish; unless, indeed, we have
plunged like beasts into sensual indulgence, abused, strained,
stimulated, again overstrained, and, at last, destroyed our faculties
for enjoyment; then, truly, we may find ourselves without support,
robbed of hope. Our agony is great, and how can it end? We have broken
the spring of our powers; life must be all suffering--too feeble to
conceive faith--death must be darkness--God, spirits, religion can have
no place in our collapsed minds, where linger only hideous and polluting
recollections of vice; and time brings us on to the brink of the grave,
and dissolution flings us in--a rag eaten through and through with
disease, wrung together with pain, stamped into the churchyard sod by
the inexorable heel of despair.
But the man of regular life and rational mind never despairs. He loses
his property--it is a blow--he staggers a moment; then, his energies,
roused by the smart, are at work to seek a remedy; activity soon
mitigates regret. Sickness affects him; he takes patience--endures what
he cannot cure. Acute pain racks him; his writhing limbs know not where
to find rest; he leans on Hope’s anchors. Death takes from him what
he loves; roots up, and tears violently away the stem round which his
affections were twined--a dark, dismal time, a frightful wrench--but
some morning Religion looks into his desolate house with sunrise, and
says, that in another world, another life, he shall meet his kindred
again. She speaks of that world as a place unsullied by sin--of that
life, as an era unembittered by suffering; she mightily strengthens
her consolation by connecting with it two ideas--which mortals cannot
comprehend, but on which they love to repose--Eternity, Immortality; and
the mind of the mourner, being filled with an image, faint yet glorious,
of heavenly hills all light and peace--of a spirit resting there in
bliss--of a day when his spirit shall also alight there, free and
disembodied--of a reunion perfected by love, purified from fear--he
takes courage--goes out to encounter the necessities and discharge the
duties of life; and, though sadness may never lift her burden from his
mind, Hope will enable him to support it.
Well--and what suggested all this? and what is the inference to be drawn
therefrom? What suggested it, is the circumstance of my best pupil--my
treasure--being snatched from my hands, and put away out of my reach;
the inference to be drawn from it is--that, being a steady, reasonable
man, I did not allow the resentment, disappointment, and grief,
engendered in my mind by this evil chance, to grow there to any
monstrous size; nor did I allow them to monopolize the whole space of my
heart; I pent them, on the contrary, in one strait and secret nook. In
the daytime, too, when I was about my duties, I put them on the silent
system; and it was only after I had closed the door of my chamber
at night that I somewhat relaxed my severity towards these morose
nurslings, and allowed vent to their language of murmurs; then, in
revenge, they sat on my pillow, haunted my bed, and kept me awake with
their long, midnight cry.
A week passed. I had said nothing more to Mdlle. Reuter. I had been calm
in my demeanour to her, though stony cold and hard. When I looked at
her, it was with the glance fitting to be bestowed on one who I knew
had consulted jealousy as an adviser, and employed treachery as an
instrument--the glance of quiet disdain and rooted distrust. On Saturday
evening, ere I left the house, I stept into the SALLE-A-MANGER, where
she was sitting alone, and, placing myself before her, I asked, with
the same tranquil tone and manner that I should have used had I put the
question for the first time--
“Mademoiselle, will you have the goodness to give me the address of
Frances Evans Henri?”
A little surprised, but not disconcerted, she smilingly disclaimed any
knowledge of that address, adding, “Monsieur has perhaps forgotten that
I explained all about that circumstance before--a week ago?”
“Mademoiselle,” I continued, “you would greatly oblige me by directing
me to that young person’s abode.”
She seemed somewhat puzzled; and, at last, looking up with an admirably
counterfeited air of naivete, she demanded, “Does Monsieur think I am
telling an untruth?”
Still avoiding to give her a direct answer, I said, “It is not then your
intention, mademoiselle, to oblige me in this particular?”
“But, monsieur, how can I tell you what I do not know?”
“Very well; I understand you perfectly, mademoiselle, and now I have
only two or three words to say. This is the last week in July; in
another month the vacation will commence, have the goodness to avail
yourself of the leisure it will afford you to look out for another
English master--at the close of August, I shall be under the necessity
of resigning my post in your establishment.”
I did not wait for her comments on this announcement, but bowed and
immediately withdrew.
That same evening, soon after dinner, a servant brought me a small
packet; it was directed in a hand I knew, but had not hoped so soon to
see again; being in my own apartment and alone, there was nothing to
prevent my immediately opening it; it contained four five-franc pieces,
and a note in English.
“MONSIEUR,
“I came to Mdlle. Reuter’s house yesterday, at the time when I knew you
would be just about finishing your lesson, and I asked if I might go
into the schoolroom and speak to you. Mdlle. Reuter came out and said
you were already gone; it had not yet struck four, so I thought she must
be mistaken, but concluded it would be vain to call another day on the
same errand. In one sense a note will do as well--it will wrap up the
20 francs, the price of the lessons I have received from you; and if it
will not fully express the thanks I owe you in addition--if it will not
bid you good-bye as I could wish to have done--if it will not tell you,
as I long to do, how sorry I am that I shall probably never see you
more--why, spoken words would hardly be more adequate to the task. Had
I seen you, I should probably have stammered out something feeble and
unsatisfactory--something belying my feelings rather than explaining
them; so it is perhaps as well that I was denied admission to your
presence. You often remarked, monsieur, that my devoirs dwelt a great
deal on fortitude in bearing grief--you said I introduced that theme too
often: I find indeed that it is much easier to write about a severe duty
than to perform it, for I am oppressed when I see and feel to what a
reverse fate has condemned me; you were kind to me, monsieur--very kind;
I am afflicted--I am heart-broken to be quite separated from you; soon
I shall have no friend on earth. But it is useless troubling you with my
distresses. What claim have I on your sympathy? None; I will then say no
more.
“Farewell, Monsieur.
“F. E. HENRI.”
I put up the note in my pocket-book. I slipped the five-franc pieces
into my purse--then I took a turn through my narrow chamber.
“Mdlle. Reuter talked about her poverty,” said I, “and she is poor;
yet she pays her debts and more. I have not yet given her a quarter’s
lessons, and she has sent me a quarter’s due. I wonder of what she
deprived herself to scrape together the twenty francs--I wonder what
sort of a place she has to live in, and what sort of a woman her aunt
is, and whether she is likely to get employment to supply the place she
has lost. No doubt she will have to trudge about long enough from school
to school, to inquire here, and apply there--be rejected in this place,
disappointed in that. Many an evening she’ll go to her bed tired
and unsuccessful. And the directress would not let her in to bid me
good-bye? I might not have the chance of standing with her for a few
minutes at a window in the schoolroom and exchanging some half-dozen of
sentences--getting to know where she lived--putting matters in train
for having all things arranged to my mind? No address on the note”--I
continued, drawing it again from the pocket-book and examining it on
each side of the two leaves: “women are women, that is certain, and
always do business like women; men mechanically put a date and address
to their communications. And these five-franc pieces?”--(I hauled them
forth from my purse)--“if she had offered me them herself instead of
tying them up with a thread of green silk in a kind of Lilliputian
packet, I could have thrust them back into her little hand, and shut
up the small, taper fingers over them--so--and compelled her shame, her
pride, her shyness, all to yield to a little bit of determined Will--now
where is she? How can I get at her?”
Opening my chamber door I walked down into the kitchen.
“Who brought the packet?” I asked of the servant who had delivered it to
me.
“Un petit commissionaire, monsieur.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Rien.”
And I wended my way up the back-stairs, wondrously the wiser for my
inquiries.
“No matter,” said I to myself, as I again closed the door. “No
matter--I’ll seek her through Brussels.”
And I did. I sought her day by day whenever I had a moment’s leisure,
for four weeks; I sought her on Sundays all day long; I sought her on
the Boulevards, in the Allee Verte, in the Park; I sought her in Ste.
Gudule and St. Jacques; I sought her in the two Protestant chapels; I
attended these latter at the German, French, and English services, not
doubting that I should meet her at one of them. All my researches were
absolutely fruitless; my security on the last point was proved by the
event to be equally groundless with my other calculations. I stood
at the door of each chapel after the service, and waited till every
individual had come out, scrutinizing every gown draping a slender form,
peering under every bonnet covering a young head. In vain; I saw
girlish figures pass me, drawing their black scarfs over their sloping
shoulders, but none of them had the exact turn and air of Mdlle.
Henri’s; I saw pale and thoughtful faces “encadrees” in bands of brown
hair, but I never found her forehead, her eyes, her eyebrows. All the
features of all the faces I met seemed frittered away, because my eye
failed to recognize the peculiarities it was bent upon; an ample space
of brow and a large, dark, and serious eye, with a fine but decided line
of eyebrow traced above.
“She has probably left Brussels--perhaps is gone to England, as she
said she would,” muttered I inwardly, as on the afternoon of the fourth
Sunday, I turned from the door of the chapel-royal which the door-keeper
had just closed and locked, and followed in the wake of the last of the
congregation, now dispersed and dispersing over the square. I had
soon outwalked the couples of English gentlemen and ladies. (Gracious
goodness! why don’t they dress better? My eye is yet filled with visions
of the high-flounced, slovenly, and tumbled dresses in costly silk and
satin, of the large unbecoming collars in expensive lace; of the ill-cut
coats and strangely fashioned pantaloons which every Sunday, at the
English service, filled the choirs of the chapel-royal, and after it,
issuing forth into the square, came into disadvantageous contrast with
freshly and trimly attired foreign figures, hastening to attend salut
at the church of Coburg.) I had passed these pairs of Britons, and
the groups of pretty British children, and the British footmen and
waiting-maids; I had crossed the Place Royale, and got into the Rue
Royale, thence I had diverged into the Rue de Louvain--an old and quiet
street. I remember that, feeling a little hungry, and not desiring to
go back and take my share of the “gouter,” now on the refectory-table
at Pelet’s--to wit, pistolets and water--I stepped into a baker’s and
refreshed myself on a COUC(?)--it is a Flemish word, I don’t know how
to spell it--A CORINTHE-ANGLICE, a currant bun--and a cup of coffee; and
then I strolled on towards the Porte de Louvain. Very soon I was out of
the city, and slowly mounting the hill, which ascends from the gate, I
took my time; for the afternoon, though cloudy, was very sultry, and not
a breeze stirred to refresh the atmosphere. No inhabitant of Brussels
need wander far to search for solitude; let him but move half a league
from his own city and he will find her brooding still and blank over
the wide fields, so drear though so fertile, spread out treeless and
trackless round the capital of Brabant. Having gained the summit of the
hill, and having stood and looked long over the cultured but lifeless
campaign, I felt a wish to quit the high road, which I had hitherto
followed, and get in among those tilled grounds--fertile as the beds
of a Brobdignagian kitchen-garden--spreading far and wide even to the
boundaries of the horizon, where, from a dusk green, distance changed
them to a sullen blue, and confused their tints with those of the livid
and thunderous-looking sky. Accordingly I turned up a by-path to the
right; I had not followed it far ere it brought me, as I expected, into
the fields, amidst which, just before me, stretched a long and lofty
white wall enclosing, as it seemed from the foliage showing above, some
thickly planted nursery of yew and cypress, for of that species were
the branches resting on the pale parapets, and crowding gloomily about a
massive cross, planted doubtless on a central eminence and extending its
arms, which seemed of black marble, over the summits of those sinister
trees. I approached, wondering to what house this well-protected garden
appertained; I turned the angle of the wall, thinking to see some
stately residence; I was close upon great iron gates; there was a
hut serving for a lodge near, but I had no occasion to apply for the
key--the gates were open; I pushed one leaf back--rain had rusted
its hinges, for it groaned dolefully as they revolved. Thick planting
embowered the entrance. Passing up the avenue, I saw objects on
each hand which, in their own mute language of inscription and sign,
explained clearly to what abode I had made my way. This was the
house appointed for all living; crosses, monuments, and garlands of
everlastings announced, “The Protestant Cemetery, outside the gate of
Louvain.”
The place was large enough to afford half an hour’s strolling without
the monotony of treading continually the same path; and, for those who
love to peruse the annals of graveyards, here was variety of inscription
enough to occupy the attention for double or treble that space of time.
Hither people of many kindreds, tongues, and nations, had brought their
dead for interment; and here, on pages of stone, of marble, and of
brass, were written names, dates, last tributes of pomp or love, in
English, in French, in German, and Latin. Here the Englishman had
erected a marble monument over the remains of his Mary Smith or Jane
Brown, and inscribed it only with her name. There the French widower had
shaded the grave of his Elmire or Celestine with a brilliant thicket
of roses, amidst which a little tablet rising, bore an equally bright
testimony to her countless virtues. Every nation, tribe, and kindred,
mourned after its own fashion; and how soundless was the mourning of
all! My own tread, though slow and upon smooth-rolled paths, seemed to
startle, because it formed the sole break to a silence otherwise total.
Not only the winds, but the very fitful, wandering airs, were that
afternoon, as by common consent, all fallen asleep in their various
quarters; the north was hushed, the south silent, the east sobbed not,
nor did the west whisper. The clouds in heaven were condensed and
dull, but apparently quite motionless. Under the trees of this cemetery
nestled a warm breathless gloom, out of which the cypresses stood up
straight and mute, above which the willows hung low and still; where
the flowers, as languid as fair, waited listless for night dew or
thunder-shower; where the tombs, and those they hid, lay impassible to
sun or shadow, to rain or drought.
Importuned by the sound of my own footsteps, I turned off upon the turf,
and slowly advanced to a grove of yews; I saw something stir among the
stems; I thought it might be a broken branch swinging, my short-sighted
vision had caught no form, only a sense of motion; but the dusky shade
passed on, appearing and disappearing at the openings in the avenue. I
soon discerned it was a living thing, and a human thing; and, drawing
nearer, I perceived it was a woman, pacing slowly to and fro, and
evidently deeming herself alone as I had deemed myself alone, and
meditating as I had been meditating. Ere long she returned to a seat
which I fancy she had but just quitted, or I should have caught sight
of her before. It was in a nook, screened by a clump of trees; there was
the white wall before her, and a little stone set up against the wall,
and, at the foot of the stone, was an allotment of turf freshly turned
up, a new-made grave. I put on my spectacles, and passed softly close
behind her; glancing at the inscription on the stone, I read, “Julienne
Henri, died at Brussels, aged sixty. August 10th, 18--.” Having perused
the inscription, I looked down at the form sitting bent and thoughtful
just under my eyes, unconscious of the vicinity of any living thing; it
was a slim, youthful figure in mourning apparel of the plainest black
stuff, with a little simple, black crape bonnet; I felt, as well as
saw, who it was; and, moving neither hand nor foot, I stood some moments
enjoying the security of conviction. I had sought her for a month, and
had never discovered one of her traces--never met a hope, or seized
a chance of encountering her anywhere. I had been forced to loosen my
grasp on expectation; and, but an hour ago, had sunk slackly under
the discouraging thought that the current of life, and the impulse
of destiny, had swept her for ever from my reach; and, behold, while
bending suddenly earthward beneath the pressure of despondency--while
following with my eyes the track of sorrow on the turf of a
graveyard--here was my lost jewel dropped on the tear-fed herbage,
nestling in the messy and mouldy roots of yew-trees.
Frances sat very quiet, her elbow on her knee, and her head on her hand.
I knew she could retain a thinking attitude a long time without change;
at last, a tear fell; she had been looking at the name on the
stone before her, and her heart had no doubt endured one of those
constrictions with which the desolate living, regretting the dead, are,
at times, so sorely oppressed. Many tears rolled down, which she wiped
away, again and again, with her handkerchief; some distressed sobs
escaped her, and then, the paroxysm over, she sat quiet as before. I put
my hand gently on her shoulder; no need further to prepare her, for
she was neither hysterical nor liable to fainting-fits; a sudden push,
indeed, might have startled her, but the contact of my quiet touch
merely woke attention as I wished; and, though she turned quickly, yet
so lightning-swift is thought--in some minds especially--I believe the
wonder of what--the consciousness of who it was that thus stole unawares
on her solitude, had passed through her brain, and flashed into her
heart, even before she had effected that hasty movement; at least,
Amazement had hardly opened her eyes and raised them to mine, ere
Recognition informed their irids with most speaking brightness. Nervous
surprise had hardly discomposed her features ere a sentiment of most
vivid joy shone clear and warm on her whole countenance. I had hardly
time to observe that she was wasted and pale, ere called to feel a
responsive inward pleasure by the sense of most full and exquisite
pleasure glowing in the animated flush, and shining in the expansive
light, now diffused over my pupil’s face. It was the summer sun flashing
out after the heavy summer shower; and what fertilizes more rapidly than
that beam, burning almost like fire in its ardour?
I hate boldness--that boldness which is of the brassy brow and insensate
nerves; but I love the courage of the strong heart, the fervour of the
generous blood; I loved with passion the light of Frances Evans’ clear
hazel eye when it did not fear to look straight into mine; I loved the
tones with which she uttered the words--
“Mon maitre! mon maitre!”
I loved the movement with which she confided her hand to my hand; I
loved her as she stood there, penniless and parentless; for a sensualist
charmless, for me a treasure--my best object of sympathy on earth,
thinking such thoughts as I thought, feeling such feelings as I felt; my
ideal of the shrine in which to seal my stores of love; personification
of discretion and forethought, of diligence and perseverance, of
self-denial and self-control--those guardians, those trusty keepers of
the gift I longed to confer on her--the gift of all my affections;
model of truth and honour, of independence and conscientiousness--those
refiners and sustainers of an honest life; silent possessor of a well
of tenderness, of a flame, as genial as still, as pure as quenchless,
of natural feeling, natural passion--those sources of refreshment and
comfort to the sanctuary of home. I knew how quietly and how deeply the
well bubbled in her heart; I knew how the more dangerous flame burned
safely under the eye of reason; I had seen when the fire shot up a
moment high and vivid, when the accelerated heat troubled life’s current
in its channels; I had seen reason reduce the rebel, and humble its
blaze to embers. I had confidence in Frances Evans; I had respect
for her, and as I drew her arm through mine, and led her out of the
cemetery, I felt I had another sentiment, as strong as confidence, as
firm as respect, more fervid than either--that of love.
“Well, my pupil,” said I, as the ominous sounding gate swung to behind
us--“Well, I have found you again: a month’s search has seemed long,
and I little thought to have discovered my lost sheep straying amongst
graves.”
Never had I addressed her but as “Mademoiselle” before, and to speak
thus was to take up a tone new to both her and me. Her answer suprised
me that this language ruffled none of her feelings, woke no discord in
her heart:
“Mon maitre,” she said, “have you troubled yourself to seek me? I little
imagined you would think much of my absence, but I grieved bitterly to
be taken away from you. I was sorry for that circumstance when heavier
troubles ought to have made me forget it.”
“Your aunt is dead?”
“Yes, a fortnight since, and she died full of regret, which I could not
chase from her mind; she kept repeating, even during the last night
of her existence, ‘Frances, you will be so lonely when I am gone,
so friendless:’ she wished too that she could have been buried in
Switzerland, and it was I who persuaded her in her old age to leave the
banks of Lake Leman, and to come, only as it seems to die, in this flat
region of Flanders. Willingly would I have observed her last wish, and
taken her remains back to our own country, but that was impossible; I
was forced to lay her here.”
“She was ill but a short time, I presume?”
“But three weeks. When she began to sink I asked Mdlle. Reuter’s leave
to stay with her and wait on her; I readily got leave.”
“Do you return to the pensionnat!” I demanded hastily.
“Monsieur, when I had been at home a week Mdlle. Reuter called one
evening, just after I had got my aunt to bed; she went into her room
to speak to her, and was extremely civil and affable, as she always is;
afterwards she came and sat with me a long time, and just as she rose to
go away, she said: “Mademoiselle, I shall not soon cease to regret your
departure from my establishment, though indeed it is true that you have
taught your class of pupils so well that they are all quite accomplished
in the little works you manage so skilfully, and have not the slightest
need of further instruction; my second teacher must in future supply
your place, with regard to the younger pupils, as well as she can,
though she is indeed an inferior artiste to you, and doubtless it will
be your part now to assume a higher position in your calling; I am sure
you will everywhere find schools and families willing to profit by your
talents.’ And then she paid me my last quarter’s salary. I asked, as
mademoiselle would no doubt think, very bluntly, if she designed to
discharge me from the establishment. She smiled at my inelegance of
speech, and answered that ‘our connection as employer and employed was
certainly dissolved, but that she hoped still to retain the pleasure of
my acquaintance; she should always be happy to see me as a friend;’ and
then she said something about the excellent condition of the streets,
and the long continuance of fine weather, and went away quite cheerful.”
I laughed inwardly; all this was so like the directress--so like what I
had expected and guessed of her conduct; and then the exposure and proof
of her lie, unconsciously afforded by Frances:--“She had frequently
applied for Mdlle. Henri’s address,” forsooth; “Mdlle. Henri had always
evaded giving it,” &c., &c., and here I found her a visitor at the very
house of whose locality she had professed absolute ignorance!
Any comments I might have intended to make on my pupil’s communication,
were checked by the plashing of large rain-drops on our faces and on the
path, and by the muttering of a distant but coming storm. The warning
obvious in stagnant air and leaden sky had already induced me to take
the road leading back to Brussels, and now I hastened my own steps and
those of my companion, and, as our way lay downhill, we got on rapidly.
There was an interval after the fall of the first broad drops before
heavy rain came on; in the meantime we had passed through the Porte de
Louvain, and were again in the city.
“Where do you live?” I asked; “I will see you safe home.”
“Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges,” answered Frances.
It was not far from the Rue de Louvain, and we stood on the doorsteps
of the house we sought ere the clouds, severing with loud peal and
shattered cataract of lightning, emptied their livid folds in a torrent,
heavy, prone, and broad.
“Come in! come in!” said Frances, as, after putting her into the house,
I paused ere I followed: the word decided me; I stepped across the
threshold, shut the door on the rushing, flashing, whitening storm, and
followed her upstairs to her apartments. Neither she nor I were wet; a
projection over the door had warded off the straight-descending flood;
none but the first, large drops had touched our garments; one minute
more and we should not have had a dry thread on us.
Stepping over a little mat of green wool, I found myself in a small room
with a painted floor and a square of green carpet in the middle; the
articles of furniture were few, but all bright and exquisitely clean;
order reigned through its narrow limits--such order as it soothed my
punctilious soul to behold. And I had hesitated to enter the abode,
because I apprehended after all that Mdlle. Reuter’s hint about its
extreme poverty might be too well-founded, and I feared to embarrass the
lace-mender by entering her lodgings unawares! Poor the place might be;
poor truly it was; but its neatness was better than elegance, and had
but a bright little fire shone on that clean hearth, I should have
deemed it more attractive than a palace. No fire was there, however, and
no fuel laid ready to light; the lace-mender was unable to allow herself
that indulgence, especially now when, deprived by death of her sole
relative, she had only her own unaided exertions to rely on. Frances
went into an inner room to take off her bonnet, and she came out a
model of frugal neatness, with her well-fitting black stuff dress, so
accurately defining her elegant bust and taper waist, with her spotless
white collar turned back from a fair and shapely neck, with her
plenteous brown hair arranged in smooth bands on her temples, and in
a large Grecian plait behind: ornaments she had none--neither brooch,
ring, nor ribbon; she did well enough without them--perfection of fit,
proportion of form, grace of carriage, agreeably supplied their place.
Her eye, as she re-entered the small sitting-room, instantly sought
mine, which was just then lingering on the hearth; I knew she read at
once the sort of inward ruth and pitying pain which the chill vacancy of
that hearth stirred in my soul: quick to penetrate, quick to determine,
and quicker to put in practice, she had in a moment tied a holland apron
round her waist; then she disappeared, and reappeared with a basket;
it had a cover; she opened it, and produced wood and coal; deftly and
compactly she arranged them in the grate.
“It is her whole stock, and she will exhaust it out of hospitality,”
thought I.
“What are you going to do?” I asked: “not surely to light a fire this
hot evening? I shall be smothered.”
“Indeed, monsieur, I feel it very chilly since the rain began; besides,
I must boil the water for my tea, for I take tea on Sundays; you will be
obliged to try and bear the heat.”
She had struck a light; the wood was already in a blaze; and truly, when
contrasted with the darkness, the wild tumult of the tempest without,
that peaceful glow which began to beam on the now animated hearth,
seemed very cheering. A low, purring sound, from some quarter, announced
that another being, besides myself, was pleased with the change; a
black cat, roused by the light from its sleep on a little cushioned
foot-stool, came and rubbed its head against Frances’ gown as she knelt;
she caressed it, saying it had been a favourite with her “pauvre tante
Julienne.”
The fire being lit, the hearth swept, and a small kettle of a very
antique pattern, such as I thought I remembered to have seen in old
farmhouses in England, placed over the now ruddy flame, Frances’ hands
were washed, and her apron removed in an instant; then she opened a
cupboard, and took out a tea-tray, on which she had soon arranged a
china tea-equipage, whose pattern, shape, and size, denoted a remote
antiquity; a little, old-fashioned silver spoon was deposited in each
saucer; and a pair of silver tongs, equally old-fashioned, were laid
on the sugar-basin; from the cupboard, too, was produced a tidy
silver cream-ewer, not larger then an egg-shell. While making these
preparations, she chanced to look up, and, reading curiosity in my eyes,
she smiled and asked--
“Is this like England, monsieur?”
“Like the England of a hundred years ago,” I replied.
“Is it truly? Well, everything on this tray is at least a hundred
years old: these cups, these spoons, this ewer, are all heirlooms; my
great-grandmother left them to my grandmother, she to my mother, and my
mother brought them with her from England to Switzerland, and left them
to me; and, ever since I was a little girl, I have thought I should like
to carry them back to England, whence they came.”
She put some pistolets on the table; she made the tea, as foreigners do
make tea--i.e., at the rate of a teaspoonful to half-a-dozen cups;
she placed me a chair, and, as I took it, she asked, with a sort of
exaltation--
“Will it make you think yourself at home for a moment?”
“If I had a home in England, I believe it would recall it,” I
answered; and, in truth, there was a sort of illusion in seeing the
fair-complexioned English-looking girl presiding at the English meal,
and speaking in the English language.
“You have then no home?” was her remark.
“None, nor ever have had. If ever I possess a home, it must be of my own
making, and the task is yet to begin.” And, as I spoke, a pang, new to
me, shot across my heart: it was a pang of mortification at the humility
of my position, and the inadequacy of my means; while with that pang was
born a strong desire to do more, earn more, be more, possess more;
and in the increased possessions, my roused and eager spirit panted to
include the home I had never had, the wife I inwardly vowed to win.
Frances’ tea was little better than hot water, sugar, and milk; and her
pistolets, with which she could not offer me butter, were sweet to my
palate as manna.
The repast over, and the treasured plate and porcelain being washed and
put by, the bright table rubbed still brighter, “le chat de ma tante
Julienne” also being fed with provisions brought forth on a plate for
its special use, a few stray cinders, and a scattering of ashes too,
being swept from the hearth, Frances at last sat down; and then, as she
took a chair opposite to me, she betrayed, for the first time, a little
embarrassment; and no wonder, for indeed I had unconsciously watched
her rather too closely, followed all her steps and all her movements
a little too perseveringly with my eyes, for she mesmerized me by
the grace and alertness of her action--by the deft, cleanly, and even
decorative effect resulting from each touch of her slight and fine
fingers; and when, at last, she subsided to stillness, the intelligence
of her face seemed beauty to me, and I dwelt on it accordingly. Her
colour, however, rising, rather than settling with repose, and her eyes
remaining downcast, though I kept waiting for the lids to be raised that
I might drink a ray of the light I loved--a light where fire dissolved
in softness, where affection tempered penetration, where, just now
at least, pleasure played with thought--this expectation not being
gratified, I began at last to suspect that I had probably myself to
blame for the disappointment; I must cease gazing, and begin talking,
if I wished to break the spell under which she now sat motionless; so
recollecting the composing effect which an authoritative tone and manner
had ever been wont to produce on her, I said--
“Get one of your English books, mademoiselle, for the rain yet falls
heavily, and will probably detain me half an hour longer.”
Released, and set at ease, up she rose, got her book, and accepted at
once the chair I placed for her at my side. She had selected “Paradise
Lost” from her shelf of classics, thinking, I suppose, the religious
character of the book best adapted it to Sunday; I told her to begin at
the beginning, and while she read Milton’s invocation to that heavenly
muse, who on the “secret top of Oreb or Sinai” had taught the Hebrew
shepherd how in the womb of chaos, the conception of a world had
originated and ripened, I enjoyed, undisturbed, the treble pleasure of
having her near me, hearing the sound of her voice--a sound sweet and
satisfying in my ear--and looking, by intervals, at her face: of this
last privilege, I chiefly availed myself when I found fault with an
intonation, a pause, or an emphasis; as long as I dogmatized, I might
also gaze, without exciting too warm a flush.
“Enough,” said I, when she had gone through some half dozen pages (a
work of time with her, for she read slowly and paused often to ask and
receive information)--“enough; and now the rain is ceasing, and I must
soon go.” For indeed, at that moment, looking towards the window, I
saw it all blue; the thunder-clouds were broken and scattered, and the
setting August sun sent a gleam like the reflection of rubies through
the lattice. I got up; I drew on my gloves.
“You have not yet found another situation to supply the place of that
from which you were dismissed by Mdlle. Reuter?”
“No, monsieur; I have made inquiries everywhere, but they all ask me
for references; and to speak truth, I do not like to apply to the
directress, because I consider she acted neither justly nor honourably
towards me; she used underhand means to set my pupils against me, and
thereby render me unhappy while I held my place in her establishment,
and she eventually deprived me of it by a masked and hypocritical
manoeuvre, pretending that she was acting for my good, but really
snatching from me my chief means of subsistence, at a crisis when not
only my own life, but that of another, depended on my exertions: of her
I will never more ask a favour.”
“How, then, do you propose to get on? How do you live now?”
“I have still my lace-mending trade; with care it will keep me from
starvation, and I doubt not by dint of exertion to get better employment
yet; it is only a fortnight since I began to try; my courage or hopes
are by no means worn out yet.”
“And if you get what you wish, what then? what are your ultimate views?”
“To save enough to cross the Channel: I always look to England as my
Canaan.”
“Well, well--ere long I shall pay you another visit; good evening now,”
and I left her rather abruptly; I had much ado to resist a strong inward
impulse, urging me to take a warmer, more expressive leave: what so
natural as to fold her for a moment in a close embrace, to imprint one
kiss on her cheek or forehead? I was not unreasonable--that was all I
wanted; satisfied in that point, I could go away content; and Reason
denied me even this; she ordered me to turn my eyes from her face, and
my steps from her apartment--to quit her as dryly and coldly as I would
have quitted old Madame Pelet. I obeyed, but I swore rancorously to be
avenged one day. “I’ll earn a right to do as I please in this matter,
or I’ll die in the contest. I have one object before me now--to get that
Genevese girl for my wife; and my wife she shall be--that is, provided
she has as much, or half as much regard for her master as he has
for her. And would she be so docile, so smiling, so happy under my
instructions if she had not? would she sit at my side when I dictate
or correct, with such a still, contented, halcyon mien?” for I had ever
remarked, that however sad or harassed her countenance might be when
I entered a room, yet after I had been near her, spoken to her a few
words, given her some directions, uttered perhaps some reproofs, she
would, all at once, nestle into a nook of happiness, and look up serene
and revived. The reproofs suited her best of all: while I scolded she
would chip away with her pen-knife at a pencil or a pen; fidgetting a
little, pouting a little, defending herself by monosyllables, and when I
deprived her of the pen or pencil, fearing it would be all cut away,
and when I interdicted even the monosyllabic defence, for the purpose
of working up the subdued excitement a little higher, she would at last
raise her eyes and give me a certain glance, sweetened with gaiety, and
pointed with defiance, which, to speak truth, thrilled me as nothing had
ever done, and made me, in a fashion (though happily she did not know
it), her subject, if not her slave. After such little scenes her spirits
would maintain their flow, often for some hours, and, as I remarked
before, her health therefrom took a sustenance and vigour which,
previously to the event of her aunt’s death and her dismissal, had
almost recreated her whole frame.
It has taken me several minutes to write these last sentences; but I had
thought all their purport during the brief interval of descending the
stairs from Frances’ room. Just as I was opening the outer door,
I remembered the twenty francs which I had not restored; I paused:
impossible to carry them away with me; difficult to force them back
on their original owner; I had now seen her in her own humble abode,
witnessed the dignity of her poverty, the pride of order, the fastidious
care of conservatism, obvious in the arrangement and economy of her
little home; I was sure she would not suffer herself to be excused
paying her debts; I was certain the favour of indemnity would be
accepted from no hand, perhaps least of all from mine: yet these four
five-franc pieces were a burden to my self-respect, and I must get
rid of them. An expedient--a clumsy one no doubt, but the best I
could devise-suggested itself to me. I darted up the stairs, knocked,
re-entered the room as if in haste:--
“Mademoiselle, I have forgotten one of my gloves; I must have left it
here.”
She instantly rose to seek it; as she turned her back, I--being now
at the hearth--noiselessly lifted a little vase, one of a set of china
ornaments, as old-fashioned as the tea-cups--slipped the money under it,
then saying--“Oh here is my glove! I had dropped it within the fender;
good evening, mademoiselle,” I made my second exit.
Brief as my impromptu return had been, it had afforded me time to pick
up a heart-ache; I remarked that Frances had already removed the red
embers of her cheerful little fire from the grate: forced to calculate
every item, to save in every detail, she had instantly on my departure
retrenched a luxury too expensive to be enjoyed alone.
“I am glad it is not yet winter,” thought I; “but in two months more
come the winds and rains of November; would to God that before then I
could earn the right, and the power, to shovel coals into that grate AD
LIBITUM!”
Already the pavement was drying; a balmy and fresh breeze stirred the
air, purified by lightning; I felt the West behind me, where spread a
sky like opal; azure immingled with crimson: the enlarged sun, glorious
in Tyrian tints, dipped his brim already; stepping, as I was, eastward,
I faced a vast bank of clouds, but also I had before me the arch of an
evening rainbow; a perfect rainbow--high, wide, vivid. I looked long;
my eye drank in the scene, and I suppose my brain must have absorbed
it; for that night, after lying awake in pleasant fever a long time,
watching the silent sheet-lightning, which still played among the
retreating clouds, and flashed silvery over the stars, I at last fell
asleep; and then in a dream were reproduced the setting sun, the bank of
clouds, the mighty rainbow. I stood, methought, on a terrace; I leaned
over a parapeted wall; there was space below me, depth I could not
fathom, but hearing an endless dash of waves, I believed it to be the
sea; sea spread to the horizon; sea of changeful green and intense
blue: all was soft in the distance; all vapour-veiled. A spark of gold
glistened on the line between water and air, floated up, approached,
enlarged, changed; the object hung midway between heaven and earth,
under the arch of the rainbow; the soft but dusk clouds diffused behind.
It hovered as on wings; pearly, fleecy, gleaming air streamed like
raiment round it; light, tinted with carnation, coloured what seemed
face and limbs; a large star shone with still lustre on an angel’s
forehead; an upraised arm and hand, glancing like a ray, pointed to the
bow overhead, and a voice in my heart whispered--
“Hope smiles on Effort!”