UNCLE BRYAN CONCLUDES HIS STORY.
I became a frequent visitor at Mr. Glaive's house. Three or four times
every week I spent my evenings there, and I was always welcomed with
smiles and good words. Mr. Glaive and his daughter had never mingled
in the gaieties of the city; neither had I. One night we were speaking
of a concert that was to be given at the largest public hall in the
city; a royal prince had promised his patronage, and Frances Glaive
was eager to see him.
'I should like to go so much,' she said; 'I think I would give
anything to go.'
'I would take you with pleasure,' said her father; 'but there are two
obstacles. One is the expense--that could be got over, I daresay; but
the other is insurmountable. The excitement would be too much for my
heart.'
His heart was a favourite theme with him; he was not to be troubled or
irritated or excited because of it; he was to be petted and humoured
because of it. It enabled him to live the life he loved best--a life
of perfect indolence.
The next time I visited them, I presented Frances Glaive with tickets
for the concert. It required courage on my part, for it was the first
step in a new direction.
'What am I to do with them?' she asked. 'You are very good, but I have
no one to take me.'
'I was going to ask Mr. Glaive,' I said, 'if he would intrust you to
my care.'
Mr. Glaive replied in his heartiest manner, and his daughter was wild
with delight. If anything had been needed to complete the spell,
Frances Glaive's appearance on that night would have supplied it. For
beauty, for grace, for freshness, there was not a lady in the hall who
could compare with her. I experienced a new feeling of happiness as I
witnessed the admiring glances of the assembly, and Frances Glaive
herself was no less happy in the admiration she excited. From that
night we drifted into the gaieties of the city, and I became her
constant companion--necessarily, because I supplied the means.
I must mention here that her cousin Ralph was also a constant visitor
at the house; but although he was on terms of affectionate intimacy
with Frances--which I set down, not without jealous feeling, to their
cousinship and to their having been much together during their
childhood--Mr. Glaive did not seem to care for his presence at that
time. I heard Ralph say to Frances at one time, when she spoke of an
entertainment to which we were going,
'I would take you if I had money.'
'Get rich, then,' she replied, 'like Mr. Carey; but you are too idle
to work.'
I believed this to be pretty near the truth, although he chose to put
another construction upon his indolence by saying that it was his
misfortune to have been born a gentleman. He was barely twenty-two
years of age at the time, but he had learnt that fine lesson
perfectly. I came upon them then, and Frances Glaive said that she had
just told her cousin that he was too idle to work, and that he had
pleaded as an excuse that he had been born a gentleman. How I loved
her for her frankness and truthfulness! Ralph turned very red, and
said that he would work if he could obtain anything suitable. A little
while after this conversation, at the intercession of his cousin, I
obtained a situation for him, but he did not keep it many weeks. He
was altogether too fine for work. As I have said, I had a jealous
feeling towards him with reference to Frances Glaive; his youth, his
comeliness, his gayer manners made me uneasy sometimes, and my intense
love often magnified this feeling until it became torture. Was not
this pearl of womanhood too precious for me to hope to win? On one
side there was light; on the other, darkness. There was no medium.
Without her love, it was blackest night; with her love, it was
brightest day. I determined to know my fate, and soon; but before I
had mustered sufficient courage to speak, Mr. Glaive anticipated me.
My attentions to his daughter, he said, were becoming conspicuous; as
her only protector--a poor and helpless one, he added, with his
heart-complaint, which prevented his guarding her and watching over
her as he should--he was naturally anxious as to her future. I took
advantage of a pause to ask nervously if my attentions were
displeasing to him. Not at all, he answered eagerly; but as a father
he was bound to ask the precise meaning that was to be attached to
them. If ever I had a child of my own, I should be able to understand
his anxiety. He put his handkerchief to his eyes, and waited for me to
speak. A thrill of unspeakable happiness set my pulses quivering with
sweet music. A child of my own--of hers! If such a solemn charge were
given into my hands, how sacredly, how tenderly would I guard it! I
replied to Mr. Glaive, that my attentions could have but one meaning,
and that it was my dearest hope to make Frances Glaive my wife. Then
ensued a business conversation as to my means, as to how he himself
was to live, and other details. My answers must have satisfied him,
for he told me that the day on which I became his son-in-law would be
the happiest day in his life.
'Take an early opportunity,' he said, 'of seeing Frances, and speak
for yourself.'
'I would have spoken to her at once; but he told me that she was not
at home, and that he had designed this interview while she was out
lest we should be disturbed, or lest he had misunderstood the
attention I had paid to her. I appreciated the delicacy of his design,
and I waited until the following day. I was not destined to be
disappointed; Frances Glaive accepted me for her husband. I scarcely
dared to ask her if she loved me, but when she placed her hand in
mine, was it not sufficient? I bought the house which pleased her
best, and left her to furnish it according to her taste. It delighted
me to humour her in all her whims; nothing that she did, nothing that
she said, could be wrong. I changed my mode of life to please her; I
dressed to please her. What was right in her eyes was right in mine.
There was no questioning on my part. I had found my teacher, and I was
supremely satisfied to be led by her who had brought sunshine into my
life. She furnished the house with, exquisite taste; it cost three
times the money I had anticipated, but she said,
'What does it matter? You are rich.'
What _did_ it matter? What consideration of money could influence me
when I would have given her my heart's blood had she asked for it?
Well, we were married. On the wedding-day I gave Mr. Glaive a full
release of what he owed me.
'My father-in-law must not be my creditor,' I said.
For a time I was very, very happy, and Frances herself seemed to be
so. If indulgence in every whim, in every desire, can produce
happiness, she must have been in possession of it, for I grudged her
nothing. It was very sweet to be led, and I did not count the cost.
Ralph, her cousin, lived almost entirely at our house. I found it
difficult to enter thoroughly into my wife's enjoyments, although I
strove honestly to do so. She was fond of society, fond of dress, fond
of being admired; if, now and then, a thought intruded itself that
there was frivolousness in her fancies, I crushed it down. What right
had I to judge? My life had been until now a life of misery, because
of my belief in my own convictions, because I had judged everything by
hard stern rules; and now, when happiness was in my possession, and I
had discovered the folly and the error of my ways, I would not allow
myself to relapse into my old beliefs. We were living at a rate that
outstripped my means, but it did not trouble me much. Money would make
no difference in our feelings: if we grew poor, it would be a good
test for our affection. I happened to mention casually to Mr. Glaive
that we were living at a high rate.
'You surely do not mean to retrench!' he exclaimed.
'I certainly have no such intention,' I replied, smiling, 'unless
Frances wishes it. She knows my position, and I am entirely satisfied
to be led by her.'
'Quite right,' said my father-in-law, regarding me somewhat
thoughtfully I fancied; 'women know best about these matters--though
Frances after all is a mere girl, twenty years your junior at least,
eh?'
'That is so,' I said, angry with myself for feeling uneasy at the
remark.
'Yes, yes,' he continued; 'it would break her heart to give up any of
her little whims--she is like a child. The dear girl _must_ enjoy
life--now is her only time. By and by, when she becomes a mother,
perhaps--'
I turned from him; it was my dearest hope, but it was fated not to be
gratified.
'I tell you what it is, Bryan,' he said, 'you do not make a proper use
of your opportunities; were I in your position, I would treble my
income.'
'By what means?' I asked.
'By speculating, my dear Bryan; by speculating judiciously, as with
your abilities you would be sure to do. Think of the additional
pleasures you could offer my dear girl, and of the thousand ways in
which you could add to her enjoyment of life.'
Money had never presented itself to me in this light before; Mr.
Glaive was right; it was a thing to be desired for what it would
purchase. I took heed of his counsels, and became a speculator. The
words he had spoken to me bore other fruit besides--bitter fruit, from
the distress they caused me. I was twenty-five--not twenty--years
older than Frances, and gray hairs were multiplying fast on my head.
The thought that in a very few years my hair might be quite white,
while Frances would be still a girl, gave me unutterable pain; but I
strove to banish it from my mind. We had been married nearly six
months, and with the exception of my own self-torturings, no cloud had
appeared to darken our lives, when a circumstance occurred. As
I was going home one evening, a woman stopped me--a poor ragged
creature--and addressing me by name, begged me to assist her. During
those few months I never paused to inquire into the merits of an
appeal for charity--my own happiness pleaded for the applicants, and I
gave without question. I gave this woman a shilling, and she accepted
it thankfully enough, but with the mournful remark that it would be
gone to-morrow. That, and the circumstance of her addressing me by
name--I having no knowledge of her--interested me, and I questioned
her. She was a stranger, she said, and had but newly arrived, having
walked many weary miles. Where did she come from? I asked; and she
mentioned the town where I had first tarried and suffered after
leaving my home. She told me that she saw my name over my place of
business, and had recognised it as belonging to one who had been most
kind to a young friend she knew years and years ago, and then she
mentioned the name of the girl who had died in my arms.
'What were you?' I asked. 'I have no remembrance of you.'
'Don't ask me what I was or what I am,' she faltered; 'but if you can
assist me to lead an honest life, do so for pity's sake.'
In memory of the poor girl whom she had known, I determined to assist
this unfortunate creature--at this time a middle-aged woman--and I
obtained a respectable lodging for her at once. I told her that we
would never refer to the past, but that she should commence a new and
better life at once. And she did; and honestly fulfilled its duties.
Everything seemed to be going on well and happily at home, and I was
in the full enjoyment of my fool's paradise, when I received a shock
which almost turned the current of my blood. It took place on a day
when I had been occasioned much annoyance by the circumstance of my
father-in-law drawing upon me, without my permission, for a sum of
money which was of consequence to me. It was not the first time he had
done this, and I had paid his drafts with but slight reluctance, for
they were for small amounts. But the amount of the present bill was
serious, and it came at an inconvenient time. I was so much annoyed
that, knowing Mr. Glaive to be at my house spending the evening, I
determined not to go home until late, for fear that angry words might
pass between us in the presence of Frances. So I sent a note to my
wife, saying that business detained me at the office; and I idled away
the time until ten o'clock, when I walked slowly home. My wife was not
in the usual room in which we sat of an evening, and I went to a
little room of which she was very fond, and which she called her
sanctuary. I heard voices there, hers and her cousin Ralph's, and the
words that he was addressing to her arrested my steps. I was guilty
then of the first mean action in my life--I listened. What I heard I
cannot here repeat, but I heard enough to know that I had been cheated
and cajoled. I did not wait for the end, but I stole away with a
desolate heart. My dream was over, and I was awake again, with a
desolate heart, and with all my old opinions and old convictions at
work within me in stronger force than ever.
I said nothing; certain as I was of the ugly bitter truth, I resolved
to be still more certain of it, not from my own impressions, but from
outward evidence. I discovered to my astonishment that my wife's
vanity, her fondness for display, her love of the admiration of men,
her frivolity, her flirtations with her cousin Ralph, and my own
ridiculous infatuation and blindness were matters of common
conversation. Fool that I was to believe in goodness! I cast aside all
weakness, and resolved never to be deceived again. My heart was like a
withered leaf; and all the foolish tenderness of my nature died an
unredeemable death. Towards one person, and one alone, did I entertain
any feeling of kindness; that was the woman who had solicited my help,
and who had known the poor lost girl-friend of my younger days. I was
sick almost to death of my home; the sight of my wife's fair face was
unutterably painful to me; I was sick of the place in which I had been
worldly prosperous. I yearned to fly from it, and to find myself again
among strangers. The events that brought about the accomplishment of
this desire came quickly. Some of the speculations I had entered into
turned out badly; I could have saved myself from loss had I exercised
my usual forethought; but I was reckless and despairing, and it was
almost with a feeling of joy that I found, upon a careful examination
of my affairs, that I had barely enough to settle with my creditors. I
called them together secretly, letting neither my wife nor Mr. Glaive
know of my position. I enjoined secrecy upon those to whom I was
indebted, and made over to them everything I possessed in the world.
Upon that very day Mr. Glaive took me to task for my treatment of his
daughter, for my neglect of her. I listened to him calmly, and told
him I had good and sufficient reasons for my conduct. It was an angry
interview, and I ended it abruptly upon his saying that his daughter's
happiness would have been more assured if he had given her to one who
was more suitable to her. That same night a meeting of another
description took place between Ralph and myself. He was talking of his
pretty cousin in public, and of me in offensive terms. I have always
regretted that I took notice of him on that occasion, for he was in
liquor; but I was not master of myself. I left him after hot words had
passed between us, and went to my office. He sought me there, and
continued the quarrel, and boasted to my face that my wife loved him,
and would have married him but for my stepping between them.
'You fool,' he said scornfully; you bought her!'
It was a bitter truth. Had I been a poor man, Frances Glaive would
never have become my wife. But when he said that it was a bargain
between me and her father, I thrust him from the office, and shut the
door in his face. Everything was clear to me now, and I looked with
shame and mortification upon my childish folly; but I was justly
punished for it. I made my arrangements for departure, for I resolved
never to live with my wife again, never even to see her, for fear that
her fair false face should turn my senses again. The news of my
failure must soon become known, and I did not intend to remain a day
after its announcement. I wrote a letter to my wife, telling her that
I had discovered all, and that I could no longer live with her. I told
her that I was ruined, and that I was going to London to bury myself
in a locality where there was the least possibility of my becoming
known, and that it was useless her seeking me or sending to me, after
the shame and disgrace she had brought upon me. 'If,' I concluded, 'I
could make you a free woman, so that you might marry the man you love,
I would willingly lay down my life; but it cannot be done. The only
and best reparation I can offer is to promise, as I do now most
faithfully, to wipe you out of my heart, so that you may be free from
me for ever.' I had some small store of money by me, half of which I
enclosed in the letter. I knew that she was in no fear of want, and
that she would find a home if she wanted it in her father's house.
Before I left the town I went to see the woman I had befriended, and
to bid her farewell; she was earning her living by needlework. I gave
her some of the money I had left, and I might have been tempted to
believe, if I could have believed in anything good, that she at least
was grateful to me for the assistance I had rendered her. When I came
out of the house in which she lived, I saw Mr. Glaive and Ralph,
arm-in-arm, on the opposite side of the way. I avoided them, and the
next morning I shook the dust from my feet, and started for London. I
never saw them again. I came to this part of London, where there was
the least chance of my being discovered; shortly afterwards I learnt
that this business was for sale, and I found I had just sufficient
money to purchase it. You know now, thus far, the leading incidents of
my life, and that its crowning sorrow and bitterness arose from my
senseless worship of a vain, frivolous, and beautiful woman. I have
only a few words to add, and they refer to Jessie.
I had no knowledge whatever of her, but on the first night of her
arrival something in her face, something in her ways, reminded me of
my wife. On the following morning she gave me a letter. It was from my
wife, and was dated six years ago. How she discovered my address I
cannot tell. It was to the effect that I should read it when she was
dead, and it asked me simply to give a home to the friendless child
who presented it. You can understand the effect it had upon me;
questioning Jessie privately, I learned from her that she was indeed
friendless and an orphan. I ascertained the place she came from, and
was relieved to know that it was not the town in which I had been
married. She had been stopping at an ordinary lodging-house, and I
wrote to the address she gave me, but received no answer. In the mean
time I feared that the quiet routine of the life I had led, and which
suited me, was likely to be interrupted by the introduction into the
house of another inmate. I resolved to take Jessie back to the friends
she had been stopping with before she came here, and to arrange for
her residence with them, undertaking to pay the expenses of her
living, although, as you are aware, I could ill afford it. On the
morning I took Jessie away, I gave her to understand that she would
not return; but when I reached the place I found that her friends had
left; I was told they had emigrated, and I made sure of the fact. It
does not come within the scope of what I intended to relate to you to
state why I was absent from home longer than I anticipated, nor what
consideration influenced me in bringing Jessie back with me. But it is
pertinent to say that I see in her the same qualities, the same
frivolities and vanities which I know existed in my wife, and which
entailed upon me the most bitter sorrow it has ever fallen to the lot
of man to suffer. She is here, however, for good or for ill; if it
turn out for good, it will be due to but one influence.
I have nothing more to add except to exact from you the condition that
not one word of what I have said shall ever be told to Jessie.