ABOUT ANOTHER MARRIAGE.
Frederick was in so strangely disturbed a state of mind that this
evening’s entertainment--as well as all the other incidents of these
hurrying days, which seemed years as they passed, yet appeared to have
raced by him helter-skelter as soon as they were gone--was to him as a
dream. He did not seem to know what he was about. Whatever he did was
done mechanically. He declined all engagements, never went to his club,
went home of nights, and shut himself up in the library or his own room,
smoking a greater number of cigars than he had ever done in his life
before, and thinking of _her_. Tobacco may be said to be the food of
love to the modern man, as it is the food of musing minds, and
intellectual work or idleness. Frederick lighted one after another
mechanically, and brooded over the image of Amanda. He thought of her in
every aspect under which he had seen her. He recalled to his mind, in
detail, the times when they had met, and everything that had been said
and done. And there came upon him a hunger for her presence which he
could not overcome, and scarcely restrain. She was not an interesting or
amusing companion in any intellectual way. Her talk was the merest
chit-chat. The amusements and occupations she preferred were not of an
elevated character; she ignored or was bored by everything serious; she
was uneducated, sometimes almost vulgar. But all this made no
difference, though he was sensible of it. He made, indeed, occasional
efforts to throw off the spell that bound him; to try, if not to forget
her, at least to consider all the obstacles that stood between them.
Their condition of life was entirely different, and to this Frederick
was deeply sensitive. He had trembled to have Batty find him out at his
club, or visit him at his office. He had accepted the man’s invitation
in haste to get rid of him, that no one might see the kind of person who
claimed his acquaintance; and, good heavens! if that very man became his
father-in-law! Then Frederick acknowledged to himself that Amanda would
be “pulled to pieces by the women.” Men might admire her only too much;
but, notwithstanding Frederick’s contempt for women, he felt the deepest
angry humiliation at the thought that only men probably would approve of
his wife--if she should become his wife. Then he had no means to gratify
this sudden passion. He had been very lucky at the office, making his
way by a series of deaths and misfortunes to a position which he could
scarcely have hoped to hold for five or six years longer. Three or four
hundred a year, however, though much for a public office, is not much to
set up house upon, according to Frederick Eastwood’s ideas. He had, like
Nelly, five thousand pounds, but what was that? he said to himself,
having the exalted notions peculiar to the young men of the period. For
a young man, living at home in a handsome house, which cost him nothing,
and where he could entertain his friends when need was, this was very
comfortable; but if he married, and had to keep up an establishment of
his own, things would appear in a very different light. The marriage he
ought to have made was with some one at least as rich as himself; he
ought to have done as his father had done, whose wife had more than
doubled his income. All this Frederick was deeply, sadly aware of. He
knew that he ought to do exactly the reverse of what he wanted to do; he
knew that at the very least he ought to pause and consider carefully all
the penalties, all the misery involved. But in the very midst of his
wisest thoughts a sudden recollection would sweep away every scrap of
good sense he possessed, as well as all that paramount regard for self
which had carried him over so many hidden rocks and dangers of which he
alone knew. Perhaps it would be wrong to say that love had triumphed
over self in this struggle. It was a victory more subtle still--it was
the triumph of the self of passion over the self of prudence and worldly
well-being. It was gratification as against profit--delight against
honour. I may, perhaps, judge him harshly, for this class of sentiment
is one, I am aware, in which women are apt to show a want of
understanding; but the reader will decide in how far the credit of a
generous passion, scorning consequences, may be attributed to Frederick
Eastwood. I do not call this kind of frenzy love; but there are many
that do. Of the true being called Amanda Batty he knew next to nothing,
and what he did know would, had he been in his sober senses, have
revolted his good taste, and disgusted all his finer perceptions. Even
now he had a vague prevision that he would be bitterly ashamed of her,
did she belong to him; and a certainty that he would be more than
ashamed of her belongings, whom already he loathed; but the outside of
her filled him with a hungry worship, which overcame his reason and all
the sane portion of his mind. After he had forced himself to think over
all the disadvantages, to represent to himself the descent into another
sphere, the want of means, the horrible neighbourhood into which he
would be thrown, there would suddenly gleam upon his mind that turn of
her soft round shoulder when she flung away from him in disdain; the
dimples in it, the velvet texture, the snowy whiteness just touched with
tints of rose--and all his wiser self was at once trampled underfoot.
Yet he stood out bravely, fighting with himself after the same fashion
but more strenuously than he had done on other occasions, when not a
lawful love, but a wild, lawless desire for pleasure, possessed him.
Never before had he made so long or so hard a stand. In the other cases
not much had been in question--a bout of dissipation might carry with it
a good many headaches, an empty purse, and, if found out, a slur upon
that spotless character which it was Frederick’s pride to maintain; but
it could do no more; whereas this would compromise his life. Would it
compromise his life? Might it not turn out for the best, as the other
event did which had seemed to envelope him in ruin? Could not he cut the
Batty connexion altogether--make a condition that she was to be entirely
handed over to him, and never inquired about more? And must not his own
innate refinement, his constant companionship, reform the beautiful
creature herself into all that could be desired? This flattering unction
sometimes Frederick succeeded in laying to his soul; but to do him
justice he much more generally perceived and acknowledged to their full
extent the obstacles in his way, and made his fight honestly, knowing
what it was he was fighting against.
Things, however, came to a crisis before very long. He did not himself
know how long the struggle lasted; it absorbed him at last out of almost
all consciousness of what was going on round him. He kept his usual
place, got through, somehow, his usual work, ate and drank, and answered
when he was spoken to, and knew nothing about it. During this period
perhaps Innocent was the greatest comfort he had. The spring had come
with a bound in the beginning of April, after a long stretch of cold
weather, and when after dinner he strayed out of doors to wander under
the elms, and carry on his eternal self-conflict, it was rather soothing
to him than otherwise when his cousin came stealing to his side in the
soft twilight. Poor child! how fond she was of him! it was pleasant to
have her there. She put her hand softly within his arm, and held his
sleeve, and turned with him when he turned, as long as he liked, or at
least until his mother’s sharp summons startled them both, and called in
the unwilling girl.
“Why can’t they let her alone when she is happy?” he said to himself on
such occasions. “Women are so spiteful.”
But when Mrs. Eastwood was otherwise engaged, or forgot, or got tired,
as people will do, of constant interference, Innocent would stay with
him as long as he pleased, saying scarcely anything--content only to be
with him--making no demands on his attention. Sometimes she would lean
her cheek softly against his arm, or clasp her hands upon it, with a
touching, silent demonstration of her dependence.
“I am afraid they are not very kind to you,” he would say, bending over
her, in intervals when he had roused himself from more serious thought.
But Innocent made no accusation; she said, “I like you best,” leaning
upon him. Her mind was absolutely as her name. She thought of nothing
better or higher in life than thus to be allowed to wander about with
Frederick, doing whatever he might want of her, accepting his guidance
with implicit faith. He had been the first to take possession of her
forlorn and half-stupefied mind, and no one else had room as yet to
enter in.
This, as may be supposed, made Mrs. Eastwood very seriously uneasy, and
produced remonstrances to which Frederick in his pre-occupied condition
paid not the slightest attention.
One evening, however, when he had come to the very verge of the crisis,
she went out in the twilight, and took her son’s arm.
“If you must have a companion, Frederick,” she said, attempting a laugh,
“I am the safest. You cannot turn my head, or have your own turned. I
wish you would pay a little attention to what I say to you.”
“Mother,” he said breathlessly, finding himself forced at last into the
resolution he had so long kept at arm’s length; “for the moment it is
you who must listen to me.”
She was startled by the vehemence of his tone; but kept her composure.
“Surely,” she said, “I am always ready--when you have any thing to say
to me, my dear.”
“I have something to say--and yet nothing--nothing particular,” he
cried. “The fact is that circumstances--have made me think lately--of
the possibility--of marrying----”
He brought out the last words with something of a jerk.
“Of--marrying! You, Frederick?”
“Yes, I. Why not? There is no reason, that I know of, why I should not
marry. There are Nelly and Molyneux setting me the example. She is a
great deal younger than I am, and he has nothing. I do not know what
there should be to prevent me----”
“Nothing, my dear,” said Mrs. Eastwood softly; “but before such an idea
enters into a young man’s head there are generally preliminaries. You
intend to marry somebody in particular? not just the first that comes in
your way?”
“You mean that I should have determined upon the person before I suggest
the event?” said Frederick. “One does naturally, I suppose; but let us
imagine that to be done, and there still remains a great deal to do.”
“Is this all you can tell me, Frederick?” said his mother, aghast.
“Well, perhaps it is not all. It is all I have any right to tell you,
for I have taken no decisive steps. You must be aware, mother, that
before I do so I must ascertain what your intentions are--what you are
willing to do for me. I can’t live with a wife and an establishment upon
what I have. You would not like, I presume, to see your son in a back
street, with a maid-of-all-work, living upon next to nothing.”
“Frederick, you have never given me any reason to suppose that you
were thinking of this; you have taken me by surprise. I cannot
tell you all in a moment without any warning, without the least
indication--Frederick, for heaven’s sake,” cried Mrs. Eastwood, struck
by sudden terror, “tell me who is the lady! do not keep me in this
suspense. You cannot surely mean----”
She was about to say Innocent; but with natural delicacy she paused,
looking anxiously at him.
“I don’t mean anybody that you have seen,” he said impatiently. “What is
the use of going into particulars? If I told you her name a hundred
times over you would be none the wiser.”
“I am the wiser already. I am relieved of one fear,” said Mrs. Eastwood;
“but, Frederick, more than ever, if this is the case, you ought to be
careful about that poor child. How can you tell what fancies you are
putting into her head? You have made me most anxious, both on your
account and hers.”
“Pshaw! Mother, I wish you would put away those womanish notions of
yours, and for once understand what a man is thinking of when he has a
serious object in hand. Dismiss all this nonsense about that baby
Innocent. If she is a little fool, is it my fault?”
“If I was in your position, Frederick, I should feel it to be serious,
and very much my fault.”
“Good heavens! this is how you treat a man when he wants to talk to you
seriously. Will you pay a little attention to me for once without
dragging in somebody else?”
“I have paid too much attention to you one time and another,” said Mrs.
Eastwood; “and unless you can speak to your mother, Frederick, with
proper respect----”
“Oh dear, yes, certainly, as much as you like,” he cried. “I don’t
suppose you want me to say honoured madam, or go down on my knees for
your blessing.”
There was a moment of silence, during which the fumes of this little
quarrel dissipated themselves. He did not want to quarrel--it was
contrary to his interests. And neither did she.
“We need not make a fuss about it,” he said, in a subdued tone. “It is
natural enough. I shall be seven-and-twenty presently, which is not so
unripe an age. I have got on well enough hitherto living at home, though
I have never had a penny to spare, and I daresay there are a few debts
here and there to look up; but, of course, if I married, the thing would
be simply impossible. We could not come and live with you here, even if
we wished it, and unless you could make a tolerable allowance, of course
it is useless for me to think of such a thing.”
“A tolerable allowance! Frederick, that is what Mr. Molyneux is asking
for Nelly.”
“I’d see him at Jericho first,” said Frederick; “a miserly old villain,
who has money enough to set up a dozen sons. Why should he come to you?
I need not point out to you, mother, the very great difference there is
between Nelly, who is only your daughter, and myself, the eldest son.”
“Has the lady anything?” asked Mrs. Eastwood, skilfully making a
diversion. “I hope she is very nice, my dear, and very good, both for
your sake and my own; and I would not for the world have you mercenary
in your marriage; but still I should like to know--has she anything? I
take it for granted she has nice connexions, and every thing else
satisfactory.”
“I don’t know anything about her means,” said Frederick, in a lordly and
splendid way. “That is a question I never thought of asking. She may be
richer than I am, though that is not saying much, or she may not have a
penny. I cannot tell you. That is the last thing I should have thought
it necessary to ask.”
“And indeed you are quite right,” said Mrs. Eastwood, faltering. She had
herself inculcated this doctrine. Mercenary marriages she had held up
many and many a time to the scorn of her family; but it is one thing to
make a mercenary marriage, and another to inquire whether the future
partner of your days has anything--“for her own sake,” said Mrs.
Eastwood. But as Frederick was in a disagreeable state of mind, and
ready to take offence on the smallest provocation, she did not take up
this view of the question. The great revelation itself was the chief
thing to be considered. “May I not know something at least about her,
Frederick? Where did you meet her? So it is this that has absorbed you
so much for some time? I have noticed it, though I did not know what it
was. Is she pretty, is she nice? Do I know her? You will not refuse to
tell me something about her, my dear.”
“I cannot tell you, for there is nothing settled. It would be unfair to
her until I know myself,” said Frederick; “but, mother, the first part
is entirely within your power. And this is what I wanted--not to pour
out any sentimental secrets into your ear, but to ask what I shall have
to calculate upon. Of course,” said the young man, whose veins were
boiling with impatience, “unless I have some satisfactory settlement
with you it would be dishonourable for me to open my lips at all.”
Mrs. Eastwood was silent. She seemed to have lost the power of
utterance. Was Molyneux right after all? Was it to be a struggle to the
death from henceforth--the children trying how much they could get, the
parent how much she could withhold? She had not heard this suggestion
made in words; but something like it she asked herself piteously,
confused, and startled, and more shocked at herself for the shock and
revulsion of feeling which this demand produced on her than with her son
for making it. Was it possible that she was not ready instantly on the
spot to give to him and all of them whatever they wanted to make them
happy? She had said it of herself, and she believed it, that had they
asked for the heart out of her bosom, she would have given it, and a
kind of horror of herself fell upon her when she felt for the second
time a rising of reluctance and almost resistance within her. On that
well-remembered morning when the first appeal of this kind had been made
to her, when Frederick had come to her bedside and told her he was
ruined, no such feeling had been in her mind. She had cast about
instantly what was to be done, and had made her sacrifice, with poignant
grief for the cause, yet with a distinct pleasure in the power of
succouring her boy. But this demand upon her excited no such feeling. Is
it possible that a mother can deny her child anything that is for his
good? she had asked often enough--and now she herself was in the
position of denying. It struck at the very root of all her past
principles of action, of all that she had believed and held by
throughout her life. What did she care for in this world except her
children? What was there in this world that she would not give up for
her children? And yet she had (it was incredible) arrived at a moment
when two of them asked a sacrifice from her for their happiness which in
the depths of her heart she knew herself unwilling to make.
“You do not make me any answer, mother,” said Frederick.
“I cannot all at once,” she said, feeling desperately that to gain time
was the best she could do. “You forget, Frederick, that I was totally
unprepared.”
“But you must have foreseen that such a thing would happen some day,” he
said.
“I ought to have done so, no doubt, but I don’t think I had thought of
it. Of course I hoped you would both marry,” she said falteringly. Stray
and vague thoughts that the marriage of her children should not have
involved as a matter of necessity this attack upon herself floated
through her mind--but she was so deeply penetrated by the absolute
horror of her own reluctance to satisfy them that she felt unable to
suggest any possible blame except to herself.
“I must beg, mother,” said Frederick, “that you will not speak of Nelly
and myself as if we were exactly in the same position. Nelly has her
fortune. Any further demand on her part is quite ridiculous. I, on the
other hand, shall have the credit of the family to keep up. I shall
actually be the head of the family on your death----”
On your death! Is there any human mind which is not conscious of a
startling thrill and wince when these words are said? Mrs. Eastwood
nodded her head in acquiescence, but felt as if her son had calmly
fitted and fired an arrow which went tingling into her heart. Of course,
what he said was quite true.
“I will consider the whole question carefully,” she said, in a tone
which changed in spite of herself, “and I will ask advice. It is strange
to take advice between my children and myself, but you have often told
me, Frederick, I did not understand business. I must think it all over
carefully before I can give you any answer. I have the boys to consider
too.”
This she said in a very low tone, not for Frederick, but for herself;
for indeed it was at the bar of a private court of her own that she was
standing, striving to defend herself, which was not easy. She said this
humbly by way of explanation to the judge sitting there, who was a hard
judge, and received no weak excuses.
“The boys, pshaw!” said Frederick. “If Dick goes to India, and Jenny
into the Church, they are both provided for. I do not see that you need
to trouble yourself about the boys----”
“If you had gone into the Church you would have been well provided for,”
said Mrs. Eastwood. “Jenny may have difficulties too----”
“Oh, I would make short work with Jenny’s difficulties!” said Frederick.
That was totally a different question. He went on expounding his views
to her about his brothers till Mrs. Eastwood found the evening cold, and
went in shivering a little and far from happy. She had come to one of
the enigmas of life of which the _fin mot_ was yet to find, and out of
which she could not see her way.