A dreary season was that first winter in London.
It happened quite naturally that here, as in Guernsey, my share of the
practice fell among the lower and least important class of patients.
Jack Senior had been on the field some years sooner, and he was
London-born and London-bred. All the surroundings of his life fitted him
without a wrinkle. He was at home everywhere, and would have counted the
pulse of a duchess with as little emotion as that of a dairy-maid. On
the other hand, I could not accommodate myself altogether to haughty and
aristocratic strangers--though I am somewhat ante-dating later
experiences, for during the winter our fashionable clients were all out
of town, and our time comparatively unoccupied. To be at ease anywhere,
it was, at that time, essential to me to know something of the people
with whom I was associating--an insular trait, common to all those who
are brought up in a contracted and isolated circle.
Besides this rustic embarrassment which hung like a clog about me
out-of-doors, within-doors I missed wofully the dainty feminine ways I
had been used to. There was a trusty female servant, half cook, half
house-keeper, who lived in the front-kitchen and superintended our
household; but she was not at all the angel in the house whom I needed.
It was a well-appointed, handsome dwelling, but it was terribly gloomy.
The heavy, substantial leather chairs always remained undisturbed in
level rows against the wall, and the crimson cloth upon the table was as
bare as a billiard-table. A thimble lying upon it, or fallen on the
carpet and almost crushed by my careless tread, would have been as
welcome a sight to me as a blade of grass or a spring of water in some
sandy desert. The sound of a light foot and rustling dress, and low,
soft voice, would have been the sweetest music in my ears. If a young
fellow of eight-and-twenty, with an excellent appetite and in good
health, could be said to pine, I was pining for the pretty, fondling
woman's ways which had quite vanished out of my life.
At times my thoughts dwelt upon my semi-engagement to Julia. As soon as
I could dethrone the image of Olivia from its pre-eminence in my heart,
she was willing to welcome me back again--a prodigal suitor, who had
spent all his living in a far country. We corresponded regularly and
frequently, and Julia's letters were always good, sensible, and
affectionate. If our marriage, and all the sequel to it, could have been
conducted by epistles, nothing could have been more satisfactory. But I
felt a little doubtful about the termination of this Platonic
friendship, with its half-betrothal. It did not appear to me that
Olivia's image was fading in the slightest degree; no, though I knew her
to be married, though I was ignorant where she was, though there was not
the faintest hope within me that she would ever become mine.
During the quiet, solitary evenings, while Jack was away at some ball or
concert, to which I had no heart to go, my thoughts were pretty equally
divided between my lost mother and my lost Olivia--lost in such
different ways! It would have grieved Julia in her very soul if she
could have known how rarely, in comparison, I thought of her.
Yet, on the whole, there was a certain sweetness in feeling myself not
altogether cut off from womanly love and sympathy. There was a home
always open to me--a home, and a wife devotedly attached to me, whenever
I chose to claim them. That was not unpleasant as a prospect. As soon as
this low fever of the spirit was over, there was a convalescent hospital
to go to, where it might recover its original tone and vigor. At present
the fever had too firm and strong a hold for me to pronounce myself
convalescent; but if I were to believe all that sages had said, there
would come a time when I should rejoice over my own recovery.
Early in the spring I received a letter from Julia, desiring me to look
out for apartments, somewhere in my neighborhood, for herself, and
Johanna and Captain Carey. They were coming to London to spend two or
three months of the season. I had not had any task so agreeable since I
left Guernsey. Jack was hospitably anxious for them to come to our own
house, but I knew they would not listen to such a proposal. I found some
suitable rooms for them, however, in Hanover Street, where I could be
with them at any time in five minutes.
On the appointed day I met them at Waterloo Station, and installed them
in their new apartments.
It struck me that, notwithstanding the fatigue of the journey, Julia was
looking better and happier than I had seen her look for a long time. Her
black dress suited her, and gave her a style which she never had in
colors. Her complexion looked dark, but not sallow; and her brown hair
was certainly more becomingly arranged. Her appearance was that of a
well-bred, cultivated, almost elegant woman, of whom no man need be
ashamed. Johanna was simply herself, without the least perceptible
change. But Captain Carey again looked ten years younger, and was
evidently taking pains with his appearance. That suit of his had never
been made in Guernsey; it must have come out of a London establishment.
His hair was not so gray, and his face was less hypochondriac. He
assured me that his health had been wonderfully good all the winter. I
was more than satisfied, I was proud of all my friends.
"We want you to come and have a long talk with us to-morrow," said
Johanna; "it is too late to-night. We shall be busy shopping in the
morning, but can you come in the evening?"
"Oh, yes," I answered; "I am at leisure most evenings, and I count upon
spending them with you. I can escort you to as many places of amusement
as you wish to visit."
"To-morrow, then," she said, "we shall take tea at eight o'clock."
I bade them good-night with a lighter heart than I had felt for a long
while. I held Julia's hand the longest, looking into her face earnestly,
till it flushed and glowed a little under my scrutiny.
"True heart!" I said to myself, "true and constant! and I have nothing,
and shall have nothing, to offer it but the ashes of a dead passion.
Would to Heaven," I thought as I paced along Brook Street, "I had never
been fated to see Olivia!"
I was punctual to my time the next day. The dull, stiff drawing-room was
already invested with those tokens of feminine occupancy which I missed
so greatly in our much handsomer house. There were flowers blooming in
the centre of the tea-table, and little knick-knacks lay strewed about.
Julia's work-basket stood on a little stand near the window. There was
the rustle and movement of their dresses, the noiseless footsteps, the
subdued voices caressing my ear. I sat among them quiet and silent, but
revelling in this partial return of olden times. When Julia poured out
my tea, and passed it to me with her white hand, I felt inclined to kiss
her jewelled fingers. If Captain Carey had not been present I think I
should have done so.
We lingered over the pleasant meal as if time were made expressly for
that purpose, instead of hurrying over it, as Jack and I were wont to
do. At the close Captain Carey announced that he was about to leave us
alone together for an hour or two. I went down to the door with him, for
he had made me a mysterious signal to follow him. In the hall he laid
his hand upon my shoulder, and whispered a few incomprehensible
sentences into my ear.
"Don't think any thing of me, my boy. Don't sacrifice yourself for me.
I'm an old fellow compared to you, though I'm not fifty yet; everybody
in Guernsey knows that. So put me out of the question, Martin. 'There's
many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.' That I know quite well, my dear
fellow."
He was gone before I could ask for an explanation, and I saw him tearing
off toward Regent Street. I returned to the drawing-room, pondering over
his words. Johanna and Julia were sitting side by side on a sofa, in the
darkest corner of the room--though the light was by no means brilliant
anywhere, for the three gas-jets were set in such a manner as not to
turn on much gas.
"Come here, Martin," said Johanna; "we wish to consult you on a subject
of great importance to us all."
I drew up a chair opposite to them, and sat down, much as if it was
about to be a medical consultation. I felt almost as if I must feel
somebody's pulse, and look at somebody's tongue.
"It is nearly eight months since your poor dear mother died," remarked
Johanna.
Eight months! Yes; and no one knew what those eight months had been to
me--how desolate! how empty!
"You recollect," continued Johanna, "how her heart was set on your
marriage with Julia, and the promise you both made to her on her
death-bed?"
"Yes," I answered, bending forward and pressing Julia's hand, "I
remember every word."
There was a minute's silence after this; and I waited in some wonder as
to what this prelude was leading to.
"Martin," asked Johanna, in a solemn tone, "are you forgetting Olivia?"
"No," I said, dropping Julia's hand as the image of Olivia flashed
across me reproachfully, "not at all. What would you have me say? She is
as dear to me at this moment as she ever was."
"I thought you would say so," she replied; "I did not think yours was a
love that would quickly pass away, if it ever does. There are men who
can love with the constancy of a woman. Do you know any thing of her?"
"Nothing!" I said, despondently; "I have no clew as to where she may be
now."
"Nor has Tardif," she continued; "my brother and I went across to Sark
last week to ask him."
"That was very good of you," I interrupted.
"It was partly for our own sakes," she said, blushing faintly. "Martin,
Tardif says that if you have once loved Olivia, it is once for all. You
would never conquer it. Do you think that this is true? Be candid with
us."
"Yes," I answered, "it is true. I could never love again as I love
Olivia."
"Then, my dear Martin," said Johanna, very softly, "do you wish to keep
Julia to her promise?"
I started violently. What! Did Julia wish to be released from that
semi-engagement, and be free? Was it possible that any one else coveted
my place in her affections, and in the new house which we had fitted up
for ourselves? I felt like the dog in the manger. It seemed an
unheard-of encroachment for any person to come between my cousin Julia
and me.
"Do you ask me to set you free from your promise, Julia?" I asked,
somewhat sternly.
"Why, Martin," she said, averting her face from me, "you know I should
never consent to marry you, with the idea of your caring most for that
girl. No, I could never do that. If I believed you would ever think of
me as you used to do before you saw her, well, I would keep true to you.
But is there any hope of that?"
"Let us be frank with one another," I answered; "tell me, is there any
one else whom you would marry if I release you from this promise, which
was only given, perhaps, to soothe my mothers last hours?"
Julia hung her head, and did not speak. Her lips trembled. I saw her
take Johanna's hand and squeeze it, as if to urge her to answer the
question.
"Martin," said Johanna, "your happiness is dear to every one of us. If
we had believed there was any hope of your learning to love Julia as she
deserves, and as a man ought to love his wife, not a word of this would
have been spoken. But we all feel there is no such hope. Only say there
is, and we will not utter another word."
"No," I said, "you must tell me all now. I cannot let the question rest
here. Is there any one else whom Julia would marry if she felt quite
free?"
"Yes," answered Johanna, while Julia hid her face in her hands, "she
would marry my brother."
Captain Carey! I fairly gasped for breath. Such an idea had never once
occurred to me; though I knew she had been spending most of her time
with the Careys at the Vale. Captain Carey to marry! and to marry Julia!
To go and live in our house! I was struck dumb, and fancied that I had
heard wrongly. All the pleasant, distant vision of a possible marriage
with Julia, when my passion had died out, and I could be content in my
affection and esteem for her--all this vanished away, and left my whole
future a blank. If Julia wished for revenge--and when is not revenge
sweet to a jilted woman?--she had it now. I was as crestfallen, as
amazed, almost as miserable, as she had been. Yet I had no one to blame,
as she had. How could I blame her for preferring Captain Carey's love to
my _réchauffé_ affections?
"Julia," I said, after a long silence, and speaking as calmly as I
could, "do you love Captain Carey?"
"That is not a fair question to ask," answered Johanna. "We have not
been treacherous to you. I scarcely know how it has all come about. But
my brother has never asked Julia if she loves him; for we wished to see
you first, and hear how you felt about Olivia. You say you shall never
love again as you love her. Set Julia free then, quite free, to accept
my brother or reject him. Be generous, be yourself, Martin."
"I will," I said.--"My dear Julia, you are as free as air from all
obligation to me. You have been very good and very true to me. If
Captain Carey is as good and true to you, as I believe he will be, you
will be a very happy woman--happier than you would ever be with me."
"And you will not make yourself unhappy about it?" asked Julia, looking
up.
"No," I answered, cheerfully, "I shall be a merry old bachelor, and
visit you and Captain Carey, when we are all old folks. Never mind me,
Julia; I never was good enough for you. I shall be very glad to know
that you are happy."
Yet when I found myself in the street--for I made my escape as soon as I
could get away from them--I felt as if every thing worth living for were
slipping away from me. My mother and Olivia were gone, and here was
Julia forsaking me. I did not grudge her her new happiness. There was
neither jealousy nor envy in my feelings toward my supplanter. But in
some way I felt that I had lost a great deal since I entered their
drawing-room two hours ago.