MATTERS OF COURSE.
Margaret Mildred had not failed to note the impression which had been made
upon the warm and youthful heart of Michael; she was not displeased to
note it; and from her couch she rose, the following morning, delighted
with her dreams, and benevolently disposed towards mankind in general. She
lingered at her toilet, grew hypercritical in articles of taste, and found
defects in beauty without the shadow of a blemish. Had some wicked sprite
but whispered in her ear one thought injurious to the memory of her
departed husband, Margaret would have shrunk from its reception, and would
have scorned to acknowledge it as her own. Time, she felt and owned with
gratitude, had assuaged her sorrows--had removed the sting from her
calamity, but had not rendered her one jot less sensible to the great
claims _he_ held, even now, on her affection. From the hour of Mildred's
decease up to the present moment, the widow had considered herself
strictly bound by the vow which she had proposed to take, and would have
taken, but for the dying man's earnest prohibition. Her conscience told
her that that prohibition, so far from setting her free from the
engagement, did but render her more liable to fulfill it. Her feelings
coincided with the judgment of her understanding. Both pronounced upon her
the self-inflicted verdict of eternal widowhood. How long this sentence
would have been respected, had Michael never interfered to argue its
repeal, it is impossible to say; as a general remark it may be stated,
that nothing is so delusive as the heroic declarations we make in seasons
of excitement--no resolution is in such danger of becoming forfeited as
that which Nature never sanctioned and which depends for its existence
only upon a state of feeling which every passing hour serves to enfeeble
and suppress.
When Margaret reached her breakfast-room, she found a nosegay on the table,
and Mr Michael Allcraft's card. He had called to make enquiries at a very
early hour of the morning, and had signified his intention of returning on
affairs of business later in the day. Margaret blushed deeper than the
rose on which her eyes were bent, and took alarm; her first determination
was to be denied to him; the second--far more rational--to receive him as
the partner in the banking-house, to transact the necessary business, and
then dismiss him as a stranger, distantly, but most politely. This was as
it should be. Michael came. He was more bashful than he had been the night
before, and he stammered an apology for his father's absence without
venturing to look towards the individual he addressed. He drew two chairs
to the table--one for Margaret, another for himself. He placed them at a
distance from each other, and, taking some papers from his pocket with a
nervous hand, he sat down without a minute's loss of time to look over and
arrange them. Margaret was pleased with his behaviour; she took her seat
composedly, and waited for his statement. There were a few select and
favourite volumes on the table, and one of these the lady involuntarily
took up and ran through, whilst Michael still continued busy with his
documents, and apparently perplexed by them. Nothing can be more ill
advised than to disturb a man immersed in business with literary or any
other observations foreign to his subject.
"You were speaking of Wordsworth yesterday evening, Mr Allcraft," said
Margaret suddenly--Allcraft pushed every paper from him in a paroxysm of
delight, and looked up--"and I think we were agreed in our opinion of that
great poet. What a sweet thing is this! Did you ever read it? It is the
sonnet on the Sonnet."
"A gem, madam. None but he could have written it. The finest writer of
sonnets in the world has spoken the poem's praise with a tenderness and
pathos that are inimitable. There is the true philosophy of the heart in
all he says--a reconciliation of suffering humanity to its hard but
necessary lot. How exquisite and full of meaning are those lines--
'Bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells;'
and then the touching close--
'In truth, the prison unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is; and hence to me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the sonnets scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some souls, for such there needs must be,
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there as I have found.'
_The weight of too much liberty_. Ah, who has not experienced this!"--Mr
Michael Allcraft sighed profoundly. A slight pause ensued after this
sudden outbreak on the part of the junior partner, and then he proceeded,
his animated and handsome countenance glowing with expression as he spoke.
"You are really to be envied, Mrs Mildred, with your cultivated tastes and
many acquirements. You can comply with every wish of your elegant and
well-informed mind. There is no barrier between you and a life of high
mental enjoyment. The source of half my happiness was cut off when I
exchanged my study for the desk. Men cease to live when what is falsely
called life begins with them."
"We have all our work to do, and we should do it cheerfully. It is a
lesson taught me by my mother, and experience has shown it to be just."
"Yes, madam, I grant you when your mother spoke. But it is not so now.
Mercantile occupation in England is not as it has been. I question whether
it will ever be again. It is not closely and essentially associated, as it
was of yore, with high principle and strict notions of honour. The simple
word of the English merchant has ceased to pass current through the world,
sacred as his oath--more binding than his bond; fair, manly dealing is at
an end; and he who would mount the ladder of fortune, must be prepared to
soil his hands if he hope to reach the top. Legitimate trading is no
longer profitable. Selfishness is arrayed against selfishness--cunning
against cunning--lying against lying--deception against deception. The
great rogue prospers--the honest man starves with his innate sense of
honour and integrity. Is it possible to enter cheerfully upon employment
which demands the sacrifice of soul even at the outset?"
"You draw a dark picture, Mr Allcraft, slightly tinged, I trust, with the
poetic pencil. But be it as gloomy as you paint it, we have still religion
amongst us, and individuals who adapt their conduct to its principles"--
"Ay, madam," said Michael, quickly interrupting her, "I grant you all you
wish. If we did but adapt our conduct to the doctrines of the
Testament--to that unequalled humanizing moral code--if we were taught to
do this, and how to do it, we might hope for some amendment. But look at
the actual state of things. The religious world is but a portion of the
whole--a world within a world. Preachers of peace--men who arrogate to
themselves the divine right of inculcating truth, and who, if any, should
be free from the corruption that taints the social atmosphere,--such men
come before mankind already sick with warfare, widening the breaches,
subdividing our divisions. Are these men pure and single-minded? Are these
men free from the grasping itch that distinguishes our age? Is there no
such thing as trafficking with souls? Are chapels bought and sold only
with a spiritual view, or sometimes as men bargain for their theatres? Are
these men really messengers of peace, living in amity and union, acting
Christianity as well as preaching it? Ask the Papist, the Protestant, the
Independent, and the thousand sects who dwell apart as foes, and, whilst
they talk of love, are teaching mankind how to hate beneath the garb of
sanctimoniousness and hollow forms!"
"You are eloquent, Mr Allcraft, in a bad cause."
"Pardon me, Mrs Mildred," answered the passionate youth immediately, and
with much bitterness, "but in the next street you shall find one eloquent
in a worse. There is what some of us are pleased to call a popular
preacher there. I speak the plain and simple truth, and say he is a
hireling--a paid actor, without the credit that attaches to the open
exercise of an honourable profession. The owner of the chapel is a usurer,
or money-lender--no speculation answers so well as this snug property. The
ranter exhibits to his audience once a-week--the place is crowded when he
appears upon the stage--deserted when he is absent, and his place is
occupied by one who fears, perhaps, to tamper with his God--is humble,
honest, quiet. The crowds who throng to listen to the one, and will not
hear the other, profess to worship God in what they dare to call _his_
sanctuary, and look with pity on such as have not courage to unite in all
their hideous mockery."
Right or wrong, it was evident that Michael was in earnest. He spoke
warmly, but with a natural vehemence that by no means disfigured his
good-looking visage, now illuminated with unusual fire. In these days of
hollowness and hypocrisy, an ingenuous straightforward character is a
refreshing spectacle, and commands our admiration, be the principles it
represents just what they may. Hence, possibly, the unaffected pleasure
with which Margaret listened to her visitor whilst he declaimed against
men and things previously regarded by her with reverence and awe. He
certainly was winning on her esteem. Women are the strangest beings! Let
them guard against these natural and impetuous characters, say I. The
business papers lay very quietly on the table, whilst the conversation
flowed as easily into another channel. Poets and poetry were again the
subject of discourse; and here our Michael was certainly at home. The
displeasure which he had formerly exhibited passed like a cloud from his
brow; he grew elated, criticized writer after writer, recited compositions,
illustrated them with verses from the French and German; repeated his own
modest attempts at translation, gave his hearer an idea of Goethe, Uhland,
Wieland, and the smaller fry of German poets, and pursued his theme, in
short, until listener and reciter both were charmed and gratified beyond
expression--she, with his talents and his manners--he, with her patience
and attention, and, perhaps, her face and figure.
Mr Allcraft, junior, after having proceeded in the above fashion for about
three hours, suddenly recollected that he had made a few appointments at
the banking-house. He looked at his watch, and discovered that he was just
two hours behind the latest. Both blushed, and looked ridiculous. He rose,
however, and took his leave, asking and receiving her permission to pay
another visit on the following day for the purpose of arranging their
eternal "business matters." Things take ugly shapes in the dark; a tree,
an object of grace add beauty in the meridian sun, is a giant spectre in
the gloom of night. Thoughts of death are bolder and more startling on the
midnight pillow than in the noonday walk. Our vices, which are the pastime
of the drawing-room, become the bugbears of the silent bedchamber.
Margaret, when she would have slept, was haunted by reproaches, which
waited until then to agitate and frighten her. A sense of impropriety and
sinfulness started in her bosom, and convicted her of an
offence--unpardonable in her sight--against the blessed memory of Mildred.
She could not deny it, Michael Allcraft had created on her heart a
favourable impression--one that must be obliterated at once and for ever,
if she hoped for happiness, for spiritual repose. She had listened to his
impassioned tones with real delight; had gazed upon his bright and beaming
countenance, until her eyes had stolen away the image, and fixed it on her
heart. Not a year had elapsed since the generous Mildred had been
committed to the earth, and could she so soon rebel--so easily forget his
princely conduct, and permit his picture to be supplanted in her breast?
Oh, impossible! It was a grievous fault. She acknowledged it with her warm
tears, and vowed (Margaret was disposed to vow--too readily on most
occasions) that she would rise reproved; repentant, and faithful to her
duty. Yes, and the earnest creature leapt from her couch, and prayed for
strength and help to resist the sore temptation; nor did she visit it
again until she felt the strong assurance that her victory was gained, and
her future peace secured. It is greatly to be feared that the majority of
persons who make resolutions, imagine that all their work is done the
instant the virtuous determination is formed. Now, the fact is, that the
real work is not even begun; and if exertion be suspended at the point at
which it is most needed, the resolute individual is in greater danger of
miscarriage than if he had not resolved at all, but had permitted things
to take their own course and natural direction. I do believe that Margaret
received Michael on the following day without deeming it in the slightest
degree incumbent upon her to act upon the offensive. She established
herself behind her decision and her prayers, and, relying upon such
fortifications, would not permit the idea of danger. A child might have
prophesied the result. Michael was always at her side--Margaret's
departure from the cottage was postponed day after day. The youth, who in
truth ardently and truly loved the gentle widow, had no joy away from her.
He supplied her with books, the choice of which did credit to his
refinement and good taste. Sometimes she perused them alone--sometimes he
read aloud to her. His own hand culled her flowers, and placed the
offering on her table. He met her in her walks--he taught her botany--he
sketched her favourite views--he was devoted to her, heart and soul. And
_she_--but they are sitting now together after a month's acquaintance, and
the reader shall judge of Margaret by what he sees. It is a day for lovers.
The earth is bathed in light, and southerly breezes, such as revive the
dying and cheer their heavy hours with promises of amendment and recovery,
temper the fire that streams from the unclouded sun. In the garden of the
cottage, in a secluded part of it, there is a summer-house--call it
beauty's bower--with Margaret within--and honeysuckle, clematis, and the
passion flower, twining and intertwining, kissing and embracing, around,
above, below, on every side. There they are sitting. He reads a book--and
a paragraph has touched a chord in one of the young hearts, to which the
other has responded. She moves her foot unconsciously along the floor, her
downcast eye as unconsciously following it. He dares to raise his look,
and with a palpitating heart, observes the colour in her cheek, which
tells him that the heart is vanquished, and the prize is won. He tries to
read again, but eyesight fails him, and his hand is shaking like a leaf.
His spirit expands, his heart grows confident and rash--he knows not what
he does--he cannot be held back, though death be punishment if he goes
on--he touches the soft hand, and in an instant, the drooping, almost
lifeless Margaret--drawn to his breast--fastens there, and sobs. She
whispers to him to be gone--her clammy hand is pressing him to stay.
* * * * *