Poor mother! She had a double task to do—double and contrary. To
carry a daughter to the altar, and to tear a son from its perilous
precincts. Monica wondered that Agatha—but then she was always such
a selfish, giddy thing!—would not insist upon deferring her marriage
with the Baronet until her elder sister should wed her beloved.
For Candituft had made good—seeming good—his cause of delay. He
had suddenly discovered some dormant right to some long-forgotten
property; and he would first secure that to lay it as an offering
at the feet of his bride. Monica, in her warm affection, would have
gladly married at once, content to wait for after prosperity as it
might follow; but her mother thought it best to tarry. Great good
might come of a little delay; and Mr. Jericho could not be hurried to
name the exact amount of dowry. Now, with respect to Agatha, the case
was wholly different. She had not her sister’s strength of mind; and
the Baronet was in the full enjoyment of his full fortune; moreover,
with a liberality worthy of imitation, he would have been content to
marry Agatha even with no other dowry than the first bride brought to
the first bridegroom.
Therefore Jericho’s house hummed in every nook and corner with the
note of preparation; with the tuning prelude to hymeneal song.
Nevertheless, in Jericho’s house great and torturing was the
sacrifice of heart. For was it nothing for Monica to plate her
anxious face with smiles; to hover about her sister with looks and
words of gentle meaning; of sweet congratulation, when her own breast
was misery? Was it nothing to gather a marriage garland for another,
when she was yet smarting from nettles? Nothing to forego the robe
of the bride and to don the meaner garments—made robes of sorrow and
humiliation by disappointment—of the bridesmaid?
And there was another victim, another heroine who, with the fortitude
of an Amazon, would smile at self-suffering.—We mean, the Hon. Miss
Candituft. Can it be believed that that heroic young lady consented
to be second bridesmaid to her rival? Of course, the simple Agatha
dreamt not of the agony she inflicted when she prayed such grace of
her bosom friend; the rather that the devotion was accorded with the
sweetest, the most touching alacrity. Agatha was to wear the nuptial
wreath, and Miss Candituft the willow. Nevertheless, the rejected one
would carry it like a martyr, turning the reproach to glory.
Our Man of Money—absolved of the liability of dowry—was in the
best of moods. His opinion of the merits of Hodmadod continually
increased, though Candituft had somehow to pay for the growth. The
Baronet became every day a finer fellow; Candituft every day a meaner
dog. The excellence accorded to one, was remorselessly taken from
the other. Thus, pending the nuptial preparation, Hodmadod was the
favoured creature at the hearth of Jericho, whilst Candituft was
coldly allowed an unconsidered corner. Nevertheless, Candituft had
too much benevolence, too much affection for the brotherhood of man
to resent the neglect. Indeed, how should he, since he would not
behold it? Some men will not see an affront, even when big as a
street-door in their face: as there have been philosophers, so raised
above human weakness, who have not felt the violence of a leg, have
not discovered when they were kicked.
Now let us for a while leave the nuptial loves, busied with the best
and the finest, at Jericho House; and look in upon a certain second
floor, in Primrose Place.
* * * * *
It is plain enough that Basil has told his story—won his wife. The
happy, altered looks of Bessy speak a new and deep content of heart.
Indeed, every person present—there are four women, all busy, hence
the room at Primrose Place may be considered full—gives indication
of a coming ceremony. Bessy is at work, it would appear with all her
heart in her sewing.—And Bessy’s mother is earnest, grave, in her
appeal to the better judgment of Mrs. Topps who, it is plain, has
just returned upon her errand, bringing a skein of silk that can in
no way be made to match with the colour of the piece to be made up.
Miss Barnes is appealed to—Miss Barnes is the young sempstress, the
lodger of the attic, who all unconsciously received the benison of
Basil, and who has come down to assist in the work—and Miss Barnes
joins her verdict against Mrs. Topps; who, a little vexed with
herself, ties her riband strings with an angry snatch, and descends
to amend her serious error, by changing the skein.
The most innocent and the most hardened bachelor of threescore,
brought into the room, would at once divine the sort of work prepared
by those three women. He would at once know their cutting and
their sewing to be spells preparatory to the tying of a knot that
should, for the term of natural life, hold tight together two fellow
creatures. The women worked so earnestly—so readily; whilst unseen
little loves fluttered up and down; now running along the edge of a
hem, and now giving a flourishing caper with some final stitch.
The room—Mrs. Carraways had a dozen times said as much—was in a
dreadful litter. Calicos and flannels, and stuffs, and brown holland,
and cotton webs with blue stripes lay heaped about, in very homely
contrast to the pretty lilac-coloured satin carefully worked at by
Miss Barnes; a satin that Bessy would now and then glance at as
though she felt towards it a living tenderness. And still looking,
she seemed all the happier with every look.
And Mrs. Carraways seemed much amended. She appeared to have set
aside her anxious aspect, and taken, as her husband jovially said,
a new lease of heart. And so, she worked with happy zeal; and
even hummed an old, old tune, as now and then she looked about
her, and her eye rested, now upon a canvas bag, now upon a hat of
tarpaulin,—things that, telling her of the long, long voyage to the
other side of the world, made her only a few days ago sick with
apprehension.
There was a sudden pause—a perfect silence. And then a carriage
whirled up Primrose Place, and stopt short at the door. “Who can
that be?” cried Mrs. Carraways, with a look of dread, and laying down
her work. Miss Barnes immediately went to the window, and fluently
enough described the brilliant carriage, and the many-coloured
liveries.
“I thought so,” cried Mrs. Carraways, turning pale, “it’s Mr.
Jericho.” As she spoke, the smitten knocker chattered—for it was a
modest knocker, too light and small to thunder—through the house.
“No,” cried Miss Barnes. “Not Mr. Jericho. A lady.”
“Mrs. Jericho!” exclaimed Bessy, becoming nervous—looking very
pale in her turn; and casting a strange, anxious glance at the
lilac-coloured satin laid down by Miss Barnes. “Is she alone?”
“Quite alone,” said Miss Barnes; and without another word, the
sempstress gathered up her work, and left the room.
In another moment, Susan entered with Mrs. Jericho’s card. “Show the
lady up stairs,” said Mrs. Carraways in a very twitter—“And say, we
will see her directly.” Susan descended upon her mission, and Mrs.
Carraways and Bessy ran to their several rooms, like startled rabbits
to their burrows.
Mrs. Jericho slowly ascended the stairs, and with prodigious dignity
entered the second floor front. “Missus Carraways, mum, will be with
you directly,” said Susan who, in her way, was a little flustered;
inasmuch as she had been suddenly summoned from peeling turnips to
wipe her hands for Mrs. Jericho’s card.
Mrs. Jericho stood alone in the apartment which, in all its
details, she set herself with her best intelligence, to read. Very
speedily she divined the meaning of the various articles about
her; the checked shirting; the plaids; the tarpaulin; with here
and there some tin utensil, bright and new for travel. They made
her sad, melancholy. She could have almost wept; for somehow, she
seemed to see in everything the loss of Basil. Pride was sinking;
affection rising in her heart; when her eye glanced upon a piece
of white satin—perhaps, it was for a bonnet, we cannot say—and in
that white, unspotted web, her woman’s shrewdness read a whole
history. Instantly she was herself; more than ever herself: full to
overflowing with the wrongs of a mother. In that bit of white satin,
did Mrs. Jericho read—as she firmly believed—the fatal marriage
warrant of her son, her eldest born.
Mrs. Carraways had, of course, to change her cap. Such was her first
intention; the serious purpose that had sent her flying to her room.
However, let no woman say she will at a pinch change her cap and
nothing more. For Mrs. Carraways had no sooner entered her room, and
caught a bit of herself in her glass, than she was convinced she must
also change her gown. She cared nothing for Mrs. Jericho; she had
ceased to have respect or esteem for her; nevertheless, it was due
to herself “not to be seen a figure.” These thoughts engaged Mrs.
Carraways, as her fluttered hand, like the last minstrel’s, wandered
among the strings. At length, however, in the best cap and gown that
fortune had left her, Mrs. Carraways appeared before her visitor.
Mrs. Jericho did not affect cordiality. She made no attempt to excuse
her absence—her neglect of old acquaintance. Mrs. Jericho was too
wise a woman; knew too well the person with whom she had to confer.
No: she would not attempt to shirk her ingratitude; but—if we may say
as much—at once took the scorpion by the tail.
“Mrs. Carraways, you will probably understand why we have not met
since our mutual circumstances have so completely changed?” Thus,
with hardest smile, spoke Mrs. Jericho.
“I would I could understand all things quite as well,” said Mrs.
Carraways, with cold and steady look.
“It would have been painful to you, painful to myself,” said Mrs.
Jericho.
“And you were quite right,” answered the broken lady, “to spare at
least one of us.”
Mrs. Jericho waived her head and arm, as much as to intimate
that all needful preface being done, she might at once begin the
subject-matter. “Do you know what brings me here, Mrs. Carraways?”
“I think, madam, I can guess,” was the ready answer.
“It is this, madam,” said Mrs. Jericho, with her best thunder,
raising the white satin. “This!”
Mrs. Carraways did not for one moment affect surprise. No: to the
astonishment of the sonorous Mrs. Jericho, she calmly replied—“I
thought so.”
Mrs. Jericho immediately disposed her soul for self-enjoyment. The
said soul felt a yearning for lofty exercise; and with good reason;
it had so long obeyed the soul of Jericho—aggrandised, sublimated by
money—that it longed to assert its natural importance; an importance
that, at the commencement of this history—if the reader recollects
as much—was made sufficiently evident. Mrs. Jericho’s majesty had
been confined, doubled up, like a snake in a box; and it was not to
be wondered at that, the occasion offering, it should desire to come
out and air itself, showing its fine proportions. The husband Jericho
had somehow been the snake-charmer; now Mrs. Carraways was weak and
ignorant as babyhood.
“And may I ask you, madam, what you propose by inveigling a young
man”—
“Really, Mrs. Jericho,” said Mrs. Carraways, and even with the
most placid manner she managed to rise above the violence of her
visitor—“really, I must hear nothing of this. Mr. Carraways has, I
believe, communicated with Mr. Jericho; and I take it, as they are
agreed”—and Mrs. Carraways was most provoking in her humility—“as
they are of accord, the less we women interfere the better.”
“That may be your degraded opinion of the rights of women, Mrs.
Carraways; of the rights of a mother. Happily, however, I have other
notions; other feelings. To be sure, you may very calmly contemplate
the marriage of your daughter with a husband of untold affluence—of
untold affluence, ma’am.”
“Untold,—I believe so; yes, untold,” observed Mrs. Carraways, very
quietly.
Mrs. Jericho would not pause in her course to notice the sarcasm.
“But, madam, it is otherwise to the mother whose child, whose
only son, is to be lured, entrapped, and cruelly sacrificed to the
hopeless condition of a penniless wife.”
“I assure you, madam,”—Mrs. Carraways’ cheek tingled a little; but
she had made up her mind to be cool, and cool she would be though—as
she afterwards phrased it—her blood was boiling—“I assure you, Mr.
Carraways has no thought of Mr. Pennibacker’s probable, I might say,
his problematical wealth; though, no doubt, it must be immense, if
all the stories be true about the mines of platina.”
“My dear Mrs. Carraways”—that lady stared at the sudden courtesy—“let
us understand one another. Mr. Jericho has, I can answer for it,
every wish to serve the family. You are about to make a voyage; about
to begin the world anew. Just grant us one favour, and there is
nothing we will not do for you.” It was thus, without effort, Mrs.
Jericho subsided from the imperious to the polite, when she found it
best to sink to an advantage.
“You are very kind; very suddenly kind,” said Mrs. Carraways; “but
I think even now we are so rich—yes, so very rich, that it is
impossible Mr. Jericho can assist us.”
“Come, come”—said Mrs. Jericho, laying her hand upon Mrs. Carraways’
hand, and the good lady smiled a little sourly at the action—“we are
both mothers; and must consider our children’s happiness. As for
Basil, he is quite a boy; absurdly young to take a wife. No fixed
affections. A very boy.”
“He is young; very young,” confessed Mrs. Carraways.
“Do not suppose, my dear madam, that I would thwart his affections
when pronounced and real. And as for any inequality of fortune, why,
after all, I would not weigh my boy’s heart against money. Certainly
not. So pray, my dear Mrs. Carraways, think what I said about
fortune, as so much idle temper; mere heat of words, with no meaning;
none, I assure you.” And then Mrs. Jericho, in the simplest manner
possible, asked—“Pray, when do you sail?”
“In about a fortnight, I believe,” was the answer, and Mrs. Carraways
could not repress a sigh.
“So soon!” cried Mrs. Jericho, and her face darkened.—“Well, that is
early—very early. Now, dear Mrs. Carraways”—and Mrs. Jericho drawing
up her chair, became impressive, then pathetic—“what I ask for the
happiness of both our children is only this.—Leave Basil here; let
him remain a year or two with us; and then, if his affection still
holds for your daughter, why, I’m sure the young people shall have
my—my blessing. Say two years only, my dear creature.”
“I can say nothing,” replied Mrs. Carraways. “Gilbert has pledged his
word.”
“A pledge that may be easily removed, explained; anything. All I ask
for Basil”—cried his mother with new energy—“is the trial of two
years.”
“A trial for me,” cried Basil, hurrying into the room, “my dear lady,
on what account? Ha! Ha! Susan told me you were here, and I lost no
time to ask your blessing,” and Basil bent his head, and kissed his
mother’s hand. Then, he gaily asked—“Where’s father?”
“I thought it best to come alone,” answered Mrs. Jericho.
“Oh! I wouldn’t trouble Mr. Jericho for the world; I meant my other
father,—father Carraways.” Mrs. Jericho frowned and bit her lip. “I
thought he’d be home before me. We’ve had such a ramble; and—my dear
lady—we have selected two such ploughs. Fit to plough Elysium.”
“Ploughs!” cried Mrs. Jericho. “In heaven’s name, Basil, what do you
mean?”
“Mean! The noblest meaning in the world, my dear mother. The first
meaning of the first man,—work, mother; work. Two such ploughs! The
true philanthropic iron,” cried Basil.
“My poor boy! you must be mad,” and Mrs. Jericho sighed and shook her
head.
“Not mad, my dear lady; only wondrous happy. You see, mother,
we’ve been shopping. Delightful employment, you’ll own that? Been
cheapening a few of Vulcan’s nick-nacks with which we propose to
set-off nature. Such ploughs, I say; fancy took a flight into the
future, and I thought I heard the corn wave to and fro while I looked
at ’em. Such axes! How they will startle the wood-nymphs! Such hoes,
such rakes, such pitchforks! I never felt so proud in my life, as
while I handled ’em. Every tool seemed to me at once the weapon and
the ornament of independence. With such magnificent arms a true man
may go forth and conquer the wilderness; making the earth smile with
the noblest of victories.”
“Rhapsodist!” cried Mrs. Jericho. “And you can leave home, can quit
fortune, family, every grace and happiness of life for the whim of a
desert?”
“Grace and happiness a man may, if he will, always carry with him.
The most valuable of luggage, they pack very easily. Desert! Look
here, my dear mother—see,” and Basil took from his pocket a map,
which unfolding, he spread upon the table. “Quite a land of plenty!
Earth is here so kind, that just tickle her with a hoe and she laughs
with a harvest.”
Mrs. Jericho said nothing; but shook her head and sighed. And here
Mrs. Carraways quietly withdrew.
“Look here, my dear mother,” and Basil traced the map with his
finger, “see, here’s where we shall disembark. Here, you see is Port
Pancake. Here is Van Dumplings Land—now we skirt along here, till
we come to Smokejack Point. Then we trend to the left by Pudding
Mount, until we break upon Sea Pie Bay. Then we at once get into the
Lavender.”
“Lavender!” echoed Mrs. Jericho feebly.
“Yes, a home in the Lavender is where we are bound for—and then, you
see—and then”—
For a minute Mrs. Jericho’s tears had fallen upon the map; Basil
would not see them; at length his voice thickened, then fairly broke,
and the next moment son and mother were sobbing in each other’s arms.
“And you can leave me—you can quit us?” said the mother. “Oh Basil!
can you leave us?”
“What remains for me,—what can I do? I shall be better away—much
better.”
“Wherefore better? Have you not position—fortune? All that should
make you happy?”
“My position, splendid serfdom”—answered Basil—“my fortune, money
that would damn me.”
“Basil,” said his mother, startled by the passion of her son. “Your
father’s money!”
“I would have avoided this; I hoped to avoid it,—but mother, I
suspect your husband.” The wife drew herself up; nevertheless, a
something in her heart seemed to baffle her. “There are odd tales
told of Mr. Jericho. Have an eye upon him. I don’t believe the words
in their vulgar, nursery meaning; but it is said that Mr. Jericho’s
mines, whence he derives his wealth, is the very mine that some day”—
Basil’s mother grew pale. She tried to speak; and then to smile, as
though in scorn and utter incredulity.
“I only repeat the rumour; of course, mother, I give no faith to
bonds of brimstone. Still, I should like to be assured of the source
of his means. Why, mother, you have eyes. You cannot, if you would,
be blind to the daily, hourly waste of the man. Like a waxen figure
made by a witch, he dwindles—dwindles. People say, too, such waste is
the tribute exacted by the devil.”
“Basil!” shrieked the frightened woman.
“And, I take it,” answered the young man with solemn voice, and
saddest looks, “I take it to be so. Come, you must hear me out. I
shall not offend again; and you must hear me. What are the ravages of
conscience but tribute paid to evil? What the pains, the tremors, the
heartquakes that I know the man endures—for I have watched him—what
are all, but the devil’s tribute?”
“You are a dreamer—an enthusiast—a foolish boy,” cried Mrs. Jericho,
laughing and shuddering.
“Well, we shall see—we shall see. We will talk no more of it,” said
Basil.
“With all my heart; I am sure I must reproach myself that I have
listened so long.”
“Yet, a word,” said Basil. “I quit England in a fortnight.”
“With a wife?” asked the mother, tremulously.
“With a wife,” exclaimed Basil, and with the words his heart shone in
his face.
“Foolish, imprudent, ungrateful boy!” and the mother wept.
“May you have no worse cause for tears, madam, till we meet again,”
said Basil proudly. “But pray hear me. We go to make a house in the
wilderness. Yet do not think, my mother, my sisters, are forgotten.
No: they shall find a home too.”
“In the wilderness?” asked Mrs. Jericho, with contempt.
“In the wilderness,” answered Basil, “and bless the solitude that
gives them happy shelter from the falsehood of the dreary finery of
life. I say, in the wilderness. Once there, what a new hunger you
will feel for nature! Well, all shall be prepared for you.”
“No, Basil,” said the mother mournfully, “we never meet again:
mother, sisters, all to you will be as the dead. I suppose you have
heard? Agatha marries Sir Arthur, and in a few days.”
“If it be so, poor wench!” said Basil. “But I have hope, mother;
hope.”
“Of course, Basil, you will come to the ceremony?”
“And Bessy?”—inquired Basil. His mother made no answer; Basil
calmly continued. “Nevertheless, should the wedding-cup slip from
the lip—there are such slips, you know—Aggy shall find that her new
sister has thought of her—even, I say, in the wilderness. I shall
leave behind those who will watch you”—
“Watch?” cried Mrs. Jericho, impatiently.
“For a kind purpose,” said the son. “And you shall see what a house
we’ll have for you. Oh! you’ll need it. What a garden! What freedom!
What a new life of happiness and honour—the life of the husbandman, a
life fed by the bounty of earth, and sweetened by the airs of heaven.
Good-bye.”
“Oh, Basil; we shall meet before you—before”—the mother could say no
more.
“Oh, yes; truly yes,” and Basil took his mother to his bosom; and
the woman’s heart flowed in tears—and pride and vanity, and worldly
thoughts were, for the moment, conquered. “Will you see Bessy?”
asked Basil; his mother responded with a pressure of her arms. In a
moment, Bessy—answering the call of Basil—stood, blushing in the room.
Mrs. Jericho felt rebuked, humbled, by the sweet, frank, innocence
of the girl. “Bless you, Bessy,” she cried; and kissing her, with an
effort smiled; then saying, “Basil, you will see me to the door,”
hurried down stairs. In a minute, Mrs. Jericho was in her carriage.
“Home!” cried Basil, and homewards the lady went. And the figure of
Bessy still went with her; the good, happy face of the fair creature
that had smiled so sweetly at the tyranny of fortune; that, in the
confiding purity of her heart, seemed invulnerable to evil,—the
face went with her; and the wife of the Man of Money for the moment
blushed for her possessions; felt ashamed of her wealth.
And then she thought of Basil and his young bride in the wilderness;
and the next thought sent the recollection of that word—was it
scornfully uttered by Basil?—that word “Home” through her brain.
Never before had the sound so jarred upon her heart. “Home!” With
what sad, sullen thoughts, she now considered that magnificent
dungeon; that gorgeous prison, her home. How its splendour came
feverishly upon her soul! How little was there in that home that
consecrated it from any temple where the creed was money, and the
worshipper, the world.
“Home!” a sweet and terrible word. How often may it have made its way
into the carriage, sickening youth and beauty with its sound—striking
cold misery to the poor, aching heart; some sad, church-bargain,
receipted by the priest. How often, the miserable creature, begging
at the carriage-door, kneading the mud beneath his naked feet, with
all his tattered wretchedness feels no such pang as that word “Home”
inflicts upon the seeming felicity he prays to. “Home!” How merrily
the hours dance onward! How the heart has forgotten, thrown down its
daily load, letting itself be cheated into joy! Still the hours glide
on, glowing as they pass, and sorrow is tricked into happiness. And
it may be the dream lasts until the dreamer departs. And then the
word “Home” is flung, like a snake, to the victim—the daily viper
that daily stings.
And whilst we have hammered out this iron sermon upon one
kind of home, what a different home have our lovers—Basil and
Bessy—already made in the wilderness! Basil has talked of all he has
purchased,—ploughs, axes, hammers; all sorts of field implements; and
Bessy has listened with an earnestness that tried to understand their
separate use. And then Basil had given particular orders for plants
and seeds. “For you see, my love,” said he, “I intend to take as much
of England as we can with us.”
“To be sure,” cried Bessy. “Oh yes!”
“And so, I’ve cuttings of raspberry, and currant, and gooseberry;
and for flowering shrubs, rhododendrons, and camellias, and roses as
various, yes as the beauty they are the type of.”
“And I too have seen to a great many seeds,” said Bessy. “Above all,
I’ve not forgotten the heart’s-ease.”
“That”—said Basil, taking a kiss as the best comment—“that, Bessy, I
may be always sure of.”