had spoken truly in saying that she knew nothing of that boisterous love
which was now tormenting him and making him gloomy; but nevertheless she
loved him. She, in her short life, had learnt many lessons of
self-denial; and now with reference to this half-promised husband she
would again have practised such a lesson. Had he agreed at once to go
from her, she would have balanced her own account within her own breast,
and have kept to herself all her sufferings. There would have been no
outward show of baffled love,--none even in the colour of her cheeks;
for such was the nature of her temperament. But she did suffer for him.
Day by day she began to think that his love, though boisterous as she
had at first called it, was more deep-seated than she had believed. He
made no slightest sign that he would accept any of those proffers which
she had made him of release. Though he said so loudly that this waiting
for four years was an impossibility, he spoke of no course that would be
more possible,--except that evidently impossible course of an early
marriage. And thus, while he with redoubled vehemence charged her with
coldness and want of love, her love waxed warmer and warmer, and his
happiness became the chief object of her thoughts. What could she do
that he might no longer suffer?
And then he took a step which was very strange to them all. He banished
himself altogether from the house, going away again into lodgings, “No,”
he said, on the morning of his departure, “I do not release you. I will
never release you. You are mine, and I have a right so to call you. If
you choose to release yourself, I cannot help it; but in doing so you
will be forsworn.”
“Nay, but, Herbert, I have sworn to nothing,” said she, meaning that she
had not been formally betrothed to him.
“You can do as you please; it is a matter of conscience; but I tell you
what are my feelings. Here I cannot stay, for I should go mad; but I
shall see you occasionally;--perhaps on Sundays.”
“Oh, Herbert!”
“Well, what would you have? If you really care to see me it would not be
thus. All I ask of you now is this, that if you decide,--absolutely
decide on throwing me over, you will tell me at once. Then I shall leave
Munich.”
“Herbert, I will never throw you over.” So they parted, and Onslow went
forth to his new lodgings.
Her promise that she would never throw him over was the warmest word of
love that she had ever spoken, but even that was said in her own quiet,
unimpassioned way. There was in it but very little show of love, though
there might be an assurance of constancy. But her constancy he did not,
in truth, much doubt. Four years,--fourteen,--or twenty-four, would be
the same to her, he said, as he seated himself in the dull, cold room
which he had chosen. While living in the Ludwigs Strasse he did not know
how much had been daily done for his comfort by that hand which he had
been so seldom allowed to press; but he knew that he was now cold and
comfortless, and he wished himself back in the Ludwigs Strasse.
“Mamma,” said Isa, when they were alone. “Is not Uncle Hatto rather hard
on us? Papa said that he would ask this as a favour from his brother.”
“So he did, my dear; and offered to give up more of his own time. But
your Uncle Hatto is hard.”
“He is rich, is he not?”
“Well; your father says not. Your father says that he spends all his
income. Though he is hard and obstinate, he is not selfish. He is very
good to the poor, but I believe he thinks that early marriages are very
foolish.”
“Mamma,” said Isa again, when they had sat for some minutes in silence
over their work.
“Well, my love?”
“Have you spoken to Uncle Hatto about this?”
“No, dear; not since that day when your papa and I first went to him. To
tell the truth, I am almost afraid to speak to him; but, if you wish it,
I will do so.”
“I do wish it, mamma. But you must not think that I am discontented or
impatient. I do not know that I have any right to ask my uncle for his
money;--for it comes to that.”
“I suppose it does, my dear.”
“And as for myself, I am happy here with you and papa. I do not think so
much of these four years.”
“You would still be young, Isa;--quite young enough.”
“And what if I were not young? What does it matter? But, mamma, there
has been that between Herbert and me which makes me feel myself bound to
think of him. As you and papa have sanctioned it, you are bound to think
of him also. I know that he is unhappy, living there all alone.”
“But why did he go, dear?”
“I think he was right to go. I could understand his doing that. He is
not like us, and would have been fretful here, wanting that which I
could not give him. He became worse from day to day, and was silent and
morose. I am glad he went. But, mamma, for his sake I wish that this
could be shortened.”
Madame Heine told her daughter that she would, if Isa wished it, herself
go to the Schrannen Platz, and see what could be done by talking to
Uncle Hatto. “But,” she added, “I fear that no good will come of it.”
“Can harm come, mamma?”
“No, I do not think harm can come.”
“I’ll tell you what, mamma, I will go to Uncle Hatto myself, if you will
let me. He is cross I know; but I shall not be afraid of him. I feel
that I ought to do something.” And so the matter was settled, Madame
Heine being by no means averse to escape a further personal visit to the
Head of the banking establishment.
Madame Heine well understood what her daughter meant, when she said she
ought to do something, though Isa feared that she had imperfectly
expressed her meaning. When he, Herbert, was willing to do so much to
prove his love,--when he was ready to sacrifice all the little comforts
of comparative wealth to which he had been accustomed, in order that she
might be his companion and wife,--did it not behove her to give some
proof of her love also? She could not be demonstrative as he was. Such
exhibition of feeling would be quite contrary to her ideas of female
delicacy, and to her very nature. But if called on to work for him, that
she could do as long as strength remained to her. But there was no
sacrifice which would be of service, nor any work which would avail.
Therefore she was driven to think what she might do on his behalf, and
at last she resolved to make her personal appeal to Uncle Hatto.
“Shall I tell papa?” Isa asked of her mother.
“I will do so,” said Madame Heine. And then the younger member of the
firm was informed as to the step which was to be taken; and he, though
he said nothing to forbid the attempt, held out no hope that it would be
successful.
Uncle Hatto was a little snuffy man, now full seventy years of age, who
passed seven hours of every week-day of his life in the dark back
chamber behind the banking-room of the firm, and he had so passed every
week-day of his life for more years than any of the family could now
remember. He had made the house what it was, and had taken his brother
into partnership when that brother married. All the family were somewhat
afraid of him, including even his partner. He rarely came to the
apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse, as he himself lived in one of the
older and shabbier suburbs on the other side of the town. Thither he
always walked, starting punctually from the bank at four o’clock, and
from thence he always walked in the morning, reaching the bank
punctually at nine. His two nieces knew him well; for on certain stated
days they were wont to attend on him at his lodgings, where they would
be regaled with cakes, and afterwards go with him to some old-fashioned
beer-garden in his neighbourhood. But these festivities were of a sombre
kind; and if, on any occasion, circumstances prevented the fulfilment of
the ceremony, neither of the girls would be loud in their lamentations.
In London, a visit paid by a niece to her uncle would, in all
probability, be made at the uncle’s private residence; but at Munich
private and public matters were not so effectually divided. Isa
therefore, having put on her hat and shawl, walked off by herself to the
Schrannen Platz.
“Is Uncle Hatto inside?” she asked; and the answer was given to her by
her own lover. Yes, he was within; but the old clerk was with him. Isa,
however, signified her wish to see her uncle alone, and in a few minutes
the ancient grey-haired servant of the house came out into the larger
room.
“You can go in now, Miss Isa,” he said. And Isa found herself in the
presence of her uncle before she had been two minutes under the roof. In
the mean time Ernest Heine, her father, had said not a word, and Herbert
knew that something very special must be about to occur.
“Well, my bonny bird,” said Uncle Hatto, “and what do you want at the
bank?” Cheery words, such as these, were by no means uncommon with Uncle
Hatto; but Isa knew very well that no presage could be drawn from them
of any special good nature or temporary weakness on his part.
“Uncle Hatto,” she began, rushing at once into the middle of her affair,
“you know, I believe, that I am engaged to marry Herbert Onslow?”
“I know no such thing,” said he. “I thought I understood your father
specially to say that there had been no betrothal.”
“No, Uncle Hatto, there has been no betrothal; that certainly is true;
but, nevertheless, we are engaged to each other.”
“Well,” said Uncle Hatto, very sourly; and now there was no longer any
cheery tone, or any calling of pretty names.
“Perhaps you may think all this very foolish,” said Isa, who, in spite
of her resolves to do so, was hardly able to look up gallantly into her
uncle’s face as she thus talked of her own love affairs.
“Yes, I do,” said Uncle Hatto. “I do think it foolish for young people
to hold themselves betrothed before they have got anything to live on,
and so I have told your father. He answered me by saying that you were
not betrothed.”
“Nor are we. Papa is quite right in that.”
“Then, my dear, I would advise you to tell the young man that, as
neither of you have means of your own, the thing must be at an end. It
is the only step for you to take. If you agreed to wait, one of you
might die, or his money might never be forthcoming, or you might see
somebody else that you liked better.”
“I don’t think I shall do that.”
“You can’t tell. And if you don’t, the chances are ten to one that he
will.”
This little blow, which was intended to be severe, did not hit Isa at
all hard. That plan of a Rose Bradwardine she herself had proposed in
good faith, thinking that she could endure such a termination to the
affair without flinching. She was probably wrong in this estimate of her
power; but, nevertheless, her present object was his release from
unhappiness and doubt, not her own.
“It might be so,” she said.
“Take my word for it, it would. Look all around. There was Adelaide
Schropner,--but that was before your time, and you would not remember.”
Considering that Adelaide Schropner had been for many years a
grandmother, it was probable that Isa would not remember.
“But, Uncle Hatto, you have not heard me. I want to say something to
you, if it will not take too much of your time.” In answer to which,
Uncle Hatto muttered something which was unheeded, to signify that Isa
might speak.
“I also think that a long engagement is a foolish thing, and so does
Herbert.”
“But he wants to marry at once.”
“Yes, he wants to marry--perhaps not at once, but soon.”
“And I suppose you have come to say that you want the same thing.”
Isa blushed ever so faintly as she commenced her answer. “Yes, uncle, I
do wish the same thing. What he wishes, I wish.”
“Very likely,--very likely.”
“Don’t be scornful to me, uncle. When two people love each other, it is
natural that each should wish that which the other earnestly desires.”
“Oh, very natural, my dear, that you should wish to get married!”
“Uncle Hatto, I did not think that you would be unkind to me, though I
knew that you would be stern.”
“Well, go on. What have you to say? I am not stern; but I have no doubt
you will think me unkind. People are always unkind who do not do what
they are asked.”
“Papa says that Herbert Onslow is some day to become a partner in the
bank.”
“That depends on certain circumstances. Neither I nor your papa can say
whether he will or no.”
But Isa went on as though she had not heard the last reply. “I have come
to ask you to admit him as a partner at once.”
“Ah, I supposed so;--just as you might ask me to give you a new ribbon.”
“But uncle, I never did ask you to give me a new ribbon. I never asked
you to give me anything for myself; nor do I ask this for myself.”
“Do you think that if I could do it,--which of course I can’t,--I would
not sooner do it for you, who are my own flesh and blood, than for him,
who is a stranger?”
“Nay; he is no stranger. He has sat at your desk and obeyed your orders
for nearly four years. Papa says that he has done well in the bank.”
“Humph! If every clerk that does well,--pretty well, that is,--wanted a
partnership, where should we be, my dear? No, my dear, go home and tell
him when you see him in the evening that all this must be at an end.
Men’s places in the world are not given away so easily as that. They
must either be earned or purchased. Herbert Onslow has as yet done
neither, and therefore he is not entitled to take a wife. I should have
been glad to have had a wife at his age,--at least I suppose I should,
but at any rate I could not afford it.”
But Isa had by no means as yet done. So far the interview had progressed
exactly as she had anticipated. She had never supposed it possible that
her uncle would grant her so important a request as soon as she opened
her mouth to ask it. She had not for a moment expected that things would
go so easily with her. Indeed she had never expected that any success
would attend her efforts; but, if any success were possible, the work
which must achieve that success must now commence. It was necessary that
she should first state her request plainly before she began to urge it
with such eloquence as she had at her command.
“I can understand what you say, Uncle Hatto.”
“I am glad of that, at any rate.”
“And I know that I have no right to ask you for anything.”
“I do not say that. Anything in reason, that a girl like you should ask
of her old uncle, I would give you.”
“I have no such reasonable request to make, uncle. I have never wanted
new ribbons from you or gay toys. Even from my own mother I have not
wanted them;--not wanted them faster than they seemed to come without
any asking.”
“No, no; you have been a good girl.”
“I have been a happy girl; and quite happy with those I loved, and with
what Providence had given me. I had nothing to ask for. But now I am no
longer happy, nor can I be unless you do for me this which I ask of you.
I have wanted nothing till now, and now in my need I come to you.”
“And now you want a husband with a fortune!”
“No!” and that single word she spoke, not loudly, for her voice was low
and soft, but with an accent which carried it sharply to his ear and to
his brain. And then she rose from her seat as she went on. “Your scorn,
uncle, is unjust,--unjust and untrue. I have ever acted maidenly, as has
become my mother’s daughter.”
“Yes, yes, yes;--I believe that.”
“And I can say more than that for myself. My thoughts have been the
same, nor have my wishes even, ever gone beyond them. And when this
young man came to me, telling me of his feelings, I gave him no answer
till I had consulted my mother.”
“She should have bade you not to think of him.”
“Ah, you are not a mother, and cannot know. Why should I not think of
him when he was good and kind, honest and hard-working? And then he had
thought of me first. Why should I not think of him? Did not mamma listen
to my father when he came to her?”
“But your father was forty years old, and had a business.”
“You gave it him, Uncle Hatto. I have heard him say so.”
“And therefore I am to do as much for you. And then next year Agnes will
come to me; and so before I die I shall see you all in want, with large
families. No, Isa; I will not scorn you, but this thing I cannot do.”
“But I have not told you all yet. You say that I want a husband.”
“Well, well; I did not mean to say it harshly.”
“I do want--to be married.” And here her courage failed her a little,
and for a moment her eye fell to the ground. “It is true, uncle. He has
asked me whether I could love him, and I have told him I could. He has
asked me whether I would be his wife, and I have given him a promise.
After that, must not his happiness be my happiness, and his misery my
misery? Am I not his wife already before God?”
“No, no,” said Uncle Hatto, loudly.
“Ah, but I am. None feel the strength of the bonds but those who are
themselves bound. I know my duty to my father and mother, and with God’s
help I will do it, but I am not the less bound to him. Without their
approval I will not stand with him at the altar; but not the less is my
lot joined to his for this world. Nothing could release me from that but
his wish.”
“And he will wish it in a month or two.”
“Excuse me, Uncle Hatto, but in that I can only judge for myself as best
I may. He has loved me now for two years----”
“Psha!”
“And whether it be wise or foolish, I have sanctioned it. I cannot now
go back with honour, even if my own heart would let me. His welfare must
be my welfare, and his sorrow my sorrow. Therefore I am bound to do for
him anything that a girl may do for the man she loves; and, as I knew of
no other resource, I come to you to help me.”
“And he, sitting out there, knows what you are saying.”
“Most certainly not. He knows no more than that he has seen me enter
this room.”
“I am glad of that, because I would not wish that he should be
disappointed. In this matter, my dear, I cannot do anything for you.”
“And that is your last answer, uncle?”
“Yes, indeed. When you come to think over this some twenty years hence,
you will know then that I am right, and that your request was
unreasonable.”
“It may be so,” she replied, “but I do not think it.”
“It will be so. Such favours as you now ask are not granted in this
world for light reasons.”
“Light reasons! Well, uncle, I have had my say, and will not take up
your time longer.”
“Good-bye, my dear. I am sorry that I cannot oblige you;--that it is
quite out of my power to oblige you.”
Then she went, giving him her hand as she parted from him; and he, as
she left the room looked anxiously at her, watching her countenance and
her gait, and listening to the very fall of her footstep. “Ah,” he said
to himself, when he was alone, “the young people have the best of it.
The sun shines for them; but why should they have all? Poor as he is,
he is a happy dog,--a happy dog. But she is twice too good for him. Why
did she not take to one of her own country?”
Isa, as she passed through the bank, smiled sweetly on her father, and
then smiled sweetly at her lover, nodding to him with a pleasant kindly
nod. If he could have heard all that had passed at that interview, how
much more he would have known of her than he now knew, and how proud he
would have been of her love. No word was spoken as she went out, and
then she walked home with even step, as she had walked thither. It can
hardly be said that she was disappointed, as she had expected nothing.
But people hope who do not expect, and though her step was even and her
face calm, yet her heart was sad.
“Mamma,” she said, “there is no hope from Uncle Hatto.”
“So I feared, my dear.”
“But I thought it right to try--for Herbert’s sake.”
“I hope it will not do him an injury in the bank.”
“Oh, mamma, do not put that into my head. If that were added to it all,
I should indeed be wretched.”
“No; he is too just for that. Poor young man! Sometimes I almost think
it would be better that he should go back to England.”
“Mamma, if he did, I should--break my heart.”
“Isa!”
“Well, mamma! But do not suppose that I mean to complain, whatever
happens.”
“But I had been so sure that you had constrained your feelings!”
“So I had,--till I knew myself. Mamma, I could wait for years, if he
were contented to wait by my side. If I could see him happy, I could
watch him and love him, and be happy also. I do not want to have him
kneeling to me, and making sweet speeches; but it has gone too far
now,--and I could not bear to lose him.” And thus to her mother she
confessed the truth.
There was nothing more said between Isa and her mother on the subject,
and for two days the matter remained as it then stood. Madame Heine had
been deeply grieved at hearing those last words which her daughter had
spoken. To her also that state of quiescence which Isa had so long
affected seemed to be the proper state at which a maiden’s heart should
stand till after her marriage vows had been pronounced. She had watched
her Isa, and had approved of everything,--of everything till this last
avowal had been made. But now, though she could not approve, she
expressed no disapproval in words. She pressed her daughter’s hand and
sighed, and then the two said no more upon the matter. In this way, for
two days, there was silence in the apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse;
for even when the father returned from his work, the whole circle felt
that their old family mirth was for the present necessarily laid aside.
On the morning of the third day, about noon, Madame Heine returned home
from the market with Isa, and as they reached the landing, Agnes met
them with a packet. “Fritz brought it from the bank,” said Agnes. Now
Fritz was the boy who ran messages and swept out the office, and Madame
Heine put out her hand for the parcel, thinking, not unnaturally, that
it was for her. But Agnes would not give it to her mother. “It is for
you, Isa,” she said. Then Isa, looking at the address, recognised the
handwriting of her uncle. “Mamma,” she said, “I will come to you
directly;” and then she passed quickly away into her own room.
The parcel was soon opened, and contained a note from her uncle, and a
stiff, large document, looking as though it had come from the hands of a
lawyer. Isa glanced at the document, and read some few of the words on
the outer fold, but they did not carry home to her mind any clear
perception of their meaning. She was flurried at the moment, and the
words, perhaps, were not very plain. Then she took up her note, and that
was plain enough. It was very short, and ran as follows:--
“My dear Niece,
“You told me on Monday that I was stern, and harsh, and unjust.
Perhaps I was. If so, I hope the enclosed will make amends, and
that you will not think me such an old fool as I think myself.
“Your affectionate uncle,
“HATTO HEINE.
“I have told nobody yet, and the enclosed will require my brother’s
signature; but I suppose he will not object.”
* * * * *
“But he does not know it, mamma,” said Isa. “Who is to tell him? Oh,
mamma, you must tell him.”
“Nay, my dear; but it must be your own present to him.”
“I could not give it him. It is Uncle Hatto’s present Mamma, when I left
him I thought that his eye was kind to me.”
“His heart, at any rate, has been very kind.” And then again they looked
over the document, and talked of the wedding which must now be near at
hand. But still they had not as yet decided how Herbert should be
informed.
At last Isa resolved that she herself would write to him. She did write,
and this was her letter:--
“Dear Herbert,
“Mamma and I wish to see you, and beg that you will come up to us
this evening. We have tidings for you which I hope you will receive
with joy. I may as well tell you at once, as I do not wish to
flurry you. Uncle Hatto has sent to us a document which admits you
as a partner into the bank. If, therefore, you wish to go on with
our engagement, I suppose there is nothing now to cause any very
great delay.
“ISA.”
The letter was very simple, and Isa, when she had written it, subsided
into all her customary quiescence. Indeed, when Herbert came to the
Ludwigs Strasse, not in the evening as he was bidden to do, but
instantly, leaving his own dinner uneaten, and coming upon the Heines in
the midst of their dinner, she was more than usually tranquil. But his
love was, as she had told him, boisterous. He could not contain himself,
and embraced them all, and then scolded Isa because she was so calm.
“Why should I not be calm,” said she, “now that I know you are happy?”
The house in the Schrannen Platz still goes by the name of Heine
Brothers, but the mercantile world in Bavaria, and in some cities out of
Bavaria, is well aware that the real pith and marrow of the business is
derived from the energy of the young English partner.
THE MAN WHO KEPT HIS MONEY IN A BOX.