WINNING boat-races was all very fine; but a hundred such victories could
not compensate Mr. Kennet's female hearers for one such defeat as he had
announced--a defeat that, to their minds, carried disgrace. Their Edward
plucked! At first they were benumbed, and sat chilled, with red cheeks,
bewildered between present triumph and mortification at hand. Then the
colour ebbed out of their faces, and they encouraged each other feebly
in whispers, “Might it not be a mistake?”
But unconscious Kennet robbed them of this timid hope. He was now in
his element, knew all about it, rushed into details, and sawed away all
doubt from their minds. The sum was this. Dodd's general performance was
mediocre, but passable; he was plucked for his Logic. Hardie said he
was very sorry for it. “What does it matter?” answered Kennet; “he is a
boating-man.
“Well, and I am a boating-man. Why, you told me yourself, the other
day, poor Dodd was anxious about it on account of his friends. And,
by-the-bye, that reminds me they say he has got two pretty sisters
here.”
Says Kennet briskly, “I'll go and tell him; I know him just to speak
to.”
“What! doesn't he know?”
“How can he know?” said Kennet jealously; “the testamurs were only
just out as I came away.” And within this he started on his congenial
errand.
Hardie took two or three of his long strides, and fairly collared him.
“You will do nothing of the kind.”
“What, not tell a man when he's ploughed? That is a good joke.”
“No. There's time enough. Tell him after chapel to-morrow, or in chapel
if you must; but why poison his triumphal cup? And his sisters, too, why
spoil their pleasure? Hang it all, not a word about 'ploughing' to any
living soul to-day.”
To his surprise, Kennet's face expressed no sympathy, nor even bare
assent. At this Hardie lost patience, and burst out impetuously, “Take
care how you refuse me; take care how you thwart me in this. He is the
best-natured fellow in college. It doesn't matter to you, and it does
to him; and if you _do,_ then take my name off the list of your
acquaintance, for I'll never speak a word to you again in this world;
no, not on my death-bed, by Heaven!”
The threat was extravagant; but Youth's glowing cheek and eye, and
imperious lip, and simple generosity, made it almost beautiful.
Kennet whined, “Oh, if you talk like that, there is an end to fair
argument.”
“End it then, and promise me; upon your honour!”
“Why not? What bosh! There, I promise. Now, how do you construe [Greek
text]?”
The incongruous dog (“I thank thee, Taff, for teaching me that word”)
put this query with the severity of an inquisitor bringing back a
garrulous prisoner to the point. Hardie replied gaily, “Any way you
like, now you are a good fellow again.”
“Come, that is evasive. My tutor says it cannot be rendered by any one
English word; no more can [Greek text].”
“Why, what on earth can he know about English? [Greek text] is a
Cormorant: [Greek text] is a Skinflint; and your tutor is a Duffer.
Hush! keep dark now! here he comes.” And he went hastily to meet Edward
Dodd: and by that means intercepted him on his way to the carriage.
“Give me your hand, Dodd,” he cried; “you have saved the university. You
must be stroke of the eight-oar after me. Let me see more of you than I
have, old fellow.”
“Within all my heart,” replied Edward calmly, but taking the offered
hand cordially; though he rather wanted to get away to his mother and
sister. “We will pull together, and read together into the bargain,”
continued Hardie.
“Read together? You and I? What do you mean?”
“Well, you see I am pretty well up in the Imigliner books; what I have
got to rub up is my Divinity and my Logic--especially my Logic. Will you
grind Logic with me? Say 'Yes,' for I know you will keep your word.”
“It is too good an offer to refuse, Hardie; but now I look at you,
you are excited: wonderfully excited: within the race, eh? Now,
just--you--wait--quietly--till next week, and then, if you are so soft
as to ask me in cool blood----”
“Wait a week?” cried the impetuous youth. “No, not a minute. It is
settled. There, we cram Logic together next term.”
And he shook Edward's hand again with glistening eyes and an emotion
that was quite unintelligible to Edward; but not to the quick, sensitive
spirits, who sat but fifteen yards off.
“You really must excuse me just now,” said Edward, and ran to the
carriage, and put out both hands to the fair occupants. They kissed him
eagerly, with little tender sighs; and it cost them no slight effort not
to cry publicly over “the beloved,” “the victorious,” “the ploughed.”
Young Hardie stood petrified. What? These ladies Dodd's sisters. Why,
one of them had called the other mamma. Good heavens! all his talk in
their hearing had been of Dodd; and Kennet and he between them had
let out the very thing he wanted to conceal, especially from Dodd's
relations. He gazed at them, and turned hot to the very forehead. Then,
not knowing what to do or say, and being after all but a clever boy,
not a cool, “never unready” man of the world, he slipped away, blushing.
Kennet followed, goggling.
Left to herself, Mrs. Dodd would have broken the bad news to Edward at
once, and taken the line of consoling him under her own vexation: it
would not have been the first time that she had played that card. But
young Mr. Hardie had said it would be unkind to poison Edward's day: and
it is sweet woman's nature to follow suit; so she and Julia put bright
faces on, and Edward passed a right jocund afternoon with them. He was
not allowed to surprise one of the looks they interchanged to relieve
their secret mortification. But, after dinner, as the time drew near
for him to go back to Oxford, Mrs. Dodd became silent, and a little
_distraite;_ and at last drew her chair away to a small table, and wrote
a letter.
In directing it she turned it purposely, so that Julia could catch the
address: _“Edward Dodd, Esq., Exeter College, Oxford._”
Julia was naturally startled at first, and her eye roved almost
comically to and fro the letter and its Destination, seated calm and
unconscious of woman's beneficent wiles. But her heart soon divined the
mystery: it was to reach him the first thing in the morning, and spare
him the pain of writing the news to them; and, doubtless, so worded as
not to leave him a day in doubt of their forgiveness and sympathy.
Julia took the missive unobserved by the Destination, and glided out of
the room to get it quietly posted.
The servant-girl was waiting on the second-floor lodgers, and told her
so, with a significant addition, viz., that the post was in this street,
and only a few doors off. Julia was a little surprised at her coolness,
but took the hint with perfect good temper, and just put on her shawl
and bonnet, and went with it herself. The post-office was not quite so
near as represented; but she was soon there, for she was eager till she
had posted it. But she came back slowly and thoughtfully; here in the
street, lighted only by the moon, and an occasional gaslight, there was
no need for self-restraint, and soon her mortification betrayed itself
in her speaking countenance. And to think that her mother, on whom she
doted, should have to write to her son, there present, and post the
letter! This made her eyes fill, and before she reached the door of the
lodging, they were brimming over.
As she put her foot on the step, a timid voice addressed her in a
low tone of supplication. “May I venture to speak one word to you, Miss
Dodd?--one single word?”
She looked up surprised; and it was young Mr. Hardie.
His tall figure was bending towards her submissively, and his face, as
well as his utterance, betrayed considerable agitation.
And what led to so unusual a rencontre between a young gentleman and
lady who had never been introduced?
“The Tender Passion,” says a reader of many novels.
Why, yes; the tenderest in all our nature:
Wounded Vanity.
Naturally proud and sensitive, and inflated by success and flattery,
Alfred Hardie had been torturing himself ever since he fled Edward's
female relations. He was mortified to the core. He confounded “the
fools” (his favourite synonym for his acquaintance) for going and
calling Dodd's mother an elder sister, and so not giving him a chance to
divine her. And then that he, who prided himself on his discrimination,
should take them for ladies of rank, or, at all events, of the highest
fashion and, climax of humiliation, that so great a man as he should
go and seem to court them by praising Dodd of Exeter, by enlarging upon
Dodd of Exeter, by offering to grind Logic with Dodd of Exeter. Who
would believe that this was a coincidence, a mere coincidence? They
could not be expected to believe it; female vanity would not let them.
He tingled, and was not far from hating the whole family; so bitter a
thing is that which I have ventured to dub “The Tenderest Passion.”
He itched to soothe his irritation by explaining to Edward. Dodd was a
frank, good-hearted fellow; he would listen to facts, and convince the
ladies in turn. Hardie learned where Dodd's party lodged, and waited
about the door to catch him alone: Dodd must be in college by twelve,
and would leave Henley before ten. He waited till he was tired of
waiting. But at last the door opened; he stepped forward, and out
tripped Miss Dodd. “Confound it!” muttered Hardie, and drew back.
However, he stood and admired her graceful figure and action, her
ladylike speed without bustling. Had she come back at the same pace, he
would never have ventured to stop her: on such a thread do things hang:
but she returned very slowly, hanging her head. Her look at him and his
headache recurred to him--a look brimful of goodness. She would do as
well as Edward, better perhaps. He yielded to impulse, and addressed
her, but with all the trepidation of a youth defying the giant Etiquette
for the first time in his life.
Julia was a little surprised and fluttered, but did not betray it; she
had been taught self-command by example, if not by precept.
“Certainly, Mr. Hardie,” said she, within a modest composure a young
coquette might have envied under the circumstances.
Hardie had now only to explain himself; but instead of that, he stood
looking at her within silent concern. The fair face she raised to him
was wet with tears; so were her eyes, and even the glorious eyelashes
were fringed with that tender spray; and it glistened in the moonlight.
This sad and pretty sight drove the vain but generous youth's calamity
clean out of his head. “Why, you are crying! Miss Dodd, what is the
matter? I hope nothing has happened.”
Julia turned her head away a little fretfully, with a “No, no!” But soon
her natural candour and simplicity prevailed; a simplicity not without
dignity; she turned round to him and looked him in the face. “Why should
I deny it to you, sir, who have been good enough to sympathise with us?
We are mortified, sadly mortified, at dear Edward's disgrace; and it has
cost us a struggle not to disobey you, and _poison his triumphal cup_
with sad looks. And mamma had to write to him, and console him against
to-morrow: but I hope he will not feel it so severely as she does: and I
have just posted it myself, and, when I thought of our dear mamma being
driven to such expedients, I--Oh!” And the pure young heart, having
opened itself by words, must flow a little more.
“Oh, pray don't cry,” said young Hardie tenderly; “don't take such
a trifle to heart so. You crying makes me feel guilty for letting it
happen. It shall never occur again. If I had only known, it should never
have happened at all.”
“Once is enough,” sighed Julia.
“Indeed, you take it too much to heart. It is only out of Oxford a
plough is thought much of; especially a single one; that is so very
common. You see, Miss Dodd, an university examination consists of
several items: neglect but one, and Crichton himself would be ploughed;
because brilliancy in your other papers is not allowed to count; that is
how the most distinguished man of our day got ploughed for Smalls. I had
a narrow escape, I know, for one. But, Miss Dodd, if you knew how far
your brother's performance on the river outweighs a mere slip in the
schools, in all university men's eyes, the dons' and all, you would not
make this bright day end sadly to Oxford by crying. Why, I could find
you a thousand men who would be ploughed to-morrow with glory and
delight to win one such race as your brother has won two.”
Julia sighed again. But it sounded now half like a sigh of relief--the
final sigh, with which the fair consent to be consoled.
And indeed this improvement in the music did not escape Hardie. He felt
he was on the right tack: he enumerated fluently, and by name, many good
men, besides Dean Swift, who had been ploughed, yet had cultivated the
field of letters in their turn; and, in short, he was so earnest and
plausible, that something like a smile hovered about his hearer's lips,
and she glanced askant at him with furtive gratitude from under her
silky lashes. But it soon recurred to her that this was rather a long
interview to accord to “a stranger,” and under the moon; so she said a
little stiffly, “And was this what you were good enough to wish to say
to me, Mr. Hardie?”
“No, Miss Dodd, to be frank, it was not. My motive in addressing you,
without the right to take such a freedom, was egotistical. I came here
to clear myself; I--I was afraid you must think me a humbug, you know.”
“I do not understand you, indeed.”
“Well, I feared you and Mrs. Dodd might think I praised Dodd so, and did
what little I did for him, knowing who you were, and wishing to curry
favour with you by all that; and that is so underhand and paltry a way
of going to work, I should despise myself.”
“Oh, Mr. Hardie,” said the young lady, smiling, “How foolish: why, of
course, we knew you had no idea.”
“Indeed I had not; but how could you know it?”
“Why, we saw it. Do you think we have no eyes? Ah, and much keener ones
than gentlemen have. It is mamma and I who are to blame, if anybody;
we ought to have declared ourselves: it would have been more generous,
more--manly. But we cannot all be gentlemen, you know. It was so sweet
to hear Edward praised by one who did not know us; it was like stolen
fruit; and by one whom others praise: so, if you can forgive us our
slyness, there is an end of the matter.”
“Forgive you? you have taken a thorn out of my soul.”
“Then I am so glad you summoned courage to speak to me without ceremony.
Mamma would have done better, though; but after all, do not I know her?
my mamma is all goodness and intelligence. And be assured, sir, she does
you justice; and is quite sensible of your _disinterested_ kindness to
dear Edward.” With this she was about to retire.
“Ah! But you, Miss Dodd? with whom I have taken this unwarrantable
liberty?” said Hardie imploringly.
“Me, Mr. Hardie? You do me the honour to require my opinion of your
performances: including of course this self-introduction?”
Hardie hung his head; there was a touch of satire in the lady's voice,
he thought.
Her soft eyes rested demurely on him a moment; she saw he was a little
abashed.
“My opinion of it all is that you have been very kind to us; in being
most kind to our poor Edward. I never saw, nor read of anything more
generous, more manly. And then _so_ thoughtful, _so_ considerate, _so_
delicate! So instead of criticising you, as you seem to expect, his
sister only blesses you, and thanks you from the very bottom of her
heart.”
She had begun within a polite composure borrowed from mamma; but, once
launched, her ardent nature got the better: her colour rose and rose,
and her voice sank and sank, and the last words came almost in a
whisper; and such a lovely whisper: a gurgle from the heart; and, as
she concluded, her delicate hand came sweeping out with a heaven-taught
gesture of large and sovereign cordiality, that made even the honest
words and the divine tones more eloquent. It was too much; the young
man, ardent as herself, and not, in reality, half so timorous, caught
fire; and seeing a white, eloquent hand rather near him, caught it, and
pressed his warm lips on it in mute adoration and gratitude.
At this she was scared and offended. “Oh; keep that for the Queen!”
cried she, turning scarlet, and tossing her fair head into the air,
like a startled stag; and she drew her hand away quickly and decidedly,
though not roughly. He stammered a lowly apology--in the very middle of
it she said quietly, “Good-bye, Mr. Hardie,” and swept, with a gracious
little curtsey, through the doorway, leaving him spell-bound.
And so the virginal instinct of self-defence carried her off swiftly and
cleverly. But none too soon; for, on entering the house, that external
composure her two mothers Mesdames Dodd and Nature had taught her, fell
from her like a veil, and she fluttered up the stairs to her own room
with hot cheeks, and panted there like some wild thing that has been
grasped at and grazed. She felt young Hardie's lips upon the palm of her
hand plainly; they seemed to linger there still; it was like light but
live velvet. This, and the ardent look he had poured into her eyes, set
the young creature quivering. Nobody had looked at her so before, and
no young gentleman had imprinted living velvet on her hand. She was
alarmed, ashamed, and uneasy. What right had he to look at her like
that? What shadow of a right to go and kiss her hand? He could not
pretend to think she had put it out to be kissed; ladies put forth
the back of the hand for that, not the palm. The truth was he was an
impudent fellow, and she hated him now, and herself too, for being so
simple as to let him talk to her: mamma would not have been so imprudent
when she was a girl.
She would not go down, for she felt there must be something of this kind
legibly branded on her face: “Oh! oh! just look at this young lady! She
has been letting a young gentleman kiss the palm of her hand; and the
feel has not gone off yet; you may see that by her cheeks.”
But then, poor Edward! she must go down.
So she put a wet towel to her tell-tale cheeks, and dried them by
artistic dabs, avoiding friction, and came downstairs like a mouse, and
turned the door-handle noiselessly, and glided into the sitting-room
looking so transparent, conscious, and all on fire with beauty and
animation, that even Edward was startled, and, in a whisper, bade his
mother observe what a pretty girl she was: “Beats all the country girls
in a canter.” Mrs. Dodd did look; and, consequently, as soon as ever
Edward was gone to Oxford, she said to Julia, “You are feverish, love;
you have been excited with all this. You had better go to bed.”
Julia complied willingly; for she wanted to be alone and think. She
retired to her own room, and went the whole day over again; and was
happy and sorry, exalted and uneasy, by turns; and ended by excusing Mr.
Hardie's escapade, and throwing the blame on herself. She ought to have
been more distant; gentlemen were not expected, nor indeed much wanted,
to be modest. A little assurance did not misbecome them. “Really, I
think it sets them off,” said she to herself.
Grand total: “What _must_ he think of me?”
Time gallops in reverie: the town clock struck twelve, and with its iron
tongue remorse entered her youthful conscience. Was this obeying mamma?
Mamma had said, “Go to bed:” not, “Go upstairs and meditate: upon young
gentlemen.” She gave an expressive shake of her fair shoulders, like
a swan flapping the water off its downy wings, and so dismissed the
subject from her mind.
Then she said her prayers.
Then she rose from her knees, and in tones of honey said, “Puss! puss!
pretty puss!” and awaited a result.
Thieves and ghosts she did not believe in, yet credited cats under beds,
and thought them neither “harmless” nor “necessary” there.
After tenderly evoking the dreaded and chimerical quadruped, she
proceeded none the less to careful research, especially of cupboards.
The door of one resisted, and then yielded with a crack, and blew out
the candle. “There now,” said she.
It was her only light, except her beauty. They allotted each Hebe
but one candle, in that ancient burgh. “Well,” she thought, “there is
moonlight enough to _un_dress by.” She went to draw back one of the
curtains; but in the act she started back with a little scream. There
was a tall figure over the way watching the house.
The moon shone from her side of the street full on him, and in that
instant her quick eye recognised Mr. Hardie.
“Well!” said she aloud, and with an indescribable inflexion; and hid
herself swiftly in impenetrable gloom.
But, after a while, Eve's daughter must have a peep. She stole with
infinite caution to one side of the curtain, and made an aperture just
big enough for one bright eye. Yes, there he was, motionless. “I'll tell
mamma,” said she to him, malignantly, as if the sound could reach him.
Unconscious of the direful threat, he did not budge.
She was unaffectedly puzzled at this phenomenon; and, not being the
least vain, fell to wondering whether he played the nightly sentinel
opposite every lady's window who exchanged civilities within him.
“Because, if he does, he is a fool,” said she, promptly. But on
reflection, she felt sure he did nothing of the kind habitually, for he
had too high an opinion of himself; she had noted that trait in him at
a very early stage. She satisfied herself, by cautious examination, that
he did not know her room. He was making a temple of the whole lodging.
“How ridiculous of him!” Yet he appeared to be happy over it; there was
an exalted look in his moonlit face; she seemed now first to see
his soul there. She studied his countenance like an inscription, and
deciphered each rapt expression that crossed it; and stored them in her
memory.
Twice she left her ambuscade to go to bed, and twice Curiosity, or
Something, drew her back. At last, having looked, peered, and peeped,
till her feet were cold, and her face the reverse, she informed herself
that the foolish Thing had tired her out.
“Good-night, Mr. Policeman,” said she, pretending to bawl to him. “And
oh! Do rain! As hard as ever you can.” With this benevolent aspiration,
a little too violent to be sincere, she laid her cheek on her pillow
doughtily.
But her sentinel, when out of sight, had more power to disturb her. She
lay and wondered whether he was still there, and what it all meant, and
whatever mamma would say; and which of the two, she or he, was the head
culprit in this strange performance, to which Earth, she conceived,
had seen no parallel; and, above all, what he would do next. Her pulse
galloped, and her sleep was broken; and she came down in the morning a
little pale. Mrs. Dodd saw it at once, with the quick maternal eye; and
moralised: “It is curious; youth is so fond of pleasure; yet pleasure
seldom agrees with youth; this little excitement has done your mother
good, who is no longer young; but it has been too much for you. I shall
be glad to have you back to our quiet home.”
Ah! Will that home be as tranquil now?