LONG before this open rupture Jane Hardie had asked her father
sorrowfully, whether she was to discontinue her intimacy with the
Dodds: she thought of course he would say “Yes;” and it cost her a hard
struggle between inclination and filial duty to raise the question. But
Mr. Hardie was anxious her friendship with that family should continue;
it furnished a channel of news, and in case of detection might be useful
to avert or soften hostilities; so he answered rather sharply, “On no
account: the Dodds are an estimable family: pray be as friendly
with them as ever you can.” Jane coloured with pleasure at this most
unexpected reply; but her wakeful conscience reminded her, this answer
was given in ignorance of her attachment to Edward Dodd, and urged
her to confession. But at that Nature recoiled: Edward had not openly
declared his love to her; so modest pride, as well as modest shame,
combined with female cowardice to hold back the avowal.
So then Miss Tender Conscience tormented herself; and recorded the
struggle in her diary; but briefly, and in terms vague and typical; not
a word about “a young man”--or “crossed in love”--but one obscure and
hasty slap at the carnal affections, and a good deal about “the saints
in prison,” and “the battle of Armageddon.”
Yet, to do her justice, laxity of expression did not act upon her
conduct and warp that as it does most mystical speakers.
To obey her father to the letter, she maintained a friendly
correspondence with Julia Dodd, exchanging letters daily; but, not to
disobey him in the spirit, she ceased to visit Albion Villa. Thus she
avoided Edward, and extracted from the situation the utmost self-denial,
and the least possible amount of “carnal pleasure,” as she naively
denominated an interchange of worldly affection, however distant and
respectful.
One day she happened to mention her diary, and say it was a present
comfort to her, and instructive to review. Julia, catching at every
straw of consolation, said she would keep one too, and asked a sight
of Jane's for a model. “No, dear friend,” said Jane: “a diary should be
one's self on paper.”
This was fortunate: it precluded that servile imitation, in which her
sex excels even mine; and consequently the two records reflect two good
girls, instead of one in two skins; and may be trusted to conduct this
narrative forward, and relieve its monotony a little: only, of course,
the reader must not expect to see the plot of a story carried minutely
out in two crude compositions written with an object so distinct: he
must watch for glimpses and make the most of indications. Nor is this an
excessive demand upon his intelligence; for, if he cannot do this with
a book, how will he do it in real life, where male and female characters
reveal their true selves by glimpses only, and the gravest and most
dramatic events give the diviner so few and faint signs of their coming?
_Extracts from Julia Dodd's Diary._
_“Dec. 5th._--It is all over; they have taken papa away to an asylum:
and the house is like a grave, but for our outbursts of sorrow. Just
before he went away the medal came--oh no, I cannot. Poor, poor mamma!
“8 P. M. In the midst of our affliction Heaven sent us a ray of comfort:
the kindest letter from a lady, a perfect stranger. It came yesterday;
but now I have got it to copy: oh, bless it; and the good, kind writer.”
“'DEAR MADAM,--I scarcely know whether to hope or to fear that your good
husband may have mentioned my name to you: however, he is just the
man to pass over both my misbehaviour and his own gallantry; so I beg
permission to introduce myself. I and my little boy were passengers by
the _Agra;_ I was spoiled by a long residence in India, and gave your
husband sore trouble by resisting discipline, refusing to put out my
light at nine o'clock, and in short by being an unreasonable woman, or
rather a spoiled child. Well, all my little attempts at a feud failed;
Captain Dodd did his duty, and kept his temper provokingly; the only
revenge he took was a noble one; he jumped into the sea after my darling
Freddy, and saved him from a watery grave, and his mother from madness
or death; yet he was himself hardly recovered from a wound he had
received in defending us all against pirates. Need I say more to one who
is herself a mother? You will know how our little misunderstanding ended
after that. As soon as we were friends I made him talk of his family;
yourself, Edward, Julia, I seem to know you all.
“'When the ruffian, who succeeded our good captain, had wrecked poor us,
and then deserted us, your husband resumed the command, and saved Freddy
and me once more by his courage, his wonderful coolness, and his
skill. Since then the mouse has been at work for the lion: I despair of
conveying any pleasure by it to a character so elevated as Captain Dodd;
his reward must be his own conscience; but we poor little women like
external shows, do we not? and so I thought a medal of the Humane
Society might give some pleasure to you and Miss Dodd. Never did medal
nor order repose on a nobler heart. The case was so strong, and so well
supported, that the society did not hesitate: and you will receive it
very soon after this.
“'You will be surprised, dear madam, at all this from a stranger to
yourself, and will perhaps set it down to a wish to intrude on your
acquaintance. Well, then, dear madam, you will not be far wrong.
I _should_ like much to know one, whose character I already seem
acquainted with; and to convey personally my gratitude and admiration of
your husband: I could pour it out more freely to you, you know, than to
him.--I am, dear Madam, Yours very faithfully,
“'LOUISA BERESFORD.'”
“And the medal came about an hour before the fly to take him away. His
dear name was on it and his brave courageous acts.
“Oh, shall I ever be old enough and hard enough to speak of this without
stopping to cry?
“We fastened it round his dear neck with a ribbon. Mamma would put
it inside his clothes for fear the silver should tempt some wretch; I
should never have thought of that: is there a creature so base? And we
told the men how he had gained it (they were servants of the asylum),
and we showed them how brave and good he was, and would be again if they
would be kind to him and cure him. And mamma bribed them with money to
use him kindly: I thought they would be offended and refuse it: but they
took it, and their faces showed she was wiser than I am. _He_ keeps away
from us too. It is nearly a fortnight now.”
_“Dec. 7th._--Aunt Eve left to-day. Mamma kept her room and could not
speak to her; cannot forgive her interfering between papa and her. It
does seem strange that any one but mamma should be able to send papa out
of the house, and to such a place; but it is the law: and Edward, who
is all good sense, says it was necessary. He says mamma is unjust; grief
makes her unreasonable. I don't know who is in the right: and I don't
much care; but I know I am sorry for Aunt Eve, and very, very sorry for
mamma.”
_“Dec. 8th._--I am an egotist: found myself out this morning; and it is
a good thing to keep a diary. It* was overpowered at first by grief for
mamma: but now the house is sad and quiet I am always thinking of _him;_
and that is egotism.
* Egotism. The abstract quality evolved from the concrete
term egotist by feminine art, without the aid of grammar.
“Why _does_ he stay away so? I almost wish I could think it was coldness
or diminished affection; for I fear something worse; something to make
_him_ wretched. Those dreadful words papa spoke before he was afflicted!
words I will never put on paper; but they ring in my ears still; they
appal me: and then found at their very door! Ah! and I knew I _should_
find him near that house. And now _he_ keeps away.”
_“Dec. 9th._--All day trying to comfort mamma. She made a great effort
and wrote to Mrs. Beresford.”
POOR MAMMA'S LETTER
“DEAR MADAM,--Your kind and valued letter reached us in deep affliction;
and I am little able to reply to you as you deserve. My poor husband is
very ill; so ill that he no longer remembers the past, neither the brave
acts that have won him your esteem, nor even the face of his loving and
unhappy wife, who now thanks you with many tears for your sweet letter.
Heart-broken as my children and I are, we yet derive some consolation
from it. We have tied the medal round his neck, madam, and thank you far
more than we can find words to express.
“In conclusion, I pray Heaven that, in your bitterest hour, you may
find the consolation you have administered to us: no, no, I pray you
may never, never stand in such need of comfort--I am dear madam, yours
gratefully and sincerely,
“LUCY DODD.”
_“Dec. 10th, Sunday._--At St. Anne's in the morning. Tried hard to apply
the sermon. He spoke of griefs, but _so_ coldly; surely he never felt
one; _he_ was not there. Mem.: always pray against wandering thoughts on
entering church.”
_“Dec. 11th._--A diary is a dreadful thing. Everything must go down now,
and, amongst the rest that the poor are selfish. I could not interest
one of mine in mamma's sorrows; no, they must run back to their own
little sordid troubles, about money and things. I was so provoked with
Mrs. Jackson (she owes mamma so much) that I left her hastily; and that
was Impatience. I had a mind to go back to her; but would not; and that
was Pride. Where is my Christianity?
“A kind letter from Jane Hardie. But no word of _him._”
_“Dec. 12th._--To-day Edward told me plump I must not go on taking
things out of the house for the poor: mamma gave me the reason. 'We are
poor ourselves, thanks to----' And then she stopped. Does she suspect?
How can she? She did hear not those two dreadful words of papa's? They
are like two arrows in my heart. And so we are poor: she says we have
scarcely anything to live upon after paying the two hundred and fifty
pounds a year for papa.”
_“Dec. 13th._--A comforting letter from Jane. She sends me Hebrews xii.
11, and says, 'Let us take a part of the Bible, and read two chapters
prayerfully at the same hour of the day: will ten o'clock in the morning
suit you? and, if so, will you choose where to begin?' I will, sweet
friend, I will; and then, though some cruel mystery keeps us apart, our
souls will be together over the sacred page, as I hope they will one day
be together in heaven; yours will, at any rate. Wrote back, yes, and
a thousand thanks, and should like to begin with the Psalms; they are
sorrowful, and so are we. And I must pray not to think too much of
_him._
“If everything is to be put down one does, I cried long and bitterly to
find I had written that I must pray to God against _him._”
_“Dec. 14th._--It is plain he never means to come again. Mamma says
nothing, but that is out of pity for me: I have not read her dear face
all these years for nothing. She is beginning to think him unworthy,
when she thinks of him at all.”
“There is a mystery; a dreadful mystery; may he not be as mystified, too,
and perhaps tortured like me with doubts and suspicions? They say he is
pale and dejected. Poor thing!
“But then, oh why not come to me and say so? Shall I write to him? No, I
will cut my hand off sooner.”
_“Dec. 16th._--A blessed letter from Jane. She says, 'Letter writing on
ordinary subjects is a sad waste of time and very unpardonable among His
people.' And so it is; and my weak hope, daily disappointed, that there
may be something in her letter, only shows how inferior I am to my
beloved friend. She says, 'I should like to fix another hour for us two
to meet at the Throne together: will five o'clock suit you? We dine at
six; but I am never more than half an hour dressing.'
“The friendship of this saint, and her bright example, is what Heaven
sends me in infinite mercy and goodness to sooth my aching heart a
little: for _him_ I shall never see again.
“I have seen him this very evening.”
“It was a beautiful night: I went to look at--the world to come I
call it--for I believe the redeemed are to inhabit those very stars
hereafter, and visit them all in turn--and this world I now find is a
world of sorrow and disappointment--so I went on the balcony to look at
a better one: and oh it seemed so holy, so calm, so pure, that heavenly
world I gazed and stretched my hands towards it for ever so little of
its holiness and purity; and, that moment I heard a sigh. I looked,
and there stood a gentleman just outside our gate, and it was _him._ I
nearly screamed, and my heart beat so. He did not see me: for I had come
out softly, and his poor head was down, down upon his breast; and he
used to carry it so high, a little, little, while ago--too high some
said; but not I. I looked, and my misgivings melted away, it flashed
on me as if one of those stars had written it with its own light in my
heart--'There stands Grief; not Guilt.' And before I knew what I was
about I had whispered 'Alfred!' The poor boy started and ran towards me:
but stopped short and sighed again. My heart yearned; but it was not for
me to make advances to him, after his unkindness: so I spoke to him as
coldly as ever I could, and I said, 'You are unhappy.'
“He looked up to me, and then I saw even by that light that he
is enduring a bitter, bitter struggle: _so_ pale, _so_ worn, _so_
dragged!--Now how many times have I cried, this last month? more than in
all the rest of my life a great deal.--'Unhappy!' he said; 'I must be
a contemptible thing if I was not unhappy.' And then he asked me should
not I despise him if he was happy. I did not answer that: but I asked
him why he was unhappy. And when I had, I was half frightened; for he
never evades a question the least bit.
“He held his head higher still, and said, 'I am unhappy because I cannot
see the path of honour.'
“Then I babbled something, I forget what: then he went on like this--ah,
I never forget what _he_ says--he said Cicero says 'AEquitas ipsa lucet
per se; something significat* something else:' and he repeated it slowly
for me--he knows I know a little Latin; and told me that was as much as
to say 'Justice is so clear a thing, that whoever hesitates must be on
the road of wrong. And yet,' he said bitterly, '_I_ hesitate and doubt,
in a matter of right and wrong, like an Academic philosopher weighing
and balancing mere speculative straws.' Those were his very words. 'And
so,' said he, 'I am miserable; deserving to be miserable.'
*Dubitatio cogitationem significat injuriae.
“Then I ventured to remind him that he, and I, and all Christian souls,
had a resource not known to heathen philosophers, however able. And I
said, 'Dear Alfred, when I am in doubt and difficulty, I go and pray to
Him to guide me aright: have you done so?' No, that had never occurred
to him: but he would, if I made a point of it; and at any rate he could
not go on in this way. I should soon see him again, and, once his mind
was made up, no shrinking from mere consequences, he promised me. Then
we bade one another good night and he went off holding his head as
proudly as he used: and poor silly me fluttered, and nearly hysterical,
as soon as I quite lost sight of him.”
_“Dec. 17th._--At church in the morning: a good sermon. Notes and
analysis. In the evening Jane's clergyman preached. She came. Going out
I asked her a question about what we had heard; but she did not answer
me. At parting she told me she made it a rule not to speak coming from
church, not even about the sermon. This seemed austere to poor me. But
of course she is right. Oh, that I was like her.”
_“Dec. 18th._--Edward is coming out. This boy, that one has taught all
the French, all the dancing, and nearly all the Latin he knows, turns
out to be one's superior, infinitely: I mean in practical good sense.
Mamma had taken her pearls to the jeweller and borrowed two hundred
pounds. He found this out and objected. She told him a part of it was
required to keep him at Oxford. 'Oh indeed,' said he: and we thought of
course there was an end: but next morning he was off before breakfast
and the day after he returned from Oxford with his caution money, forty
pounds, and gave it mamma; she had forgotten all about it. And he had
taken his name off the college books and left the university for ever.
The poor, gentle tears of mortification ran down his mother's cheeks,
and I hung round her neck, and scolded him like a vixen--as I am. We
might have spared tears and fury both, for he is neither to be melted
nor irritated by poor little us. He kissed us and coaxed us like a
superior being, and set to work in his quiet, sober, ponderous way, and
proved us a couple of fools to our entire satisfaction, and that without
an unkind word! for he is as gentle as a lamb, and as strong as ten
thousand elephants. He took the money back and brought the pearls
home again, and he has written 'SOYEZ DE VOTRE SIECLE' in great large
letters, and has pasted it on all our three bed-room doors, inside. And
he has been all these years quietly cutting up the _Morning Advertiser,_
and arranging the slips with wonderful skill and method. He calls it
'digesting the _Tiser!'_ and you can't ask for any _modern_ information,
great or small, but he'll find you something about it in this digest.
Such a folio! It takes a man to open and shut it. And he means to be
a sort of little papa in this house, and mamma means to let him. And
indeed it is so sweet to be commanded; besides, it saves thinking for
oneself, and that is such a worry.”
_“Dec. 19th._--Yes, they have settled it: we are to leave here, and live
in lodgings to save servants. How we are to exist even so, mamma cannot
see; but Edward can: he says we two have got popular talents, and _he
knows the markets_ (what does that mean, I wonder), and the world in
general. I asked him wherever he picked it up, his knowledge: he said,
'In the _'Tiser.'_ I asked him would he leave the place where _she_
lives. He looked sad, but said, 'Yes: for the good of us all.' So he is
better than I am; but who is not? I wasted an imploring look on him; but
not on mamma: she looked back to me, and then said sadly, 'Wait a few
days, Edward, for--_my_ sake.' That meant for poor credulous Julia's,
who still believes in him. My sweet mother!”
_“Dec. 21st._--Told Mamma to-day I would go for a governess, to help
her, since we are all ruined. She kissed me and trembled; but she did
not say 'No;' so it will come to that. He will be sorry. When I do go,
I think I shall find courage to send him a line: just to say I am sure
_he_ is not to blame for withdrawing. Indeed how could I ever marry a
man whose father I have heard my father call----” (the pen was drawn
through the rest).
_“Dec. 22nd._--A miserable day: low spirited and hysterical. We are
really going away. Edward has begun to make packing-cases: I stood over
him and sighed, and asked him questions: he said he was going to take
unfurnished rooms in London, send up what furniture is absolutely
necessary, and sell the rest by auction, with the lease of our
dear, dear house, where we were all so happy once. So, what with his
'knowledge of the markets, and the world,' and his sense, and his strong
will, we have only to submit. And then he is so kind, too: 'Don't cry,
little girl,' he said. 'Not but what I could turn on the waters myself
if there was anything to be gained by it. _Shall_ I cry, Ju,' said he,
'or shall I whistle? I think I'll whistle.' And he whistled a tune right
through while he worked with a heart as sick as my own, perhaps. Poor
Edward!”
_“Dec. 23rd._--My Christian friend has her griefs, too. But then _she_
puts them to profit: she says today, 'We are both tasting the same
flesh-crucifying but soul-profiting experience.' Her every word is
a rebuke to me: torn at this solemn season of the year with earthly
passions. Went down after reading her letter, and played and sang the
_Gloria in Excelsis_ of Pergolesi, with all my soul. So then I repeated
it, and burst out crying in the middle. Oh shame! shame!”
_“Dec. 24th._--Edward started for London at five in the morning to take
a place for us. The servants were next told, and received warning;
the one we had the poorest opinion of, she is such a flirt, cried, and
begged mamma to let her share our fallen fortunes, and said she could
cook a little and would do her best. I kissed her violently, and quite
forgot I was a young lady till she herself reminded me; and she looked
frightened at mamma. But mamma only smiled through her tears and said,
'Think of it quietly, Sarah, before you commit yourself.'”
“I am now sitting in my old room, cold as a stone: for I have packed up
some things: so the first step is actually taken. Oh, if I but knew
that he was happy! Then I could endure anything. But how can I think
so? Well, I will go, and never tell a soul what I suspect, and he cannot
tell, even if he knows: for it is his father. Jane, too, avoids all
mention of her own father and brother more than is natural. Oh, if I
could only be a child again!
“Regrets are vain; I will cease even to record them; these diaries feed
one's selfishness, and the unfortunate passion, that will make me a bad
daughter and an ungrateful soldier of Him who was born as to-morrow: to
your knees, false Christian! to your knees!”
“I am calmer now; and feel resigned to the will of Heaven; or benumbed;
or something. I will pack this box and then go down and comfort my
mother; and visit my poor people, perhaps for the last time: ah me!
“A knock at the street door! his knock! I know every echo of his hand,
and his foot. Where is my composure now? I flutter like a bird. I will
not go down. He will think I love him so.
“At least I will wait till he has nearly gone.
“Elizabeth has come to say I am wanted in the drawing-room.
“So I _must_ go down whether I like or no.
“Bedtime. Oh that I had the pen of a writer to record the scene I have
witnessed, worthily. When I came in, I found mamma and him both seated
in dead silence. He rose and looked at me and I at him: and years seemed
to have rolled over his face since last I saw it. I was obliged to turn
my head away; I curtseyed to him distantly, and may Heaven forgive me
for that: and we sat down, and presently turned round and all looked
at one another like the ghosts of the happy creatures we once were
altogether.
“Then Alfred began, not in his old imperative voice, but scarce above
a whisper; and oh the words such as none but himself in the wide world
would have spoken--I love him better than ever; I pity him; I adore him;
he is a scholar; he is a chevalier; he is the soul of honour; he is the
most unfortunate and proudest gentleman beneath the sun; oh, my darling!
my darling!!
“He said, 'Mrs. Dodd, and you Miss Dodd, whom I loved before I lost the
right to ask you to be mine, and whom I shall love to the last hour of
my miserable existence, I am come to explain my own conduct to you,
and to do you an act of simple justice, too long delayed. To begin with
myself, you must know that my understanding is of the Academic School: I
incline to weigh proofs before I make up my mind. But then I differ
from that school in this, that I cannot think myself to an eternal
standstill; (such an expression! but what does that matter, it was
_his;)_ I am a man of action: in Hamlet's place I should have either
turned my ghost into ridicule, or my uncle into a ghost; so I kept away
from you while in doubt, but now I doubt no longer. I take my line:
ladies, you have been swindled out of a large sum of money.
“My blood ran cold at these words. Surely nothing on earth but a man
could say this right out like that.
“Mamma and I looked at one another; and what did I see in her face,
for the first time? Why that she had her suspicions too, and had been
keeping them from me. Pitying angel!
“He went on: 'Captain Dodd brought home several thousand pounds?'
“Mamma said 'Yes.' And I think she was going to say how much, but he
stopped her and made her write the amount in an envelope, while he took
another and wrote in it with his pencil. He took both envelopes to me,
and asked me to read them out in turn: I did, and mamma's said fourteen
thousand pounds: and his said fourteen thousand pounds. Mamma looked
such a look at me.
“Then he turned to me: 'Miss Dodd, do you remember that night you and
I met at Richard Hardie's door? Well, scarce five minutes before that,
your father was standing on our lawn and called to the man, who was my
father, in a loud voice--it rings in my ears now--“Hardie, Villain! give
me back my money, my fourteen thousand pounds! give me my children's
money, or may your children die before your eyes.” Ah, you wince to hear
me whisper these dreadful words: what if you had been where I was and
heard them spoken, and in a terrible voice; the voice of Despair; the
voice of Truth! Soon a window opened cautiously, and a voice whispered,
“Hush! I'll bring it you down.” And _this_ voice was the voice of fear,
of dishonesty, and of Richard Hardie.'
“He turned deadly white when he said this, and I cried to mamma, 'Oh,
stop him! stop him!' And she said, 'Alfred, think what you are saying.
Why do you tell us what we had better never know?' He answered directly.
“'Because it is the truth: and because I loathe injustice. Some time
afterwards I taxed Mr. Richard Hardie with this fourteen thousand
pounds: and his face betrayed him. I taxed his clerk, Skinner: and
Skinner's face betrayed him: and he fled the town that very night.
“My mother looked much distressed and said, 'To what end do you raise
this pitiable subject? Your father is a bankrupt, and we but suffer with
the rest.'
“'No, no,' said he, 'I have looked through the bankrupt's books, and
there is no mention of the sum. And then who brought Captain Dodd here?
Skinner? and Skinner is his detected confederate. It is clear to me poor
Captain Dodd trusted that sum to _us_ before he had the fit; beyond this
all is conjecture.'
“Mamma looked at me again, and said, 'What am I to do; or say?'
'I screamed, 'Do nothing, say nothing: oh pray, pray make him hold his
tongue, and let the vile money go. It is not _his_ fault.'
“'Do?' said the obstinate creature: 'why tell Edward, and let him employ
a sharp attorney: you have a supple antagonist and a daring one. Need I
say I have tried persuasion, and even bribes: but he defies me. Set an
attorney on him, or the police. Fiat Justitia, ruat coelum.' I put both
hands out to him and burst out 'Oh, Alfred, why did you tell? A son
expose his own father? For shame; for shame! I have suspected it all
long ago: but _I_ would never have told.'
“He started a little; but said, 'Miss Dodd, you were very generous to
me: but that is not exactly a reason why I should be a cur to you; and
an accomplice in a theft by which you suffer. I have no pretensions to
religion like my sister: so I can't afford to tamper with plain right
and wrong. What, look calmly on and see one man defraud another? I can't
do it. See _you_ defrauded? you, Mrs. Dodd, for whom I profess affection
and friendship? You, Miss Dodd, for whom I profess love and constancy?
Stand and see you swindled into poverty? Of what do you think I am made?
My stomach rises against it, my blood boils against it, my flesh creeps
at it, my soul loathes it:' then after this great burst he seemed to
turn _so_ feeble: 'Oh,' said he, faltering, 'I know what I have done;
I have signed the death warrant of our love, dear to me as life. But I
can't help it. Oh, Julia, Julia, my lost love, you can never look on me
again; you must not love a man you cannot marry. Cheat Hardie's wretched
son. But what could I do? Fate offers me but the miserable choice of
desolation or cowardly rascality. I choose desolation and I mean to
stand by my choice like a man. So good-bye, ladies.'
“The poor proud creature rose from his seat, and bowed stiffly and
haughtily to us both, and was going away without another word, and I do
believe for ever. But his soul had been too great for his body; his
poor lips turned pale and he staggered; and would have fallen, but mamma
screamed to me, and she he loves so dearly, and abandons so cruelly,
woke from a stupor of despair, and flew and caught him fainting in these
arms.”