It was a few days after the brief scene we have just recorded that the
two Englishmen were seated, after sunset, on a little terraced plateau
in front of an antiquated villa. As they are destined to be intimate
acquaintances of our reader in this tale, let us introduce them by
name,--Sir William Heathcote and his son Charles.
With an adherence to national tastes which are rapidly fading away, they
were enjoying their wine after dinner, and the spot they had selected
for it was well chosen. From the terrace where they sat, a perfect maze
of richly wooded glens could be seen, crossing and recrossing each other
in every direction. From the depths of some arose the light spray of
boiling mountain torrents; others, less wild in character, were marked
by the blue smoke curling up from some humble homestead. Many a zigzag
path of trellis-vines straggled up the hillsides, now half buried in
olives, now emerging in all the grotesque beauty of its own wayward
course. The tall maize and the red lucerne grew luxuriously beneath the
fig and the pomegranate, while here and there the rich soil, rent with
heat, seemed unable to conceal its affluence, and showed the yellow
gourds and the melons bursting up through the fruitful earth. It was
such a scene as at once combined Italian luxuriance with the verdant
freshness of a Tyrol landscape, and of which the little territory that
once called itself the Duchy of Lucca can boast many instances.
As background to the picture, the tall mountains of Carrara, lofty
enough to be called Alps, rose, snow-capped and jagged in the distance,
and upon their summits the last rays of the setting sun now glowed with
the ruddy brilliancy of a carbuncle.
These Italian landscapes win one thoroughly from all other scenery,
after a time. At first they seem hard and stern; there is a want of soft
distances; the eye looks in vain for the blended shadows of northern
landscape, and that rustic character so suggestive of country life; but
in their clear distinctness, their marvellous beauty of outline, and in
that vastness of view imparted by an atmosphere of cloudless purity,
there are charms indisputably great.
As the elder Englishman looked upon this fair picture, he gave a faint
sigh, and said: “I was thinking, Charley, what a mistake we make in life
in not seeking out such spots as these when the world goes well with us,
and we have our minds tuned to enjoyment, instead of coming to them
careworn and weary, and when, at best, they only distract us momentarily
from our griefs.”
“And my thought,” said the younger, “was, what a blunder it is to come
here at all. This villa life was only endurable by your Italian noble,
who came here once a year to squabble with his 'Fattore' and grind his
peasants. He came to see that they gave him his share of oil and did n't
water his miserable wine; he neither had society nor sport. As to our
English country-house life, what can compare with it!”
“Even that we have over-civilized, making it London in everything,--
London hours, London company, topics, habits, tastes, all smacking of
town life. Who, I ask you, thinks of his country existence, nowadays, as
a period of quietness and tranquil enjoyment? Who goes back to the shade
of his old elms to be with himself or some favorite author that he feels
to like as a dear friend?”
“No; but he goes for famous hunting and the best shooting in Europe, it
being no disparagement to either that he gets back at evening to a
capital dinner and as good company as he 'd find in town.”
“May is of _my_ mind,” said Sir William, half triumphantly; “she said so
last night.”
“And she told me exactly the reverse this morning,” said the younger.
“She said the monotony of this place was driving her mad. Scenery, she
remarked, without people, is pretty much what a panorama is, compared to
a play.”
“May is a traitress; and here she comes to make confession to which of
us she has been false,” said Sir William, gayly, as he arose to place a
chair for the young girl who now came towards them.
“I have heard you both, gentlemen,” said she, with a saucy toss of her
head, “and I should like to hear why I should not agree with each and
disagree afterwards, if it so pleased me.”
“Oh! if you fall back upon prerogative--” began Sir William.
“I have never quitted it. It is in the sovereignty of my woman's will
that I reconcile opinions seemingly adverse, and can enjoy all the
splendors of a capital and all the tameness of a village. I showed you
already how I could appreciate Paris; I mean now to prove how charmed I
can be with the solitudes of Marlia.”
“Which says, in plain English,” said the young man, “that you don't care
for either.”
“Will you condescend to be a little more gallant than my cousin, sir,”
said she, turning to Sir William, “and at least give me credit for
having a mind and knowing it?”
There was a pettish half-seriousness in her tone that made it almost
impossible to say whether she was amused or angry, and to this also the
changeful expression of her beautiful features contributed; for, though
she smiled, her dark gray eyes sparkled like one who invited a
contradiction. In this fleeting trait was the secret of her nature. May
Leslie was one of Fortune's spoiled children,--one of those upon whom so
many graces and good gifts had been lavished that it seemed as though
Fate had exhausted her resources, and left herself no more to bestow.
She had surpassing beauty, youth, health, high spirits, and immense
wealth. By her father's will she had been contracted in marriage with
her distant relative, Charles Heathcote, with the proviso that if, on
attaining the age of nineteen, she felt averse to the match, she should
forfeit a certain estate in Wales which had once belonged to the
Heathcotes, and contained the old residence of that family.
Sir William and his son had been living in the retirement of a little
German capital, when the tidings of this wardship reached them. A number
of unfortunate speculations had driven the baronet into exile from
England, and left him with a pittance barely sufficient to live in the
strictest economy. To this narrow fortune Charles Heathcote had come
back, after serving in a most extravagant Hussar regiment, and taking
his part in an Indian campaign; and the dashing' soldier first heard, as
he lay wounded in the hospital, that he must leave the service, and
retire into obscurity. If it had not been for his strong affection for
his father, Charles would have enlisted as a private soldier, and taken
his chance for future distinction, but he could not desert him at such a
moment, nor separate himself from that share of privation which should
be henceforth borne in common; and so he came back, a bronzed, brave
soldier, true-hearted and daring, and, if a little stern, no more so
than might be deemed natural in one who had met such a heavy reverse on
the very threshold of life.
Father and son were at supper in a little arbor of their garden near
Weimar, when the post brought them the startling news that May Leslie,
who was then at Malta, would be at Paris in a few days, where she
expected to meet them. When Sir William had read through the long letter
of the lawyer, giving an account of the late General Leslie's will, with
its strange condition, he handed it to his son, without a word.
The young man read it eagerly; his color changed once or twice as he
went on, and his face grew harder and sterner ere he finished. “Do you
mean to accept this wardship?” asked he, hurriedly.
“There are certain reasons for which I cannot decline it, Charley,” said
the other, mildly. “All my life long I have been Tom Leslie's debtor, in
gratitude, for as noble a sacrifice as ever man made. We were both
suitors to your mother, brother officers at the time, and well received
in her father's house. Leslie, however, was much better looked on than
myself, for I was then but a second son, while he was the heir of a very
large estate. There could not have been a doubt that his advances would
have outweighed mine in a father and mother's estimate, and as he was
madly in love, there seemed-nothing to prevent his success. Finding,
however, in a conversation with your mother, that her affections were
mine, he not only relinquished the place in my favor, but, although most
eager to purchase his troop, suffered me, his junior, to pass over his
head, and thus attain the rank which enabled me to marry. Leslie went to
India, where he married, and we never met again. It was only some seven
or eight months ago I read of his being named governor of a
Mediterranean dependency, and the very next paper mentioned his death,
when about to leave Calcutta.”
“It is, then, most probable that, when making this will, he had never
heard of our reverses in fortune?” said the young man.
“It is almost certain he had not, for it is dated the very year of that
panic which ruined me.”
“And, just as likely, might never have left such a will, had he known
our altered fortunes?”
“I 'm not so sure of that. At all events, I can answer for it that no
change in our condition would have made Tom Leslie alter the will, if he
had once made it in our favor.”
“I have no fancy for the compact, read it how you may,” said Charles,
impatiently; “nor can I say which I like least,--the notion of marrying
a woman who is bound to accept me, or accepting a forfeit to release her
from the obligation.”
“I own it is--embarrassing,” said Sir William, after a moment's
hesitation in choosing a suitable word.
“A downright indignity, I'd call it,” said the other, warmly, “and
calculated to make the man odious in the woman's eyes, whichever lot
befell him.”
“The wardship must be accepted, at all events,” said Sir William,
curtly, as he arose and folded up the letter.
“You are the best judge of that; for if it depended upon _me_”
“Come, come, Charley,” said Sir William, in his tone of habitual
kindness, “this life of quiet obscurity and poverty that we lead here
has no terrors for _me_. I have been so long away from England that if I
went back to-morrow I should look in vain for any of my old companions.
I have forgotten the habits and the ways of home, and I have learned to
submit myself to twenty things here which would be hardships elsewhere,
but I don't like to contemplate the same sort of existence for _you_; I
want to speculate on a very different future; and if--if--Nay, you need
not feel so impatient at a mere conjecture.”
“Well, to another point,” said the young man, hastily. “We have got, as
you have just said, to know that we can live very comfortably and
contentedly here, looking after our celery and seakale, and watching our
silver groschen; are you so very certain that you 'd like to change all
this life, and launch out into an expensive style of living, to suit the
notions of a rich heiress, and, what is worse again, to draw upon _her_
resources to do it?”
“I won't deny that it will cost me severely; but, until we see her and
know her, Charley, until we find out whether she may be one whose
qualities will make our sacrifices easy--”
“Would you accept this charge if she were perfectly portionless, and
without a shilling in the world?”
“If she were Tom Leslie's daughter, do you mean?”
“Ay, any one's daughter?”
“To be sure I would, boy; and if I were only to consult my own feelings
in the matter, I 'd say that I 'd prefer this alternative to the other.”
“Then I have no more to say,” said the son, as he walked away.
Within a month after this conversation, the little cottage was shut up,
the garden wicket closed with a heavy padlock, and to any chance
inquirer after its late residents, the answer returned was, that their
present address was Place Vendôme, Paris.
“Tell me your company,” said the old adage; but, alas! the maxim had
reference to other habits than our present-day ones. With what company
now does not every man mix? Bishops discuss crime and punishment with
ticket-of-leave men; fashionable exquisites visit the resorts of
thieves; “swell people” go to hear madrigals at Covent Garden; and, as
for the Ring, it is equally the table-land to peer and pickpocket. If,
then, you would hazard a guess as to a man's manners nowadays, ask not
his company, but his whereabouts. Run your eye over the addresses of
that twice-remanded insolvent, ranging from Norfolk Street, Strand, to
Berkeley Square, with Boulogne-sur-Mer, St John's Wood, Cadiz, the New
Cut, Bermondsey, and the Edgware Road, in the interval, and say if you
cannot, even out of such slight materials, sketch off his biography.
“The style is the man,” says the adage; and we might with as much truth
say, “the street is the man.” In his locality is written his ways and
means, his manners, his morals, his griefs, joys, and ambitions. We live
in an age prolific in this lesson. Only cast a glance at the daily
sacrifices of those who, to reside within the periphery of greatness,
submit to a crushing rent and a comfortless abode.
Think of him who, to date his note “------ Street, Berkeley Square,”
denies himself honest indulgence, all because the world has come to
believe that certain spots are the “Regions of the Best,” and that they
who live there must needs be that grand English ideal,--respectable.
Dear me, what unheard-of sacrifices does it demand of humble fortunes to
be Respectable! what pinching and starving and saving! what self-denial
and what striving! what cheerless little dinner-parties to other
Respectables! what dyeing of black silks and storing of old ostrich
feathers! And how and wherefore have we wandered off in this digression!
Simply to say that Sir William Heathoote and his ward were living in a
splendid quarter of Paris, and after that rambled into Germany, and
thence to Como and down to Rome, very often delighted with their choice
of residence, enjoying much that was enjoyable, but still--shall we own
it?--never finding the exact place they seemed to want, nor exactly the
people with whom they were willing to live in intimacy. They had been at
Baden in the summer, at Como in the late autumn, at Rome in the winter,
at Castellamare in the spring,--everywhere in its season, and yet
somehow--And so they began to try that last resource of bored people,--
places out of the season and places out of common resort,--and it was
thus that they found themselves at Florence in June, and in Marlia in
July.