It was late on that same night,--very late. The villa was all quiet and
noiseless as Mrs. Morris sat at her writing-table, engaged in a very
long letter. The epistle does not in any way enter into our story. It
was to her father, in reply to one she had just received from him, and
solely referred to little family details with which our reader can have
no interest, save in a passing reference to a character already before
him, and of whom she thus wrote:--
“And so your alchemist turns out to be the father of my admirer, Mr.
Alfred Layton. I can sincerely say your part of the family is the more
profitable, for I should find it a very difficult problem to make five
hundred pounds out of mine! Nor can I sufficiently admire the tact with
which you rescued even so much from such a wreck! I esteem your
cleverness the more, since--shall I confess it, dear papa?--I thought
that the man of acids and alkalies would turn out to be the rogue and
you the dupe! Let me hasten, therefore, to make the _amende honorable_,
and compliment you on your new character of chemist.
“In your choice, too, of the mode of disembarrassing yourself of his
company, you showed an admirable wisdom; and you very justly observe,
these are not times when giving a dog a bad name will save the trouble
of hanging him, otherwise an exposure of his treasonable principles
might have sufficed. Far better was the method you selected, while, by
making _him_ out to be mad, you make _yourself_ out to be benevolent.
You have caught, besides, a very popular turn of the public mind at a
lucky conjuncture. There is quite a vogue just now for shutting up one's
mother-in-law, or one's wife, or any other disagreeable domestic
ingredient, on the plea of insanity; and a very clever physician, with
what is called 'an ingenious turn of mind,' will find either madness or
arsenic in any given substance. You will, however, do wisely to come
abroad, for the day will come of a reaction, and 'the lock-up' system
will be converted into the 'let-loose,' and a sort of doomsday arrive
when one will be confronted with very unwelcome acquaintances.”
As she had written thus far, a very gentle voice at her door whispered,
“May I come in, dearest?”
“Oh, darling, is it you?” cried Mrs. Morris, throwing a sheet of paper
over her half-written epistle. “I was just writing about you. My sweet
May, I have a dear old godmother down in Devonshire who loves to hear of
those who love _me_; and it is such a pleasure, besides, to write about
those who are happy.”
“And you call me one of them, do you?” said the girl, with a deep sigh.
“I call you one who has more of what makes up happiness than any I have
ever known. You are very beautiful,--nay, no blushing, it is a woman
says it; so handsome, May, that it is downright shame of Fortune to have
made you rich too. You should have been left to your beauty, as other
people are left to their great connections, or their talents, or their
Three per Cents; and then you are surrounded by those who love you,
May,--a very commendable thing in a world which has its share of
disagreeable people; and, lastly, to enjoy all these fair gifts, you
have got youth.”
“I shall be nineteen on the fourth of next month, Lucy,” said the other,
gravely; “and it was just about that very circumstance that I came to
speak to you.”
Mrs. Morris knew thoroughly well what the speech portended, but she
looked all innocence and inquiry.
“You are aware, Lucy, what my coming of age brings with it?” said the
girl, half pettishly.
“That you become a great millionnaire, dearest,--a sort of female
Rothschild, with funds and stocks in every land of the earth.”
“I was not speaking of money. I was alluding to the necessity of
deciding as to my own fate in life. I told you that by my father's will
I am bound to declare that I accept or reject Charles Heathcote within
six months after my coming of age.”
“I do not, I confess, see anything very trying in that, May. I conclude
that you know enough of your own mind to say whether you like him or
not. You are not strangers to each other. You have been domesticated
together--”
“That 's the very difficulty,” broke in May. “There has been intimacy
between us, but nothing like affection,--familiarity enough, but no
fondness.”
“Perhaps that's not so bad a feature as you deem it,” said the other,
dryly. “Such a tame, table-land prospect before marriage may all the
better prepare you for the dull uniformity of wedded life.”
May gave a slight sigh, and was silent, while the other continued,--
“Being very rich, dearest, is, of course, a great resource, for you can,
by the mere indulgence of your daily caprices, give yourself a sort of
occupation, and a kind of interest in life.”
May sighed again, and more heavily.
“I know this is not what one dreams of, my dear May,” resumed she, “and
I can well imagine how reluctant you are to seek happiness in toy
terriers or diamond earrings; but remember what I told you once before
was the great lesson the world taught us, that every joy we compass in
this life is paid for dearly, in some shape or other, and that the
system is one great scheme of compensations, the only wisdom being, to
be sure you have got at last what you have paid for.”
“I remember your having said that,” said May, thoughtfully.
“Yes; it was in correction of a great mistake you had made, May, when
you were deploring the fate of some one who had contracted an unequal
marriage. It was then that I ventured to tell you that what the world
calls a misalliance is the one sure throw for a happy union.”
“But you did n't convince me!” said May, hastily.
“Possibly not. I could not expect you to look on life from the same sad
eminence I have climbed to; still I think you understood me when I
showed you that as air and sunlight are blessings which we enjoy without
an effort, so affection, gained without sacrifice, elicits no high sense
of self-esteem,--none of that self-love which is but the reflex of real
love.”
“Charles would, then, according to your theory, be eminently happy in
marrying me, for, to all appearance, the sacrifice would be
considerable,” said May, with a half-bitter laugh.
“_My_ theory only applies to _us_ dear May; as for men, they marry from
a variety of motives, all prompted by some one or other feature of their
selfishness: this one for fortune, that for family influence, the other
because he wants a home, and so on.”
“And not for love at all?” broke in May.
“Alas! dearest, the man who affords himself the pleasure of being in
love is almost always unable to indulge in any other luxury. It is your
tutor creature, there, like Layton, falls in love!”
May smiled, and turned away her head; but the crimson flush of her cheek
soon spread over her neck, and Mrs. Morris saw it.
“Yes,” resumed she, as if reflecting aloud, “love is the one sole
dissipation of these student men, and, so to say, it runs through the
dull-colored woof of their whole after-life, like a single gold thread
glittering here and there at long intervals, and it gives them those
dreamy fits of imaginative bliss which their quiet helpmates trustfully
ascribe to some intellectual triumph. And it is in these the poor curate
forgets his sermon, and the village doctor his patient, thinking of some
moss-rose he had plucked long ago!”
“Do you believe that, Loo?” asked the girl, eagerly.
“I know it, dear; and what's more, it is these very men are the best of
husbands, the kindest and the tenderest. The perfume of an early love
keeps the heart pure for many a long year after. Let us take Layton, for
instance.”
“But why Mr. Layton? What do we know about him?”
“Not much, certainly; but enough to illustrate our meaning. It is quite
clear he is desperately in love.”
“With whom, pray?” Asked May. And her face became crimson as she spoke.
“With a young lady who cannot speak of him without blushing,” said Mrs.
Morris, calmly; and continued: “At first sight it does seem a very cruel
thing to inspire such a man with a hopeless passion, yet, on second
thought, we see what a stream of sunlight this early memory will throw
over the whole bleak landscape of his after-life. You are his torture
now, but you will be his benefactor in many a dark hour of the dreary
pilgrimage before him. There will be touches of tenderness in that ode
he 'll send to the magazine; there will be little spots of sweet
melancholy in that village story; men will never know whence they found
their way into the curate's heart. How little aware are they that
there's a corner there for old memories, embalmed amongst holier
thoughts,--a withered rose-leaf between the pages of a prayer-book!”
May again sighed, and with a tremor in the cadence that was almost a
sob.
“So that,” resumed the other, in a more flippant voice, “you can forgive
yourself for your present cruelty, by thinking of all the benefits you
are to bestow hereafter, and all this without robbing your rightful lord
of one affection, one solitary emotion, he has just claim to. And that,
my sweet May, is more than you can do with your worldly wealth, for,
against every check you send your banker, the cashier's book will retain
the record.”
“You only confuse me with all this,” said May, pettishly. “I came for
counsel.”
“And I have given you more,--I have given you consolation. I wish any
one would be as generous with _me!_”
“Oh, you are not angry with me!” cried the girl, earnestly.
“Angry! no, dearest, a passing moment of selfish regret is not anger,
but it is of _you_, not of _me_, I would speak; tell me everything. Has
Charles spoken to you?”
“Not a word. It may be indifference, or it may be that, in a sense of
security about the future, he does not care to trouble himself.”
“Nay, scarcely that,” said the other, thoughtfully.
“Whatever the cause, you will own it is not very flattering to _me_,”
said she, flushing deeply.
“And Mr. Layton,--is _he_ possessed of the same calm philosophy? Has he
the same trustful reliance on destiny?” said Mrs. Morris, who,
apparently examining the lace border of her handkerchief, yet stole a
passing glance at the other's face.
“How can you ask such a question? What is _he_ to _me_, or _I_ to _him?_
If he ever thought of me, besides, he must have remembered that the
difference of station between us presents an insurmountable objection.”
“As if Love asked for anything better,” cried Mrs. Morris, laughingly.
“Why, dearest, the passion thrives on insurmountable objections, just
the way certain fish swallow stones, not for nutriment, but to aid
digestion by a difficulty. If he be the man I take him for, he must hug
an obstacle to his heart as a Heaven-sent gift. Be frank with me, May,”
said she, passing her arm affectionately round her waist; “confess
honestly that he told you as much.”
“No; he never said that,” muttered she, half reluctantly. “What he said
was that if disparity of condition was the only barrier between us,--if
he were sure, or if he could even hope, that worldly success could open
an avenue to my heart--”
“That he 'd go and be Prime Minister of England next session.
'If doughty deeds My lady please!'
That was his tone, was it? Oh dear! and I fancied the man had something
new or original about him. Truth is, dearest, it is in love as in war,--
there are nothing but the same old weapons to fight with, and we are
lost or won just as our great-great-grandmothers were before us.”
“I wish you would be serious, Lucy,” said the girl, half rebukefully.
“Don't you know me well enough by this time to perceive that I am never
more thoughtful than in what seems my levity? and this on principle,
too, for in the difficulties of life Fancy will occasionally suggest a
remedy Reason had never hit upon, just as sportsmen will tell you that a
wild, untrained spaniel will often flush a bird a more trained dog had
never 'marked.' And now, to be most serious, you want to choose between
the eligible man who is sure of you, and the most unequal suitor who
despairs of his success. Is not that your case?”
May shook her head dissentingly.
“Well, it is sufficiently near the issue for our purpose. Not so? Come,
then, I 'll put it differently. You are balancing whether to refuse your
fortune to Charles Heathcote or yourself to Alfred Layton; and my advice
is, do both.”
May grew very pale, and, after an effort to say something, was silent.
“Yes, dearest, between the man who never pledges to pay and him who
offers a bad promissory note, there is scant choice, and I 'd say, take
neither.”
“I know how it will wound my dear old guardian, who loves me like a
daughter,” began May. But the other broke in,--
“Oh! there are scores of things one can do in life to oblige one's
friends, but marriage is not one of them. And then, bethink you, May,
how little you have seen of the world; and surely there is a wider
choice before you than between a wearied lounger on half-pay and a poor
tutor.”
“Yes; a poor tutor if you will, but of a name and family the equal of my
own,” said May, hastily, and with a dash of temper in the words.
“Who says so? Who has told you that?”
“He himself. He told me that though there were some painful
circumstances in his family history he would rather not enter upon,
that, in point of station, he yielded to none in the rank of untitled
gentry. He spoke of his father as a man of the very highest powers.”
“Did he tell you what station he occupied at this moment?”
“No. And do you know it?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Morris, gravely.
“Will you not tell me, Lucy?” asked May, eagerly.
“No; there is not any reason that I should. You have just said, 'What is
Mr. Layton to me, or I to him?' and in the face of such a confession why
should I disparage him?”
“So, then, the confession would disparage him?”
“It might.”
“This reserve is not very generous towards me, I must say,” said the
girl, passionately.
“It is from generosity to you that I maintain it,” said the other,
coldly.
“But if I were to tell you that the knowledge interests me deeply; that
by it I may possibly be guided in a most eventful decision?”
“Oh, if you mean to say, 'Alfred Layton has asked me to marry him, and
my reply depends upon what I may learn about his family and their
station '--”
“No, no; I have not said that,” burst in May.
“Not said, only implied it. Still, if it be what you desire me to
entertain, I will have no concealments from you.”
“I cannot buy your secret by a false pretence, Loo; there is no such
compact as this between Layton and myself. Alfred asked me--”
“Alfred!” said Mrs. Morris, repeating the name after her, and with such
a significance as sent all the color to the girl's cheek and forehead,--
“Alfred! And what did Alfred ask you?”
“I scarcely know what I am saying,” cried May, as she covered her face
with her hands.
“Poor child!” cried Mrs. Morris, tenderly, “I can find my way into your
heart without your breaking it. Do not cry, dearest. I know as well all
that he said as if I had overheard him saying it! The world has just its
two kinds of suitors,--the one who offers us marriage in a sort of grand
princely fashion, and the other who, beseechingly proclaiming his utter
unworthiness, asks us to wait,--to wait for an uncle or a stepmother's
death; to wait till he has got this place in the colonies, or that
vicarage in Bleakshire; to wait till he has earned fame and honor, and
Heaven knows what; till, in fact, he shall have won a wreath of laurel
for his brows, and we have attained to a false plait for ours!” She
paused a second or two to see if May would speak, but as she continued
silent, Mrs. Morris went on: “There are few stock subjects people are
more eloquent in condemning than what are called long engagements. There
are some dozen of easy platitudes that every one has by heart on this
theme; and yet, if the truth were to be told, it is the waiting is the
best of it,--the marriage is the mistake! That faint little flickering
hope that lighted us on for years and years is extinguished at the
church door, and never relighted after; so that, May, my advice to you
is, never contract a long engagement until you have made up your mind
not to marry at the end of it! My poor, poor child! why are you sobbing
so bitterly? Surely I have said nothing to cause you sorrow?”
May turned away without speaking, but her heaving shoulders betrayed how
intensely she was weeping.
“May _I_ see him,--may _I_ speak with him, May?” said Mrs. Morris,
drawing her arm affectionately around her waist.
“To what end,--with what view?” said the girl, suddenly and almost
haughtily.
“Now that you ask me in that tone, May, I scarcely know. I suppose I
meant to show him how inconsiderate, how impossible his hopes were; that
there was nothing in his station or prospects that could warrant this
presumption. I suppose I had something of this sort on my mind, but I
own to you now, your haughty glance has completely routed all my wise
resolutions.”
“Perhaps you speculated on the influence of that peculiar knowledge of
his family history you appear to be possessed of?” said May, with some
pique.
“Perhaps so,” was the dry rejoinder.
“And which you do not mean to confide to _me?_” said the girl, proudly.
“I have not said so. So long as you maintained that Mr. Layton was to
you nothing beyond a mere acquaintance, my secret, as you have so
grandly called it, might very well rest in my own keeping. If, however,
the time were come that he should occupy a very different place in your
regard--”
“Instead of saying 'were come,' Loo, just say, 'If the time might come,”
said May, timidly.
“Well, then, 'if the time _might_ come,' I _might_ tell all that I know
about him.”
“But then it might be too late. I mean, that it might come when it could
only grieve, and not guide me.”
“Oh, if I thought _that_, you should never know it! Be assured of one
thing, May: no one ever less warred against the inevitable than myself.
When I read, 'No passage this way,' I never hesitate about seeking
another road.”
“And I mean to go mine, and without a guide either!” said May, moving
towards the door.
“So I perceived some time back,” was the dry reply of Mrs. Morris, as
she busied herself with the papers before her.
“Good-night, dear, and forgive my interruption,” said May, opening the
door.
“Good-night, and delightful dreams to you,” said Mrs. Morris, in her own
most silvery accents. And May was gone.
The door had not well closed when Mrs. Morris was again, pen in hand,
glancing rapidly over what she had written, to catch up the clew. This
was quickly accomplished, and she wrote away rapidly. It is not “in our
brief” to read that letter; nor would it be “evidence;” enough, then,
that we say it was one of those light, sparkling little epistles which
are thrown off in close confidence, and in which the writer fearlessly
touches any theme that offers. She sketched off the Heathcotes with a
few easy graphic touches, giving a very pleasing portraiture of May
herself, ending with these words:--
“Add to all these attractions a large estate and a considerable sum in
the funds, and then say, dear pa, is not this what Ludlow had so long
been looking for? I am well aware of his pleasant habit of believing
nothing, nor any one, so that you must begin by referring him to
Doctors' Commons, where he can see the will. General Leslie died in 18--
, and left Sir William Heathcote sole executor. When fully satisfied on
the money question, you can learn anything further from me that you
wish; one thing only I stipulate for, and that is, to hold no
correspondence myself with L. Of course, like as in everything else,
he'll not put any faith in this resolution; but time will teach him at
last. The negotiation must be confided to your own hands. Do not employ
Collier nor any one else. Be secret, and be speedy, for I plainly
perceive the young lady will marry some one immediately after learning a
disappointment now impending. Remember, my own conditions are: all the
letters, and that we meet as utter strangers. I ask nothing more, I will
accept nothing less. As regards Clara, he cannot, I suspect, make any
difficulty; but that may be a question for ulterior consideration. Clara
is growing up pretty, but has lost all her spirits, and will, in a few
months more, look every day of her real age. I am sadly vexed about
this; but it comes into the long category of the things to be endured.”
The letter wound up with some little light and flippant allusions to her
father's complaints about political ingratitude:--
“I really do forget, dear papa, which are our friends; but surely no
party would refuse your application for a moderate employment. The only
creature I know personally amongst them is the Colonial Sec., and he
says, 'They 've left me nothing to give but the bishoprics.' Better
that, perhaps, than nothing, but could you manage to accept one? _that_
is the question. There is an Irish M.P. here--a certain O'Shea--who
tells me there are a variety of things to give in the West Indies, with
what he calls wonderful pickings--meaning, I suppose, stealings. Why not
look for one of these? I 'll question my friend the Member more closely,
and give you the result.
“It was odd enough, a few months ago, O'S., never suspecting to whom he
was talking, said, 'There was an old fellow in Ireland, a certain Nick
Holmes, could tell more of Government rogueries and rascalities than any
man living; and if I were he, I 'd make them give me the first good
thing vacant, or I 'd speak out.' Dear papa, having made so much out of
silence, is it not worth while to think how much eloquence might be
worth?
“Your affectionate daughter,
“Lucy M.”