TELLING HOW MR. MERVYN FARED AT BELMONT, AND OF A PLEASANT LITTLE
DEJEUNER BY THE MARGIN OF THE LIFFEY.
Now it happened that on the very same day, the fashion of Dr.
Walsingham's and of Aunt Rebecca's countenances were one and both
changed towards Mr. Mervyn, much to his chagrin and puzzle. The doctor,
who met him near his own house on the bridge, was something distant in
manner, and looked him in the face with very grave eyes, and seemed sad,
and as if he had something on his mind, and laid his hand upon the young
man's arm, and addressed himself to speak; but glancing round his
shoulder, and seeing people astir, and that they were under observation,
he reserved himself.
That both the ladies of Belmont looked as if they had heard some strange
story, each in her own way. Aunt Rebecca received the young man without
a smile, and was unaccountably upon her high horse, and said some dry
and sharp things, and looked as if she could say more, and coloured
menacingly, and, in short, was odd, and very nearly impertinent. And
Gertrude, though very gentle and kind, seemed also much graver, and
looked pale, and her eyes larger and more excited, and altogether like a
brave young lady who had fought a battle without crying. And Mervyn saw
all this and pondered on it, and went away soon; the iron entered into
his soul.
Aunt Rebecca was so occupied with her dogs, squirrels, parrots, old
women, and convicts, that her eyes being off the cards, she saw little
of the game; and when a friendly whisper turned her thoughts that way,
and it flashed upon her that tricks and honours were pretty far gone,
she never remembered that she had herself to blame for the matter, but
turned upon her poor niece with 'Sly creature!' and so forth. And while
owing to this inattention, Gertrude had lost the benefit of her sage
Aunt Rebecca's counsels altogether, her venerable but frisky old
grandmother--Madam Nature--it was to be feared, might have profited by
the occasion to giggle and whistle her own advice in her ear, and been
indifferently well obeyed. I really don't pretend to say--maybe there
was nothing, or next to nothing in it; or if there was, Miss Gertrude
herself might not quite know. And if she did suspect she liked him, ever
so little, she had no one but Lilias Walsingham to tell; and I don't
know that young ladies are always quite candid upon these points. Some,
at least, I believe, don't make confidences until their secrets become
insupportable. However, Aunt Rebecca was now wide awake, and had
trumpeted a pretty shrill reveiller. And Gertrude had started up, her
elbow on the pillow, and her large eyes open; and the dream, I suppose,
was shivered and flown, and something rather ghastly at her side.
Coming out of church, Dr. Walsingham asked Mervyn to take a turn with
him in the park--and so they did--and the doctor talked with him
seriously and kindly on that broad plateau. The young man walked darkly
beside him, and they often stopped outright. When, on their return, they
came near the Chapelizod gate, and Parson's lodge, and the duck-pond,
the doctor was telling him that marriage is an affair of the heart--also
a spiritual union--and, moreover, a mercantile partnership--and he
insisted much upon this latter view--and told him what and how strict
was the practice of the ancient Jews, the people of God, upon this
particular point. Dr. Walsingham had made a love-match, was the most
imprudent and open-handed of men, and always preaching to others against
his own besetting sin. To hear him talk, indeed, you would have supposed
he was a usurer. Then Mr. Mervyn, who looked a little pale and excited,
turned the doctor about, and they made another little circuit, while he
entered somewhat into his affairs and prospects, and told him something
about an appointment in connexion with the Embassy at Paris, and said he
would ask him to read some letters about it; and the doctor seemed a
little shaken; and so they parted in a very friendly but grave way.
When Mervyn had turned his back upon Belmont, on the occasion of the
unpleasant little visit I mentioned just now, the ladies had some words
in the drawing-room.
'I have _not_ coquetted, Madam,' said Miss Gertrude, haughtily.
'Then I'm to presume you've been serious; and I take the liberty to ask
how far this affair has proceeded?' said Aunt Rebecca, firmly, and
laying her gloved hand and folded fan calmly on the table.
'I really forget,' said the young lady, coldly.
'Has he made a declaration of love?' demanded the aunt, the two red
spots on her cheeks coming out steadily, and helping the flash of her
eyes.
'Certainly not,' answered the young lady, with a stare of haughty
surprise that was quite unaffected.
At the pleasant luncheon and dance on the grass that the officers gave,
in that pretty field by the river, half-a-dozen of the young people had
got beside the little brook that runs simpering and romping into the
river just there. Women are often good-natured in love matters where
rivalry does not mix, and Miss Gertrude, all on a sudden, found herself
alone with Mervyn. Aunt Becky, from under the ash trees at the other end
of the field, with great distinctness, for she was not a bit
near-sighted, and considerable uneasiness, saw their _tête-à-tête_. It
was out of the question getting up in time to prevent the young people
speaking their minds if so disposed, and she thought she perceived that
in the young man's bearing, which looked like a pleading and eagerness,
and 'Gertrude's put out a good deal--I see by her plucking at those
flowers--but my head to a China orange--the girl won't think of him.
She's not a young woman to rush into a horrible folly, hand-over-head,'
thought Aunt Becky; and then she began to think they were talking very
much at length indeed, and to regret that she had not started at once
from her post for the place of meeting; and one, and two, and three
minutes passed, and perhaps some more, and Aunt Becky began to grow
wroth, and was on the point of marching upon them, when they began
slowly to walk towards the group who were plucking bunches of woodbine
from the hedge across the little stream, at the risk of tumbling in, and
distributing the flowers among the ladies, amidst a great deal of
laughing and gabble. Then Miss Gertrude made Mr. Mervyn rather a haughty
and slight salutation, her aunt thought, and so dismissed him; he, too,
made a bow, but a very low one, and walked straight off to the first
lady he saw.
This happened to be mild little Mrs. Sturk, and he talked a good deal to
her, but restlessly, and, as it seemed, with a wandering mind; and
afterwards he conversed, with an affectation of interest--it was only
that--Aunt Becky, who observed him with some curiosity, thought--for a
few minutes with Lilias Walsingham; and afterwards he talked with an
effort, and so much animation and such good acceptance [though it was
plain, Aunt Becky said, that he did not listen to one word she said,] to
the fair Magnolia, that O'Flaherty had serious thoughts of
horse-whipping him when the festivities were over--for, as he purposed
informing him, his 'ungentlemanlike intherfarence.'
'He has got his quietus,' thought Aunt Becky, with triumph; 'this brisk,
laughing carriage, and heightened colour, a woman of experience can see
through at a glance.'
Yes, all this frisking and skipping is but the hypocrisy of bleeding
vanity--_hæret lateri_--they are just the flush, wriggle, and hysterics
of suppressed torture.
Then came her niece, cold and stately, with steady eye and a slight
flush, and altogether the air of the conscientious young matron who has
returned from the nursery, having there administered the discipline; and
so she sat down beside her aunt, serene and silent, and, the little glow
passed away, pale and still.
'Well, he _has_ spoken?' said her aunt to her, in a sharp aside.
'Yes,' answered the young lady, icily.
'And has had his answer?'
'Yes--and I beg, Aunt Rebecca, the subject may be allowed to drop.' The
young lady's eyes encountered her aunt's so directly and were so fully
charged with the genuine Chattesworth lightning, that Miss Rebecca,
unused to such demonstrations, averted hers, and with a slight sarcastic
inclination, and, 'Oh! your servant, young lady,' beckoning with her fan
grandly to little Puddock, who was hovering with other designs in the
vicinity, and taking his arm, though he was not forgiven, but only
employed--a distinction often made by good Queen Elizabeth--marched to
the marquee, where, it was soon evident, the plump lieutenant was busy
in commending, according to their merits, the best bits of the best
_plats_ on the table.
'So dear Aunt Becky has forgiven Puddock,' said Devereux, who was
sauntering up to the tent between O'Flaherty and Cluffe, and little
suspecting that he was descanting upon the intended Mrs. Cluffe--'and
they are celebrating the reconciliation over a jelly and a pupton. I
love Aunt Rebecca, I tell you--I don't know what we should do without
her. She's impertinent, and often nearly insupportable; but isn't she
the most placable creature on earth? I venture to say I might kill you,
Lieutenant O'Flaherty--of course, with your permission, Sir--and she'd
forgive me to-morrow morning! And she really does princely
things--doesn't she? She set up that ugly widow--what's her name?--twice
in a shop in Dame Street, and gave two hundred pounds to poor Scamper's
orphan, and actually pensions that old miscreant, Wagget, who ought to
be hanged--and never looks for thanks or compliments, or upbraids her
ingrates with past kindnesses. She's noble--Aunt Becky's every inch a
gentleman!'
By this time they had reached the tent, and the hearty voice of the
general challenged them from the shade, as he filliped a little chime
merrily on his empty glass.