When Miss Crampton’s letter reached the hands of Mr Frederick
Walcheren, it was by the four o’clock post, and that gentleman was
lying on a couch in his apartments in Nevern Mansions. He was a
handsome man of about thirty, with dark eyes and hair, and classical
features, set in a pale, clear complexion. He was clean shorn, except
for a small, soft moustache, and the possessor of a tall, lithe figure.
He had an ample fortune, having inherited about two thousand a year
from an old Catholic godfather, who died when Frederick was quite an
infant, and who had expressed a wish in his will that his godson and
heir should enter the church, or, at all events, benefit the church by
founding some religious institution at his own death, with the fortune
he left in his charge. But the old gentleman could hardly have chosen a
worse guardian of his property. No embargo had been laid on the young
man spending his money as he chose, and his choice was to spend it on
himself and the companions whom he delighted to honour. His little
flat in Earl’s Court was only a _pied à terre_. His home may have been
said to exist at Epsom, Goodwood, Newmarket, or any one of the other
race-courses in England. He was also to be met periodically at Monte
Carlo or Paris. Occasionally he would take a fancy to run over to New
York or San Francisco, but, wherever he pitched his tent, one might be
sure there were plenty of opportunities for gambling and speculation.
Not but what Frederick Walcheren was a perfectly honourable man; but he
could not live (or he thought he could not live) without excitement of
some sort, and he loved the uncertainty and risk of betting and play.
His money and his good looks had rendered him an easy prey to the
harpies of the other sex, and had landed him into one or two scrapes
with more respectable women. His cousin, Philip, had often had to
be the go-between and peacemaker with sundry fair damsels, who were
violently bent on a breach of promise case, or a horse-whipping through
means of their next friend.
Mr Philip Walcheren was quite a different sort of character from his
cousin. Married, and the father of a family, a staunch Catholic, steady
and prosperous in his business as a solicitor, he was almost a pattern
man, and Frederick’s goings-on were a marvel and a misery to him. He
and his director, Father Tasker, were constantly talking over the other
man, and wondering by what means they could dissuade him from his
follies, and induce him to lead a more sober life. But, as yet, their
exhortations and entreaties had been of no avail. Frederick laughed
at their cautions, and pooh-poohed their predictions of a repentant
future. He meant to live his life, he told them, and asked for no one’s
pity or advice. He was in reality, what Mr Crampton and Henry Hindes
had called him, a dissolute and irreclaimable spendthrift, and not fit
to be the husband of any girl.
Still, he was pleasant and fascinating, and the _beau sexe_ spoilt him,
to a woman. As he lay indolently on his couch this afternoon, turning
Jenny’s letter over and over in his hands, his thoughts were much the
same as hers had been, for of all the femininities he had ever met, and
trifled with, she was the only one who had seriously touched his heart.
Women as handsome as Jenny, and far more amiable, had been ready,
before now, to throw themselves at his feet, but they had had no power
to move him. But for this petulant, spoilt, and rather underbred, girl,
he would have laid down his life. Who can account for anomalies? Is
love--such love as has its origin in admiration--a spiritual passion,
or is it the force of two magnetisms that attract each to each, beyond
the power of the individual to oppose? From the strange choices we see
made in this world, it would seem so. Anyway, this is how Frederick
Walcheren felt for Jenny Crampton--that he would die sooner than give
her up. She seemed, in the short time they had known each other, to
have grown into his life--to have become part of it, indeed--so that he
could no longer imagine living without her. He kept saying to himself
all the while, just as she had done,--‘I will not give her up for any
man or woman upon earth. What do I care about the old wool-stapler
raving? Let him rave. I will carry her off before his very eyes. But
she shall be mine; in fact, she _is_ mine in heart and soul, and I defy
the whole world to separate us.’
And, just at that moment, there sounded a double knock on his outer
door, and his man appeared to usher in his cousin, Philip Walcheren
and Father Tasker.
Frederick sprung to his feet. The instincts of a born Catholic were
still strong in him, and, though he never went to confession or mass,
he always showed a proper deference for the clergy. Added to which,
Father Tasker was an old friend of his family.
‘How are you, Father,’ he said, ‘I’m glad to see you. Pray take the
arm-chair. Well, Philip! all right at home?’
‘Quite right, thank you, Frederick,’ replied his cousin; ‘I was on
my way to have a talk with you when I met Father Tasker, so we came
together.’
‘I’m delighted to see you both,’ said Frederick, ‘what can I give you?
I know that it is no use my offering the father a brandy-and-soda, but,
if you will not take one, Philip, my man shall get some tea ready in
half a minute.’
‘I don’t think we have time for either,’ replied Philip Walcheren. ‘I
have only about ten minutes to spare, and the Father honours me with
his company at dinner to-night, so I think Marion will be disappointed
if I deprive her of her five-o’clock tea gossip with him. She is,
doubtless, anxiously awaiting us now. But I felt I could not pass
another night without asking you, Frederick, if a rumour which I have
heard concerning you is true.’
‘What’s up now?’ demanded his cousin.
‘I met young Fellows in the city this afternoon, Mrs Bouchers’ brother,
you know, and he told me that it is commonly said in Hampstead that you
are engaged, or about to be engaged, to Miss Crampton.’
‘What of it?’ said Frederick carelessly.
‘Surely it is not true! Surely, with your antecedents, Frederick, you
are not thinking of marrying any respectable woman!’
‘Would you prefer my marrying a disreputable one, then, Philip?’
‘Most certainly not! What I mean is, that, under the circumstances, you
have no right to marry at all. How can you go up to God’s holy altar
with any woman, whilst that unfortunate girl down at Luton is even now
expiating the awful sin you led her into?’
‘Of course, it is quite impossible that it was she who led me instead
of the other way?’ said Frederick, interrogatively.
‘Whosoever fault it may have been in the first instance, you know that
you are responsible now.’
‘And I am quite ready to meet my responsibilities. Do you want me to
marry the straw-plaiter down at Luton?’
‘No, no! I want you to do nothing but alter your mode of living,
Frederick, and try and be a decent member of society. It is terrible
to think how you go on, without care for yourself or others, without
a thought of God, or the future that lies before you. If poor Sir
Frederick Ascher had only foreseen the uses his money would have been
put to, he would have thought twice before he left it to you.’
‘Yes! but, luckily for me, he didn’t foresee, so I can do as I like
about it. Has Father Tasker a lecture in store for me as well?’
inquired Frederick, turning to the priest.
‘No! my son, we are not in the confessional, where I could wish we
met oftener; but I would like to remind you that, although your late
godfather made no actual conditions regarding the expenditure of
the fortune he left you, yet his wishes, that it should be devoted
to the church, were so strongly expressed, as almost to amount to a
demand, and I cannot believe that any blessing will follow a different
disposition of it.’
‘I have confessed to no intention of marrying, remember, but should I
ever do so, my wife will be my church, and I shall settle my money upon
her.’
But this was a blasphemy that neither Philip Walcheren nor the priest
could pass over in silence.
‘Be careful, my son, be careful,’ cried the one, ‘lest the curse of
Heaven, and the church you despise, are both provoked against you.’
‘I cannot believe, Frederick, that you seriously mean what you say,’
exclaimed his cousin. ‘The money is only yours for your lifetime,
and, if you do not dedicate it to the holy church at your death,
some fearful calamity will surely overtake you, or those to whom you
wrongfully give it.’
‘Nonsense!’ replied Frederick; ‘I suppose you both mean well, but I
would rather you understood me at once. As matters stand at present,
I have not the slightest intention of leaving my money to the church.
My godfather--peace to his ashes!--left it to me, and I recognise
but one authority in the matter, and that is the law, which is on my
side. I wonder, by the way, Philip, that you stick up so badly for the
stability of the profession by which you live!’
‘Every consideration must give way to the claims of the church,
Frederick!’
‘Well, I don’t agree with you. I think Mother Church has feathered her
own nest pretty well, considering her claims to humility and poverty.
In my idea, my own nest will have the prior claim on my indulgence!’
‘So you are really contemplating matrimony, Frederick,’ said Philip. ‘I
wonder you can dare to enter a church under the circumstances, lest the
walls and roof should fall in upon you.’
‘Perhaps I shall be married in a registrar’s office,’ responded
Frederick lightly; but the jest was so ill-timed that neither of his
hearers commented upon it.
‘With the fact of that misguided female down at Luton, you are about to
commit a great sacrilege, my son, in taking the sacrament of matrimony
on yourself!’ remarked Father Tasker.
‘Well, really, Father, I must say you and Philip are both rather hard
on me! You have been reproaching me for my loose style of living
for years past, and begging me to reform, and now, when you hear a
rumour--merely a rumour, remember--that I’m about to forsake the devil
and all his ways, and become a steady married man, like my good cousin
here, you attack me as if I had just formed a fresh _liaison_ instead.
Why shouldn’t I marry like a good boy, as well as Philip, who is, I
know, a pattern of propriety. Why shouldn’t I walk to mass every Sunday
morning, with a little boy by one hand and a little girl by the other?
It doesn’t seem as if I could please you anyway.’
‘You mistake both me and your cousin, my son,’ replied the priest.
‘It is not that we are not most anxious to see you turn over a new
leaf and lead a pure life, but marriage is assuredly a condition of
great temptation for a man situated as you are. It will bring cares
and expenses with it, and your mind will be filled with the thought
of providing for the future of your family. You have been brought up
to no profession, for your sainted mother had no idea that you would
be anything but a priest, and that your godfather’s fortune would go
as he wished it should do, to our holy church. But since you elected
otherwise, there is but one honest course for you to pursue, and that
is, to remain single, and preserve your money intact for the purpose
for which your godfather left it to you. Marriage will interfere with
this, therefore marriage is not for you!’
At this juncture Frederick’s temper got the better of his judgment.
‘Then I’m d--d if the church shall have the money,’ he exclaimed
loudly; ‘all your advice, and precepts, and exhortations to a purer
life count for nothing; they are only made so you may hear yourselves
talk, and plume yourselves with the idea of how much better men you are
than myself. But this matter is in my own jurisdiction, thank goodness,
and I shall do exactly as I choose about it. I shall marry, or remain
single, as pleases me, but, whatever I may do, the church doesn’t get
my money, so you may put that thought out of your heads at once. I’ll
leave it to the Salvation Army, or the Home for Lost Dogs, first.’
He had thrown himself into a passion by this time, and he walked
quickly up and down his little room in order to cool his temper.
Philip Walcheren looked as if he expected the heavens to open and
strike his cousin dead for the utterance of such blasphemy, and the
priest rose and prepared to shake the dust of those apartments off his
feet.
‘Mark my words,’ he said solemnly, as he turned to leave the room, ‘God
will not be mocked, Frederick Walcheren. He knows all our hearts, and
He will avenge himself. Good-morning.’
And with that Father Tasker disappeared.
‘For shame!’ cried Philip, as he prepared to follow him, ‘for shame,
Frederick. You may have law on your side, but you have neither right
nor conscience. You have not told me whether the rumour I mentioned is
true or false, but, if it is true, and you have any such intention in
your head, pause, I beseech you, before you carry it into effect, or
some fearful calamity will follow it. You have defied our holy church,
and God will defend her rights. I shall not come again until you send
for me.’
And in another moment the room was clear.
‘Here, Watson,’ called Frederick to his man, ‘bring me a
whisky-and-soda. I declare,’ he continued to himself, ‘if their twaddle
has not made me quite uncomfortable. What on earth did that old fool,
my godfather, mean by not making his will decisive one way or the
other? _I_ a priest, indeed! No. I mean to live a rather jollier life
than that comes to. And there is only one other decent alternative, to
marry the girl I love, and rear a family for the benefit of the State.
And how can I do that without money? It is ridiculous to think of.’
Still, with the superstitious ideas which the Catholic religion infuses
in all her followers, with the childish inbred fear of the priestly
power to save or damn, with the fear of purgatory and a fiery hell, and
becoming an outcast from salvation for ever, Frederick Walcheren did
not feel quite comfortable, though he tried to laugh the feeling off,
and was as resolute as before, that no power in heaven or earth should
separate him from Jenny Crampton.
‘They are against us on every side,’ he thought, ‘but that fact will
only make me the more determined to have her. My beautiful darling! The
most beautiful woman, in my eyes, that I have ever met. Why, Father
Tasker himself couldn’t resist her, if she stood on one side and hell
on the other. What time is it, Watson? Six-thirty? By Jove! if I don’t
hurry up I shall get no dinner before I start for the Bouchers’.’
‘Going to Hampstead again to-night, sir?’ asked Watson, as he laid out
his master’s dress clothes upon the bed.
How well our servants know where we go, and who we go to see, and what
we do it for.
‘Yes,’ replied Frederick, ‘to Mrs Bouchers’ dance. You needn’t sit up
for me, Watson, for I shall be very late. Order the brougham to call
for me at Simpson’s at nine o’clock. I shall go on straight from there.’
He hurried into his dress clothes, for he was determined that nothing
should make him late that night, for fear he should miss the interview
in the picture gallery after the fourth dance.
The picture gallery at the Bouchers’ was very seldom entered by any of
their dancing guests, being some way removed from the ballroom, but
both Jenny and Mr Walcheren, being intimate friends at the house, knew
it well.
Frederick thought rightly that, since a prohibition had gone forth
against his dancing with the girl of his heart, it would be more
prudent if he did not put in an appearance to the ballroom till after
he had held the interview with Jenny. So, when he presented himself
at the house, between nine and ten o’clock, and had divested himself
of his crush hat and overcoat, he peeped into the dancing room to see
how far the evening had advanced. The number two had just been placed
above the bandstand, so he concluded he had at least half an hour to
wait before Jenny could join him, and turned away again to seek the
solitude of the picture gallery until the time of meeting had arrived.
But he reckoned without his host. Henry Hindes, who had been one of the
earliest arrivals, and on the express look-out for Walcheren, spied
him as soon as he looked into the room, and, rising quietly, followed
him out. So, as soon as Frederick had reached the picture gallery, he
heard a step in his rear, and, turning with annoyance to see who had
discovered the retreat besides himself, met the outstretched hand and
smiling glance of Mr Hindes. Mr Walcheren could not fail to return his
civilities, but he was infinitely vexed. Of all the people he knew, he
would rather have encountered anyone than Mr Hindes.
Not only because he was so intimately connected with the Cramptons,
and, undoubtedly, knew most of the family secrets, but also because
Frederick had conceived an unaccountable aversion for him. He did
not know _why_ himself. Henry Hindes had always been courteous and
polite to him, far more so, indeed, than Mr Crampton, who invariably
treated a Roman Catholic as if his religion were his own fault, and
he was sinning every day that he didn’t change it. Hindes, on the
contrary, had no scruples on the score of difference of faith, and no
right to object to the young man because he courted Jenny Crampton.
He had always spoken and behaved to him as one gentleman should to
another, and yet Walcheren hated him. Now, as he accepted his hand and
asked after his well-doing, he would have liked to strike him across
his smooth, smiling face instead. Mr Hindes, having no idea that the
young man was waiting to see Miss Crampton, had thought this would be
an excellent opportunity for him to fulfil the promise made to his
partner, and let Mr Walcheren know how utterly hopeless his suit was.
‘How are you, Walcheren?’ he said, cordially, as he came up with him.
‘You don’t mean to tell me you are going to eschew dancing to-night,
when there are so many pretty girls doing “wallflowers”? I saw you look
into the ballroom and disappear again, and wondered if you had found
your way to a buffet and a whisky-and-soda. I shouldn’t mind following
you if you have, for the night is very warm and I am very thirsty.’
‘No, I had no such intention,’ answered Walcheren, in a tone of
annoyance. ‘I fancy it is rather too early for that game. I came in
here because I have a slight headache, and thought the cool and quiet
might charm it away before I encountered the heat and glare of the
ballroom.’
‘To be sure, and I daresay it will. This is a charming place, though
one cannot see much of the pictures by night. It is in semi-darkness.
I do not suppose the Bouchers intend their guests to use it on such an
occasion as this, or they would have it better lighted.’
‘Perhaps not,’ replied Walcheren. ‘But I am an old friend of the
family, and consider myself privileged to do as I like.’
‘Oh! I am not finding fault with your decision, my dear fellow; on the
contrary, I am very glad of the opportunity of a few words in private
with you. It is not often that my wife can drag me out to a dance, and,
to tell you the honest truth, I came here this evening expressly to see
you.’
‘To see _me_?’ echoed Walcheren in astonishment. ‘Why, what on earth
can you have to say to me?’
‘Nothing on my account, my dear friend, unless it were to tell you
(what I hope you know) that I have always been pleased to welcome you
to my house, and always shall be. But I am, as I think you are aware,
a very intimate friend of Mr and Mrs Crampton, who were, indeed, the
intimate friends also of my father before me, and who have known me
almost from a child.’
‘I know it,’ replied Frederick. ‘What of it?’
‘Mr Crampton sent for me before ten o’clock this morning, and I found
him in the greatest distress. His wife had intercepted a letter from
you to Miss Crampton, and the contents had terribly upset him.’
‘Passing over the fact that I consider it a breach of honour to pry
into the private correspondence of anybody, I am not aware that there
was anything in the letter alluded to that was calculated to upset Mr
Crampton,’ said Frederick.
‘I don’t sanction the proceeding, my dear Walcheren; I am only telling
you the facts. The old gentleman was more than upset; he was terribly
angry, and he made his daughter give him a solemn promise not to see (of
her own free will), or speak, or write to you again.’
‘And pray, may I ask,’ cried Frederick Walcheren in a sudden fury,
‘what business it is of yours, Mr Hindes, to mention the subject to me?’
‘None at all, but I owe it to the entreaty of my friends. Both Mr and
Mrs Crampton have begged me to convey their wishes to you. They have
derived so much pleasure from your society as an acquaintance, and
think so highly of your intentions with regard to their daughter, that
they dreaded the task of telling you personally, that they can never
give their sanction to a marriage between you.’
‘Perhaps, as they told you so much, they were good enough to add their
reasons for so extraordinary a decision,’ exclaimed Walcheren, in a
tone of sarcasm.
‘Certainly they did, and it is one with which you cannot find serious
fault. The objection is your religion. Mr Crampton will never allow
his daughter to inter-marry with a Catholic, and his decision is
irrevocable. Since your feelings for Miss Crampton cannot have gone
beyond admiration, considering the short time you have known her,
he thought it best you should hear his decision at once, before any
mischief is done on either side.’
‘And Miss Crampton’s feelings? Are they not to be taken into
consideration also?’
‘Most certainly! There is nothing on earth Mr Crampton cares for so
much as his only child! She is his heiress, as doubtless you know, but
he will leave her nothing if she marries against his wishes. He is very
obstinate when thwarted, and very unrelenting. And Miss Crampton would
hardly be so foolish as to give up her fortune, as well as her parents,
at one blow. Under these circumstances, I hope you will not take
offence, my dear Walcheren, if I ask you, in his name, to relinquish
your acquaintanceship with Miss Crampton, and to leave off visiting
at the house. It is an unpleasant task my friends have set me, but I
have done it for their sakes, and without any ulterior feeling against
yourself. I have not a daughter old enough to aspire to your hand,’
said Henry Hindes, smiling, ‘but if I had, I am not sure that I should
deliver such a message to you on my own account!’
But Frederick Walcheren took no notice of this little sop for Cerberus.
‘Have the Cramptons any other objection to me besides that of my
religion?’ he asked presently.
‘Well! my dear fellow,’ replied Henry Hindes, dubiously, ‘rumours have
been conveyed to them of your life having been a little fast, not more
than that of other men of the world, I daresay, but these old people do
not regard such matters with the same eyes that you and I should do.
They have only mixed in a certain society, you see, and know little
of the sayings and doings of fashionable men and women. They have
very strict notions concerning propriety, and you cannot shake their
opinions on the subject. But the real objection is to your religion.
_That_ is insurmountable! They will never overlook it.’
‘It is most unfair,’ exclaimed Frederick; ‘how is a man to help what
his parents chose to make him? Besides, I have no religion at all! I
believe in nothing, not a God, nor a Hereafter, nor a Heaven, nor a
Hell! Will that suit them better?’
Mr Hindes laughed heartily at the idea.
‘Pray don’t hint at such a thing, Walcheren,’ he said, ‘or they would
think you were the old gentleman himself! But we must really talk
seriously about this matter. Mr Crampton is obdurate, and will remain
so. He declares that unless you will give your promise not to interfere
with his daughter for the future, he will take her away from Hampstead
and out of your reach, and keep her there until one of you is married.
I am sure you are too much a gentleman and man of honour to upset a
whole family in that way, in order to gratify your spite against them.
For it will not lead to your being readmitted to the house, and Miss
Crampton will be strictly watched for the future.’
Frederick Walcheren was thinking very deeply on the matter, and his
thoughts ran thus, ‘I must overcome these people by diplomacy. If I
refuse to give this promise, I shall be watched so closely that I shall
never get speech of Jenny again; whereas, if I pretend to give in to
their demands, I shall throw them off their guard. And the first thing
I must do is to get rid of this fellow!’ Aloud he said,--
‘I am deeply grieved to hear of Mr Crampton’s decision, but I see the
wisdom of it. Naturally, I admire Miss Crampton very much, I wonder who
doesn’t, but, to tell truth, I anticipated a great deal of opposition
from my own family, if it ever came to anything serious. They are as
staunch for the old faith as ever Mr Crampton can be for his. Mixed
marriages are, after all, a mistake. I am glad, therefore, that you
have spoken so frankly and openly to me, and I thank you for it. Will
you tell Mr Crampton that I acquiesce in his decision, and willingly
give my promise not to intrude upon his daughter, or himself, again.
You have been a true friend to both of us, Hindes. Accept my hand on
it. And now I think I will just go home without running the risk of
encountering _la belle_ Jenny. It will please Mr Crampton if he hears
that I have done so. And my headache really unfits me for any violent
exercise. Good-night. Are you going back to the ballroom? If so, we
will walk to the front of the house together.’
‘Yes; I must go back to wait for my wife, who is enjoying herself
just like a girl. I shall not say a word to Miss Crampton of having
seen you. It will be better to let her think you have been prevented
attending the party.’
‘Most certainly, and assure Mr Crampton that he has nothing to fear
from me. Good-night again,’ and the two men parted at the hall door,
with a shake of the hand.
Frederick Walcheren went forth into the darkness, whilst Henry Hindes,
congratulating himself on the diplomatic manner in which he had
executed his embassage, and the easy victory he had gained over the
enemy, re-entered the ballroom, and took his seat there, with the most
perfect assurance that all danger was over.