Chapter Twenty Two.
Memory the Twenty-Second—Weak Woman.
They say that it is natural for women to be weak, and of course they who said so must know best about it. So if woman is naturally weak, I do not think I need be very much ashamed of owning that I was the same as the rest of my sex, and willing at last to forgive poor Achille; for really he did begin to look so pale and distressed, so worn, and sallow, and miserable, and seemed so to humble himself before me, that I began to be afraid he was contemplating something dreadful. He appeared so dejected, and bent, and old, and directed at me such penitent looks, that no one with a heart beating within her breast could have resisted for long; and by degrees his sorrow began to melt away the hard, cold, icy armour in which I was encased, to sap the walls of the citadel of stone I had built round my heart, and one day—I could not help it—I could not resist the piteous look he directed at me, but forgave him with one quick, sharp glance, which brought almost a sob from his breast; while, though his eyes were cast down, I could see him swelling almost, as it were, with emotion, and I escaped from the room as soon as I possibly could, to try and calm the wild, fluttering sensation that pervaded my very being.
Then Clara laughed at me, and sneered, and flouted, and jeered; but I did not care, for something seemed always telling me that I loved him very dearly. But I made up my mind to refrain from all meetings, and to do nothing clandestine, except the correspondence with a few notes; though I knew that it was nonsense to think for a moment that papa or mamma would ever give their consent to my loving and being espoused by a French master.
And then began the notes again; while now that I think of it all, it seems perfectly wonderful that we were not found out, over and over and over again, for Achille grew so terribly barefaced—I mean in his ways, for of course he did not remove his beautiful beard. Sometimes it was Clara who had a note for me, sometimes Euphemia; and then I did not like it, for it did not seem nice for them to be the bearers of the notes; and if the thing had been possible, I declare that at such times I should have felt jealous; for I could not help thinking it possible that he had squeezed their hands when he had delivered the notes; and, as a matter of course, such a thing was too dreadful to contemplate for more than about half a minute at a time.
You may be sure I never asked them if such had been the case; but I know that I used to be snappish, and not like to say “thank you” for the missives, however welcome they might be. But they never knew the reason, only thought that perhaps something had put me a little out of temper.
And what notes those used to be!—all bewailing his inability to meet me; for it was quite out of the question to make any appointments, with that horrible dog ranging and roaming about like a fierce wolf, night after night; nearly driving the poor old gardener mad, too, with the mischief he did.
“I declare, miss,” the old man said to me, “I’d sooner set up and watch in the garden myself night after night, than hev that there blessed beast a-destroying of everythink. Certainly, there ain’t such a deal jest now; but what it will be when we comes to verbenas and bedding plants saints knows. Ribbon gardening, indeed!—the whole blessed garden’s torn to ribbons already. If some one would only poison him!”
“If some one would only poison him!” I mentally said, after him.
But no one did, and we had to content ourselves with notes. Yes, such notes!—not what they were of old—full of patriotism; but all the same, pressing me to fly with him, to be his, to leave this land of cold and fogs for his own sunny south, where all would be smiles, and beauty, and love, and blue skies, and emerald verdure, and sunshine. Oh, what a future he painted! It was quite enough to destroy one’s sleep for the night, for one could do nothing but lie in the wild waking dream of an excited imagination. And then, after such waking hours, there was a violent headache in the morning. What could I do, being so weak, and leaning towards him as I did then? I knew how wicked it was, and how grievous; but then, it all seemed like fate—like something that was to be; and I used to think that all would come right in the end, when mamma and papa would forgive me, and we should all be happy together.
“He knows that you will have a nice little sum of money when you come of age,” said Clara, spitefully.
“That I’m sure he doesn’t,” I said. “How can you talk such nonsense? Why, he don’t know anything about our position at home.”
“Why, how can you say so?” replied Clara, “when you told him in my hearing, one night down in the conservatory, months ago.”
And that was right, though I had not recalled it at the time; but it was too bad of Clara to try and make out that Achille was prompted by mercenary motives, when he was the very soul of generosity, and kept himself horribly poor by the amounts he gave away. And, besides, he was too much of a gentleman to care for money, except as regarded the good it would do to his fellow creatures.
But there, as it must have been seen all along, Clara always was petty, and spiteful, and full of little remarks of that sort, which she would throw at you, when they would come round, and hard, and prickly, just like one of those nasty, spikey chestnut shucks that will not bear to be handled. So I grew not to mind what she said; and when I told Achille, he used to laugh, and say that she was “une drôle de fille,” and, like me, he took no further notice of it.
I would not consent for such a time—months, and months, and months; but I knew that at last I should be compelled to yield, and go with him. “But not yet,” I said, “not yet,” and I drove it off as long as I could; but at last I gave up, and promised to be his—the promise that should make me another’s! And then began a week of such nervous excitement as was almost unbearable. Such foolish ideas, too, came into my head—some of them so childish that I was almost ashamed of them; such as wishing, like I had read of somewhere, to save up pieces of bread and butter, and to purchase a suit of boy’s clothes. In short, it seemed as if nothing but absurdities would come into my head.
I should have gone on as comfortably again if I could have taken Clara and Euphemia into my confidence; but upon this most momentous of undertakings I felt, and Achille agreed with me, that I should confide in no one; for this was, indeed, too serious a matter to trust to another. In fact, at times I felt that I could hardly trust myself; for I used to be like the wife of King Midas, and I declare that the knowledge was such a burden that it would have been a relief to have put one’s head down by the river, and whispered the secret. Every lesson day came a note; and there was the night settled, and everything arranged, before I could bring myself to believe that it was true; while all around me seemed strained, changed, and unnatural, and sometimes I really used to feel as if I were dreaming.