Chapter Six.
“My Life, I Love Thee!”
—Then, in that time and place I spoke to her,
Requiring, tho’ I knew it was mine own,
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear,
Requiring, at her hand, the greatest gift,
A woman’s heart, the heart of her I loved.
When “hope deferred,” and baffled love combined, had well-nigh made me as miserable and woebegone as I could possibly be, I heard a piece of news one day which almost nerved up my halting resolution to bring affairs to a final issue by speaking out again to Mrs Clyde—no matter what might be the result.
The joyful intelligence was circulated by the pleased Lady Dasher, that, Mr Mawley had at length proposed for her daughter, Bessie. It was time for it, as he had angled around and nibbled warily at the tempting bait offered him—like the knowing fish that he was—for months before he would permit himself to be caught!
The curate had, doubtless, noticed at length that the damsel was comely withal; and, his heart yearned towards her. The reverend gentleman, however, had not been unobservant of the charms of other maidens with whom he had been brought in contact, so, it may be presumed that his heart had “yearned” in vain for them; or, peradventure, these had not played with him so dexterously, when once hooked, as did the fair Bessie—who had not been the granddaughter of an Irish peer for nothing!
Still, there is no object to be gained now in raking up all of Mr Mawley’s old conquests or defeats, ere his present “wooing and a’:”—he had been accepted, in this his most recent venture, and was engaged explicitly—Lady Dasher taking very good care to inform everybody of her acquaintance of the fact, in order that there might arise no such little mistake as that of the curate’s backing out of the alliance.
Her ladyship only wished for one thing more to make her “happy,” so she said; and that was, that her “poor dear papa” were but alive, so that she might tell him, too, about the coming event. This was impossible though, as she added, with her customary melancholy shake of the head, and a return to her normal expression of poignant grief; for, as she said very truly, “one can never expect to be thoroughly happy in this weary pilgrimage of ours!”
Her complete gratification would, certainly, have been little less than a miracle.
The engagement was of very short duration, Bessie’s mamma acting up to the Hibernian policy of “cooking her fish,” as soon as she had captured him. There’s “many a slip,” you know, “’twixt cup and lip.”
Mawley would probably have gladly lingered yet awhile longer amid the festive scenes of clerical bachelorhood, flirting—in a devout way, of course—under the shade of the church, with Chloe and Daphne, those unappropriated spinsters of the parish who took pleasure in ministering to the social wants of the curate and others of his cloth.
But, it was not to be. Lady Dasher was, for a wonder, wise in her generation; and, the twain—not my lady and Mawley, but her daughter and ditto—were married within a month after the public announcement of their attachment, much to the surprise of Saint Canon’s, the mortification of sundry single ladies thereof, and the well-disguised delight of Lady Dasher, who, even on such a festive occasion, looked more melancholic than ever.
It was this, that nerved me up to desperation. Why, thought I, the day after the wedding, as I paced along the Prebend’s Walk—over which the long-branched elms and waving oaks and thickly-growing lime-trees formed a perfect arch, in all the panoply of their new summer leaves, sheltering one from rain and sun alike—why, thought I, should that fellow, Mawley, be made happy, and I not?
Really, I could not answer the question at all satisfactorily.
You see, I was not able to come to a decision with myself as to whether I should repeat the darling request which I had made to Min very nearly twelve months before, or wait on still in suspense. The risk of the former course was great, for, Mrs Clyde might, and most likely would, put an end immediately to all communication whatever between us, should she continue hostile to my suit—an eventuality horrible to contemplate; and yet, would it not be better for me to be relieved from the existing state of uncertainty in which my mind was plunged?
What must I do?
I had to determine that point, at all events.
I could not settle it in a moment: it was far too weighty a consideration—it required serious deliberation. So, I paced on, still moodily to the end of the Prebend’s Walk; and, although it was raining heavily, sat down on the stone balustrade of the little rustic bridge over the fosse, facing the river.—“Ah me!” I reflected, calling to my memory Thackeray’s sad lament, in that seemingly-comic “Ballad of the Bouillabaisse,” which is all the more pathetic from its affected humour.
“Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that’s gone
When I’d sit, as now I’m sitting,
In this same place—but not alone.
“A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me—
There’s no one now to share my cup.”
As I was musing thus sadly, I was unexpectedly tapped on the shoulder by Monsieur Parole d’Honneur, who had come up quietly behind me, without my noticing his approach. He was on his way to pay a visit to his “good vicaire” at the vicarage, after giving his usual Wednesday lecture at the neighbouring “college for young ladies;” where, blooming misses—in addition to their curriculum of “accomplishments” and “all the ’ologies”—were taught the noble art of family multiplication, domestic division, male detraction, feminine sedition, and, the glorious rule of—one!
Me grieving, he joyously addressed.
“Ohe! my youngish friends”—his general term in speaking to me—“how goes it?—Hi—lo!” he went on, seeing from my face, as I turned my head to speak to him, that, “it” did not “go” particularly well—“Hi—lo! vat ees ze mattaire?—you look pallide; you have got ze migraine?”
“No,” I answered; “there’s nothing the matter with me, I assure you, Monsieur Parole. I’m all right, thank you.”
“Ah! but yes,” he retorted—“you cannote deceives me. You are pallide; you take walks on feet this detestable day.—Mon Dieu! votre climat c’est affreux!—I knows ver wells, Meestaire Lorton, dat somesings ees ze mattaire!”
“But, I’m quite well, I tell you,” said I.
“Quaite well en physique, bon:—quaite well, here?” tapping his chest expressively the while—“non! I knows vat ees ze mattaire. C’est une affaire de coeur, ees it not, mon ami? You cannote deceives me, I tells to you! But, nevaire mind dat, my youngish friends: cheer oop and be gays—toujours gai! I have had, myselfs, it ees one, two, tree,—seex lofes! Seex times ees mon coeur brisé, and I was désolé; and now, you sees, I’m of a light heart still!”—and he laughed so cheerily, that, even Lady Dasher, I think, could not have well helped chiming in with his merriment.
I did not laugh, however. “Pardon me, monsieur,” I said,—“I’m not in a joking mood.”
“Come, come, mon brave,” he continued, seeing that my dejection was beyond the point where it could be laughed away; and accommodating himself to my humour, with the native delicacy of his race—“I have myself, suffered:—ainsi, I can condoles! You know, my dear, youngish friends, when I was déporté de mon pays, hé?”
I nodded my head in acquiescence, hardly feeling inclined for the recital of some revolutionary anecdote, which I thought was going to be related to me. Monsieur Parole, however, astonished me with quite a different narration.
“Leesten,” said he.—“When I did leeves my Paris beloved, hélas! I was tored from my lofe—my fiancée dat I adore! I leaves her in hopes and au désespoir. I dreams of her images in my exiles! When I learns at my acadamies ze young ladees, ze beautifool Eenglish mees, I tinks of ma belle Marie, her figure, and her face angélique, wheech I sail nevaire forgets—no, nevaire! And I says to myselfs, ‘Ah! she ees more beautifools dan dese!’ Mais, mon ami, I was deceives by her all dat time. Not sooner go I from France, dan she ees marie to un grand, gros, fat épicier of La Villette—Marie dat was fiancée au moi, gentilhomme! Mais, mon Dieu; when I was heard ze news, I was enragé—I goes back to Paris. I fears notings—no mouchard—no gend’armerie—no notings—although, I was suspect and deporté de France! I sends un cartel—you comprends—to ze gros bon ami de ma Marie, ce cochon d’un épicier! We meets in ze Bois: I gives him one leetel tierce en carte dat spoils his lovemakings for awhile; and, I leeves France again for evers—dat is, unless ma patrie and ze sacred cause of ze République Française calls upon me—but, not till den! So, you sees, my youngish friends, dat oders suffer like yourselfs. I have told to you my story; cheer oop! If ze ladees have deceives you, she is not wort one snaps of ze fingers!”
“But, she has not deceived me,” I said.
“Den why are you mélancolique?”
“Because, because—” I hesitated:—I was ashamed to say what made me despondent.
“For ze reasons dat you don’t knows weder she lofes you or not?” he asked. “Ah, ha! Den, why not ask her, my friends? You are young; you have a deesposeetion good; you are handsome—”
“O–oh, Monsieur Parole,” I exclaimed at his nattering category of my attributes, almost blushing.
“Ah, but yes,” he went on—“I am quaite raite. You are handsome; with un air distingué; reech.”
I shook my head, to show that I could not lay claim to being a millionaire, in addition to my other virtues.
“No, not reech, but clevaire; and you will be reech bye-bye! I see not why ze ladees should not leesten to you, mon ami, he?—But, if she does note; why, courage! Dere are many odere ladees beautifool also in England; and, yet, if you feels your loss mooch, like myselfs with ma perfide Marie, why you can go aways and be console, as I!”
His words encouraged me:—and, my face imperceptibly brightened.
“Ah, ha! dat is bettaire,” he said—“I likes you, Meestaire Lorton; and it does me pain to sees you at deespair like dese! Cheer oop; and all will be raite, as our good friend, ze vicaire, all-ways tells to us. We will go and sees him now!”
He took my unresisting arm, and carried me off to the vicarage; changing the conversation as we went along, and gradually instilling fresh hope into my heart.
I dare say you think it was very idiotical on my part, thus to bewail my grief to another person; and allow a few empty words to change the current of my feelings?
But then, you must recollect, that I would not have comported myself in this way with a brother Englishman.
If Horner had told me of his woes, for example, similarly as I told mine, or let them be drawn out of me by Monsieur Parole, I confess I would have been much more likely to have laughed at, than sympathised with him.
A Frenchman, however, is naturally more sentimental than any of ourselves. He looks seriously and considerately on things which we make light of.
Besides, in my then cut-throat mood, I was longing for sympathy; and would have made a confidante of any one offering for the post—barring Lady Dasher or Miss Spight—neither of whom would I have chosen as a depository were I anxious to give my last dying speech and confession to the world; although, they would probably cause the same to be circulated fast enough—judging by their habit in regard to that sort of private information respecting the delicate concerns of other people which is passed on from hand to hand “in strict confidence, mind!” and which is not to be told to any one else “for the world!”
Monsieur Parole’s story was a good lesson to me.
I saw that he who had had grief as great, and greater than mine, for I knew that Min loved me and was constant—had concealed it so that none who looked on his round merry face, would have supposed him capable of a deep emotion; while, I, on the contrary, had paraded my little anxieties, like a fool!
He also taught me determination; for, I resolved now, that, on the first opportunity I had, I would speak to my darling again, and have my fate settled, without more delay—for good or ill, as the case might be.
I would not remain in suspense any longer.
Within a week, this wished-for opportunity came.
Some mutual friends, to whom, indeed, Min had been the original means of my introduction—they living without the orbit of the Saint Canon circle—asked me to a large evening party that they gave late in the season.
There, I met my darling, as I hoped—unaccompanied by her mother, which I had not imagined would happen; consequently, my chances for speaking to Min would be all the more favourable.
There was so general a crush of people; that, although the rooms were large and there were many nice little retreats for tête-à-tête conversation, in balconies that were covered in like marquees and snug conservatories, besides the stair landings—those last “refuges for the destitute” who might desire retirement—I had to put off my purpose until evening wore on to such a late hour, that I thought I would not be able to speak to my darling at all!
After midnight, however, my opportunity came.
First getting rid of a horrible person, who would persist in following Min about under the false pretence that his name was on her card for several of the after-supper dances—an assertion I knew to be ridiculously unfounded; for, I had taken care to place my own name down for as many as Min would give me, and, all the latter ones I had appropriated also without asking her permission, thinking that when that happy time arrived, she would not be very hard on me for my presumption; nor was she.
Extinguishing the interloper—some people have such blindness of mental vision, that they never can see when they are not wanted!—I managed at length to open proceedings.
It was while in a quadrille that I began referring to the agonised state of my mind, and explained the mental suffering I then was experiencing.
Min listened attentively, as far as she heard, a warm flush on her dear face and a light sparkling in the deep grey eyes; but, I would defy any lover to plead his cause with due effect in that mazy old cotillon dance, which a love of French nomenclature in the early part of the century, taught us to style “quadrille.”
How can you inform the object of your passion that you adore her, with any becoming effusion of sentiment, when you are chassez-ing and balancez-ing like a human teetotum? How, breathe the words of love; when, ere you have completed your avowal, you have to make a fool of yourself in the “Cavalier seul,” the cynosure of six different pairs of eyes besides those of the girl of your heart? How, tone your voice, sweetly attuned though it may be to Venusian accents, when, one moment, it may be inaudible to her whom you address, through the rampagious gallopading and ladies-chaining of excited quadrillers; and, the next, be so raised in pitch, from the sudden hush that falls on band and dancers alike, between the figures, that your opposite vis-à-vis, and the neighbouring side couples, can hear every syllable of your frantic declaration—much to their amusement and your discomfiture?
You cannot do it, I say.
No, not if you were a Talleyrand in love matters; and, so completely versed in the pathology of the “fitful fever,” as to be able to diagnose it at a glance; besides nursing the patient through all the several stages of the disease—watching every symptom, anticipating each change, bringing the “case,” finally, to a favourable issue!
No, sir, or madam, or mademoiselle, as the case may be; you cannot do it—not in a quadrille, at all events, or I will;—but, no, I won’t bet:—it is wrong to do so, Min told me!
Presently, on the music stopping, I led her to a seat in a quiet corner. “Here”—thought I—“I shall be able to have you to myself without fear of interruption!”
I commenced my tale again; but, Min, evidently, did not wish to come to any decision now. She wanted to let matters remain as they were.
I could see this readily, by the way in which she tried to put me off, changing the conversation whenever I got on to the forbidden ground, and suggesting various irrelevant queries on my endeavouring again to chain her wilfully-erratic attention down to the one topic that I only thought worthy of interest.
The feminine mind, I believe, delights in uncertainty.
Girls are not half so anxious to have their lovers “declare themselves,” as some ill-natured people would have us think. They much prefer holding on in delightful doubt—that pleasant “he-would-and-she-wouldn’t” pastime that precedes a regular engagement or undoubted dismissal—just as a playful mouser sports with its victim, long after the trembling little beast has lost its small portion of life; pretending that it is yet alive and essaying to escape, when pussy knows right well that poor mousey’s fate is sealed, as far as any further struggles on its part are concerned.
A man, on the contrary, abhors suspense.
It is not business-like, you know.
He much desiderates a plain answer to a plain exposition of fact or fancy—even when it takes the form of that excruciating little monosyllable “no.”
Those diminutive arts and petty trickeries of feigned resistance, with which our “angels without wings” strive to delay the surrender of the maiden-citadels of their hearts, are but vexatious obstacles to his legitimate triumph. These, the veteran wooer attempts to carry by storm at once, seeing through their utter transparency:—to the unpractised Damon, however, they assume the proportions of an organised defence.
Look at my case, for instance:—I had hardly managed to manoeuvre Min into my selected corner, and to say two words on the subject that occupied all my thoughts; when, she, who had previously condoled with me on the “horrid crowd” that prevented our having “a nice chat” together, as “we used to have last year,” and joined in abusing “that wretched quadrille,” which had interfered so sadly with our talking, now tried to baulk my purpose of an explanation by every means in her power.
Ladies having generally ample resources to suit such ends, it was almost useless for me to combat her obvious resolve.
The moment I sat down beside her, what does she do, but, ask me to get her an ice—it was “so hot!”
Of course, I started off to procure it, our conversation being stopped meanwhile; but then, when I had scrambled through the crowd in the doorway, making ninepins of all the male wallflowers; had rudely jostled the peripatetics on the staircase; and, literally, fought my way into the supper-room and back to her again with the desired dainty—what do you think was my reward?
I assure you, there was the identical, horrible person, with sandy hair and sallow, elongated features—whom I had before routed in the matter of Min’s dancing with him,—seated in my chair, chattering away at a fine rate to my darling; and, she?—
Was listening to his sallies with apparent contentment.
It was, enough to have caused a Puritan to swear!
She saw that I was annoyed; but, she thanked me so prettily for her ice, that my anger towards her was instantly appeased:—not so, however, toward the interloper! I gnawed, in impotent fury, the attenuated ends of the small fragment of a moustache which nature had allotted to me, and talked at him and over him, so pointedly, that he had to beat a retreat and claim some other partner for the ensuing waltz.
We were again left alone; but, Min, still, wouldn’t listen to me a moment!
“Oh, Frank!” she said. “This is our dance, I think, is it not? We have sat out such a time! Do let us begin.”
I liked dancing, but wanted to speak more; so, I got angry again.
“You are cruel to me, Min,”—I said.—“You know that I wish to speak to you seriously, and you won’t let me have a chance. You can joke and laugh, while I’m breaking, my heart! I will leave you”—and, I walked away from her out of the room and down the staircase—very proudly, very defiantly, very miserably.
On my way I met, or rather encountered, our sandy friend who had spoilt my interview. There was a heavy crush on the stairs; and so, somebody else having shoved against me, I revenged myself on this gentleman, giving him such a malicious dig in the ribs from my elbow as elicited a deep sighing groan. This was some slight satisfaction to me. It sounded exactly like the affected “Hough!” which paviours give vent to, when wielding their mallets and ramming down the stones of the roadway!
In the hall, as I was hunting for my overcoat and hat, which had been buried beneath an avalanche of other upper garments, Min, who had followed me down, laid her hand timidly on my arm. She looked up in my face entreatingly.
“You are not going yet, Frank, are you?” she asked.
“Yes,” said I, curtly. “What should I stay for? Do you think I find it so amusing to be laughed at? It is very poor fun, I think!”
“But you, surely, won’t go before saying good-bye to the lady of the house, Frank?” she then said.
She evidently thought, you see, that I was going to commit an unpardonable breach of good manners; and, that made her call me back—nothing else!
I returned with her to the drawing-room. Min’s face was quite pale now; and, the little rosebud lips were pressed closely together, as if in set determination. She perceived that she could not any longer put off what she knew was coming—no matter what might have been her kindly intent in so wishing to do.
On our entrance the band was playing the Mabel waltz. How well I remember it!
We joined in for a few turns; and, as I clasped my arm round her darling waist, feeling her warm heart beating against mine, I longed to clasp her so always, and waltz on for ever!
In a little while we rested; and, getting her to walk out on to the canopied balcony through the French windows of the drawing-room, I there said my say to her, amidst the waving ferns and showy azaleas that surrounded us.
We had the place all to ourselves; for, as it was now early in the morning, most of the guests had already gone:—the indefatigables who remained were too busily engaged to mind us. They were making the most of the last waltz, which was protracted to an indefinite length.
“Min, my darling,”—said I, after a brief pause, looking straight down into her honest, upturned face,—“will you promise to be my wife, or no?”
“O–oh, Frank!” she murmured, bending her head down without another word.
“Darling!”—I continued.—“You know full well that I love you; and I’ve thought, dearest, that you loved me a little?”
“Hush! Do not speak so, dear Frank; you grieve me so,” she said.
“Have you forgotten all the past then, Min? Don’t you remember last year, and all that happened then?”—I asked.
“I remember, Frank,” she whispered, rather than spoke.
“And do you not love me still, darling?” I pleaded:—“Look up into my face, and let me see your eyes:—they won’t deceive me, I know!”
But, the dear, grey eyes would not meet mine.
“Oh, Min, my darling!” I asked again, pressing her closely to my heart, “will you not promise to be my wife? Sweet, I love you so!”
“They are looking at us, Frank,”—was her rejoinder—“let us waltz on.”
We had some more turns, “Mabel” still dominant in the orchestra. O that air! I can hear it now, as I heard it then, ringing yet in my ears—as it will continue always to haunt me!
When we stopped again, I repeated my question once more. I was determined to have an answer, good or bad.
“Frank,” she said, hurriedly, “I cannot say anything; I have promised:—I have promised. Pray, do not ask me!”
She spoke with great agitation. There was a tremor in her voice; and, I could see now that the soft grey eyes, which were piteously turned to mine, were tearful and sad. I was mad, however, with love and grief, or I could not have resisted the mute entreaty I there read—to be silent.
“Min,” I went on to say, passionately, “you must now decide whether we are to meet again, or part for ever! You know how I love you now, have loved you ever since I first saw your darling face,—will love you until my heart ceases to beat! But, I cannot, oh! I cannot go on like this. The suspense is killing me:—anxiety and uncertainty are driving me mad! Tell me, Min—dear as you are to me, I ask it for the last time—whether you will promise to be my wife? Only give me a grain of hope, that I may have something to look forward to; something to work for; some object in life? At present, I have nothing; and, my existence is a burden to me!”
“Can we not be friends still, Frank?” she asked, sadly.
“No, Min,” I answered; “I cannot promise any longer what I feel unable to perform. You must be everything to me or nothing! I would lay down my life for you, darling! Won’t you give me some hope?”
“Oh, Frank! do not torture me,”—she exclaimed, in a choking voice—“I have pledged my word, and I cannot break it.”
“Better to break my heart than your mother’s selfish command!” I said, bitterly, knowing, now, how she had probably been bound down to refuse me, should I again offer my love.
O wise, far-reaching, far-seeing Mrs Clyde!
“Do not be so unkind to me, Frank,” said Min, half sobbingly, after a little time, during which I tried to keep down my own emotion; and, I felt a warm little tear drop on the hand in which I still clasped hers in a lingering clasp—“I have been a friend, though, to you; have I not, Frank?” she asked me.
“Tell me, Min,” I said, making a last appeal; “do you love me—have you ever loved me? Let me have some consolation, to comfort me!”
“I must not say anything, must not promise anything. I have given my word to mamma. But, oh, Frank! do not be angry with me. Let us be friends still, won’t you?”
“No,” said I, sternly—I wondered afterwards at my cruelty; but, I was goaded on to desperation, and hardly knew what I was saying.—“We part for ever now, Min! Your mother may certainly procure you a wealthier suitor, but none who can love you as truly as I do, as I have done! Good-bye. I dare say you will soon be happy with some one else; but, perhaps, you will think sometimes of him whom you have discarded, whose heart you have broken, whose life you have wrecked?—No, I do not want you to think of me at all!” I added, passionately, at the last—and then, I left her.
What a walk home I had, in the early dawn!
I would not take a cab, although several passed me. I wanted to be alone in my misery; and so, I walked the whole way to Saint Canon’s—three miles if it were an inch, over a rough, newly-stoned road, too, and in patent-leather boots with paper soles! I never thought of that, however, nor felt the stones, notwithstanding that my boots were entirely worn out when I reached home. I might have been walking along on a Brussels carpet, for all that I knew to the contrary!
My thoughts were agony:—my mind, a perfect hell; and, that dreadful Mabel waltz seemed to be continually running through my brain, tinkling the death knell of all my hopes!
The tune always recurs to me, whenever my memory goes back to the night of that miserable evening party, with all its attendant scenes and circumstances; and, I hate it!
Two bars of it whistled now, no matter where I heard them, or in what company I might chance to be, would bring me mentally face to face with my misery again!
O Min, Min!
She never knew how I loved her, or she would never have rejected me like this!
This was my consolation—ample, wasn’t it?