Chapter Two.
Manoeuvring.
O! slippery state of things. What sudden turns,
What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf
Of man’s sad history. To-day most happy,
And ere to-morrow’s sun has set, most abject!
How scant the space between these vast extremes.
The recollection of my strange visions which, I confess, somewhat affected me on my first waking, I put off from me at once. What were they, after all, but dreams, “begot of nothing but vain fantasy?”
I reasoned thus, philosophically, reflectively, rationally, within myself, as I dressed.
I determined to dismiss the matter from my thought at once; for, even if it prognosticated anything and was intended to withdraw the veil from futurity, it ought only to convince me of one fact, or fancy, namely, that, notwithstanding that I might have a hard struggle to win my darling, I should win her in the end:—that, also, in spite of antagonistic mammas and contrary circumstances, she would then be my own, my very own Min!
Would you not have thought the same in a like case?
I trow, yes!
I will not deny that I expended the most elaborate pains on my toilet that afternoon, before waiting upon Mrs Clyde in accordance with my promise to Min. I did not otherwise comply fully with the essential requirements of Madame la Comtesse de Bassanville’s Côde Complet du Ceremonial—such as causing an influential friend, who could speak of my morals and position, to have a previous audience with “the responsible relation” of “the young person who had attracted my notice;” nor, did I don a pair of “light fresh-butter-coloured kid gloves.” Still, I undoubtedly betrayed a considerable nicety of apparel all the same.
Indeed, I absolutely out-Hornered Horner; and, had anybody detected me when engaged in the mysteries of the dressing-room, I would certainly have been supposed to have been as anxiously considerate respecting the choice I should make between light trousers and dark, a black coat and a blue one, and whether I would wear a white waistcoat or not, as a young lady costuming herself for a ball, and debating with her maid the rival merits of blush roses and pink silk, or of white tarlatan and clematis.
It was, also, some time ere I could summon up enough resolution to knock at the door of Mrs Clyde’s residence, when, my decorative preparations accomplished, I at length succeeded in getting round to her house.
The expedition strangely reminded me of a visit I was once forced to pay to a dentist, owing to the misdeeds of one of my best molars; the dread of the impending interview almost inducing me to turn back on the threshold and put off my painful purpose for a while—even as had been my course of procedure when calling at Signor Odonto’s agonising establishment. On that occasion, I remember, I recoiled in fright from the dreaded ordeal, seeking refuge in “instant flight.”
I could not do so now, however. I had promised Min to speak to her mother as soon as possible; and, independently of that engagement, the interview would have to be gone through sooner or later, at all hazards. “An’ it were done quickly, it were well done;” so, at last, my hesitation passed away under the influence of this, really vital, consideration. I nerved myself up to the knocking point. I gave a loud rat, tat, tat! that thrilled through my very boots, causing a passing butcher’s boy, awed by its important sound, to inquire, with the cynical empressement of his race, whether I thought myself the “Emperoar of Rooshia.” I turned my back on him with contempt; but, his ribald remark made me feel all the more nervous.
“Mrs Clyde at home?” I asked of the handmaiden, who answered my summons.
Yes, Mrs Clyde was at home.
Would I walk in?
I would; and did.
So far, all was plain sailing:—now, came the tug of war.
Mrs Clyde was standing up, facing the door, as I entered the drawing-room into which the handmaiden had ushered me.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr Lorton?” she said, politely.
She never forgot her good breeding; and, I verily believe, if it had ever been her lot to officiate in Calcraft’s place, she would have asked the culprit, whom she was about to hasten on his way to “kingdom come,” whether he found the fatal noose too tight, or comfortable and easy, around his doomed neck! She would do this, too, I’m sure, with the most charming solicitude possible!
I noticed of her, that, whenever she was bent on using her sharpest weapons—of “society’s” armoury and, methinks, the devil’s forge-mark!—she always put on an extra gloss of politeness over her normal smooth and varnished style of address.
I didn’t like it, either.
Civility may be all very well in its way, but I cannot say that I admire that way of knocking a man down with a kid glove. It is a treacherous mode of attack; and very much resembles the plan Mr Chucks, the boatswain in Peter Simple, used to adopt when correcting the ship’s boys.
That gentleman would, if you recollect, courteously beckon an offender to approach him, doffing his hat the while as if speaking to the quarter-deck; and then, begging the trembling youngster’s pardon for detaining him, would proceed to inform him in the “politest and most genteel manner in the world” that he was “the d—d son of a sea cook,”—subsequently rattaning him furiously, amidst a plethora of expletives before which the worst Billingsgate faded into insignificance.
I may be singular in the fancy, but, do you know, I prefer civil words to be accompanied with civil deeds, and contrariwise:—the “poison of asps” does not go well with honied accents!
“Pray take a seat, Mr Lorton,” said Mrs Clyde. “I was expecting you to call; and waited in, on purpose not to miss seeing you. My daughter has told me,”—she went on, taking the initiative, ere I had a chance to speak—cutting the ground from under my feet, as it were, and rendering my task each moment more arduous—“My daughter has told me that she and you were talking some nonsense together last night, which it is best for all parties, my dear Mr Lorton, should be at once forgotten! You’ll agree with me, I’m sure?”
And she looked at me with a steady gaze of determination and set purpose in her eyes, before which I quailed.
“You will agree with me, I’m sure, Mr Lorton,”—she repeated again, after a pause, as I was so bewildered by her flank attack that I could not get out a word at first. I declare to you, I only sat looking at her in hopeless dismay, powerless—idiotic, in fact!
“But I love Min, Mrs Clyde,”—I stammered—“and she has promised—”
“Dear me! This is quite delicious,” laughed Mrs Clyde—a cold sneering laugh, which made me shiver as if cold water were running down my back—“quite a comedy, I do declare, Mr Lorton. I did not think you were so good an actor. Love! Ha, ha, ha!” and she gave forth a merry peal—to my intense enjoyment, you may be sure.
Oh, yes! I enjoyed it, without doubt:—it was dreadfully comical!
“It is no laughing matter to me, Mrs Clyde,” I replied at last, emboldened by her ridicule—“I love Min; and she has promised to marry me, if you will only give your consent, which I have come to ask to-day.”
I got up as I spoke, and faced her.
I was prepared to do battle till the death. Desperation had now made me brave.
“Now, do let us be serious,” said the lady, presently.
She apparently found it difficult to stifle her laughter at the humour of the whole thing:—it was really such a very good joke!
“I am serious, Mrs Clyde,” I said, half-petulantly, although I tried to be impressive. I was solemn enough over it all; but, my temper has always been, unfortunately for me, too easily provoked.
“I never heard of such a thing in my life,” she continued, taking no notice, apparently, either of me or of my answer. “Fancy, any sane person talking of love and marriage between a boy and girl like that! You must be joking, Mr Lorton. Really, it is too absurd to be credible!” and she affected a laugh again, in her provoking way.
A capital joke, wasn’t it?
“I am not joking, I assure you, Mrs Clyde,” I answered sturdily, endeavouring, vainly, to bear down her raillery by my gravity. “I was never more serious in my life. I’m not a boy, Mrs Clyde; and I’m sure Min is old enough to know her own mind, too!”
This was an impertinent addendum on my part; and, my opponent quickly retorted, with a thrust, which recalled my good manners.
“You are very good to say so, Mr Lorton; but permit me to judge best in that matter! Pray, how old are you, Mr Lorton, if I may be allowed to ask the question?”—she said, looking at me with great “society” interest, as if she were examining a specimen of the extinct dodo.
“Three-and-twenty,” I said sententiously, like a catechumen responding to the questions supposed to be addressed to “N or M.”
“Dear me!” she ejaculated in seeming surprise. “Three—and—twenty? I really would not have thought it! I wouldn’t have taken you to be more than eighteen at the outside!”
She hit me on my tenderest point. I looked young for my age; and, like most young fellows, before time teaches them wisdom, making them strive to disguise the effect of each additional lustrum, I felt sore always when supposed to be more youthful than I actually was. I was, consequently, nettled at her remarks. She saw this, and smiled in amusement.
“I am twenty-three, however, Mrs Clyde, I assure you,” I said warmly; “old enough to get married, I suppose!”
“That entirely depends on circumstances,” she said coldly, as if the matter was of no interest to her whatever; “years are no criterion for judgment”—and she then stopped, throwing the burden of the next move on my shoulders.
I did not hesitate any longer, however.
“Will you allow Min to become engaged to me?” I said, valiantly, plunging at once into the thick of the combat.
“Pray, Mr Lorton,” she replied, ignoring my query, “what means have you for supporting a wife? People cannot live upon nothing, you know; and ‘love in a cottage’ is an exploded fallacy.”
She spoke as lightly and pleasantly as if she were conversing upon some ordinary society topic with another lady of the world like herself. She very well knew what she was about, however. She was “developing her main attack”—as military strategists would say!
You see, I had never given the subject of ways and means an instant’s consideration, having remitted the matter to Providence with that implicit trust and cheerful hopefulness to which most enraptured swains are prone. I had only thought of loving Min and being loved by her:—engagement naturally following between us; and, that, was all I had thought of as yet.
When the time came for us to be married, our guardian angels would, no doubt, take care to provide us with the wherewithal!
“Sufficient for the day” was “the evil thereof.” Till then, I was quite satisfied to let the matter rest; living, for the present, in the fairy land of my imagination where such a thing as filthy lucre was undreamt of.
Mrs Clyde’s inquiry, therefore, took me all aback. “What means had I for supporting a wife?” Really, it was a very uncalled-for remark!
I had to answer it, nevertheless. Of course I could only tell the truth.
“I’ve only got two hundred and fifty pounds a-year of my own at present, Mrs Clyde,” I said; “but—”
“Two—hundred—a-year!”—she said, interrupting me ere I could finish my statement, placing a horribly sneering emphasis on each word, which made the sum mentioned appear so paltry and insignificant, that it struck me with shame.—“I beg your pardon—two hundred and fifty! Why, how young you are, Mr Lorton. Do you really think you could support a wife and establishment on that income? I thought you were joking, my dear young friend,”—she added—“you know it would barely pay your tailor’s bill!”
And she looked at me from head to foot with her merciless quizzing eyes, taking in all the elaborateness of the apparel that I had donned for her personal subjugation.
“You have not heard me out, Mrs Clyde,” I answered, spurred upon my mettle.—“I am not quite dependent on that income. I also write for the press!”
I said this quite grandly, on the strength of my contributing an occasional magazine article at stray intervals to one of the current periodicals—getting one accepted for every dozen that were “declined with thanks;” and, being the “musical critic” of a very weakly weekly!
“O–oh, indeed!” she exclaimed.
There was a most aggravating tone of pity mingled with her surprise.
She evidently now looked upon me as more presumptuous than ever, and hopelessly beyond the pale of her social circle!
“And how much,”—she asked, in a patronising way which galled me to the quick,—“do you derive from this source? That is, if you will kindly excuse my saying so? The proposal which you have done my daughter and myself the honour to suggest, necessitates my making such delicate inquiries, you know.”
“I do not earn very much by my pen, as yet, Mrs Clyde,” I answered—“but, I hope to do more in a little time, when my name gets recognised. I’m only a beginner as yet.”
“Well, if you would take my advice, Mr Lorton, you would remain so. I’ve heard it frequently said by some of your penny-a-liners—I believe that is what you literary gentlemen call yourselves—that, authorship reaps very poor pay. It makes a very good stick, but a bad crutch; and I don’t think you can expect to increase your income very largely from that quarter! The only author I ever knew personally, sank into it, poor fellow, because he could do nothing else; and, he led a wretched existence from hand to mouth! He was never recognised afterwards in society, of course!”
“Genius is not always acknowledged at first, Mrs Clyde,” I said loftily.
Her sneers at the profession, which I regarded as one of the highest in the world, provoked me.
Fancy her calling all authors “penny-a-liners!”
“So, all unsuccessful men say!” she replied curtly.—“But,”—she went on, putting aside all my literary prospects as beneath her notice, and returning to the main point at issue,—“is that all you have got to depend upon for your anticipated wife and establishment?”
She smiled sweetly, playing with me as a cat would with a mouse.
“All I have, certainly, at present, Mrs Clyde,”—I said, abashed at the sarcasm thus directed against my miserable income, which she did not take the slightest pains to conceal.—“But I shall have more by-and-by. We are both young; and, if you will only give me some hope of gaining your consent, when I have achieved what you may consider sufficient for the purpose, I will work for her and win her. O Mrs Clyde!”—I pleaded,—“let me only have the assurance that you will allow her to wait for me. I will work most nobly that I may deserve her!”
“All this is mere rhapsody, Mr Lorton,”—she said in her icy accents, throwing a shower of metaphorical cold water on my earnest enthusiasm.—“Do you seriously think for a moment that I would give my consent to my daughter’s engagement to you in your present position?”
“I hoped so, Mrs Clyde,” I replied, timidly.
I did not know what else to say.
“Then you hoped wrongly,” she said. “You are really very young, Mr Lorton! I do not mean merely in years, but in knowledge of the world! You positively wish me to sacrifice all my daughter’s prospects, and let her be bound to a wearisome engagement, on the mere chance of your being able at some distant period to marry her! Do I understand you aright? I certainly gave you credit for possessing more good sense, Mr Lorton, or I should never have admitted you to my house.”
“O, Mrs Clyde,” I said, “be considerate! Be merciful! Remember, that you were young once.”
“I am considerate,” she answered—“still, I must think of my daughter’s welfare, before regarding the foolish wishes of a comparative stranger!”
Throughout the interview, she invariably alluded to Min as “her daughter,” never mentioning her name.
It seemed as if she wished to avoid even the idea of our intimacy, and to make me understand how great a gulf lay between us.
“But I love her so, Mrs Clyde!” I pleaded again, in one last effort. “I love her dearly, and she loves me, I know. Do not, oh! do not part us so cruelly!”
“This is very foolish, Mr Lorton,”—she replied, coldly;—“and there is not much use, I think, in our prolonging the conversation; for, none of your arguments would convince me to give my consent to any such hair-brained scheme. Even if your offer had otherwise my approval, which it has not, I could not bear the idea of a long engagement for my daughter. You yourself ought to be more generous than to wish to tie a girl down to an arrangement which would waste her best years, blight her life; and, probably, end in her being a sour, disappointed woman—as I have known hundreds of such cases to end!”
“I do not wish to bind her,” I said. “I only want your provisional consent, Mrs Clyde. I will diligently try to deserve it; and you will never regret it, you may be assured.”
“I cannot give it, Mr Lorton,”—she replied in a decisive way.—“And if you meet my daughter again, you must promise me that it shall be only as a friend.”
“And, what if I refuse to do so?”—I said defiantly.
“I should leave the neighbourhood,” she said promptly.—“And, if you were so very ungentlemanlike, as still to persecute her with your attentions, I should soon take measures to put a stop to them.”
What could I say or do? She was armed at all points, and I was powerless!
“Will you let me see your daughter; and, learn from her own lips if she be of the same opinion as yourself?” I asked.
I was longing to see Min. I wanted to know whether she had been convinced by her mother’s worldly policy, or no.
“It is impossible for me to grant your request,” said Mrs Clyde. “My daughter is not at home. She went down to the country this morning on a visit to her aunt; and the date of her return depends mainly on your decision now.”
This was the finishing blow.
I succumbed completely before this master-stroke of policy, which my wary antagonist had not disclosed until the last.
“Oh! Mrs Clyde,” I said; “how very hard you are to me!”
“Pardon me, Mr Lorton,” she replied, as suave as ever.—“But, you will think differently by-and-by, and thank me for acting as I have done! Your foolish fancy for my daughter will soon wear off; and you will live to laugh at your present folly!”
“Never!” I said, determinedly, with a full heart.
“But you will promise not to speak to my daughter otherwise than as a friend, when you see her again?” she urged:—not at all eagerly, but, quite coolly, as she had spoken all along.
I would have preferred her having been angry, to that calm, irritating impassiveness she displayed. She appeared to be a patent condenser of all emotion.
“I suppose I must consent to your terms!”—I said, despairingly.—“Although, Mrs Clyde, I give you fair warning that, when I am in a position to renew my suit under better auspices, I will not hold myself bound by this promise.”
“Very well, Mr Lorton,” she said, “I accept your proviso; but, when you make your fortune it will be time enough to talk about it! In the meanwhile, relying upon your solemn word as a gentleman not to renew your offer to my daughter, or single her out with your attentions—which might seriously interfere with her future prospects—I shall still be pleased to welcome you occasionally”—with a marked emphasis on the word—“at my house. What we have spoken about had, now, better be forgotten by all parties as soon as possible, excepting your promise, of course, mind!” and she bowed me out triumphantly—she victorious, I thoroughly defeated.
What a sad, sad change had occurred since happy last night!
All my bright hopes were obscured, my ardent longings quenched by fashionable matter-of-fact; and, Min herself had gone from me, without one single parting word!
I was born to be unlucky, I think; everything went wrong with me now. Like the lonely, hopeless hero in Longfellow’s translation of Min’s favourite Coplas de Manrique, I might well exclaim in my misery—
“Let no one fondly dream again,
That Hope and all her shadowy train
Will not decay;
Fleeting as were the dreams of old,
Remembered like a tale that’s told,
They pass away!”
How did I know, too, but, that, ere I saw my darling again, months might elapse, during which time all thoughts of me might be banished from her heart?
One proverb tells us that “absence makes the heart grow fonder;” another, equally entitled to belief, warns anxious lovers that “out of sight” is to be “out of mind.”
Which of the two could I credit?
Besides, even if she were constant and true to me, Mrs Clyde would certainly never give her consent to our engagement, I was confident—no, not if we both lived and loved until doomsday!
All these bitter thoughts flashed through my mind in a moment, one after the other.
I was angry, indignant, wretched.