CHAPTER I.
Benedict. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well
at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.
* * * * *
Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?
Much ado about Nothing.
E are half inclined to lament that the incidents of our story confine us to one short month, nay, oftener to one little day of every passing year, but nevertheless so it is, and we may not murmur. Doubtless could we have sketched the glories of some midsummer morning or autumnal night, or wandered by our heroine’s side through the gowan-spotted braes in the verdant springtime, we should have had pleasanter objects to describe, and a pleasanter task in describing them, and our readers a less wearisome one in following us; but seeing that we must, perforce, abide by “the chamber and the dusky hearth,” even so, let it be. The hearth of our present sketch is in nowise dusky, however; there is nothing about it that is not bright as the blazing fire itself. If you look from the window you may see that everything without is chained down hard and fast in the iron fetters of the frost, and covered with a mantle of dazzling whiteness. With tenacious grasp the wintry king fixes the less obdurate snow to the heavy housetops, decking them as with hood and mantle; with malicious glee it rivets each drop of spilt water on the slippery pavement, bringing sudden humiliation, downfall and woe, to the heedless passengers; and from the southern eaves where the sun has for some short time exerted a feeble power, hang long icicles in curious spirals, like the curls of youthful beauty. Keen and cold, it revels in the piercing wind, which coming from the bleak north in full gush round the chill street corner, aggravates the wintry red and blue which battle for the mastery in the faces of the shivering passengers, and screams out its chill laughter in the gale, when some sturdy man who has but now chased its little glowing votaries from their icy play is suddenly overthrown himself by one incautious step, and with prostration lower than Eastern does homage to its power, to the great and loudly expressed satisfaction of the urchins aforesaid, who have resumed again their merry game with renewed zeal and vigour.
It is just the kind of morning to make dwellers at home hug themselves on their comfortable superiority over those whom necessity calls abroad, to dare the dangerous passage of these treacherous streets and meet the rough encounters of the biting wind. The room we stand in is the very picture of neatness and comfort; a beautiful infant of two years old is roaming with unsteady step about the bright fireside and over the carpet, a wide world to him, intently making voyages of discovery hither and thither, among the chairs and tables, the continents and islands of his navigation; and beside a pretty work-table, with her delicate fingers employed in still more delicate work, sits Mrs. James Melville, her brow furrowed and curved in deliberative wisdom, giving earnest heed to schemes which are being poured into her attentive ear, and ever and anon responding with oracular gravity. Who is this that seeks and has obtained the infinite benefit of Mrs. James’s counsel, and that now with deferential courtesy lays before her the inexpressible advantages he will derive from her advice and assistance, and insinuates the unending gratitude of which he has already given earnest in delicate and well-timed presents, such as delight a lady’s heart? He is speaking of a brilliant establishment to be offered to some one whom he seeks to win, and shall win all the more easily through his kind friend Mrs. James’s advice and co-operation. He is speaking of wealth which hitherto he laments,—and here the petitioner sighs and looks, or tries to look pathetic,—he has not properly employed, wherewith that as yet nameless third party shall be endowed, and he winds up all with an eulogium upon the extraordinary ability, and undeserved, but not unappreciated kindness of the lady who smiles so graciously at his well-timed compliments. Mrs. James is completely won over, and her full assistance and co-operation pledged, for the pleader is skilled in his craft, and wont to be successful. Who can resist Mr. Forsyth’s eloquence and special reasonings? The work of consultation goes on, the toils are laid for Mary, sweet Mary Melville’s unwitting feet, and Forsyth, on the strength of his ally’s assurances, has already brightened in anticipatory triumph, and if all things be as Mrs. James says they are, and all Forsyth’s promises be realised, is not Mary’s lot a bright one? Nay, but is this a man to hold in his hands the happiness of Christian’s sister?
Mrs. James is determined to signalise herself as a match-maker, and there are a thousand captivating circumstances which conspire to make her eager in the furtherance of Forsyth’s suit. She reckons up some of them: First, it will really be an excellent settlement for Mary; where among her father’s hum-drum acquaintance could she ever have found one anything at all like so good; secondly, Mrs. Forsyth’s wealth and style will bring even her, Mrs. James Melville, into a more brilliant sphere; and above all, there will be the crowning delight of overcoming, or rather being able to set at nought, all Christian’s opposition. Mrs. James, self-confident as she is, very bold, and even impertinent as she can be at some times, and strong in the might of superior elegance and beauty, has always been awed in the presence of Christian’s quiet dignity, and this had annoyed and galled her greatly. There is something in that grave dignity which she cannot comprehend, and still more aggravating is the fact, that do what she will, she cannot quarrel with her gentle sister-in-law, and that all her innuendoes fall pointless and harmless. Christian will not hear Mrs. James’s petulance, be it ever so loud, for with one calm word she shows her its insignificance; she smiles at her sarcasms against old maids, as she might smile at some nick-name of childish sport; nay, sometimes, and it is the nearest approach to mirth which Christian is ever known to make now, she will turn round in defence of the maligned sisterhood, and chase with lightfooted raillery, which savours of days of old, the heavy wit of her opponent off the field. Mrs. James never saw Christian ruffled or disturbed by any speech of hers, save on that occasion which introduced Forsyth to Mary, and she was too watchful and too much delighted to let the opportunity of prolonging her annoyance cease; and Mary, a frequent visitor at her brother’s house, has since that time, nearly a year now, met her sister-in-law’s accomplished acquaintance so often, that people begin to whisper about Forsyth’s devotion, and to look forward to a bridal; and when he is spoken of before Mary, they smile and look in her face, and the colour on her soft cheek deepens, and the blood flushes on her forehead, and then when they wonder at his versatile talents, as they often do, for he is intellectually in that society a giant among dwarfs, Mary’s downcast eyelids grow wet with pleasant moisture, and her heart thrills with pleasure, so that she, loving Christian as she does, is unconsciously furthering Mrs. James in her plan of annoyance. Our poor Mary!
But we are neglecting the conversation which is still going on between Mrs. James and her visitor. Forsyth is preparing to go, his visit has been already prolonged beyond all usual bounds, yet he lingers still, endeavouring with his persuasive eloquence to bring about one other arrangement.
“You will bring Mary here to meet me, on new year’s day morning, my dear madam?” he says softly, and in the most insinuating tone, “will you not?”
“New year’s morning,” interrupted Mrs. James, “that will never do. You know I have always a party on the new year’s night, I shall not be able to give you that morning.”
“Well,” answered Forsyth, as smoothly and persuasively as he could, “but if you could give us your presence for a few minutes, Mary and I, I hope, will be able to manage the rest ourselves, and you know, my dear Mrs. Melville,” he added still more blandly, “I am anxious to come to an understanding with Mary as soon as possible. Come, you must add this to the many kindnesses you have done me already. You will consent, I see.”
Mrs. James could not resist. “Well then, on new year’s morning be here, and Mary shall meet you,” she said, and her gratified friend bows over her extended hand. “You may come, Mr. Forsyth, on new year’s morning.”
Mr. Forsyth can never sufficiently express his obligation; and having succeeded in all things according to his wish with Mrs. James Melville, he takes his leave at last, and rejoices as he hurries through the streets, so cold and bitter to other passengers, but so bright and cheerful to him in his present mood, that soon now he will be assured of Mary. He has no doubt about it, none at all, and he is certain that all that he wants is just this opportunity which Mrs. James is to secure him, and then Mary Melville will be his own, plighted and pledged his own.
It is but a few days, yet new year’s morning is as tardy in approach as if, so big with fate to that young, ingenious, and unfearful spirit, it lingered on its way willing to prolong her state of happy unconsciousness. The elegant Mr. Forsyth yawns through the long weary days; though it is the time of his own appointing he is impatient and restless, and his yawning and irksomeness is redoubled on that dull, cold, cheerless evening before its dawn, and he gets really nervous as the time draws near. Strange that one so practised in the world, whose heart has been so long a very superfluous piece of matter, should have his dead affections so powerfully awakened by the simple grace and girlish beauty of guileless Mary Melville. Strange, indeed, and if he is successful in winning her—as who can doubt he will—what hope is there for our sweet Mary when his sudden vehement liking passes into indifference. Poor Mary’s constant heart should be mated only with one as warm and as full of affection and tenderness as itself; but who shall have the choosing of their own future—alas, who! or who, if the choice was given them, would determine aright?—not Mary. But there is a power, the bridegroom in anticipation wots not of, ordering the very words which shall fall from his lips to-morrow, overruling the craftiness of his crafty and subtle spirit, and guarding the innocent simplicity of the prayer-protected girl, defending her from all ill.