(Uncle Bryan paused. Hitherto he had spoken in a cold and measured tone; when he resumed his story his voice was no longer passionless, and he did not seek to hold it in restraint.)
As Mr. Glaive introduced me to his daughter I rose to go, and bowing to her and saying that I would see him again, was about to take my departure, when Miss Glaive said she hoped she had not frightened me away. Not her words, nor the effect of her appearance upon me, but her voice, arrested my steps; it was so exactly like the voice of the poor girl of whose last agony I had been the only witness, that I turned and looked steadily at her. There was no resemblance between them--my lost friend was dark, Miss Glaive was fair.
'You look at me,' said Miss Glaive, 'as if you knew me.'
I managed to say that her voice reminded me of a dear friend.
'Dear!' Miss Glaive exclaimed archly; 'very dear?'
'Very dear,' I said gravely.
'A lady friend?' she asked, with smiles.
'She of whom I speak,' I said, 'was a woman.'
'Was!' echoed Miss Glaive.
'She is dead,' I explained.
'I am sorry,' said Miss Glaive very gently; 'I beg your pardon.'
I was strangely stirred by her sympathising words. There was a little pause, and I moved again, towards the door, not wishing to leave, but finding no cause to stay. Again her voice arrested me.
'If you go now,' she said, 'I shall be quite sure that I have frightened you away. Papa declares that no one makes tea like me; I tell him he knows nothing about it. Do you drink tea, Mr. Carey? You shall be the judge.'
'And after tea,' added Mr. Glaive with an observant look at me--he had grown calmer while his daughter and I were speaking--'Fanny will give us some music.'
Miss Glaive did not ask for my verdict upon her tea-making, and soon sat down to the piano and played. In this quiet way an hour must have passed without a word being spoken. It was a new experience to me, and it took me out of myself as it were. The peaceful room, the presence of this graceful girl, and the sweet melodies she played, softly and dreamily, seemed to me to belong to another and a better world than that in which I was accustomed to move. It was strangely unreal and strangely beautiful. The music ceased, and Miss Glaive came to my side.
'Papa is asleep,' she whispered; 'we must be very quiet now.'
There were books on the table, and I turned the leaves of one without any consciousness of what I was gazing upon. It did not occur to me that this was the proper time for me to leave; I was as a man enthralled. A movement made by the sleeping man (did he sleep? I have sometimes wondered in my jealous analysis of these small details) aroused me from my dream, and I wished Miss Glaive good-night. She accompanied me to the street-door.
'Papa is in trouble,' she said; are you going to assist him?'
'He has asked for my advice,' I replied.
'We must not talk now,' she said, 'for fear he should wake up and miss me; he is irritable, and has heart-disease. May I call and see you to-morrow? I know where your office is. I wrote the notes you received from papa.'
'I shall be glad to see you,' I said.
'At three o'clock, then,' were her last words, and we shook hands and parted.
A heavy rain had set in during my visit, but I was scarcely conscious of it as I walked into the town. Late as it was, I went to my office. For what purpose do you think? To get the notes which I had received from Mr. Glaive--the notes which now were precious to me because she had written them. I took them home with me and read them, and studied the delicate writing with senseless infatuation, and then placed them under my pillow for a charm, as a schoolgirl might have done. At the office the next morning I made another and a closer examination of Mr. Glaive's affairs, with the same result as I had previously obtained. Ruin was before him--before her. Punctually at three o'clock Miss Glaive arrived. I met her at the door, and conducted her to my private room. My impressions of the previous night were deepened by her appearance; she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, and her charm of manner was perfect. It would be useless for me to attempt to describe the feelings with which she inspired me; I have often endeavoured to account for them and understand them, and have never succeeded.
'Papa is very ill to-day,' she said; 'the doctor has been to see him, and says that he is suffering from mental disorder, which may prove dangerous. I have come to you to ask you the nature of his trouble.'
'Do you not think,' I asked, 'that he would be angry if he knew I had made any disclosure of his private affairs?'
'But he need not know,' she replied; 'I shall not tell him. Let it be a confidence between us. I saw some papers which you brought last night, but I do not understand them any more than papa does.'
I could not resist her pleading, and I told her, awkwardly and hesitatingly, what I had told her father.
'And all this trouble is about money,' she said with smiles; 'I was afraid it was something worse.'
I told her that it could not well be worse, unless she knew where money was to be obtained. She answered that she did not know, but that she supposed it would be got somewhere.
'You don't understand these matters of business,' I said; 'it is perhaps better for you.'
'That can't be,' she exclaimed; 'if I knew anything of business I should know where to get the money from, and I would get it That is what business men are for, is it not?'
Charmed as I was by her simplicity--a simplicity which was utterly new to me, and which it was delightful to hear from her lips--I deemed it my duty to explain matters clearly to her. Steeling my heart, I did so in plain terms, and showed her the position in which her father would be placed within a very few days.
'You frighten me!' she cried, as my words forced conviction upon her; and overcome by the news or by my manner of telling it, she fainted. If she had been fair before, how much fairer was she now as she lay before me? Her childlike ways, her beauty, her helplessness, made a slave of me. I feared at first that I had killed her, and I reproached myself bitterly. Timidly I bathed her forehead with water, and when she opened her eyes, and looked at me in innocent wonder, a feeling that might have been heaven-born--to use a phrase--so fraught was it with thankful happiness, took possession of me. I explained to her what had occurred, and she lowered her veil to hide her tears. As I witnessed her grief, it seemed to me as if I were the cause of her father's misfortunes.
'And there is absolutely no hope for us?' she sobbed.
'There is only the hope,' I replied, 'as I explained to your father, that some friend will come forward and serve him in this strait.'
'Papa has no such friend that I know of,' she said.
I thought of the young man whom I had seen at Mr. Glaive's house on the previous night, and I mentioned him.
'Ralph,' she said, 'my cousin. No, he is very poor.' She turned to me. 'I had a fancy last night that you were our friend.'
I answered in a constrained voice: 'I never saw Mr. Glaive until a fortnight ago; he called upon me only in the way of business.'
'Forgive me,' she murmured; 'I was wrong to come, perhaps--but I did not know.'
'If I could serve you--' I said, and paused. The words came to my lips and were uttered almost without the exercise of my will; not that I repented of them. She threw up her veil, and moved towards me.
'If!' she echoed. 'You could if you pleased, could you not? You are rich?'
'I am not a poor man,' I said.
'Help us,' she pleaded, holding out her hands to me. 'Be my friend.'
I murmured something--I did not know what--and she clasped my hand; the warm pressure of her fingers upon mine thrilled my pulses. The next minute I was alone. I strove to concentrate my thoughts upon certain matters of business which claimed my attention, but I found it impossible to do so. I could not dispossess myself of the image of Frances Glaive. In an idle humour I wrote her name, Frances Glaive, over and over again; if I had been a boy, with all a boy's enthusiasm, instead of a man hardened and embittered by cruel experience, I could not have behaved more in accordance with established precedent. I saw Frances Glaive sitting in the vacant chair at my table; I heard her sweet voice; I gazed upon her face as it lay, insensible and beautiful, before me. 'Be my friend,' she had said. I could serve her; it was in my power to make her happy. I took out my bank-book and the private ledger in which I kept the record of my worldly progress; I was rich enough to pay all Mr. Glaive's liabilities, and still have a considerable sum left; but I need not pay them in full. I knew that I could easily settle with his creditors for a trifle over the value of his estate. I did not value money, and yet I decided upon nothing; I could not think calmly upon the matter; I thought only of Frances Glaive, knowing full well that she, by a word, by a look, by a smile, could make me do any wild or extravagant thing against all reason and conviction. I craved to see her again, and so strong was this craving that in the evening I found myself walking in the direction of Mr. Glaive's house. I can recall the manner of that walk; I can recall how, governed by an impulse stronger than reason, I still was conscious of a curious mental conflict which was being waged within me, independent of my own will as it seemed, and the most powerful forces of which strove to pull me back, while I was really walking along without hesitation. I did hesitate when I stood before Mr. Glaive's house, but only for a very few moments. Frances Glaive came into the passage to receive me.
'I thought you would come,' she said, her face lighting up.
'And you are glad?' I could not help asking.
'Very, very glad. Papa is in the study; he is dreadfully weak and ill, and I have been counting the minutes. May I tell him that I have brought him a friend?'
'Yes,' I answered; 'a friend of yours.'
All this while she had not relinquished my hand; and I too willingly retained hers in mine. Well, well--at that time I would have thought no price too heavy to pay for such precious moments.
I will not prolong my story more than I can help; already it has far exceeded the limits I proposed to myself; but when the floodgates are opened, the tide rushes in. You can guess what followed; you can guess that I served Mr. Glaive for the sake of his daughter. In a short time he was a free man, and I was his only creditor. I grew to love Frances Glaive most passionately, and her father saw and encouraged my passion. My character underwent a wonderful change. Love transformed all things. Through Frances Glaive's innocence and artlessness the world became purified; through her beauty the world became beautiful to me. By simple contact with her nature all the bitterness in my nature was dissolved. The scales fell from my eyes, and I saw good even in things I had most despised. The days were brighter; the nights were sweeter. Life was worth having. Say that a man who had been born blind, and who had no knowledge of the beauties of nature, is suddenly blessed with vision; a new world is open to him, and he appreciates, with the most exquisite enjoyment and sensibility, the light and colour and graceful shapes by which for the first time he sees himself surrounded. The spring buds, the bright sunshine of summer, the russet tints of autumn, the pure snow with its myriad wonders, as it lies on the hills, as it floats in the air, as it fringes the bare branches--not alone these, but the tiniest insect, the smallest flower, are revelations to him. It was thus with me, and all the fresh feelings of youth came to me when I was a middle-aged man.
CHAPTER XX.
UNCLE BRYAN CONCLUDES HIS STORY.
I became a frequent visitor at Mr. Glaive's house. Three or four times every week I spent my evenings there, and I was always welcomed with smiles and good words. Mr. Glaive and his daughter had never mingled in the gaieties of the city; neither had I. One night we were speaking of a concert that was to be given at the largest public hall in the city; a royal prince had promised his patronage, and Frances Glaive was eager to see him.
'I should like to go so much,' she said; 'I think I would give anything to go.'
'I would take you with pleasure,' said her father; 'but there are two obstacles. One is the expense--that could be got over, I daresay; but the other is insurmountable. The excitement would be too much for my heart.'
His heart was a favourite theme with him; he was not to be troubled or irritated or excited because of it; he was to be petted and humoured because of it. It enabled him to live the life he loved best--a life of perfect indolence.
The next time I visited them, I presented Frances Glaive with tickets for the concert. It required courage on my part, for it was the first step in a new direction.
'What am I to do with them?' she asked. 'You are very good, but I have no one to take me.'
'I was going to ask Mr. Glaive,' I said, 'if he would intrust you to my care.'
Mr. Glaive replied in his heartiest manner, and his daughter was wild with delight. If anything had been needed to complete the spell, Frances Glaive's appearance on that night would have supplied it. For beauty, for grace, for freshness, there was not a lady in the hall who could compare with her. I experienced a new feeling of happiness as I witnessed the admiring glances of the assembly, and Frances Glaive herself was no less happy in the admiration she excited. From that night we drifted into the gaieties of the city, and I became her constant companion--necessarily, because I supplied the means.
I must mention here that her cousin Ralph was also a constant visitor at the house; but although he was on terms of affectionate intimacy with Frances--which I set down, not without jealous feeling, to their cousinship and to their having been much together during their childhood--Mr. Glaive did not seem to care for his presence at that time. I heard Ralph say to Frances at one time, when she spoke of an entertainment to which we were going,
'I would take you if I had money.'
'Get rich, then,' she replied, 'like Mr. Carey; but you are too idle to work.'
I believed this to be pretty near the truth, although he chose to put another construction upon his indolence by saying that it was his misfortune to have been born a gentleman. He was barely twenty-two years of age at the time, but he had learnt that fine lesson perfectly. I came upon them then, and Frances Glaive said that she had just told her cousin that he was too idle to work, and that he had pleaded as an excuse that he had been born a gentleman. How I loved her for her frankness and truthfulness! Ralph turned very red, and said that he would work if he could obtain anything suitable. A little while after this conversation, at the intercession of his cousin, I obtained a situation for him, but he did not keep it many weeks. He was altogether too fine for work. As I have said, I had a jealous feeling towards him with reference to Frances Glaive; his youth, his comeliness, his gayer manners made me uneasy sometimes, and my intense love often magnified this feeling until it became torture. Was not this pearl of womanhood too precious for me to hope to win? On one side there was light; on the other, darkness. There was no medium. Without her love, it was blackest night; with her love, it was brightest day. I determined to know my fate, and soon; but before I had mustered sufficient courage to speak, Mr. Glaive anticipated me. My attentions to his daughter, he said, were becoming conspicuous; as her only protector--a poor and helpless one, he added, with his heart-complaint, which prevented his guarding her and watching over her as he should--he was naturally anxious as to her future. I took advantage of a pause to ask nervously if my attentions were displeasing to him. Not at all, he answered eagerly; but as a father he was bound to ask the precise meaning that was to be attached to them. If ever I had a child of my own, I should be able to understand his anxiety. He put his handkerchief to his eyes, and waited for me to speak. A thrill of unspeakable happiness set my pulses quivering with sweet music. A child of my own--of hers! If such a solemn charge were given into my hands, how sacredly, how tenderly would I guard it! I replied to Mr. Glaive, that my attentions could have but one meaning, and that it was my dearest hope to make Frances Glaive my wife. Then ensued a business conversation as to my means, as to how he himself was to live, and other details. My answers must have satisfied him, for he told me that the day on which I became his son-in-law would be the happiest day in his life.
'Take an early opportunity,' he said, 'of seeing Frances, and speak for yourself.'
'I would have spoken to her at once; but he told me that she was not at home, and that he had designed this interview while she was out lest we should be disturbed, or lest he had misunderstood the attention I had paid to her. I appreciated the delicacy of his design, and I waited until the following day. I was not destined to be disappointed; Frances Glaive accepted me for her husband. I scarcely dared to ask her if she loved me, but when she placed her hand in mine, was it not sufficient? I bought the house which pleased her best, and left her to furnish it according to her taste. It delighted me to humour her in all her whims; nothing that she did, nothing that she said, could be wrong. I changed my mode of life to please her; I dressed to please her. What was right in her eyes was right in mine. There was no questioning on my part. I had found my teacher, and I was supremely satisfied to be led by her who had brought sunshine into my life. She furnished the house with, exquisite taste; it cost three times the money I had anticipated, but she said,
'What does it matter? You are rich.'
What did it matter? What consideration of money could influence me when I would have given her my heart's blood had she asked for it?
Well, we were married. On the wedding-day I gave Mr. Glaive a full release of what he owed me.
'My father-in-law must not be my creditor,' I said.
For a time I was very, very happy, and Frances herself seemed to be so. If indulgence in every whim, in every desire, can produce happiness, she must have been in possession of it, for I grudged her nothing. It was very sweet to be led, and I did not count the cost. Ralph, her cousin, lived almost entirely at our house. I found it difficult to enter thoroughly into my wife's enjoyments, although I strove honestly to do so. She was fond of society, fond of dress, fond of being admired; if, now and then, a thought intruded itself that there was frivolousness in her fancies, I crushed it down. What right had I to judge? My life had been until now a life of misery, because of my belief in my own convictions, because I had judged everything by hard stern rules; and now, when happiness was in my possession, and I had discovered the folly and the error of my ways, I would not allow myself to relapse into my old beliefs. We were living at a rate that outstripped my means, but it did not trouble me much. Money would make no difference in our feelings: if we grew poor, it would be a good test for our affection. I happened to mention casually to Mr. Glaive that we were living at a high rate.
'You surely do not mean to retrench!' he exclaimed.
'I certainly have no such intention,' I replied, smiling, 'unless Frances wishes it. She knows my position, and I am entirely satisfied to be led by her.'
'Quite right,' said my father-in-law, regarding me somewhat thoughtfully I fancied; 'women know best about these matters--though Frances after all is a mere girl, twenty years your junior at least, eh?'
'That is so,' I said, angry with myself for feeling uneasy at the remark.
'Yes, yes,' he continued; 'it would break her heart to give up any of her little whims--she is like a child. The dear girl must enjoy life--now is her only time. By and by, when she becomes a mother, perhaps--'
I turned from him; it was my dearest hope, but it was fated not to be gratified.
'I tell you what it is, Bryan,' he said, 'you do not make a proper use of your opportunities; were I in your position, I would treble my income.'
'By what means?' I asked.
'By speculating, my dear Bryan; by speculating judiciously, as with your abilities you would be sure to do. Think of the additional pleasures you could offer my dear girl, and of the thousand ways in which you could add to her enjoyment of life.'
Money had never presented itself to me in this light before; Mr. Glaive was right; it was a thing to be desired for what it would purchase. I took heed of his counsels, and became a speculator. The words he had spoken to me bore other fruit besides--bitter fruit, from the distress they caused me. I was twenty-five--not twenty--years older than Frances, and gray hairs were multiplying fast on my head. The thought that in a very few years my hair might be quite white, while Frances would be still a girl, gave me unutterable pain; but I strove to banish it from my mind. We had been married nearly six months, and with the exception of my own self-torturings, no cloud had appeared to darken our lives, when a circumstance occurred. As I was going home one evening, a woman stopped me--a poor ragged creature--and addressing me by name, begged me to assist her. During those few months I never paused to inquire into the merits of an appeal for charity--my own happiness pleaded for the applicants, and I gave without question. I gave this woman a shilling, and she accepted it thankfully enough, but with the mournful remark that it would be gone to-morrow. That, and the circumstance of her addressing me by name--I having no knowledge of her--interested me, and I questioned her. She was a stranger, she said, and had but newly arrived, having walked many weary miles. Where did she come from? I asked; and she mentioned the town where I had first tarried and suffered after leaving my home. She told me that she saw my name over my place of business, and had recognised it as belonging to one who had been most kind to a young friend she knew years and years ago, and then she mentioned the name of the girl who had died in my arms.
'What were you?' I asked. 'I have no remembrance of you.'
'Don't ask me what I was or what I am,' she faltered; 'but if you can assist me to lead an honest life, do so for pity's sake.'
In memory of the poor girl whom she had known, I determined to assist this unfortunate creature--at this time a middle-aged woman--and I obtained a respectable lodging for her at once. I told her that we would never refer to the past, but that she should commence a new and better life at once. And she did; and honestly fulfilled its duties.
Everything seemed to be going on well and happily at home, and I was in the full enjoyment of my fool's paradise, when I received a shock which almost turned the current of my blood. It took place on a day when I had been occasioned much annoyance by the circumstance of my father-in-law drawing upon me, without my permission, for a sum of money which was of consequence to me. It was not the first time he had done this, and I had paid his drafts with but slight reluctance, for they were for small amounts. But the amount of the present bill was serious, and it came at an inconvenient time. I was so much annoyed that, knowing Mr. Glaive to be at my house spending the evening, I determined not to go home until late, for fear that angry words might pass between us in the presence of Frances. So I sent a note to my wife, saying that business detained me at the office; and I idled away the time until ten o'clock, when I walked slowly home. My wife was not in the usual room in which we sat of an evening, and I went to a little room of which she was very fond, and which she called her sanctuary. I heard voices there, hers and her cousin Ralph's, and the words that he was addressing to her arrested my steps. I was guilty then of the first mean action in my life--I listened. What I heard I cannot here repeat, but I heard enough to know that I had been cheated and cajoled. I did not wait for the end, but I stole away with a desolate heart. My dream was over, and I was awake again, with a desolate heart, and with all my old opinions and old convictions at work within me in stronger force than ever.
I said nothing; certain as I was of the ugly bitter truth, I resolved to be still more certain of it, not from my own impressions, but from outward evidence. I discovered to my astonishment that my wife's vanity, her fondness for display, her love of the admiration of men, her frivolity, her flirtations with her cousin Ralph, and my own ridiculous infatuation and blindness were matters of common conversation. Fool that I was to believe in goodness! I cast aside all weakness, and resolved never to be deceived again. My heart was like a withered leaf; and all the foolish tenderness of my nature died an unredeemable death. Towards one person, and one alone, did I entertain any feeling of kindness; that was the woman who had solicited my help, and who had known the poor lost girl-friend of my younger days. I was sick almost to death of my home; the sight of my wife's fair face was unutterably painful to me; I was sick of the place in which I had been worldly prosperous. I yearned to fly from it, and to find myself again among strangers. The events that brought about the accomplishment of this desire came quickly. Some of the speculations I had entered into turned out badly; I could have saved myself from loss had I exercised my usual forethought; but I was reckless and despairing, and it was almost with a feeling of joy that I found, upon a careful examination of my affairs, that I had barely enough to settle with my creditors. I called them together secretly, letting neither my wife nor Mr. Glaive know of my position. I enjoined secrecy upon those to whom I was indebted, and made over to them everything I possessed in the world. Upon that very day Mr. Glaive took me to task for my treatment of his daughter, for my neglect of her. I listened to him calmly, and told him I had good and sufficient reasons for my conduct. It was an angry interview, and I ended it abruptly upon his saying that his daughter's happiness would have been more assured if he had given her to one who was more suitable to her. That same night a meeting of another description took place between Ralph and myself. He was talking of his pretty cousin in public, and of me in offensive terms. I have always regretted that I took notice of him on that occasion, for he was in liquor; but I was not master of myself. I left him after hot words had passed between us, and went to my office. He sought me there, and continued the quarrel, and boasted to my face that my wife loved him, and would have married him but for my stepping between them.
'You fool,' he said scornfully; you bought her!'
It was a bitter truth. Had I been a poor man, Frances Glaive would never have become my wife. But when he said that it was a bargain between me and her father, I thrust him from the office, and shut the door in his face. Everything was clear to me now, and I looked with shame and mortification upon my childish folly; but I was justly punished for it. I made my arrangements for departure, for I resolved never to live with my wife again, never even to see her, for fear that her fair false face should turn my senses again. The news of my failure must soon become known, and I did not intend to remain a day after its announcement. I wrote a letter to my wife, telling her that I had discovered all, and that I could no longer live with her. I told her that I was ruined, and that I was going to London to bury myself in a locality where there was the least possibility of my becoming known, and that it was useless her seeking me or sending to me, after the shame and disgrace she had brought upon me. 'If,' I concluded, 'I could make you a free woman, so that you might marry the man you love, I would willingly lay down my life; but it cannot be done. The only and best reparation I can offer is to promise, as I do now most faithfully, to wipe you out of my heart, so that you may be free from me for ever.' I had some small store of money by me, half of which I enclosed in the letter. I knew that she was in no fear of want, and that she would find a home if she wanted it in her father's house. Before I left the town I went to see the woman I had befriended, and to bid her farewell; she was earning her living by needlework. I gave her some of the money I had left, and I might have been tempted to believe, if I could have believed in anything good, that she at least was grateful to me for the assistance I had rendered her. When I came out of the house in which she lived, I saw Mr. Glaive and Ralph, arm-in-arm, on the opposite side of the way. I avoided them, and the next morning I shook the dust from my feet, and started for London. I never saw them again. I came to this part of London, where there was the least chance of my being discovered; shortly afterwards I learnt that this business was for sale, and I found I had just sufficient money to purchase it. You know now, thus far, the leading incidents of my life, and that its crowning sorrow and bitterness arose from my senseless worship of a vain, frivolous, and beautiful woman. I have only a few words to add, and they refer to Jessie.
I had no knowledge whatever of her, but on the first night of her arrival something in her face, something in her ways, reminded me of my wife. On the following morning she gave me a letter. It was from my wife, and was dated six years ago. How she discovered my address I cannot tell. It was to the effect that I should read it when she was dead, and it asked me simply to give a home to the friendless child who presented it. You can understand the effect it had upon me; questioning Jessie privately, I learned from her that she was indeed friendless and an orphan. I ascertained the place she came from, and was relieved to know that it was not the town in which I had been married. She had been stopping at an ordinary lodging-house, and I wrote to the address she gave me, but received no answer. In the mean time I feared that the quiet routine of the life I had led, and which suited me, was likely to be interrupted by the introduction into the house of another inmate. I resolved to take Jessie back to the friends she had been stopping with before she came here, and to arrange for her residence with them, undertaking to pay the expenses of her living, although, as you are aware, I could ill afford it. On the morning I took Jessie away, I gave her to understand that she would not return; but when I reached the place I found that her friends had left; I was told they had emigrated, and I made sure of the fact. It does not come within the scope of what I intended to relate to you to state why I was absent from home longer than I anticipated, nor what consideration influenced me in bringing Jessie back with me. But it is pertinent to say that I see in her the same qualities, the same frivolities and vanities which I know existed in my wife, and which entailed upon me the most bitter sorrow it has ever fallen to the lot of man to suffer. She is here, however, for good or for ill; if it turn out for good, it will be due to but one influence.
I have nothing more to add except to exact from you the condition that not one word of what I have said shall ever be told to Jessie.
CHAPTER XXI.
I RECEIVE AN INVITATION.
Thus abruptly uncle Bryan concluded his story. Some parts of it had moved me very deeply with sympathy for him; but the latter part, where he spoke of Jessie in such a strangely unjust and inexplicable manner, filled me with indignation. I had no time, however, to think about it, for almost immediately upon the conclusion of his story, Jessie came home, flushed and radiant, from her visit to the Wests. Our grave faces checked her exuberant spirits, and, looking from one to another, she sought for an explanation.
'Are you angry with me for going out?' she asked, divining that she was the cause of all this seriousness.
'No, my dear,' replied my mother; 'no one is, I am sure. I hope you enjoyed yourself.'
'I always do,' said Jessie, her face clouding, when I go to the Wests. Has anything disagreeable occurred?'
'No, Jessie, nothing.'
Jessie had a habit of shaking her head at herself when she was not satisfied with things; it was the slightest motion in the world, but there was much meaning in it. On the present occasion it expressed to me very plainly, 'I know that you have been talking of me, and that I have done something wrong which I am not to be told of.' My mother understood it also, for with expressive tenderness she assisted Jessie to take off her bonnet and mantle, and smoothed Jessie's hair in fond admiration. I could have embraced my mother for those marks of affection towards Jessie; they were an answer to uncle Bryan's unjust words.
'I think,' said Jessie, looking into my mother's face, that you are fond of me.'
'My dear,' responded my mother, kissing her, 'I regard you almost as my daughter.'
'I like to be loved,' murmured Jessie, almost wistfully, with tender looks at my mother, and keeping close to her as if for shelter from unkindness.
'Which would you rather have, Jessie,' I asked most suddenly, 'love or money?'
Heaven only knows how the words came to my tongue! They certainly were not the result of deliberate thought. Perhaps it was because of some unconscious connection between the words Jessie had just spoken and those which she had spoken to me a little time before: 'Chris, I think I would do anything in the world for money.' The words were often in my mind, or perhaps they were prompted by an episode in the story I had just heard. Uncle Bryan's keen eyes were turned upon Jessie immediately the question passed my lips, and his scrutiny did not escape Jessie's observation.
'Ask me again, Chris,' she said, with a sudden colour in her cheeks.
'I said, which would you rather have--love or money?'
'How much money--a great deal?'
'Yes, a great deal.'
'What a question to ask! What does uncle Bryan say to it?'
'Uncle Bryan is too old for such follies,' he replied roughly.
'That is a crooked way of getting out of an argument,' she said defiantly, as if being provoked herself, she wished to provoke him. 'Money is not a folly, and money can buy anything. So, Chris, I think I would rather have money; for then,' she continued, with a disdainful laugh, 'I could buy new dresses and new bonnets, and everything else in the world that's worth having.'
I listened ruefully, hoping she did not mean what she said, for she spoke mockingly. My mother, seeing that the conversation was taking an unfortunate direction, turned it by speaking of the West family, and Jessie entertained us with lively descriptions of her friends, throwing at the same time an air of mystery over them, which considerably enhanced my curiosity concerning them. Soon afterwards all in the house had retired to rest.
But I knew that my mother would come down for a few minutes' quiet chat, and that we should have something to say to each other about uncle Bryan's wonderful story. It was in every way wonderful to me. I had always imagined that he had led a quiet uneventful life, and suddenly he had become a hero; but I could not associate the uncle Bryan I knew with the man who had fallen in love with Frances Glaive, and so I told my mother as we sat together half an hour later in my quiet little bedroom.
'His life has been a life of great suffering,' my mother said, 'and we can never feel too kindly towards him. He has shown us his heart to-night; and yet, my dear, I think I understand him better than you do.'
'I daresay, mother; that's because you are better than I am.'
'No, no, my dear,' she replied. 'Who can be better than my darling boy? It is because I have more experience of the world. Chris, my heart melted to him to-night more than it has ever done. I had a curious fancy once when he was speaking. I wished that he had been a boy like you instead of an old man, for I yearned to take him in my arms and comfort him.'
'But what person in the world,' I thought, 'would she not wish to comfort if she knew that they needed it?' And I said aloud: 'If he had had a mother like mine, it would have been different with him.' (Such words as these were the natural outcome of my affection for this dearest of women, and I did not know then, although I believe I have learnt since, how sweet they were to her.) 'But, mother, I can't think of him as you do, when I remember what he said about Jessie. And tell me--would you like me to look on things as uncle Bryan does?'
'God forbid, child!' she exclaimed warmly. 'It would take the sweetness out of your life; but I pray that you may never be tried as he has been. All that I want to impress upon you is to be tolerant to him and kind, because of his great trials and troubles. And now, my dear, I have something to tell you that you will be glad to hear. Jessie, before she went to sleep, asked me not to believe what she had said about money. "I couldn't help saying it," she said; "but I would rather be loved than have all the money there is in the world." Jessie puzzles me sometimes, my darling; but I have seen nothing in her nature that is not good.'
And with these sweet words of comfort my mother left me to my rest.
The battle between Jessie and me with respect to the Wests still continued. Jessie, standing upon her dignity, as she had declared she would, did not ask me again to call for her when she visited them, and as her visits were growing more frequent, my sufferings were proportionately intensified. I felt that I could not hold out much longer, and I was on the point of giving way and sacrificing my manliness, when the difficulty was resolved for me by the following note, which my mother placed in my hands with a smile:
'Miss West presents her compliments to Mr. Christopher Carey, and will be happy to see him at nine o'clock to-night.'
I was greatly delighted, and I congratulated myself upon my powers of endurance, thinking, naturally enough, that I had Jessie to thank for the invitation. In obedience to the summons, and feeling really very curious about the Wests--and most anxious also, I must confess, to be where Jessie was--I presented myself at the house at the hour named to the minute. There was no need to knock at the street-door, for it was open. I tapped on the wall of the dark passage, and waited for an answer. There was a great deal of laughter below, and my soft tapping was not heard, so I advanced two or three steps, and knocked more loudly.
'Who's there?' a voice cried, and the laughter ceased.
'It's me,' I answered; and I was about to announce myself more explicitly, when my words were taken up mockingly.
'Oh, it's Me, is it? Well, come downstairs, Mr. Me. Flora child, open the door. Take care! Mind your head!'
The warning came too late. I knocked my head smartly against a beam in the ceiling, and stumbling down the stairs, entered the kitchen--the door of which was opened, by Flora I presume, just in time to receive me--in a very undignified manner. Screams of laughter greeted me as I picked myself up, very hot and red at my loss of dignity.
'Be quiet, children!' cried the voice which I had first heard. 'I hope you haven't hurt yourself, Mr. Me! Come along and shake hands. Very glad to see you. "And Jack fell down and broke his crown."'--This quotation because I was rubbing my head, which I had bumped severely.
'I am not hurt much, thank you,' I said, as I walked towards the speaker, who was either a girl or a woman, or both in one, for I could not guess her age within ten years. She was sitting on a bench before a table; and as I gave her my hand, she placed her fingers to her lips, and glanced expressively towards a curtain, made of two patchwork quilts, which partitioned off a part of the kitchen. There was something going on behind this curtain, for there was a shuffling of feet there, and I heard low voices.
'Don't speak loud,' said my hostess, as I guessed her to be. 'I'm Miss West. Jessie's behind there; you'll see her presently. Don't let her know you're here.'
'Why, doesn't she know?' I exclaimed, in a maze of bewilderment.
'Bless your heart, no! I sent you the note without her knowing anything of it. I thought you'd be glad.' As Miss West made this remark she gave me a sharp look.
'I am glad,' I said.
'I knew you would be. Rubbing your head again! Well, you have raised a bump! Shall I brown-paper-and-vinegar you?'
'No, thank you,' I said, laughing; and then I looked round in wonder upon the strange scene.
CHAPTER XXII.
I AM INTRODUCED TO A THEATRICAL FAMILY.
I think if I had been suddenly plunged into Aladdin's cave, I should not have been more amazed. There I should have expected to see the rich treasures of gold and precious stones and the magic fruit growing on magic trees with which that cave is filled, but for the strange wonders by which I was here surrounded I was totally unprepared. These loomed upon me only gradually, for the two tallow candles which threw light upon the scene were but a dim illumination. The kitchen, which comprised nearly the whole of the basement, was irregularly shaped, and so large that the distant corners were almost completely in shade. Lurking, as it were, in one of these distant corners was a man strangely accoutred, whom I expected would presently step forward and join our party, but not a motion did the figure make. I subsequently discovered that it was a dummy man, in chain armour, which had once played a famous part (the armour, not the man) in a famous drama of the middle ages. Hanging upon the walls were numberless articles of male and female attire, some mentionable, some un-ditto; but with rare exceptions the dresses were not such as I was accustomed to rub against in my daily walks. These that I saw hanging around the room, covering every inch of available space from ceiling to floor, were theatrical dresses of different fashions and degrees; many were of silk and satin, very much faded, for persons of quality, and some were of commoner stuff for commoner folks--which latter, from their appearance, seemed to have worn better. Here the dress of a noble Roman fraternised with the kilts of a canny Scotchman, and here the satin cloak and trunks of a fashionable melodramatic nobleman contemplated (doubtless with sinister designs) the modest bodice which covered the breast of female virtue. High life and low life, in every description of ancient, mediæval, and modern fashion, were here represented, and to an eye more practised and fanciful than mine, the room might have been supposed to be furnished with all the cardinal vices and virtues in allegory. Here were long boots whose character could not be mistaken--they represented villainy of the very deepest dye, and they frowned upon the heavy hobnails of a model peasantry. Here were the woollen garments and broad-buckled belt which had played their parts in a hundred smuggling adventures; and here the breeches, stockings, and natty shoes which had danced hundreds of jigs amidst uproarious applause. Here was a harlequin's dress ready to flash into life and play strange antics at the mere waving of the wand which hung above the mask; and clinging to it on either side, as if in fond memory of old triumphs, were the short skirts of dainty columbines. Here was the dress of Wah-no-tee, feathers, bald scalp, moccasins, and hatchet, all complete, side by side with the fripperies of my Lord Foppington. Among the pots and pans on the dresser were polished breastplates and gauntlets and shields of various patterns. There were other dresses, very much bespangled and be-jewelled, and pasteboard helmets and crowns of priceless value, and masks that had had a hard life of it, being dented here and bulged there and puffed up and bunged up in tender places, worse than any prizefighter's face after the severest encounter. A donkey's head and shoulders hung immediately above me, and by its side the plaster cast of a face without the slightest expression in it, and which is popularly supposed to represent an important branch of the histrionic art. Whichever way I turned, these and a hundred other strange articles most incongruously mixed together met my gaze.
'Well, what do you think of us?' asked Miss West. 'We're a queer bunch, ain't we?'
'It's a strange place,' I said, thinking it best to avoid personalities. 'I never saw anything like it.'
'We're a theatrical family, my dear,' said Miss West complacently, 'born in the profession every one of us. Are you fond of theatres?'
As a matter of fact, I had only been twice to a theatre, but it was a place of enchantment to me, and I said as much to Miss West.
'Ah!' she mused. 'It looks so from the front, I daresay; and a good job for us that it does. But it is bright, and it does carry you away.'
A familiar voice behind the curtain caused a diversion, and I turned eagerly in that direction. Miss West gave me another of her sharp looks.
'Don't you wish you had eyes in your ears?' she said. 'You're one of the bashful ones, I can see. Could you play the part of the Bashful Lover do you think?' (This question was accompanied by a significant dig in the ribs and a merry laugh.)
'I don't think,' I stammered, very red and confused, 'that I should ever be able to act.'
'Not that part!' exclaimed my good-natured tormentor. 'Well, then, you could play "The Good-for-nothing."'
Which was an allusion I did not at all understand. Miss West proceeded:
'All you've got to do, my dear, is to stick to nature. Turk gets mad with me when I tell him that. "Stick to nature!" he cries. "Why, then every fool could act." I say to him, every fool could act if he stuck to nature. Then he rolls his eyes and glares, does Turk.'
'Why does he do that?' I inquire.
'He plays the heavy villains, my dear, at the Royal Columbia Theatre; and what's a heavy villain without his glare? You should see him in The Will and the Way! It's a sight.'
'I should like to see him; but you haven't told me who Turk is.'
'Turk is my brother.'
'He is not here?' I ask, with another glance at the curtain.
'Oh, no; he is playing a new part to-night Poor Turk! the new school of acting depresses him. Say, O.'
'O,' I said, with a smile.
'Ah, you should hear Turk say it! It would fill a large page. Do you remember when you first learnt to write?'
'Yes.'
'And how, with your left arm sprawling over the table, and your left ear listening for something you never heard, and your eyes as staring wide open as ever they could be, and your tongue half out of your mouth, you dug your pen into the copy-book to produce your first O, which took about five minutes in the making, and then came out squabbled? That's the way Gus says his O's. He takes a long time over them. Now Brinsley's different.'
'Brinsley?'
'My brother. He's sensible. He plays walking gentlemen in the new style, and rattles off what he has to say quite in the elegant way--as if he didn't care a bit for it, you know. Turk sneers at him (dramatically, my dear), and says that the new school of acting is the ruin of the profession. But to come back to the Bashful Lover. You shall play it, my dear. Gus shall write the piece.'
'Gus?'
'One of my brothers. Gus can write anything--tragedies, melodramas, farces--and he shall write The Bashful Lover, after the style of The Conjugal Lesson. One scene, and only two performers--you and Jessie. That would be nice, as Jessie says. You shall quarrel, of course, and make it up, and quarrel again, and snub each other, and sulk, and say spiteful things (Gus will see to all that), but--don't look so glum!--it shall all come right in the end. You shall drop into each other's arms and kiss, and while you are folding her to your heart (that's the style nowadays, my dear), the curtain shall fall. We'll have a select audience--none of the boys, for that would spoil it, eh? but Gus--he must be present as the author. There'll be me, and Florry, and Matty, and Rosy, and Nelly, and Sophy, and we'll all applaud at the right places, you may be sure.'
Miss West counted the names on her fingers as she went over them; the young ladies who bore them were all seated round the table and about the room, engaged in various ways. One was cutting-out stars of paper tinsel, and gluing them on to a gauze dress; another was making dancing shoes; another was amusing herself with a cardboard stage and cardboard characters, which she drew on and off by means of tin slides. Miss West, who also had an article of female attire, in an unfinished state, in her lap, which she worked upon in the intervals of her conversation, called these young ladies by name, one by one, and desired each to perform a magnificent curtsy to me, which the little misses, the eldest of whom could not have been more than fourteen years of age, did in grand style, worthy of the finest ladies in the land. I was somewhat bewildered at the extent of Miss West's family, and I asked if there were any more of them.
'Heaps, my dear,' she complacently replied; 'there are nineteen of us altogether--eleven boys and eight girls, and all straight made, with the exception of me. I'm crooked. My legs are wrong. But I've been on the stage too. I played an old witch for an entire season, and got great applause. People in the house wondered how I could keep doubled up almost for such a long time together; I was on in one scene for twenty minutes; they didn't know I was doubled up naturally.'
In proof of her words Miss West rose, and hobbled to the end of the kitchen as if in search of something, and hobbled back, the most genial and good-humoured of old witches. She was barely four feet in height, and was a queer little figure indeed, but her face was bright, and her eyes were bright I could not help liking the little woman, and I told her so.
'That's right, Master Christopher. We'll be friends, you and me. Well, but to come back.' (This was evidently one of her favourite figures of speech.) got two pound five a week for playing the old witch; it lasted for twenty-two weeks, and it was almost the death of me. I had to do it though.'
'Why?'
Her voice grew quieter and she spoke in subdued tones, so that the little misses should not hear.
'Mother and father died within a month of each other, and there were the doctor's bills and the funeral expenses to be provided for. Then there's a large family of us, Master Christopher, and taking us altogether in a lump, we're no joke. The boys wouldn't hear of my going on the stage again, and I don't see myself how I could do it regularly, for there's a deal of business to look after indoors, letting alone the household affairs. Though I like it! If anybody--that is, anybody who's somebody--would write me a strong one-part piece, I could make a big hit with my figure. 'Tisn't every day you see such a figure as mine; it's worth a mint of money on the stage if it was properly worked. They're all on the stage but me; little Sophy there--she's the youngest, four years--spoke two lines in the pantomime last year to rounds of applause. The people love to see a clever child on the stage, though the papers write against it. But what are the papers? as Turk says, with a glare.'
'Of course,' I repeated, with a foolish air of wisdom, 'what are the papers?'
'Turk says, if they were what they ought to be, somebody that he knows (that's himself, my dear) would be at the top of the tree.'
'Turk is very clever, then?'
He's the best murderer to slow music that I've ever seen. But Gus is the genius of the family. In the matter of that, we're all geniuses. But blighted, my dear, blighted!'
She gave me the merriest look, as little like a blighted being as can well be imagined.
'We're all of us very conceited, my dear, and very vain. What was that thing in the fable that tried to blow itself out, and came to grief?'
'The frog.'
'We're all of us frogs, my dear. If people would only give us as much room as we think we ought to have, the world wouldn't be big enough for a quarter of us. And of all the conceited creatures in this topsy-turvy world, actors and actresses are the worst. We're good enough in our way, but we do think such a deal of ourselves.'
'Is Mr. Gus a good actor?'
'Plays leading business; he's out of an engagement just now, He's behind the curtain with Jessie.'
I was burning to ask what they were doing there, but the words hung on my tongue, and an inquiry of another description came forth. It was concerning the wonderful collection of dresses and theatrical properties with which the kitchen was filled. I wanted to know if they were used solely for the adornment of the persons of the Wests.
'Bless your heart, my dear, no,' was the reply. This is the 'stock-in-trade of our theatrical wardrobe business. We lend them out for private theatricals and bal masques. It was a good business once, but it has fallen off dreadfully. When bal masques were in fashion, mother used to lend as many as twenty and thirty dresses a night sometimes. If ever you want a dress for a bal masque--though there's scarcely one a year now, worse luck!--come to me, and make you a nobleman, or a chimney sweep, or a brigand, or the Emperor of Russia, in the twinkling of a bedpost, and all for the small charge of--nothing, to you. But to come back. You wanted to ask just now what Gus and Jessie are doing behind that curtain. They're rehearsing a scene, my dear, out of As You Like It. Not that she wants teaching; Jessie's a born actress, and if she were on the stage, she'd make a fortune with her face and voice. And as for her laugh--there, listen! I never did hear Mrs. Nesbit laugh--I'm not old enough to have seen her act, my dear--but if her laugh was as sweet and musical as Jessie's, I'll eat my stock-in-trade down to the last feather. And there's another reason, Master Christopher--Gus is in love with her. Bless my soul! how the boy changes colour! Why, they're all in love with her. Turk is mad about her, and Brinsley is pining away before our eyes. He doesn't mind it so much, because a slim figure suits his line of acting. It wouldn't do for a walking gentleman to be fat.' Miss West placed her hand upon mine, and said, with sagacious nods, 'My dear, if Jessie was on the stage, she would have ten thousand lovers. Hark! there's the bell. They're going to play the scene. Are you ready, Jessie?'
'Yes,' cried Jessie, 'but we want some one for Celia; she only speaks twice.'
'Florry will do Celia,' replied Miss West. 'Go behind, Florry; we'll commence the scene properly, and I'll read Jacques. Now, then. Act four, scene one: The Forest of Arden. Up with the curtain.'
The curtain was drawn aside, and disclosed a roughly constructed stage, and absolutely an old scene representing a wood.
'We have three scenes,' whispered Miss West: 'a chamber scene, a street scene, and a wood. You'll see how beautifully Gus will play Orlando. He'll be dressed for the part. Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jacques. Look over the book with me. Florry knows her part. I commence: "I prithee, pretty youth--"'
I looked up, and saw Jessie and Florry on the stage. Jessie, looking towards us, did not appear to recognise me; her face was flushed, and her eyes were brilliant with excitement.
Miss West (as Jacques): 'I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.'
Jessie (as Rosalind): 'They say you are a very melancholy fellow.'
Miss West: 'I am so; I do love it better than laughing.'
Jessie: 'Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.'
Miss West: 'Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.'
Jessie: 'Why, then, 'tis good to be a post!'
The raillery of the tone was perfect, and I was aglow with admiration. I had never in my life heard anything more exquisitely intoned, and this was but a foretaste of what was to follow.
Jessie (to Miss West): 'A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad: I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.'
Miss West: 'Yes, I have gained my experience.'
Jessie: 'And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad; and to travel for it, too!'
Here Gus West entered, dressed as Orlando. Very noble and handsome he looked, and in the love scene that followed between him and Jessie, he played much too well for my peace of mind. When Jessie said, 'Ask me what you will, I will grant it;' and he answered, 'Then love me, Rosalind,' he spoke in so natural a tone, and with so much eagerness, that I could not believe he was acting, especially with Miss West's words in my mind that he really was in love with her. I was heartily glad when the scene was at an end. But I was somewhat comforted at Jessie's unfeigned delight that I had at last found my way to the Wests'.
'I thought at first that I had you to thank for being here,' I said; 'but Miss West sent me an invitation without you knowing anything of it, it seems.'
'Miss West is a meddlesome--dear delightful creature! She's as good as gold! And I'm a little bit glad that it has happened so; it was manly in you not to give in, and I had a good mind to commence coaxing you again to come.'
'And I was beginning to be so miserable,' I said, adding my confession to hers, 'at not being able to be where you were, that I was on the point of giving way myself, and asking you if I might come without an invitation.'
'So the best thing you can do,' cried Miss West, who had overheard us, 'is to kiss and make friends.'
Jessie laughed, and said, 'I didn't see you while I was acting, Chris. I was so excited that I couldn't see a face in the room.'
Not even Orlando's?' I suggested, with a furtive look at Jessie.
'Oh, yes; his of course, but then we were acting to each other.'
'Only acting, Jessie?' I inquired, with much anxiety.
'Only acting, Jessie!' mimicked Miss West, whose sharp ears lost not a word. 'Why, what else should it be? Or else she's married to Gus--Scotch fashion, my dear. "I take thee, Rosalind (meaning Jessie), for wife," says Gus. "I do take thee, Orlando (meaning Gus), for my husband," says Jessie. But she'd say that to any man who played Orlando as well as Gus does--wouldn't you, Jessie?'
'Of course I would,' replied Jessie, entering into her friend's humour.
'Why, my dear, I knew a young lady who was married a dozen times a week (in two pieces every night) for more than six months. And her sweetheart was the stage carpenter, and saw it all from the wings--imagine his sufferings, my dear! Ah, but such marriages are often a good deal happier than real ones; there's more fun in them, certainly. Jessie, there's ten o'clock striking; it's time for you to go. Now mind,' concluded Miss West, addressing me, 'no more standing on ceremony; you're welcome to come and go when you like; we shall look on you as we look on Jessie, as one of the family.'
I promised to come very often, and Miss West said I could not come too often. There was no mistaking the hearty sincerity of the invitation. Jessie and I walked very slowly home, and she listened delightedly to my praises of her acting.
'I don't want them at home to know about it, Chris,' she said; 'at least, not till I tell them.'
'Very well, Jessie;' and we entered the little parlour together in a very happy mood.