NOVELISTS should never allow
themselves to weary of the study
of real life. If they observed
this duty conscientiously, they
would give us fewer pictures
chequered with vivid contrasts
of light and shade; they would
seldom elevate their heroes and
heroines to the heights of rapture--still
seldomer sink them to the depths
of despair; for if we rarely
taste the fulness of joy in this
life, we yet more rarely savour
the acrid bitterness of hopeless
anguish; unless, indeed, we have
plunged like beasts into sensual
indulgence, abused, strained,
stimulated, again overstrained,
and, at last, destroyed our faculties
for enjoyment; then, truly, we
may find ourselves without support,
robbed of hope. Our agony is
great, and how can it end? We
have broken the spring of our
powers; life must be all suffering--too
feeble to conceive faith--death
must be darkness--God, spirits,
religion can have no place in
our collapsed minds, where linger
only hideous and polluting recollections
of vice; and time brings us on
to the brink of the grave, and
dissolution flings us in--a rag
eaten through and through with
disease, wrung together with
pain, stamped into the churchyard
sod by the inexorable heel of
despair.
But the man of regular life
and rational mind never despairs.
He loses his property--it is
a blow--he staggers a moment;
then, his energies, roused by
the smart, are at work to seek
a remedy; activity soon mitigates
regret. Sickness affects him;
he takes patience--endures what
he cannot cure. Acute pain racks
him; his writhing limbs know
not where to find rest; he leans
on Hope's anchors. Death takes
from him what he loves; roots
up, and tears violently away
the stem round which his affections
were twined--a dark, dismal time,
a frightful wrench--but some
morning Religion looks into his
desolate house with sunrise,
and says, that in another world,
another life, he shall meet his
kindred again. She speaks of
that world as a place unsullied
by sin--of that life, as an era
unembittered by suffering; she
mightily strengthens her consolation
by connecting with it two ideas
--which mortals cannot comprehend,
but on which they love to repose--Eternity,
Immortality; and the mind of
the mourner, being filled with
an image, faint yet glorious,
of heavenly hills all light and
peace--of a spirit resting there
in bliss--of a day when his spirit
shall also alight there, free
and disembodied--of a reunion
perfected by love, purified from
fear--he takes courage--goes
out to encounter the necessities
and discharge the duties of life;
and, though sadness may never
lift her burden from his mind,
Hope will enable him to support
it.
Well--and what suggested all
this? and what is the inference
to be drawn therefrom? What suggested
it, is the circumstance of my
best pupil--my treasure--being
snatched from my hands, and put
away out of my reach; the inference
to be drawn from it is--that,
being a steady, reasonable man,
I did not allow the resentment,
disappointment, and grief, engendered
in my mind by this evil chance,
to grow there to any monstrous
size; nor did I allow them to
monopolize the whole space of
my heart; I pent them, on the
contrary, in one strait and secret
nook. In the daytime, too, when
I was about my duties, I put
them on the silent system; and
it was only after I had closed
the door of my chamber at night
that I somewhat relaxed my severity
towards these morose nurslings,
and allowed vent to their language
of murmurs; then, in revenge,
they sat on my pillow, haunted
my bed, and kept me awake with
their long, midnight cry.
A week passed. I had said nothing
more to Mdlle. Reuter. I had
been calm in my demeanour to
her, though stony cold and hard.
When I looked at her, it was
with the glance fitting to be
bestowed on one who I knew had
consulted jealousy as an adviser,
and employed treachery as an
instrument--the glance of quiet
disdain and rooted distrust.
On Saturday evening, ere I left
the house, I stept into the SALLE-A-MANGER,
where she was sitting alone,
and, placing myself before her,
I asked, with the same tranquil
tone and manner that I should
have used had I put the question
for the first time--
"Mademoiselle,
will you have the goodness
to give me the address
of Frances Evans Henri?"
A little surprised,
but not disconcerted, she smilingly
disclaimed
any knowledge of that address,
adding, "Monsieur has perhaps
forgotten that I explained all
about that circumstance before--a
week ago?"
"Mademoiselle," I continued, "you
would greatly oblige me by directing
me to that young person's abode."
She seemed
somewhat puzzled; and, at last,
looking up with
an admirably counterfeited air
of naivete, she demanded, "Does
Monsieur think I am telling an
untruth?"
Still avoiding
to give her a direct answer,
I said, "It
is not then your intention, mademoiselle,
to oblige me in this particular?"
"But, monsieur,
how can I tell you what I do
not know?"
"Very well;
I understand you perfectly,
mademoiselle, and
now I have only two or three
words to say. This is the last
week in July; in another month
the vacation will commence I
have the goodness to avail yourself
of the leisure it will afford
you to look out for another English
master--at the close of August,
I shall be under the necessity
of resigning my post in your
establishment."
I did not wait for her comments
on this announcement, but bowed
and immediately withdrew.
That same evening, soon after
dinner, a servant brought me
a small packet; it was directed
in a hand I knew, but had not
hoped so soon to see again; being
in my own apartment and alone,
there was nothing to prevent
my immediately opening it; it
contained four five-franc pieces,
and a note in English.
"MONSIEUR, "I
came to Mdlle. Reuter's house
yesterday, at
the time when I knew you would
be just about finishing your
lesson, and I asked if I might
go into the schoolroom and speak
to you. Mdlle. Reuter came out
and said you were already gone;
it had not yet struck four, so
I thought she must be mistaken,
but concluded it would be vain
to call another day on the same
errand. In one sense a note will
do as well--it will wrap up the
20 francs, the price of the lessons
I have received from you; and
if it will not fully express
the thanks I owe you in addition--if
it will not bid you good-bye
as I could wish to have done--if
it will not tell you, as I long
to do, how sorry I am that I
shall probably never see you
more--why, spoken words would
hardly be more adequate to the
task. Had I seen you, I should
probably have stammered out something
feeble and unsatisfactory--something
belying my feelings rather than
explaining them; so it is perhaps
as well that I was denied admission
to your presence. You often remarked,
monsieur, that my devoirs dwelt
a great deal on fortitude in
bearing grief--you said I introduced
that theme too often: I find
indeed that it is much easier
to write about a severe duty
than to perform it, for I am
oppressed when I see and feel
to what a reverse fate has condemned
me; you were kind to me, monsieur--very
kind; I am afflicted--I am heart-broken
to be quite separated from you;
soon I shall have no friend on
earth. But it is useless troubling
you with my distresses. What
claim have I on your sympathy?
None; I will then say no more.
"Farewell, Monsieur. "F.
E. HENRI."
I put up the note in my pocket-book.
I slipped the five-franc pieces
into my purse--then I took a
turn through my narrow chamber.
"Mdlle. Reuter talked about
her poverty," said I, "and she
is poor; yet she pays her debts
and more. I have not yet given
her a quarter's lessons, and
she has sent me a quarter's due.
I wonder of what she deprived
herself to scrape together the
twenty francs--I wonder what
sort of a place she has to live
in, and what sort of a woman
her aunt is, and whether she
is likely to get employment to
supply the place she has lost.
No doubt she will have to trudge
about long enough from school
to school, to inquire here, and
apply there--be rejected in this
place, disappointed in that.
Many an evening she'll go to
her bed tired and unsuccessful.
And the directress would not
let her in to bid me good-bye?
I might not have the chance of
standing with her for a few minutes
at a window in the schoolroom
and exchanging some half-dozen
of sentences--getting to know
where she lived --putting matters
in train for having all things
arranged to my mind? No address
on the note"--I continued, drawing
it again from the pocket-book
and examining it on each side
of the two leaves: "women are
women, that is certain, and always
do business like women; men mechanically
put a date and address to their
communications. And these five-franc
pieces?"--(I hauled them forth
from my purse)--"if she had offered
me them herself instead of tying
them up with a thread of green
silk in a kind of Lilliputian
packet, I could have thrust them
back into her little hand, and
shut up the small, taper fingers
over them--so--and compelled
her shame, her pride, her shyness,
all to yield to a little bit
of determined Will--now where
is she? How can I get at her?"
Opening my chamber door I walked
down into the kitchen.
"Who brought the packet ?" I
asked of the servant who had
delivered it to me.
"Un petit commissionaire,
monsieur."
"Did he say
anything?"
"Rien."
And I wended my way up the
back-stairs, wondrously the wiser
for my inquiries.
"No matter," said I to myself,
as I again closed the door. "No
matter--I'll seek her through
Brussels."
And I did.
I sought her day by day whenever
I had a moment's
leisure, for four weeks; I sought
her on Sundays all day long;
I sought her on the Boulevards,
in the Allee Verte, in the Park;
I sought her in Ste. Gudule and
St. Jacques; I sought her in
the two Protestant chapels; I
attended these latter at the
German, French, and English services,
not doubting that I should meet
her at one of them. All my researches
were absolutely fruitless; my
security on the last point was
proved by the event to be equally
groundless with my other calculations.
I stood at the door of each chapel
after the service, and waited
till every individual had come
out, scrutinizing every gown
draping a slender form, peering
under every bonnet covering a
young head. In vain; I saw girlish
figures pass me, drawing their
black scarfs over their sloping
shoulders, but none of them had
the exact turn and air of Mdlle.
Henri's; I saw pale and thoughtful
faces "encadrees" in bands of
brown hair, but I never found
her forehead, her eyes, her eyebrows.
All the features of all the faces
I met seemed frittered away,
because my eye failed to recognize
the peculiarities it was bent
upon; an ample space of brow
and a large, dark, and serious
eye, with a fine but decided
line of eyebrow traced above.
"She has probably left Brussels--perhaps
is gone to England, as she said
she would," muttered I inwardly,
as on the afternoon of the fourth
Sunday, I turned from the door
of the chapel-royal which the
door-keeper had just closed and
locked, and followed in the wake
of the last of the congregation,
now dispersed and dispersing
over the square. I had soon outwalked
the couples of English gentlemen
and ladies. (Gracious goodness!
why don't they dress better?
My eye is yet filled with visions
of the high-flounced, slovenly,
and tumbled dresses in costly
silk and satin, of the large
unbecoming collars in expensive
lace; of the ill-cut coats and
strangely fashioned pantaloons
which every Sunday, at the English
service, filled the choirs of
the chapel-royal, and after it,
issuing forth into the square,
came into disadvantageous contrast
with freshly and trimly attired
foreign figures, hastening to
attend salut at the church of
Coburg.) I had passed these pairs
of Britons, and the groups of
pretty British children, and
the British footmen and waiting-maids;
I had crossed the Place Royale,
and got into the Rue Royale,
thence I had diverged into the
Rue de Louvain--an old and quiet
street. I remember that, feeling
a little hungry, and not desiring
to go back and take my share
of the "gouter," now on the refectory-table
at Pelet's--to wit, pistolets
and water--I stepped into a baker's
and refreshed myself on a COUC(?)--it
is a Flemish word, I don't know
how to spell it--A CORINTHE-ANGLICE,
a currant bun--and a cup of coffee;
and then I strolled on towards
the Porte de Louvain. Very soon
I was out of the city, and slowly
mounting the hill, which ascends
from the gate, I took my time;
for the afternoon, though cloudy,
was very sultry, and not a breeze
stirred to refresh the atmosphere.
No inhabitant of Brussels need
wander far to search for solitude;
let him but move half a league
from his own city and he will
find her brooding still and blank
over the wide fields, so drear
though so fertile, spread out
treeless and trackless round
the capital of Brabant. Having
gained the summit of the hill,
and having stood and looked long
over the cultured but lifeless
campaign, I felt a wish to quit
the high road, which I had hitherto
followed, and get in among those
tilled grounds--fertile as the
beds of a Brobdignagian kitchen-garden--spreading
far and wide even to the boundaries
of the horizon, where, from a
dusk green, distance changed
them to a sullen blue, and confused
their tints with those of the
livid and thunderous-looking
sky. Accordingly I turned up
a by-path to the right; I had
not followed it far ere it brought
me, as I expected, into the fields,
amidst which, just before me,
stretched a long and lofty white
wall enclosing, as it seemed
from the foliage showing above,
some thickly planted nursery
of yew and cypress, for of that
species were the branches resting
on the pale parapets, and crowding
gloomily about a massive cross,
planted doubtless on a central
eminence and extending its arms,
which seemed of black marble,
over the summits of those sinister
trees. I approached, wondering
to what house this well-protected
garden appertained; I turned
the angle of the wall, thinking
to see some stately residence;
I was close upon great iron gates;
there was a hut serving for a
lodge near, but I had no occasion
to apply for the key--the gates
were open; I pushed one leaf
back--rain had rusted its hinges,
for it groaned dolefully as they
revolved. Thick planting embowered
the entrance. Passing up the
avenue, I saw objects on each
hand which, in their own mute
language. of inscription and
sign, explained clearly to what
abode I had made my way. This
was the house appointed for all
living; crosses, monuments, and
garlands of everlastings announced, "The
Protestant Cemetery, outside
the gate of Louvain."
The place was large enough
to afford half an hour's strolling
without the monotony of treading
continually the same path; and,
for those who love to peruse
the annals of graveyards, here
was variety of inscription enough
to occupy the attention for double
or treble that space of time.
Hither people of many kindreds,
tongues, and nations, had brought
their dead for interment; and
here, on pages of stone, of marble,
and of brass, were written names,
dates, last tributes of pomp
or love, in English, in French,
in German, and Latin. Here the
Englishman had erected a marble
monument over the remains of
his Mary Smith or Jane Brown,
and inscribed it only with her
name. There the French widower
had shaded the grave: of his
Elmire or Celestine with a brilliant
thicket of roses, amidst which
a little tablet rising, bore
an equally bright testimony to
her countless virtues. Every
nation, tribe, and kindred, mourned
after its own fashion; and how
soundless was the mourning of
all! My own tread, though slow
and upon smooth-rolled paths,
seemed to startle, because it
formed the sole break to a silence
otherwise total. Not only the
winds, but the very fitful, wandering
airs, were that afternoon, as
by common consent, all fallen
asleep in their various quarters;
the north was hushed, the south
silent, the east sobbed not,
nor did the west whisper. The
clouds in heaven were condensed
and dull, but apparently quite
motionless. Under the trees of
this cemetery nestled a warm
breathless gloom, out of which
the cypresses stood up straight
and mute, above which the willows
hung low and still; where the
flowers, as languid as fair,
waited listless for night dew
or thunder-shower; where the
tombs, and those they hid, lay
impassible to sun or shadow,
to rain or drought.
Importuned
by the sound of my own footsteps,
I turned off
upon the turf, and slowly advanced
to a grove of yews; I saw something
stir among the stems; I thought
it might be a broken branch swinging,
my short-sighted vision had caught
no form, only a sense of motion;
but the dusky shade passed on,
appearing and disappearing at
the openings in the avenue. I
soon discerned it was a living
thing, and a human thing; and,
drawing nearer, I perceived it
was a woman, pacing slowly to
and fro, and evidently deeming
herself alone as I had deemed
myself alone, and meditating
as I had been meditating. Ere
long she returned to a seat which
I fancy she had but just quitted,
or I should have caught sight
of her before. It was in a nook,
screened by a clump of trees;
there was the white wall before
her, and a little stone set up
against the wall, and, at the
foot of the stone, was an allotment
of turf freshly turned up, a
new-made grave. I put on my spectacles,
and passed softly close behind
her; glancing at the inscription
on the stone, I read," Julienne
Henri, died at Brussels, aged
sixty. August 10th, 18--." Having
perused the inscription, I looked
down at the form sitting bent
and thoughtful just under my
eyes, unconscious of the vicinity
of any living thing; it was a
slim, youthful figure in mourning
apparel of the plainest black
stuff, with a little simple,
black crape bonnet; I felt, as
well as saw, who it was; and,
moving neither hand nor foot,
I stood some moments enjoying
the security of conviction. I
had sought her for a month, and
had never discovered one of her
traces--never met a hope, or
seized a chance of encountering
her anywhere. I had been forced
to loosen my grasp on expectation;
and, but an hour ago, had sunk
slackly under the discouraging
thought that the current of life,
and the impulse of destiny, had
swept her for ever from my reach;
and, behold, while bending suddenly
earthward beneath the pressure
of despondency--while following
with my eyes the track of sorrow
on the turf of a graveyard--here
was my lost jewel dropped on
the tear-fed herbage, nestling
in the messy and mouldy roots
of yew-trees.
Frances sat very quiet, her
elbow on her knee, and her head
on her hand. I knew she could
retain a thinking attitude a
long time without change; at
last, a tear fell; she had been
looking at the name on the stone
before her, and her heart had
no doubt endured one of those
constrictions with which the
desolate living, regretting the
dead, are, at times, so sorely
oppressed. Many tears rolled
down, which she wiped away, again
and again, with her handkerchief;
some distressed sobs escaped
her, and then, the paroxysm over,
she sat quiet as before. I put
my hand gently on her shoulder;
no need further to prepare her,
for she was neither hysterical
nor liable to fainting-fits;
a sudden push, indeed, might
have startled her, but the contact
of my quiet touch merely woke
attention as I wished; and, though
she turned quickly, yet so lightning-swift
is thought--in some minds especially--I
believe the wonder of what--the
consciousness of who it was that
thus stole unawares on her solitude,
had passed through her brain,
and flashed into her heart, even
before she had effected that
hasty movement; at least, Amazement
had hardly opened her eyes and
raised them to mine, ere Recognition
informed their irids with most
speaking brightness. Nervous
surprise had hardly discomposed
her features ere a sentiment
of most vivid joy shone clear
and warm on her whole countenance.
I had hardly time to observe
that she was wasted and pale,
ere called to feel a responsive
inward pleasure by the sense
of most full and exquisite pleasure
glowing in the animated flush,
and shining in the expansive
light, now diffused over my pupil's
face. It was the summer sun flashing
out after the heavy summer shower;
and what fertilizes more rapidly
than that beam, burning almost
like fire in its ardour?
I hate boldness--that boldness
which is of the brassy brow and
insensate nerves; but I love
the courage of the strong heart,
the fervour of the generous blood;
I loved with passion the light
of Frances Evans' clear hazel
eye when it did not fear to look
straight into mine; I loved the
tones with which she uttered
the words--
"Mon maitre!
mon maitre!"
I loved the movement with which
she confided her hand to my hand;
I loved her as she stood there,
penniless and parentless; for
a sensualist charmless, for me
a treasure--my best object of
sympathy on earth, thinking such
thoughts as I thought, feeling
such feelings as I felt; my ideal
of the shrine in which to seal
my stores of love; personification
of discretion and forethought,
of diligence and perseverance,
of self-denial and self-control
--those guardians, those trusty
keepers of the gift I longed
to confer on her--the gift of
all my affections; model of truth
and honour, of independence and
conscientiousness--those refiners
and sustainers of an honest life;
silent possessor of a well of
tenderness, of a flame, as genial
as still, as pure as quenchless,
of natural feeling, natural passion--those
sources of refreshment and comfort
to the sanctuary of home. I knew
how quietly and how deeply the
well bubbled in her heart; I
knew how the more dangerous flame
burned safely under the eye of
reason; I had seen when the fire
shot up a moment high and vivid,
when the accelerated heat troubled
life's current in its channels;
I had seen reason reduce the
rebel, and humble its blaze to
embers. I had confidence in Frances
Evans; I had respect for her,
and as I drew her arm through
mine, and led her out of the
cemetery, I felt I had another
sentiment, as strong as confidence,
as firm as respect, more fervid
than either--that of love.
"Well, my pupil," said I, as
the ominous sounding gate swung
to behind us--"Well, I have found
you again: a month's search has
seemed long, and I little thought
to have discovered my lost sheep
straying amongst graves."
Never had I
addressed her but as " Mademoiselle" before,
and to speak thus was to take
up
a tone new to both her and me.
Her answer suprised me that this
language ruffled none of her
feelings, woke no discord in
her heart:-
"Mon maitre," she said, "have
you troubled yourself to seek
me? I little imagined you would
think much of my absence, but
I grieved bitterly to be taken
away from you. I was sorry for
that circumstance when heavier
troubles ought to have made me
forget it."
"Your aunt
is dead?"
"Yes, a fortnight
since, and she died full of
regret, which
I could not chase from her mind;
she kept repeating, even during
the last night of her existence,
'Frances, you will be so lonely
when I am gone, so friendless:'
she wished too that she could
have been buried in Switzerland,
and it was I who persuaded her
in her old age to leave the banks
of Lake Leman, and to come, only
as it seems to die, in this flat
region of Flanders. Willingly
would I have observed her last
wish, and taken her remains back
to our own country, but that
was impossible; I was forced
to lay her here."
"She was ill
but a short time, I presume?"
"But three
weeks. When she began to sink
I asked Mdlle.
Reuter's leave to stay with her
and wait on her; I readily got
leave."
"Do you return to the pensionnat!" I
demanded hastily.
"Monsieur, when I had been
at home a week Mdlle. Reuter
called one evening, just after
I had got my aunt to bed; she
went into her room to speak to
her, and was extremely civil
and affable, as she always is;
afterwards she came and sat with
me a long time, and just as she
rose to go away, she said: "Mademoiselle,
I shall not soon cease to regret
your departure from my establishment,
though indeed it is true that
you have taught your class of
pupils so well that they are
all quite accomplished in the
little works you manage so skilfully,
and have not the slightest need
of further instruction; my second
teacher must in future supply
your place, with regard to the
younger pupils, as well as she
can, though she is indeed an
inferior artiste to you, and
doubtless it will be your part
now to assume a higher position
in your calling; I am sure you
will everywhere find schools
and families willing to profit
by your talents.' And then she
paid me my last quarter's salary.
I asked, as mademoiselle would
no doubt think, very bluntly,
if she designed to discharge
me from the establishment. She
smiled at my inelegance of speech,
and answered that 'our connection
as employer and employed was
certainly dissolved, but that
she hoped still to retain the
pleasure of my acquaintance;
she should always be happy to
see me as a friend;' and then
she said something about the
excellent condition of the streets,
and the long continuance of fine
weather, and went away quite
cheerful."
I laughed inwardly;
all this was so like the directress--so
like what I had expected and
guessed of her conduct; and then
the exposure and proof of her
lie, unconsciously afforded by
Frances:--"She had frequently
applied for Mdlle. Henri's address," forsooth; "Mdlle.
Henri had always evaded giving
it," &c., &c., and here I found
her a visitor at the very house
of whose locality she had professed
absolute ignorance!
Any comments I might have intended
to make on my pupil's communication,
were checked by the plashing
of large rain-drops on our faces
and on the path, and by the muttering
of a distant but coming storm.
The warning obvious in stagnant
air and leaden sky had already
induced me to take the road leading
back to Brussels, and now I hastened
my own steps and those of my
companion, and, as our way lay
downhill, we got on rapidly.
There was an interval after the
fall of the first broad drops
before heavy rain came on; in
the meantime we had passed through
the Porte de Louvain, and were
again in the city.
"Where do you live?" I asked; "I
will see you safe home,"
"Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges," answered
Frances.
It was not far from the Rue
de Louvain, and we stood on the
doorsteps of the house we sought
ere the clouds, severing with
loud peal and shattered cataract
of lightning, emptied their livid
folds in a torrent, heavy, prone,
and broad.
"Come in! come in!" said
Frances, as, after putting
her into the
house, I paused ere I followed:
the word decided me; I stepped
across the threshold, shut the
door on the rushing, flashing,
whitening storm, and followed
her upstairs to her apartments.
Neither she nor I were wet; a
projection over the door had
warded off the straight-descending
flood; none but the first, large
drops had touched our garments;
one minute more and we should
not have had a dry thread on
us.
Stepping over a little mat
of green wool, I found myself
in a small room with a painted
floor and a square of green carpet
in the middle; the articles of
furniture were few, but all bright
and exquisitely clean; order
reigned through its narrow limits
--such order as it soothed my
punctilious soul to behold. And
I had hesitated to enter the
abode, because I apprehended
after all that Mdlle. Reuter's
hint about its extreme poverty
might be too well-founded, and
I feared to embarrass the lace-mender
by entering her lodgings unawares!
Poor the place might be; poor
truly it was; but its neatness
was better than elegance, and
had but a bright little fire
shone on that clean hearth, I
should have deemed it more attractive
than a palace. No fire was there,
however, and no fuel laid ready
to light; the lace-mender was
unable to allow herself that
indulgence, especially now when,
deprived by death of her sole
relative, she had only her own
unaided exertions to rely on.
Frances went into an inner room
to take off her bonnet, and she
came out a model of frugal neatness,
with her well-fitting black stuff
dress, so accurately defining
her elegant bust and taper waist,
with her spotless white collar
turned back from a fair and shapely
neck, with her plenteous brown
hair arranged in smooth bands
on her temples, and in a large
Grecian plait behind: ornaments
she had none--neither brooch,
ring, nor ribbon; she did well
enough without them --perfection
of fit, proportion of form, grace
of carriage, agreeably supplied
their place. Her eye, as she
re-entered the small sitting-room,
instantly sought mine, which
was just then lingering on the
hearth; I knew she read at once
the sort of inward ruth and pitying
pain which the chill vacancy
of that hearth stirred in my
soul: quick to penetrate, quick
to determine, and quicker to
put in practice, she had in a
moment tied a holland apron round
her waist; then she disappeared,
and reappeared with a basket;
it had a cover; she opened it,
and produced wood and coal; deftly
and compactly she arranged them
in the grate.
"It is her whole stock, and
she will exhaust it out of hospitality," thought
I.
"What are you going to do?" I
asked: "not surely to light a
fire this hot evening? I shall
be smothered."
"Indeed, monsieur,
I feel it very chilly since
the rain began;
besides, I must boil the water
for my tea, for I take tea on
Sundays; you will be obliged
to try and bear the heat."
She had struck
a light; the wood was already
in a blaze;
and truly, when contrasted with
the darkness, the wild tumult
of the tempest without, that
peaceful glow which began to
beam on the now animated hearth,
seemed very cheering. A low,
purring sound, from some quarter,
announced that another being,
besides myself, was pleased with
the change; a black cat, roused
by the light from its sleep on
a little cushioned foot-stool,
came and rubbed its head against
Frances' gown as she knelt; she
caressed it, saying it had been
a favourite with her "pauvre
tante Julienne."
The fire being lit, the hearth
swept, and a small kettle of
a very antique pattern, such
as I thought I remembered to
have seen in old farmhouses in
England, placed over the now
ruddy flame, Frances' hands were
washed, and her apron removed
in an instant then she opened
a cupboard, and took out a tea-tray,
on which she had soon arranged
a china tea-equipage, whose pattern,
shape, and size, denoted a remote
antiquity; a little, old-fashioned
silver spoon was deposited in
each saucer; and a pair of silver
tongs, equally old-fashioned,
were laid on the sugar-basin;
from the cupboard, too, was produced
a tidy silver cream-ewer, not
larger then an egg-shell. While
making these preparations, she
chanced to look up, and, reading
curiosity in my eyes, she smiled
and asked--
"Is this like
England, monsieur?"
"Like the England of a hundred
years ago," I replied.
"Is it truly?
Well, everything on this tray
is at least a hundred
years old: these cups, these
spoons, this ewer, are all heirlooms;
my great-grandmother left them
to my grandmother, she to my
mother, and my mother brought
them with her from England to
Switzerland, and left them to
me; and, ever since I was a little
girl, I have thought I should
like to carry them back to England,
whence they came."
She put some pistolets on the
table; she made the tea, as foreigners
do make tea--i.e., at the rate
of a teaspoonful to half-a-dozen
cups; she placed me a chair,
and, as I took it, she asked,
with a sort of exaltation--
"Will it make
you think yourself at home
for a moment?"
"If I had a home in England,
I believe it would recall it," I
answered; and, in truth, there
was a sort of illusion in seeing
the fair-complexioned English-looking
girl presiding at the English
meal, and speaking in the English
language.
"You have then no home?" was
her remark.
"None, nor ever have had. If
ever I possess a home, it must
be of my own making, and the
task is yet to begin." And, as
I spoke, a pang, new to me, shot
across my heart: it was a pang
of mortification at the humility
of my position, and the inadequacy
of my means; while with that
pang was born a strong desire
to do more, earn more, be more,
possess more; and in the increased
possessions, my roused and eager
spirit panted to include the
home I had never had, the wife
I inwardly vowed to win.
Frances' tea was little better
than hot water, sugar, and milk;
and her pistolets, with which
she could not offer me butter,
were sweet to my palate as manna.
The repast
over, and the treasured plate
and porcelain being washed
and put by, the bright table
rubbed still brighter, "le chat
de ma tante Julienne" also being
fed with provisions brought forth
on a plate for its special use,
a few stray cinders, and a scattering
of ashes too, being swept from
the hearth, Frances at last sat
down; and then, as she took a
chair opposite to me, she betrayed,
for the first time, a little
embarrassment; and no wonder,
for indeed I had unconsciously
watched her rather too closely,
followed all her steps and all
her movements a little too perseveringly
with my eyes, for she mesmerized
me by the grace and alertness
of her action--by the deft, cleanly,
and even decorative effect resulting
from each touch of her slight
and fine fingers; and when, at
last, she subsided to stillness,
the intelligence of her face
seemed beauty to me, and I dwelt
on it accordingly. Her colour,
however, rising, rather than
settling with repose, and her
eyes remaining downcast, though
I kept waiting for the lids to
be raised that I might drink
a ray of the light I loved--a
light where fire dissolved in
softness, where affection tempered
penetration, where, just now
at least, pleasure played with
thought--this expectation not
being gratified, I began at last
to suspect that I had probably
myself to blame for the disappointment;
I must cease gazing, and begin
talking, if I wished to break
the spell under which she now
sat motionless; so recollecting
the composing effect which an
authoritative tone and manner
had ever been wont to produce
on her, I said--
"Get one of
your English books, mademoiselle,
for the rain yet
falls heavily, and will probably
detain me half an hour longer.
Released, and
set at ease, up she rose, got
her book, and
accepted at once the chair I
placed for her at my side. She
had selected "Paradise Lost" from
her shelf of classics, thinking,
I suppose, the religious character
of the book best adapted it to
Sunday; I told her to begin at
the beginning, and while she
read Milton's invocation to that
heavenly muse, who on the "secret
top of Oreb or Sinai" had taught
the Hebrew shepherd how in the
womb of chaos, the conception
of a world had originated and
ripened, I enjoyed, undisturbed,
the treble pleasure of having
her near me, hearing the sound
of her voice--a sound sweet and
satisfying in my ear--and looking,
by intervals, at her face: of
this last privilege, I chiefly
availed myself when I found fault
with an intonation, a pause,
or an emphasis; as long as I
dogmatized, I might also gaze,
without exciting too warm a flush.
"Enough," said I, when she
had gone through some half dozen
pages (a work of time with her,
for she read slowly and paused
often to ask and receive information)--"enough;
and now the rain is ceasing,
and I must soon go." For indeed,
at that moment, looking towards
the window, I saw it all blue;
the thunder-clouds were broken
and scattered, and the setting
August sun sent a gleam like
the reflection of rubies through
the lattice. I got up; I drew
on my gloves.
"You have not
yet found another situation
to supply the place
of that from which you were dismissed
by Mdlle. Reuter?"
"No, monsieur;
I have made inquiries everywhere,
but they
all ask me for references; and
to speak truth, I do not like
to apply to the directress, because
I consider she acted neither
justly nor honourably towards
me; she used underhand means
to set my pupils against me,
and thereby render me unhappy
while I held my place in her
establishment, and she eventually
deprived me of it by a masked
and hypocritical manoeuvre, pretending
that she was acting for my good,
but really snatching from me
my chief means of subsistence,
at a crisis when not only my
own life, but that of another,
depended on my exertions: of
her I will never more ask a favour."
"How, then,
do you propose to get on? How
do you live now?"
"I have still
my lace-mending trade; with
care it will keep
me from starvation, and I doubt
not by dint of exertion to get
better employment yet; it is
only a fortnight since I began
to try; my courage or hopes are
by no means worn out yet."
"And if you
get what you wish, what then?
what are? your ultimate
views?"
"To save enough
to cross the Channel: I always
look to England
as my Canaan."
"Well, well--ere long I shall
pay you another visit; good evening
now," and I left her rather abruptly;
I had much ado to resist a strong
inward impulse, urging me to
take a warmer, more expressive
leave: what so natural as to
fold her for a moment in a close
embrace, to imprint one kiss
on her cheek or forehead? I was
not unreasonable--that was all
I wanted; satisfied in that point,
I could go away content; and
Reason denied me even this; she
ordered me to turn my eyes from
her face, and my steps from her
apartment--to quit her as dryly
and coldly as I would have quitted
old Madame Pelet. I obeyed, but
I swore rancorously to be avenged
one day. "I'll earn a right to
do as I please in this matter,
or I'll die in the contest. I
have one object before me now--to
get that Genevese girl for my
wife; and my wife she shall be--that
is, provided she has as much,
or half as much regard for her
master as he has for her. And
would she be so docile, so smiling,
so happy under my instructions
if she had not? would she sit
at my side when I dictate or
correct, with such a still, contented,
halcyon mien?" for I had ever
remarked, that however sad or
harassed her countenance might
be when I entered a room, yet
after I had been near her, spoken
to her a few words, given her
some directions, uttered perhaps
some reproofs, she would, all
at once, nestle into a nook of
happiness, and look up serene
and revived. The reproofs suited
her best of all: while I scolded
she would chip away with her
pen-knife at a pencil or a pen;
fidgetting a little, pouting
a little, defending herself by
monosyllables, and when I deprived
her of the pen or pencil, fearing
it would be all cut away, and
when I interdicted even the monosyllabic
defence, for the purpose of working
up the subdued excitement a little
higher, she would at last raise
her eyes and give me a certain
glance, sweetened with gaiety,
and pointed with defiance, which,
to speak truth, thrilled me as
nothing had ever done, and made
me, in a fashion (though happily
she did not know it), her subject,
if not her slave. After such
little scenes her spirits would
maintain their flow, often for
some hours, and, as I remarked
before, her health therefrom
took a sustenance and vigour
which, previously to the event
of her aunt's death and her dismissal,
had almost recreated her whole
frame.
It has taken me several minutes
to write these last sentences;
but I had thought all their purport
during the brief interval of
descending the stairs from Frances'
room. Just as I was opening the
outer door, I remembered the
twenty francs which I had not
restored; I paused: impossible
to carry them away with me; difficult
to force them back on their original
owner; I had now seen her in
her own humble abode, witnessed
the dignity of her poverty, the
pride of order, the fastidious
care of conservatism, obvious
in the arrangement and economy
of her little home; I was sure
she would not suffer herself
to be excused paying her debts;
I was certain the favour of indemnity
would be accepted from no hand,
perhaps least of all from mine:
yet these four five-franc pieces
were a burden to my self-respect,
and I must get rid of them. An
expedient--a clumsy one no doubt,
but the best I could devise-suggested
itself to me. I darted up the
stairs, knocked, re-entered the
room as if in haste:--
"Mademoiselle,
I have forgotten one of my
gloves; I must have
left it here."
She instantly
rose to seek it; as she turned
her back, I--being
now at the hearth--noiselessly
lifted a little vase, one of
a set of china ornaments, as
old-fashioned as the tea-cups--slipped
the money under it, then saying--"Oh
here is my glove! I had dropped
it within the fender; good evening,
mademoiselle," I made my second
exit.
Brief as my impromptu return
had been, it had afforded me
time to pick up a heart-ache;
I remarked that Frances had already
removed the red embers of her
cheerful little fire from the
grate: forced to calculate every
item, to save in every detail,
she had instantly on my departure
retrenched a luxury too expensive
to be enjoyed alone.
"I am glad it is not yet winter," thought
I; "but in two months more come
the winds and rains of November;
would to God that before then
I could earn the right, and the
power, to shovel coals into that
grate AD LIBITUM!"
Already the pavement was drying;
a balmy and fresh breeze stirred
the air, purified by lightning;
I felt the West behind me, where
spread a sky like opal; azure
immingled with crimson: the enlarged
sun, glorious in Tyrian tints,
dipped his brim already; stepping,
as I was, eastward, I faced a
vast bank of clouds, but also
I had before me the arch of an
evening rainbow; a perfect rainbow--high,
wide, vivid. I looked long; my
eye drank in the scene, and I
suppose my brain must have absorbed
it; for that night, after lying
awake in pleasant fever a long
time, watching the silent sheet-lightning,
which still played among the
retreating clouds, and flashed
silvery over the stars, I at
last fell asleep; and then in
a dream were reproduced the setting
sun, the bank of clouds, the
mighty rainbow. I stood, methought,
on a terrace; I leaned over a
parapeted wall; there was space
below me, depth I could not fathom,
but hearing an endless dash of
waves, I believed it to be the
sea; sea spread to the horizon;
sea of changeful green and intense
blue: all was soft in the distance;
all vapour-veiled. A spark of
gold glistened on the line between
water and air, floated up, approached,
enlarged, changed; the object
hung midway between heaven and
earth, under the arch of the
rainbow; the soft but dusk clouds
diffused behind. It hovered as
on wings; pearly, fleecy, gleaming
air streamed like raiment round
it; light, tinted with carnation,
coloured what seemed face and
limbs; A large star shone with
still lustre on an angel's forehead;
an upraised arm and hand, glancing
like a ray, pointed to the bow
overhead, and a voice in my heart
whispered--
"Hope smiles
on Effort!"
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