IT was two o'clock
when I returned to my lodgings;
my dinner, just
brought in from a neighbouring
hotel, smoked on the table; I
sat down thinking to eat--had
the plate been heaped with potsherds
and broken glass, instead of
boiled beef and haricots, I could
not have made a more signal failure:
appetite had forsaken me. Impatient
of seeing food which I could
not taste, I put it all aside
into a cupboard, and then demanded, "What
shall
I do till evening?" for before six P.M. it would be vain to seek the Rue Notre
Dame aux Neiges; its inhabitant (for me it had but one) was detained by her vocation
elsewhere. I walked in the streets of Brussels, and I walked in my own room from
two o'clock till six; never once in that space of time did I sit down. I was
in my chamber when the last-named hour struck; I had just bathed my face and
feverish hands, and was standing near the glass; my cheek was crimson, my eye
was flame, still all my features looked quite settled and calm. Descending swiftly
the stair and stepping out, I was glad to see Twilight drawing on in clouds;
such shade was to me like a grateful screen, and the chill of latter Autumn,
breathing in a fitful wind from the north-west, met me as a refreshing coolness.
Still I saw it was cold to others, for the women I passed were wrapped in shawls,
and the
men had their coats buttoned close.
When are we quite happy? Was
I so then? No; an urgent and
growing dread worried my nerves,
and had worried them since the
first moment good tidings had
reached me. How was Frances?
It was ten weeks since I had
seen her, six since I had heard
from her, or of her. I had answered
her letter by a brief note, friendly
but calm, in which no mention
of continued correspondence or
further visits was made. At that
hour my bark hung on the topmost
curl of a wave of fate, and I
knew not on what shoal the onward
rush of the billow might hurl
it; I would not then attach her
destiny to mine by the slightest
thread; if doomed to split on
the rock, or run a aground on
the sand-bank, I was resolved
no other vessel should share
my disaster: but six weeks was
a long time; and could it be
that she was still well and doing
well? Were not all sages agreed
in declaring that happiness finds
no climax on earth? Dared I think
that but half a street now divided
me from the full cup of contentment--the
draught drawn from waters said
to flow only in heaven?
I was at the door; I entered
the quiet house; I mounted the
stairs; the lobby was void and
still, all the doors closed;
I looked for the neat green mat;
it lay duly in its place.
"Signal of hope!" I said, and
advanced. "But I will be a little
calmer; I am not going to rush
in, and get up a scene directly." Forcibly
staying my eager step, I paused
on the mat.
"What an absolute hush! Is
she in? Is anybody in?" I demanded
to myself. A little tinkle, as
of cinders falling from a grate,
replied; a movement--a fire was
gently stirred; and the slight
rustle of life continuing, a
step paced equably backwards
and forwards, backwards and forwards,
in the apartment. Fascinated,
I stood, more fixedly fascinated
when a voice rewarded the attention
of my strained ear--so low, so
self-addressed, I never fancied
the speaker otherwise than alone;
solitude might speak thus in
a desert, or in the hall of a
forsaken house.
"'And ne'er but once, my son,'
he said, 'Was yon dark cavern
trod; In persecution's iron days,
When the land was left by God.
From Bewley's bog, with slaughter
red, A wanderer hither drew;
And oft he stopp'd and turn'd
his head, As by fits the night-winds
blew. For trampling round by
Cheviot-edge Were heard the troopers
keen; And frequent from the Whitelaw
ridge The death-shot flash'd
between,'" &c. &c.
The old Scotch ballad was partly
recited, then dropt; a pause
ensued; then another strain followed,
in French, of which the purport,
translated, ran as follows:--
I gave, at first, attention
close; Then interest warm ensued;
From interest, as improvement
rose, Succeeded gratitude.
Obedience was no effort soon,
And labour was no pain; If tired,
a word, a glance alone Would
give me strength again.
From others of the studious
band, Ere long he singled me;
But only by more close demand,
And sterner urgency.
The task he from another took,
From me he did reject; He would
no slight omission brook, And
suffer no defect.
If my companions went astray,
He scarce their wanderings blam'd;
If I but falter'd in the way,
His anger fiercely flam'd.
Something stirred
in an adjoining chamber; it
would not do to be
surprised eaves-dropping; I tapped
hastily, And as hastily entered.
Frances was just before me; she
had been walking slowly in her
room, and her step was checked
by my advent: Twilight only was
with her, and tranquil, ruddy
Firelight; to these sisters,
the Bright and the Dark, she
had been speaking, ere I entered,
in poetry. Sir Walter Scott's
voice, to her a foreign, far-off
sound, a mountain echo, had uttered
itself in the first stanzas;
the second, I thought, from the
style and the substance, was
the language of her own heart.
Her face was grave, its expression
concentrated; she bent on me
an unsmiling eye--an eye just
returning from abstraction, just
awaking from dreams: well-arranged
was her simple attire, smooth
her dark hair, orderly her tranquil
room; but what--with her thoughtful
look, her serious self-reliance,
her bent to meditation and haply
inspiration--what had she to
do with love? "Nothing," was
the answer of her own sad, though
gentle countenance; it seemed
to say, "I must cultivate fortitude
and cling to poetry; one is to
be my support and the other my
solace through life. Human affections
do not bloom, nor do human passions
glow for me." Other women have
such thoughts. Frances, had she
been as desolate as she deemed,
would not have been worse off
than thousands of her sex. Look
at the rigid and formal race
of old maids--the race whom all
despise; they have fed themselves,
from youth upwards, on maxims
of resignation and endurance.
Many of them get ossified with
the dry diet; self-control is
so continually their thought,
so perpetually their object,
that at last it absorbs the softer
and more agreeable qualities
of their nature; and they die
mere models of austerity, fashioned
out of a little parchment and
much bone. Anatomists will tell
you that there is a heart in
the withered old maid's carcase--the
same as in that of any cherished
wife or proud mother in the land.
Can this be so? I really don't
know; but feel inclined to doubt
it.
I came forward,
bade Frances "good
evening," and took my seat. The
chair I had chosen was one she
had probably just left; it stood
by a little table where were
her open desk and papers. I know
not whether she had fully recognized
me at first, but she did so now;
and in a voice, soft but quiet,
she returned my greeting. I had
shown no eagerness; she took
her cue from me, and evinced
no surprise. We met as me had
always met, as master and pupil--nothing
more. I proceeded to handle the
papers; Frances, observant and
serviceable, stepped into an
inner room, brought a candle,
lit it, placed it by me; then
drew the curtain over the lattice,
and having added a little fresh
fuel to the already bright fire,
she drew a second chair to the
table and sat down at my right
hand, a little removed. The paper
on the top was a translation
of some grave French author into
English, but underneath lay a
sheet with stanzas; on this I
laid hands. Frances half rose,
made a movement to recover the
captured spoil, saying, that
was nothing--a mere copy of verses.
I put by resistance with the
decision I knew she never long
opposed; but on this occasion
her fingers had fastened on the
paper. I had quietly to unloose
them; their hold dissolved to
my touch; her hand shrunk away;
my own would fain have followed
it, but for the present I forbade
such impulse. The first page
of the sheet was occupied with
the lines I had overheard; the
sequel was not exactly the writer's
own experience, but a composition
by portions of that experience
suggested. Thus while egotism
was avoided, the fancy was exercised,
and the heart satisfied. I translate
as before, and my translation
is nearly literal; it continued
thus:--
When sickness stay'd awhile
my course, He seem'd impatient
still, Because his pupil's flagging
force Could not obey his will.
One day when
summoned to the bed Where pain
and I did strive,
I heard him, as he bent his head,
Say, "God, she must revive!"
I felt his hand, with gentle
stress, A moment laid on mine,
And wished to mark my consciousness
By some responsive sign.
But pow'rless then to speak
or move, I only felt, within,
The sense of Hope, the strength
of Love, Their healing work begin.
And as he from the room withdrew,
My heart his steps pursued; I
long'd to prove, by efforts new;
My speechless gratitude.
When once again I took my place,
Long vacant, in the class, Th'
unfrequent smile across his face
Did for one moment pass.
The lessons done; the signal
made Of glad release and play,
He, as he passed, an instant
stay'd, One kindly word to say.
"Jane, till
to-morrow you are free From
tedious task and rule;
This afternoon I must not see
That yet pale face in school.
"Seek in the
garden-shades a seat, Far from
the play-ground
din; The sun is warm, the air
is sweet: Stay till I call you
in."
A long and pleasant afternoon
I passed in those green bowers;
All silent, tranquil, and alone
With birds, and bees, and flowers.
Yet, when my
master's voice I heard Call,
from the window, "Jane!" I
entered, joyful, at the word,
The busy house again.
He, in the hall, paced up and
down; He paused as I passed by;
His forehead stern relaxed its
frown: He raised his deep-set
eye.
"Not quite so pale," he murmured
low. Now Jane, go rest awhile." And
as I smiled, his smoothened brow
Returned as glad a smile.
My perfect health restored,
he took His mien austere again;
And, as before, he would not
brook The slightest fault from
Jane.
The longest task, the hardest
theme Fell to my share as erst,
And still I toiled to place my
name In every study first.
He yet begrudged and stinted
praise, But I had learnt to read
The secret meaning of his face,
And that was my best meed.
Even when his hasty temper
spoke In tones that sorrow stirred,
My grief was lulled as soon as
woke By some relenting word.
And when he lent some precious
book, Or gave some fragrant flower,
I did not quail to Envy's look,
Upheld by Pleasure's power.
At last our school ranks took
their ground, The hard-fought
field I won; The prize, a laurel-wreath,
was bound My throbbing forehead
on.
Low at my master's knee I bent,
The offered crown to meet; Its
green leaves through my temples
sent A thrill as wild as sweet.
The strong pulse of Ambition
struck In every vein I owned;
At the same instant, bleeding
broke A secret, inward wound.
The hour of triumph was to
me The hour of sorrow sore; A
day hence I must cross the sea,
Ne'er to recross it more.
An hour hence, in my master's
room I with him sat alone, And
told him what a dreary gloom
O'er joy had parting thrown.
He little said; the time was
brief, The ship was soon to sail,
And while I sobbed in bitter
grief, My master but looked pale.
They called
in haste; he bade me go, Then
snatched me back
again; He held me fast and murmured
low, "Why will they part us,
Jane?"
"Were you not
happy in my care? Did I not
faithful prove? Will
others to my darling bear As
true, as deep a love?
"O God, watch
o'er my foster child! O guard
her gentle head!
When minds are high and tempests
wild Protection round her spread!
"They call
again; leave then my breast;
Quit thy true shelter,
Jane; But when deceived, repulsed,
opprest, Come home to me again! "
I read--then
dreamily made marks on the
margin with my pencil;
thinking all the while of other
things; thinking that "Jane" was
now at my side; no child, but
a girl of nineteen; and she might
be mine, so my heart affirmed;
Poverty's curse was taken off
me; Envy and Jealousy were far
away, and unapprized of this
our quiet meeting; the frost
of the Master's manner might
melt; I felt the thaw coming
fast, whether I would or not;
no further need for the eye to
practise a hard look, for the
brow to compress its expense
into a stern fold: it was now
permitted to suffer the outward
revelation of the inward glow--to
seek, demand, elicit an answering
ardour. While musing thus, I
thought that the grass on Hermon
never drank the fresh dews of
sunset more gratefully than my
feelings drank the bliss of this
hour.
Frances rose, as if restless;
she passed before me to stir
the fire, which did not want
stirring; she lifted and put
down the little ornaments on
the mantelpiece; her dress waved
within a yard of me; slight,
straight, and elegant;, she stood
erect on the hearth.
There are impulses we can control;
but there are others which control
us, because they attain us with
a tiger-leap, and are our masters
ere we have seen them. Perhaps,
though, such impulses are seldom
altogether bad; perhaps Reason,
by a process as brief as quiet,
a process that is finished ere
felt, has ascertained the sanity
of the deed Instinct meditates,
and feels justified in remaining
passive while it is performed.
I know I did not reason, I did
not plan or intend, yet, whereas
one moment I was sitting solus
on the chair near the table,
the next, I held Frances on my
knee, placed there with sharpness
and decision, and retained with
exceeding tenacity.
"Monsieur!" cried
Frances, and was still: not
another word
escaped her lips; sorely confounded
she seemed during the lapse of
the first few moments; but the
amazement soon subsided; terror
did not succeed, nor fury: after
all, she was only a little nearer
than she had ever been before,
to one she habitually respected
and trusted; embarrassment might
have impelled her to contend,
but self-respect checked resistance
where resistance was useless.
"Frances, how much regard have
you for me?" was my demand. No
answer; the situation was yet
too new and surprising to permit
speech. On this consideration,
I compelled myself for some seconds
to tolerate her silence, though
impatient of it: presently, I
repeated the same question--probably,
not in the calmest of tones;
she looked at me; my face, doubtless,
was no model of composure, my
eyes no still wells of tranquillity.
"Do speak," I
urged; and a very low, hurried,
yet still
arch voice said--
"Monsieur,
vous me faites mal; de grace
lachez un peu ma main
droite."
In truth I
became aware that I was holding
the said "main
droite" in a somewhat ruthless
grasp: I did as desired; and,
for the third time, asked more
gently--
"Frances, how
much regard have you for me?"
"Mon maitre, j'en ai beaucoup," was
the truthful rejoinder.
"Frances, have
you enough to give yourself
to me as my wife?--to
accept me as your husband?"
I felt the
agitation of the heart, I saw "the purple light
of love" cast its glowing reflection
on cheeks, temples, neck; I desired
to consult the eye, but sheltering
lash and lid forbade.
"Monsieur," said the soft voice
at last,--"Monsieur desire savoir
si je consens--si--enfin, si
je veux me marier avec lui?"
"Justement."
"Monsieur sera-t-il
aussi bon mari qu'il a ete
bon maitre?"
"I will try,
Frances."
A pause; then
with a new, yet still subdued
inflexion of the
voice--an inflexion which provoked
while it pleased me --accompanied,
too, by a "sourire a la fois
fin et timide" in perfect harmony
with the tone:--
"C'est a dire,
monsieur sera toujours un peu
entete exigeant,
volontaire--?"
"Have I been
so, Frances?"
"Mais oui;
vous le savez bien."
"Have I been
nothing else?"
"Mais oui;
vons avez ete mon meilleur
ami."
"And what,
Frances, are you to me?"
"Votre devouee
eleve, qui vous aime de tout
son coeur."
"Will my pupil
consent to pass her life with
me? Speak English
now, Frances."
Some moments were taken for
reflection; the answer, pronounced
slowly, ran thus:--
"You have always made me happy;
I like to hear you speak; I like
to see you; I like to be near
you; I believe you are very good,
and very superior; I know you
are stern to those who are careless
and idle, but you are kind, very
kind to the attentive and industrious,
even if they are not clever.
Master, I should be GLAD to live
with you always;" and she made
a sort of movement, as if she
would have clung to me, but restraining
herself she only added with earnest
emphasis--"Master, I consent
to pass my life with you."
"Very well,
Frances."
I drew her a little nearer
to my heart; I took a first kiss
from her lips, thereby sealing
the compact, now framed between
us; afterwards she and I were
silent, nor was our silence brief.
Frances' thoughts, during this
interval, I know not, nor did
I attempt to guess them; I was
not occupied in searching her
countenance, nor in otherwise
troubling her composure. The
peace I felt, I wished her to
feel; my arm, it is true, still
detained her; but with a restraint
that was gentle enough, so long
as no opposition tightened it.
My gaze was on the red fire;
my heart was measuring its own
content; it sounded and sounded,
and found the depth fathomless.
"Monsieur," at
last said my quiet companion,
as stirless
in her happiness as a mouse in
its terror. Even now in speaking
she scarcely lifted her head.
"Well, Frances?" I
like unexaggerated intercourse;
it is not my way
to overpower with amorous epithets,
any more than to worry with selfishly
importunate caresses.
"Monsieur est
raisonnable, n'eut-ce pas?"
"Yes; especially
when I am requested to be so
in English:
but why do you ask me? You see
nothing vehement or obtrusive
in my manner; am I not tranquil
enough?"
"Ce n'est pas cela--" began
Frances.
"English!" I
reminded her.
"Well, monsieur,
I wished merely to say, that
I should like, of
course, to retain my employment
of teaching. You will teach still,
I suppose, monsieur?"
"Oh, yes! It
is all I have to depend on."
"Bon!--I mean
good. Thus we shall have both
the same profession.
I like that; and my efforts to
get on will be as unrestrained
as yours--will they not, monsieur?"
"You are laying plans to be
independent of me," said I.
"Yes, monsieur;
I must be no incumbrance to
you--no burden
in any way."
"But, Frances,
I have not yet told you what
my prospects are.
I have left M. Pelet's; and after
nearly a month's seeking, I have
got another place, with a salary
of three thousand francs a year,
which I can easily double by
a little additional exertion.
Thus you see it would be useless
for you to fag yourself by going
out to give lessons; on six thousand
francs you and I can live, and
live well."
Frances seemed to consider.
There is something flattering
to man's strength, something
consonant to his honourable pride,
in the idea of becoming the providence
of what he loves--feeding and
clothing it, as God does the
lilies of the field. So, to decide
her resolution, I went on:--
"Life has been
painful and laborious enough
to you so far,
Frances; you require complete
rest; your twelve hundred francs
would not form a very important
addition to our income, and what
sacrifice of comfort to earn
it! Relinquish your labours:
you must be weary, and let me
have the happiness of giving
you rest."
I am not sure whether Frances
had accorded due attention to
my harangue; instead of answering
me with her usual respectful
promptitude, she only sighed
and said,--
"How rich you are, monsieur!" and
then she stirred uneasy in my
arms. "Three thousand francs!" she
murmured, "While I get only twelve
hundred!" She went on faster. "However,
it must be so for the present;
and, monsieur, were you not saying
something about my giving up
my place? Oh no! I shall hold
it fast;" and her little fingers
emphatically tightened on mine.
"Think of my
marrying you to be kept by
you, monsieur! I could
not do it; and how dull my days
would be! You would be away teaching
in close, noisy school-rooms,
from morning till evening, and
I should be lingering at home,
unemployed and solitary; I should
get depressed and sullen, and
you would soon tire of me."
"Frances, you
could read and study--two things
you like so
well."
"Monsieur,
I could not; I like a contemplative
life, but I like
an active life better; I must
act in some way, and act with
you. I have taken notice, monsieur,
that people who are only in each
other's company for amusement,
never really like each other
so well, or esteem each other
so highly, as those who work
together, and perhaps suffer
together."
"You speak God's truth," said
I at last, "and you shall have
your own way, for it is the best
way. Now, as a reward for such
ready consent, give me a voluntary
kiss."
After some hesitation, natural
to a novice in the art of kissing,
she brought her lips into very
shy and gentle contact with my
forehead; I took the small gift
as a loan, and repaid it promptly,
and with generous interest.
I know not
whether Frances was really
much altered since
the time I first saw her; but,
as I looked at her now, I felt
that she was singularly changed
for me; the sad eye, the pale
cheek, the dejected and joyless
countenance I remembered as her
early attributes, were quite
gone, and now I saw a face dressed
in graces; smile, dimple, and
rosy tint, rounded its contours
and brightened its hues. I had
been accustomed to nurse a flattering
idea that my strong attachment
to her proved some particular
perspicacity in my nature; she
was not handsome, she was not
rich, she was not even accomplished,
yet was she my life's treasure;
I must then be a man of peculiar
discernment. To-night my eyes
opened on the mistake I had made;
I began to suspect that it was
only my tastes which were unique,
not my power of discovering and
appreciating the superiority
of moral worth over physical
charms. For me Frances had physical
charms: in her there was no deformity
to get over; none of those prominent
defects of eyes, teeth, complexion,
shape, which hold at bay the
admiration of the boldest male
champions of intellect (for women
can love a downright ugly man
if he be but talented); had she
been either "edentee, myope,
rugueuse, ou bossue," my feelings
towards her might still have
been kindly, but they could never
have been impassioned; I had
affection for the poor little
misshapen Sylvie, but for her
I could never have had love.
It is true Frances' mental points
had been the first to interest
me, and they still retained the
strongest hold on my preference;
but I liked the graces of her
person too. I derived a pleasure,
purely material, from contemplating
the clearness of her brown eyes,
the fairness of her fine skin,
the purity of her well-set teeth,
the proportion of her delicate
form; and that pleasure I could
ill have dispensed with. It appeared,
then, that I too was a sensualist,
in my temperate and fastidious
way.
Now, reader, during the last
two pages I have been giving
you honey fresh from flowers,
but you must not live entirely
on food so luscious; taste then
a little gall--just a drop, by
way of change.
At a somewhat
late hour I returned to my
lodgings: having temporarily
forgotten that man had any such
coarse cares as those of eating
and drinking, I went to bed fasting.
I had been excited and in action
all day, and had tasted no food
since eight that morning; besides,
for a fortnight past, I had known
no rest either of body or mind;
the last few hours had been a
sweet delirium, it would not
subside now, and till long after
midnight, broke with troubled
ecstacy the rest I so much needed.
At last I dozed, but not for
long; it was yet quite dark when
I awoke, and my waking was like
that of Job when a spirit passed
before his face, and like him, "the
hair of my flesh stood up." I
might continue the parallel,
for in truth, though I saw nothing,
yet "a thing was secretly brought
unto me, and mine ear received
a little thereof; there was silence,
and I heard a voice," saying
--"In the midst of life we are
in death."
That sound, and the sensation
of chill anguish accompanying
it, many would have regarded
as supernatural; but I recognized
it at once as the effect of reaction.
Man is ever clogged with his
mortality, and it was my mortal
nature which now faltered and
plained; my nerves, which jarred
and gave a false sound, because
the soul, of late rushing headlong
to an aim, had overstrained the
body's comparative weakness.
A horror of great darkness fell
upon me; I felt my chamber invaded
by one I had known formerly,
but had thought for ever departed.
I was temporarily a prey to hypochondria.
She had been
my acquaintance, nay, my guest,
once before in
boyhood; I had entertained her
at bed and board for a year;
for that space of time I had
her to myself in secret; she
lay with me, she ate with me,
she walked out with me, showing
me nooks in woods, hollows in
hills, where we could sit together,
and where she could drop her
drear veil over me, and so hide
sky and sun, grass and green
tree; taking me entirely to her
death-cold bosom, and holding
me with arms of bone. What tales
she would tell me at such hours!
What songs she would recite in
my ears! How she would discourse
to me of her own country--the
grave--and again and again promise
to conduct me there ere long;
and, drawing me to the very brink
of a black, sullen river, show
me, on the other side, shores
unequal with mound, monument,
and tablet, standing up in a
glimmer more hoary than moonlight. "Necropolis!" she
would whisper, pointing to the
pale piles, and add, "It contains
a mansion prepared for you."
But my boyhood was lonely,
parentless; uncheered by brother
or sister; and there was no marvel
that, just as I rose to youth,
a sorceress, finding me lost
in vague mental wanderings, with
many affections and few objects,
glowing aspirations and gloomy
prospects, strong desires and
slender hopes, should lift up
her illusive lamp to me in the
distance, and lure me to her
vaulted home of horrors. No wonder
her spells THEN had power; but
NOW, when my course was widening,
my prospect brightening; when
my affections had found a rest;
when my desires, folding wings,
weary with long flight, had just
alighted on the very lap of fruition,
and nestled there warm, content,
under the caress of a soft hand--why
did hypochondria accost me now?
I repulsed her as one would
a dreaded and ghastly concubine
coming to embitter a husband's
heart toward his young bride;
in vain; she kept her sway over
me for that night and the next
day, and eight succeeding days.
Afterwards, my spirits began
slowly to recover their tone;
my appetite returned, and in
a fortnight I was well. I had
gone about as usual all the time,
and had said nothing to anybody
of what I felt; but I was glad
when the evil spirit departed
from me, and I could again seek
Frances, and sit at her side,
freed from the dreadful tyranny
of my demon.
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