IN two months
more Frances had fulfilled
the time of mourning
for her aunt. One January morning--the
first of the new year holidays--I
went in a fiacre, accompanied
only by M. Vandenhuten, to the
Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges, and
having alighted alone and walked
upstairs, I found Frances apparently
waiting for me, dressed in a
style scarcely appropriate to
that cold, bright, frosty day.
Never till now had I seen her
attired in any other than black
or sad-coloured stuff; and there
she stood by the window, clad
all in white, and white of a
most diaphanous texture; her
array was very simple, to be
sure, but it looked imposing
and festal because it was so
clear, full, and floating; a
veil shadowed her head, and hung
below her knee; a little wreath
of pink flowers fastened it to
her thickly tressed Grecian plait,
and thence it fell softly on
each side of her face. Singular
to state, she was, or had been
crying; when I asked her if she
were ready, she said "Yes, monsieur," with
something very like a checked
sob; and when I took a shawl,
which lay on the table, and folded
it round her, not only did tear
after tear course unbidden down
her cheek, but she shook to my
ministration like a reed. I said
I was sorry to see her in such
low spirits, and requested to
be allowed an insight into the
origin thereof.
She only said, "It was impossible to help it," and then voluntarily, though hurriedly,
putting her hand into mine, accompanied me out of the room, and ran downstairs
with a quick, uncertain step, like one who was eager to get some formidable piece
of business over. I put her into the fiacre. M. Vandenhuten received her, and
seated her beside himself; we drove all together to the Protestant chapel, went
through a certain service in the Common Prayer Book, and she and I came out married.
M. Vandenhuten had given the bride away.
We took no bridal trip; our
modesty, screened by the peaceful
obscurity of our station, and
the pleasant isolation of our
circumstances, did not exact
that additional precaution. We
repaired at once to a small house
I had taken in the faubourg nearest
to that part of the city where
the scene of our avocations lay.
Three or four
hours after the wedding ceremony,
Frances, divested
of her bridal snow, and attired
in a pretty lilac gown of warmer
materials, a piquant black silk
apron, and a lace collar with
some finishing decoration of
lilac ribbon, was kneeling on
the carpet of a neatly furnished
though not spacious parlour,
arranging on the shelves of a
chiffoniere some books, which
I handed to her from the table.
It was snowing fast out of doors;
the afternoon had turned out
wild and cold; the leaden sky
seemed full of drifts, and the
street was already ankle-deep
in the white downfall. Our fire
burned bright, our new habitation
looked brilliantly clean and
fresh, the furniture was all
arranged, and there were but
some articles of glass, china,
books, &c., to put in order.
Frances found in this business
occupation till tea-time, and
then, after I had distinctly
instructed her how to make a
cup of tea in rational English
style, and after she had got
over the dismay occasioned by
seeing such an extravagant amount
of material put into the pot,
she administered to me a proper
British repast, at which there
wanted neither candies nor urn,
fire-light nor comfort.
Our week's holiday glided by,
and we readdressed ourselves
to labour. Both my wife and I
began in good earnest with the
notion that we were working people,
destined to earn our bread by
exertion, and that of the most
assiduous kind. Our days were
thoroughly occupied; me used
to part every morning at eight
o'clock, and not meet again till
five P.M.; but into what sweet
rest did the turmoil of each
busy day decline! Looking down
the vista, of memory, I see the
evenings passed in that little
parlour like a long string of
rubies circling the dusk brow
of the past. Unvaried were they
as each cut gem, and like each
gem brilliant and burning.
A year and a half passed. One
morning (it was a FETE, and we
had the day to ourselves) Frances
said to me, with a suddenness
peculiar to her when she had
been thinking long on a subject,
and at last, having come to a
conclusion, wished to test its
soundness by the touchstone of
my judgment:--
"I don't work
enough."
"What now ?" demanded I, looking
up from my coffee, which I had
been deliberately stirring while
enjoying, in anticipation, a
walk I proposed to take with
Frances, that fine summer day
(it was June), to a certain farmhouse
in the country, where we were
to dine. "What now?" and I saw
at once, in the serious ardour
of her face, a project of vital
importance.
"I am not satisfied" returned
she: "you are now earning eight
thousand francs a year" (it was
true; my efforts, punctuality,
the fame of my pupils' progress,
the publicity of my station,
had so far helped me on), "while
I am still at my miserable twelve
hundred francs. I CAN do better,
and I WILL."
"You work as
long and as diligently as I
do, Frances."
"Yes, monsieur,
but I am not working in the
right way, and
I am convinced of it."
"You wish to
change--you have a plan for
progress in your mind;
go and put on your bonnet; and,
while we take our walk, you shall
tell me of it."
"Yes, monsieur."
She went--as docile as a well-trained
child; she was a curious mixture
of tractability and firmness:
I sat thinking about her, and
wondering what her plan could
be, when she re-entered.
"Monsieur, I have given Minnie" (our
bonne) "leave to go out too,
as it is so very fine; so will
you be kind enough to lock the
door, and take the key with you?"
"Kiss me, Mrs. Crimsworth," was
my not very apposite reply; but
she looked so engaging in her
light summer dress and little
cottage bonnet, and her manner
in speaking to me was then, as
always, so unaffectedly and suavely
respectful, that my heart expanded
at the sight of her, and a kiss
seemed necessary to content its
importunity.
"There, monsieur."
"Why do you
always call me 'Monsieur?'
Say, 'William.'"
"I cannot pronounce
your W; besides, 'Monsieur'
belongs to
you; I like it best."
Minnie having departed in clean
cap and smart shawl, we, too,
set out, leaving the house solitary
and silent--silent, at least,
but for the ticking of the clock.
We were soon clear of Brussels;
the fields received us, and then
the lanes, remote from carriage-
resounding CHAUSSEES. Ere long
we came upon a nook, so rural,
green, and secluded, it might
have been a spot in some pastoral
English province; a bank of short
and mossy grass, under a hawthorn,
offered a seat too tempting to
be declined; we took it, and
when we had admired and examined
some English-looking wild-flowers
growing at our feet, I recalled
Frances' attention and my own
to the topic touched on at breakfast.
"What was her plan?" A
natural one--the next step
to be mounted
by us, or, at least, by her,
if she wanted to rise in her
profession. She proposed to begin
a school. We already had the
means for commencing on a careful
scale, having lived greatly within
our income. We possessed, too,
by this time, an extensive and
eligible connection, in the sense
advantageous to our business;
for, though our circle of visiting
acquaintance continued as limited
as ever, we were now widely known
in schools and families as teachers.
When Frances had developed her
plan, she intimated, in some
closing sentences, her hopes
for the future. If we only had
good health and tolerable success,
me might, she was sure, in time
realize an independency; and
that, perhaps, before we were
too old to enjoy it; then both
she and I would rest; and what
was to hinder us from going to
live in England? England was
still her Promised Land.
I put no obstacle in her way;
raised no objection; I knew she
was not one who could live quiescent
and inactive, or even comparatively
inactive. Duties she must have
to fulfil, and important duties;
work to do--and exciting, absorbing,
profitable work; strong faculties
stirred in her frame, and they
demanded full nourishment, free
exercise: mine was not the hand
ever to starve or cramp them;
no, I delighted in offering them
sustenance, and in clearing them
wider space for action.
"You have conceived a plan,
Frances," said I, "and a good
plan; execute it; you have my
free consent, and wherever and
whenever my assistance is wanted,
ask and you shall have."
Frances' eyes
thanked me almost with tears;
just a sparkle or
two, soon brushed away; she possessed
herself of my hand too, and held
it for some time very close clasped
in both her own, but she said
no more than "Thank you, monsieur."
We passed a divine day, and
came home late, lighted by a
full summer moon.
Ten years rushed
now upon me with dusty, vibrating,
unresting
wings; years of bustle, action,
unslacked endeavour; years in
which I and my wife, having launched
ourselves in the full career
of progress, as progress whirls
on in European capitals, scarcely
knew repose, were strangers to
amusement, never thought of indulgence,
and yet, as our course ran side
by side, as we marched hand in
hand, we neither murmured, repented,
nor faltered. Hope indeed cheered
us; health kept us up; harmony
of thought and deed smoothed
many difficulties, and finally,
success bestowed every now and
then encouraging reward on diligence.
Our school became one of the
most popular in Brussels, and
as by degrees we raised our terms
and elevated our system of education,
our choice of pupils grew more
select, and at length included
the children of the best families
in Belgium. We had too an excellent
connection in England, first
opened by the unsolicited recommendation
of Mr. Hunsden, who having been
over, and having abused me for
my prosperity in set terms, went
back, and soon after sent a leash
of young ---shire heiresses--his
cousins; as he said "to be polished
off by Mrs. Crimsworth."
As to this same Mrs. Crimsworth,
in one sense she was become another
woman, though in another she
remained unchanged. So different
was she under different circumstances.
I seemed to possess two wives.
The faculties of her nature,
already disclosed when I married
her, remained fresh and fair;
but other faculties shot up strong,
branched out broad, and quite
altered the external character
of the plant. Firmness, activity,
and enterprise, covered with
grave foliage, poetic feeling
and fervour; but these flowers
were still there, preserved pure
and dewy under the umbrage of
later growth and hardier nature:
perhaps I only in the world knew
the secret of their existence,
but to me they were ever ready
to yield an exquisite fragrance
and present a beauty as chaste
as radiant.
In the daytime my house and
establishment were conducted
by Madame the directress, a stately
and elegant woman, bearing much
anxious thought on her large
brow; much calculated dignity
in her serious mien: immediately
after breakfast I used to part
with this lady; I went to my
college, she to her schoolroom;
returning for an hour in the
course of the day, I found her
always in class, intently occupied;
silence, industry, observance,
attending on her presence. When
not actually teaching, she was
overlooking and guiding by eye
and gesture; she then appeared
vigilant and solicitous. When
communicating instruction, her
aspect was more animated; she
seemed to feel a certain enjoyment
in the occupation. The language
in which she addressed her pupils,
though simple and unpretending,
was never trite or dry; she did
not speak from routine formulas--she
made her own phrases as she went
on, and very nervous and impressive
phrases they frequently were;
often, when elucidating favourite
points of history, or geography,
she would wax genuinely eloquent
in her earnestness. Her pupils,
or at least the elder and more
intelligent amongst them, recognized
well the language of a superior
mind; they felt too, and some
of them received the impression
of elevated sentiments; there
was little fondling between mistress
and girls, but some of Frances'
pupils in time learnt to love
her sincerely, all of them beheld
her with respect; her general
demeanour towards them was serious;
sometimes benignant when they
pleased her with their progress
and attention, always scrupulously
refined and considerate. In cases
where reproof or punishment was
called for she was usually forbearing
enough; but if any took advantage
of that forbearance, which sometimes
happened, a sharp, sudden and
lightning-like severity taught
the culprit the extent of the
mistake committed. Sometimes
a gleam of tenderness softened
her eyes and manner, but this
was rare; only when a pupil was
sick, or when it pined after
home, or in the case of some
little motherless child, or of
one much poorer than its companions,
whose scanty wardrobe and mean
appointments brought on it the
contempt of the jewelled young
countesses and silk-clad misses.
Over such feeble fledglings the
directress spread a wing of kindliest
protection: it was to their bedside
she came at night to tuck them
warmly in; it was after them
she looked in winter to see that
they always had a comfortable
seat by the stove; it was they
who by turns were summoned to
the salon to receive some little
dole of cake or fruit--to sit
on a footstool at the fireside--to
enjoy home comforts, and almost
home liberty, for an evening
together--to be spoken to gently
and softly, comforted, encouraged,
cherished --and when bedtime
came, dismissed with a kiss of
true tenderness. As to Julia
and Georgiana G ---, daughters
of an English baronet, as to
Mdlle. Mathilde de ----, heiress
of a Belgian count, and sundry
other children of patrician race,
the directress was careful of
them as of the others, anxious
for their progress, as for that
of the rest--but it never seemed
to enter her head to distinguish
then by a mark of preference;
one girl of noble blood she loved
dearly--a young Irish baroness
--lady Catherine ---; but it
was for her enthusiastic heart
and clever head, for her generosity
and her genius, the title and
rank went for nothing.
My afternoons were spent also
in college, with the exception
of an hour that my wife daily
exacted of me for her establishment,
and with which she would not
dispense. She said that I must
spend that time amongst her pupils
to learn their characters, to
be AU COURANT with everything
that was passing in the house,
to become interested in what
interested her, to be able to
give her my opinion on knotty
points when she required it,
and this she did constantly,
never allowing my interest in
the pupils to fall asleep, and
never making any change of importance
without my cognizance and consent.
She delighted to sit by me when
I gave my lessons (lessons in
literature), her hands folded
on her knee, the most fixedly
attentive of any present. She
rarely addressed me in class;
when she did it was with an air
of marked deference; it was her
pleasure, her joy to make me
still the master in all things.
At six o'clock
P.M. my daily labours ceased.
I then came home,
for my home was my heaven; ever
at that hour, as I entered our
private sitting-room, the lady-directress
vanished from before my eyes,
and Frances Henri, my own little
lace-mender, was magically restored
to my arms; much disappointed
she would have been if her master
had not been as constant to the
tryste as herself, and if his
truthfull kiss had not been prompt
to answer her soft, "Bon soir,
monsieur."
Talk French
to me she would, and many a
punishment she has
had for her wilfulness. I fear
the choice of chastisement must
have been injudicious, for instead
of correcting the fault, it seemed
to encourage its renewal. Our
evenings were our own; that recreation
was necessary to refresh our
strength for the due discharge
of our duties; sometimes we spent
them all in conversation, and
my young Genevese, now that she
was thoroughly accustomed to
her English professor, now that
she loved him too absolutely
to fear him much, reposed in
him a confidence so unlimited
that topics of conversation could
no more be wanting with him than
subjects for communion with her
own heart. In those moments,
happy as a bird with its mate,
she would show me what she had
of vivacity, of mirth, of originality
in her well-dowered nature. She
would show, too, some stores
of raillery, of "malice," and
would vex, tease, pique me sometimes
about what she called my "bizarreries
anglaises," my "caprices insulaires," with
a wild and witty wickedness that
made a perfect white demon of
her while it lasted. This was
rare, however, and the elfish
freak was always short: sometimes
when driven a little hard in
the war of words--for her tongue
did ample justice to the pith,
the point, the delicacy of her
native French, in which language
she always attacked me--I used
to turn upon her with my old
decision, and arrest bodily the
sprite that teased me. Vain idea!
no sooner had I grasped hand
or arm than the elf was gone;
the provocative smile quenched
in the expressive brown eyes,
and a ray of gentle homage shone
under the lids in its place.
I had seized a mere vexing fairy,
and found a submissive and supplicating
little mortal woman in my arms.
Then I made her get a book, and
read English to me for an hour
by way of penance. I frequently
dosed her with Wordsworth in
this way, and Wordsworth steadied
her soon; she had a difficulty
in comprehending his deep, serene,
and sober mind; his language,
too, was not facile to her; she
had to ask questions, to sue
for explanations, to be like
a child and a novice, and to
acknowledge me as her senior
and director. Her instinct instantly
penetrated and possessed the
meaning of more ardent and imaginative
writers. Byron excited her; Scott
she loved; Wordsworth only she
puzzled at, wondered over, and
hesitated to pronounce an opinion
upon.
But whether
she read to me, or talked with
me; whether she
teased me in French, or entreated
me in English; whether she jested
with wit, or inquired with deference;
narrated with interest, or listened
with attention; whether she smiled
at me or on me, always at nine
o'clock I was left abandoned.
She would extricate herself from
my arms, quit my side, take her
lamp, and be gone. Her mission
was upstairs; I have followed
her sometimes and watched her.
First she opened the door of
the dortoir (the pupils' chamber),
noiselessly she glided up the
long room between the two rows
of white beds, surveyed all the
sleepers; if any were wakeful,
especially if any were sad, spoke
to them and soothed them; stood
some minutes to ascertain that
all was safe and tranquil; trimmed
the watch-light which burned
in the apartment all night, then
withdrew, closing the door behind
her without sound. Thence she
glided to our own chamber; it
had a little cabinet within;
this she sought; there, too,
appeared a bed, but one, and
that a very small one; her face
(the night I followed and observed
her) changed as she approached
this tiny couch; from grave it
warmed to earnest; she shaded
with one hand the lamp she held
in the other; she bent above
the pillow and hung over a child
asleep; its slumber (that evening
at least, and usually, I believe)
was sound and calm; no tear wet
its dark eyelashes; no fever
heated its round cheek; no ill
dream discomposed its budding
features. Frances gazed, she
did not smile, and yet the deepest
delight filled, flushed her face;
feeling pleasurable, powerful,
worked in her whole frame, which
still was motionless. I saw,
indeed, her heart heave, her
lips were a little apart, her
breathing grew somewhat hurried;
the child smiled; then at last
the mother smiled too, and said
in low soliloquy, "God bless
my little son!" She stooped closer
over him, breathed the softest
of kisses on his brow, covered
his minute hand with hers, and
at last started up and came away.
I regained the parlour before
her. Entering it two minutes
later she said quietly as she
put down her extinguished lamp--
"Victor rests
well: he smiled in his sleep;
he has your smile,
monsieur."
The said Victor was of course
her own boy, born in the third
year of our marriage: his Christian
name had been given him in honour
of M. Vandenhuten, who continued
always our trusty and well-beloved
friend.
Frances was then a good and
dear wife to me, because I was
to her a good, just, and faithful
husband. What she would have
been had she married a harsh,
envious, careless man--a profligate,
a prodigal, a drunkard, or a
tyrant--is another question,
and one which I once propounded
to her. Her answer, given after
some reflection, was--
"I should have
tried to endure the evil or
cure it for awhile;
and when I found it intolerable
and incurable, I should have
left my torturer suddenly and
silently."
"And if law
or might had forced you back
again?"
"What, to a
drunkard, a profligate, a selfish
spendthrift, an unjust
fool?"
"Yes."
"I would have
gone back; again assured myself
whether or not
his vice and my misery were capable
of remedy; and if not, have left
him again."
"And if again
forced to return, and compelled
to abide?"
"I don't know," she said, hastily. "Why
do you ask me, monsieur?"
I would have an answer, because
I saw a strange kind of spirit
in her eye, whose voice I determined
to waken.
"Monsieur,
if a wife's nature loathes
that of the man she is
wedded to, marriage must be slavery.
Against slavery all right thinkers
revolt, and though torture be
the price of resistance, torture
must be dared: though the only
road to freedom lie through the
gates of death, those gates must
be passed; for freedom is indispensable.
Then, monsieur, I would resist
as far as my strength permitted;
when that strength failed I should
be sure of a refuge. Death would
certainly screen me both from
bad laws and their consequences."
"Voluntary
death, Frances?"
"No, monsieur.
I'd have courage to live out
every throe of anguish
fate assigned me, and principle
to contend for justice and liberty
to the last."
"I see you
would have made no patient
Grizzle. And now,
supposing fate had merely assigned
you the lot of an old maid, what
then? How would you have liked
celibacy?"
"Not much, certainly. An old
maid's life must doubtless be
void and vapid--her heart strained
and empty. Had I been an old
maid I should have spent existence
in efforts to fill the void and
ease the aching. I should have
probably failed, and died weary
and disappointed, despised and
of no account, like other single
women. But I'm not an old maid," she
added quickly. "I should have
been, though, but for my master.
I should never have suited any
man but Professor Crimsworth--no
other gentleman, French, English,
or Belgian, would have thought
me amiable or handsome; and I
doubt whether I should have cared
for the approbation of many others,
if I could have obtained it.
Now, I have been Professor Crimsworth's
wife eight years, and what is
he in my eyes? Is he honourable,
beloved---?" She stopped, her
voice was cut off, her eyes suddenly
suffused. She and I were standing
side by side; she threw her arms
round me, and strained me to
her heart with passionate earnestness:
the energy of her whole being
glowed in her dark and then dilated
eye, and crimsoned her animated
cheek; her look and movement
were like inspiration; in one
there was such a flash, in the
other such a power. Half an hour
afterwards, when she had become
calm, I asked where all that
wild vigour was gone which had
transformed her ere-while and
made her glance so thrilling
and ardent--her action so rapid
and strong. She looked down,
smiling softly and passively:--
"I cannot tell where it is
gone, monsieur," said she, "but
I know that, whenever it is wanted,
it will come back again."
Behold us now at the close
of the ten years, and we have
realized an independency. The
rapidity with which we attained
this end had its origin in three
reasons:-- Firstly, we worked
so hard for it; secondly, we
had no incumbrances to delay
success; thirdly, as soon as
we had capital to invest, two
well-skilled counsellors, one
in Belgium, one in England, viz.
Vandenhuten and Hunsden, gave
us each a word of advice as to
the sort of investment to be
chosen. The suggestion made was
judicious; and, being promptly
acted on, the result proved gainful--I
need not say how gainful; I communicated
details to Messrs. Vandenhuten
and Hunsden; nobody else can
be interested in hearing them.
Accounts being wound up, and
our professional connection disposed
of, we both agreed that, as mammon
was not our master, nor his service
that in which we desired to spend
our lives; as our desires were
temperate, and our habits unostentatious,
we had now abundance to live
on--abundance to leave our boy;
and should besides always have
a balance on hand, which, properly
managed by right sympathy and
unselfish activity, might help
philanthropy in her enterprises,
and put solace into the hand
of charity.
To England we now resolved
to take wing; we arrived there
safely; Frances realized the
dream of her lifetime. me spent
a whole summer and autumn in
travelling from end to end of
the British islands, and afterwards
passed a winter in London. Then
we thought it high time to fix
our residence. My heart yearned
towards my native county of ----shire;
and it is in ----shire I now
live; it is in the library of
my own home I am now writing.
That home lies amid a sequestered
and rather hilly region, thirty
miles removed from X----; a region
whose verdure the smoke of mills
has not yet sullied, whose waters
still run pure, whose swells
of moorland preserve in some
ferny glens that lie between
them the very primal wildness
of nature, her moss, her bracken,
her blue-bells, her scents of
reed and heather, her free and
fresh breezes. My house is a
picturesque and not too spacious
dwelling, with low and long windows,
a trellised and leaf-veiled porch
over the front door, just now,
on this summer evening, looking
like an arch of roses and ivy.
The garden is chiefly laid out
in lawn, formed of the sod of
the hills, with herbage short
and soft as moss, full of its
own peculiar flowers, tiny and
starlike, imbedded in the minute
embroidery of their fine foliage.
At the bottom of the sloping
garden there is a wicket, which
opens upon a lane as green as
the lawn, very long, shady, and
little frequented; on the turf
of this lane generally appear
the first daisies of spring--whence
its name--Daisy Lane; serving
also as a distinction to the
house.
It terminates (the lane I mean)
in a valley full of wood; which
wood--chiefly oak and beech--spreads
shadowy about the vicinage of
a very old mansion, one of the
Elizabethan structures, much
larger, as well as more antique
than Daisy Lane, the property
and residence of an individual
familiar both to me and to the
reader. Yes, in Hunsden Wood--for
so are those glades and that
grey building, with many gables
and more chimneys, named--abides
Yorke Hunsden, still unmarried;
never, I suppose, having yet
found his ideal, though I know
at least a score of young ladies
within a circuit of forty miles,
who would be willing to assist
him in the search.
The estate
fell to him by the death of
his father, five years
since; he has given up trade,
after having made by it sufficient
to pay off some incumbrances
by which the family heritage
was burdened. I say he abides
here, but I do not think he is
resident above five months out
of the twelve; he wanders from
land to land, and spends some
part of each winter in town:
he frequently brings visitors
with him when he comes to ---shire,
and these visitors are often
foreigners; sometimes he has
a German metaphysician, sometimes
a French savant; he had once
a dissatisfied and savage-looking
Italian, who neither sang nor
played, and of whom Frances affirmed
that he had "tout l'air d'un
conspirateur."
What English guests Hunsden
invites, are all either men of
Birmingham or Manchester--hard
men, seemingly knit up in one
thought, whose talk is of free
trade. The foreign visitors,
too, are politicians; they take
a wider theme--European progress--the
spread of liberal sentiments
over the Continent; on their
mental tablets, the names of
Russia, Austria, and the Pope,
are inscribed in red ink. I have
heard some of them talk vigorous
sense--yea, I have been present
at polyglot discussions in the
old, oak-lined dining-room at
Hunsden Wood, where a singular
insight was given of the sentiments
entertained by resolute minds
respecting old northern despotisms,
and old southern superstitions:
also, I have heard much twaddle,
enounced chiefly in French and
Deutsch, but let that pass. Hunsden
himself tolerated the drivelling
theorists; with the practical
men he seemed leagued hand and
heart.
When Hunsden is staying alone
at the Wood (which seldom happens)
he generally finds his way two
or three times a week to Daisy
Lane. He has a philanthropic
motive for coming to smoke his
cigar in our porch on summer
evenings; he says he does it
to kill the earwigs amongst the
roses, with which insects, but
for his benevolent fumigations,
he intimates we should certainly
be overrun. On wet days, too,
we are almost sure to see him;
according to him, it gets on
time to work me into lunacy by
treading on my mental corns,
or to force from Mrs. Crimsworth
revelations of the dragon within
her, by insulting the memory
of Hofer and Tell.
We also go frequently to Hunsden
Wood, and both I and Frances
relish a visit there highly.
If there are other guests, their
characters are an interesting
study; their conversation is
exciting and strange; the absence
of all local narrowness both
in the host and his chosen society
gives a metropolitan, almost
a cosmopolitan freedom and largeness
to the talk. Hunsden himself
is a polite man in his own house:
he has, when he chooses to employ
it, an inexhaustible power of
entertaining guests; his very
mansion too is interesting, the
rooms look storied, the passages
legendary, the low-ceiled chambers,
with their long rows of diamond-paned
lattices, have an old-world,
haunted air: in his travels he
hall collected stores of articles
of VERTU, which are well and
tastefully disposed in his panelled
or tapestried rooms: I have seen
there one or two pictures, and
one or two pieces of statuary
which many an aristocratic connoisseur
might have envied.
When I and Frances have dined
and spent an evening with Hunsden,
he often walks home with us.
His wood is large, and some of
the timber is old and of huge
growth. There are winding ways
in it which, pursued through
glade and brake, make the walk
back to Daisy Lane a somewhat
long one. Many a time, when we
have had the benefit of a full
moon, and when the night has
been mild and balmy, when, moreover,
a certain nightingale has been
singing, and a certain stream,
hid in alders, has lent the song
a soft accompaniment, the remote
church-bell of the one hamlet
in a district of ten miles, has
tolled midnight ere the lord
of the wood left us at our porch.
Free-flowing was his talk at
such hours, and far more quiet
and gentle than in the day-time
and before numbers. He would
then forget politics and discussion,
and would dwell on the past times
of his house, on his family history,
on himself and his own feelings--subjects
each and all invested with a
peculiar zest, for they were
each and all unique. One glorious
night in June, after I had been
taunting him about his ideal
bride and asking him when she
would come and graft her foreign
beauty on the old Hunsden oak,
he answered suddenly--
"You call her
ideal; but see, here is her
shadow; and there
cannot be a shadow without a
substance."
He had led
us from the depth of the "winding way" into
a glade from whence the beeches
withdrew,
leaving it open to the sky; an
unclouded moon poured her light
into this glade, and Hunsden
held out under her beam an ivory
miniature.
Frances, with
eagerness, examined it first;
then she gave it to
me--still, however, pushing her
little face close to mine, and
seeking in my eyes what I thought
of the portrait. I thought it
represented a very handsome and
very individual-looking female
face, with, as he had once said, "straight
and harmonious features." It
was dark; the hair, raven-black,
swept not only from the brow,
but from the temples--seemed
thrust away carelessly, as if
such beauty dispensed with, nay,
despised arrangement. The Italian
eye looked straight into you,
and an independent, determined
eye it was; the mouth was as
firm as fine; the chin ditto.
On the back of the miniature
was gilded "Lucia."
"That is a real head," was
my conclusion.
Hunsden smiled.
"I think so," he replied. "All
was real in Lucia."
"And she was
somebody you would have liked
to marry--but could
not?"
"I should certainly
have liked to marry her, and
that I HAVE
not done so is a proof that I
COULD not."
He repossessed himself of the
miniature, now again in Frances'
hand, and put it away.
"What do YOU think of it?" he
asked of my wife, as he buttoned
his coat over it.
"I am sure Lucia once wore
chains and broke them," was the
strange answer. "I do not mean
matrimonial chains," she added,
correcting herself, as if she
feared mis-interpretation, "but
social chains of some sort. The
face is that of one who has made
an effort, and a successful and
triumphant effort, to wrest some
vigorous and valued faculty from
insupportable constraint; and
when Lucia's faculty got free,
I am certain it spread wide pinions
and carried her higher than--" she
hesitated.
"Than what?" demanded
Hunsden.
"Than 'les
convenances' permitted you
to follow."
"I think you
grow spiteful--impertinent."
"Lucia has trodden the stage," continued
Frances. "You never seriously
thought of marrying her; you
admired her originality, her
fearlessness, her energy of body
and mind; you delighted in her
talent, whatever that was, whether
song, dance, or dramatic representation;
you worshipped her beauty, which
was of the sort after your own
heart: but I am sure she filled
a sphere from whence you would
never have thought of taking
a wife."
"Ingenious," remarked Hunsden; "whether
true or not is another question.
Meantime, don't you feel your
little lamp of a spirit wax very
pale, beside such a girandole
as Lucia's?"
"Yes."
"Candid, at
least; and the Professor will
soon be dissatisfied
with the dim light you give?"
"Will you,
monsieur?"
"My sight was always too weak
to endure a blaze, Frances," and
we had now reached the wicket.
I said, a few pages back, that
this is a sweet summer evening;
it is--there has been a series
of lovely days, and this is the
loveliest; the hay is just carried
from my fields, its perfume still
lingers in the air. Frances proposed
to me, an hour or two since,
to take tea out on the lawn;
I see the round table, loaded
with china, placed under a certain
beech; Hunsden is expected --nay,
I hear he is come--there is his
voice, laying down the law on
some point with authority; that
of Frances replies; she opposes
him of course. They are disputing
about Victor, of whom Hunsden
affirms that his mother is making
a milksop. Mrs. Crimsworth retaliates:--
"Better a thousand
times he should be a milksop
than what
he, Hunsden, calls 'a fine lad;'
and moreover she says that if
Hunsden were to become a fixture
in the neighbourhood, and were
not a mere comet, coming and
going, no one knows how, when,
where, or why, she should be
quite uneasy till she had got
Victor away to a school at least
a hundred miles off; for that
with his mutinous maxims and
unpractical dogmas, he would
ruin a score of children."
I have a word to say of Victor
ere I shut this manuscript in
my desk--but it must be a brief
one, for I hear the tinkle of
silver on porcelain.
Victor is as little of a pretty
child as I am of a handsome man,
or his mother of a fine woman;
he is pale and spare, with large
eyes, as dark as those of Frances,
and as deeply set as mine. His
shape is symmetrical enough,
but slight; his health is good.
I never saw a child smile less
than he does, nor one who knits
such a formidable brow when sitting
over a book that interests him,
or while listening to tales of
adventure, peril, or wonder,
narrated by his mother, Hunsden,
or myself. But though still,
he is not unhappy--though serious,
not morose; he has a susceptibility
to pleasurable sensations almost
too keen, for it amounts to enthusiasm.
He learned to read in the old-fashioned
way out of a spelling-book at
his mother's knee, and as he
got on without driving by that
method, she thought it unnecessary
to buy him ivory letters, or
to try any of the other inducements
to learning now deemed indispensable.
When he could read, he became
a glutton of books, and is so
still. His toys have been few,
and he has never wanted more.
For those he possesses, he seems
to have contracted a partiality
amounting to affection; this
feeling, directed towards one
or two living animals of the
house, strengthens almost to
a passion.
Mr. Hunsden gave him a mastiff
cub, which he called Yorke, after
the donor; it grew to a superb
dog, whose fierceness, however,
was much modified by the companionship
and caresses of its young master.
He would go nowhere, do nothing
without Yorke; Yorke lay at his
feet while he learned his lessons,
played with him in the garden,
walked with him in the lane and
wood, sat near his chair at meals,
was fed always by his own hand,
was the first thing he sought
in the morning, the last he left
at night. Yorke accompanied Mr.
Hunsden one day to X----, and
was bitten in the street by a
dog in a rabid state. As soon
as Hunsden had brought him home,
and had informed me of the circumstance,
I went into the yard and shot
him where he lay licking his
wound: he was dead in an instant;
he had not seen me level the
gun; I stood behind him. I had
scarcely been ten minutes in
the house, when my ear was struck
with sounds of anguish: I repaired
to the yard once more, for they
proceeded thence. Victor was
kneeling beside his dead mastiff,
bent over it, embracing its bull-like
neck, and lost in a passion of
the wildest woe: he saw me.
"Oh, papa, I'll never forgive
you! I'll never forgive you!" was
his exclamation. "You shot Yorke--I
saw it from the window. I never
believed you could be so cruel--I
can love you no more!"
I had much ado to explain to
him, with a steady voice, the
stern necessity of the deed;
he still, with that inconsolable
and bitter accent which I cannot
render, but which pierced my
heart, repeated--
"He might have
been cured--you should have
tried--you should
have burnt the wound with a hot
iron, or covered it with caustic.
You gave no time; and now it
is too late--he is dead!"
He sank fairly down on the
senseless carcase; I waited patiently
a long while, till his grief
had somewhat exhausted him; and
then I lifted him in my arms
and carried him to his mother,
sure that she would comfort him
best. She had witnessed the whole
scene from a window; she would
not come out for fear of increasing
my difficulties by her emotion,
but she was ready now to receive
him. She took him to her kind
heart, and on to her gentle lap;
consoled him but with her lips,
her eyes, her soft embrace, for
some time; and then, when his
sobs diminished, told him that
Yorke had felt no pain in dying,
and that if he had been left
to expire naturally, his end
would have been most horrible;
above all, she told him that
I was not cruel (for that idea
seemed to give exquisite pain
to poor Victor), that it was
my affection for Yorke and him
which had made me act so, and
that I was now almost heart-broken
to see him weep thus bitterly.
Victor would have been no true
son of his father, had these
considerations, these reasons,
breathed in so low, so sweet
a tone--married to caresses so
benign, so tender--to looks so
inspired with pitying sympathy--produced
no effect on him. They did produce
an effect: he grew calmer, rested
his face on her shoulder, and
lay still in her arms. Looking
up, shortly, he asked his mother
to tell him over again what she
had said about Yorke having suffered
no pain, and my not being cruel;
the balmy words being repeated,
he again pillowed his cheek on
her breast, and was again tranquil.
Some hours
after, he came to me in my
library, asked if I
forgave him, and desired to be
reconciled. I drew the lad to
my side, and there I kept him
a good while, and had much talk
with him, in the course of which
he disclosed many points of feeling
and thought I appoved of in my
son. I found, it is true, few
elements of the "good fellow" or
the "fine fellow" in him; scant
sparkles of the spirit which
loves to flash over the wine
cup, or which kindles the passions
to a destroying fire; but I saw
in the soil of his heart healthy
and swelling germs of compassion,
affection, fidelity. I discovered
in the garden of his intellect
a rich growth of wholesome principles--reason,
justice, moral courage, promised,
if not blighted, a fertile bearing.
So I bestowed on his large forehead,
and on his cheek--still pale
with tears--a proud and contented
kiss, and sent him away comforted.
Yet I saw him the next day laid
on the mound under which Yorke
had been buried, his face covered
with his hands; he was melancholy
for some weeks, and more than
a year elapsed before he would
listen to any proposal of having
another dog.
Victor learns fast. He must
soon go to Eton, where, I suspect,
his first year or two will be
utter wretchedness: to leave
me, his mother, and his home,
will give his heart an agonized
wrench; then, the fagging will
not suit him--but emulation,
thirst after knowledge, the glory
of success, will stir and reward
him in time. Meantime, I feel
in myself a strong repugnance
to fix the hour which will uproot
my sole olive branch, and transplant
it far from me; and, when I speak
to Frances on the subject, I
am heard with a kind of patient
pain, as though I alluded to
some fearful operation, at which
her nature shudders, but from
which her fortitude will not
permit her to recoil. The step
must, however, be taken, and
it shall be; for, though Frances
will not make a milksop of her
son, she will accustom him to
a style of treatment, a forbearance,
a congenial tenderness, he will
meet with from none else. She
sees, as I also see, a something
in Victor's temper--a kind of
electrical ardour and power--which
emits, now and then, ominous
sparks; Hunsden calls it his
spirit, and says it should not
be curbed. I call it the leaven
of the offending Adam, and consider
that it should be, if not WHIPPED
out of him, at least soundly
disciplined; and that he will
be cheap of any amount of either
bodily or mental suffering which
will ground him radically in
the art of self-control. Frances
gives this something in her son's
marked character no name; but
when it appears in the grinding
of his teeth, in the glittering
of his eye, in the fierce revolt
of feeling against disappointment,
mischance, sudden sorrow, or
supposed injustice, she folds
him to her breast, or takes him
to walk with her alone in the
wood; then she reasons with him
like any philosopher, and to
reason Victor is ever accessible;
then she looks at him with eyes
of love, and by love Victor can
be infallibly subjugated; but
will reason or love be the weapons
with which in future the world
will meet his violence? Oh, no!
for that flash in his black eye--for
that cloud on his bony brow--for
that compression of his statuesque
lips, the lad will some day get
blows instead of blandishments--kicks
instead of kisses; then for the
fit of mute fury which will sicken
his body and madden his soul;
then for the ordeal of merited
and salutary suffering, out of
which he will come (I trust)
a wiser and a better man.
I see him now; he stands by
Hunsden, who is seated on the
lawn under the beech; Hunsden's
hand rests on the boy's collar,
and he is instilling God knows
what principles into his ear.
Victor looks well just now, for
he listens with a sort of smiling
interest; he never looks so like
his mother as when he smiles
--pity the sunshine breaks out
so rarely! Victor has a preference
for Hunsden, full as strong as
I deem desirable, being considerably
more potent decided, and indiscriminating,
than any I ever entertained for
that personage myself. Frances,
too, regards it with a sort of
unexpressed anxiety; while her
son leans on Hunsden's knee,
or rests against his shoulder,
she roves with restless movement
round, like a dove guarding its
young from a hovering hawk; she
says she wishes Hunsden had children
of his own, for then he would
better know the danger of inciting
their pride end indulging their
foibles.
Frances approaches my library
window; puts aside the honeysuckle
which half covers it, and tells
me tea is ready; seeing that
I continue busy she enters the
room, comes near me quietly,
and puts her hand on my shoulder.
"Monsieur est
trop applique."
"I shall soon
have done."
She draws a chair near, and
sits down to wait till I have
finished; her presence is as
pleasant to my mind as the perfume
of the fresh hay and spicy flowers,
as the glow of the westering
sun, as the repose of the midsummer
eve are to my senses.
But Hunsden comes; I hear his
step, and there he is, bending
through the lattice, from which
he has thrust away the woodbine
with unsparing hand, disturbing
two bees and a butterfly.
"Crimsworth!
I say, Crimsworth! take that
pen out of his hand,
mistress, and make him lift up
his head.
"Well, Hunsden
? I hear you--"
"I was at X----
yesterday! your brother Ned
is getting richer
than Croesus by railway speculations;
they call him in the Piece Hall
a stag of ten; and I have heard
from Brown. M. and Madame Vandenhuten
and Jean Baptiste talk of coming
to see you next month. He mentions
the Pelets too; he says their
domestic harmony is not the finest
in the world, but in business
they are doing 'on ne peut mieux,'
which circumstance he concludes
will be a sufficient consolation
to both for any little crosses
in the affections. Why don't
you invite the Pelets to ----shire,
Crimsworth? I should so like
to see your first flame, Zoraide.
Mistress, don't be jealous, but
he loved that lady to distraction;
I know it for a fact. Brown says
she weighs twelve stones now;
you see what you've lost, Mr.
Professor. Now, Monsieur and
Madame, if you don't come to
tea, Victor and I will begin
without you."
"Papa, come!"
End of The Project Gutenberg
Etext of The Professor, by Charlotte
Bronte
|