‘I own,’ she said with a sudden smile, ‘I never heard of a young man so backward to receive a lady’s hand. Take it, then, take me — as I am and as I choose; and swear as you are a gentleman, you will never seek to disobey, and will never be tempted to reproach me for what is your own free and considerate act.’
She looked at me earnestly. A thousand suspicions flashed through my mind; I think I became as white as the tablecloth. I gave her my hand in silence. She looked at me with the same serious face. ‘Well,’ said she. ‘For better or worse. And anyway, you would now be starving. You are to have three hundred a year now.’
‘O!’ I cried, bounding on my seat, ‘spare me more of this. You have made me love you; I long to give myself, spare me the figure of my price.’
‘And yet you would now be starving,’ said she. ‘Don’t let heroics blind you to the fact. There lies the way to the beginning of ingratitude.’
‘Emmeline,’ I cried, ‘I am a thousand miles beyond gratitude.’
‘And some of these days,’ said she, ‘you will be a thousand miles behind it. But when that temptation comes, tell yourself this. “There was a girl who was not in the least a bad girl and far less a stupid one. I came before her in the most unfavourable light — with my hand stretched forth at the ditch-side; and yet she judged me a gentleman, and put a trust in me that she would have put in not one out of ten thousand.” For that is the ungilded truth, Edward. You are prouder than I thought you were; in all the rest I have not been disappointed; and my confidence in the one gentleman I ever met is stronger than ever.’ She gave me her hand again, regardless of the waiter who had returned with the change upon a tray; and this was visible in her face, a genuine enthusiasm that swept away the last of my scruples. ‘You go to Edinburgh tonight; we shall be married in Scotland — for a thousand reasons; stay in the Caledonian Hotel, where my lawyer will communicate with you. I shall be with some friends close by, at a place called Garneside, where you must seek neither to see nor to write to me: all our communications must be through Mr Venables; and when the legal delay is over, we can be married quietly. After that’ — and here she paused.
Chapter III
The contract was a very tight piece of draughting; you could not get a finger in any corner: there was an allowance of £300 a year for me payable quarterly; all the rest was put in trust for my wife’s single benefit in the hands of very reputable city men, with whom I confess it was a kind of pride to me to be connected even in this left-handed manner. In a last fling of self-respect I refused the allowance; but Mr Venables assured me it was a condition sine qua non, and the match would be off if I insisted. The fact that I attempted even so much resistance shows my mind to have been still divided; and indeed the memory of our strange interview at Verrey’s troubled me by day and night, as I tossed in my bed, as I paced around the Calton Hill which I made at that time my continual resort, and as I sat brooding in my little upstairs chamber in the inn. I need not trouble you with my suspicions and concerns; they passed so quickly in the way, that I now can genuinely blush to recollect them. Enough that I was deeply unhappy; and that if I did not draw back from my engagement, it was from these unlike[ly] but very urgent reasons. I thought she had taught me; I could not bear to disaffect the trust which she had so eloquently declared; and the light in her blue eyes led me continually forward.
When we had been proclaimed the due number of times, I met her at the Caledonian Station, and we went together to the home of a clergyman in a street which I think they call Great King Street. She took my arm on the way, but she did not look at me and said but little. Methought she was cruelly embarrassed; and I wondered to find my heart quite full of pity for her situation. ‘I will not trouble you with words,’ was all I said. ‘You shall never repent the trust that you have put in me.’ She pressed my arm. Ί am sure of it,’ she said.
The clergyman, an elderly person in a wig, had in his wife and servants, before whom, in the front drawing-room, we were properly united in the Scottish forms; a little wine and biscuits concluded the ceremony; and we came forth in the street again about five of a bright autumn afternoon, man and wife.
At the corner of the street, she paused.
‘We are going to say goodbye,’ said she, in tones that scarcely rose above a whisper.
‘Goodbye!’ I cried.
‘I must return to my friends,’ she returned, a little wildly. ‘I have to. I cannot help myself. Is this your obedience? I do not know what you will think of me; and indeed — indeed, I do not wish you to think badly.’
Once more a great pity sealed my lips.
‘Emmeline,’ said I, ‘you shall do exactly what you wish, and I likewise. When shall I hear from you, and where?’
‘Stay in the same hotel,’ said she. ‘You shall hear soon. I place my trust in you — my trust.’
And she was gone!
Two days later I received a letter from Mr Venables, very politely and prettily expressed; in which he informed me, that after what had passed — these were his ipsissima verba — I must feel it was better for all parties that Mrs Hatfield and I should meet no longer; that my wife had gone abroad; and that if I had any interest in the continent of America, he had his orders and would take a pleasure in forwarding my views.
The next day I burst into his office.
‘Ah, Mr Hatfield,’ said he. ‘I — I rather anticipated this pleasure. What can I do to serve you?’
‘What sort of woman is my wife?’ I cried.
‘A very estimable young lady — somewhat independent — a very clear — O a very clear business head. Quite a remarkable capacity, I should say.’
‘Well, and why did she marry me?’ I cried.
‘Hmm?’ said the lawyer. ‘Ever see the will of the late Mr Croft? No.’ He rang a bell, and a copy of the document was laid before me. I read it through.
‘I see nothing here,’ said I.
‘Well, sir,’ said he, ‘you will observe that after twenty-one she is quite free to marry. Mrs Hatfield attained her majority two months ago.’
‘She lost no time,’ said I. ‘Flattery for me! But still, I am in the dark.’
‘You will observe further,’ said Mr Venables, ‘that until her marriage, the whole property remains under the sole management of Mr Richard Hussey Ramley. No way out of that except by marriage? Do you see now?’
‘Not even now,’ said I.
‘Well,’ said Mr Venables, ‘she — she didn’t think Mr Ramley a sound man of business. She doubted — this is in the strictest confidence of course — she doubted his solvency and even his, well — his delicacy. I would not go as far as that myself, but his operations are to my old-fashioned eyes a little wild. O, I think Mrs Hatfield fully justified.’
‘I have no doubt of that,’ said I; and then immediately, ‘and I suppose nothing can be done for me.’
‘Well,’ returned Mr Venables. ‘You can go to law.’
‘I will never do that,’ cried I.
‘I believe she rather figured on it in that way,’ returned the lawyer.
‘She can go on figuring upon it in that way till Hell is cold, for me,’ I said, getting my hat.
‘That was just as she expected; she had a great esteem for your character, Mr Hatfield.’
‘And why were we married in Scotland?’ I asked pausing in the door.
‘Well, it’s quiet,’ replied Mr Venables, ‘and then there are great facilities for divorce.’
THE WAIF WOMAN
A CUE — FROM A SAGA
This is a tale of Iceland, the isle of stories, and of a thing that befell in the year of the coming there of Christianity. In the spring of that year a ship sailed from the South Isles to traffic, and fell becalmed inside Snowfellness. The winds had speeded her; she was the first corner of the year; and the fishers drew alongside to hear the news of the south, and eager folk put out in boats to see the merchandise and make prices. From the doors of the hall on Frodis Water, the house folk saw the ship bec
almed and the boats about her, coming and going; and the merchants from the ship could see the smoke go up and the men and women trooping to their meals in the hall.
The goodman of that house was called Finnward Keelfarer, and his wife and the Light-Minded; and they had a son Eyolf, a likely boy, and a daughter Asdis, a slip of a maid. Finnward was well-to-do in his affairs, he kept open house and had good friends. But and his wife was not so much considered: her mind was set on trifles, on bright clothing, and the admiration of men, and the envy of women; and it was thought she was not always so circumspect in her bearing as she might have been, but nothing to hurt.
On the evening of the second day, men came to the house from sea. They told of the merchandise in the ship, which was well enough and to be had at easy rates, and of a waif woman that sailed in her, no one could tell why, and had chests of clothes beyond comparison, fine coloured stuffs, finely woven, the best that ever came into that island, and gewgaws for a queen. At the hearing of that Aud’s eyes began to glisten. She went early to bed; and the day was not yet red before she was on the beach, had a boat launched, and was pulling to the ship. By the way she looked closely at all boats, but there was no woman in any; and at that she was better pleased, for she had no fear of the men.
When they came to the ship, boats were there already, and the merchants and the shore folk sat and jested and chaffered in the stern. But in the fore part of the ship, the woman sat alone, and looked before her sourly at the sea. They called her Thorgunna. She was as tall as a man and high in flesh, a buxom wife to look at. Her hair was of the dark red, time had not changed it. Her face was dark, the cheeks full, and the brow smooth. Some of the merchants told that she was sixty years of age and others laughed and said she was but forty; but they spoke of her in whispers, for they seemed to think that she was ill to deal with and not more than ordinary canny.
Aud went to where she sat and made her welcome to Iceland. Thorgunna did the honours of the ship. So for a while they carried it on, praising and watching each other, in the way of women. But and was a little vessel to contain a great longing, and presently the cry of her heart came out of her.
‘The folk say,’ says she, ‘you have the finest women’s things that ever came to Iceland?’ and as she spoke her eyes grew big.
‘It would be strange if I had not,’ quoth Thorgunna. ‘Queens have no finer.’
So and begged that she might see them.
Thorgunna looked on her askance. ‘Truly,’ said she, ‘the things are for no use but to be shown.’ So she fetched a chest and opened it. Here was a cloak of the rare scarlet laid upon with silver, beautiful beyond belief; hard by was a silver brooch of basket-work that was wrought as fine as any shell and was as broad as the face of the full moon; and and saw the clothes lying folded in the chest, of all the colours of the day and fire, and precious gems; and her heart burned with envy. So, because she had so huge a mind to buy, she began to make light of the merchandise. ‘They are good enough things,’ says she, ‘though I have better in my chest at home. It is a good enough cloak, and I am in need of a new cloak.’ At that she fingered the scarlet, and the touch of the fine stuff went to her mind like singing. ‘Come,’ says she, ‘if it were only for your civility in showing it, what will you have for your cloak?’
‘Woman,’ said Thorgunna, ‘I am no merchant.’ And she closed the chest and locked it, like one angry.
Then and fell to protesting and caressing her. That was Aud’s practice; for she thought if she hugged and kissed a person none could say her nay. Next she went to flattery, said she knew the things were too noble for the like of her — they were made for a stately, beautiful woman like Thorgunna; and at that she kissed her again, and Thorgunna seemed a little pleased. And now and pled poverty and begged for the cloak in a gift; and now she vaunted the wealth of her goodman and offered ounces and ounces of fine silver, the price of three men’s lives. Thorgunna smiled, but it was a grim smile, and still she shook her head. At last and wrought herself into extremity and wept. ‘I would give my soul for it,’ she cried.
‘Fool!’ said Thorgunna. ‘But there have been fools before you!’ And a little after, she said this: ‘Let us be done with beseeching. The things are mine. I was a fool to show you them; but where is their use, unless we show them? Mine they are and mine they shall be till I die. I have paid for them dear enough,’ said she.
Aud saw it was of no avail; so she dried her tears, and asked Thorgunna about her voyage, and made believe to listen while she plotted in her little mind. ‘Thorgunna,’ she asked presently, ‘do you count kin with any folk in Iceland?’
‘I count kin with none,’ replied Thorgunna. ‘My kin is of the greatest, but I have not been always lucky, so I say the less.’
‘So that you have no house to pass the time in till the ship return?’ cries Aud. ‘Dear Thorgunna, you must come and live with us. My goodman is rich, his hand and his house are open, and I will cherish you like a daughter.’
At that Thorgunna smiled on the one side; but her soul laughed within her at the woman’s shallowness. ‘I will pay her for that word daughter,’ she thought, and she smiled again.
‘I will live with you gladly,’ says she, ‘for your house has a good name, and I have seen the smoke of your kitchen from the ship. But one thing you shall understand. I make no presents, I give nothing where I go — not a rag and not an ounce. Where I stay, I work for my upkeep; and as I am strong as a man and hardy as an ox, they that have had the keeping of me were the better pleased.’
It was a hard job for and to keep her countenance, for she was like to have wept. And yet she felt it would be unseemly to eat her invitation; and like a shallow woman and one that had always led her husband by the nose, she told herself she would find some means to cajole Thorgunna and come by her purpose after all. So she put a good face on the thing, had Thorgunna into the boat, her and her two great chests, and brought her home with her to the hall by the beach.
All the way in she made much of the wife; and when they were arrived gave her a locked bed-place in the hall, where was a bed, a table, and a stool, and space for the two chests.
‘This shall be yours while you stay here,’ said Aud. And she attended on her guest.
Now Thorgunna opened the second chest and took out her bedding — sheets of English linen, the like of it never seen, a cover of quilted silk, and curtains of purple wrought with silver. At the sight of these and was like one distracted, greed blinded her mind; the cry rose strong in her throat, it must out.
‘What will you sell your bedding for?’ she cried, and her cheeks were hot.
Thorgunna looked upon her with a dusky countenance. ‘Truly you are a courteous hostess,’ said she, ‘but I will not sleep on straw for your amusement.’
At that Aud’s two ears grew hot as her cheeks; and she took Thorgunna at her word, and left her from that time in peace.
The woman was as good as her spoken word. Inside the house and out she wrought like three, and all that she put her hand to was well done. When she milked, the cows yielded beyond custom; when she made hay, it was always dry weather; when she took her turn at the cooking, the folk licked their spoons. Her manners when she pleased were outside imitation, like one that had sat with kings in their high buildings. It seemed she was pious too, and the day never passed but she was in the church there praying. The rest was not so well. She was of few words, and never one about her kin and fortunes. Gloom sat on her brow, and she was ill to cross. Behind her back they gave her the name of the Waif Woman or the Wind Wife; to her face it must always be Thorgunna. And if any of the young men called her mother, she would speak no more that day, but sit apart in the hall and mutter with her lips.
‘This is a queer piece of goods that we have gotten,’ says Finnward Keelfarer, ‘I wish we get no harm by her! But the goodwife’s pleasure must be done,’ said he, which was his common word.
When she was at work, Thorgunna wore the rudest of plain clothes, though ever clean as
a cat; but at night in the hall she was more dainty, for she loved to be admired. No doubt she made herself look well, and many thought she was a comely woman still, and to those she was always favourable and full of pleasant speech. But the more that some pleased her, it was thought by good judges that they pleased and the less.
When midsummer was passed, a company of young men upon a journey came to the house by Frodis Water. That was always a great day for Aud, when there were gallants at table; and what made this day the greater, Alf of the Fells was in the company, and she thought Alf fancied her. To be sure and wore her best. But when Thorgunna came from the bed-place, she was arrayed like any queen and the broad brooch was in her bosom. All night in the hall these women strove with each other; and the little maid, Asdis, looked on, and was ashamed and knew not why. But Thorgunna pleased beyond all: she told of strange things that had befallen in the world; when she pleased, she had the cue to laughter; she sang, and her voice was full and her songs new in that island; and whenever she turned, the eyes shone in her face and the brooch glittered at her bosom. So that the young men forgot the word of the merchants as to the woman’s age, and their looks followed her all night.
Aud was sick with envy. Sleep fled her; her husband slept, but she sat upright beside him in the bed, and gnawed her fingers. Now she began to hate Thorgunna, and the glittering of the great brooch stood before her in the dark. ‘Sure,’ she thought, ‘it must be the glamour of that brooch! She is not so fair as I; she is as old as the dead in the hillside; and as for her wit and her songs, it is little I think of them!’ Up she got at that, took a light from the embers, and came to her guest’s bed-place. The door was locked, but and had a master-key and could go in. Inside, the chests were open, and in the top of one the light of her taper shone upon the glittering of the brooch. As a dog snatches food she snatched it, and turned to the bed. Thorgunna lay on her side; it was to be thought she slept, but she talked the while to herself, and her lips moved. It seemed her years returned to her in slumber, for her face was grey and her brow knotted; and the open eyes of her stared in the eyes of Aud. The heart of the foolish woman died in her bosom; but her greed was the stronger and she fled with that which she had stolen.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson Page 393