He once told me that no man upon earth had ever been more fortunate than I, in the possession of such parents. In fact, he grew so rhapsodical about the pleasures of life in a country parsonage that I advised him to take Orders himself and settle down in one of the many good livings of which his family had the disposal. He took my suggestion very seriously and told me that it would not do. He had been converted to atheism at an early age.
I, for my part, had begun to doubt whether a parson’s life would suit me. Life at Brailsford had brought me into company more elegant than what I had previously known. I made new acquaintance, received other invitations, and stayed in other great houses. I had the reputation for being agreeable. I could sing, dance, talk, read aloud and play charades. A young man so gifted may hold his own very well even though he is poor and of no family. He has his value. He is dependable, he can be trusted to keep his engagements and can be invited to make up a party at short notice.
I liked to stay with people who had nothing to do save amuse themselves. I liked that kind of life very well. I had no wish to be rich; I only wanted enough money to dress well, travel post, and purchase civility from the servants. Had I possessed an income of a thousand pounds per annum I don’t believe that I should have sought any profession. But I had not a hundred pounds, and it was clear that I must do something.
My new friends were all against my taking Orders. Lady Amersham talked to me seriously upon the subject. She told me that I could do very much better if I went to the Bar and afterwards into politics. A seat in Parliament could certainly be found for me, and a place would follow.
So said all my fair friends. They were determined to get me on and were able to be unaffectedly tender towards me because I could never figure as a husband, or a lover, for any of them. I might flirt with them as much as I pleased, secure that I had raised no expectations. I could read poetry to Lady Georgiana under an oak tree and later refer to it, with a conscious glance, as ‘our tree,’ without reproof. This kind of gallantry is very pleasant.
‘I quite dote upon Miles Lufton,’ these ladies would cry, ‘and it is a great shame that he should be so poor, for he is a delightful creature. We must get him a seat, we must get him a place, and help him to grow rich.’
They liked me for my interesting poverty, my sensibility, my freshness and my innocence. They were therefore in great haste to destroy in me every quality which they had praised and found delightful, to corrupt Miles and to conjure up Pronto in his stead.
I have ever demanded the impossible. I wish that elegance should not depend upon wealth. I wish that pretty women should flirt with me and flatter me, – and yet would like them to read great books all through, understand the poetry which they quote so readily, and feel a genuine pang whenever they choose to sigh.
Edmée
I BECAME, IN due course, a fellow of my College, but I delayed for some months in the choice of a profession. During that period I fell seriously in love, a circumstance which, at one time, seemed likely to settle the question for me.
Her name was Edmée de Cavignac and we had been hearing of her for many years before we saw her, since her mother was English and a distant cousin of the Chadwicks. Cousinly feeling is, or was, strong at Bramfield. When the revolution broke out in France the safety of the Cavignacs was our principal interest. Much anxiety was felt by us during the disturbances which followed, and when, at last, news reached us we were horrified. The whole family had perished, – the father by guillotine and the rest in the noyades at Nantes. We were far more impressed by this atrocity than by anything else that the French had done; that they should decapitate and drown each other was but natural, but that Chadwick blood should be shed was another matter.
A few months later the rumour reached us that one child had escaped. As the dreadful procession moved towards the bridge there had been some pause, some halt, which brought Mdme de Cavignac and her children to a standstill close beside a spectator – a man in a very long cloak. He whispered that he might save one. Immediately, by tacit consent, the other children pushed the youngest under that long cloak. The procession moved on. The other Cavignacs, tied back to back, were flung from the bridge into the river.
This story was brought to us by later émigrés, who assured us that the young lady was safe in the care of her preserver and that he would send her to her friends in England when opportunity offered. And at length she came, during the short cessation of hostilities, after the Treaty of Amiens. She brought with her sufficient proof of her identity. Her preserver had been an artist and she had grown up in his family, somewhere in Provence. To our surprise she was reported to be a very pretty, genteel girl. We had often wondered about the child under the cloak, as we called her, and pictured her living in a cave, perhaps, and eating wild berries. We had supposed everybody in France to exist amidst riots, tumults, caps of liberty and guillotines, but, in many parts of the country, life seems to have gone on much as usual.
I suppose that I may have been a little in love with her before I ever saw her. I had thought of her often and her story had made a deep impression upon me. As a boy I had imagined our own family in such a situation. I hoped, I believed, that I should have had the courage immediately to push one of my sisters under the cloak. I was sure that an instant’s reflection would have enabled me to proceed and die with my mother; I could not have wished to survive her. But might not that instant’s indecision have ruined all? Nor was I certain that I should have chosen Sukey for preservation, although she was the youngest. I wondered what marked quality in Edmée, beyond that of simple minority, had impelled the Cavignacs to so immediate an agreement. I imagined her a very lovely child, an angel whom everybody cherished. And I wondered what this angel must have felt, when bidden preserve herself while the rest went on to die. Had she understood that she would never see them again? Had she tried to resist the little loving hands which pushed her into safety? Had she been too young to understand? When she came to understand, could she ever smile again?
She spent some time with a relative of her father in Essex. Upon his death she came to pay a long visit at Bramfield. She had been there for several days when I returned for the summer vacation and I lost no time in asking for an account of her. A chorus of voices broke out, in a variety of assertions.
She played the harp. She spoke English very well. She wore no cap. She was a Protestant. She could not ride. She had very good teeth. Nobody had liked to mention Nantes, and she had said nothing upon that subject. She was afraid of dogs and of cows. Her dress was very queer, but doubtless in the latest fashion. Ned had offered to teach her to ride, but she had refused. She was very good-natured and had offered to teach everyone the harp. She was of middle height, taller than Kitty but not so tall as Caroline. Her gowns were of muslin, almost untrimmed, exposing the ankles and so scanty as to be barely decent, nor did she appear to wear many petticoats. But in conduct she was prudish; she had refused Ned’s offer because she thought it improper. Isabella might be a little jealous of her. She must be very clever; it was a wonder to hear her speak French so fast.
The chief of this information came from Harriet, Kitty and Sukey, though my father contributed the items concerning her religion and her teeth. My mother said nothing until George had, for the third time, exclaimed upon our cousin’s cleverness in speaking French so fast. She then observed that, in a Frenchwoman, this was not very astonishing, nor would she allow that the accent was good; it was not Parisian, but Provençal. I got the impression that my mother did not much care for Mlle de Cavignac. Caroline, upon whose opinion I should most have depended, was no longer with us. She had married a naval lieutenant the year before, and was living in Portsmouth. If I wished to know how the child under the cloak had really turned out, I must judge for myself.
During the following morning I walked up to call at the Park. Nobody was within, but I was told that the ladies, who had gone to visit a cottage, would be at home within half an hour. So I turned into the morning room to wait
for them, and there encountered the most beautiful creature in the world.
I really think that she was, at that time, very lovely. It was a matter of colour, complexion, youth (she was but seventeen), grace – I know not what. The features, apart from that April freshness, were not good; they were sharp, – the lips too thin and the brow too low. But nobody, seeing her then, could have been so nice as to complain of such blemishes. In beauty we prize most highly that which has least permanence. If a rainbow were to be always in the sky we should seldom observe it; we pause and exclaim because we know that it is there but for an instant. And, in a woman, it is the transience of youth which heightens every charm. I have admired many beautiful women, yet am still sensible of a particular pang, half ecstasy, half anguish, when I catch a glimpse of Edmée in some young creature, – that transparent skin, the changing colour, the glancing grace and sparkle of a dewy morning.
I saw, in Paris, a painting by David which recalled her to me; a young girl drawing by a window, who turns to look at the new-comer just as she turned from her embroidery frame. By what genius is that evanescent magic caught by the painter! Long after we are all dead she will glance up from her drawing-board with a look that shall recall, to men unborn, the loved and the lost, – the transport of an hour, the regret of a lifetime.
I was better acquainted than were my sisters with the newest fashions. I was accustomed to the simple classical dress of the Consulate, but I had never seen it worn to better advantage. Her hair, a rich chestnut, was arranged with an artful negligence which would seem to owe nothing to the curling-tongs. Part of it was knotted up and part fell upon her neck in careless, childish ringlets. Her form was exquisitely rounded, – too much so for her age. Perfect symmetry at seventeen is often the precursor of excessive embonpoint at seven and twenty. But I did not know that, nor did I perceive any vacancy in her eye, for there is a certain lustre which vanishes from eyes as soon as they have anything to express. I thought her perfect, – the ideal embodiment of the child under the cloak. No wonder they should think that she, among them all, must live!
The memory of that episode was so strong upon me that I could scarcely speak or explain myself. She had started up, curtsied, and was about to quit the room before I found my voice. I detained her, however, introduced myself, and claimed kinship. Her extreme delicacy, which my sisters had called prudery, kept her hovering for awhile before she would consent to stay and talk to me. She was evidently uncertain of the propriety of sitting alone with a young man. French rules of chaperonage are, I believe, much stricter than ours, and the effect is provocative, for to suggest that a man cannot safely be left alone with a woman is to turn his mind inevitably to thoughts of what might ensue if he were; it supposes a natural licentiousness to be so near the surface that neither his honour nor her virtue should be exposed to the ordeal of propinquity. Edmée’s flutterings had something of this effect upon me, – they certainly reminded me that I was a man and she a woman, and, when I prevailed upon her to stay, I had a feeling, which was far from unpleasant, that I had triumphed over her discretion rather than her reason, – that she did not think it quite proper but had been charmed into staying.
She reseated herself at her work and was soon speaking, in her pretty English, of the kindness which she had received from my family, of my mother, and of the pleasure that it had been to her to find a friend at Bramfield who could talk French so well, and who had been in Provence.
As she talked, that picture of the bridge at Nantes again flashed upon me. I thought of her mother, parting from her for ever, without a word, without a gesture. Tears rose to my eyes and I was obliged to turn away. I believe that a strong degree of compassion is implicit in all love. We never apprehend the woes, the anguish, of the human lot more clearly than when we love, – when we know that the beloved object has suffered, will suffer, must die.
For the first time in my life I felt displeased with my mother. She had criticised Edmée’s accent. I could not understand how she had found anything to criticise in such a creature.
My cousins joined us far sooner than I could have wished, whereat my charmer became intent upon her embroidery. I must make an effort to talk connectedly, to answer questions, to listen to the local news. I wondered to see them sit there, chatting so composedly, as though no miracle had been present in the room with them. I took my leave as soon as I could, got one more glance from her, and departed, to roam the park in a kind of solemn ecstasy. I believe that I wept. It was some hours before I could calm myself sufficiently to face my fellow creatures.
My state needs no further description for it is a pretty common one. I was violently in love. Subsequent meetings did but increase my passion. I believed Edmée to be as intelligent as she was beautiful, and I don’t blame myself over much for that illusion. Her accomplishments were all novelties to us; she played the harp, she had a pleasing voice, and, though she sang but a dozen songs, they were songs which we had never heard before. Her conversation had freshness. A translated phrase would seem to be more apt and witty than its English equivalent. A comment which had been inspired merely by contact with the unfamiliar was, to me, evidence of penetrating observation.
Some weeks of that delightful summer drifted by, during which I formed no project. I was simply content to be in her company as often as possible. If she had not continually, by her manner, assured me of her preference, I might have been more uneasy.
It was my mother who put an end to this happy dream. I had always been half aware that she did not like me to spend so much time with Edmée. She had made efforts to prevent it, – had suggested that I might like to visit Ludovic, and finally tried to take me with her to Portsmouth, where Caroline was expecting her first confinement. But, as I pointed out, it was a most unseasonable time for me to be visiting my sister; how would I pass my time while she lay in and my mother attended her? I had no acquaintance in Portsmouth and my brother-in-law, Lieutenant Dawson, was at sea. I would escort my mother on her journey with all the pleasure in the world, but I would not stay there. She gave up the point, refused my escort, and, before she left, spoke to me very seriously about Edmée. She said that I ought not to pay such marked attentions to any girl unless I meant to marry her. I was startled. I did not above half like to hear my behaviour thus described.
‘I pay her no more attention than all the world does,’ I protested. ‘At the Stokehampton Ball there was a positive stampede to stand up with her. And Ned is never out of the way when I am at the Park.’
‘I have perceived as much,’ said my mother. ‘She receives a great deal of admiration. But not every young man who stampedes to dance with her is in a position to marry her. Such attentions from you may raise an expectation of more than you have intended.’
‘I’m not near so well in a position to marry as Ned or Charles Pinney, Ma’am. They are eldest sons. I have no income save my fellowship, which I must resign if I marry.’
‘It is generally supposed that you will soon take Orders and that the Amershams will give you a living.’
‘I cannot help my neighbours’ suppositions.’
‘No, Miles. But you should be a little careful. Vulgar people might call you a good catch for such a girl, for any young woman in this neighbourhood. I think you are aware of that; I notice that you are always very much upon your guard with Maria Cotman.’
I blushed, for I thought nobody had noticed that affair. I had, at Christmas, begun an idle flirtation with Maria, the prettiest of the Cotman girls; then, perceiving that I should be caught if I did not look sharp, I kept out of her way.
‘I do not see why I am to be raising more expectations than Ned or Charles Pinney,’ I repeated, a little sulkily.
‘You all behave,’ said my mother, ‘in a way to turn the poor girl’s head. But their conduct is no business of ours. I want you to consider your own. Edmée has no fortune and she is alone in the world. The Chadwicks do not mean to keep her here for ever. She must go out as a governess or companion, I s
uppose, unless she can settle. If she supposes you serious, and you are not, it may make her very unhappy, – it might lead her to reject other offers. You should not raise her hopes, simply because you enjoy her company. That is very selfish.’
This was too much. I assured my mother that I had never been more serious in my life and that I fully intended to marry Edmée some time or other.
‘Then,’ said my mother, after she had agreed with me, several times over, that Edmée was a most beautiful girl, ‘you should make up your mind what you mean to do.’
‘I cannot afford to marry yet.’
‘Then don’t pay court to her so openly. If you go on so, with no engagement, you will put her into an awkward position and might be censured yourself as a trifler.’
‘Then we had better be engaged, Ma’am. There is nothing for it. I will ask her, and tell her that we must wait.’
‘Are you sure of her feelings?’
I confessed that I was pretty sure of them. Edmée had given me very little uneasiness upon that score. Many admired her, but she had given me evidence of a decided preference.
My mother listened to my raptures rather sadly. I know now that she wished me not to commit myself; she was positive that Edmée could never make me happy. But happiness was, to her, inseparable from strict honour and the most scrupulous attention to the rights and feelings of others. What I said convinced her, to her great regret, that I was committed. She feared that Edmée might be in love with me, and she forced herself to remember that the girl had no mother to protect her. That dead mother was as much in her mind as in mine. She resolved to accept Edmée as a daughter and to love her, not only for my sake, but for the sake of that poor woman at Nantes.
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