CHAPTER XLV.
The reading of this letter, though it made me mournful, did not hinderme from paying the visit I intended. My friend noticed my discomposure.
"What, Arthur! thou art quite the 'penseroso' to-night. Come, let mecheer thee with a song. Thou shalt have thy favourite ditty." Shestepped to the instrument, and, with more than airy lightness, touchedand sung:--
"Now knit hands and beat the ground In a light, fantastic round, Till the telltale sun descry Our conceal'd solemnity."
Her music, though blithsome and aerial, was not sufficient for the end.My cheerfulness would not return even at her bidding. She again noticedmy sedateness, and inquired into the cause.
"This girl of mine," said I, "has infected me with her own sadness.There is a letter I have just received." She took it and began to read.
Meanwhile, I placed myself before her, and fixed my eyes steadfastlyupon her features. There is no book in which I read with more pleasurethan the face of woman. _That_ is generally more full of meaning, and ofbetter meaning too, than the hard and inflexible lineaments of man; and_this_ woman's face has no parallel.
She read it with visible emotion. Having gone through it, she did notlift her eye from the paper, but continued silent, as if buried inthought. After some time, (for I would not interrupt the pause,) sheaddressed me thus:--
"This girl seems to be very anxious to be with you."
"As much as I am that she should be so." My friend's countenancebetrayed some perplexity. As soon as I perceived it, I said, "Why areyou thus grave?" Some little confusion appeared, as if she would nothave her gravity discovered. "There again," said I, "new tokens in yourface, my good mamma, of something which you will not mention. Yet, soothto say, this is not your first perplexity. I have noticed it before, andwondered. It happens only when my _Bess_ is introduced. Something inrelation to her it must be, but what I cannot imagine. Why does _her_name, particularly, make you thoughtful, disturbed, dejected? Therenow--but I must know the reason. You don't agree with me in my notionsof this girl, I fear, and you will not disclose your thoughts."
By this time, she had gained her usual composure, and, without noticingmy comments on her looks, said, "Since you are both of one mind, whydoes she not leave the country?"
"That cannot be, I believe. Mrs. Stevens says it would be disreputable.I am no proficient in etiquette, and must, therefore, in affairs of thiskind, be guided by those who are. But would to heaven I were truly herfather or brother! Then all difficulties would be done away."
"Can you seriously wish that?"
"Why, no. I believe it would be more rational to wish that the worldwould suffer me to act the fatherly or brotherly part, without therelationship."
"And is that the only part you wish to act towards this girl?"
"Certainly, the only part."
"You surprise me. Have you not confessed your love for her?"
"I _do_ love her. There is nothing upon earth more dear to me than my_Bess_."
"But love is of different kinds. She was loved by her father----"
"Less than by me. He was a good man, but not of lively feelings.Besides, he had another daughter, and they shared his love between them;but she has no sister to share _my_ love. Calamity, too, has endearedher to me; I am all her consolation, dependence, and hope, and nothing,surely, can induce me to abandon her."
"Her reliance upon you for happiness," replied my friend, with a sigh,"is plain enough."
"It is; but why that sigh? And yet I understand it. It remonstrates withme on my incapacity for her support. I know it well, but it is wrong tobe cast down. I have youth, health, and spirits, and ought not todespair of living for my own benefit and hers; but you sigh again, andit is impossible to keep my courage when _you_ sigh. Do tell me what youmean by it."
"You partly guessed the cause. She trusts to you for happiness, but Isomewhat suspect she trusts in vain."
"In vain! I beseech you, tell me why you think so."
"You say you love her: why then not make her your wife?"
"My wife! Surely her extreme youth, and my destitute condition, willaccount for that."
"She is fifteen; the age of delicate fervour, of inartificial love, andsuitable enough for marriage. As to your condition, you may live moreeasily together than apart. She has no false taste or perverse desiresto gratify. She has been trained in simple modes and habits. Besides,that objection can be removed another way. But are these all yourobjections?"
"Her youth I object to, merely in connection with her mind. She is toolittle improved to be my wife. She wants that solidity of mind, thatmaturity of intelligence which ten years more may possibly give her, butwhich she cannot have at this age."
"You are a very prudential youth: then you are willing to wait ten yearsfor a wife?"
"Does that follow? Because my Bess will not be qualified for wedlock inless time, does it follow that I must wait for her?"
"I spoke on the supposition that you loved her."
"And that is true; but love is satisfied with studying her happiness asher father or brother. Some years hence, perhaps in half a year, (forthis passion, called wedded or _marriage-wishing_ love, is of suddengrowth,) my mind may change and nothing may content me but to have Bessfor my wife. Yet I do not expect it."
"Then you are determined against marriage with this girl?"
"Of course; until that love comes which I feel not now; but which, nodoubt, will come, when Bess has had the benefit of five or eight yearsmore, unless previously excited by another."
"All this is strange, Arthur. I have heretofore supposed that youactually loved (I mean with the _marriage-seeking_ passion) your_Bess_."
"I believe I once did; but it happened at a time when marriage wasimproper; in the life of her father and sister, and when I had neverknown in what female excellence consisted. Since that time my happierlot has cast me among women so far above Eliza Hadwin,--so far above,and so widely different from any thing which time is likely to makeher,--that, I own, nothing appears more unlikely than that I shall everlove her."
"Are you not a little capricious in that respect, my good friend? Youhave praised your _Bess_ as rich in natural endowments; as having anartless purity and rectitude of mind, which somewhat supersedes the useof formal education; as being full of sweetness and tenderness, and inher person a very angel of loveliness."
"All that is true. I never saw features and shape so delicatelybeautiful; I never knew so young a mind so quick-sighted and so firm;but, nevertheless, she is not the creature whom I would call my _wife_.My bosom-slave; counsellor; friend; the mother; the pattern; thetutoress of my children, must be a different creature."
"But what are the attributes of this _desirable_ which Bess wants?"
"Every thing she wants. Age, capacity, acquirements, person, features,hair, complexion, all, all are different from this girl's."
"And pray of what kind may they be?"
"I cannot portray them in words--but yes, I can:--The creature whom Ishall worship:--it sounds oddly, but, I verily believe, the sentimentwhich I shall feel for my wife will be more akin to worship than anything else. I shall never love but such a creature as I now image tomyself, and _such_ a creature will deserve, or almost deserve, worship.But this creature, I was going to say, must be the exact counterpart, mygood mamma--of _yourself_."
This was said very earnestly, and with eyes and manner that fullyexpressed my earnestness; perhaps my expressions were unwittingly strongand emphatic, for she started and blushed, but the cause of herdiscomposure, whatever it was, was quickly removed, and she said,--
"Poor Bess! This will be sad news to thee!"
"Heaven forbid!" said I; "of what moment can my opinions be to her?"
"Strange questioner that thou art. Thou knowest that her gentle heart istouched with love. See how it shows itself in the tender and inimitablestrain of this epistle. Does not this sweet ingenuousness bewitch you?"
"It does so, an
d I love, beyond expression, the sweet girl; but my loveis, in some inconceivable way, different from the passion which that_other_ creature will produce. She is no stranger to my thoughts. I willimpart every thought over and over to her. I question not but I shallmake her happy without forfeiting my own."
"Would marriage with her be a forfeiture of your happiness?"
"Not absolutely or forever, I believe. I love her company. Her absencefor a long time is irksome. I cannot express the delight with which Isee and hear her. To mark her features, beaming with vivacity; playfulin her pleasures; to hold her in my arms, and listen to her prattle,always musically voluble, always sweetly tender, or artlesslyintelligent--and this you will say is the dearest privilege of marriage;and so it is; and dearly should I prize it; and yet, I fear my heartwould droop as often as that _other_ image should occur to my fancy. Forthen, you know, it would occur as something never to be possessed by me.
"Now, this image might, indeed, seldom occur. The intervals, at least,would be serene. It would be my interest to prolong these intervals asmuch as possible, and my endeavours to this end would, no doubt, havesome effect. Besides, the bitterness of this reflection would belessened by contemplating, at the same time, the happiness of my belovedgirl.
"I should likewise have to remember, that to continue unmarried wouldnot necessarily secure me the possession of the _other_ good----"
"But these reflections, my friend," (broke she in upon me,) "are of asmuch force to induce you to marry, as to reconcile you to a marriagealready contracted."
"Perhaps they are. Assuredly, I have not a hope that the _fancied_excellence will ever be mine. Such happiness is not the lot of humanity,and is, least of all, within my reach."
"Your diffidence," replied my friend, in a timorous accent, "has notmany examples; but your character, without doubt, is all your own,possessing all and disclaiming all,--is, in few words, your picture."
"I scarcely understand you. Do you think I ever shall be happy to thatdegree which I have imagined? Think you I shall ever meet with an exactcopy of _yourself_?"
"Unfortunate you will be, if you do not meet with many better. YourBess, in personals, is, beyond measure, _my_ superior, and in mind,allowing for difference in years, quite as much so."
"But that," returned I, with quickness and fervour, "is not the object.The very counterpart of _you_ I want; neither worse nor better, nordifferent in any thing. Just such form, such features, such hues. Justthat melting voice, and, above all, the same habits of thinking andconversing. In thought, word, and deed; gesture, look, and form, thatrare and precious creature whom I shall love must be your resemblance.Your----"
"Have done with these comparisons," interrupted she, in some hurry, "andlet us return to the country-girl, thy Bess.
"You once, my friend, wished me to treat this girl of yours as mysister. Do you know what the duties of a sister are?"
"They imply no more kindness or affection than you already feel towardsmy Bess. Are you not her sister?"
"I ought to have been so. I ought to have been proud of the relation youascribe to me, but I have not performed any of its duties. I blush tothink upon the coldness and perverseness of my heart. With such means asI possess, of giving happiness to others, I have been thoughtless andinactive to a strange degree; perhaps, however, it is not yet too late.Are you still willing to invest me with all the rights of an eldersister over this girl? And will she consent, think you?"
"Certainly she will; she has."
"Then the first act of sistership will be to take her from the country;from persons on whose kindness she has no natural claim, whose mannersand characters are unlike her own, and with whom no improvement can beexpected, and bring her back to her sister's house and bosom, to providefor her subsistence and education, and watch over her happiness.
"I will not be a nominal sister. I will not be a sister by halves. _All_the rights of that relation I will have, or none. As for you, you haveclaims upon her on which I must be permitted to judge, as becomes theelder sister, who, by the loss of all other relations, must occupy theplace, possess the rights, and fulfil the duties, of father, mother, andbrother.
"She has now arrived at an age when longer to remain in a cold andchurlish soil will stunt her growth and wither her blossoms. We musthasten to transplant her to a genial element and a garden well enclosed.Having so long neglected this charming plant, it becomes me henceforthto take her wholly to myself.
"And now, for it is no longer in her or your power to take back thegift, since she is fully mine, I will charge you with the office ofconducting her hither. I grant it you as a favour. Will you go?"
"Go! I will fly!" I exclaimed, in an ecstasy of joy, "on pinions swifterthan the wind. Not the lingering of an instant will I bear. Look! one,two, three--thirty minutes after nine. I will reach Curling's gate bythe morn's dawn. I will put my girl into a chaise, and by noon sheshall throw herself into the arms of her sister. But first, shall I not,in some way, manifest my gratitude?"
My senses were bewildered, and I knew not what I did. I intended tokneel, as to my mother or my deity; but, instead of that, I clasped herin my arms, and kissed her lips fervently. I stayed not to discover theeffects of this insanity, but left the room and the house, and, callingfor a moment at Stevens's, left word with the servant, my friend beinggone abroad, that I should not return till the morrow.
Never was a lighter heart, a gayety more overflowing and more buoyant,than mine. All cold from a boisterous night, at a chilly season, allweariness from a rugged and miry road, were charmed away. I might haveridden; but I could not brook delay, even the delay of inquiring for andequipping a horse. I might thus have saved myself fatigue, and have lostno time; but my mind was in too great a tumult for deliberation andforecast. I saw nothing but the image of my girl, whom my tidings wouldrender happy.
The way was longer than my fond imagination had foreseen. I did notreach Curling's till an hour after sunrise. The distance was fullthirty-five miles. As I hastened up the green lane leading to the house,I spied my Bess passing through a covered way, between the dwelling andkitchen. I caught her eye. She stopped and held up her hands, and thenran into my arms.
"What means my girl? Why this catching of the breath? Why this sobbing?Look at me, my love. It is Arthur,--he who has treated you withforgetfulness, neglect, and cruelty."
"Oh, do not," she replied, hiding her face with her hand. "One singlereproach, added to my own, will kill me. That foolish, wicked letter--Icould tear my fingers for writing it."
"But," said I, "I will kiss them;" and put them to my lips. "They havetold me the wishes of my girl. They have enabled me to gratify herwishes. I have come to carry thee this very moment to town."
"Lord bless me, Arthur," said she, lost in a sweet confusion, and hercheeks, always glowing, glowing still more deeply, "indeed, I did notmean----I meant only----I will stay here----I would rather stay----"
"It grieves me to hear that," said I, with earnestness; "I thought I wasstudying our mutual happiness."
"It grieves you? Don't say so. I would not grieve you for the world;but, indeed, indeed, it is too soon. Such a girl as I am not yet fitto--live in your city." Again she hid her glowing face in my bosom.
"Sweet consciousness! Heavenly innocence!" thought I; "may Achsa'sconjectures prove false!--You have mistaken my design, for I do notintend to carry you to town with such a view as you have hinted; butmerely to place you with a beloved friend, with Achsa Fielding, of whomalready you know so much, where we shall enjoy each other's companywithout restraint or intermission."
I then proceeded to disclose to her the plan suggested by my friend, andto explain all the consequences that would flow from it. I need not saythat she assented to the scheme. She was all rapture and gratitude.Preparations for departure were easily and speedily made. I hired achaise of a neighbouring farmer, and, according to my promise, by noonthe same day, delivered the timid and bashful girl into the arms of hernew sister.
She was rec
eived with the utmost tenderness, not only by Mrs. Fielding,but by all my friends. Her affectionate heart was encouraged to pourforth all its feeling as into the bosom of a mother. She was reinspiredwith confidence. Her want of experience was supplied by the gentlestadmonitions and instructions. In every plan for her improvementsuggested by her new _mamma_, (for she never called her by any othername,) she engaged with docility and eagerness; and her behaviour andher progress exceeded the most sanguine hopes that I had formed as tothe softness of her temper and the acuteness of her genius.
Those graces which a polished education, and intercourse with the betterclasses of society, are adapted to give, my girl possessed, in somedegree, by a native and intuitive refinement and sagacity of mind. Allthat was to be obtained from actual observation and instruction wasobtained without difficulty; and in a short time nothing but theaffectionate simplicity and unperverted feelings of the country-girlbespoke the original condition.
"What art so busy about, Arthur? Always at thy pen of late. Come, I mustknow the fruit of all this toil and all this meditation. I am determinedto scrape acquaintance with Haller and Linnaeus. I will begin this veryday. All one's friends, you know, should be ours. Love has made many apatient, and let me see if it cannot, in my case, make a physician. But,first, what is all this writing about?"
"Mrs. Wentworth has put me upon a strange task,--not disagreeable,however, but such as I should, perhaps, have declined, had not theabsence of my Bess, and her mamma, made the time hang somewhat heavy. Ihave, oftener than once, and far more circumstantially than now, toldher my adventures, but she is not satisfied. She wants a writtennarrative, for some purpose which she tells me she will disclose to mehereafter.
"Luckily, my friend Stevens has saved me more than half the trouble. Hehas done me the favour to compile much of my history with his own hand.I cannot imagine what could prompt him to so wearisome an undertaking;but he says that adventures and a destiny so singular as mine ought notto be abandoned to forgetfulness like any vulgar and _every-day_existence. Besides, when he wrote it, he suspected that it might benecessary to the safety of my reputation and my life, from theconsequences of my connection with Welbeck. Time has annihilated thatdanger. All enmities and all suspicions are buried with that ill-fatedwretch. Wortley has been won by my behaviour, and confides in myintegrity now as much as he formerly suspected it. I am glad, however,that the task was performed. It has saved me a world of writing. I hadonly to take up the broken thread, and bring it down to the period of mypresent happiness; and this was done, just as you tripped along theentry this morning.
"To bed, my friend; it is late, and this delicate frame is not half soable to encounter fatigue as a youth spent in the hay-field and thedairy might have been expected to be."
"I will, but let me take these sheets along with me. I will read them,that I am determined, before I sleep, and watch if you have told thewhole truth."
"Do so, if you please; but remember one thing. Mrs. Wentworth requestedme to write not as if it were designed for her perusal, but for thosewho have no previous knowledge of her or of me. 'Twas an odd request. Icannot imagine what she means by it; but she never acts without goodreason, and I have done so. And now, withdraw, my dear, and farewell."
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