 Chapter 22 We please our fancy with ideal webs of innovation, but our life, meanwhile, is in the loom where busy passion plies the shuttle to and fro, and gives our deeds the accustomed pattern. Gwendolyn's note, coming pat betwixt too early and too late, was put into Klesmer's hands just when he was leaving Ketchum, and in order to meet her appeal to his kindness, he, with some inconvenience to himself, spent the night at Wanchester. There were reasons why he would not remain at Ketchum. That magnificent mansion, fitted with regard to the greatest expense, had in fact become too hot for him, its owners having, like some great politicians, been astonished at an insurrection against the established order of things, which we plain people, after the event, can perceive to have been prepared under their very noses. There were as usual many guests in the house, and among them one in whom Miss Arrowpoint foresaw a new pretender to her hand. A political man of good family, who confidently expected a peerage, and fell on public grounds that he required a larger fortune to support the title properly. Eris's very, and persons interested in one of them beforehand, are prepared to find that she is too yellow, or too red, tall and toppling, or short and square, violent and capricious, or moony and insipid. But in every case it is taken for granted that she will consider herself an appendage to her fortune, and marry where others think her fortunes ought to go. Nature, however, not only accommodates herself ill to our favorite practices by making only children daughters, but also now and then endows the misplaced daughter with a clear head and a strong will. The Arrowpoints had already felt some anxiety owing to these endowments of their Catherine. She would not accept the view of her social duty which required her to marry a needy nobleman or a commoner on the ladder toward nobility, and they were not without uneasiness concerning her persistence in declining suitable offers. As to the possibility of her being in love with Klesmer, they were not at all uneasy, a very common sort of blindness, for in general mortals have a great power of being astonished at the presence of an effect toward which they have done everything, and at the absence of an effect toward which they had done nothing but desire it. Parents are astonished at the ignorance of their sons, though they have used the most time-honored and expensive means of securing it. Husbands and wives are mutually astonished at the loss of affection which they have taken no pains to keep, and all of us in our turn are apt to be astonished that our neighbors do not admire us. In this way it happens that the truth seems highly improbable. The truth is something different from the habitual lazy combinations begotten by our wishes. The Arrowpoints' hour of astonishment was calm. When there is a passion between an Eris and a proud, independent-spirited man, it is difficult for them to come to an understanding, but the difficulties are likely to be overcome unless the proud man secures himself by a constant alibi. Brief meetings, after studied absence, are potent in disclosure, but more potent still is frequent companionship, with full sympathy in taste and admirable qualities on both sides, especially where the one is in the position of teacher and the other is delightedly conscious of receptive ability which also gives the teacher delight. The situation is famous in history and has no less charm now than it had in the days of Abelard. But this kind of comparison had not occurred to the Arrowpoints when they first engaged Klezmer to come down to catch him. To have a first-rate musician in your house is a privilege of wealth. Catherine's musical talent demanded every advantage, and she particularly desired to use her quieter time in the country for more thorough study. Klezmer was not yet a list understood to be adored by ladies of all European countries with the exception of Lapland, and even with that understanding it did not follow that he would make proposals to an Eris. No musician of honour would do so. Still less was it conceivable that Catherine would give him the slightest pretext for such daring. The large check that Mr. Arrowpoint was to draw in Klezmer's name seemed to make him as safe and inmate as a footman. Where marriage is inconceivable, a girl's sentiments are safe. Klezmer was imminently a man of honour, but marriages rarely begin with formal proposals, and moreover Catherine's limit of the conceivable did not exactly correspond with her mother's. Outsiders might have been more apt to think that Klezmer's position was dangerous for himself if Ms. Arrowpoint had been an acknowledged beauty. Not taking into account that the most powerful of all beauty is that which reveals itself after sympathy and not before it. There is a charm of eye and lip which comes with every little phrase that certifies delicate perception or fine judgment, with every unaustentatious word or smile that shows a heart awake to others, and no sweep of garment or turn a figure is more satisfying than that which enters as a restoration of confidence that one person is present on whom no intention will be lost. What dignity of meaning goes on gathering in frowns and laughs which are never observed in the wrong place. What suffused adorableness in a human frame where there is a mind that can flash out comprehension and hands that can execute finely. The more obvious beauty, also adorable sometimes, one may say it without blasphemy, begins by being an apology for folly, and ends like other apologies in becoming tiresome by iteration. And that Klesmer, though very susceptible to it, should have a passionate attachment to Miss Aero Point, was no more a paradox than any other triumph of a manifold sympathy over a monotonous attraction. We object less to be taxed with the enslaving excess of our passions than with our deficiency in wider passion. But if the truth were known, our reputed intensity is often the dullness of not knowing what else to do with ourselves. Anna Hoisa, one suspects, was a night of ill furnished imagination, hardly of larger discourse than a heavy guardsman. Merlin had certainly seen his best days and was merely repeating himself when he fell into that hopeless captivity. And we know that Ulysses felt so manifest and on we, under similar circumstances, that Calypso herself furthered his departure. There is indeed a report that he afterward left Penelope, but since she was habitually absorbed in worsted work, and it was probably from her that Telemachus got his mean, pedophogging disposition, always anxious about the property and the daily consumption of meat, no inference can be drawn from this already dubious scandal as to the relation between companionship and constancy. Merlin was as versatile and fascinating as a young Ulysses on a sufficient acquaintance, one whom nature seemed to have first made generously and then to have added music as a dominant power using all the abundant rest, and, as in Mendelssohn, finding expression for itself not only in the highest finish of execution, but in that fervor of creative work and theoretic belief which pierces devoted purpose. These foibles of arrogance and vanity did not exceed such as may be found in the best English families, and Catherine Aropointe had no corresponding restlessness to clash with his. Notwithstanding her native kindliness, she was perhaps too coolly, firm, and self-sustained. But she was one of those satisfactory creatures whose intercourse has the charm of discovery, whose integrity of faculty and expression begets a wish to know what they will say on all subjects or how they will perform whatever they undertake, so that they end by raising not only a continual expectation, but a continual sense of fulfillment, the systole and diastole of blissful companionship. In such cases the outward presentment easily becomes what the image is to the worshipper. It was not long before the two became aware that each was interesting to the other. But the how-far remained a matter of doubt. Klesmer did not conceive that Miss Aropointe was likely to think of him as a possible lover, and she was not accustomed to think of herself as likely to stir more than a friendly regard, or to fear the expression of more from any man who was not enamored of her fortune. Each was content to suffer some unshared sense of denial for the sake of loving the other's society a little too well. And under these conditions no need had been felt to restrict Klesmer's visits for the last year, either in country or in town. He knew very well that if Miss Aropointe had been poor he would have made ardent love to her instead of sending a storm through the piano, or folding his arms and pouring out a hyperbolic tirade about something as impersonal as the North Pole. When she was not less aware that if it had been possible for Klesmer to wish for her hand she would have found over-mastering reasons for giving it to him. Here was the safety of full cups which are as secure from overflow as the half-empty, always supposing no disturbance. Naturally, silent feeling had not remained at the same point any more than the stealthy dial-hand, and in the present visit to Ketchum Klesmer had begun to think that he would not come again, while Catherine was more sensitive to his frequent brusquery, which she rather resented as a needless effort to assert his footing of superior in every sense except the conventional. Meanwhile enters the expectant peer, Mr. Balt. An esteemed party man, who rather neutral in private life, had strong opinions concerning the districts of the Niger, was much at home also in Brazils, spoke with decision of affairs on the South Sea, was studious of his parliamentary and itinerant speeches, and had the general solidity and suffusive pinkness of a healthy Britain on the central table-land of life. Catherine, aware of a tacit understanding that he was an undeniable husband for an heiress, had nothing to say against him but that he was thoroughly tiresome to her. Mr. Balt was amiably confident and had no idea that his insensibility to counterpoint could even be reckoned against him. Klesmer he hardly regarded in the light of a serious human being who ought to have a vote, and he did not mind Miss Aropointe's addiction to music any more than her probable expenses in antique lace. He was consequently a little amazed at an after-dinner outburst of Klesmers on the lack of idealism in English politics, which left all mutuality between distant races to be determined simply by the need of a market. The crusades to his mind had at least this excuse that they had a banner of sentiment round which generous feelings could rally. Of course the scoundrels rallied too, but what then? They rally an equal force round your advertisement van of by-cheap sell-deer. On this theme Klesmer's eloquence, gesticulatory and other went on for a little while like stray fireworks accidentally ignited and then sank into immovable silence. Mr. Bolt was not surprised that Klesmer's opinions should be flighty, but was astonished at his command of English idiom and his ability to put a point in a way that would have told at a constituent's dinner, to be accounted for probably by his being a pole, or a check, or something of that fermenting sort, in a state of political refugeeism which had obliged him to make a profession of his music. And that evening in the drawing-room he for the first time went up to Klesmer at the piano, Miss Arrowpoint being near and said, I had no idea before that you were a political man. Klesmer's only answer was to fold his arms, put out his nether lip, and stare at Mr. Bolt. You must have been used to public speaking. You speak uncommonly well, though I don't agree with you. From what you said about sentiment I fancy you were a punclavist. No. My name is Elijah. I am the wandering Jew, said Klesmer, flashing a smile at Miss Arrowpoint and suddenly making a mysterious wind-like rush backward and forward on the piano. Mr. Bolt felt this buffoonery rather offensive and Polish, but Miss Arrowpoint being there did not like to move away. Her Klesmer has cosmopolitan ideas, said Miss Arrowpoint, trying to make the best of the situation. He looks forward to a fusion of races. With all my heart, said Mr. Bolt, willing to be gracious, I was sure he had too much talent to be a mere musician. Osser, you are under some mistake there, said Klesmer, firing up. No man has too much talent to be a musician. Most men have too little. A creative artist is no more a mere musician than a great statesman is a mere politician. We are not ingenious puppets, sir, who live in a box and look out on the world only when it is gaping for amusement. We help to rule the nations and make the age as much as any other public men. We count ourselves on level benches with legislators, and a man who speaks effectively through music is compelled to something more difficult than parliamentary eloquence. With the last word, Klesmer wheeled from the piano and walked away. Miss Aero Point colored, and Mr. Bolt observed with his usual, phlegmatic, stolidity. Your pianist does not think small beer of himself. Herr Klesmer is something more than a pianist, said Miss Aero Point, apologetically. He is a great musician in the fullest sense of the word. He will rank with Schubert and Mendelssohn. Ah, you ladies understand these things, said Mr. Bolt. Nonetheless, convinced that these things were frivolous because Klesmer had shown himself a cox comb. Catherine, always sorry when Klesmer gave himself errors, found an opportunity the next day in the music room to say, Why were you so heated last night with Mr. Bolt? He meant no harm. You wish me to be complacent to him, said Klesmer rather fiercely. I think it is hardly worth your while to be other than civil. You find no difficulty in tolerating him, then. You have a respect for a political platitudinarian as insensible as an ox to everything he can't turn into political capital. You think his monumental obtuseness suited to the dignity of the English gentleman. I did not say that. You mean that I acted without dignity, and you were offended with me. Now you are slightly nearer, the truth, said Catherine, smiling. Then I had better put my burial-clothes in my portmanteau and set off at once. I don't see that. If I had to bear your criticism of my operetta, you should not mind my criticism of your impatience. But I do mind it. You would have wished me to take his ignorant impertinence about a mere musician without letting him know his place, and to hear my gods blasphemed as well as myself insulted. But I beg pardon. It is impossible you should see the matter as I do. Even you can't understand the wrath of the artist. He is of another caste for you. That is true, said Catherine, with some betrayal of feeling. He is of a caste to which I look up, a caste above mine. Klesmer, who had been seated at a table looking over scores, started up and walked to a little distance from which he said, That is finally felt. I am grateful. But I had better go all the same. I have made up my mind to go, for good in all. You can get on exceedingly well without me. Your operetta is on wheels. It will go of itself. And Mr. Bult's company fits me. Vidi Faustin's Auga. I am neglecting my engagements. I must go off to St. Petersburg. There was no answer. You agree with me that I had better go, said Klesmer, with some irritation. Certainly, if that is what your business and feeling prompt, I have only to wonder that you have consented to give us so much of your time in the last year. There must be trouble the interest to you anywhere else. I have never thought of you consenting to come here as anything else than a sacrifice. Why should I make the sacrifice, said Klesmer, going to seat himself at the piano and touching the keys so as to give, with the delicacy of an echo in the far distance, a melody which he had set to Haine's Ichabdischgalibet und Leibadischnok. That is the mystery, said Catherine, not wanting to affect anything, but from mere agitation. From the same cause, she was tearing a piece of paper into minute morsels as if at a task of utmost multiplication, imposed by a cruel fairy. You can conceive, no motive, said Klesmer, folding his arms. None that seems in the least probable. Then I shall tell you, it is because you are to me the chief woman in the world, the throned lady whose colors I carry between my heart and my armor. Catherine's hands trembled so much that she could no longer tear the paper. Still less could her lips utter a word. Klesmer went on. This would be the last impertinence in me if I meant to found anything upon it. That is out of the question. I meant no such thing, but you once said it was your doom to suspect every man who courted you of being an adventurer, and what made you angriest was men's imputing to you the folly of believing that they courted you for your own sake. Did you not say so? Very likely was the answer in a low murmur. It was a bitter word. Well at least one man who has seen women as plenty as flowers in May has lingered about you for your own sake, and since he is one whom you can never marry, you will believe him. There is an argument in favor of some other man. But don't give yourself for a meal to a minotaur like bolt. I shall go now, and pack. I shall make my excuses to Mrs. Aropointe. Clezmer rose as he ended, and walked quickly toward the door. You must take this heap of manuscript, then said Catherine, suddenly making a desperate effort. She had risen to fetch the heap from another table. Clezmer came back, and they had the length of the folio sheets between them. Why should I not marry the man who loves me if I love him, said Catherine? To her the effort was something like the leap of a woman from the deck into the lifeboat. It would be too hard, impossible. You could not carry it through. I am not worth what you would have to encounter. I will not accept the sacrifice. It would be thought a mesallance for you, and I should be liable to the worst accusations. Is it the accusations you are afraid of? I am afraid of nothing, but that we should miss the passing of our lives together. The decisive word had been spoken. There was no doubt concerning the end, willed by each. There only remained the way of arriving at it, and Catherine determined to take the straightest possible. She went to her father and mother in the library, and told them that she had promised to marry Clezmer. Mrs. Eropointe's state of mind was pitiable. Imagine Jean-Jacques after his essay on the corrupting influence of the arts waking up among children of nature who had no idea of grilling the raw bone they offered him for breakfast with the primitive flint knife, or séjourced after fervently denouncing all recognition of preeminence receiving a vote of thanks for the unbroken mediocrity of his speech which warranted the dullest patriots in delivering themselves at equal length. Something of the same sort befell the authoress of Tasso when what she had safely demanded of the dead Leonora was enacted by her own Catherine. It is hard for us to live up to our own eloquence and keep pace with our winged words while we are treading the solid earth and our liable to heavy dining, besides it has long been understood that the proprieties of literature are not those of practical life. Mrs. Eropointe naturally wished for the best of everything. She not only liked to feel herself at a higher level of literary sentiment than the ladies with whom she associated. She wished not to be behind them in any point of social consideration. While Klezmer was seen in the light of a patronized musician, his peculiarities were picturesque and acceptable. But to see him by a sudden flash in the light of her son-in-law gave her a burning sense of what the world would say, and the poor lady had been used to represent her Catherine as a model of excellence. Under the first chock she forgot everything but her anger and snatched at any phrase that would serve as a weapon. If Klezmer was presumed to offer himself to you, your father shall horse whip him off the premises. Pray, speak, Mr. Eropointe. The father took his cigar from his mouth and rose to the occasion by saying, This will never do, Catherine. Do cried Mrs. Eropointe, who in their senses ever thought it would do. You might as well say poisoning and strangling will not do. It is a comedy you have got up, Catherine, else you are mad. I am quite sane and serious, Mama, and her Klezmer is not to blame. He never thought of my marrying him. I found out that he loved me, and loving him I told him I would marry him. Leave that unsaid, Catherine, said Mrs. Eropointe bitterly. Everyone else will say that for you. You will be a public fable. Everyone will say that you must have made an offer to a man who has been paid to come to the house, who is nobody knows what, a gypsy, a Jew, a mere bubble of the earth. Never mind, Mama, said Catherine, indignant in her turn. We all know he is a genius, as Tasso was. Those times were not these, nor is Klezmer Tasso, said Mrs. Eropointe, getting more heated. There is no sting in that sarcasm except the sting of undutifulness. I am sorry to hurt you, Mama, but I will not give up the happiness of my life to ideas that I don't believe in and customs I have no respect for. You have lost all sense of duty, then. You have forgotten that you are our only child, that it lies with you to place a great property in the right hands. What are the right hands? My grandfather gains the property in trade. Mr. Eropointe, will you sit by and hear this without speaking? I am a gentleman, Kath. We expect you to marry a gentleman, said the father, exerting himself. And a man connected with the institutions of this country, said the mother. A woman in your position has serious duties, where duty and inclination clash. She must follow duty. I don't deny that, said Catherine, getting colder in proportion to her mother's heat. One may say very true things and apply them falsely. People can easily take the sacred word duty as a name for what they desire anyone else to do. Your parents' desire makes no duty for you, then? Yes, within reason. But before I give up the happiness of my life, Catherine, Catherine, it will not be your happiness, said Mrs. Eropointe in her most raven-like tones. For what seems to me my happiness, before I give it up, I must see some better reason than the wish that I should marry a nobleman, or a man who votes with a party that he may be turned into a nobleman. I feel at liberty to marry the man I love and think worthy, unless some higher duty forbids. And so it does, Catherine, though you are blinded and cannot see it. It is a woman's duty not to lower herself. You are lowering yourself. Mr. Eropointe, will you tell your daughter what is her duty? You must see, Catherine, that Klesmer is not the man for you, said Mr. Eropointe. He won't do at the head of estates. He has a deuced, foreign look—is an unpractical man. I really can't see what that has to do with it, Papa. The land of England has often passed into the hands of foreigners, Dutch soldiers, sons of foreign women of bad character. If our land were sold to-morrow, it would very likely pass into the hands of some foreign merchant on change. It is in everybody's mouth that successful swindlers may buy up half the land in the country. How can I stem that tide? It will never do to argue about marriage, Kath, said Mr. Eropointe. It's no use getting up the subject like a parliamentary question. We must do as other people do. We must think of the nation and the public good. I can't see any public good concerned here, Papa, said Catherine. Why is it to be expected of any heiress that she should carry the property gained in trade into the hands of a certain class? That seems to be a ridiculous mishmash of superannuated customs and false ambition. I should call it a public evil. People had better make a new sort of public good by changing their ambitions. That is mere sophistry, Catherine, said Mrs. Eropointe. Because you don't wish to marry a nobleman, you are not obliged to marry a mount-a-bank or a charlatan. I cannot understand the application of such words, Mama. No, I daresay not, rejoined Mrs. Eropointe, with significant scorn. You have got to a pitch at which we are not likely to understand each other. It can't be done, Kath, said Mr. Eropointe, wishing to substitute a better humored reasoning for his wife's impetuosity. A man like Klezmer can't marry such a property as yours. It can't be done. It certainly will not be done, said Mrs. Eropointe, imperiously. Where is the man? Let him be fetched. I cannot fetch him to be insulted, said Catherine. Nothing will be achieved by that. I suppose you would wish him to know that in marrying you, he will not marry your fortune, said Mrs. Eropointe. Certainly if it were so, I should wish him to know it. Then you had better fetch him. Catherine only went into the music room and said, come. She felt no need to prepare Klezmer. Herr Klezmer, said Mrs. Eropointe, with a rather contemptuous stateliness. It is unnecessary to repeat what has passed between us and our daughter. Mr. Eropointe will tell you our resolution. Your marrying is out of the question, said Mr. Eropointe, rather too heavily weighted with his task and standing in an embarrassment unrelieved by a cigar. It is a wild scheme altogether. A man has been called out for less. You have taken a base advantage of our confidence, burst in Mrs. Eropointe, unable to carry out her purpose and leave the burden of speech to her husband. Klezmer made a low bow in silent irony. The pretension is ridiculous. You had better give it up and leave the house at once, continued Mr. Eropointe. He wished to do without mentioning the money. I can give up nothing without reference to your daughter's wish, said Klezmer. My engagement is to her. It is useless to discuss the question, said Mrs. Eropointe. We shall never consent to the marriage. If Catherine disobeys us, we shall disinherit her. You will not marry her fortune. It is right you should know that. Madam, her fortune has been the only thing I have had to regret about her. But I must ask her if she will not think the sacrifice greater than I am worthy of. It is no sacrifice to me, said Catherine, except that I am sorry to hurt my father and mother. I have always felt my fortune to be a wretched fatality of my life. You mean to defy us, then, said Mrs. Eropointe. I mean to marry her Klezmer, said Catherine firmly. He had better not count on our relenting, said Mrs. Eropointe, whose manners suffered from that impunity and insult which has been reckoned among the privileges of women. Madam, said Klezmer, certain reasons forbid me to retort, but understand that I consider it out of the power either of you or of your fortune to confer on me anything that I value. My rank as an artist is of my own winning, and I would not exchange it for any other. I am able to maintain your daughter, and I ask for no change in my life but her companionship. You will leave the house, however, said Mrs. Eropointe. I go at once, said Klezmer, bowing and quitting the room. Let there be no misunderstanding, Mama, said Catherine. I consider myself engaged to Herr Klezmer, and I intend to marry him. The mother turned her head away and waved her hand in sign of dismissal. It's all very fine, said Mr. Eropointe, when Catherine was gone. But what the deuce are we to do with the property? There is Harry Brendle. He can take the name. Harry Brendle will get through it all in no time, said Mr. Eropointe, relighting his cigar. And thus, with nothing settled but the determination of the lovers, Klezmer had left Ketchum. CHAPTER XXIV Eleanor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room, and her hand was already on the lock when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing in saying, in a voice rather of command than supplication, Miss Dashwood, for half an hour, for ten minutes I entreat you to stay. No, sir, she replied with firmness, I shall not stay. Your business cannot be with me. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house. Had they told me, he cried with vehemence, that Mr. Palmer, in all his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the door. My business is with you, and only you. With me, in the utmost amazement, well, sir, be quick, and if you can, less violent. Sit down, and I will be both. She hesitated. She knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel Brandon's arriving and finding him there came across her. But she had promised to hear him, and her curiosity, no less than her honour, was engaged. After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that Prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table and sat down. He took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by either. Pray be quick, sir, said Eleanor impatiently, I have no time to spare. He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her. Your sister, said he with abruptness a moment afterwards, is out of danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised. But is it true? Is it really true? Eleanor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness. For God's sake, tell me, is she out of danger or is she not? We hope she is. He rose up and walked across the room. Had I known as such half an hour ago, but since I am here, speaking with a forced fevasity as he returned to his seat, what does it signify? For whence, Miss Dashwood, it will be the last time, perhaps, let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me honestly. A deeper glow overspreading his cheeks. Do you think me most a naïve or a fool? Eleanor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to think that he must be in liquor. The strangeness of such a visit and of such manners seem no otherwise intelligible, and with this impression she immediately rose, saying, Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to comb. I am not at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow. I understand you," he replied with an expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm. Yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold beef at Marlboro was enough to overset me. At Marlboro! cried Eleanor more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at. Yes, I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a luncheon at Marlboro. The steadiness of his manner and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Eleanor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland. He was not brought there by intoxication. She said, after a moment's recollection, Mr. Willoughby, you ought to feel, and I certainly do, that after what has passed you're coming here in this manner and forcing yourself upon my notice requires a very particular excuse. What is it that you mean by it? I mean, said he, with serious energy, if I can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do now. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology for the past, to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from your sister. Is this the real reason of your coming? Upon my soul is, was his answer with a warmth which brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere. If that is all, you may be satisfied already, for Marianne does, she has long forgiven you. Has she, he cried in the same meager tone, than she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it, but she shall forgive me again and on more reasonable grounds. Now will you listen to me? Ellen are about her ascent. I do not know, said he after a pause of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own. How you may have accounted for my behavior to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me. It is worth the trial, however, and you shall hear everything. When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before. Your sister's lovely person in interesting manners could not but please me, and her behavior to me, almost from the first, was of a kind. It is astonishing when I reflect on what it was, and what she was, that my heart should have been so insensible. But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavored, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection. Miss Stashwood at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him by saying, It is hardly worthwhile, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by anything. Do not let me be pained by hearing anything more on this subject. I insist on your hearing the whole of it, he replied. My fortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts, and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free, yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of. And with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Stashwood, can ever reprobate too much, I was acting in this manner, trying to engage her regard without a thought of returning it. But one thing may be said for me, even in that horrid state of selfish vanity I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not then know what it was to love. But have I ever known it? Well may it be doubted, for had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? Or what is more, could I have sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty which her affection in her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost everything that could make it a blessing. You did then, said Eleanor a little softened. Believe yourself at when time attached to her. To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness, is there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself by insensible degrees sincerely fond of her, and the happiest hours of my life were what I spent with her, when I felt my intentions were strictly honorable, and my feelings blameless. Even then, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperly to put off from day to day the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement, while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here, nor will I stop for you to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity of scrupling to engage my faith where my honor was already bound. The event has proved that I was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I had determined as soon as I could engage her alone to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to display. But in the interim, in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private, a circumstance occurred, an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took place. Here he hesitated and looked down. Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been informed. I imagined by some distant relation whose interest it was to deprive me of her favor, of an affair, a connection, but I need not explain myself farther. He added, looking at her with an heightened color and an inquiring eye. Your particular intimacy you have probably heard the whole story long ago. I have returned Eleanor coloring likewise, and hardening her heart anew against any compassion for him. I have heard it all, and how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business I confess is beyond my comprehension. Remember, cried Willoughby, from whom you received the account, could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge, that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, she must be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding, I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better treatment, and I often, with great self-approach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish, I heartily wish it had never been, but I have injured more than herself, and I have injured one whose affection for me, may I say it, was scarcely less warm than hers, and whose mind, oh, how infinitely superior! Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl, I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be. Your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence. But upon my soul I did not know it, he warmly replied, I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction, and common sense might have told her how to find it out. Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith? She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world, every thing was against me. The matter itself I could not deny, and vain was every endeavor to soften it. She was previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman, she offered to forgive the past if I would marry Eliza. That could not be, and I was formally dismissed from her favor and her house. The night following this affair, I was to go the next morning, was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle was great, but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me, it was all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. And heavy scene, however, awaited me before I could leave Devonshire. I was engaged to dine with you on that very day. My apology was therefore necessary for my breaking the engagement. But whether I should write this apology or deliver it in person was a point of long debate. To see Marianne I felt would be dreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see her again and keep to my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared. For I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her hoping never to see her again. Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby? said Eleanor repatriately. A note would have answered your every purpose. Why was it necessary to call? It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighborhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself. Then I resolved therefore on calling at the cottage in my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however, was really dreadful, and to heighten the matter, I found her alone. You were all gone, I do not know where. I had left her only the evening before so fully, so firmly resolved within myself on doing right. A few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever, and I remember how happy, how gay were my spirits as I walked from the cottage to Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with everybody. But in this, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took for me the power of dissembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret when I told her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately, I never shall forget it, united to with such reliance, such confidence in me. Oh, God, what a hard-hearted rascal I was! They were both silent for a few moments. Eleanor spoke first. Did you tell her that you should soon return? I do not know what I told her, he replied impatiently. Less than was due to the past beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was justified by the future. I cannot think of it. It won't do. Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence. Thank heaven it did torture me. I was miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well I went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom at best I was only indifferent. My journey to town traveling with my own horses and therefore so tediously, no creature to speak to, my own reflection so cheerful, when I looked forward, everything so inviting, when I looked back at Barton the picture so soothing, oh it was a blessed journey. He stopped. Well, sir, said Eleanor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for his departure, and this is all? All! No, you have forgot what passed in town? That infamous letter, did she shoo it to you? Yes, I saw every note that passed. When the first of hers reached me, as it immediately did, for I was in town the whole time, what I felt is, in the common phrase, not to be expressed, in a more simple one, perhaps too simple to raise any emotion, my feelings were very, very painful. Every line, every word, was, in the hackneyed metaphor, which their dear writer, where she here would forbid, a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town, was, in the same language, a thunderbolt, thunderbolts and daggers, what a reproof would she have given me, her taste, her opinions, I believe they are better known to me than my own, and I am sure they are dearer. Eleanor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again, yet she felt at her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last. This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. Remember that you are married. Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear. One's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine, hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and choosing to fancy that she, too, must have become indifferent to me. Talking to myself of our past attachment is a mere idle trifling business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, I shall be heartily glad to hear she is well married, but this note made me know myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But everything was just then settled between Miss Gray and me. To retreat was impossible. All that I had to do was to avoid you both. I sent no answer to Mary Anne, intending by that means to preserve myself from her father's notice, and for some time I was even determined not to call in Berkeley Street. But at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my name. Watched us out of the house! Even so! You would be surprised to hear often I watched you, how often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or the other of you, and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight could have separated us so long. I avoided the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town, however, I blundered on Sir John. I believed the first day of his coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's. He asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening. Had he not told me, as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have felt it too certain a thing to trust myself near him. The next morning brought another short note from Marianne. Still affectionate, open, artless, confiding, everything that could make my conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried, but could not frame a sentence. But I thought of her, I believe every moment of the day. If you can pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was then. With my head and heart full of your sister I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman. Those three or four weeks were worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on me. And what a sweet figure I cut! What an evening of agony it was! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me willowy and such a tone, O God, holding out her hand to me, asking for an explanation with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face. And Sophia, jealous as the devil, on the other hand, looking all that was—well, it does not signify, it is over now. Such an evening I ran away from you all as soon as I could, but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death. That was the last look I ever had of her. The last manner in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight. Yet when I thought of her today as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who saw her last in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the same look and hue. A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby, first rousing himself, broke it thus. Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger. We are assured of it. Your poor mother, too, doting on Marianne. But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter—have you anything to say about that? Yes, yes, that, in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at the Ellison's, and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia's eye before it caught mine. In its size, the elegance of the paper, the handwriting all together, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had reached her before, of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation that the preceding evening had marked to the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever. Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful, and a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly and read its contents. It was well paid for in her impudence. She read what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion, her malice, at all events it must be appeased. And in short, what do you think of my wife's style of letter-writing? Delicate, tender, truly feminine, was it not? Your wife? The letter was in your own handwriting. Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own, her own happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do? We were engaged, everything in preparation, the day almost fixed. But I am talking like a fool, preparation, day, in honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine anything was to be done to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends in what language my answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. My business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance. I am ruined forever in their opinion, said I to myself. I am shut out forever from their society. They already think me an unprincipled fellow. This letter will only make them think me a blackguard one. Such were my reasonings, as in a sort of desperate carelessness I copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes, unluckily, they were all in my pocket-book, or I should have denied their existence and hoarded them forever. I was forced to put them up and could not even kiss them. And a lock of hair, that too I had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by Madame with the most ingratiating virulence. The dear lock, all every memento was torn for me. You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable, said Eleanor, while her voice, in spite of itself, betrayed her compassionate emotion. You ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You have made your choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect at least. She must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slidingly, is no atonement to Marianne, nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience. "'Do not talk to me of my wife,' said he, within heavy sigh. She does not deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we married. Well, married we were, and came down to Comegna to be happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity me, Miss Dashwood, or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I, be it only one degree, am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt?' "'Yes, you have certainly removed something, a little. You have proved yourself on the whole. Less faulty than I had believed you. You have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know, the misery that you have inflicted, I hardly know what could have made it worse. Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered what I have been telling you? Let me be a little lightened, too, in her opinion, as well as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart and of my present feelings will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my penitence. Tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever. I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called your justification, but you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness. Last night in Drury Lane Lobby I ran against Sir John Middleton, and when he saw who I was for the first time these two months he spoke to me, that he had cut me ever since my marriage I had seen without surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul full of indignation against me and concern for your sister could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to, though probably he did not think it would, vexed me horribly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Mary Anne Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland. A letter that morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent. The Palmer's all gone off in a fright, et cetera. I was too shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the undissurring Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer, and so much of his ill will was done away that when we parted he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was dying, and dying, too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her last moments, for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed? One person I was sure would represent me as capable of anything. But I felt was dreadful. My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all. Eleanor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early in independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury had made in the mind the character, the happiness of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united to disposition, naturally open and honest, and a feeling affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant in vain. Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment which extravagance, or at least its offspring necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil had led him likewise to punishment. The attachment, from which against honor, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now would no longer allowable, governed every thought, and the connection for the sake of which he had with little scruple left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself, from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said, There is no use in staying here. I must be off. Are you going back to town? No, to come Magna. I have business there, from thence to town in a day or two. Good-bye. He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers. He pressed it with affection. And you do think something better of me than you did? Said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantle-piece as if forgetting he was to go. Eleanor assured him that she did, that she forgave, pitied, wished him well, was even interested in his happiness, and added some gentle counsel as to the behavior most likely to promote it. His answer was not very encouraging. As to that, said he, I must rub through the world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If however I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means, it may put me on my guard at least, it will be something to live for. Marianne, to be sure, is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again, Eleanor stopped him with a reproof. Well, he replied, once more goodbye, I shall now go away and live in dread of one event. What do you mean? Your sister's marriage. You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now. But she will be gained by someone else, and if that someone should be the very he whom of all others I could least bear, but I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill by showing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Goodbye. God bless you. And with these words he almost ran out of the room. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Coming by T. Jensen. On Quitting Breton, which I did a few weeks after Paulina's departure, little thinking then I was never again to visit it, never more to tread its calm old streets, I betook myself home, having been absent six months. It will be conjectured that I was, of course, glad to return to the bosom of my kindred. Well, the amiable conjecture does no harm, and may therefore be safely left uncontradicted. Far from saying, nay, indeed I will permit the reader to picture me for the next eight years as a bark slumbering through house and weather, in a harbor still as a glass, the stairsman stretched on the little deck, his face up to heaven, his eyes closed, buried, if you will, in a long prayer. A great many women and girls are supposed to pass their lives something in that fashion, why not I with a rest? Picture me then idle, basking, plump, and happy, stretched on a cushioned deck, warmed with constant sunshine, rocked by breezes, indolently soft. However, it cannot be concealed that, in that case, I must somehow have fallen overboard, or that there must have been wreck at last. I too well remember a time, a long time, of cold, of danger, of contention. To this hour when I have the nightmare, it repeats the rush and saltiness of briny waves in my throat, and their icy pressure on my lungs. I even know there was a storm, and that not of one hour nor one day. For many days and nights, neither sun nor stars appeared, we cast with our own hands the tackling out of the ship, a heavy tempest lay on us, all hope that we should be saved was taken away. In fine, the ship was lost, the crew perished. As far as I recollect, I complained to no one about these troubles. Indeed, to whom could I complain? Of Mrs. Bretton I had long lost sight. Impediments raised by others had, years ago, come in the way of our intercourse and cut it off. Besides, time had brought changes for her, too. The handsome property of which she was left guardian for her son, and which had been chiefly invested in some joint stock undertaking, had melted, it was said, to a fraction of its original amount. Graham, I learned from incidental rumours, had adopted a profession. Both he and his mother were gone from Bretton, and were understood to be now in London. Thus, there remained no possibility of dependence on others. To myself alone could I look. I know not that I was of a self-reliant or active nature, but self-reliance and exertion were forced upon me by circumstances, as they are upon thousands besides, and when Miss Marchmont, a maiden lady of our neighbourhood, sent for me, I obeyed her behest in the hope that she might assign me some task I could undertake. Miss Marchmont was a woman of fortune, and lived in a handsome residence, but she was a rheumatic cripple, impotent, foot and hand, and had been so for twenty years. She always sat upstairs, her drawing rebejoined her bedroom. I had often heard of Miss Marchmont, and of her peculiarities, she had the character of being very eccentric, but till now had never seen her. I found her a furrowed gray-haired woman, grave with solitude, stern with long affliction, irritable also, and perhaps exacting. It seemed that a maid, or rather companion, who had waited on her for some years, was about to be married, and she, hearing of my bereaved lot, had sent for me, with the idea that I might supply this person's place. She made the proposal to me after tea, as she and I set alone by her fireside. It will not be an easy life, said she candidly, for I require a good deal of attention, and you will be much confined. Yet perhaps, contrasted with the existence you have lately led, it may appear tolerable. I reflected. Of course, it ought to appear tolerable, I argued inwardly, but somehow, by some strange fatality it would not. To live here, in this close room, the water of suffering, sometimes perhaps the butt of temper, through all that was to come of my youth, while all that was gone had passed, to say the least, not blissfully. My heart sunk one moment, and then it revived. For though I forced myself to realize evils, I think I was too preserved to idealize, and consequently, to exaggerate them. My doubt is whether I should have strength for the undertaking, I observed. That is my own scruple, said she, for you look a worn-out creature. So I did. I saw myself in the glass in my morning dress, a faded, hollow-eyed vision. Yet I thought little of the one spectacle. The blight, I believed, was chiefly external. I still felt life at life's sources. What else have you in view? Anything? Nothing clear as yet, but I may find something. Say you imagine. Perhaps you are right. Try your own method, then, and if it does not succeed, test mine. The chance I have offered shall be left open to you for three months. This was kind. I told her so, and expressed my gratitude. While I was speaking, a paroxysm of pain came on. I ministered to her, made the necessary applications, according to her directions, and by the time she was relieved, a sort of intimacy was already formed between us. I, for my part, had learned from the manner in which she bore this attack, that she was a firm, patient woman, patient under physical pain, though sometimes perhaps excitable under long mental canker, and she, from the good will with which I suckered her, discovered that she could influence my sympathies, such as they were. She sent for me the next day. For five or six successive days she claimed my company. Closer acquaintance, while it developed both faults and eccentricities, opened at the same time a view of a character I could respect. Stern and even Morose, as she sometimes was, I could wait on her and sit beside her, with that calm which always blesses us, when we are sensible that our manners, presence, contact, please and soothe the persons we serve. Even when she scolded me, which she did now and then, very easily, it was in such a way as did not humiliate, and left no sting. It was rather like unrassable mother, rating her daughter, than a harsh mistress lecturing a dependent. Lecture indeed she could not, though she could occasionally, storm. Moreover, a vein of reason ever ran through her passion. She was logical even when fierce. Herelong a growing sense of attachment began to present the thought of staying with her as companion in quite a new light. In another week I had agreed to remain. Two hot, close rooms thus became my world, and a crippled old woman, my mistress, my friend, my all. Her service was my duty, her pain, my suffering, her relief, my hope, her anger, my punishment, her regard, my reward. I forgot that there were fields, woods, rivers, seas, an ever-changing sky outside the steam-dimmed lattice of this sick chamber. I was almost content to forget it. All within me became narrowed to my lot. Tame and still by habit, disciplined by destiny, I demanded no walks in the fresh air. My appetite needed no more than the tiny messes served for the invalid. In addition, she gave me the originality of her character to study. The steadiness of her virtues I will add, the power of her passions to admire, the truth of her feelings to trust. All these things she had, and for these things I clung to her. For these things I would have crawled on with her for twenty years, if for twenty years longer her life of endurance had been protracted. But another decree was written. It seemed I must be stimulated into action. I must be goaded, driven, stung, forced to energy. My little morsel of human affection, which I prized as if it were a solid pearl, must melt in my fingers and slip thence like a dissolving hailstorm. My small adopted duty must be snatched from my easily contented conscience. I had wanted to compromise with fate, to escape occasional great agonies by submitting to a whole life of privation and small pains. Fate would not so be pacified, nor would Providence sanction this shrinking sloth and cowardly indolence. On February night I remember it well. There came a voice near Miss Marchmont's house, heard by every inmate, but translated, perhaps, only by one. After a calm winter, storms were ushering in the spring. I had put Miss Marchmont to bed. I sat at the fireside, saying. The wind was wailing at the windows. It had wailed all day, but as night deepened it took a new tone, an accent keen, piercing, almost articulate to the ear, a plainte piteous and a disconsolate to the nerves, trilled in every gust. Oh, hush, hush! I said in my disturbed mind, dropping my work and making a vain effort to stop my ears against that subtle searching cry. I had heard that very voice ear this, and compulsory observation had forced on me a theory as to what it bowed it. Three times in the course of my life, events had taught me that these strange accents in the storm, this restless, hopeless cry, denote a coming state of the atmosphere unprepitious to life. Epidemic diseases, I believed, were often heralded by a gasping, sobbing, tormented, long-lamenting east wind. Hence, I inferred, arose the legend of the Banshee. I fancied too, I had noticed, but was not philosopher enough to know whether there was any connection between the circumstances, that we often at the same time hear of disturbed volcanic action in distant parts of the world, of rivers suddenly rushing above their banks, and of strange high tides flowing furiously in on low sea-coasts. Our globe, I had said to myself, seems at such periods torn and disordered, the feeble amongst us wither in her distempered breath, rushing hot from steaming volcanoes. I listened and trembled. Miss Marchmont slept. About midnight the storm in one half-hour fell to a dead calm. The fire, which had been burning dead, glowed up vividly. I felt the air change, and it become keen. Raising blind and curtain, I looked out, and saw in the stars the keen sparkle of a sharp frost. Turning away, the object that met my eyes was Miss Marchmont awake, lifting her head from the pillow and regarding me with unusual earnestness. Is it a fine night? she asked. I replied in the affirmative. I thought so, she said, for I feel so strong, so well. Raise me. I feel young tonight, she continued, young, light-hearted, and happy. What if my complaint be about to take a turn, and I am yet destined to enjoy health? It would be a miracle. And these are not the days of miracles, I thought to myself, and wondered to hear her talk so. She went on directing her conversation to the past, and seeming to recall its incidents, scenes, and personages, with singular vividness. I love memory tonight, she said. I prize her as my best friend. She is just now giving me a deep delight. She is bringing back to my heart in warm and beautiful life realities, not mere empty ideas, but what were once realities, and that I long have thought decayed, dissolved, mixed in with grave-mold. I possess just now the hours, the thoughts, the hopes of my youth. I renew the love of my life. Its only love, almost its only affection. For I am not a particularly good woman. I am not amiable. Yet I have had my feelings strong and concentrated, and these feelings had their object which, in its single self, was dear to me. As to the majority of men and women are all the unnumbered points on which they dissipate their regard. While I loved, and while I was loved, what an existence I enjoyed. What a glorious year I can recall. How bright it comes back to me. What a living spring. What a warm, glad summer. What soft moonlight, silvering the autumn evenings. What strength of hope under the ice-bound waters, and frost-hoar fields of that year's winter. Through that year my heart lived with Frank's heart. Oh, my noble Frank. My faithful Frank, my good Frank. So much better than myself. His standard in all things so much higher. This I can now see and say. If few women have suffered as I did in his loss, few have enjoyed what I did in his love. It was a far better kind of love than common. I had no doubts about it or him. It was such a love as honoured, protected, and elevated, no less than it gladdened her to whom it was given. Let me now ask, just at this moment, when my mind is so strangely clear, let me reflect why it was taken from me. For what crime was I condemned, after twelve months of bliss, to undergo thirty years of sorrow? I do not know. She continued after a pause. I cannot, cannot see the reason. Yet at this hour I can say with sincerity what I never tried to say before. Inscrutable God, Thy will be done. And at this moment I can believe that death will restore me to Frank. I never believed it till now. He is dead then, I inquired in a low voice. My dear girl, she said, one happy Christmas Eve, I dressed and decorated myself, expecting my lover, very soon to be my husband, would come that night to visit me. I sat down to wait. Once more I see that moment, I see the snow twilight stealing through the window over which the curtain was not dropped, for I designed to watch him line up the wide walk. I see and feel the soft fire light warming me, playing on my silk dress, and fitfully showing me my own young figure in a glass. I see the moon of a calm winter night float full clear and cold over the inky mass of Chobre, and the silvered turf of my grounds. I wait, with some impatience in my pulse, but no doubt in my breast. The flames had died in the fire, but it was a bright mass yet. The moon was mounting high, but she was still visible from the lattice. The clock neared ten. He rarely tarried later than this, but once or twice he had been delayed so long. Would he for once fail me? No, not even for once, and now he was coming and coming fast to atone for lost time. Frank, you furious rider, I said inwardly, listening gladly, yet anxiously to his approaching doubt. You shall be rebuked for this, I will tell you. It is my neck you are putting in peril, for whatever is yours is, in a dearer and tenderer sense, mine. There he was. I saw him, but I think tears were in my eyes. My sight was so confused. I saw the horse. I heard its stamp. I saw at least a mass. I heard a clamour. Was it a horse? For what heavy dragging thing was it crossing strangely dark the lawn? How could I name that thing in the moonlight before me? Or how could I utter the feeling which rose in my soul? I could only run out. A great animal, truly Frank's black horse, stood trembling, panting, snorting before the door. A man held it. Frank, as I thought. What is the matter, I demanded. Thomas, my own servant, answered by saying sharply, Go into the house, madam, and then calling to another servant, who came hurrying from the kitchen as if summoned by some instinct. Ruth, take the missus into the house directly. But I was kneeling down in the snow, beside something that lay there, something that I had seen dragged along the ground, something that sighed that ground on my breast as I lifted and drew it to me. He was not dead. He was not quite unconscious. I had him carried in. I refused to be ordered about and thrust from him. I was quite collected enough, not only to be my own mistress, but the mistress of others. They had begun by trying to treat me like a child as they always do with people struck by God's hand, but I gave place to none except the surgeon, and when he had done what he could. I took my dying Frank to myself. He had strength to fold me in his arms. He had power to speak my name. He heard me as I prayed over him very softly. He felt me as I tenderly and fondly comforted him. Mariah, he said, I am dying in paradise. He spent his last breath in faithful words for me. When the dawn of Christmas morning broke, my Frank was with God. And that, she went on, happened thirty years ago. I have suffered since. I doubt if I have made the best use of all my calamities, soft, amiable natures they would have refined to saintliness, of strong, evil spirits they would have made demons. As for me, I have only been a woestruck and selfish woman. You have done much good, I said, for she was noted for her liberal arms-giving. I have not withheld money, you mean, where it could assuage affliction. What of that? It cost me no effort or pang to give. But I think from this day I am about to enter a better frame of mind. To prepare myself for a union with Frank. You see, I still think of Frank more than of God. And unless it be counted that in thus loving the creature so much, so long, and so exclusively, I have not at least blaspheme the Creator, small is my chance of salvation. What do you think, Lucy, of these things? Be my chaplain and tell me. This question I could not answer. I had no words. It seemed as if she thought I had answered it. Very right, my child. We should acknowledge God merciful, but not always, for us comprehensible. We should accept our own lot, whatever it be, and try to render happy that of others. Should we not? Well, tomorrow I will begin by trying to make you happy. I will endeavour to do something for you, Lucy. Something that will benefit you when I am dead. My head aches now with talking too much. Still I am happy. Go to bed. The clock strikes too. How late you sit up, or rather, how late I, in my selfishness, keep you up. But go now, have no more anxiety for me. I feel I shall rest well. She composed herself as if to slumber. I too retired to my crib in a closet within her room. The night passed in quietness. Quietly her doom must at last have come. Peacefully and painlessly, in the morning she was found without life, nearly cold, but all calm and undisturbed. Her previous excitement of spirits and change of mood had been the prelude of a fit. One stroke sufficed to sever the thread of an existence so long fretted by affliction. End of Chapter 4. The little girl performed her long journey in safety, and at Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of being foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of leading her into the others, and recommending her to their kindness. Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might not be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was at least nothing to discuss to her relations. She was small of her age, with no glow of complexion, nor any other striking beauty, exceedingly timid and shy, and shrinking from notice, but her air, though awkward, was not vulgar. Her voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly, and Sir Thomas, seeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that was conciliating, but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of deportment. And Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, or speaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a good-humored smile became immediately the less awful character of the two. The young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the introduction very well, with much good humor and no embarrassment, at least on the part of the sons who, at seventeen, and sixteen, and tall of their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little cousin. The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in greater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with rather an injudicious particularity. But they were too much used to company and praise to have anything like natural shyness, and their confidence increasing from their cousin's total want of it, they were soon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy indifference. They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well looking, the daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well grown and forward of their age, which produced a striking indifference between the cousins in person, as education had given to their address. And no one would have supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There was, in fact, but two years between the youngest and fanny. Julia Bertram was only twelve, and Mariah but a year older. The little visitor, meanwhile, was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of herself, and longing for the home she'd left, she knew not how to look up, could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norris had been talking to her the whole way from North Amptima, her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good behavior which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing for her not to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey became soon no trifling evil. In vain were the well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas, and all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris that she would be a good girl. In vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit on the sofa with herself in pug, and vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart towards giving her comfort. She could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls before tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliest friend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed. "'This is not a very promising beginning,' said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny had left the room. After all that I said to her as we came along, I thought she would have behaved better. I told her how much might depend upon her acquitting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a little sulkiness of temper. Her poor mother had a good deal. But we must make allowances for such a child, and I do not know that her being sorry to leave her home is really against her, for with all its faults it was her home. She cannot as yet understand how much she has changed for the better, but then there is moderation in all things. It required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to allow to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park and the separation from everybody she'd been used to. Her feelings were very acute, and too little understood to be properly attended to. Nobody meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to secure her comfort. The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to afford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their young cousin, produced Little Union. They could not but hold her cheap on finding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French, and when they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were so good as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous present of some of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself, while they adjourned to whatever might be the favorite holiday sport of the moment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper. Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom, the drawing room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something to fear in every person in place. She was disheartened by Lady Bertram's silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks, and quite overcome by Mrs. Norris's admonitions. Her elder cousins mortified her by reflections on her sighs, and abashed her by noticing her shyness. Miss Lee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her clothes. And when to these sorrows was added the idea of the brothers and sisters among whom she had always been important as play-fellow, instructress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was severe. The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The rooms were too large for her to move in with ease. Whatever she touched she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of something or other, often retreating towards her own chamber to cry. And the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left it at night, a seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune, ended every day sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep. A week had passed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet, passive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund, the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs. My dear little cousin, said he, with all the gentleness of an excellent nature, what can be the matter? And sitting down by her was it great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and persuade her to speak openly. Was she ill, or was anybody angry with her? Or had she quarreled with Mariah or Julia, or was she puzzled about anything in her lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short, want anything he could possibly get her, or do for her? For a long while no answer could be obtained beyond a, no, no, not at all, no thank you. But he still persevered. And no sooner had he begun to revert to her own home than her increased sobs explained to him where the grievance lay. He tried to console her. You are sorry to leave my mom, my dear little fanny, said he, which shows you to be a very good girl. But you must remember that you are with relations and friends who all love you, and wish to make you happy. Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about your brothers and sisters. On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and sisters generally were, there was one among them who ran more in her thoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most and wanted most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her constant companion and friend, her advocate with her mother, of whom he was the darling, in every distress. William did not like that she should come away. He told her he should miss her very much indeed. But William will write to you, I daresay. Yes, he promised he would, but he told her to write first. And when shall you do it? She hung her head and answered, hesitatingly. She did not know she had not any paper. If that will be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and every other material. And you may write your letter whenever you choose. Would it make you happy to write to William? Yes, very. Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast room. We shall find everything there. And be sure of having the room to ourselves. But cousin, will it go to the post? Yes, depend upon me it shall. It shall go with the other letters. And as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing. My uncle, repeated fanny with a frightened look. Yes, when you've written the letter I will take it to my father to frank. Fanny thought at a bold measure, but offered no farther resistance, and they went together into the breakfast room, where Edmund prepared her paper and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother could himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He continued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with his penknife or his orthography, as either were wanted, and added to these attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother which delighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with his own hand, his love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal. Fanny's feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself incapable of expressing, but her countenance and a few artless words fully conveyed all the gratitude and delight, and her cousin began to find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all that she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart and a strong desire of doing right, and he could perceive her to be farther entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation and great timidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that she required more positive kindness, and with that view endeavored, in the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Mariah and Julia, and being as merry as possible. From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits with everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less formidable, and if there were some amongst them whom she could not cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways and to catch the best manner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and awkwardnesses which had first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away, and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle. Or did her aunt Norse's voice-maker start very much? To her cousins she became occasionally an acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when that third was of an obliging yielding temper, and they could not but own when their aunt inquired into her fault, where their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness that, Fanny was good-natured enough, Edmund was uniformly kind himself, and she had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just entering into life, full of spirits and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights. Fanny made her some very pretty presents and laughed at her. As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norse thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan, and it was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she showed attractable disposition and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to them. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more, and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing room. Dear Mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together, or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia, or she has never heard of Asia Minor, or she does not know the difference between watercolors and crayons. How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid? My dear, their considerate aunt would reply, it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself. But aunt, she is really so very ignorant. Do you know, we asked her last night, which way she would go to get to Ireland, and she said she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it the island, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago is it, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England with the dates of their accession and most of the principal events of their reigns? Yes, added the other, and of the Roman emperors as Lois Severus, besides a great deal of the heathen mythology in all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers. Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference in memories as well as in everything else, and therefore you must make allowance for your cousin and pity her deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should always be modest for, much as you know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn. Yes, I know, till I'm seventeen, but I must tell you another thing of fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know she says she does not want to learn either music or drawing? To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great one of genius and emulation. But all things considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so for, though you know, owing to me, your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are. On the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a difference. Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her niece's minds, and it is not very wonderful that, with all their promising talents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in the less common requirements of self-knowledge, generosity, and humility. In everything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before him. To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest attention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than her children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas, and in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater leisure for the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed it unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with proper masters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny's being stupid at learning, she could only say it was very unlucky, but some people were stupid, and Fanny must take more pains. She did not know what else was to be done, and except her being so dull, she must add she saw no harm in the poor little thing. Always found her very handy, and quick in carrying messages and fetching what she wanted. Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favor much of her attachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her cousins. There was no positive ill nature in Mariah or Julia, and though Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too lowly of her own claims to feel injured by it. From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in consequence of a little ill health and a great deal of indolence, gave up the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring, and remained holy in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his duty in Parliament with whatever increase or diminution of comfort might arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss Bertrams continued to exercise their memories, practice their duets, and grow tall and womanly, and their father saw them becoming, in person, manner and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his anxiety. His eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already given him much uneasiness, but his other children promised him nothing but good. His daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of Bertram, must be giving it new grace, and, in quitting it, he trusted, would extend its respectable alliances. In the character of Edmund, his strong good sense and uprightness of mind bid most fairly for utility, honor, and happiness to himself and all his connections. He was to be a clergyman. Amid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested, Sir Thomas did not forget to do what he could for the children of Mrs. Price. He assisted her liberally in the education and disposal of her sons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit. And Fanny, though almost totally separated from her family, was sensible of the truest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of anything at all promising in their situation or conduct. Once and once only in the course of many years had she the happiness of being with William. Of the rest she saw nothing. Nobody seemed to think of her ever going amongst them again, even for a visit. Nobody at home seemed to want her. But William, determining, soon after her removal, to be a sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire, before he went to see. Their eager affection and meeting, their exquisite delight in being together, their hours of happy mirth, and moments of serious conference may be imagined, as well as the sanguine views and spirits of the boy even to the last, and the misery of the girl when he left her. Luckily, the visit happened in the Christmas holidays, when she could directly look for comfort to her cousin Edmund. And he told her such charming things of what William was to do and be here after, in consequence of his profession, as made her gradually admit that the separation might have some use. Edmund's friendship never failed her. Just leaving Eaton for Oxford made no change in his kind dispositions, and only afforded more frequent opportunities of proving them. Without any display of doing more than the rest, or any fear of doing too much, he was always true to her interests and considerate of her feelings, trying to make her good qualities understood, and to conquer the diffidence which prevented their being more apparent, giving her advice, consolation, and encouragement. But back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not bring her forward. But his attentions were otherwise of the highest importance in assisting the improvement of her mind and extending its pleasures. He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension as well as good sense, and a fondness for reading, which, properly directed, must be an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French and heard her read the daily portion of history. But he recommended the books which charmed her leisure hours. He encouraged her taste and corrected her judgment. He made reading useful by talking to her of what she read, and heightened its attractions by judicious praise. In return for such services, she loved him better than anybody in the world except William. Her heart was divided between the two.