 21 Directly as I closed the door, I saw laid on the table two letters. I thought it was that they were notes of invitation from the friends of some of my pupils. I had received such marks of attention occasionally, and with me, who had no friends, correspondence of more interest was out of the question. The postman's arrival had never yet been an event of interest to me since I came to Brussels. I laid my hand carelessly on the documents, and coldly and slowly glancing at them, I prepared to break the seals. My eye was arrested and my hand too. I saw what excited me, as if I had found a vivid picture where I expected only to discover a blank page. On one cover was an English postmark. On the other, a lady's clear, fine autograph. The last I opened first. Mazir, I found out what you had done the very morning after your visit to me. You might be sure I should dust the china every day. And as no one but you had been in my room for a week, and that fairy money is not current in Brussels, I could not doubt who left the twenty francs on the chimney piece. I thought I heard you stir the vase when I was stooping to look for your glove under the table, and I wondered you should imagine it had got into such a little cup. Now, Mazir, the money is not mine, and I shall not keep it. I will not send it in this note because it might be lost. Besides, it is heavy. But I will restore it to you the first time I see you, and you must make no difficulties about taking it. Because in the first place, I am sure, Mazir, you can understand that one likes to pay one's debts, that it is satisfactory to no man anything. And in the second place, I can now very well afford to be honest, as I am provided with the situation. This last circumstance is, indeed, the reason of my writing to you, for it is pleasant to communicate good news. And in these days, I have only my master to whom I can tell anything. A week ago, Mazir, I was sent for by a Mrs. Wharton, an English lady. Harald's daughter was going to be married, and some rich relation, having made her a present of a veil and dress in costly old lace, as precious, they said, almost as jewels, but a little damaged by time, I was commissioned to put them in repair. I had to do it at the house. They gave me, besides, some embroidery to complete, and nearly a week elapsed before I had finished everything. While I worked, Mrs. Wharton often came into the room and sat with me. And so did Mrs. Wharton. They made me talk English, asked how I had learned to speak it so well. Then they inquired what I knew besides, what books I had read. Soon they seemed to make a sort of wonder of me, considering me no doubt as a learned grisette. One afternoon Mrs. Wharton brought in a Parisian lady to test the accuracy of my knowledge of French. The result of it was that, owing probably in a great degree to the mothers and daughters good humour about the marriage, which inclined them to do beneficent deeds. And partly, I think, because they are naturally benevolent people, they decided that the wish I had expressed to do something more than men lest was a very legitimate one. And the same day, they took me in their carriage to Mrs. Deese, who is the directoress of the first English school at Brussels. It seems she happened to be in want of a French lady to give lessons in geography, history, grammar and composition in the French language. Mrs. Wharton recommended me very warmly. And, as two of her younger daughters are pupils in the house, her patronage availed to get me the place. It was settled that I am to attend six hours daily, for, happily, it was not required that I should live in the house. I should have been sorry to leave my lodgings. And, for this, Mrs. Deese will give me twelve hundred francs per annum. You see, therefore, Mazir, that I am now rich, richer almost than I ever hoped to be. I feel thankful for it, especially as my sight was beginning to be injured by constant working at fine lace, and I was getting too very weary of sitting up late at night and yet not being able to find time for reading or study. I began to fear that I should fall ill and be unable to pay my way. This fear is now, in a great measure, removed. And, in truth, Mazir, I am very grateful to God for the relief, and I feel it necessary, almost, to speak of my happiness to someone who is kind-hearted enough to derive joy from seeing others joyful. I could not, therefore, resist the temptation of writing to you. I argued with myself it is very pleasant for me to write, and it will not be exactly painful, though it may be tiresome to Mazir to read. Do not be too angry with my circumlocution and inelegancies of expression, and believe me, your attached pupil, F. E. Henry. Having read this letter, I mused on its contents for a few moments, whether with sentiments pleasurable or otherwise, I will hear after note, and then took up the other. It was directed in a hand to me unknown, small and rather neat, neither masculine nor exactly feminine. The seal bore a coat of arms, concerning which I could only decipher that it was not that of the Seacum family. Consequently the episode could be from none of my almost forgotten, and certainly quite forgetting, patrician relations. From whom, then, was it? I removed the envelope. The note folded within ran as follows. I have no doubt in the world that you are doing well in that greasy Flanders, living probably on the fat of the young Jewish land, sitting like a black-haired, tawny-skinned, long-nosed Israelite by the flesh-pots of Egypt, or like a rascally son of Levy near the brass cauldrons of the sanctuary, and every now and then plunging in a consecrated hook and drawing out of the sea of broths the fattest of heaves' shoulders and the fleshiest of waved breasts. I know this because you never write to anyone in England. Thankless dog that you are! I, by the sovereign efficacy of my recommendation, got you the place where you are now living in clover, and yet not a word of gratitude or even acknowledgement have you ever offered in return. But I am coming to see you, and small conception can you, with your adult aristocratic brains, form of the sort of moral kicking I have, ready packed in my carpet bag, destined to be presented to you immediately on my arrival. Meantime, I know all about your affairs, and I've just got information, my Brown's last letter, that you are set to be on the point of farming an advantageous match with the Percy little Belgian schoolmistress, amid myself Zenobi, or some such name. Won't I have a look at her when I come over? And this you may rely on. If she pleases my taste, or if I think it worth while in a pecuniary point of view, I'll pound on your price and bear her away triumphant in spite of your teeth. Yet I don't like dumpies either, and Brown says she's little and stout. The better fit it for a wiry, starved looking chap like you. Be on the lookout, for you know neither the day nor hour when you're blank. I don't wish to blaspheme, so I'll leave a blank. Comet. You're truly, Hunston York, Hunston. Humpf said I. And here I laid the letter down, I again glanced at the small, neat handwriting, not a bit like that of a mercantile man, nor, indeed, of any man except Hunston himself. They talk of affinities between the autograph and the character. What affinity was there here? I recall the writer's peculiar face in certain traits I suspected, rather than new, to upper it into his nature, and I answered, a great deal. Hunston then was coming to Brussels, and coming I know not when, coming charged with the expectation of finding me on the summit of prosperity, about to be married, to step into a warm nest, to lie comfortably down by the side of a snug, well-fed little mate. I wish him joy of the fidelity of the picture he has painted, thought I. What will he say when, instead of a pair of plump turtledoves, building and cooing in a bower of roses, he finds a single lean cormorant, standing mate-less and shelter-less on poverty's bleak cliff? Oh, confound him, let him come, and let him laugh at the contrast between rumor and fact, where he the devil himself, instead of being merely very like him, I had not condescent to get out of his way, or to forge a smile or a cheerful word wherewith to avert his sarcasm. Then I record to the other letter, that struck a chord whose sound I could not deaden by thrusting my fingers into my ears, for it vibrated within, and though its well might be exquisite music, its cadence was a groan. That Francis was relieved from the pressure of want, that the curse of excessive labour was taken off her, filled me with happiness, that her first thought in prosperity should be to augment her joy by sharing it with me, met and satisfied the wish of my heart. Two ripples of a letter were then pleasant, sweet as two drots of nectar, but applying my lips for the third time to the cup, and they were excoriated as with vinegar and gall. Two persons whose desires are moderate may live well enough in Brussels on an income, which would scarcely afford respectable maintenance for one in London, and that, not because the necessaries of life are so much dearer in the latter capital, or taxes so much higher than in the former, but because the English surpass and folly all the nations on God's earth, and are more abject slaves to custom, to opinion, to the desire to keep up a certain appearance, than the Italians are to priestcraft, the French to vain glory, the Russians to their tsar, or the Germans to black beer. I have seen a degree of sense in the modest arrangement of one homely Belgian household that might put to shame the elegance, the superfluities, the luxuries, the strained refinements of a hundred gentile English mansions. In Belgium, provided you can make money, you may save it. This is scarcely possible in England. Ostentation there lavishes in a month what industry has earned in a year. More shame to all classes in that most bountiful and beggarly country for their servile following of fashion. I could write a chapter or two on the subject, but must forbear, at least for the present. Had I retained my sixty pounds per annum, I could, now that Francis was in possession of fifty pounds, have gone straight to her this very evening, and spoken out the words which, repressed, kept fretting my heart with fever. Our united income would, as we should have managed it, have sufficed well for our mutual support, since we lived in a country where economy was not confounded with meanness, where frugality in dress, food, and furniture was not synonymous with vulgarity in these various points. But the placeless azure, bare of reserves and unsupported by connections, must not think of this. Such a sentiment as love, such a word as marriage, were misplaced in his heart and on his lips. Now for the first time did I truly feel what it was to be poor. Now did the sacrifice I had made in casting from me the means of living put on a new aspect. Instead of a correct, just, honourable act, it seemed a deed at once light and fanatical. I took several turns in my room, under the goading influence of most poignant remorse. I walked a quarter of an hour from the wall to the window, and at the window, self-reproach seemed to face me, at the wall, self-design. All at once out spoke conscience. Down, stupid tormentors, cried she, The man has done his duty. You shall not bathe him thus by thoughts of what might have been. He relinquished a temporary and contingent good to avoid a permanent and certain evil he did well. Let him reflect now, and when your blinding dust and deafening hum subside, he will discover a path. I sat down. I propped my forehead on both my hands. I thought and thought an hour, two hours, vainly. I seemed like one sealed in a subterranean vault, who gazes at utter blackness, at blackness ensured by yard-thick stone walls around, and by piles of building above, expecting light to penetrate through granite, and through cement firm as granite. But there are chinks, or there may be chinks, in the best-adjusted masonry. There was a chink in my cavernous cell, for, eventually, I saw, or seemed to see, a ray, followed indeed, and cold, and doubtful, but still a ray. For it showed that narrow path which conscience had promised after two, three hours torturing research in brain and memory, I disinterred certain remains of circumstances, and conceived a hope that by putting them together, an expedient might be framed, and a resource discovered. The circumstances were briefly these. Some three months ago, MP Lit had, on the occasion of his feat, given the boys a treat, which treat consisted in a party of pleasure, to a certain place of public resort in the outskirts of Brussels, of which I do not at this moment remember the name. But near-rich were several of those lakelets, called etangues. And there was one etangue, larger than the rest, where on holidays people were accustomed to amuse themselves by rowing round it in little boats. The boys having eaten an unlimited quantity of golfers, and drank several bottles of Louvain beer, amid the shades of a garden made and provided for such cramps, petitioned the director for leaves to take a row on the etangue. Half a dozen of the eldest succeeded in obtaining leave, and I was commissioned to accompany them as a surveillance. Among the half-dozens happened to be a certain Jean-Baptiste Van den Houten, a most ponderous young flamant. Not at all, but even now, at the early age of 16, possessing a breadth and depth of personal development truly national. It chanced that Jean was the first lad to step into the boat. He stumbled, rolled to one side, the boat revolted at his weight, and capsized. Van den Houten sank like lead, rose, sank again. My coat and waistcoat were often an instant. I had not been brought up at Eden, and boated and bathed and swam there ten long years for nothing. It was a natural and easy act for me to leap to the rescue. The lad and the boatman yelled. They thought there would be two deaths by drowning instead of one. But as Jean rose third time, I clutched him by one leg and the collar, and in three minutes more both he and I were safe landed. To speak heaven's truth, my merit in the action was small indeed, for I had run no risk, and subsequently did not even catch cold from the wetting. But when M and Madame Van den Houten, of whom Jean Baptist was a sole hope, came to hear of the exploit, they seemed to think I had evinced a bravery and devotion which no thanks could sufficiently repay. Madame, in particular, was certain I must have dearly loved their sweet son, or I would not thus have azarded my own life to save his. Mazir, an honest-looking, though phlegmatic man, said very little, but he would not suffer me to leave the room, till I had promised that in case I ever stood in need of help, I would, by applying to him, give him a chance of discharging the obligation under which he affirmed I had laid him. These words, then, were my glimmer of light. It was here I found my sole outlet, and in truth, though the cold light roused, it did not cheer me, nor did the outlet seem such as I should like to pass through. Right! I had none to M. Van den Houten's good offices. It was not on the ground of merit I could apply to him. No! I must stand on that of necessity. I had no work. I wanted work. My best chance of obtaining it lay in securing his recommendation. This, I knew, could be had by asking for it. Not to ask, because the request revolted my pride and contradicted my habits, would, I felt, be an indulgence of false and indolent, fustidiousness. I might repent the omission all my life. I would not then be guilty of it. That evening I went to M. Van den Houten's. But I had bent the bow and adjusted the shaft and vane. The string broke. I rang the bell at the great door. It was a large, handsome house in an expensive part of the town. A manservant opened. I asked for M. Van den Houten. M. Van den Houten and family were all out of town. Gone to Austin did not know when they would be back. I left my card and retraced my steps. End of Chapter 21. A week is gone. Les Jeux des Noces arrived. The marriage was solemnized at St. Jacques. Mme Moselle Zoréde became Mme Pelé, Né of Reuter, and, in about an hour after this transformation, the happy pair, as newspapers phrase it, were on their way to Paris, where, according to previous arrangement, the honeymoon was to be spent. The next day I quitted the pensionat. Myself and my chattels, some books and clothes, were soon transferred to a modest lodging I had hired in a street not far off. In half an hour my clothes were arranged in a commode, my books on a shelf, and the flitting was affected. I should not have been unhappy that day, had not when pain tortured me. A longing to go to the route Notre-Dame aux Neiges, resisted, yet irritated an inward resolve to avoid that street till such time as the mist of doubt should clear from my prospects. It was a sweet September evening, very mild, very still. I had nothing to do. At that hour I knew Frances would be equally released from occupation. I thought she might possibly be wishing for her master. I knew I wished for my pupil. Imagination began with her low whispers, infusing into my soul the soft tale of pleasures it might be. You will find her reading or writing, said she. You can take your seat at her side. You need not startle her peace by undue excitement. You need not embarrass her manner by unusual action or language. Be as you always are. Look over what she has written. Listen while she reads. Chide her or quietly approve. You know the effect of either system. You know her smile when pleased. You know the play of her looks when roused. You have the secret of awakening that expression you will. And you can choose amongst that pleasant variety. With you she will sit silent as long as it suits you to talk alone. You can hold her under a potent spell, intelligent as she is, eloquent as she can be. You can seal her lips and veil her bright countenance with diffidence. Yet you know she is not all monotonous mildness. You have seen with a sort of strange pleasure revolt, scorn, austerity, bitterness lay energetic claim to a place in her feelings and physiognomy. You know that few could rule her as you do. You know she might break but never bend under the hand of tyranny and injustice. But reason and affection can guide her by a sign. Try their influence now. Go. They are not passions. You may handle them safely. I will not go was my answer to the sweet temptress. A man is master of himself to a certain point but not beyond it. Could I seek Francis tonight? Could I sit with her alone in a quiet room and address her only in the language of reason and affection? No was the brief fervent reply of that love which had conquered and now controlled me. Time seemed to stagnate. The sun would not go down. My watch ticked, but I thought the hands were paralyzed. What a hot evening I cried, throwing open the lattice, for indeed I had seldom felt so feverish. Hearing a step ascending the common stair, I wondered whether the locotaire, now mounting to his apartments, were as unsettled in mind and condition as I was, or whether he lived in the calm of certain resources and in the freedom of unfettered feelings. What was he coming in person to solve the problem hardly proposed in inaudible thought? He had actually knocked at the door, at my door, a smart prompt wrap, and almost before I could invite him in he was over the threshold and had closed the door behind him. And how are you, asked an indifferent, quiet voice in the English language, while my visitor, without any sort of bustle or introduction, put his hat on the table and his gloves into his hat, and drawing the only armchair the room afforded a little forward, seated himself tranquilly therein. Can't you speak? he inquired in a few moments, in a tone whose nonchalance seemed to intimate, that it was much the same thing whether I answered or not. The fact is, I found it desirable to have recourse to my good friends, les Bessicles, not exactly to ascertain the identity of my visitor, for I already knew him, confound his impudence, but to see how he looked, to get a clear notion of his mind and countenance. I wiped the glasses very deliberately, and put them on quite as deliberately, adjusting them so as not to hurt the bridge of my nose, or get entangled in my short tufts of done hair. I was sitting in the window seat, with my back to the light, and I had him vis-à-vis, a position he would much rather have had reversed, for, at any time, he preferred scrutinizing to being scrutinized. Yes, it was he, and no mistake, with his six feet of length arranged in a sitting attitude, with his dark traveling shirt out, with its velvet collar, his gray pantalons, his black stock, and his face, the most original one nature ever modelled, yet the least obtrusively so, not one feature that could be termed market or odd, yet the effect of the whole unique. There is no use in attempting to describe what is indescribable. Being in no hurry to address him, I sat and stared at my ease. Oh, that's your game, is it? said he at last. Well, we'll see which is soonest tired. And he slowly drew out a fine cigar case, picked one to his taste, lit it, took a book from the shelf convenient to his hand, then leaning back proceeded to smoke and read as tranquilly as if he had been in his own room, in Grove Street, Blankshire, England. I knew he was capable of continuing in that attitude till midnight, if he conceived the whim, so I rose, and taking the book from his hand I said, You did not ask for it, and you shall not have it. It is silly and dull, he observed, so I have not lost much. Then the spell being broken he went on. I thought you lived at Palais. I went there this afternoon expecting to be starved to death by sitting in a boarding school drawing-room, and they told me you were gone, had departed this morning, you had left your address behind you though, which I wondered at. It was more practical and sensible precaution than I should have imagined you capable of. Why did you leave? Because Monsieur Palais has just married the lady whom you and Mr. Brown assigned to me as my wife. Oh, indeed, replied Hunston with a short laugh, so you've lost both your wife and your place? Precisely so. I saw him give a quick covert glance all around my room. He marked its narrow limit, its scanty furniture. In an instant he had comprehended the state of matters, had absolved me from the crime of prosperity. A curious effect this discovery wrought in his strange mind. I am morally certain that if he had found me installed in a handsome parlor, lounging on a soft couch, with a pretty wealthy wife at my side, he would have hated me. A brief cold, haughty visit would, in such a case, have been the extreme limit of his civilities, and never would he have come near me more, so long as the tide of fortune bore me smoothly on its surface. But the painted furniture, the bare walls, the cheerless solitude of my room relaxed his rigid pride, and I know not what softening change had taken place in both his voice and look ere he spoke again. You have gotten another place? No. You were in the way of getting one? No. That is bad. Have you applied to Brown? No, indeed. You had better. He often has it in his power to give useful information on such matters. He served me once very well. I have no claim on him, and am not in the humour to bother him again. Oh, if you're bashful and dread being intrusive, you need only commission me. I shall see him to-night. I can put in a word. I beg you will not, Mr. Hunston. I am in your debt already. You did me an important service when I was at X, got me out of a den where I was dying. That service I have never repaid, and at present I decline positively adding another item to the account. If the wind sits that way, I'm satisfied. I thought my un-exampled generosity in turning you out of that accursed counting-house would be duly appreciated some day. Cast your bread on the waters, and it shall be found after many days, say the scriptures. Yes, that's right, lad. Make much of me. I'm a non-purell. There's nothing like me in the common herd. In the meantime, to put all humbug aside and talk sense for a few moments, you would be greatly the better of a situation, and, what is more, you are a fool if you refuse to take one from any hand that offers it. Very well, Mr. Hunston. Now you have settled that point. Talk of something else. What news from X? I have not settled that point, or at least there is another to settle before we get to X. Is this Miss Zenobi? Zoradi? Interposed I. Well, Zoradi, is she really married to Palais? I tell you yes, and if you don't believe me, go and ask the cure of Saint Jacques. And your heart is broken? I am not aware that it is. It feels all right, beats as usual. Then your feelings are less superfine than I took them to be. You must be a coarse, callous character to bear such a thwack without staggering under it. Staggering under it? What deduces there to stagger under in the circumstances of a Belgian schoolmistress marrying a French schoolmaster? The progeny will doubtless be a strange hybrid race, but that's their lookout, not mine. He indulges in scurrilous chests, and the bride was his affianced one. Who said so? Brown? I'll tell you what, Henson, Brown is an old gossip. He is, but in the meantime, if his gossip be founded on less than fact, if you took no particular interest in Miss Zoradi, why, O youthful pedagogue, did you leave your place in consequence of her becoming Mida and Palais? Because I felt my face grow a little hot. Because, in short, Mr. Henson, I decline answering any more questions, and I plunge my hands deep in my breeches' pocket. Hunston triumphed. His eyes, his laugh, announced victory. What deduce are you laughing at, Mr. Hunston? At your exemplary composure? Well, lad, I'll not bore you. I see how it is. Zoradi has jolted you. Married someone richer, as any sensible woman would have done if she had had the chance. I made no reply. I let him think so, not feeling inclined to enter into an explanation of the real state of things, and as little to forge a false account. But it was not easy to blind Hunston. My very silence, instead of convincing him that he had hit the truth, seemed to render him doubtful about it. He went on. I suppose the affair has been conducted as such affairs always are amongst rational people. You offered her your youth and your talents, such as they are, in exchange for her position and money. I don't suppose you took appearance, or what is called love, into the account. For I understand she is older than you, and Brown says, rather sensible-looking than beautiful. She, having then no chance of making a better bargain, was at first inclined to come to terms with you, but Pele, the head of a flourishing school, stepped in with a higher bid. She accepted, and he has got her. A correct transaction, perfectly so, business-like and legitimate. And now we'll talk of something else. Do, said I, very glad to dismiss the topic, and especially glad to have baffled the sagacity of my cross-questioner. If indeed I had baffled it, for though his words now led away from the dangerous point, his eyes, keen and watchful, seemed still preoccupied with the former idea. You want to hear news from X? And what interest can you have in X? You left no friends there, for you made none. Nobody ever asks after you, neither man nor woman. And if I mention your name in company, the men look as if I had spoken of Prestor John, and the women sneer covertly. Our X-bells must have disliked you. How did you excite their displeasure? I don't know. I seldom spoke to them. They were nothing to me. I considered them only as something to be glanced at from a distance. Their dresses and faces were often pleasing enough to the eye, but I could not understand their conversation, nor even read their countenances. When I caught snatches of what they said, I could never make much of it, and the play of their lips and eyes did not help me at all. That was your fault, not theirs. They are sensible as well as handsome women in X. Women it is worth any man's while to talk to, and with whom I can talk with pleasure. But you had and have no pleasant address. There is nothing in you to induce a woman to be affable. I have remarked you sitting near the door in a room full of company, bent on hearing, not on speaking, on observing, not on entertaining, looking frigidly shy at the commencement of a party, confusingly vigilant about the middle and insultingly weary towards the end. Is that the way do you think ever to communicate pleasure or excite interest? No, and if you are generally unpopular it is because you deserve to be so. Content, I ejaculated. No, you are not content. You see beauty always turning its back on you. You are mortified, and then you sneer. I verily believe all that is desirable on earth, wealth, reputation, love, will forever to you be the ripe grapes on the high trellis. You look up at them. They will tantalize in you the lust of the eye, but they are out of reach. You have not the address to fetch a ladder, and you'll go away calling them sour. Cutting as these words might have been under some circumstances, they drew no blood now. My life was changed. My experience had been varied since I left X, but Hunston could not know this. He had seen me only in the character of Mr. Crimsworth's clerk, a dependent amongst wealthy strangers, meeting disdain with a hard front. Conscious of an unsocial and unattractive exterior, refusing to sue for notice which I was sure would be withheld, declining to events and admiration which I knew would be scorned as worthless. He could not be aware that since then youth and loveliness had been to me everyday objects, that I had studied them at leisure and closely, and had seen the plain texture of truth under the embroidery of appearance. Nor could he, keen-sighted as he was, penetrate into my heart, search my brain, and read my peculiar sympathies and antipathies. He had not known me long enough or well enough to perceive how low my feelings would ebb under some influences, powerful over most minds, how high, how fast they would flow under other influences, that perhaps acted with the more intense force on me, because they acted on me alone. Neither could he suspect for an instant the history of my communications with Madam Wiesel Reiter. Secret to him and to all others was the tale of her strange infatuation. Her blandishments, her wiles, had been seen but by me, and to me only were they known. But they had changed me. For they had proved that I could impress. A sweeter secret nestled deeper in my heart, one full of tenderness and as full of strength. It took the sting out of Hunston's sarcasm. It kept me unbent by shame and unsteered by wrath. But of all this I could say nothing, nothing decisive at least. Uncertainty sealed my lips. And during the interval of silence by which alone I replied to Mr. Hunston, I made up my mind to be for the present wholly misjudged by him, and misjudged I was. He thought he had been rather too hard upon me, and that I was crushed by the weight of his uprightings. So to reassure me, he said, doubtless I should mend some day, I was only at the beginning of life yet, and since happily I was not quite without sense, every false step I made would be a good lesson. Just then I turned my face a little to the light. The approach of twilight in my position in the window seat had for the last ten minutes prevented him from studying my countenance. As I moved, however, he caught an expression which he thus interpreted. Khan found it how doggedly self-approving the lad looks. I thought he was fit to die with shame, and there he sits grinning smiles, as good as to say, let the world wag as it will, I have the philosopher's stone in my waistcoat pocket, and the elixir of life in my cupboard. I'm independent of both fate and fortune. Hunston, you spoke of grapes. I was thinking of a fruit I like better than your ex-hot-house grapes, a unique fruit, growing wild, which I have marked as my own, and hope one day to gather in taste. It is of no use you're offering me the draft of bitterness, or threatening me with death by thirst. I have the anticipation of sweetness upon my palette, the hope of freshness on my lips. I can reject the unsavory and endure the exhausting. For how long? Till the next opportunity for effort, and, as the prize of success will be a treasure after my own heart, I'll bring a bull's strength to the struggle. Bad luck crushes bull's as easily as bull's is, and I believe the fury dogs you. You were born with a wooden spoon in your mouth. Depend on it. I believe you. Sad I mean to make my wooden spoon do the work of some people's silver ladles. Grasp firmly, and handled nimbly, even a wooden spoon will shovel up broth. Hunston rose. I see, said he, I suppose you're one of those who develop best and watched, and act best and aided. Work your own way. Now I'll go. And without another word he was going. At the door he turned. Crimsworth Hall is sold, said he. Sold was my echo. Yes, you know, of course, that your brother failed three months ago. What? Edward Crimsworth? Precisely, and his wife went home to her fathers. When affairs went awry, his temper sympathized with them. He used her ill. I told you he would be a tyrant to her someday, as to him. I, as to him, what has become of him? Nothing extraordinary. Don't be alarmed. He put himself under the protection of the court, compounded with his creditors, ten pence in the pound, in six weeks set up again, coaxed back his wife, and his flourishing like a green bay tree. And Crimsworth Hall was the furniture sold to? Everything, from the grand piano down to the rolling pin. And the contents of the oak dining room, were they sold? Of course, why should the sofas and chairs of that room be held more sacred than those of any other? And the pictures. What pictures? Crimsworth had no special collection that I know of. He did not profess to be an amateur. There were two portraits, one on each side of the mantelpiece. You cannot have forgotten them, Mr. Henson. You once noticed that of the lady. Oh, I know, the thin-faced gentlewoman with a shawl put on like drapery. Why, as a matter of course, it would be sold among the other things. If you had been rich, you might have bought it. For I remember you said it represented your mother. You see what it is to be without a sue. I did. But surely, I thought to myself, I shall not always be so poverty-stricken. I may one day buy it back yet. Who purchased it? Do you know? I asked. How is it likely? I never inquired who purchased anything. There spoke the unpractical man, to imagine all the world is interested in what interests himself. Now good night. I'm off for Germany tomorrow morning. I shall be back here in six weeks, and possibly I may call and see you again. I wonder whether you'll be still out of place, he laughed, as mockingly, as heartlessly as Mephistopheles, and so laughing vanished. Some people, however indifferent they may become after a considerable space of absence, always contrive to leave a pleasant impression just at parting. Not so, Hunston, a conference with him affected one like a draft of Peruvian bark. It seemed a concentration of the specially harsh, stringent, bitter, weather-like bark it invigorated, I scarcely knew. A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow. I slept little on the night after this interview. Towards morning I began to doze, but hardly had my slumber become sleep, when I was roused from it by hearing a noise in my sitting-room, to which my bedroom adjoined. A step and a shoving of furniture. The movement lasted barely two minutes, with the closing of the door it ceased. I listened. Not a mouse stirred. Perhaps I had dreamt it. Perhaps the locotare had made a mistake and entered my apartment instead of his own. It was yet but five o'clock. Neither I nor the day were wide awake. I turned and was soon unconscious. When I did rise about two hours later, I had forgotten the circumstance. The first thing I saw, however, on quitting my chamber, recalled it. Just pushed in at the door of my sitting-room, and still standing on end was a wooden packing-case. A rough deal of fare, wide but shallow. A porter had doubtless shoved it forward, but seeing no occupant of the room had left it at the entrance. That is none of mine, thought I approaching. It must be meant for somebody else. I stooped to examine the address. William Crimsworth Esquire, number blank, Blank Street, Brussels. I was puzzled, but concluding that the best way to obtain information was to ask within, I cut the cords and opened the case. Green bays enveloped its contents, sewn carefully at the sides. I ripped the pack-thread with my pen knife, and still, as the seam gave way, glimpses of gilding appeared through the widening interstices. Boards and bays being at length removed, I lifted from the case a large picture in a magnificent frame, leaning it against a chair in a position where the light from the window fell favourably upon it, I stepped back. Already I had mounted my spectacles. Portrait painter Sky, the most somber and threatening of welcomes, and distant trees of a conventional depth of hue, raised in full relief a pale, pensive-looking female face, shadowed with soft dark hair, almost blending with the equally dark clouds. Large solemn eyes looked reflectively into mine. A thin cheek rested on a delicate little hand. A shawl artistically draped, half hid, half showed a slight figure. A listener, had there been one, might have heard me after ten minutes silent gazing uttered the word mother. I might have said more, but with me the first word uttered aloud in soliloquy rouses consciousness. It reminds me that only crazy people talk to themselves, and then I think out my monologue instead of speaking it. I had thought a long while, and a long while had contemplated the intelligence, the sweetness, and alas, the sadness also of those fine gray eyes, the mental power of that forehead, and the rare sensibility of that serious mouth, when my glance traveling downwards fell on a narrow billet, stuck in the corner of the picture between the frame and the campus. Then I first asked, who sent this picture? Who thought of me saved it out of the wreck of Krimsworth Hall, and now commits it to the care of its natural keeper? I took the note from its niche. Thus it spoke. There is a sort of stupid pleasure in giving a child sweets, a fool his bells, a dog a bone. You are repaid by seeing the child basmere his face with sugar, by witnessing how the fool's ecstasy makes a greater fool of him than ever, by watching the dog's nature come out over his bone. In giving William Krimsworth his mother's picture, I give him sweets, bells, and bone, all in one. What grieves me is that I cannot behold the result. I would have added five shillings more to my bid, if the auctioneer could only have promised me that pleasure." Signed H.Y.H. P.S., you said last night you positively declined adding another item to your account with me. Don't you think I've saved you that trouble? I muffled the picture in its green base covering, restored it to the case, and having transported the whole concern to my bedroom, put it out of sight under my bed. My pleasure was now poisoned by pungent pain. I determined to look no more till I could look at my ease. If Hunston had come in at that moment I should have said to him, I owe you nothing, Hunston, not a fraction of a farthing you have paid yourself in taunts. Too anxious to remain any longer quiescent, I had no sooner breakfasted than I repaired once more to Monsieur Van Den Hootens, scarcely hoping to find him at home, for a week had barely elapsed since my first call. But fancying I might be able to glean information as to the time when his return was expected. A better result awaited me than I had anticipated, for though the family were yet at Austin, Monsieur Van Den Hootens had come over to Brussels on business for the day. He received me with the quiet kindness of a sincere, though not excitable, man. I had not sat five minutes alone with him in his bureau, before I became aware of a sense of ease in his presence, such as I rarely experienced with strangers. I was surprised at my own composure, for, after all, I had come on business to me exceedingly painful, that of soliciting a favour. I asked on what basis the calm rested. I feared it might be deceptive. Air long I caught a glimpse of the ground, and at once I felt assured of its solidity. I knew where it was. Monsieur Van Den Hootens was rich, respected, and influential. I, poor, despised, and powerless. So we stood to the world at large as members of the world's society, but to each other, as a pair of human beings, our positions were reversed. The Dutchman, he was not flamande, but pure Hollandaise, was slow, cool, of rather dense intelligence, though sound and accurate judgment. The Englishman far more nervous, active, quicker both to plan and to practice, to conceive and to realise. The Dutchman was benevolent, the Englishman susceptible. In short, our characters dovetailed, but my mind having more fire and action than his, instinctively assumed and kept the predominance. This point settled, and my position well ascertained, I addressed him on the subject of my affairs, with that genuine frankness, which full confidence can alone inspire. It was a pleasure to him to be so appealed to. He thanked me for giving him this opportunity of using a little exertion in my behalf. I went on to explain to him that my wish was not so much to be helped, as to be put into the way of helping myself. Of him I did not want exertion. That was to be my part, but only information and recommendation. Soon after I rose to go. He held out his hand at parting, an action of greater significance with foreigners than with Englishmen. As I exchanged a smile with him, I thought the benevolence of his truthful face was better than the intelligence of my own. Characters of my order experienced a balm-like solace in the contact of such souls as animated the honest breast of Victor van den Hytten. The next fortnight was a period of many alternations. My existence during its laps resembled a sky of one of those autumnal nights which are specially haunted by meteors and falling stars. Hopes and fears, expectations and disappointments, descended and glancing showers from zenith to horizon, but all were transient, and darkness followed swift, each vanishing apparition. Monsieur van den Hytten aided me faithfully. He set me on the track of several places, and himself made efforts to secure them for me. But for a long time solicitation and recommendation were vain. The door either shut in my face when I was about to walk in, or another candidate, entering before me, rendered my further advance useless. Feverish and roused, no disappointment arrested me. Defeat followed fast on defeat, served as stimulants to will. I forgot fistidiousness, conquered reserve, thrust pride from me. I asked, I persevered, I remonstrated, I dunned. It is so that openings are forced into the guarded circle where fortune sits dealing favors round. My perseverance made me known, my importunity made me remarked. I was inquired about. My former pupil's parents, gathering the reports of their children, heard me spoken of as talented, and they echoed the word. The sound, bandied about at random, came at last to ears which, but for its universality, it might never have reached. And at the very crisis when I had tried my last effort, and knew not what to do, fortune looked in at me one morning as I sat in drear and almost desperate deliberation on my bedstead, knotted with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, though God knows I had never met her before, and threw a prize into my lap. In the second week of October 18 blank, I got the appointment of English professor to all the classes of blank college, Brussels, with a salary of 3,000 francs per annum, and the certainty of being able, by dint of the reputation and publicity accompanying the position, to make as much more by private means. The official notice, which communicated this information, mentioned also that it was the strong recommendation of Monsieur van den Huyten, négociant, which had turned the scale of choice in my favor. No sooner had I read the announcement than I hurried to Monsieur van den Huyten's bureau, pushed the document under his nose, and when he had perused it, took both his hands and thanked him with unrestrained vivacity. My vivid words and emphatic gesture moved his Dutch calm to unwanted sensation. He said he was happy, glad to have served me, but he had done nothing meriting such thanks. He had not laid out a centime, only scratched a few words on a sheet of paper. Again I repeated to him, You have made me quite happy, and in a way that suits me. I do not feel an obligation irksome, conferred by your hand. I do not feel disposed to shun You, because You have done me a favor. From this day You must consent to admit me to Your intimate acquaintance, for I shall hereafter recur again and again to the pleasure of Your society. And C. Swaill was the reply, accompanied by a smile of benignant content. I went away with its sunshine in my heart. End of Chapter 22. Recording by Michele Crandall, Fremont, California, April 2009 by Charlotte Bronte. Chapter 23. It was two o'clock when I returned to my lodgings. My dinner, just brought in from a neighbouring hotel, smoked on the table. I sat down, thinking to eat. Had the plate been heaped with pot-shirts and broken glass, instead of boiled beef and arco, I could not have made a more signal failure. Appetite had forsaken me. Impatient of seeing food which I could not taste, I put it all aside into a cupboard, and then demanded, What shall I do till evening? For before six p.m. it would be vain to seek the Rue Notre-Dame au Neige. It's inhabitant. For me it had but one, was detained by her vocation elsewhere. I walked in the streets of Brussels, and I walked in my own room from two o'clock till six. Never once in that space of time did I sit down. I was in my chamber when the last named hour struck. I had just bathed my face and feverish hands, and was standing near the glass. My cheek was crimson, my eye was flame. Still all my features looked quite settled and calm. Descending swiftly the stair and stepping out, I was glad to see twilight drawing on in clouds. Such shade was to me like a grateful screen, and the chill of latter autumn breathing in a fitful wind from the north west met me as a refreshing coolness. Still I saw it was cold to others, for the women I passed were wrapped in shawls, and the men had their coats buttoned close. When are we quite happy? Was I so then? No, an urgent and growing dread worried my nerves, and had worried them since the first moment good tidings had reached me. How was Francis? It was ten weeks since I had seen her, six since I had heard from her, or of her. I had answered her letter by a brief note, friendly but calm, in which no mention of continued correspondence or further visits was made. At that hour my bark hung on the topmost curl of a wave of fate, and I knew not on what shoal the onward rush of the billow might hurl it. I would not then attach her destiny to mine by the slightest thread, if doomed to split on the rock, or run aground on the sand bank, I was resolved no other vessel should share my disaster. But six weeks was a long time, and could it be that she was still well and doing well? When not all sages agreed in declaring that happiness finds no climax on earth, dared I think that but half a street now divided me from the full cup of contentment, the draught drawn from waters said to flow only in heaven. I was at the door. I entered the quiet house. I mounted the stairs. The lobby was void and still all the doors closed. I looked for the neat green mat. It laid truly in its place. Signal of hope, I said and advanced. But I will be a little calmer. I'm not going to rush in and get up a scene directly. Forcibly staying my eager step, I paused on the mat. What an absolute hush is she in? Is anybody in? I demanded to myself. A little tinkle as of cinders falling from a grate replied. A movement, a fire was gently stirred and the slight rustle of life continuing. A step paced equibly backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards in the apartment. Fascinated I stood, more fixedly fascinated when a voice rewarded the attention of my strained ear. So low, so self-addressed, I never fancied the speaker otherwise than alone. Solitude might speak thus in a desert or in the hall of a forsaken house. And near but once my son, he said, was young dark cavern trod. In persecutions iron days when the land was left by God. From Beaulies' bark with slaughter red a wanderer hithered drew, and oft he stopped and turned his head as by fits the night winds blew. For trampling round by cheviot edge we heard the troopers' keen, and frequent from the white-law ridge the death-shot flashed between, etc., etc. The old Scotch ballad was partly recited, then dropped. A pause ensued, then another strain followed, in French, of which the purport translated ran as follows. I gave at first attention close, then interest warm ensued. From interest, at improvement rose, succeeded gratitude. Obedience was no effort soon, and labour was no pain. If tired, a word, a glance alone would give me strength again. From others of the studious band ere long he singled me, but only by more close demand and sterner urgency. The task he from another took, from me he did reject. He would no slight omission brook, and suffer no defect. If my companions went astray, he scarce their wanderings blamed. If I, but faltered in the way, his anger fiercely flamed. Something stirred in an adjoining chamber. It would not do to be surprised eavesdropping. I tapped hastily, and as hastily entered. Francis was just before me. She had been walking slowly in her room, and his step was checked by my advent. Twilight only was with her, and tranquil, ruddy firelight. To these sisters, the bright and the dark, she had been speaking ere I entered, in poetry. So Walter Scott's voice, to her a foreign, far-off sound, a mountain echo, had uttered itself in the first stanzas. The second, I thought, from the style and the substance, was the language of her own heart. Her face was grave, its expression concentrated. She bent on me an unsmiling eye, an eye just returning from abstraction, just awaking from dreams. Well arranged was her simple attire, smooth her dark hair, orderly her tranquil room. But what, with her thoughtful look, her serious self-reliance, her bent to meditation and happily inspiration, what had she to do with love? Nothing was the answer of her own sad, though gentle countenance. It seemed to say, I must cultivate fortitude and cling to poetry. One is to be my support, and the other my solace through life. Human affections do not bloom, nor do human passions glow for me. Other women have such thoughts. Francis, had she been as desolate as she deemed, would not have been worse off than thousands of her sex. Look at the rigid and formal race of old maids, the race whom all despise. They have fed themselves from youth upwards on maxims of resignation and endurance. Many of them get ossified with the dry diet. Self-control is so continually their thought, so perpetually their object, that at last it absorbs the softer and more agreeable qualities of their nature, and they die mere models of austerity, fashioned out of a little parchment and much bone. Anatomists will tell you that there is a heart in the withered old maid's carcass, the same as in that of any cherished wife or proud mother in the land. Can this be so? I really don't know, but feeling clined to doubt it. I came forward, bade Francis good evening, and took my seat. The chair I had chosen was one she had probably just left. It stood by a little table where were her open desk and papers. I know not whether she had fully recognized me at first, but she did so now, and in a voice soft but quiet she returned my greeting. I had shown no eagerness. She took her cue from me, and evinced no surprise. We met, as we had always met, as master and pupil, nothing more. I proceeded to handle the papers. Francis, observant and serviceable, stepped into an inner room, brought a candle, lit it, placed it by me, then drew the curtain over the lattice, and having added a little fresh fuel to the already bright fire, she drew a second chair to the table and sat down by my right hand, a little removed. The paper on the top was a translation of some grave French author into English, but underneath lay a sheet with stanzas. On this I laid hands. Francis, half-rose, made a movement to recover the captioned spoil, saying that was nothing a mere copy of verses. I put by resistance with the decision I knew she never long opposed, but on this occasion her fingers had fastened on the paper. I had quietly to unloose them. Their hold dissolved to my touch, her hands shrunk away. My own would fain have followed it, but for the present I forbade such impulse. The first page of the sheet was occupied with the lines I had overheard. The sequel was not exactly the writer's own experience, but a composition by portions of what that experience suggested. Thus while egotism was avoided, the fancy was exercised, and the heart satisfied. I translate as before, and my translation is nearly literal. It continued thus. When sickness stayed a while my course, he seemed impatient still, because his pupil's flagging force could not obey his will. One day when summoned to the bed where pain and eye did strive, I heard him as he bent his head, say, God, she must revive. I felt his hand with gentle stress, a moment laid on mine, and wished to mark my consciousness by some responsive sign. But powerless then to speak or move, I only felt within the sense of hope, the strength of love, their healing work begin. And as he from the room withdrew, my heart his steps pursued, I longed to prove by efforts new, my speechless gratitude. When once again I took my place, long vacant in the class, the unfrequent smile across his face did for one moment pass. The lessons done, the signal made of glad release and play, he as he passed an instant stayed one kindly word to say, Jane, till tomorrow you are free from tedious task and rule. This afternoon I must not see that yet pale face in school. Seek in the garden shades a seat far from the playground din. The sun is warm, the air is sweet. Stay till I call you in. A long and pleasant afternoon I passed in those green bowers, all silent, tranquil, and alone with birds and bees and flowers. Yet when my master's voice I heard call from the window, Jane, I entered joyful at the word, the busy house again. He in the hall, paced up and down, he paused as I passed by. His forehead stern relaxed its frown, he raised his deep set eye. Not quite so pale, he murmured low. Now Jane, go rest a while, and as I smiled his smoothened brow returned as glad as smile. My perfect health restored, he took his mean nor steer again. And as before he would not brook the slightest fault from Jane. The longest task, the hardest theme, fell to my share as erst. And still I toiled to place my name in every study first. He yet begrudged and stinted praise. But I had learned to read the secret meaning of his face. And that was my best mead. Even when his hasty temper spoke in tones that sorrow stirred, my grief was lulled as soon as woke by some relenting word. And when he lent some precious book, or gave some fragrant flower, I did not quail to Envy's look, upheld by pleasure's power. At last our school ranks took their ground, the hard-fought field I won. The prize, a laurel wreath, was bound my throbbing forehead on. Low at my master's knee I bent, they offered crown to meet. Its green leaves through my temple sent a thrill as wild as sweet. The strong pulse of ambition struck in every vein I owned. At the same instant bleeding broke a secret inward wound. The hour of triumph was to me the hour of sorrow saw. A day hence I must cross the sea, near to recross it more. An hour hence in my master's room I with him sat alone, and told him what a dreary gloom or joy had parting thrown. He little said, the time was brief, the ship was soon to sail, and while I sobbed in bitter grief, my master but looked pale. They called in haste, he bade me go, then snatched me back again. He held me fast and murmured low. Why will they part us, Jane? Were you not happy in my care? Did I not faithful prove? Will others to my darling bear as true as deeper love? O God, watch o'er my foster child! O God, her gentle head! When minds are high and tempests wild, protection round her spread. They call again, leave then my breast, quit thy true shelter, Jane. But when deceived, repulsed, oppressed, come home to me again. I read, then dreamily made marks on the margin with my pencil, thinking all the while of other things, thinking that Jane was now at my side. No child but a girl of nineteen. And she might be mine, so my heart affirmed. Poverty's curse was taken off me. Envy and jealousy were far away, and unapprised of this our quiet meeting, the frost of the master's manner might melt. I felt the thought coming fast, whether I would or not. No further need for the eye to practice a hard look, for the brow to compress its expanse into a stern fold. It was now committed to suffer the outward revelation of the inward glow, to seek, demand, illicit, and answering ardour. While musing us, I thought that the grass on Herman never drank the fresh dews of sunset more gratefully than my feelings drank the bliss of this hour. Frances rose as if restless. She passed before me to stir the fire, which did not want stirring. She lifted and put down the little ornaments on the mantelpiece, her dress waved within a yard of me, slight, straight, and elegant. She stood erect on the half. There are impulses we can control, but there are others which control us, because they attain us with a tiger leap, and are our masters, and are our masters, ere we have seen them. Perhaps though such impulse is a seldom altogether bad, perhaps reason by a process as brief as quiet, a process that is finished, ere felt, as ascertained the sanity of the deed instinct meditates, and feels justified in remaining passive while it is performed. I know I did not reason, I did not plan or intend, yet whereas one moment I was sitting solace on the chair near the table, the next I held Frances on my knee, placed there with sharpness and decision, and retained with exceeding tenacity. Monsieur, cried Frances, and was still. Not another word escaped her lips. Sorely confounded, she seemed, during the lapse of the first few moments. But the amazement soon subsided. Terror did not succeed, nor fury. After all, she was only a little nearer than she had ever been before, to one she habitually respected and trusted. Embarrassment might have impelled her to contend, but self-respect checked resistance, where resistance was useless. Frances, how much regard have you for me, was my demand? No answer. The situation was yet too new and surprising to permit speech. On this consideration I compelled myself for some seconds to tolerate her silence, though impatient of it. Presently I repeated the same question. Probably not in the calmest of tones, she looked at me. My face doubtless was no model of composure, my eyes no still wells of tranquility. Do speak, I urged, and a very low, hurried, yet still arch-voice, said, Monsieur, vous me faites mal, de grâce lâcher un peu ma main droite. In truth I became aware that I was holding the said main droite in the somewhat ruthless grasp I did as desired. Frances, how much regard have you for me? Mon maître, je n'y beaucoup, was the truthful rejoinder. Frances, have you enough to give yourself to me, as my wife, to accept me as your husband? I felt the agitation of her heart. I saw the purple light of love cast its glowing reflection on cheeks, temples, neck. I desired to consult the eye, but sheltering lash and lid forbade. Monsieur said the soft voice at last. Monsieur désire sa voix si je consent. I will try, Frances, a pause, then with a new yet still subdued inflection of the voice, an inflection which provoked, while it pleased me, a company too, by a sourire à la foi fin et timide, in perfect harmony with the tone. C'est-à-dire, Monsieur, sera toujours un peu entêté, exigeant, volontaire. Have I been so, Frances? Mais oui, vous le savez bien. Have I been nothing else? Mais oui, vous avez été mon meilleur ami. And what, Frances, are you to me? Votre dévoué élève qui vous aime de tous son coeur. Will my pupil consent to pass her life with me? Speak English now, Frances. Some moments were taken for reflection. The answer pronounced slowly ran thus. You have always made me happy. I like to hear you speak. I like to see you. I like to be near you. I believe you are very good and very superior. I know you are stern to those who are careless and idle, but you are kind, very kind to the attentive and industrious, even if they are not clever. Master, I should be glad to live with you always. And she made a sort of movement, as if she would have clung to me. But restraining herself, she only added with earnest emphasis, Master, I consent to pass my life with you. Very well, Frances. I drew her a little nearer to my heart. I took a first kiss from her lips, thereby sealing the compact, now framed between us. Afterwards she and I were silent, nor was our silence brief. Frances's thoughts during this interval I know not, nor did I attempt to guess them. I was not occupied in searching her countenance, nor in otherwise troubling her composure. The peace I felt, I wished her to feel. My arm, it is true, still detained her, but with a restraint that was gentle enough, so long as no opposition tightened it. My gaze was on the red fire. My heart was measuring its own content. It sounded and sounded, and found the depth fathomless. Monsieur, at last, said my quiet companion, as stirrless in her happiness as a mouse and its terror, even now in speaking, she scarcely lifted her head. Well, Frances, I like unexaggerated intercourse. It is not my way to overpower with amorous epithets any more than to worry with selfishly important caresses. Yes, especially when I am requested to be so in English. But why do you ask me? You see nothing vehement or obtrusive in my manner. Am I not tranquil enough? So ne pas à l'heure, began Frances. English, I reminded her. Well, Monsieur, I wished me to say that I should like, of course, to retain my employment of teaching. You will teach still, I suppose, Monsieur. Oh, yes, it is all I have to depend on. Bon, I mean good. Thus we shall both have the same profession. I like that. And my efforts to get on will be as unrestrained as yours. Will they not, Monsieur? You are laying plans to be independent of me, said I. Yes, Monsieur, I must be no encumbrance to you, no burden in any way. But, Frances, I have not yet told you what my prospects are. I have left, Monsieur Poulet, and after nearly a month seeking, I have got another place, with a salary of three thousand francs a year, which I can easily double by a little additional exertion. Thus you see it would be useless for you to fag yourself by going out to give lessons. On six thousand francs, you and I can live, and live well. Frances seemed to consider. There is something flattering to man's strength, something consonant to his honourable pride, in the idea of becoming the providence of what he loves, feeding and clothing it, as God does the lilies of the field. So to decide her resolution, I went on. Life has been painful and laborious enough to you so far, Frances. You require complete rest. Your twelve hundred francs would not form a very important addition to our income, and what sacrifice of comfort to earn it will linkress your labours. You must be weary, and let me have the happiness of giving you rest. I am not sure whether Frances had accorded due attention to my harangue. Instead of answering me with her usual respectful promptitude, she only sighed and said, How rich you are, monsieur! And then she stirred uneasy in my arms. Three thousand francs, she murmured, while I get only twelve hundred. She went on faster. However, it must be so for the present, and monsieur, were you not saying something about giving up my place? Oh no, I shall hold it fast, and her little fingers emphatically tightened on mine. Think of my marrying you to be kept by you, monsieur. I could not do it. And how dull my days would be. You would be away teaching in close, noisy schoolrooms from morning till evening, and I should be lingering at home, unemployed and solitary. I should get depressed and sullen, and you would soon tire of me. Frances, you could read and study two things you like so well. Monsieur, I could not. I like a contemplative life, but I like an active life better. I must act in some way, and act with you. I have taken notice, monsieur, that people who are only in each other's company for amusement never really like each other so well, or esteem each other so highly as those who work together, and perhaps suffer together. You speak God's truth, said I at last, and you shall have your own way, for it is the best way. Now, as a reward for such ready consent, give me a voluntary kiss. After some hesitation, natural to a novice in the art of kissing, she brought her lips into very shy and gentle contact with my forehead. I took the small gift as a loan, and repaid it promptly and with generous interest. I know not whether Frances was really much altered since the time I first saw her, but as I looked at her now, I felt that she was singularly changed for me. The sad eye, the pale cheek, the dejected and joyless countenance I remembered as her early attributes were quite gone. And now I saw a face dressed in graces. Smile, dimple, and rosy tint rounded its contours and brightened its hues. I had been accustomed to nurse a flattering idea that my strong attachment to her proved some particular perspicacity in my nature. She was not handsome, she was not rich, she was not even accomplished. Yet was she my life's treasure. I must then be a man of peculiar discernment. Tonight my eyes opened on the mistake I had made. I began to suspect that it was only my tastes which were unique, not my power of discovering and appreciating the superiority of moral worth over physical charms. For me, Frances had physical charms. In her there was no deformity to get over, none of those prominent defects of eyes, teeth, complexion, shape, which held at bay the admiration of the boldest male champions of intellect. For women can love a downright ugly man if he be but talented. Had she been either a denté, miope, rugueuse, or basseux, my feelings towards her might still have been kindly, but they could never have been impassioned. I had affection for the poor little misshapen sievee, but for her I could never have had love. It is true Frances's mental points had been the first to interest me, and they still retained the strongest hold on my preference. But I liked the graces of her person too. I derived a pleasure, purely material, from contemplating the clearness of her brown eyes, the fairness of her fine skin, the purity of her well-set teeth, the proportion of her delicate form, and that pleasure I could ill have dispensed with. It appeared then that I too was a sensualist in my temperate and fastidious way. Now, reader, during the last two pages I have been giving you honey fresh from flowers, but you must not live entirely on food so luscious. Taste then a little gall, just a drop by way of change. At a somewhat late hour I returned to my lodgings, having temporarily forgotten that man had any such coarse cares as those of eating and drinking, I went to bed fasting. I had been excited and in action all day, and had tasted no food since eight that morning. Besides, for a fortnight past I had known no rest either of body or mind. The last few hours had been a sweet delirium. It would not subside now, until long after midnight broke with troubled ecstasy the rest I so much needed. At last I dozed, but not for long. It was yet quite dark when I awoke, and my waking was like that of Job when a spirit passed before his face, and like him the hair of my flesh stood up. I might continue the parallel, for in truth though I saw nothing, yet a thing was secretly brought unto me, and my ear received a little thereof. There was silence, and I heard a voice, saying, in the midst of life we are in death. That sound and the sensation of chill anguish accompanying it many would have regarded as supernatural, but I recognised it at once as the effect of reaction. Man is ever clogged with his mortality, and it was my mortal nature which now faltered and plained. My nerves which jarred and gave a false sound, because the soul of late rushing headlong to an aim had overstrained the body's comparative weakness. A horror of great darkness fell upon me. I felt the chamber invaded by one I had known formally, but had thought forever departed. I was temporarily appraised to hypochondria. She had been my acquaintance, nay my guest, once before in boyhood. I had entertained her at bed and board for a year. For that space of time I had her to myself in secret. She lay with me, she etched with me, she walked out with me, showing me nooks in woods, hollows in hills, where we could sit together, and where she could drop her drear veil over me, and so hide sky and sun, grass and green tree, taking me entirely to her death-cold bosom and holding me with arms of bone. What tale she would tell me at such hours, what songs she would recite in my ears, how she would discourse to me of her own country, the grave, and again and again promise to conduct me there ere long, and drawing me to the very brink of a black sullen river, show me on the other side shores unequal with mound, monument, and tablet, standing up in a glimmer more hoary than moonlight. Necropolis, she would whisper, pointing to the pale piles, and add, it contains a mansion prepared for you. But my boyhood was lonely, parentless, uncheered by brother or sister, and there was no marvel that, just as I rose to youth, a sorceress finding me lost in vague mental wanderings with many affections and few objects, glowing aspirations and gloomy prospects, strong desires and slender hopes, should lift up her elusive lamp to me in the distance, and lure me to her vaulted home of horrors. No wonder her spells then had power. But now, when my course was widening, my prospect brightening, when my affections had found a rest, when my desires folding wings weary with long flight, had just delighted on the very lap of fruition, and nestled their warm, content under the caress of a soft hand, why did hypercondria accost me now? I repulsed her as one would have dreaded and ghastly concubine coming to embitter a husband's heart towards his young bride. In vain, she kept her sway over me for that night and the next day, and eight succeeding days. Afterwards my spirits began slowly to recover their tone. My appetite returned, and in a fortnight I was well. I had gone about as usual all the time, and had said nothing to anybody of what I felt. But I was glad when the evil spirit departed from me, and I could again seek Francis, and sit at her side, freed from the dreadful tyranny of my demon. End of chapter 23. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 24 of The Professor. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Giesen. The Professor by Charlotte Bronte. Chapter 24. One fine frosty Sunday in November, Francis and I took a long walk. We made the tour of the city by the boulevards, and afterwards, Francis being a little tired, we sat down on one of those wayside seats placed under the trees at intervals, for the accommodation of the weary. Francis was telling me about Switzerland. The subject animated her, and I was just thinking that her eyes spoke full as eloquently as her tongue, when she stopped and remarked, Monsieur, there is a gentleman who knows you. I looked up. Three fashionably dressed men were just then passing. Englishmen, I knew by their air and gate, as well as by their features. In the tallest of the trio, I at once recognized Mr. Hunston. He was in the act of lifting his hat to Francis. Afterwards, he made a grimace at me and passed on. Who is he? A person I knew in England. Why did he bow to me? He does not know me. Yes, he does know you in his way. How, Monsieur? She still called me Monsieur. I could not persuade her to adopt any more familiar term. Did you not read the expression of his eyes? Of his eyes? No, what did they say? To you they said, How do you do? Will Halmina crimsworth? To me? So you have found your counterpart at last. There she sits, the female of your kind. Monsieur, you could not read all that in his eyes? He was so soon gone. I read that and more, Francis. I read that he will probably call on me this evening or on some future occasion shortly, and I have no doubt he will insist on being introduced to you. Shall I bring him to your rooms? If you please, Monsieur, I have no objection. I think indeed I should rather like to see him nearer. He looks so original. As I had anticipated, Mr. Hunston came that evening. The first thing he said was, You need not begin boasting, Monsieur la professeur. I know about your appointment to Blanc College and all that. Brown has told me. Then he intimated that he had returned from Germany but a day or two since. Afterwards, he abruptly demanded whether that was Madame Paulet Reuter, with whom he had seen me on the boulevards. I was going to utter a rather emphatic negative, but on second thoughts I checked myself, and seeming to ascent, asked what he thought of her. As to her, I'll come to that directly, but first I have a word for you. I see you are a scoundrel. You've no business to be promenading about with the other man's wife. I thought you had sound ascent than to get mixed up in foreign hodge podge of this sort. But the lady. She's too good for you, evidently. She is like you, but something better than you. No beauty, though. Yet when she rose, for I looked back to see you both walk away, I thought her figure and carriage good. These foreigners understand Grace. What the devil has she done with Pele? She's not been married to him three months. She must be a spoon. I would not let the mistake go too far. I did not like it much. Pele, how your head runs on Monsieur and Madame Paulet. You are always talking about them. I wish to the gods you had wed mademoiselle Zorahid yourself. Was that young gentlewoman not mademoiselle Zorahid? No. Nor madame Zorahid either. Why did you tell a lie then? I told no lie, but you're in such a hurry. She is a pupil of mine, a Swiss girl. And of course you are going to be married to her. Don't deny that. Married? I think I shall, if fate spares us both ten weeks longer. That is my little wild strawberry, Hunsdon, whose sweetness made me careless of your hot-house grapes. Stop, no boasting, no heroics. I won't hear them. What is she? To what caste does she belong? I smiled. Hunsdon unconsciously laid stress on the word caste. And in fact, republican Lord Hater, as he was, Hunsdon was as proud of his old blankure blood, of his descent and family standing, respectable and respected through long generations back, as any peer in the realm of his Norman race and conquest-dated title. Hunsdon would as little have thought of taking a wife from a caste inferior to his own, as a Stanley would think of mating with a copton. I enjoyed the surprise I should give. I enjoyed the triumph of my practice over his theory. And leaning over the table, and uttering the word slowly, but with repressed glee, I said concisely, she is a lace-mender. Hunsdon examined me. He did not say he was surprised, but surprised he was. He had his own notions of good breeding. I saw he suspected I was going to take some very rash step, but repressing declamation or remonstrance, he only answered, Well, you are the best judge of your own affairs. A lace-mender may make a good wife as well as a lady. But of course you have taken care to ascertain thoroughly that since she has not education, fortune or station, she is well furnished with such natural qualities as you think most likely to conduce to your happiness. Are she many relations? None in Brussels. That is better. Relations are often the real evil in such cases. I cannot but think that a train of inferior connections would have been a bore to you, to your life's end. After sitting in silence a little while longer, Hunsdon rose and was quietly bidding me good evening. The polite, considerate manner in which he offered me his hand, a thing he had never done before, convinced me that he thought I had made a terrible fool of myself, and that ruined and thrown away as I was it was no time for sarcasm or cynicism, or indeed for anything but indulgence and forbearance. Good night, William, he said in a really soft voice, while his face looked benevolently compassionate. Good night, lad. I wish you and your future wife much prosperity, and I hope she will satisfy your fastidious soul. I had much ado to refrain from laughing as I beheld the magnanimous pity of his mean. Maintaining, however, a grave air, I said, I thought you would have liked to have seen mademoiselle Henri. Oh, that is the name. Yes, if it would be convenient, I should like to see her, but he hesitated. Well, I should on no account wish to intrude. Come, then, said I. We set out. Hunsdon no doubt regarded me as a rash, imprudent man, thus to show my poor little grisette sweetheart in her poor little unfurnished crannier. But he prepared to act the real gentleman, having in fact the kernel of that character under the harsh husk it pleased him to wear by way of mental macintosh. He talked affably, and even gently, as we walked along the street. He had never been so civil to me in his life. We reached the house, entered, ascended the stair. On gaining the lobby, Hunsdon turned to mount a narrower stair, which led to a higher story. I saw his mind was bent on the attics. Here, Mr. Hunsdon, said I quietly, tapping at Francis' door. He turned. In his genuine politeness he was a little disconcerted at having made the mistake. His eye reverted to the green mat, but he said nothing. We walked in, and Francis rose from her seat near the table to receive us. Her mourning attire gave her a recluse, rather conventual, but with all very distinguished look. Its grave simplicity added nothing to beauty but much to dignity. The finish of the white collar and marchette, sufficed for relief to the merino gown of solemn black. Ornament was foresworn. Francis curtsied with sedate grace, looking as she always did when one first accosted her, more a woman to respect than to love. I introduced Mr. Hunsdon, and she expressed happiness at making his acquaintance in French. The pure and polished accent, the low yet sweet and rather full voice, produced their effects immediately. Hunsdon spoke French in reply. I had not heard him speak that language before. He managed it very well. I retired to the window seat. Mr. Hunsdon, at his hostess's invitation, occupied a chair near the hearth. From my position I could see them both, and the room, too, at a glance. The room was so clean and bright it looked like a little polished cabinet. A glass filled with flowers in the centre of the table. A fresh rose in each china cup on the mantelpiece gave it an air of fact. Francis was serious, and Mr. Hunsdon subdued, but both mutually polite. They got on at the French swimmingly. Ordinary topics were discussed with great state and decorum. I thought I had never seen two such models of propriety. For Hunsdon, thanks to the constraint of the foreign tongue, was obliged to shape his phrases and measure his sentences with a care that forbade any eccentricity. At last England was mentioned, and Francis proceeded to ask questions. Animated by degrees, she began to change, just as a grave night sky changes at the approach of sunrise. First it seemed as if her forehead cleared, then her eyes glittered, her features relaxed, and became quite mobile. Her subdued complexion grew warm and transparent. To me she now looked pretty. Before she had only looked ladylike. She had many things to say to the Englishman just fresh from his island country, and she urged him with an enthusiasm of curiosity, which ere long thawed Hunsdon's reserve, as fire thaws a congealed viper. I used this not very flattering comparison, because he vividly reminded me of a snake waking from torpor, as he erected his tall form, reared his head, before a little declined, and putting back his hair from his broad sacks and forehead, showed unshaded the gleam of almost savage satire, which his interlocutor's tone of eagerness and look of ardour had sufficed at once to kindle in his soul and illicit from his eyes. He was himself, as Francis was herself, and in none but his own language would he now address her. You understand English was the prefatory question. A little. Well then you shall have plenty of it, and first I see you have not much more sense than some others of my acquaintance, indicating me with his thumb, or else you'd never turn rabid about that dirty little country called England. For rabid I see you are. I read anglophobia in your looks and ear it in your words. Why, Mademoiselle, is it possible that anybody with a grain of rationality should feel enthusiasm about a mere name, and that name England? I thought you were a Lady Abes five minutes ago, and respected you accordingly, and now I see you were a sort of Swiss sable with high Tory and high church principles. England is your country, asked Francis. Yes. And you don't like it? I'd be sorry to like it. A little corrupt, venal, Lord and King cursed nation, full of mucky pride, as they say in Blankshire, and helpless pauperism, rotten with abuses, worm-eaten with prejudices. You might say so of almost every state. There are abuses and prejudices everywhere, and I thought fewer in England than in other countries. Come to England and see. Come to Birmingham and Manchester. Come to St Giles's in London and get a practical notion of how our system works. Examine the footprints of our august aristocracy. See how they walk in blood, crushing hearts as they go. Just put your head in at English cottage doors. Get a glimpse of famine, crouched, torpid on black hearthstones, of disease, lying bare on beds without coverlets, of infamy, wantoning viciously with ignorance. Though indeed luxury is her favourite paramour, and princely halls are dearer to her than thatched hovels. I was not thinking of the wretchedness and vice in England. I was thinking of the good side of what is elevated in your character as a nation. There is no good side, none at least of which you can have any knowledge, for you cannot appreciate the efforts of industry, the achievements of enterprise, or the discoveries of science. Narrowness of education and obscurity of position quite incapacitate you from understanding these points. And as to historical and poetical associations, I will not insult you, mademoiselle, by supposing that you alluded to such humbug. But I did partly. Hansden laughed, his laugh of unmitigated scorn. I did, Mr. Hansden. Are you of the number of those to whom such associations give no pleasure? Mademoiselle, what is an association? I never saw one. What is its length, breadth, weight, value? I value. What price will it bring in the market? Your portrait to anyone who loved you would, for the sake of association, be without price. That inscrutable Hansden heard this remark and felt it rather acutely to somewhere, for he coloured, a thing not unusual with him when hit unawares on a tender point. A sort of trouble momentarily darkened his eye, and I believe he filled up the transient pause succeeding his antagonist's home thrust by a wish that someone did love him as he would like to be loved, someone whose love he could unreservedly return. The lady pursued her temporary advantage. If your world is a world without associations, Mr. Hansden, I no longer wonder that you hate England so. I don't clearly know what paradise is and what angels are, yet taking it to be the most glorious region I can conceive, and angels the most elevated existences. If one of them, if Abdiel the faithful himself, she was thinking of Milton, was suddenly stripped of the faculty of association, I think he would soon rush forth from the ever-during gates, leave heaven, and seek what he had lost in hell. Yes, in the very hell from which he turned with retorted scorn. Francis' tone in saying this was as marked as her language, and it was when the word hell twang off from her lips with a somewhat startling emphasis that Hansden deigned to bestow one slight glance of admiration. He liked something strong, whether in man or woman. He liked whatever dared to clear conventional limits. He had never before heard a lady say hell with that uncompromising sort of accent, and the sound pleased him from a lady's lips. He would feign of had Francis to strike the string again, but it was not in her way. The display of eccentric vigor never gave her pleasure, and it only sounded in her voice or flashed in her countenance when extraordinary circumstances, and those generally painful, forced it out of the depths where it burned latent. To me once or twice she had in intimate conversation uttered venturous thoughts in nervous language, but when the hour of such manifestation was passed, I could not recall it. It came of itself and of itself departed. Hansden's excitations she put by soon with a smile, and recurring to the theme of disputation, said, since England is nothing, why did the continental nations respect her so? I should have thought that no child would have asked that question, replied Hansden, who never at any time gave information without reproving for stupidity those who asked it of him. If you had been my pupil, as I suppose you once had the misfortune to be that of a deplorable character not a hundred miles off, I would have put you in the corner for such a confession of ignorance. Why, mademoiselle, can't you see that it is our gold which buys us French politeness, German goodwill, and Swiss civility? And he sneered diabolically. Swiss, said Francis, catching the word civility. Do you call my countrymen servile? And she started up. I could not suppress a low laugh. There was ire in her glance and defiance in her attitude. Do you abuse Switzerland to me, Mr. Hansden? Do you think I have no associations? Do you calculate that I am prepared to dwell only on what vice and degradation may be found in alpine villages, and to leave quite out of my heart the social greatness of my countrymen, and our blood and freedom, and the natural glories of our mountains? You're mistaken. You're mistaken. Social greatness. Call it what you will. Your countrymen are sensible fellows. They make a marketable article of what to you is an abstract idea. They have ere this sold their social greatness, and also their blood and freedom to be the servants of foreign kings. You never wear in Switzerland? Yes, I've been there twice. You know nothing of it. I do. And you say the Swiss are mercenary, as a parrot says poor Paul, or as the Belgians here say the English are not brave, or as the French accuse them of being perfidious. There is no justice in your dictums. There is truth. I tell you, Mr. Hansden, you are a more unpractical man than I am an unpractical woman, for you don't acknowledge what really exists. You want to annihilate individual patriotism and national greatness as an atheist would annihilate God and his own soul by denying their existence. Where are you flying to? You're off at a tangent. I thought we were talking about the mercenary nature of the Swiss. We were. And if you proved to me that the Swiss are mercenary tomorrow, which you cannot do, I should love Switzerland still. You would be mad then, mad as March Hare, to indulge in a passion for millions of ship-loads of soil, timber, snow, and ice. Not so mad as you who love nothing. There's a method in my madness. There's none in yours. Your method is to squeeze the sap out of creation and make manure of the refuse by way of turning it to what you call use. You cannot reason at all, said Hansden. There is no logic in you. Better to be without logic than without feeling, retorted Francis, who is now passing backwards and forwards from her cupboard to the table, intent, if not on hospitable thoughts, at least on hospitable deeds, for she was laying the cloth and putting plates, knives, and forks thereon. Is that a hit at me, mademoiselle? Do you suppose I am without feeling? I suppose you are always interfering with your own feelings, and those of other people, and dogmatising about the irrationality of this, that, and the other sentiment, and then ordering it to be suppressed, because you imagine it to be inconsistent with logic. I do right. Francis had stepped out of sight into a sort of little pantry. She soon reappeared. You do right. Indeed, no. You are much mistaken if you think so. Just be so good as to let me get to the fire, Mr. Hansden. I have something to cook. An interval occupied in setting a casserole on the fire. Then, while she stirred its contents, right, as if it were right to crush any pleasurable sentiment that God has given to man, especially any sentiment that, like patriotism, spreads man's selfishness in wider circles. Fire stirred, dish put down before it. Were you born in Switzerland? I should think so, or else why should I call it my country? And where did you get your English features and figure? I am English too, half the blood in my veins is English. Thus I have a right to a double power of patriotism, possessing an interest in two noble, free and fortunate countries. You had an English mother? Yes, yes, and you, I suppose, have a mother from the Moon, or from Utopia, since not a nation in Europe has a claim on your interest. On the contrary, I'm a universal patriot, if you could understand me rightly. My country is the world. Sympathy so widely diffused must be very shallow. Will you have the goodness to come to table, monsieur? To me, who appeared to be now absorbed in reading by moonlight, monsieur supper is served. This was said in quite a different voice to that in which she had been banding phrases with Mr. Hunston, not so short, graver and softer. Francis, what do you mean by preparing supper? We had no intention of staying. Ah, monsieur, but you have stayed and supper is prepared. You have only the alternative of eating it. The meal was a foreign one, of course. It consisted in two small but tasty dishes of meat, prepared with skill and served with nicety. A salad and fromage français completed it. The business of eating interposed a brief truce between the belligerents, but no sooner was supper disposed of than they were at it again. The fresh subject of dispute ran on the spirit of religious intolerance, which Mr. Hunston affirmed to exist strongly in Switzerland, notwithstanding the professed attachment of the Swiss to freedom. Here Francis had greatly the worst of it, not only because she was unskilled to argue, but because her own real opinions on the point in question happened to coincide pretty nearly with Mr. Hunston's, and she only contradicted him out of opposition. At last she gave in, confessing that she thought as he thought, but bidding him take notice that she did not consider herself beaten. No more did the French at Waterloo, said Hunston. There is no comparison between the cases rejoined Francis. Mine was a sham fight. Sham all real, it's up with you. No, though I have neither logic nor wealth of words, yet in the case where my opinion really differed from yours, I would adhere to it when I had not another word to say in its defence. You should be baffled by dumb determination. You speak of Waterloo. Your Wellington ought to have been conquered there, according to Napoleon, but he persevered in spite of the laws of war, and was victorious in defiance of military tactics. I would do as he did. I'll be bound for it, you would. Probably you have some of the same sort of stubborn stuff in you. I should be sorry if I had not. He and Tell were brothers, and I'd scorn the Swiss, man or woman, who had none of the much enduring nature of our heroic William in his soul. If Tell was like Wellington, he was an ass. Does not ass mean baudet? asked Francis, turning to me. No, no, replied I. It means an esprit-fort. And now I continued, as I saw that fresh occasion of strife was brewing between these two. It is high time to go. Hanson Rose. Goodbye, said he to Francis. I shall be off for this glorious England tomorrow, and it may be twelve months or more before I come to Brussels again. Whenever I do come, I'll seek you out, and you shall see if I don't find means to make you fiercer than a dragon. You've done pretty well this evening, but next interview you shall challenge me outright. Meantime you're doomed to become Mrs. William Crimsworth, I suppose. Poor young lady, but you have a spark of spirit, cherish it, and give the Professor the full benefit thereof. Are you married, Mr. Hanson? asked Francis suddenly. No, I should have thought you might have guessed I was a Benedict by my look. Well, whenever you marry, don't take a wife out of Switzerland, for if you begin blaspheming Helvetia and cursing the cantons, above all if you mention the word ass in the same breath with the name tell. For ass is Baudet, I know, though Monsieur is pleased to translate it esprit-fort. Your mountain maid will some night smother her breton, breton non, even as your own Shakespeare's a fellow smothered Desdemona. I am warned, said Hanson, and so are you lad, nodding to me. I hope yet to hear of a travesty of the Moor and this gentle lady in which the part shall be reversed according to the plan just sketched. You, however, being in my nightcap. Farewell, mademoiselle. He bowed on her hand absolutely like Sir Charles Grandison on that of Harriet Byron, adding death from such fingers would not be without charms. Mon Dieu, murmured Francis, opening her large eyes and lifting her distinctly arched brows. Second fédé compliement, je ne me suis pas attendue. She smiled half in ire, half in mirth, curtsied with foreign grace, and so they parted. No sooner had we got into the street than Hanson collared me. And that is your lace-mender, said he, and you reckon you have done a fine, magnanimous thing in offering to Maria. You, a scion of sea-coum, have proved your disdain of social distinctions by taking up with an ouvrière. And I pitted the fellow, thinking his feelings had misled him and that he had hurt himself by contracting a low match. Just let go my collar, Hanson. On the contrary, he swayed me to and fro, so I grappled him round the waist. It was dark, the street lonely and lampless. We had then a tug for it, and after we had both rolled on the pavement and with difficulty picked ourselves up, we agreed to walk on more soberly. Yes, that's my lace-mender, said I, and she is to be mine for life, God willing. God is not willing, you can't suppose it. What business of you to be suited so well with a partner? And she treats you with a sort of respect, too, and says Monsieur, and modulates her tone in addressing you, actually as if you were something superior. She could not evince more deference to such a one as I, where she favoured by fortune to the supreme extent of being my choice instead of yours. Hanson, you're a puppy, but you've only seen the title Page of My Happiness. You don't know the tale that follows. You cannot conceive the interest and sweet variety and thrilling excitement of the narrative. Hanson, speaking low and deep, for we had now entered a busier street, desired me to hold my peace, threatening to do something dreadful if I stimulated his wrath further by boasting. I laughed till my sides ached. We soon reached his hotel. Before he entered it, he said, Don't be vain, glorious. Your lace-mender is too good for you, but not good enough for me. Neither physically nor morally does she come up to my ideal of a woman. No, I dream of something far beyond that pale-faced, excitable little hell-vision. By the by, she has infinitely more of the nervous, mobile Parisienne in her than of the robust Jungfrau. Your mademoiselle Henri is in person chétive, in mind sans caractère, compared with the queen of my visions. You indeed may put up with that minouard chiffon, but when I marry I must have straighter and more harmonious features, to say nothing of a nobler and better-developed shape than that perverse ill-thriven child can boast. Bribe a seraph to fetch you a coal of fire from heaven, if you will, said I, and with it kindle life in the tallest, fattest, most boneless, fullest-blooded of Rubens's painted women. Leave me only my alpine peri, and I'll not end the you. With a simultaneous movement, each turned his back on the other. Neither said God bless you. Yet on the morrow the sea was to roll between us. End of chapter 24. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey.