The Professor

by Charlotte Bronte

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  ONE fine, frosty Sunday in November, Frances and I took a long walk; wemade the tour of the city by the Boulevards; and, afterwards, Francesbeing a little tired, we sat down on one of those wayside seats placedunder the trees, at intervals, for the accommodation of the weary.Frances was telling me about Switzerland; the subject animated her;and I was just thinking that her eyes spoke full as eloquently as hertongue, when she stopped and remarked--

  "Monsieur, there is a gentleman who knows you."

  I looked up; three fashionably dressed men were just thenpassing--Englishmen, I knew by their air and gait as well as by theirfeatures; in the tallest of the trio I at once recognized Mr. Hunsden;he was in the act of lifting his hat to Frances; afterwards, he made agrimace 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 persuadeher 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, Wilhelmina Crimsworth?' To me, 'Soyou have found your counterpart at last; there she sits, the female ofyour kind!'"

  "Monsieur, you could not read all that in his eyes; he was so soongone."

  "I read that and more, Frances; I read that he will probably call on methis evening, or on some future occasion shortly; and I have no doubthe will insist on being introduced to you; shall I bring him to yourrooms?"

  "If you please, monsieur--I have no objection I think, indeed, I shouldrather like to see him nearer; he looks so original."

  As I had anticipated, Mr. Hunsden came that evening. The first thing hesaid was:--

  "You need not begin boasting, Monsieur le Professeur; I know about yourappointment to ---- College, and all that; Brown has told me." Thenhe intimated that he had returned from Germany but a day or two since;afterwards, he abruptly demanded whether that was Madame Pelet-Reuterwith whom he had seen me on the Boulevards. I was going to utter arather emphatic negative, but on second thoughts I checked myself, and,seeming to assent, asked what he thought of her?

  "As to her, I'll come to that directly; but first I've a word for you. Isee you are a scoundrel; you've no business to be promenading about withanother man's wife. I thought you had sounder sense than to get mixed upin foreign hodge-podge of this sort."

  "But the lady?"

  "She's too good for you evidently; she is like you, but something betterthan you--no beauty, though; yet when she rose (for I looked back tosee you both walk away) I thought her figure and carriage good. Theseforeigners understand grace. What the devil has she done with Pelet? Shehas not been married to him three months--he must be a spoon!"

  I would not let the mistake go too far; I did not like it much.

  "Pelet? How your head runs on Mons. and Madame Pelet! You are alwaystalking about them. I wish to the gods you had wed Mdlle. Zoraideyourself!"

  "Was that young gentlewoman not Mdlle. Zoraide?"

  "No; nor Madame Zoraide either."

  "Why did you tell a lie, then?"

  "I told no lie; but you are is such a hurry. She is a pupil of mine--aSwiss 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. Thatis my little wild strawberry, Hunsden, whose sweetness made me carelessof your hothouse grapes."

  "Stop! No boasting--no heroics; I won't hear them. What is she? To whatcaste does she belong?"

  I smiled. Hunsden unconsciously laid stress on the word caste, and, infact, republican, lord-hater as he was, Hunsden was as proud of his old----shire blood, of his descent and family standing, respectable andrespected through long generations back, as any peer in the realm ofhis Norman race and Conquest-dated title. Hunsden would as little havethought of taking a wife from a caste inferior to his own, as a Stanleywould think of mating with a Cobden. I enjoyed the surprise I shouldgive; I enjoyed the triumph of my practice over his theory; and leaningover the table, and uttering the words slowly but with repressed glee, Isaid concisely--

  "She is a lace-mender."

  Hunsden examined me. He did not SAY he was surprised, but surprised hewas; he had his own notions of good breeding. I saw he suspected Iwas going to take some very rash step; but repressing declamation orremonstrance, he only answered--

  "Well, you are the best judge of your own affairs. A lace-mender maymake a good wife as well as a lady; but of course you have taken careto ascertain thoroughly that since she has not education, fortune orstation, she is well furnished with such natural qualities as you thinkmost likely to conduce to your happiness. Has she many relations?"

  "None in Brussels."

  "That is better. Relations are often the real evil in such cases. Icannot but think that a train of inferior connections would have been abore to you to your life's end."

  After sitting in silence a little while longer, Hunsden rose, and wasquietly bidding me good evening; the polite, considerate manner in whichhe offered me his hand (a thing he had never done before), convinced methat he thought I had made a terrible fool of myself; and that, ruinedand thrown away as I was, it was no time for sarcasm or cynicism, orindeed for anything but indulgence and forbearance.

  "Good night, William," he said, in a really soft voice, while his facelooked benevolently compassionate. "Good night, lad. I wish you and yourfuture wife much prosperity; and I hope she will satisfy your fastidioussoul."

  I had much ado to refrain from laughing as I beheld the magnanimous pityof his mien; maintaining, however, a grave air, I said:--

  "I thought you would have liked to have seen Mdlle. Henri?"

  "Oh, that is the name! Yes--if it would be convenient, I should like tosee her--but----." He hesitated.

  "Well?"

  "I should on no account wish to intrude."

  "Come, then," said I. We set out. Hunsden no doubt regarded me as arash, imprudent man, thus to show my poor little grisette sweetheart,in her poor little unfurnished grenier; but he prepared to act the realgentleman, having, in fact, the kernel of that character, under theharsh husk it pleased him to wear by way of mental mackintosh. He talkedaffably, and even gently, as we went along the street; he had never beenso civil to me in his life. We reached the house, entered, ascended thestair; on gaining the lobby, Hunsden turned to mount a narrower stairwhich led to a higher story; I saw his mind was bent on the attics.

  "Here, Mr. Hunsden," said I quietly, tapping at Frances' door. Heturned; in his genuine politeness he was a little disconcerted athaving made the mistake; his eye reverted to the green mat, but he saidnothing.

  We walked in, and Frances rose from her seat near the table to receiveus; her mourning attire gave her a recluse, rather conventual, butwithal very distinguished look; its grave simplicity added nothingto beauty, but much to dignity; the finish of the white collar andmanchettes sufficed for a relief to the merino gown of solemn black;ornament was forsworn. Frances curtsied with sedate grace, looking, asshe always did, when one first accosted her, more a woman to respectthan to love; I introduced Mr. Hunsden, and she expressed her happinessat making his acquaintance in French. The pure and polished accent, thelow yet sweet and rather full voice, produced their effect immediately;Hunsden spoke French in reply; I had not heard him speak that languagebefore; he managed it very well. I retired to the window-seat; Mr.Hunsden, 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 polishedcabinet; a glass filled with flowers in the centre of the table, afresh rose in each china cup on the mantelpiece gave it an air of FETE.Frances was serious, and Mr. Hunsden subdued, but both mutually polite;they got on at the French swimmingly: ordinary topics were discussedwi
th great state and decorum; I thought I had never seen two such modelsof propriety, for Hunsden (thanks to the constraint of the foreigntongue) was obliged to shape his phrases, and measure his sentences,with a care that forbade any eccentricity. At last England wasmentioned, and Frances proceeded to ask questions. Animated by degrees,she began to change, just as a grave night-sky changes at the approachof sunrise: first it seemed as if her forehead cleared, then her eyesglittered, her features relaxed, and became quite mobile; her subduedcomplexion 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 hisisland-country, and she urged him with an enthusiasm of curiosity, whichere long thawed Hunsden's reserve as fire thaws a congealed viper. I usethis not very flattering comparison because he vividly reminded me of asnake waking from torpor, as he erected his tall form, reared his head,before a little declined, and putting back his hair from his broad Saxonforehead, showed unshaded the gleam of almost savage satire which hisinterlocutor's tone of eagerness and look of ardour had sufficed atonce to kindle in his soul and elicit from his eyes: he was himself;as Frances was herself, and in none but his own language would he nowaddress her.

  "You understand English?" was the prefatory question.

  "A little."

  "Well, then, you shall have plenty of it; and first, I see you've notmuch more sense than some others of my acquaintance" (indicating mewith his thumb), "or else you'd never turn rabid about that dirty littlecountry called England; for rabid, I see you are; I read Anglophobia inyour looks, and hear it in your words. Why, mademoiselle, is it possiblethat anybody with a grain of rationality should feel enthusiasm about amere name, and that name England? I thought you were a lady-abbess fiveminutes ago, and respected you accordingly; and now I see you are a sortof Swiss sibyl, with high Tory and high Church principles!"

  "England is your country?" asked Frances.

  "Yes."

  "And you don't like it?"

  "I'd be sorry to like it! A little corrupt, venal, lord-and-king-cursednation, full of mucky pride (as they say in ----shire), and helplesspauperism; rotten with abuses, worm-eaten with prejudices!"

  "You might say so of almost every state; there are abuses and prejudiceseverywhere, and I thought fewer in England than in other countries."

  "Come to England and see. Come to Birmingham and Manchester; come to St.Giles' in London, and get a practical notion of how our system works.Examine the footprints of our august aristocracy; see how they walkin blood, crushing hearts as they go. Just put your head in at Englishcottage doors; get a glimpse of Famine crouched torpid on blackhearthstones; of Disease lying bare on beds without coverlets, ofInfamy wantoning viciously with Ignorance, though indeed Luxury is herfavourite paramour, and princely halls are dearer to her than thatchedhovels----"

  "I was not thinking of the wretchedness and vice in England; I wasthinking of the good side--of what is elevated in your character as anation."

  "There is no good side--none at least of which you can have anyknowledge; for you cannot appreciate the efforts of industry, theachievements of enterprise, or the discoveries of science: narrownessof education and obscurity of position quite incapacitate youfrom understanding these points; and as to historical and poeticalassociations, I will not insult you, mademoiselle, by supposing that youalluded to such humbug."

  "But I did partly."

  Hunsden laughed--his laugh of unmitigated scorn.

  "I did, Mr. Hunsden. Are you of the number of those to whom suchassociations give no pleasure?"

  "Mademoiselle, what is an association? I never saw one. What is itslength, breadth, weight, value--ay, VALUE? What price will it bring inthe market?"

  "Your portrait, to any one who loved you, would, for the sake ofassociation, be without price."

  That inscrutable Hunsden heard this remark and felt it rather acutely,too, somewhere; for he coloured--a thing not unusual with him, when hitunawares on a tender point. A sort of trouble momentarily darkenedhis eye, and I believe he filled up the transient pause succeeding hisantagonist's home-thrust, by a wish that some one did love him ashe would like to be loved--some one whose love he could unreservedlyreturn.

  The lady pursued her temporary advantage.

  "If your world is a world without associations, Mr. Hunsden, I no longerwonder 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 canconceive, and angels the most elevated existences--if one of them--ifAbdiel the Faithful himself" (she was thinking of Milton) "were suddenlystripped of the faculty of association, I think he would soon rush forthfrom 'the ever-during gates,' leave heaven, and seek what he had lost inhell. Yes, in the very hell from which he turned 'with retorted scorn.'"

  Frances' tone in saying this was as marked as her language, and itwas when the word "hell" twanged off from her lips, with a somewhatstartling emphasis, that Hunsden deigned to bestow one slight glance ofadmiration. He liked something strong, whether in man or woman; he likedwhatever dared to clear conventional limits. He had never before hearda lady say "hell" with that uncompromising sort of accent, and the soundpleased him from a lady's lips; he would fain have had Frances to strikethe string again, but it was not in her way. The display of eccentricvigour never gave her pleasure, and it only sounded in her voice orflashed in her countenance when extraordinary circumstances--and thosegenerally painful--forced it out of the depths where it burned latent.To me, once or twice, she had in intimate conversation, utteredventurous thoughts in nervous language; but when the hour of suchmanifestation was past, I could not recall it; it came of itself and ofitself departed. Hunsden's excitations she put by soon with a smile, andrecurring to the theme of disputation, said--

  "Since England is nothing, why do the continental nations respect herso?"

  "I should have thought no child would have asked that question," repliedHunsden, who never at any time gave information without reproving forstupidity those who asked it of him. "If you had been my pupil, as Isuppose you once had the misfortune to be that of a deplorable characternot a hundred miles off, I would have put you in the corner for such aconfession of ignorance. Why, mademoiselle, can't you see that it isour GOLD which buys us French politeness, German good-will, and Swissservility?" And he sneered diabolically.

  "Swiss?" said Frances, catching the word "servility." "Do you call mycountrymen servile?" and she started up. I could not suppress a lowlaugh; there was ire in her glance and defiance in her attitude. "Doyou abuse Switzerland to me, Mr. Hunsden? Do you think I have noassociations? Do you calculate that I am prepared to dwell only on whatvice and degradation may be found in Alpine villages, and to leavequite out of my heart the social greatness of my countrymen, and ourblood-earned freedom, and the natural glories of our mountains? You'remistaken--you're mistaken."

  "Social greatness? Call it what you will, your countrymen are sensiblefellows; they make a marketable article of what to you is an abstractidea; they have, ere this, sold their social greatness and also theirblood-earned freedom to be the servants of foreign kings."

  "You never were in Switzerland?"

  "Yes--I have been there twice."

  "You know nothing of it."

  "I do."

  "And you say the Swiss are mercenary, as a parrot says 'Poor Poll,' oras the Belgians here say the English are not brave, or as the Frenchaccuse them of being perfidious: there is no justice in your dictums."

  "There is truth."

  "I tell you, Mr. Hunsden, you are a more unpractical man than I am anunpractical woman, for you don't acknowledge what really exists; youwant to annihilate individual patriotism and national greatness asan atheist would annihilate God and his own soul, by denying theirexistence."

  "Where are you flying to? You are off at a tangent--I thought we weretalking about the mercenary nature of the Swiss."

  "We were--and if you proved to me that the Swiss are mercenary to-morrow(wh
ich you cannot do) I should love Switzerland still."

  "You would be mad, then--mad as a March hare--to indulge in a passionfor millions of shiploads 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 ofthe refuse, by way of turning it to what you call use."

  "You cannot reason at all," said Hunsden; "there is no logic in you."

  "Better to be without logic than without feeling," retorted Frances, whowas now passing backwards and forwards from her cupboard to the table,intent, if not on hospitable thoughts, at least on hospitable deeds, forshe was laying the cloth, and putting plates, knives and forks thereon.

  "Is that a hit at me, mademoiselle? Do you suppose I am withoutfeeling?"

  "I suppose you are always interfering with your own feelings, and thoseof other people, and dogmatizing about the irrationality of this, that,and the other sentiment, and then ordering it to be suppressed becauseyou imagine it to be inconsistent with logic."

  "I do right."

  Frances had stepped out of sight into a sort of little pantry; she soonreappeared.

  "You do right? Indeed, no! You are much mistaken if you think so. Justbe so good as to let me get to the fire, Mr. Hunsden; I have somethingto cook." (An interval occupied in settling a casserole on the fire;then, while she stirred its contents:) "Right! as if it were right tocrush any pleasurable sentiment that God has given to man, especiallyany sentiment that, like patriotism, spreads man's selfishness in widercircles" (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 havea right to a double power of patriotism, possessing an interest in twonoble, free, and fortunate countries."

  "You had an English mother?"

  "Yes, yes; and you, I suppose, had a mother from the moon or fromUtopia, since not a nation in Europe has a claim on your interest?"

  "On the contrary, I'm a universal patriot, if you could understand merightly: my country is the world."

  "Sympathies so widely diffused must be very shallow: will you havethe goodness to come to table. Monsieur" (to me who appeared to be nowabsorbed in reading by moonlight)--"Monsieur, supper is served."

  This was said in quite a different voice to that in which she had beenbandying phrases with Mr. Hunsden--not so short, graver and softer.

  "Frances, what do you mean by preparing, supper? we had no intention ofstaying."

  "Ah, monsieur, but you have stayed, and supper is prepared; you haveonly the alternative of eating it."

  The meal was a foreign one, of course; it consisted in two small buttasty dishes of meat prepared with skill and served with nicety; a saladand "fromage francais," completed it. The business of eating interposeda brief truce between the belligerents, but no sooner was supperdisposed of than they were at it again. The fresh subject of disputeran on the spirit of religious intolerance which Mr. Hunsden affirmed toexist strongly in Switzerland, notwithstanding the professed attachmentof the Swiss to freedom. Here Frances had greatly the worst of it,not only because she was unskilled to argue, but because her own realopinions on the point in question happened to coincide pretty nearlywith Mr. Hunsden's, and she only contradicted him out of opposition. Atlast she gave in, confessing that she thought as he thought, but biddinghim take notice that she did not consider herself beaten.

  "No more did the French at Waterloo," said Hunsden.

  "There is no comparison between the cases," rejoined Frances; "mine wasa sham fight."

  "Sham or real, it's up with you."

  "No; though I have neither logic nor wealth of words, yet in a casewhere my opinion really differed from yours, I would adhere to it whenI had not another word to say in its defence; you should be baffled bydumb determination. You speak of Waterloo; your Wellington ought to havebeen conquered there, according to Napoleon but he persevered in spiteof 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 sortof stubborn stuff in you."

  "I should be sorry if I had not; he and Tell were brothers, and I'dscorn the Swiss, man or woman, who had none of the much-enduring natureof our heroic William in his soul."

  "If Tell was like Wellington, he was an ass."

  "Does not ASS mean BAUDET?" asked Frances, turning to me.

  "No, no," replied I, "it means an ESPRIT-FORT; and now," I continued, asI saw that fresh occasion of strife was brewing between these two, "itis high time to go."

  Hunsden rose. "Good bye," said he to Frances; "I shall be off for thisglorious England to-morrow, and it may be twelve months or more beforeI come to Brussels again; whenever I do come I'll seek you out, andyou 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 shallchallenge me outright. Meantime you're doomed to become Mrs. WilliamCrimsworth, 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. Hunsden?" asked Frances, suddenly.

  "No. I should have thought you might have guessed I was a Benedict by mylook."

  "Well, whenever you marry don't take a wife out of Switzerland; for ifyou begin blaspheming Helvetia, and cursing the cantons--above all, ifyou mention the word ASS in the same breath with the name Tell (forass IS baudet, I know; though Monsieur is pleased to translateit ESPRIT-FORT) your mountain maid will some night smother herBreton-bretonnant, even as your own Shakspeare's Othello smotheredDesdemona."

  "I am warned," said Hunsden; "and so are you, lad," (nodding to me). "Ihope yet to hear of a travesty of the Moor and his gentle lady, in whichthe parts shall be reversed according to the plan just sketched--you,however, being in my nightcap. Farewell, mademoiselle!" He bowed on herhand, absolutely like Sir Charles Grandison on that of Harriet Byronadding--"Death from such fingers would not be without charms."

  "Mon Dieu!" murmured Frances, opening her large eyes and lifting herdistinctly arched brows; "c'est qu'il fait des compliments! je ne m'ysuis pas attendu." She smiled, half in ire, half in mirth, curtsied withforeign grace, and so they parted.

  No sooner had we got into the street than Hunsden collared me.

  "And that is your lace-mender?" said he; "and you reckon you have donea fine, magnanimous thing in offering to marry her? You, a scion ofSeacombe, have proved your disdain of social distinctions by taking upwith an ouvriere! And I pitied the fellow, thinking his feelings hadmisled him, and that he had hurt himself by contracting a low match!"

  "Just let go my collar, Hunsden."

  On the contrary, he swayed me to and fro; so I grappled him round thewaist. It was dark; the street lonely and lampless. We had then atug for it; and after we had both rolled on the pavement, and withdifficulty picked ourselves up, we agreed to walk on more soberly.

  "Yes, that's my lace-mender," said I; "and she is to be mine forlife--God willing."

  "God is not willing--you can't suppose it; what business have you tobe suited so well with a partner? And she treats you with a sort ofrespect, too, and says, 'Monsieur' and modulates her tone in addressingyou, actually, as if you were something superior! She could not evincemore deference to such a one as I, were she favoured by fortune to thesupreme extent of being my choice instead of yours."

  "Hunsden, you're a puppy. But you've only seen the title-page of myhappiness; you don't know the tale that follows; you cannot conceive theinterest and sweet variety and thrilling excitement of the narrative."

  Hunsden--speaking low and deep, for we had now entered a busierstreet--desired me to hold my peace, threatening to do somethingdreadful if I stimulated his wr
ath further by boasting. I laughed tillmy sides ached. We soon reached his hotel; before he entered it, hesaid--

  "Don't be vainglorious. Your lace-mender is too good for you, but notgood enough for me; neither physically nor morally does she come upto my ideal of a woman. No; I dream of something far beyond thatpale-faced, excitable little Helvetian (by-the-by she has infinitelymore of the nervous, mobile Parisienne in her than of the the robust'jungfrau'). Your Mdlle. Henri is in person "chetive", in mind "sanscaractere", compared with the queen of my visions. You, indeed, may putup with that "minois chiffone"; but when I marry I must have straighterand more harmonious features, to say nothing of a nobler and betterdeveloped 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 Ruben's painted women--leave me only my Alpine peri,and I'll not envy you."

  With a simultaneous movement, each turned his back on the other. Neithersaid "God bless you;" yet on the morrow the sea was to roll between us.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  IN two months more Frances had fulfilled the time of mourning for heraunt. One January morning--the first of the new year holidays--I went ina fiacre, accompanied only by M. Vandenhuten, to the Rue Notre Dame auxNeiges, and having alighted alone and walked upstairs, I found Francesapparently waiting for me, dressed in a style scarcely appropriate tothat cold, bright, frosty day. Never till now had I seen her attired inany other than black or sad-coloured stuff; and there she stood by thewindow, clad all in white, and white of a most diaphanous texture; herarray was very simple, to be sure, but it looked imposing and festalbecause it was so clear, full, and floating; a veil shadowed her head,and hung below her knee; a little wreath of pink flowers fastened itto her thickly tressed Grecian plait, and thence it fell softly on eachside of her face. Singular to state, she was, or had been crying; whenI asked her if she were ready, she said "Yes, monsieur," with somethingvery like a checked sob; and when I took a shawl, which lay on thetable, and folded it round her, not only did tear after tear courseunbidden down her cheek, but she shook to my ministration like a reed.I said I was sorry to see her in such low spirits, and requested tobe allowed an insight into the origin thereof. She only said, "It wasimpossible to help it," and then voluntarily, though hurriedly, puttingher hand into mine, accompanied me out of the room, and ran downstairswith a quick, uncertain step, like one who was eager to get someformidable piece of business over. I put her into the fiacre. M.Vandenhuten received her, and seated her beside himself; we drove alltogether to the Protestant chapel, went through a certain service in theCommon Prayer Book, and she and I came out married. M. Vandenhuten hadgiven the bride away.

  We took no bridal trip; our modesty, screened by the peaceful obscurityof our station, and the pleasant isolation of our circumstances, did notexact that additional precaution. We repaired at once to a small houseI had taken in the faubourg nearest to that part of the city where thescene of our avocations lay.

  Three or four hours after the wedding ceremony, Frances, divested of herbridal snow, and attired in a pretty lilac gown of warmer materials,a piquant black silk apron, and a lace collar with some finishingdecoration of lilac ribbon, was kneeling on the carpet of a neatlyfurnished though not spacious parlour, arranging on the shelves of achiffoniere some books, which I handed to her from the table. It wassnowing fast out of doors; the afternoon had turned out wild andcold; the leaden sky seemed full of drifts, and the street was alreadyankle-deep in the white downfall. Our fire burned bright, our newhabitation looked brilliantly clean and fresh, the furniture was allarranged, and there were but some articles of glass, china, books,&c., to put in order. Frances found in this business occupation tilltea-time, and then, after I had distinctly instructed her how to makea cup of tea in rational English style, and after she had got over thedismay occasioned by seeing such an extravagant amount of material putinto the pot, she administered to me a proper British repast, at whichthere wanted neither candles nor urn, firelight nor comfort.

  Our week's holiday glided by, and we readdressed ourselves to labour.Both my wife and I began in good earnest with the notion that we wereworking people, destined to earn our bread by exertion, and that of themost assiduous kind. Our days were thoroughly occupied; we used to partevery morning at eight o'clock, and not meet again till five P.M.; butinto what sweet rest did the turmoil of each busy day decline! Lookingdown the vista of memory, I see the evenings passed in that littleparlour like a long string of rubies circling the dusky brow of the past.Unvaried were they as each cut gem, and like each gem brilliant andburning.

  A year and a half passed. One morning (it was a FETE, and we had the dayto ourselves) Frances said to me, with a suddenness peculiar to her whenshe had been thinking long on a subject, and at last, having come toa conclusion, wished to test its soundness by the touchstone of myjudgment:--

  "I don't work enough."

  "What now?" demanded I, looking up from my coffee, which I had beendeliberately stirring while enjoying, in anticipation, a walk I proposedto take with Frances, that fine summer day (it was June), to a certainfarmhouse in the country, where we were to dine. "What now?" and Isaw at once, in the serious ardour of her face, a project of vitalimportance.

  "I am not satisfied," returned she: "you are now earning eight thousandfrancs a year" (it was true; my efforts, punctuality, the fame of mypupils' progress, the publicity of my station, had so far helped meon), "while I am still at my miserable twelve hundred francs. I CAN dobetter, and I WILL."

  "You work as long and as diligently as I do, Frances."

  "Yes, monsieur, but I am not working in the right way, and I amconvinced of it."

  "You wish to change--you have a plan for progress in your mind; go andput on your bonnet; and, while we take our walk, you shall tell me ofit."

  "Yes, monsieur."

  She went--as docile as a well-trained child; she was a curious mixtureof tractability and firmness: I sat thinking about her, and wonderingwhat her plan could be, when she re-entered.

  "Monsieur, I have given Minnie" (our bonne) "leave to go out too, as itis so very fine; so will you be kind enough to lock the door, and takethe key with you?"

  "Kiss me, Mrs. Crimsworth," was my not very apposite reply; but shelooked so engaging in her light summer dress and little cottage bonnet,and her manner in speaking to me was then, as always, so unaffectedlyand suavely respectful, that my heart expanded at the sight of her, anda kiss seemed necessary to content its importunity.

  "There, monsieur."

  "Why do you always call me 'Monsieur'? Say, 'William.'"

  "I cannot pronounce your W; besides, 'Monsieur' belongs to you; I likeit best."

  Minnie having departed in clean cap and smart shawl, we, too, set out,leaving the house solitary and silent--silent, at least, but forthe ticking of the clock. We were soon clear of Brussels; the fieldsreceived us, and then the lanes, remote from carriage-resoundingCHAUSSEES. Ere long we came upon a nook, so rural, green, and secluded,it might have been a spot in some pastoral English province; a bank ofshort and mossy grass, under a hawthorn, offered a seat too temptingto be declined; we took it, and when we had admired and examined someEnglish-looking wild-flowers growing at our feet, I recalled Frances'attention and my own to the topic touched on at breakfast.

  "What was her plan?" A natural one--the next step to be mounted byus, or, at least, by her, if she wanted to rise in her profession. Sheproposed to begin a school. We already had the means for commencing ona careful scale, having lived greatly within our income. We possessed,too, by this time, an extensive and eligible connection, in the senseadvantageous to our business; for, though our circle of visitingacquaintance continued as limited as ever, we were now widely known inschools and families as teachers. When Frances had developed her plan,she intimated, in some closing sentences, her hopes for the future. Ifwe only had good health and tolerable success, me might, she w
as sure,in time realize an independency; and that, perhaps, before we were tooold to enjoy it; then both she and I would rest; and what was to hinderus from going to live in England? England was still her Promised Land.

  I put no obstacle in her way; raised no objection I knew she wasnot one who could live quiescent and inactive, or even comparativelyinactive. Duties she must have to fulfil, and important duties; work todo--and exciting, absorbing, profitable work; strong faculties stirredin her frame, and they demanded full nourishment, free exercise: minewas not the hand ever to starve or cramp them; no, I delighted inoffering them sustenance, and in clearing them wider space for action.

  "You have conceived a plan, Frances," said I, "and a good plan; executeit; you have my free consent, and wherever and whenever my assistance iswanted, ask and you shall have."

  Frances' eyes thanked me almost with tears; just a sparkle or two, soonbrushed away; she possessed herself of my hand too, and held it forsome time very close clasped in both her own, but she said no more than"Thank you, monsieur."

  We passed a divine day, and came home late, lighted by a full summermoon.

  Ten years rushed now upon me with dusty, vibrating, unresting wings;years of bustle, action, unslacked endeavour; years in which I andmy wife, having launched ourselves in the full career of progress, asprogress whirls on in European capitals, scarcely knew repose, werestrangers to amusement, never thought of indulgence, and yet, asour course ran side by side, as we marched hand in hand, we neithermurmured, repented, nor faltered. Hope indeed cheered us; health kept usup; harmony of thought and deed smoothed many difficulties, and finally,success bestowed every now and then encouraging reward on diligence. Ourschool became one of the most popular in Brussels, and as by degreeswe raised our terms and elevated our system of education, our choice ofpupils grew more select, and at length included the children of thebest families in Belgium. We had too an excellent connection in England,first opened by the unsolicited recommendation of Mr. Hunsden, whohaving been over, and having abused me for my prosperity in set terms,went back, and soon after sent a leash of young ----shire heiresses--hiscousins; as he said "to be polished off by Mrs. Crimsworth."

  As to this same Mrs. Crimsworth, in one sense she was become anotherwoman, though in another she remained unchanged. So different wasshe under different circumstances. I seemed to possess two wives. Thefaculties of her nature, already disclosed when I married her, remainedfresh and fair; but other faculties shot up strong, branched outbroad, and quite altered the external character of the plant. Firmness,activity, and enterprise, covered with grave foliage, poetic feelingand fervour; but these flowers were still there, preserved pure and dewyunder the umbrage of later growth and hardier nature: perhaps I only inthe world knew the secret of their existence, but to me they were everready to yield an exquisite fragrance and present a beauty as chaste asradiant.

  In the daytime my house and establishment were conducted by Madame thedirectress, a stately and elegant woman, bearing much anxious thought onher large brow; much calculated dignity in her serious mien: immediatelyafter breakfast I used to part with this lady; I went to my college,she to her schoolroom; returning for an hour in the course of the day,I found her always in class, intently occupied; silence, industry,observance, attending on her presence. When not actually teaching,she was overlooking and guiding by eye and gesture; she then appearedvigilant and solicitous. When communicating instruction, her aspect wasmore animated; she seemed to feel a certain enjoyment in the occupation.The language in which she addressed her pupils, though simple andunpretending, was never trite or dry; she did not speak from routineformulas--she made her own phrases as she went on, and very nervousand impressive phrases they frequently were; often, when elucidatingfavourite points of history, or geography, she would wax genuinelyeloquent in her earnestness. Her pupils, or at least the elder and moreintelligent amongst them, recognized well the language of a superiormind; they felt too, and some of them received the impression ofelevated sentiments; there was little fondling between mistress andgirls, but some of Frances' pupils in time learnt to love her sincerely,all of them beheld her with respect; her general demeanour towardsthem was serious; sometimes benignant when they pleased her with theirprogress and attention, always scrupulously refined and considerate.In cases where reproof or punishment was called for she was usuallyforbearing enough; but if any took advantage of that forbearance, whichsometimes happened, a sharp, sudden and lightning-like severity taughtthe culprit the extent of the mistake committed. Sometimes a gleam oftenderness softened her eyes and manner, but this was rare; only whena pupil was sick, or when it pined after home, or in the case of somelittle motherless child, or of one much poorer than its companions,whose scanty wardrobe and mean appointments brought on it the contemptof the jewelled young countesses and silk-clad misses. Over such feeblefledglings the directress spread a wing of kindliest protection: it wasto their bedside she came at night to tuck them warmly in; it was afterthem she looked in winter to see that they always had a comfortable seatby the stove; it was they who by turns were summoned to the salon toreceive some little dole of cake or fruit--to sit on a footstool atthe fireside--to enjoy home comforts, and almost home liberty, foran evening together--to be spoken to gently and softly, comforted,encouraged, cherished--and when bedtime came, dismissed with a kissof true tenderness. As to Julia and Georgiana G----, daughters of anEnglish baronet, as to Mdlle. Mathilde de ----, heiress of a Belgiancount, and sundry other children of patrician race, the directress wascareful of them as of the others, anxious for their progress, as forthat of the rest--but it never seemed to enter her head to distinguishthem by a mark of preference; one girl of noble blood she loveddearly--a young Irish baroness--lady Catherine ----; but it was for herenthusiastic heart and clever head, for her generosity and her genius,the title and rank went for nothing.

  My afternoons were spent also in college, with the exception of an hourthat my wife daily exacted of me for her establishment, and with whichshe would not dispense. She said that I must spend that time amongst herpupils to learn their characters, to be AU COURANT with everything thatwas passing in the house, to become interested in what interested her,to be able to give her my opinion on knotty points when she required it,and this she did constantly, never allowing my interest in the pupilsto fall asleep, and never making any change of importance withoutmy cognizance and consent. She delighted to sit by me when I gave mylessons (lessons in literature), her hands folded on her knee, the mostfixedly attentive of any present. She rarely addressed me in class; whenshe did it was with an air of marked deference; it was her pleasure, herjoy to make me still the master in all things.

  At six o'clock P.M. my daily labours ceased. I then came home, formy home was my heaven; ever at that hour, as I entered our privatesitting-room, the lady-directress vanished from before my eyes, andFrances Henri, my own little lace-mender, was magically restored to myarms; much disappointed she would have been if her master had not beenas constant to the tryst as herself, and if his truthfull kiss had notbeen prompt to answer her soft, "Bon soir, monsieur."

  Talk French to me she would, and many a punishment she has had forher wilfulness. I fear the choice of chastisement must have beeninjudicious, for instead of correcting the fault, it seemed to encourageits renewal. Our evenings were our own; that recreation was necessary torefresh our strength for the due discharge of our duties; sometimes wespent them all in conversation, and my young Genevese, now that she wasthoroughly accustomed to her English professor, now that she lovedhim too absolutely to fear him much, reposed in him a confidence sounlimited that topics of conversation could no more be wanting with himthan subjects for communion with her own heart. In those moments, happyas a bird with its mate, she would show me what she had of vivacity, ofmirth, of originality in her well-dowered nature. She would show, too,some stores of raillery, of "malice," and would vex, tease, pique mesometimes about what she called my "bizarreries anglaises," my "capricesinsulaires," with a wild and witty wicked
ness that made a perfect whitedemon of her while it lasted. This was rare, however, and the elfishfreak was always short: sometimes when driven a little hard in the warof words--for her tongue did ample justice to the pith, the point, thedelicacy of her native French, in which language she always attackedme--I used to turn upon her with my old decision, and arrest bodily thesprite that teased me. Vain idea! no sooner had I grasped hand or armthan the elf was gone; the provocative smile quenched in the expressivebrown eyes, and a ray of gentle homage shone under the lids in itsplace. I had seized a mere vexing fairy, and found a submissive andsupplicating little mortal woman in my arms. Then I made her get a book,and read English to me for an hour by way of penance. I frequently dosedher with Wordsworth in this way, and Wordsworth steadied her soon shehad a difficulty in comprehending his deep, serene, and sober mind; hislanguage, too, was not facile to her; she had to ask questions, to suefor explanations, to be like a child and a novice, and to acknowledgeme as her senior and director. Her instinct instantly penetrated andpossessed the meaning of more ardent and imaginative writers. Byronexcited her; Scott she loved; Wordsworth only she puzzled at, wonderedover, and hesitated to pronounce an opinion upon.

  But whether she read to me, or talked with me; whether she teased mein French, or entreated me in English; whether she jested with wit,or inquired with deference; narrated with interest, or listened withattention whether she smiled at me or on me, always at nine o'clock Iwas left abandoned. She would extricate herself from my arms, quitmy side, take her lamp, and be gone. Her mission was upstairs; I havefollowed her sometimes and watched her. First she opened the door of thedortoir (the pupils' chamber), noiselessly she glided up the long roombetween the two rows of white beds, surveyed all the sleepers; if anywere wakeful, especially if any were sad, spoke to them and soothedthem; stood some minutes to ascertain that all was safe and tranquil;trimmed the watch-light which burned in the apartment all night, thenwithdrew, closing the door behind her without sound. Thence she glidedto our own chamber; it had a little cabinet within; this she sought;there, too, appeared a bed, but one, and that a very small one; her face(the night I followed and observed her) changed as she approached thistiny couch; from grave it warmed to earnest; she shaded with one handthe lamp she held in the other; she bent above the pillow and hungover a child asleep; its slumber (that evening at least, and usually,I believe) was sound and calm; no tear wet its dark eyelashes; no feverheated its round cheek; no ill dream discomposed its budding features.Frances gazed, she did not smile, and yet the deepest delight filled,flushed her face; feeling pleasurable, powerful, worked in her wholeframe, which still was motionless. I saw, indeed, her heart heave, herlips were a little apart, her breathing grew somewhat hurried; the childsmiled; then at last the mother smiled too, and said in low soliloquy,"God bless my little son!" She stooped closer over him, breathed thesoftest of kisses on his brow, covered his minute hand with hers, andat last started up and came away. I regained the parlour before her.Entering it two minutes later she said quietly as she put down herextinguished lamp--

  "Victor rests well: he smiled in his sleep; he has your smile,monsieur."

  The said Victor was of course her own boy, born in the third year ofour marriage: his Christian name had been given him in honour of M.Vandenhuten, who continued always our trusty and well-beloved friend.

  Frances was then a good and dear wife to me, because I was to her agood, just, and faithful husband. What she would have been had shemarried a harsh, envious, careless man--a profligate, a prodigal,a drunkard, or a tyrant--is another question, and one which I oncepropounded to her. Her answer, given after some reflection, was--

  "I should have tried to endure the evil or cure it for awhile; and whenI found it intolerable and incurable, I should have left my torturersuddenly and silently."

  "And if law or might had forced you back again?"

  "What, to a drunkard, a profligate, a selfish spendthrift, an unjustfool?"

  "Yes."

  "I would have gone back; again assured myself whether or not his viceand my misery were capable of remedy; and if not, have left him again."

  "And if again forced to return, and compelled to abide?"

  "I don't know," she said, hastily. "Why do you ask me, monsieur?"

  I would have an answer, because I saw a strange kind of spirit in hereye, whose voice I determined to waken.

  "Monsieur, if a wife's nature loathes that of the man she is wedded to,marriage must be slavery. Against slavery all right thinkers revolt, andthough torture be the price of resistance, torture must be dared: thoughthe only road to freedom lie through the gates of death, those gatesmust be passed; for freedom is indispensable. Then, monsieur, I wouldresist as far as my strength permitted; when that strength failed Ishould be sure of a refuge. Death would certainly screen me both frombad laws and their consequences."

  "Voluntary death, Frances?"

  "No, monsieur. I'd have courage to live out every throe of anguish fateassigned me, and principle to contend for justice and liberty to thelast."

  "I see you would have made no patient Grizzle. And now, supposing fatehad merely assigned you the lot of an old maid, what then? How would youhave liked celibacy?"

  "Not much, certainly. An old maid's life must doubtless be void andvapid--her heart strained and empty. Had I been an old maid I shouldhave spent existence in efforts to fill the void and ease the aching. Ishould have probably failed, and died weary and disappointed, despisedand of no account, like other single women. But I'm not an old maid,"she added quickly. "I should have been, though, but for my master. Ishould never have suited any man but Professor Crimsworth--no othergentleman, French, English, or Belgian, would have thought me amiable orhandsome; and I doubt whether I should have cared for the approbationof many others, if I could have obtained it. Now, I have been ProfessorCrimsworth's wife eight years, and what is he in my eyes? Is hehonourable, beloved ----?" She stopped, her voice was cut off, her eyessuddenly suffused. She and I were standing side by side; she threw herarms round me, and strained me to her heart with passionate earnestness:the energy of her whole being glowed in her dark and then dilatedeye, and crimsoned her animated cheek; her look and movement were likeinspiration in one there was such a flash, in the other such a power.Half an hour afterwards, when she had become calm, I asked where allthat wild vigour was gone which had transformed her ere-while and madeher glance so thrilling and ardent--her action so rapid and strong. Shelooked down, smiling softly and passively:--

  "I cannot tell where it is gone, monsieur," said she, "but I know that,whenever it is wanted, it will come back again."

  Behold us now at the close of the ten years, and we have realized anindependency. The rapidity with which we attained this end had itsorigin in three reasons:-- Firstly, we worked so hard for it; secondly,we had no incumbrances to delay success; thirdly, as soon as we hadcapital to invest, two well-skilled counsellors, one in Belgium, one inEngland, viz. Vandenhuten and Hunsden, gave us each a word of adviceas to the sort of investment to be chosen. The suggestion made wasjudicious; and, being promptly acted on, the result proved gainful--Ineed not say how gainful; I communicated details to Messrs. Vandenhutenand Hunsden; nobody else can be interested in hearing them.

  Accounts being wound up, and our professional connection disposed of, weboth agreed that, as mammon was not our master, nor his service that inwhich we desired to spend our lives; as our desires were temperate, andour habits unostentatious, we had now abundance to live on--abundance toleave our boy; and should besides always have a balance on hand, which,properly managed by right sympathy and unselfish activity, mighthelp philanthropy in her enterprises, and put solace into the hand ofcharity.

  To England we now resolved to take wing; we arrived there safely;Frances realized the dream of her lifetime. We spent a whole summerand autumn in travelling from end to end of the British islands, andafterwards passed a winter in London. Then we thought it high timeto fix our residence. My heart yearned towards my native count
y of----shire; and it is in ----shire I now live; it is in the library of myown home I am now writing. That home lies amid a sequestered and ratherhilly region, thirty miles removed from X----; a region whose verdurethe smoke of mills has not yet sullied, whose waters still run pure,whose swells of moorland preserve in some ferny glens that lie betweenthem the very primal wildness of nature, her moss, her bracken, herblue-bells, her scents of reed and heather, her free and fresh breezes.My house is a picturesque and not too spacious dwelling, with low andlong windows, a trellised and leaf-veiled porch over the front door,just now, on this summer evening, looking like an arch of roses and ivy.The garden is chiefly laid out in lawn, formed of the sod of the hills,with herbage short and soft as moss, full of its own peculiar flowers,tiny and starlike, imbedded in the minute embroidery of their finefoliage. At the bottom of the sloping garden there is a wicket, whichopens upon a lane as green as the lawn, very long, shady, and littlefrequented; on the turf of this lane generally appear the first daisiesof spring--whence its name--Daisy Lane; serving also as a distinction tothe house.

  It terminates (the lane I mean) in a valley full of wood; whichwood--chiefly oak and beech--spreads shadowy about the vicinage of avery old mansion, one of the Elizabethan structures, much larger, aswell as more antique than Daisy Lane, the property and residence ofan individual familiar both to me and to the reader. Yes, in HunsdenWood--for so are those glades and that grey building, with many gablesand more chimneys, named--abides Yorke Hunsden, still unmarried; never,I suppose, having yet found his ideal, though I know at least a scoreof young ladies within a circuit of forty miles, who would be willing toassist him in the search.

  The estate fell to him by the death of his father, five years since; hehas given up trade, after having made by it sufficient to pay off someincumbrances by which the family heritage was burdened. I say he abideshere, but I do not think he is resident above five months out of thetwelve; he wanders from land to land, and spends some part of eachwinter in town: he frequently brings visitors with him when he comes to----shire, and these visitors are often foreigners; sometimes he hasa German metaphysician, sometimes a French savant; he had once adissatisfied and savage-looking Italian, who neither sang nor played,and of whom Frances affirmed that he had "tout l'air d'un conspirateur."

  What English guests Hunsden invites, are all either men of Birmingham orManchester--hard men, seemingly knit up in one thought, whose talk isof free trade. The foreign visitors, too, are politicians; they take awider theme--European progress--the spread of liberal sentiments overthe Continent; on their mental tablets, the names of Russia, Austria,and the Pope, are inscribed in red ink. I have heard some of them talkvigorous sense--yea, I have been present at polyglot discussions in theold, oak-lined dining-room at Hunsden Wood, where a singular insightwas given of the sentiments entertained by resolute minds respecting oldnorthern despotisms, and old southern superstitions: also, I have heardmuch twaddle, enounced chiefly in French and Deutsch, but let that pass.Hunsden himself tolerated the drivelling theorists; with the practicalmen he seemed leagued hand and heart.

  When Hunsden is staying alone at the Wood (which seldom happens) hegenerally finds his way two or three times a week to Daisy Lane. He hasa philanthropic motive for coming to smoke his cigar in our porch onsummer evenings; he says he does it to kill the earwigs amongst theroses, with which insects, but for his benevolent fumigations, heintimates we should certainly be overrun. On wet days, too, we arealmost sure to see him; according to him, it gets on time to workme into lunacy by treading on my mental corns, or to force from Mrs.Crimsworth revelations of the dragon within her, by insulting the memoryof Hofer and Tell.

  We also go frequently to Hunsden Wood, and both I and Frances relish avisit there highly. If there are other guests, their characters arean interesting study; their conversation is exciting and strange; theabsence of all local narrowness both in the host and his chosen societygives a metropolitan, almost a cosmopolitan freedom and largeness to thetalk. Hunsden himself is a polite man in his own house: he has, when hechooses to employ it, an inexhaustible power of entertaining guests; hisvery mansion too is interesting, the rooms look storied, thepassages legendary, the low-ceiled chambers, with their long rows ofdiamond-paned lattices, have an old-world, haunted air: in his travelshe has collected stores of articles of VERTU, which are well andtastefully disposed in his panelled or tapestried rooms: I have seenthere one or two pictures, and one or two pieces of statuary which manyan aristocratic connoisseur might have envied.

  When I and Frances have dined and spent an evening with Hunsden, heoften walks home with us. His wood is large, and some of the timberis old and of huge growth. There are winding ways in it which, pursuedthrough glade and brake, make the walk back to Daisy Lane a somewhatlong one. Many a time, when we have had the benefit of a full moon,and when the night has been mild and balmy, when, moreover, a certainnightingale has been singing, and a certain stream, hid in alders, haslent the song a soft accompaniment, the remote church-bell of the onehamlet in a district of ten miles, has tolled midnight ere the lord ofthe wood left us at our porch. Free-flowing was his talk at such hours,and far more quiet and gentle than in the day-time and before numbers.He would then forget politics and discussion, and would dwell on thepast times of his house, on his family history, on himself and his ownfeelings--subjects each and all invested with a peculiar zest, for theywere each and all unique. One glorious night in June, after I had beentaunting him about his ideal bride and asking him when she wouldcome and graft her foreign beauty on the old Hunsden oak, he answeredsuddenly--

  "You call her ideal; but see, here is her shadow; and there cannot be ashadow without a substance."

  He had led us from the depth of the "winding way" into a glade fromwhence the beeches withdrew, leaving it open to the sky; an uncloudedmoon poured her light into this glade, and Hunsden held out under herbeam an ivory miniature.

  Frances, with eagerness, examined it first; then she gave it tome--still, however, pushing her little face close to mine, and seekingin my eyes what I thought of the portrait. I thought it represented avery handsome and very individual-looking female face, with, as he hadonce said, "straight and harmonious features." It was dark; the hair,raven-black, swept not only from the brow, but from the temples--seemedthrust away carelessly, as if such beauty dispensed with, nay,despised arrangement. The Italian eye looked straight into you, and anindependent, determined eye it was; the mouth was as firm as fine; thechin ditto. On the back of the miniature was gilded "Lucia."

  "That is a real head," was my conclusion.

  Hunsden smiled.

  "I think so," he replied. "All was real in Lucia."

  "And she was somebody you would have liked to marry--but could not?"

  "I should certainly have liked to marry her, and that I HAVE not done sois a proof that I COULD not."

  He repossessed himself of the miniature, now again in Frances' hand, andput it away.

  "What do YOU think of it?" he asked of my wife, as he buttoned his coatover it.

  "I am sure Lucia once wore chains and broke them," was the strangeanswer. "I do not mean matrimonial chains," she added, correctingherself, as if she feared mis-interpretation, "but social chains of somesort. The face is that of one who has made an effort, and a successfuland triumphant effort, to wrest some vigorous and valued faculty frominsupportable constraint; and when Lucia's faculty got free, I amcertain it spread wide pinions and carried her higher than--" shehesitated.

  "Than what?" demanded Hunsden.

  "Than 'les convenances' permitted you to follow."

  "I think you grow spiteful--impertinent."

  "Lucia has trodden the stage," continued Frances. "You never seriouslythought of marrying her; you admired her originality, her fearlessness,her energy of body and mind; you delighted in her talent, whatever thatwas, whether song, dance, or dramatic representation you worshipped herbeauty, which was of the sort after your own heart: but I am sure shefilled a sphere from whence you
would never have thought of taking awife."

  "Ingenious," remarked Hunsden; "whether true or not is another question.Meantime, don't you feel your little lamp of a spirit wax very pale,beside such a girandole as Lucia's?"

  "Yes."

  "Candid, at least; and the Professor will soon be dissatisfied with thedim light you give?"

  "Will you, monsieur?"

  "My sight was always too weak to endure a blaze, Frances," and we hadnow reached the wicket.

  I said, a few pages back, that this is a sweet summer evening; itis--there has been a series of lovely days, and this is the loveliest;the hay is just carried from my fields, its perfume still lingers in theair. Frances proposed to me, an hour or two since, to take tea outon the lawn; I see the round table, loaded with china, placed under acertain beech; Hunsden is expected--nay, I hear he is come--there is hisvoice, laying down the law on some point with authority; that of Francesreplies; she opposes him of course. They are disputing about Victor,of whom Hunsden affirms that his mother is making a milksop. Mrs.Crimsworth retaliates:--

  "Better a thousand times he should be a milksop than what he, Hunsden,calls 'a fine lad;' and moreover she says that if Hunsden were to becomea fixture in the neighbourhood, and were not a mere comet, coming andgoing, no one knows how, when, where, or why, she should be quite uneasytill she had got Victor away to a school at least a hundred miles off;for that with his mutinous maxims and unpractical dogmas, he would ruina score of children."

  I have a word to say of Victor ere I shut this manuscript in mydesk--but it must be a brief one, for I hear the tinkle of silver onporcelain.

  Victor is as little of a pretty child as I am of a handsome man, or hismother of a fine woman; he is pale and spare, with large eyes, as darkas those of Frances, and as deeply set as mine. His shape is symmetricalenough, but slight; his health is good. I never saw a child smile lessthan he does, nor one who knits such a formidable brow when sitting overa book that interests him, or while listening to tales of adventure,peril, or wonder, narrated by his mother, Hunsden, or myself. Butthough still, he is not unhappy--though serious, not morose; he has asusceptibility to pleasurable sensations almost too keen, for it amountsto enthusiasm. He learned to read in the old-fashioned way out of aspelling-book at his mother's knee, and as he got on without driving bythat method, she thought it unnecessary to buy him ivory letters, or totry any of the other inducements to learning now deemed indispensable.When he could read, he became a glutton of books, and is so still.His toys have been few, and he has never wanted more. For those hepossesses, he seems to have contracted a partiality amounting toaffection this feeling, directed towards one or two living animals ofthe house, strengthens almost to a passion.

  Mr. Hunsden gave him a mastiff cub, which he called Yorke, after thedonor; it grew to a superb dog, whose fierceness, however, was muchmodified by the companionship and caresses of its young master. He wouldgo nowhere, do nothing without Yorke; Yorke lay at his feet while helearned his lessons, played with him in the garden, walked with him inthe lane and wood, sat near his chair at meals, was fed always by hisown hand, was the first thing he sought in the morning, the last he leftat night. Yorke accompanied Mr. Hunsden one day to X----, and was bittenin the street by a dog in a rabid state. As soon as Hunsden had broughthim home, and had informed me of the circumstance, I went into the yardand shot him where he lay licking his wound: he was dead in an instant;he had not seen me level the gun; I stood behind him. I had scarcelybeen ten minutes in the house, when my ear was struck with sounds ofanguish: I repaired to the yard once more, for they proceeded thence.Victor was kneeling beside his dead mastiff, bent over it, embracing itsbull-like neck, and lost in a passion of the wildest woe: he saw me.

  "Oh, papa, I'll never forgive you! I'll never forgive you!" was hisexclamation. "You shot Yorke--I saw it from the window. I never believedyou could be so cruel--I can love you no more!"

  I had much ado to explain to him, with a steady voice, the sternnecessity of the deed; he still, with that inconsolable and bitteraccent which I cannot render, but which pierced my heart, repeated--

  "He might have been cured--you should have tried--you should have burntthe wound with a hot iron, or covered it with caustic. You gave no time;and now it is too late--he is dead!"

  He sank fairly down on the senseless carcase; I waited patiently a longwhile, till his grief had somewhat exhausted him; and then I lifted himin my arms and carried him to his mother, sure that she would comforthim best. She had witnessed the whole scene from a window; she would notcome out for fear of increasing my difficulties by her emotion, but shewas ready now to receive him. She took him to her kind heart, and onto her gentle lap; consoled him but with her lips, her eyes, her softembrace, for some time; and then, when his sobs diminished, told himthat Yorke had felt no pain in dying, and that if he had been left toexpire naturally, his end would have been most horrible; above all, shetold him that I was not cruel (for that idea seemed to give exquisitepain to poor Victor), that it was my affection for Yorke and him whichhad made me act so, and that I was now almost heart-broken to see himweep thus bitterly.

  Victor would have been no true son of his father, had theseconsiderations, these reasons, breathed in so low, so sweet atone--married to caresses so benign, so tender--to looks so inspiredwith pitying sympathy--produced no effect on him. They did produce aneffect: he grew calmer, rested his face on her shoulder, and lay stillin her arms. Looking up, shortly, he asked his mother to tell him overagain what she had said about Yorke having suffered no pain, and my notbeing cruel; the balmy words being repeated, he again pillowed his cheekon her breast, and was again tranquil.

  Some hours after, he came to me in my library, asked if I forgave him,and desired to be reconciled. I drew the lad to my side, and there Ikept him a good while, and had much talk with him, in the course ofwhich he disclosed many points of feeling and thought I approved of inmy son. I found, it is true, few elements of the "good fellow" or the"fine fellow" in him; scant sparkles of the spirit which loves to flashover the wine cup, or which kindles the passions to a destroyingfire; but I saw in the soil of his heart healthy and swelling germsof compassion, affection, fidelity. I discovered in the garden of hisintellect a rich growth of wholesome principles--reason, justice, moralcourage, promised, if not blighted, a fertile bearing. So I bestowed onhis large forehead, and on his cheek--still pale with tears--a proud andcontented kiss, and sent him away comforted. Yet I saw him the next daylaid on the mound under which Yorke had been buried, his face coveredwith his hands; he was melancholy for some weeks, and more than a yearelapsed before he would listen to any proposal of having another dog.

  Victor learns fast. He must soon go to Eton, where, I suspect, his firstyear or two will be utter wretchedness: to leave me, his mother, and hishome, will give his heart an agonized wrench; then, the fagging will notsuit him--but emulation, thirst after knowledge, the glory of success,will stir and reward him in time. Meantime, I feel in myself a strongrepugnance to fix the hour which will uproot my sole olive branch, andtransplant it far from me; and, when I speak to Frances on the subject,I am heard with a kind of patient pain, as though I alluded to somefearful operation, at which her nature shudders, but from which herfortitude will not permit her to recoil. The step must, however, betaken, and it shall be; for, though Frances will not make a milksop ofher son, she will accustom him to a style of treatment, a forbearance,a congenial tenderness, he will meet with from none else. She sees, asI also see, a something in Victor's temper--a kind of electrical ardourand power--which emits, now and then, ominous sparks; Hunsden calls ithis spirit, and says it should not be curbed. I call it the leaven ofthe offending Adam, and consider that it should be, if not WHIPPED outof him, at least soundly disciplined; and that he will be cheap ofany amount of either bodily or mental suffering which will ground himradically in the art of self-control. Frances gives this something inher son's marked character no name; but when it appears in the grindingof his teeth, in the glittering o
f his eye, in the fierce revolt offeeling against disappointment, mischance, sudden sorrow, or supposedinjustice, she folds him to her breast, or takes him to walk with heralone in the wood; then she reasons with him like any philosopher, andto reason Victor is ever accessible; then she looks at him with eyes oflove, and by love Victor can be infallibly subjugated; but will reasonor love be the weapons with which in future the world will meet hisviolence? Oh, no! for that flash in his black eye--for that cloud onhis bony brow--for that compression of his statuesque lips, the lad willsome day get blows instead of blandishments--kicks instead of kisses;then for the fit of mute fury which will sicken his body and maddenhis soul; then for the ordeal of merited and salutary suffering, out ofwhich he will come (I trust) a wiser and a better man.

  I see him now; he stands by Hunsden, who is seated on the lawn under thebeech; Hunsden's hand rests on the boy's collar, and he is instillingGod knows what principles into his ear. Victor looks well just now, forhe listens with a sort of smiling interest; he never looks so like hismother as when he smiles--pity the sunshine breaks out so rarely! Victorhas a preference for Hunsden, full as strong as I deem desirable, beingconsiderably more potent, decided, and indiscriminating, than any I everentertained for that personage myself. Frances, too, regards it with asort of unexpressed anxiety; while her son leans on Hunsden's knee, orrests against his shoulder, she roves with restless movement round,like a dove guarding its young from a hovering hawk; she says she wishesHunsden had children of his own, for then he would better know thedanger of inciting their pride end indulging their foibles.

  Frances approaches my library window; puts aside the honeysuckle whichhalf covers it, and tells me tea is ready; seeing that I continue busyshe enters the room, comes near me quietly, and puts her hand on myshoulder.

  "Monsieur est trop applique."

  "I shall soon have done."

  She draws a chair near, and sits down to wait till I have finished; herpresence is as pleasant to my mind as the perfume of the fresh hay andspicy flowers, as the glow of the westering sun, as the repose of themidsummer eve are to my senses.

  But Hunsden comes; I hear his step, and there he is, bending through thelattice, from which he has thrust away the woodbine with unsparing hand,disturbing two bees and a butterfly.

  "Crimsworth! I say, Crimsworth! take that pen out of his hand, mistress,and make him lift up his head."

  "Well, Hunsden? I hear you--"

  "I was at X---- yesterday! your brother Ned is getting richer thanCroesus by railway speculations; they call him in the Piece Hall a stagof ten; and I have heard from Brown. M. and Madame Vandenhuten and JeanBaptiste talk of coming to see you next month. He mentions the Peletstoo; he says their domestic harmony is not the finest in the world, butin business they are doing 'on ne peut mieux,' which circumstancehe concludes will be a sufficient consolation to both for any littlecrosses in the affections. Why don't you invite the Pelets to ----shire,Crimsworth? I should so like to see your first flame, Zoraide. Mistress,don't be jealous, but he loved that lady to distraction I know it for afact. Brown says she weighs twelve stones now; you see what you'velost, Mr. Professor. Now, Monsieur and Madame, if you don't come to tea,Victor and I will begin without you."

  "Papa, come!"