“If your father were to know that you came hither,” said Richard, “he would never forgive you, nor ever see me again.”
“Well, then, all we have to do is not to tell my father any thing about the matter,” said Mary-Anne, with considerable ingenuousness. “But how cross you look; and I—I thought,” she added, ready to cry, “that you would be as pleased to see me as I am to see you.”
“Yes, Miss Gregory—I am pleased to see you—I am always pleased to see you,” answered Markham, by way of soothing the poor girl; “but you must allow me to assure you that this step is the most imprudent—the most thoughtless in the world. I really tremble for the consequences—should your father happen to hear of it.”
“I tell you over and over again,” persisted Miss Gregory, “that my papa shall never know any thing at all about the matter. Now, then, pray don’t be cross; but tell me that you are glad to see me. Speak, Mr. Markham—are you glad to see me?”
“How shall I ever be able to convince this artless young creature of the impropriety of her conduct?” murmured Richard within himself. “To argue with her too long and too forcibly upon the subject would be to instruct her innocent mind in the evils and vices of society, and to imbue her with ideas which are as yet like a foreign and a strange tongue to her! Innocence, then, is not a pearl of invaluable price to its possessor, in this world,—since it can so readily prepare the path which might lead to ruin!”
“You do not answer me—you are thoughtful—you will not speak to me,” said Mary-Anne, rising from the sofa, with tears in her eyes, and preparing—or rather affecting an intention to depart.
Markham still gave her no reply.
He was grieved—deeply grieved to wound her feelings; but he thought that it would be better to allow her to return home at once, with sentiments of pique and wounded pride which would prevent a repetition of the same step, than to initiate her into those social mysteries which would only give an impulse to her lively imagination that would probably prove morally injurious to her.
But Mary-Anne was incapable of harbouring resentment; and she burst into an agony of grief.
“Oh! how unkind you are, Mr. Markham,” she exclaimed, “after all my endeavours to please you! I thought that you would have experienced as much joy to see me, as I felt when I saw you enter the room. Since the day that I lost my dear mother—upwards of nine years ago—I have never loved any one so much as I love you—no, not even my father; for I feel that at this moment I could dare even his anger, if you were to shelter me! I have long thought that I had no friend but God, to whom I could communicate my little secrets; and now I feel as if I could bestow all my confidence upon you. Since the death of my mother I have never sought my couch without resigning my soul into the hands of God, and without demanding of him an insight into truth and virtue. But now I would rather entrust my safety to you; and I would rather learn all I should know from your lips than from those of another! You ought, therefore, to treat me with more kindness and consideration than you have done up to this moment;—you should bestow upon me an additional share of your attention and notice,—because I am anxious to please you—I would do any thing to save you pain—I would lay down my life to ensure a prolongation of yours!”
Mary-Anne had never spoken so seriously, nor in so impassioned a manner, in her life before. She was even astonished herself at the very ideas which she was now expressing for the first time, and which seemed to flow from some inward fountain whose springs she could not check.
Markham was astounded.
He suddenly comprehended the true situation of the innocent and artless girl in respect to himself.
A pang shot through his heart when he considered the impossibility of her happiness ever being ensured by his means; and he thought within himself, “Alas! poor child, she does not rightly comprehend the state of her own mind!”
But how could this love of hers be stifled? how could that passion be suppressed?
All the remedies yet essayed to quench and annihilate love, have changed into poisons;—even violent and unexpected lessons will not always make the heart reflect.
The more the slave bends, the heavier becomes the yoke: the more a man employs an unjust force, the more will injustice become necessary to his views. No one should attempt to exercise tyranny upon proud souls; for he will readily learn that it is not easy to triumph over and trample on a noble love. Error succeeds error—outrage follows upon outrage—and bitterness increases like a torrent whose embankments have given way. Who can define the termination of these ravages? Will not the tender and affectionate woman, whose love man may endeavour to stifle by coldness or neglect, perish in the ruin? She will succumb to tears and to devouring cares—even while the love which she cherishes still preserves all its vigour, and loses nothing of its ardour through intense suffering!
Markham knew not how to reply to that affectionate girl, whose spirit he dared not break by his unkindness,—whose passion he could not return, because his heart was devoted to another,—and whose mind he was afraid to enlighten with regard to those social duties which originated in reasons and motives totally unknown to her.
“Mr. Markham,” said Mary-Anne, wiping away her tears, “tell me that you are not angry with me for calling: and, as you say it is not right, I will never come again.”
“Angry with you, Miss Gregory, I cannot be,” exclaimed Markham. “But I ought to tell you that you must not give way to that feeling of—of—preference towards me—”
“Oh! I suppose that the rules of society also prevent a single lady from liking a single gentleman?” interrupted Mary-Anne pettishly.
“No rules can control volition, Miss Gregory,” said Richard, cruelly embarrassed how to explain himself to the young lady; “but if you tell me that you prefer me to your father—”
“And so I do,” exclaimed Mary-Anne quickly.
“Then you are wrong,” returned Markham.
“Wrong, indeed! and yet you have just told me that no rules can control volition.”
“True; but we must endeavour to conquer those feelings. You say that you like me?—suppose that we were never to meet again; would you not then learn to forget that you ever knew such a being?”
“Impossible! never—never!” cried Mary-Anne enthusiastically. “I am always thinking of you!”
“But the time must come, some day or another—whether now, or a year, or ten years hence—when we must cease to meet. I may be married—or you yourself may marry—”
“Married!” ejaculated Mary-Anne: “do you think of marrying, then, Mr. Markham?”
“I am certainly attached to a young lady,” replied Richard; “but there are circumstances which—”
“You are attached to a young lady? Is she beautiful—very beautiful?”
“Very beautiful,” answered Richard.
Mary-Anne remained silent for some moments: she appeared to reflect profoundly.
A sudden glow of animation flushed her cheek:—was it a light that dawned in upon her soul?
Richard sincerely hoped so.
“Mr. Markham,” said Mary-Anne, rising from her seat, and speaking in a tone so serious that Richard could scarcely believe he was now listening to the once volatile, sprightly, thoughtless, and playful creature he had known,—“Mr. Markham, I have to apologise most sincerely for the trouble I have given you, and the intrusion of which I have been guilty. A veil has suddenly fallen from my eyes; and I now comprehend the impropriety of my conduct. Ah! I see what you mean by the laws of society. But God—and you also, Mr. Markham, well know the innocence of my motives in calling this morning upon you; and if my friendship for you has betrayed me into error, I beseech you to forget that such a scene has ever taken place.”
She shook hands with Richard with her usual cordiality and warmth, and then took her departure—no lo
nger skipping like the young fawn, but with steady and measured pace.
And still that young girl did not dream that love had influenced her conduct;—she continued to believe that the sentiment she experienced was one of friendship. The idea of Richard’s marriage with another had only enlightened her in respect to those laws which, as social and sympathetic beings, we have conventionally enacted.
On the ensuing Sunday Markham dined, according to engagement, with Mr. Gregory.
Mary-Anne was present; and striking was the change which had taken place in her!
Her manners were no longer gay, joyous, confiding, and full of animation. As sickness chases from the cheek the flush of hoyden health, so had a new sentiment banished that sprightliness of disposition and that liveliness of temperament which so lately had characterised this child of nature.
Love, then, is omnipotent, if he can effect such changes as these! Alas! Love can work much for our unhappiness, but little for our felicity:—he may make the gladsome companion melancholy and serious; but he seldom covers the countenance of the morose one with smiles!
Mary-Anne endeavoured to seem as reserved as possible with Richard; and yet, from time to time, when she thought he did not notice her, she fixed her eyes upon him with an expression of such heart-devoted tenderness, that it seemed as if she were pouring forth her entire soul to the divinity whom she worshipped.
In the grotesque and colossal sculptures, and the mountainous architectural piles of the East we seem to behold the products of an imagination struggling with conceptions too vast for its compass, and hence endeavouring to make some approximation to the reality by heaping up the irregular and huge invisible forms; and thus did the tortured and embarrassed mind of this poor girl, unacquainted with the precise nature of the sentiment it cherished, maintain a conflict with the feelings which oppressed it and offer up an idolatry of its own invention to the object of its unbounded veneration.
Mr. Gregory could not but perceive this change in his daughter’s behaviour, and he was more or less at a loss to conceive the cause.
He had entertained for a few days previously, a faint suspicion that Mary-Anne had peradventure formed an attachment, which would thus account for her altered demeanour; for since her call upon Markham, had her manners changed. But the good-hearted father was still loth to believe that his daughter’s young heart had been smitten—and for the simple reason because he did not wish it to be so.
Although he respected Markham, he was like all parents who, possessing fortunes themselves, are anxious that the suitors for their daughters’ hands should also be enabled to produce a modicum of this world’s lucre.
He was therefore unwilling to admit in his own mind the conviction that his suspicion was well-founded: he fancied that change of scene or amusement would probably operate favourably upon his daughter’s mind, and bring her spirits back to their proper tone; and in this resolution was he confirmed, when in the course of that Sunday evening, he saw the confirmation of his suspicion. He could no longer doubt:—a thousand little incidents proved to him, the attachment of his daughter to Richard Markham; and his quick glance convinced him—that she was not loved by her tutor in return.
That night Mr. Gregory lay awake, pondering upon the best course to pursue. At one moment he thought of communicating to Markham the state of his daughter’s heart (for he could not suppose that Richard was aware of the passion of which he was the object), and permitting the young couple to look upon each other as destined to be one day united:—at another moment, he imagined that it would be better to allow things to take their chance for a short time and thereby ascertain whether the attachment gained ground on the part of his daughter, and whether it would become mutual (for he was entirely ignorant of Markham’s love for another); and at length he resolved upon dispensing with the services of Richard, and trusting to time to eradicate the seeds of the unfortunate passion from the heart of Mary-Anne.
This plan Mr. Gregory put into execution in the course of a few days—indeed, the very next time that Richard called at his house.
“Mr. Markham,” said the father, “I deeply regret that certain circumstances, which it is not necessary for me to explain to you, compel me to dispense with your farther attendance upon my children.”
“I hope,” said Markham, “that I have given you no cause——”
“Not at all—not in the least,” interrupted Mr. Gregory, shaking Richard cordially by the hand: then, in a serious tone, he added, “my daughter’s health requires rest—repose—and quiet. I shall see no visitors for some time.”
Markham was satisfied. Mr. Gregory had heard nothing prejudicial to his character; but he had evidently penetrated into the state of Mary-Anne’s feelings. Richard was delighted to be thus dismissed from a house where his presence was only calculated to destroy the more profoundly the peace of one of its inmates:—indeed, he himself had already entertained serious ideas of severing his connexion with that family.
“If I can at any time be of service to you, Mr. Markham, in any way, you may command me,” said Mr. Gregory, when the former rose to depart; “and do not think that I am merely uttering a cold ceremonial phrase, when I desire you to make use of me as a friend, should you ever require one.”
Richard thanked Mr. Gregory for his kindness, and took leave of him. He also bade adieu to Gustavus and Lionel, both of whom were deeply affected at the idea of losing the visits of their tutor:—but Mary-Anne had been purposely sent to pass a few days with some friends in the country.
CHAPTER XCI.
THE TRAGEDY.
AT length the evening, upon which the tragedy was to be represented for the first time, arrived.
Markham in the mean time had seen little of the manager, and had not attended a single rehearsal, his presence for that purpose not having been required. Moreover, true to his original intentions, he had not acquainted a soul with his secret relative to the drama. The manager still knew him only as Edward Preston; and the advertisements in the newspapers had announced the “forthcoming tragedy” as one that had “emanated from the pen of a young author of considerable promise, but who had determined to maintain a strict incognito until the public verdict should have been pronounced upon his piece.”
A short time before the doors opened, Richard proceeded to the theatre, and called upon the manager, who received him in his own private apartment.
“Well, Mr. Preston,” said the theatrical monarch, “this evening will decide the fate of the tragedy. A few hours, and we shall know more.”
“I hope you still think well of it,” returned Markham.
“My candid opinion is that the success will be triumphant,” said the manager. “I have spared no expense to get up the piece well; and I am very sanguine. Besides, I have another element of success.”
“What is that?” inquired Richard.
“My principal ballet-dancer, who is a beautiful creature and a general favourite—Miss Selina Fitzherbert—”
“I have heard of her fame,” said Markham, “but have never seen her. Strange as it may appear, I never visit theatres—I have not done so for years.”
“You will visit them often enough if your productions succeed,” observed the manager with a smile. “But, as I was saying, Miss Fitzherbert has lately manifested a passionate desire to shine in tragedy; and she will make her debut in that sphere to-night, in your piece. She will play the Baron’s Daughter.”
“Which character does not appear until the commencement of the third act,” said Markham.
“Precisely,” observed the manager. “But time is now drawing on. Where will you remain during the performance?”
“I shall proceed into the body of the house,” returned Markham, “and take my seat in one of the central boxes—I mean those precisely fronting the stage. I shall be able to judge of the effect better in that par
t of the house than elsewhere.”
“As you please,” said the manager. “But mind and let me see you after the performance.”
Richard promised compliance with this request, and then proceeded into the house, where he took a seat in the centre of the amphitheatre.
The doors had been opened a few minutes previously, and the house was filling fast. By half-past six it was crowded from pit to roof. The boxes were filled with elegantly-dressed ladies and fashionable gentlemen: there was not room to thrust another spectator into any one point at the moment when the curtain drew up.
The overture commenced. How long it appeared to Markham, passionately fond of music though he was!
At length it ceased; and the First Act commenced.
For some time a profound silence pervaded the audience:—not a voice, not a murmur, not a sigh, gave the slightest demonstration of either approbation or dislike.
But, at length, at the conclusion of a most impressive soliloquy, which was delivered by the hero of the piece, one universal burst of applause broke forth; and the theatre rang with the sounds of human tongues and the clapping of hands. When the First Act ended, the opinion of the audience was decisive in favour of the piece; and the manager felt persuaded that “it was a hit.”
This was one of the happiest moments of Markham’s existence—that existence which had latterly presented so few green spots to please the mental eye of the wanderer in the world’s desert. His veins seemed to run with liquid fire!—a delirium of joy seized upon him—he was inebriated with excess of bliss.
Around him the spectators were expressing their opinions of the first act, little suspecting that the author of the piece was so near. All those sentiments were unequivocally in favour of the tragedy.
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 92
