"You astonish me! I should have imagined her three years older at least."
"Everybody thinks her older than she is—everybody, my dear Sir—and she certainly looks it. She's more formed, more developed I may say, than most girls at her age. However, that's not the point. The plain fact is, she's too young to be married now—too young in a moral point of view; too young in an educational point of view; too young altogether. Well: the upshot of this is, that I could not give my consent to Margaret's marrying, until another year is out—say a year from this time. One year's courtship for the finishing off of her education, and the formation of her constitution—you understand me, for the formation of her constitution."
A year to wait! At first, this seemed a long trial to endure, a trial that ought not to be imposed on me. But the next moment, the delay appeared in a different light. Would it not be the dearest of privileges to be able to see Margaret, perhaps every day, perhaps for hours at a time? Would it not be happiness enough to observe each development of her character, to watch her first maiden love for me, advancing nearer and nearer towards confidence and maturity the oftener we met? As I thought on this, I answered Mr. Sherwin without further hesitation.
"It will be some trial," I said, "to my patience, though none to my constancy, none to the strength of my affection—I will wait the year."
"Exactly so," rejoined Mr. Sherwin; "such candour and such reasonableness were to be expected from one who is quite the gentleman. And now comes my grand difficulty in this business—in fact, the little stipulation I have to make."
He stopped, and ran his fingers through his hair, in all directions; his features fidgetting and distorting themselves ominously, while he looked at me.
"Pray explain yourself, Mr. Sherwin. Your silence gives me some uneasiness at this particular moment, I assure you."
"Quite so—I understand. Now, you must promise me not to be huffed—offended, I should say—at what I am going to propose."
"Certainly not."
"Well, then, it may seem odd; but under all the circumstances—that is to say, as far as the case concerns you personally—I want you and my dear girl to be married at once, and yet not to be married exactly, for another year. I don't know whether you understand me?"
"I must confess I do not."
He coughed rather uneasily; turned to the table, and poured out another glass of sherry—his hand trembling a little as he did so. He drank off the wine at a draught; cleared his throat three or four times after it; and then spoke again.
"Well, to be still plainer, this is how the matter stands: If you were a party in our rank of life, coming to court Margaret with your father's full approval and permission when once you had consented to the year's engagement, everything would be done and settled; the bargain would have been struck on both sides; and there would be an end of it. But, situated as you are, I can't stop here safely—I mean, I can't end the agreement exactly in this way."
He evidently felt that he got fluent on wine; and helped himself, at this juncture, to another glass.
"You will see what I am driving at, my dear Sir, directly," he continued. "Suppose now, you came courting my daughter for a year, as we settled; and suppose your father found it out—we should keep it a profound secret of course: but still, secrets are sometimes found out, nobody knows how. Suppose, I say, your father got scent of the thing, and the match was broken off; where do you think Margaret's reputation would be? If it happened with somebody in her own station, we might explain it all, and be believed: but happening with somebody in yours, what would the world say? Would the world believe you had ever intended to marry her? That's the point—that's the point precisely."
"But the case could not happen—I am astonished you can imagine it possible. I have told you already, I am of age."
"Properly urged—very properly, indeed. But you also told me, if you remember, when I first had the pleasure of seeing you, that your father, if he knew of this match, would stick at nothing to oppose it—at nothing—I recollect you said so. Now, knowing this, my dear Sir—though I have the most perfect confidence in your honour, and your resolution to fulfil your engagement—I can't have confidence in your being prepared beforehand to oppose all your father might do if he found us out; because you can't tell yourself what he might be up to, or what influence he might set to work over you. This sort of mess is not very probable, you will say; but if it's at all possible—and there's a year for it to be possible in—by George, Sir, I must guard against accidents, for my daughter's sake—I must indeed!"
"In Heaven's name, Mr. Sherwin, pass over all these impossible difficulties of yours! and let me hear what you have finally to propose."
"Gently, my dear Sir! gently, gently, gently! I propose to begin with: that you should marry my daughter—privately marry her—in a week's time. Now, pray compose yourself!" (I was looking at him in speechless astonishment.) "Take it easy; pray take it easy! Supposing, then, you marry her in this way, I make one stipulation. I require you to give me your word of honour to leave her at the church door; and for the space of one year never to attempt to see her, except in the presence of a third party. At the end of that time, I will engage to give her to you, as your wife in fact, as well as in name. There! what do you say to that—eh?"
I was too astounded, too overwhelmed, to say anything at that moment; Mr. Sherwin went on:
"This plan of mine, you see, reconciles everything. If any accident does happen, and we are discovered, why your father can do nothing to stop the match, because the match will have been already made. And, at the same time, I secure a year's delay, for the formation of her constitution, and the finishing of her accomplishments, and so forth. Besides, what an opportunity this gives of sailing as near the wind as you choose, in breaking the thing, bit by bit, to your father, without fear of consequences, in case he should run rough after all. Upon my honour, my dear Sir, I think I deserve some credit for hitting on this plan—it makes everything so right and straight, and suits of course the wishes of all parties! I need hardly say that you shall have every facility for seeing Margaret, under the restrictions—under the restrictions, you understand. People may talk about your visits; but having got the certificate, and knowing it's all safe and settled, I shan't care for that. Well, what do you say? take time to think, if you wish it—only remember that I have the most perfect confidence in your honour, and that I act from a fatherly feeling for the interests of my dear girl!" He stopped, out of breath from the extraordinary volubility of his long harangue.
Some men more experienced in the world, less mastered by love than I was, would, in my position, have recognised this proposal an unfair trial of self-restraint—perhaps, something like an unfair humiliation as well. Others have detected the selfish motives which suggested it: the mean distrust of my honour, integrity, and firmness of purpose which it implied; and the equally mean anxiety on Sherwin's part to clench his profitable bargain at once, for fear it might be repented of. I discerned nothing of this. As soon as I had recovered from the natural astonishment of the first few moments, I only saw in the strange plan proposed to me, a certainty of assuring—no matter with what sacrifice, what hazard, or what delay—the ultimate triumph of my love. When Mr. Sherwin had ceased speaking, I replied at once:
"I accept your conditions—I accept them with all my heart."
He was hardly prepared for so complete and so sudden an acquiescence in his proposal, and looked absolutely startled by it, at first. But soon resuming his self-possession—his wily, "business-like" self-possession—he started up, and shook me vehemently by the hand.
"Delighted—most delighted, my dear Sir, to find how soon we understand each other, and that we pull together so well. We must have another glass; hang it, we really must! a toast, you know; a toast you can't help drinking—your wife! Ha! ha!—I had you there!—my dear, dear Margaret, God bless her!"
"We may consider all difficulties finally settled then," I said, anxious to close my interview
with Mr. Sherwin as speedily as possible.
"Decidedly so. Done, and double done, I may say. There will be a little insurance on your life, that I shall ask you to effect for dear Margaret's sake; and perhaps, a memorandum of agreement, engaging to settle a certain proportion of any property you may become possessed of, on her and her children. You see I am looking forward to my grandfather days already! But this can wait for a future occasion—say in a day or two."
"Then I presume there will be no objection to my seeing Miss Sherwin now?"
"None whatever—-at once, if you like. This way, my dear Sir; this way," and he led me across the passage, into the dining-room.
This apartment was furnished with less luxury, but with more bad taste (if possible) than the room we had just left. Near the window sat Margaret—it was the same window at which I had seen her, on the evening when I wandered into the square, after our meeting in the omnibus. The cage with the canary-bird hung in the same place. I just noticed—with a momentary surprise—that Mrs. Sherwin was sitting far away from her daughter, at the other end of the room; and then placed myself by Margaret's side. She was dressed in pale yellow—a colour which gave new splendour to her dark complexion and magnificently dark hair. Once more, all my doubts, all my self-upbraidings vanished, and gave place to the exquisite sense of happiness, the glow of joy and hope and love which seemed to rush over my heart, the moment I looked at her.
After staying in the room about five minutes, Mr. Sherwin whispered to his wife, and left us. Mrs. Sherwin still kept her place; but she said nothing, and hardly turned to look round at us more than once or twice. Perhaps she was occupied by her own thoughts; perhaps, from a motive of delicacy, she abstained even from an appearance of watching her daughter or watching me. Whatever feelings influenced her, I cared not to speculate on them. It was enough that I had the privilege of speaking to Margaret uninterruptedly; of declaring my love at last, without hesitation and without reserve.
How much I had to say to her, and how short a time seemed to be left me that evening to say it in! How short a time to tell her all the thoughts of the past which she had created in me; all the self-sacrifice to which I had cheerfully consented for her sake; all the anticipations of future happiness which were concentrated in her, which drew their very breath of life, only from the prospect of her rewarding love! She spoke but little; yet even that little it was a new delight to hear. She smiled now; she let me take her hand, and made no attempt to withdraw it. The evening had closed in; the darkness was stealing fast upon us; the still, dead-still figure of Mrs. Sherwin, always in the same place and the same attitude, grew fainter and fainter to the eye, across the distance of the room—but no thought of time, no thought of home ever once crossed my mind. I could have sat at the window with Margaret the long night through; without an idea of numbering the hours as they passed.
Ere long, however, Mr. Sherwin entered the room again, and effectually roused me by approaching and speaking to us. I saw that I had stayed long enough, and that we were not to be left together again, that night. So I rose and took my leave, having first fixed a time for seeing Margaret on the morrow. Mr. Sherwin accompanied me with great ceremony to the outer door. Just as I was leaving him, he touched me on the arm, and said in his most confidential tones:
"Come an hour earlier, to-morrow; and we'll go and get the licence together. No objection to that—eh? And the marriage, shall we say this day week? Just as you like, you know—don't let me seem to dictate. Ah! no objection to that, either, I see, and no objection on Margaret's side, I'll warrant! With respect to consents, in the marrying part of the business, there's complete mutuality—isn't there? Good night: God bless you!"
XII.
That night I went home with none of the reluctance or the apprehension which I had felt on the last occasion, when I approached our own door. The assurance of success contained in the events of the afternoon, gave me a trust in my own self-possession—a confidence in my own capacity to parry all dangerous questions—which I had not experienced before. I cared not how soon, or for how long a time, I might find myself in company with Clara or my father. It was well for the preservation of my secret that I was in this frame of mind; for, on opening my study door, I was astonished to see both of them in my room.
Clara was measuring one of my over-crowded book-shelves, with a piece of string; and was apparently just about to compare the length of it with a vacant space on the wall close by, when I came in. Seeing me, she stopped; and looked round significantly at my father, who was standing near her, with a file of papers in his hand.
"You may well feel surprised, Basil, at this invasion of your territory," he said, with peculiar kindness of manner—"you must, however, apply there, to the prime minister of the household," pointing to Clara, "for an explanation. I am only the instrument of a domestic conspiracy on your sister's part."
Clara seemed doubtful whether she should speak. It was the first time I had ever seen such an expression in her face, when she looked into mine.
"We are discovered, papa," she said, after a momentary silence, "and we must explain: but you know I always leave as many explanations as I can to you."
"Very well," said my father smiling; "my task in this instance will be an easy one. I was intercepted, Basil, on my way to my own room by your sister, and taken in here to advise about a new set of bookcases for you, when I ought to have been attending to my own money matters. Clara's idea was to have had these new bookcases made in secret, and put up as a surprise, some day when you were not at home. However, as you have caught her in the act of measuring spaces, with all the skill of an experienced carpenter, and all the impetuosity of an arbitrary young lady who rules supreme over everybody, further concealment is out of the question. We must make a virtue of necessity, and confess everything."
Poor Clara! This was her only return for ten days' utter neglect—and she had been half afraid to tell me of it herself. I approached and thanked her; not very gratefully, I am afraid, for I felt too confused to speak freely. It seemed like a fatality. The more evil I was doing in secret, evil to family ties and family principles, the more good was unconsciously returned to me by my family, through my sister's hands.
"I made no objection, of course, to the bookcase plan," continued my father. "More room is really wanted for the volumes on volumes that you have collected about you; but I certainly suggested a little delay in the execution of the project. The bookcases will, at all events, not be required here for five months to come. This day week we return to the country."
I could not repress a start of astonishment and dismay. Here was a difficulty which I ought to have provided for; but which I had most unaccountably never once thought of, although it was now the period of the year at which on all former occasions we had been accustomed to leave London. This day week too! The very day fixed by Mr. Sherwin for my marriage!
"I am afraid, Sir, I shall not be able to go with you and Clara so soon as you propose. It was my wish to remain in London some time longer." I said this in a low voice, without venturing to look at my sister. But I could not help hearing her exclamation as I spoke, and the tone in which she uttered it.
My father moved nearer to me a step or two, and looked in my face intently, with the firm, penetrating expression which peculiarly characterized him.
"This seems an extraordinary resolution," he said, his tones and manner altering ominously while he spoke. "I thought your sudden absence for the last two days rather odd; but this plan of remaining in London by yourself is really incomprehensible. What can you have to do?"
An excuse—no! not an excuse; let me call things by their right names in these pages—a lie was rising to my lips; but my father checked the utterance of it. He detected my embarrassment immediately, anxiously as I strove to conceal it.
"Stop," he said coldly, while the red flush which meant so much when it rose on his cheek, began to appear there for the first time. "Stop! If you must make excuses, Basil, I must ask no quest
ions. You have a secret which you wish to keep from me; and I beg you will keep it. I have never been accustomed to treat my sons as I would not treat any other gentlemen with whom I may happen to be associated. If they have private affairs, I cannot interfere with those affairs. My trust in their honour is my only guarantee against their deceiving me; but in the intercourse of gentlemen that is guarantee enough. Remain here as long as you like: we shall be happy to see you in the country, when you are able to leave town."
He turned to Clara. "I suppose, my love, you want me no longer. While I settle my own matters of business, you can arrange about the bookcases with your brother. Whatever you wish, I shall be glad to do." And he left the room without speaking to me, or looking at me again. I sank into a chair, feeling disgraced in my own estimation by the last words he had spoken to me. His trust in my honour was his only guarantee against my deceiving him. As I thought over that declaration, every syllable of it seemed to sear my conscience; to brand Hypocrite on my heart.
I turned towards my sister. She was standing at a little distance from me, silent and pale, mechanically twisting the measuring-string, which she still held between her trembling fingers; and fixing her eyes upon me so lovingly, so mournfully, that my fortitude gave way when I looked at her. At that instant, I seemed to forget everything that had passed since the day when I first met Margaret, and to be restored once more to my old way of life and my old home-sympathies. My head drooped on my breast, and I felt the hot tears forcing themselves into my eyes.
Clara stepped quietly to my side; and sitting down by me in silence, put her arm round my neck.
When I was calmer, she said gently:
"I have been very anxious about you, Basil; and perhaps I have allowed that anxiety to appear more than I ought. Perhaps I have been accustomed to exact too much from you—you have been too ready to please me. But I have been used to it so long; and I have nobody else that I can speak to as I can to you. Papa is very kind; but he can't be what you are to me exactly; and Ralph does not live with us now, and cared little about me, I am afraid, when he did. I have friends, but friends are not—"
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