Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  Peter Merton recollected himself and his French in a moment, ‘Yes, he wished for some gloves certainly, the choice of which he protracted for some time, and then asked casually, if there were not an English gentleman and lady lodging in the house.’

  Her face brightened as she replied - ‘Yes, there had been certain such persons in the house; did Monsieur wish to see them? Ah, how unfortunate! what a loss! they had left Brussels but the day before, with their charming little girl, who was not very well, for the change of air.’ She grew more and more voluble, having evidently embarked on a congenial strain. ‘Ah, how sorry they would be to miss seeing their friend - they had so few friends - would he leave his card, his name, that she might tell them what they had lost?’

  No, he would not.

  The lady was not at all disconcerted; she proceeded to expatiate on the beauty of Miladi and on that of Monsieur; on all the various agreeable qualities which she had discovered in them since they had been lodgers in her house; they seemed to have all the virtues under the sun, but, added the lady, when she had exhausted her panegyric, ‘Alas, they were poor, very poor.’

  ‘And how does Miladi bear that?’ inquired Uncle Peter.

  The shopwoman looked surprised at his question, but proceeded at once to answer it. ‘Ah, it was not Miladi who had borne it worst, it was Monsieur; when they had first come, she had been quite saddened to see the extent of Madame’s self-denial that Monsieur might enjoy little luxuries which she had denied herself; but Madame was so good, so religious, she had not thought before that a Protestant could be so religious as she was.’

  Mr. Merton was somewhat astonished and a good deal disappointed at what he heard; he took off his hat and bade the lady good bye, and sallied out again into the streets; he regained his hotel, went to his bedroom, where he lay awake, revolving many things, until the next morning, at an early hour of which he set off by the first train that would conduct him on his way to Spa.

  It was a rainy day, and the country through which he passed was very uninteresting. His spirits were much depressed - he kept asking himself now, again and again, why he had left Hursleigh? or if he must have left Hursleigh to leave Mrs. Howard, why he had left England? The rain had ceased, but it was still damp and uncomfortable, when he found himself ensconced in the coupe of great awkward diligence, that was to convey him from the railway station to his destination, which lay some distance from it.

  He might have observed ere this that the character of the scenery had much changed; that instead of the, flat, uninteresting country through which his journey lay at first, wild wooded hills, and streams, and chateaux, and cottages, lying pleasingly interspersed amongst them, had now succeeded on all sides. But he had sat back in his carriage absorbed in his own melancholy reflections, and quite unheedful of the aspect of the external world. now, at length, as the vast, slow old machine rumbled uncomfortably along, he looked through its shaky windows, and with every disposition to find fault, could not but be struck and pleased by the very picturesque road through which they drove. In spite of the rain that had fallen, there seemed here a strange lightness in the air, through which, as the shades of night began to fall, he saw tiny fireflies floating in all directions beneath the woods that skirted the roadside.

  A foreign watering-place is somewhat dull to a solitary Englishman, particularly if he be not inclined to enter into the amusements of the place, as was the case with Uncle Peter. He did not play billiards, nor rouge-et-noir, nor cricket - facilites for all of which he might have found there; he saw no one that he knew, and therefore was not invited to join any of the picnics, riding, and other parties got up by his countrymen whom the search after health or amusement had congregated on the same spot. And yet he was not dull exactly; though he avoided all the usual places of public resort, he spent his days pleasantly enough, going long distances into the beautiful surrounding neighbourhood upon the back of one of the stout ponies of the Ardennes, or short ones upon his own legs(which, to say the truth, he preferred). The table-d’hotes amused him, with all the ever-varying food which they present, not only to the bodily but the mental appetite of one so observing as himself. He had the English papers, too, which took up here, as at Hursleigh, no inconsiderable portion of his time. He fell, in a few days, into a sort of routine, which, if it were not enjoyment, was certainly more like it than the life he had been leading lately at Hursleigh with Mrs. Howard for his guest.

  One morning of peculiar beauty he had walked out of a mile or so into the country, following a route which he had not before taken; it conducted him, through wild and winding paths, along the brink of a mountain-stream which chafed and whitened beneath his feet. The scene was somewhat artificial - the hand of art had evidently assisted there the hand of nature; but it was pleasant enough, in the heavy heat of the noonday, to find yourself sheltered by tall, graceful beech-trees that rose on either side of you, and listen to the fall of running water. Uncle Peter found it so; he had brought a book out with him, and an umbrella, which, when abroad, invariably replaced the spud which was his ordinary companion at Hursleigh. He sat down upon a picturesque fragment of brown rock on which he first carefully laid his pocket-handkerchief. He opened his book, but did not read much; he fell into a reverie, more agreeable by far than any he had for a long time past indulged in. The hard frost, that years of solitude and prejudice had gathered about his heart, melted away before the genial influences of the scene and hour. His thoughts went back to his earlier days, the days of his boyhood, which were the only ones that had been brightened by anything like a strong affection in his life. No shadow of bitterness or brooding melancholy lay upon his heart; all was sunshine around him and within. I think, had his nephew - nay, even his niece - stood before him at that moment, he would not have hesitated to forgive every error of the former and forego every prejudice against the latter.

  But the two figures which at last did disturb him from the agreeable state of mental serenity were not his nephew nor his niece, but a young, bright-looking Belgian servant-girl, in a buff sort of jacket, a black petticoat, no bonnet, but the cleanest of white caps over her rosy features, and soft, braided, brown hair, by the side of whom walked a little girl of singular beauty, and no less remarkable intelligence and liveliness of manner. Her ringing laugh and voice had resounded through the pathway long before they came in sight; now that they had turned the corner formed by a mass of rock covered with underwood and wild flowers, he could hear distinctly what they said.

  ‘Here is the old place,’ said the little girl; ‘let us sit down; I will give you another lesson in English.’

  The nursemaid laughed, looked round, and the eyes of both fell on Uncle Peter, who was sitting close beside them, his figure at first concealed by the rocks and overhanging branches of the trees.

  He rose at once, took up his umbrella, and walked abruptly onward in an opposite direction; not annoyed by having his solitary musings interrupted exactly - he was in too genial a mood for that just then - but anxious rather to leave them in possession of a spot which for some reason they preferred.

  He walked on some little way, and again sat down, where he was quite out of reach of their voices, nor was in any danger of interrupting them. He had not sat many moments, however, when the two figures he had before seen crossed the wooden bridge which hung high over the stream that he had just traversed himself, and advanced straight towards him, the little girl holding in her hand a pocket-handkerchief that he had left behind him in his somewhat precipitate retreat.

  She came forward with a certain childlike grace and innate politeness, so different from the grace and politeness of a French child, that he at once discovered she was English, although it was in French that she addressed him, as she explained that she had found his pocket-handkerchief upon the rock upon which he had been sitting.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said to her in English, with a more thorough smile than had illuminated his face for years.

  The child’s face brightened - it was
bright enough before, but the ray of unexpected delight which broke over it now added strangely to its lustre and its beauty.

  ‘You are English,’ she said; ‘mamma is English, too, and papa; but I have never been in England; never, at least, since I can remember. I was in England once, but that was years ago. Will you tell me all about it? - how long is it since you were there?’

  Uncle Peter had been said by those who knew him best not to be fond of children; the assertion was untrue; he liked them, and often wished to get on with them, but could not do so; he had been, over and over again, so mortified by the ill success of his rough overtures to them, that he had for years ceased to make any. But here was a child who seemed to take to him at once; there was not a dash of forwardness in her manner, but she was not afraid of a certain hardness in him which had deterred other children; perhaps it was that he had so much less of it this morning than usual; however this might have been, she sat down at his side without hesitation, and talked to him with an ease and grace which captivated him at once, and apparently the Belgian nursemaid too, who stood by gazing from time to time admiringly upon her young charge.

  ‘I think papa and mamma would like you,’ said the little girl, musingly, after she had conversed with him for some time; ‘they do not see many persons, scarcely any English; but I think they would like you. Will you tell me your name, that I may tell them all about you?’

  ‘My name is Merton,’ said Uncle Peter.

  ‘That is very strange; it is their name and mine,’ said the little girl; ‘I am called Merton, Helena Merton.’

  Uncle Peter started, and looked fixedly upon his young companion; the truth flashed upon him at once; there was no great resemblance of feature to his nephew, but there were tones in her voice which had already reminded him of something, he knew not what, which he had heard before. The voice was like Charles Merton’s but still more it seemed to him like his brother’s.

  ‘Can you tell me your father’s Christian name,’ he said, quietly, ‘my little girl?’

  ‘Yes; it is Charles.’

  He sat for some moments in silence and indecision as to what should be his future movements. If his nephew and his niece were at Spa, he must certainly leave it, was his first thought. Need he do so? was his second - need he doom himself again by prejudices, the folly of which he was beginning to see more clearly, to a desolate old age, cheered only by the venal society of a woman like Mrs. Howard? Why not be reconciled to his nephew at once, and, with this child, whom he already felt that he could love, go back and fill the old house at Hursleigh with gaiety and delight? But how be reconciled? Who was to make the first overtures? Not he; and would his nephew? If he had not made them before, was it likely that he would now? And then, again, the thought of Lady Helena recurred, whom he had so long been accustomed to picture to himself as haughty, disdainful, and extravagant, that even the different picture conveyed of her character by their landlady at Brussels had not succeeded in conveying a thoroughly different impression of her to his mind.

  ‘Charles is papa’s Christian name,’ repeated the little girl, ‘and now will you tell me yours?’

  ‘It is of no consequence,’ said Uncle Peter gravely. Another silence succeeded, broken again by the little girl.

  ‘It is raining,’ she said; ‘look what large drops!’

  They were large indeed - the first of a heavy shower: they lay black and broad upon the stones beside them. Thicker and faster they came, till the trees became no shelter, and at length the best thing seemed, to be reconciled to a thorough wetting, and reach home as soon as possible.

  ‘We do not live far from here,’ said the little girl, ‘and there are trees the whole way.’

  They gained the high road, shaded by a long avenue of limes - they hurried rapidly along, Uncle Peter protecting his little friend with his large umbrella, but deriving little benefit from it himself, until they came to a small white house, separated from the road, with a garden in front of it.

  ‘This is our house,’ said the little girl, ‘wont you come in?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Uncle Peter. He saw her safely sheltered from the shower in the projecting porch of the old house, and hastened quickly away.

  He was almost sorry that he had done so afterwards: it seeded like declining to avail himself, on his part, of any opportunity for a reconciliation that might occur. He never doubted that the little girl would tell her story, and that it would at once be discovered who he was; and every footstep that he heard for the rest of the day, about the door of his apartment, he imagined to be his nephew’s.

  But Charles Merton was at Liège that day on business, and Lady Helena was too much engrossed with anxiety about the little girl having been out in the rain, to understand more from her story than that an old gentleman, an English man, had given her the protection of his umbrella.

  ‘Was it not odd, mamma; his name was Merton?’ persisted the little Helena.

  ‘Very,’ said Lady Helena. ‘But I trust, my dear child, you may not take cold; you have been so much better since you came to this place, that it would be sad indeed if this wetting were to throw you back.’

  The rain continued all that day, and the greater part of the next; but in the evening, Uncle Peter considered it sufficiently dry for him to venture forth from his rooms, to which he had been imprisoned for the most part during the rain.

  He took a short walk in the very opposite direction to his nephew’s house; he then went for a short time to the Redoute, where he had been accustomed to go and look at the papers in an evening; but this night, when he got hold of the Times, he could not command his attention sufficiently to understand it; he felt nervous and uncomfortable; he cast his eyes continually upon the group of persons similarly occupied with himself, to see if any addition, and what, had been made to their number; he looked up at every fresh entrance into the room, but he saw none but the faces - with many of which he had now become familiar - that were wont to frequent the place. At last he threw down the paper, and walked to the gaming tables; he looked round them both. There were old, hard faces there, and young eager ones; but they did not interest him to-night. There was a fashionably dressed young Englishman carelessly losing a low mountain of little gold pieces, and a sharp-featured woman of the bourgeois class accumulating with wolf-like rapacity a high mountain of large silver ones. But his eye wandered over all, and rested upon none; then he gave a sigh of relief, perhaps because he did not find what he so strangely wished and as strangely dreaded to behold there; and then he took up his hat and stick, and descended the stairs.

  In the dark archway which leads into the street, two persons were talking; he stopped involuntarily, arrested by the tones of one of the two voices.

  ‘I think I shall go in, and have a shy at the tables,’ said one voice.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said the other; ‘you will come and have some tea with my wife.’

  ‘I never take tea,’ said the first voice, hesitatingly.

  ‘At all events, you wont go in there; or if you do, you wont play. My own experience has been so fearful’ (the voice here, which he had recognised, grew low, but was perfectly distinct in its intense earnestness) ‘that you will not deny me such benefit as I may derive from it, in the right it gives me to advise another.’

  ‘How seriously you take the loss of a five-franc piece.’

  ‘Yes; because a fortune may follow it. Come along.’

  ‘Well, you must promise me a song from Lady Helena to make up for my self-denial.’

  They walked out. It was moonlight; but the pavement was shadowed by the tall white houses, and neither of the two perceived the short figure of the old man, which followed them at some distance.

  Uncle Peter saw them both enter the house where he had parted with his young companion. The upper windows were open, and voices, and occasionally a light laugh, could be heard by him as he stood outside And then, after a while, for he remained there long, came the sound of a piano and of a woman’
s voice, deep, and rich, and clear. It seemed of unusual compass and considerable cultivation. First, he heard an elaborate piece of foreign music. Then a few chords were struck, and some simpler English songs were sung He could hear the words of them as he stood outside. One there was that he knew well, and had been very fond of in days gone by; but he had not heard it for long, and it came over him now with a power which brought the tears to his eyes. It was one of the Irish melodies - ‘Oft in the stilly night.’ The words of the last stanza rang in his ears. He could not shake them from him. He walked up and down, repeating them. It seemed that they must have been written for himself, to describe the situation in which he had been so long.

  At last, the front door opened, and the visitor departed. They were now alone - Charles Merton and his wife. An irresistible impulse came over the old man: he walked up to the door, and rung the bell.

  It was opened by an old servant of Captain Merton who had remained with them through all their reverses, and who recognised him at once. He ushered him at once up stairs He had nerved himself for a scene - the thing, of all others, he most dreaded; but, as is not uncommonly the case in such circumstances, no scene was enacted. They were glad to see him, and of course surprised. Charles Merton introduced him to his wife; a glance at whom dispossessed Uncle Peter at once of the last of his prejudices, if any yet remained in her disfavour.

  All seemed to be natural, and in the common course of things; if he had spent every evening with them for months he could not have felt more at home.

  They talked of ordinary subjects; wished to order tea for him, which he declined; and then, when he rose to depart, Charles Merton said, in his old frank tones -

  ‘You will let us see you again, uncle; I have not yet introduced you to one of my family - the little Helena.’