by Grant Allen
At the end of a fortnight I went back to Palmettos. A few days after, who should come to call but old General Farquhar, and with him, of all men in the world, Mr. Carvalho! Mamma was furious. She managed to be frigidly polite as long as they stopped, but when they were gone she went off at once into one of her worst nervous crisises (that’s not the regular plural, I’m sure, but no matter). “I know his mother when she was a slave of your grandfather’s,” she said; “an upstanding proud octaroon girl, who thought herself too good for her place because she was nearly a white woman. She left the estate immediately after that horrid emancipation, to keep a school of brown girls in Kingston. And then she had the insolence to go and get actually married at church to old Jacob Carvalho! Just like those brown people. Their grandmothers never married.” For poor mamma always made it a subject of reproach against the respectable coloured folk that they tried to live more decently and properly than their ancestors used to do in slavery times.
Mr. Carvalho never came to Palmettos again, but whenever I went to Kingston to dances I met him, and in spite of mamma I talked to him too. One day I went over to a ball at Government House, and there I saw both him and Harry Verner. For the first time in my life I had two proposals made me, and on the same night. Harry Verner’s came first.
“Edie,” he said to me, between the dances, as we were strolling out in the gardens, West Indian fashion, “I often think Agualta is rather lonely. It wants a lady to look after the house, while I’m down looking after the cane pieces. We made the best return in sugar of any estate on the island, last year, you know; but a man can’t subsist entirely on sugar. He wants sympathy and intellectual companionship.” (This was quite an effort for Harry.) “Now, I’ve not been in a hurry to get married. I’ve waited till I could find some one whom I could thoroughly respect and admire as well as love. I’ve looked at all the girls in Jamaica, before making my choice, and I’ve determined not to be guided by monetary considerations or any other considerations except those of the affections and of real underlying goodness and intellect. I feel that you are the one girl I have met who is far and away my superior in everything worth living for, Edie; and I’m going to ask you whether you will make me proud and happy for ever by becoming the mistress of Agualta.”
I felt that Harry was really conceding so very much to me, and honouring me so greatly by offering me a life partnership in that flourishing sugar-estate, that it really went to my heart to have to refuse him. But I told him plainly I could not marry him because I did not love him. Harry seemed quite surprised at my refusal, but answered politely that perhaps I might learn to love him hereafter, that he would not be so foolish as to press me further now, and that he would do his best to deserve my love in future. And with that little speech he led me back to the ballroom, and handed me over to my next partner.
Later on in the evening, Mr. Carvalho too, with an earnest look in his handsome dark eyes, asked leave to take me for a few turns in the garden. We sat down on a bench under the great mango tree, and he began to talk to me in a graver fashion than usual.
“Your mother was annoyed, I fear, Miss Hazleden,” he said, “that I should call at Palmettos.”
“To tell you the truth,” I answered, “I think she was.”
“I was afraid she would be — I knew she would be, in fact; and for that very reason I hesitated to do it, as I hesitated to dance with you the first time I met you, as soon as I knew who you really were. But I felt I ought to face it out. You know by this time, no doubt, Miss Hazleden, that my mother was once a slave on your grandfather’s estate. Now, it is a theory of mine — a little Quixotic, perhaps, but still a theory of mine — that the guilt and the shame of slavery lay with the slave-owners (forgive me if I must needs speak against your own class), and not with the slaves or their descendants. We have nothing on earth to be ashamed of. Thinking thus, I felt it incumbent upon me to call at Palmettos, partly in defence of my general principles, and partly also because I wished to see whether you shared your mother’s ideas on that subject.”
“You were quite right in what you did, Mr. Carvalho,” I answered; “and I respect you for the boldness with which you cling to what you think your duty.”
“Thank you, Miss Hazleden,” he answered, “you are very kind. Now, I wish to speak to you about another and more serious question. Forgive my talking about myself for a moment; I feel sure you have kindly interested yourself in me a little. I too am proud of my birth, in my way, for I am the son of an honest able man and of a tender true woman. I come on one side from the oldest and greatest among civilized races, the Jews; and on the other side from many energetic English, French, and Dutch families whose blood I am vain enough to prize as a precious inheritance even though it came to me through the veins of an octaroon girl. I have lately arrived at the conclusion that it is not well for me to remain in Jamaica. I cannot bear to live in a society which will not receive my dear mother on the same terms as it receives me, and will not receive either of us on the same terms as it receives other people. We are not rich, but we are well enough off to go to live in England; and to England I mean soon to go.”
“I am glad and sorry to hear it,” I said. “Glad, because I am sure it is the best thing for your own happiness, and the best opening for your great talents; sorry, because there are not many people in Jamaica whose society I shall miss so much.”
“What you say encourages me to venture a little further. When I get to England, I intend to go to Cambridge, and take a degree there, so as to put myself on an equality with other educated people. Now, Miss Hazleden, I am going to ask you something which is so great a thing to ask that it makes my heart tremble to ask it. I know no man on earth, least of all myself, dare think himself fit for you, or dare plead his own cause before you without feeling his own unworthiness and pettiness of soul beside you. Yet just because I know how infinitely better and nobler and higher you are than I am, I cannot resist trying, just once, whether I may not hope that perhaps you will consider my appeal, and count my earnestness to me for righteousness. I have watched you and listened to you and admired you till in spite of myself I have not been able to refrain from loving you. I know it is madness; I know it is yearning after the unattainable; but I cannot help it. Oh, don’t answer me too soon and crush me, but consider whether perhaps in the future you might not somehow at some time think it possible.”
He leaned forward towards me in a supplicating attitude. At that moment I loved him with all the force of my nature. Yet I dared not say so. The spectre of the race-prejudice rose instinctively like a dividing wall between my heart and my lips. “Mr. Carvalho,” I said, “take me back to my seat. You must not talk so, please.”
“One minute, Miss Hazleden,” he went on passionately; “one minute, and then I will be silent for ever. Remember, we might live in England, far away from all these unmeaning barriers. I do not ask you to take me now, and as I am; I will do all I can to make myself more worthy of you. Only let me hope; don’t answer me no without considering it. I know how little I deserve such happiness; but if you will take me, I will live all my life for no other purpose than to make you see that I am striving to show myself grateful for your love. Oh, Miss Hazleden, do listen to me.”
I felt that in another moment I should yield; I could have seized his outstretched hands then, and told him that I loved him, but I dared not. “Mr. Carvalho,” I said, “let us go back now. I will write to you to-morrow.” He gave me his arm with a deep breath, and we went back slowly to the music.
“Edith,” said my mother sharply, when I got home that night, “Harry has been here, and I know two things. He has proposed to you and you have refused him, I’m certain of that; and the other thing is, that young Carvalho has been insolent enough to make you an offer.”
I said nothing.
“What did you answer him?”
“That I would reply by letter.”
“Sit down, then, and write as I tell you.”
I sat down mechani
cally. Mamma began dictating. I cried as I wrote, but I wrote it. I know now how very shameful and wrong it was of me; but I was only eighteen, and I was accustomed to do as mamma told me in everything. She had a terrible will, you know, and a terrible temper.
“‘Dear Mr. Carvalho’ (you’d better begin so, or he’ll know I dictated it),— ‘I was too much surprised at your strange conduct last night to give you an answer immediately. On thinking it over, I can only say I am astonished you should have supposed such a thing as you suggested lay within the bounds of possibility. In future, it will be well that we should avoid one another. Our spheres are different. Pray do not repeat your mistake of last evening. — Yours truly, E. Hazleden.’ Have you put all that down?”
“Mamma,” I cried, “it is abominable. It isn’t true. I can’t sign it.”
“Sign it,” said my mother, briefly.
I took the pen and did so. “You will break my heart, mamma,” I said. “You will break my heart and kill me.”
“It shall go first thing to-morrow,” said my mother, taking no notice of my words. “And now, Edith, you shall marry Harry Verner.”
II.
Seven years are a large slice out of one’s life, and the seven years spent in fighting poor dear mamma over that fixed project were not happy ones. But on that point nothing on earth would bend me. I would not marry Harry Verner. At last, after poor mamma’s sudden death, I thought it best to sell the remnant of the estate for what it would fetch, and go back to England. I was twenty-five then, and had slowly learnt to have a will of my own meanwhile. But during all that time I hardly ever heard again of Ernest Carvalho. Once or twice, indeed, I was told he had taken a distinguished place at Cambridge, and had gone to the bar in the Temple; but that was all.
A month or two after my return to London my aunt Emily (who was not one of the West Indian side of the house) managed to get me an invitation to Mrs. Bouverie Barton’s. Of course you know Mrs. Bouverie Barton, the famous novelist, whose books everybody talks about. Well, Mrs. Barton lives in Eaton Place, and gives charming Thursday evening receptions, which are the recognized rendezvous of all literary and artistic London. If there is a celebrity in town, from Paris or Vienna, Timbuctoo or the South Sea Islands, you are sure to meet him in the little back drawing-room at Eaton Place. The music there is always of the best, and the conversation of the cleverest. But what pleased me most on that occasion was the fact that Mr. Gerard Llewellyn, the author of that singular book “Peter Martindale,” was to be the lion of the party on this particular Thursday. I had just been reading “Peter Martindale” — who had not, that season? for it was the rage of the day — and I had never read any novel before which so impressed me by its weird power, its philosophical insight, and its transparent depth of moral earnestness. So I was naturally very much pleased at the prospect of seeing and meeting so famous a man as Mr. Gerard Llewellyn.
When we entered Mrs. Bouverie Barton’s handsome rooms, we saw a great crowd of people whom even the most unobservant stranger would instantly have recognized as out of the common run. There was the hostess herself, with her kindly smile and her friendly good-humoured manner, hardly, if at all, concealing the profound intellectual strength that lay latent in her calm grey eyes. There were artistic artists and rugged artists; satirical novelists and gay novelists; heavy professors and deep professors — every possible representative of “literature, science, and art.” At first, I was put off with introductions to young poetasters, and gentlemen with an interest in cuneiform inscriptions; but I had quite made up my mind to get a talk with Mr. Gerard Llewellyn; and to Mr. Gerard Llewellyn our hostess at last promised to introduce me. She crossed the room in search of him near the big fireplace.
A tall, handsome young man, with long moustache and beard, and piercing black eyes, stood somewhat listlessly leaning against the mantelshelf, and talking with an even, brilliant flow to a short, stout, Indian-looking gentleman at his side. I knew in a moment that the short stout gentleman must be Mr. Llewellyn, for in the tall young man, in spite of seven years and the long moustaches, I recognized at once Ernest Carvalho.
But to my surprise Mrs. Bouverie Barton brought the tall young man, and not his neighbour, across the room with her. She must have made a mistake, I thought. “Mr. Carvalho,” she said, “I want you to come and be introduced to the lady on the ottoman. Miss Hazleden, Mr. Carvalho!”
“I have met Mr. Carvalho long ago in Jamaica,” I said warmly, “but I am very glad indeed to meet him here again. However, I hardly expected to see him here this evening.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Barton, with some surprise in her tone; “I thought you asked to be introduced to the author of ‘Peter Martindale.’”
“So I did,” I answered; “but I understood his name was Llewellyn.”
“Oh!” said Ernest Carvalho, quickly, “that is only my nom de plume. But the authorship is an open secret now, and I suppose Mrs. Barton thought you knew it.”
“It is a happy chance, at any rate, Mr. Carvalho,” I said, “which has thrown us two again together.”
He bowed gravely and with dignity. “You are very kind to say so,” he said. “It is always a pleasure to meet old acquaintances from Jamaica.”
My heart beat violently. There was a studied coldness in his tone, I thought, and no wonder; but if I had been in love with Ernest Carvalho before, I felt a thousand more times in love with him now as he stood there in his evening dress, a perfect English gentleman. He looked so kinglike with his handsome, slightly Jewish features, his piercing black eyes, his long moustaches, and his beautiful delicate thin-lipped mouth. There was such an air of power in his forehead, such a speaking evidence of high culture in his general expression. And then, he had written “Peter Martindale!” Why, who else could possibly have written it? I wondered at my own stupidity in not having guessed the authorship at once. But, most terrible of all, I had probably lost his love for ever. I might once have called Ernest Carvalho my husband, and I had utterly alienated him by a single culpable act of foolish weakness.
“You are living in London, now?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, “we have a little home of our own in Kensington. I am working on the staff of the Morning Detonator.”
“Mrs. Carvalho is here this evening,” said Mrs. Bouverie Barton. “Do you know her? I suppose you do, of course.”
Mrs. Carvalho! As I heard the name, I was conscious of a deep but rapid thud, thud, thud in my ear, and after a moment it struck me that the thud came from the quick beating of my own heart. Then Ernest Carvalho was married!
“No,” he said in reply, seeing that I did not answer immediately. “Miss Hazleden has never met her, I believe; but I shall be happy to introduce her;” and he turned to a sofa where two or three ladies were chatting together, a little in the corner.
A very queenly old lady, with snow-white hair, prettily covered in part by a dainty and becoming lace cap, held out her small white hand to me with a gracious smile. “My mother,” Ernest Carvalho said quietly; and I took the proffered hand with a warmth that must have really surprised the slave-born octaroon. The one thought that was uppermost in my mind was just this, that after all Ernest Carvalho was not married. Once more I heard the thud in my ear, and nothing else.
As soon as I could notice anybody or anything except myself, I began to observe that Mrs. Carvalho was very handsome. She was rather dark, to be sure, but less so than many Spanish or Italian ladies I had seen; and her look and manner were those of a Louis Quinze marquise, with a distinct reminiscence of the stately old Haitian French politeness. She could never have had any education except what she had picked up for herself; but no one would suspect the deficiency now, for she was as clever as all half-castes, and had made the best of her advantages meanwhile, such as they were. When she talked about the literary London in which her son lived and moved, I felt like the colonial-bred ignoramus I really was; and when she told me they had just been to visit Mr. Fradelli’s new picture at the stu
dio, I was positively too ashamed to let her see that I had never in my life heard of that famous painter before. To think that that queenly old lady was still a slave girl at Palmettos when my poor dear mother was a little child! And to think, too, that my own family would have kept her a slave all her life long, if only they had had the power! I remembered at once with a blush what Ernest Carvalho had said to me the last time I saw him, about the people with whom the guilt and shame of slavery really rested.
I sat, half in a maze, talking with Mrs. Carvalho all the rest of that evening. Ernest lingered near for a while, as if to see what impression his mother produced upon me, but soon went off, proudly I thought, to another part of the room, where he got into conversation with the German gentleman who wore the big blue wire-guarded spectacles. Yet I fancied he kept looking half anxiously in our direction throughout the evening, and I was sure I saw him catch his mother’s eye furtively now and again. As for Mrs. Carvalho, she made a conquest of me at once, and she was evidently well pleased with her conquest. When I rose to leave, she took both my hands in hers, and said to me warmly, “Miss Hazleden, we shall be so pleased to see you whenever you like to come, at Merton Gardens.” Had Ernest ever told her of his proposal? I wondered.
Mrs. Bouverie Barton was very kind to me. She kept on asking me to her Thursday evenings, and there time after time I met Ernest Carvalho. At first, he seldom spoke to me much, but at last, partly because I always talked so much to his mother perhaps, he began to thaw a little, and often came up to me in quite a friendly way. “We have left Jamaica and all that behind, Miss Hazleden,” he said once, “and here in free England we may at least be friends.” Oh, how I longed to explain the whole truth to him, and how impossible an explanation was. Besides, he had seen so many other girls since, and very likely his boyish fancy for me had long since passed away altogether. You can’t count much on the love-making of eighteen and twenty.
