CHAPTER XLIV.
I now set about carrying my plan of life into effect. I began withardent zeal and unwearied diligence the career of medical study. Ibespoke the counsels and instructions of my friend; attended him on hisprofessional visits, and acted, in all practicable cases, as hissubstitute. I found this application of time more pleasurable than I hadimagined. My mind gladly expanded itself, as it were, for the receptionof new ideas. My curiosity grew more eager in proportion as it wassupplied with food, and every day added strength to the assurance that Iwas no insignificant and worthless being; that I was destined to be_something_ in this scene of existence, and might some time lay claim tothe gratitude and homage of my fellow men.
I was far from being, however, monopolized by these pursuits. I wasformed on purpose for the gratification of social intercourse. To loveand to be loved; to exchange hearts and mingle sentiments with all thevirtuous and amiable whom my good fortune had placed within the circuitof my knowledge, I always esteemed my highest enjoyment and my chiefduty.
Carlton and his sister, Mrs. Wentworth, and Achsa Fielding, were my mostvaluable associates beyond my own family. With all these mycorrespondence was frequent and unreserved, but chiefly with the latter.This lady had dignity and independence, a generous and enlightenedspirit, beyond what her education had taught me to expect. She wascircumspect and cautious in her deportment, and was not prompt to makeadvances, or accept them. She withheld her esteem and confidence untilshe had full proof of their being deserved.
I am not sure that her treatment of me was fully conformable to herrules. My manners, indeed, as she once told me, she had never met within another. Ordinary rules were so totally overlooked in my behaviour,that it seemed impossible for any one who knew me to adhere to them. Nooption was left but to admit my claims to friendship and confidenceinstantly, or to reject them altogether.
I was not conscious of this singularity. The internal and undiscoveredcharacter of another weighed nothing with me in the question whetherthey should be treated with frankness or reserve. I felt no scruple onany occasion to disclose every feeling and every event. Any one whocould listen found me willing to talk. Every talker found me willing tolisten. Every one had my sympathy and kindness, _without_ claiming it;but I _claimed_ the kindness and sympathy of every one.
Achsa Fielding's countenance bespoke, I thought, a mind worthy to beknown and to be loved. The first moment I engaged her attention, I toldher so. I related the little story of my family, spread out before herall my reasonings and determinations, my notions of right and wrong, myfears and wishes. All this was done with sincerity and fervour, withgestures, actions, and looks, in which I felt as if my whole soul wasvisible. Her superior age, sedateness, and prudence, gave my deportmenta filial freedom and affection, and I was fond of calling her "_mamma_."
I particularly dwelt upon the history of my dear country-girl; paintedher form and countenance; recounted our dialogues, and related all myschemes for making her wise, and good, and happy. On these occasions myfriend would listen to me with the mutest attention. I showed her theletters I received, and offered her for her perusal those which I wrotein answer, before they were sealed and sent.
On these occasions she would look by turns on my face and away from me.A varying hue would play upon her cheek, and her eyes were fuller thanwas common, of meaning.
"Such-and-such," I once said, "are my notions; now, what do _you_think?"
"_Think_!" emphatically, and turning somewhat aside, she answered;"that you are the most--_strange_ of human creatures."
"But tell me," I resumed, following and searching her averted eyes; "amI right? would you do thus? Can you help me to improve my girl? I wishyou knew the bewitching little creature. How would that heart overflowwith affection and with gratitude towards you! She should be yourdaughter. No--you are too nearly of an age for that. A sister; her_elder_ sister, you should be. _That_, when there is no other relation,includes them all. Fond sisters you would be, and I the fond brother ofyou both."
My eyes glistened as I spoke. In truth, I am in that respect a merewoman. My friend was more powerfully moved. After a momentary struggleshe burst into tears.
"Good heaven!" said I, "what ails you? Are you not well?"
Her looks betrayed an unaccountable confusion, from which she quicklyrecovered:--"It was folly to be thus affected. Something ailed me, Ibelieve, but it is past. But, come, you want some lines of finishing thedescription of the _Boa_ in La Cepide."
"True. And I have twenty minutes to spare. Poor Franks is very illindeed, but he cannot be seen till nine. We'll read till then."
Thus on the wings of pleasure and improvement passed my time; notwithout some hues, occasionally, of a darker tint. My heart was now andthen detected in sighing. This occurred when my thoughts glanced at thepoor Eliza, and measured, as it were, the interval between us. "We aretoo--_too_ far apart," thought I.
The best solace on these occasions was the company of Mrs. Fielding; hermusic, her discourse, or some book which she set me to rehearsing toher. One evening, when preparing to pay her a visit, I received thefollowing letter from my Bess:--
_To A. Mervyn._
CURLING'S, May 6, 1794.
Where does this letter you promised me stay all this while? Indeed,Arthur, you torment me more than I deserve, and more than I could everfind it in my heart to do you. You treat me cruelly. I must say so,though I offend you. I must write, though you do not deserve that Ishould, and though I fear I am in a humour not very fit for writing. Ihad better go to my chamber and weep; weep at your--_unkindness_, I wasgoing to say; but, perhaps, it is only forgetfulness; and yet what canbe more unkind than forgetfulness? I am sure I have never forgotten you.Sleep itself, which wraps all other images in forgetfulness, only bringsyou nearer, and makes me see you more distinctly.
But where can this letter stay?--Oh! that--hush! foolish girl! If a wordof that kind escape thy lips, Arthur will be angry with thee; and then,indeed, thou mightest weep in earnest. _Then_ thou wouldst have somecause for thy tears. More than once already has he almost broken thyheart with his reproaches. Sore and weak as it now is, any newreproaches would assuredly break it quite.
I _will_ be content. I will be as good a housewife and dairywoman, stirabout as briskly, and sing as merrily, as Peggy Curling. Why not? I amas young, as innocent, and enjoy as good health. Alas! she has reason tobe merry. She has father, mother, brothers; but I have none. And he thatwas all these, and more than all these, to me, has--_forgotten_ me.
But, perhaps, it is some accident that hinders. Perhaps Oliver left themarket earlier than he used to do; or you mistook the house; or perhapssome poor creature was sick, was taken suddenly ill, and you were busyin chafing his clay-cold limbs; it fell to you to wipe the clammy dropsfrom his brow. Such things often happen (don't they, Arthur?) to peopleof your trade, and some such thing has happened now; and that was thereason you did not write.
And if so, shall I repine at your silence? Oh no! At such a time thepoor Bess might easily be, and ought to be, forgotten. She would notdeserve your love if she could repine at a silence brought about thisway.
And oh! may it be so! May there be nothing worse than this! If the sickman--see, Arthur, how my hand trembles. Can you read this scrawl? Whatis always bad, my fears make worse than ever.
I must not think that. And yet, if it be so, if my friend himself besick, what will become of me? Of me, that ought to cherish you andcomfort you; that ought to be your nurse. Endure for you your sickness,when she cannot remove it.
Oh! that----I _will_ speak out--Oh that this strange scruple had neverpossessed you! Why should I _not_ be with you? Who can love you andserve you as well as I? In sickness and health, I will console andassist you. Why will you deprive yourself of such a comforter and suchan aid as I would be to you?
Dear Arthur, think better of it. Let me leave this dreary spot, where,indeed, as long as I am thus alone, I can enjoy no comfort. Let me cometo you. I will put up wi
th any thing for the sake of seeing you, thoughit be but once a day. Any garret or cellar in the dirtiest lane ordarkest alley will be good enough for me. I will think it a palace, sothat I can _but_ see you now and then.
Do not refuse--do not argue with me, so fond you always are of arguing!My heart is set upon your compliance. And yet, dearly as I prize yourcompany, I would not ask it, if I thought there was any thing improper.You say there is, and you talk about it in a way that I do notunderstand. For my sake, you tell me, you refuse; but let me entreat youto comply for my sake.
Your pen cannot teach me like your tongue. You write me long letters,and tell me a great deal in them; but my soul droops when I call to mindyour voice and your looks, and think how long a time must pass before Isee you and hear you again. I have no spirit to think upon the words andpaper before me. My eye and my thought wander far away.
I bethink me how many questions I might ask you; how many doubts youmight clear up if you were but within hearing. If you were but close tome; but I cannot ask them here. I am too poor a creature at the pen,and, somehow or another, it always happens, I can only write aboutmyself or about you. By the time I have said all this, I have tired myfingers, and when I set about telling you how this poem and that storyhave affected me, I am at a loss for words; I am bewildered and bemazed,as it were.
It is not so when we talk to one another. With your arm about me, andyour sweet face close to mine, I can prattle forever. Then my heartoverflows at my lips. After hours thus spent, it seems as if there werea thousand things still to be said. Then I can tell you what the bookhas told me. I can repeat scores of verses by heart, though I heard themonly once read; but it is because _you_ have read them to me.
Then there is nobody here to answer my questions. They never look intobooks. They hate books. They think it waste of time to read. Even Peggy,who you say has naturally a strong mind, wonders what I can find toamuse myself in a book. In her playful mood, she is always teasing me tolay it aside.
I do not mind her, for I like to read; but, if I did not like it before,I could not help doing so ever since you told me that nobody could gainyour love who was not fond of books. And yet, though I like it on thataccount more than I did, I don't read somehow so earnestly andunderstand so well as I used to do when my mind was all at ease, alwaysfrolicsome, and ever upon _tiptoe_, as I may say.
How strangely (have you not observed it?) I am altered of late!--I, thatwas ever light of heart, the very soul of gayety, brimfull of glee, amnow demure as our old _tabby_--and not half as wise. Tabby had witenough to keep her paws out of the coals, whereas poor I have--but nomatter what. It will never come to pass, I see that. So many reasons forevery thing! Such looking forward! Arthur, are not men sometimes too_wise_ to be happy?
I am now _so_ grave. Not one smile can Peggy sometimes get from me,though she tries for it the whole day. But I know how it comes. Strange,indeed, if, losing father and sister, and thrown upon the wide world,penniless and _friendless_ too, now that _you_ forget me, I shouldcontinue to smile. No. I never shall smile again. At least, while I stayhere, I never shall, I believe.
If a certain somebody suffer me to live with him,--_near_ him, Imean,--perhaps the sight of him as he enters the door, perhaps the soundof his voice, asking, "Where is my Bess?" might produce a smile. Such aone as the very thought produces now,--yet not, I hope, so transient,and so quickly followed by a tear. Women are born, they say, to trouble,and tears are given them for their relief. 'Tis all very true.
Let it be as I wish, will you? If Oliver bring not back good tidings, ifhe bring not a letter from thee, or thy letter still refuses myrequest,--I don't know what may happen. Consent, if you love your poorgirl.
E.H.
Arthur Mervyn; Or, Memoirs of the Year 1793 Page 44
