CHAPTER XVIII.
Poor mother! She had a double task to do—double and contrary. To carry a daughter to the altar, and to tear a son from its perilous precincts. Monica wondered that Agatha—but then she was always such a selfish, giddy thing!—would not insist upon deferring her marriage with the Baronet until her elder sister should wed her beloved. For Candituft had made good—seeming good—his cause of delay. He had suddenly discovered some dormant right to some long-forgotten property; and he would first secure that to lay it as an offering at the feet of his bride. Monica, in her warm affection, would have gladly married at once, content to wait for after prosperity as it might follow; but her mother thought it best to tarry. Great good might come of a little delay; and Mr. Jericho could not be hurried to name the exact amount of dowry. Now, with respect to Agatha, the case was wholly different. She had not her sister’s strength of mind; and the Baronet was in the full enjoyment of his full fortune; moreover, with a liberality worthy of imitation, he would have been content to marry Agatha even with no other dowry than the first bride brought to the first bridegroom.
Therefore Jericho’s house hummed in every nook and corner with the note of preparation; with the tuning prelude to hymeneal song. Nevertheless, in Jericho’s house great and torturing was the sacrifice of heart. For was it nothing for Monica to plate her anxious face with smiles; to hover about her sister with looks and words of gentle meaning; of sweet congratulation, when her own breast was misery? Was it nothing to gather a marriage garland for another, when she was yet smarting from nettles? Nothing to forego the robe of the bride and to don the meaner garments—made robes of sorrow and humiliation by disappointment—of the bridesmaid?
And there was another victim, another heroine who, with the fortitude of an Amazon, would smile at self-suffering.—Wemean, the Hon. Miss Candituft. Can it be believed that that heroic young lady consented to be second bridesmaid to her rival? Of course, the simple Agatha dreamt not of the agony she inflicted when she prayed such grace of her bosom friend; the rather that the devotion was accorded with the sweetest, the most touching alacrity. Agatha was to wear the nuptial wreath, and Miss Candituft the willow. Nevertheless, the rejected one would carry it like a martyr, turning the reproach to glory.
Our Man of Money—absolved of the liability of dowry—was in the best of moods. His opinion of the merits of Hodmadod continually increased, though Candituft had somehow to pay for the growth. The Baronet became every day a finer fellow; Candituft every day a meaner dog. The excellence accorded to one, was remorselessly taken from the other. Thus, pending the nuptial preparation, Hodmadod was the favoured creature at the hearth of Jericho, whilst Candituft was coldly allowed an unconsidered corner. Nevertheless, Candituft had too much benevolence, too much affection for the brotherhood of man to resent the neglect. Indeed, how should he, since he would not behold it? Some men will not see an affront, even when big as a street-door in their face: as there have been philosophers, so raised above human weakness, who have not felt the violence of a leg, have not discovered when they were kicked.
Now let us for a while leave the nuptial loves, busied with the best and the finest, at Jericho House; and look in upon a certain second floor, in Primrose Place.
It is plain enough that Basil has told his story—won his wife. The happy, altered looks of Bessy speak a new and deep content of heart. Indeed, every person present—there are four women, all busy, hence the room at Primrose Place may be considered full—gives indication of a coming ceremony. Bessy is at work, it would appear with all her heart in her sewing.—And Bessy’s mother is earnest, grave, in her appeal to the better judgment of Mrs. Topps who, it is plain, has just returned uponher errand, bringing a skein of silk that can in no way be made to match with the colour of the piece to be made up. Miss Barnes is appealed to—Miss Barnes is the young sempstress, the lodger of the attic, who all unconsciously received the benison of Basil, and who has come down to assist in the work—and Miss Barnes joins her verdict against Mrs. Topps; who, a little vexed with herself, ties her riband strings with an angry snatch, and descends to amend her serious error, by changing the skein.
The most innocent and the most hardened bachelor of threescore, brought into the room, would at once divine the sort of work prepared by those three women. He would at once know their cutting and their sewing to be spells preparatory to the tying of a knot that should, for the term of natural life, hold tight together two fellow creatures. The women worked so earnestly—so readily; whilst unseen little loves fluttered up and down; now running along the edge of a hem, and now giving a flourishing caper with some final stitch.
The room—Mrs. Carraways had a dozen times said as much—was in a dreadful litter. Calicos and flannels, and stuffs, and brown holland, and cotton webs with blue stripes lay heaped about, in very homely contrast to the pretty lilac-coloured satin carefully worked at by Miss Barnes; a satin that Bessy would now and then glance at as though she felt towards it a living tenderness. And still looking, she seemed all the happier with every look.
And Mrs. Carraways seemed much amended. She appeared to have set aside her anxious aspect, and taken, as her husband jovially said, a new lease of heart. And so, she worked with happy zeal; and even hummed an old, old tune, as now and then she looked about her, and her eye rested, now upon a canvas bag, now upon a hat of tarpaulin,—things that, telling her of the long, long voyage to the other side of the world, made her only a few days ago sick with apprehension.
There was a sudden pause—a perfect silence. And then a carriage whirled up Primrose Place, and stopt short at the door.“Who can that be?” cried Mrs. Carraways, with a look of dread, and laying down her work. Miss Barnes immediately went to the window, and fluently enough described the brilliant carriage, and the many-coloured liveries.
“I thought so,” cried Mrs. Carraways, turning pale, “it’s Mr. Jericho.” As she spoke, the smitten knocker chattered—for it was a modest knocker, too light and small to thunder—through the house.
“No,” cried Miss Barnes. “Not Mr. Jericho. A lady.”
“Mrs. Jericho!” exclaimed Bessy, becoming nervous—looking very pale in her turn; and casting a strange, anxious glance at the lilac-coloured satin laid down by Miss Barnes. “Is she alone?”
“Quite alone,” said Miss Barnes; and without another word, the sempstress gathered up her work, and left the room.
In another moment, Susan entered with Mrs. Jericho’s card. “Show the lady up stairs,” said Mrs. Carraways in a very twitter—“And say, we will see her directly.” Susan descended upon her mission, and Mrs. Carraways and Bessy ran to their several rooms, like startled rabbits to their burrows.
Mrs. Jericho slowly ascended the stairs, and with prodigious dignity entered the second floor front. “Missus Carraways, mum, will be with you directly,” said Susan who, in her way, was a little flustered; inasmuch as she had been suddenly summoned from peeling turnips to wipe her hands for Mrs. Jericho’s card.
Mrs. Jericho stood alone in the apartment which, in all its details, she set herself with her best intelligence, to read. Very speedily she divined the meaning of the various articles about her; the checked shirting; the plaids; the tarpaulin; with here and there some tin utensil, bright and new for travel. They made her sad, melancholy. She could have almost wept; for somehow, she seemed to see in everything the loss of Basil. Pride was sinking; affection rising in her heart; when her eye glanced upon a piece of white satin—perhaps, it was for a bonnet, we cannot say—and in that white, unspotted web, herwoman’s shrewdness read a whole history. Instantly she was herself; more than ever herself: full to overflowing with the wrongs of a mother. In that bit of white satin, did Mrs. Jericho read—as she firmly believed—the fatal marriage warrant of her son, her eldest born.
Mrs. Carraways had, of course, to change her cap. Such was her first intention; the serious purpose that had sent her flying to her room. However, let no woman say she will at a pinch change her cap and nothing more. For Mrs. Carraways had no sooner entered her room, and caught a bit of herself in her glass, than she was convinced she must also change her gown. She cared nothing for Mrs. Jericho; she had ceased to have respect or esteem for her; nevertheless, it was due to herself “not to be seen a figure.” These thoughts engaged Mrs. Carraways, as her fluttered hand, like the last minstrel’s, wandered among the strings. At length, however, in the best cap and gown that fortune had left her, Mrs. Carraways appeared before her visitor.
Mrs. Jericho did not affect cordiality. She made no attempt to excuse her absence—her neglect of old acquaintance. Mrs. Jericho was too wise a woman; knew too well the person with whom she had to confer. No: she would not attempt to shirk her ingratitude; but—if we may say as much—at once took the scorpion by the tail.
“Mrs. Carraways, you will probably understand why we have not met since our mutual circumstances have so completely changed?” Thus, with hardest smile, spoke Mrs. Jericho.
“I would I could understand all things quite as well,” said Mrs. Carraways, with cold and steady look.
“It would have been painful to you, painful to myself,” said Mrs. Jericho.
“And you were quite right,” answered the broken lady, “to spare at least one of us.”
Mrs. Jericho waived her head and arm, as much as to intimate that all needful preface being done, she might at once begin the subject-matter. “Do you know what brings me here, Mrs. Carraways?”
“I think, madam, I can guess,” was the ready answer.
“It is this, madam,” said Mrs. Jericho, with her best thunder, raising the white satin. “This!”
Mrs. Carraways did not for one moment affect surprise. No: to the astonishment of the sonorous Mrs. Jericho, she calmly replied—“I thought so.”
Mrs. Jericho immediately disposed her soul for self-enjoyment. The said soul felt a yearning for lofty exercise; and with good reason; it had so long obeyed the soul of Jericho—aggrandised, sublimated by money—that it longed to assert its natural importance; an importance that, at the commencement of this history—if the reader recollects as much—was made sufficiently evident. Mrs. Jericho’s majesty had been confined, doubled up, like a snake in a box; and it was not to be wondered at that, the occasion offering, it should desire to come out and air itself, showing its fine proportions. The husband Jericho had somehow been the snake-charmer; now Mrs. Carraways was weak and ignorant as babyhood.
“And may I ask you, madam, what you propose by inveigling a young man”—
“Really, Mrs. Jericho,” said Mrs. Carraways, and even with the most placid manner she managed to rise above the violence of her visitor—“really, I must hear nothing of this. Mr. Carraways has, I believe, communicated with Mr. Jericho; and I take it, as they are agreed”—and Mrs. Carraways was most provoking in her humility—“as they are of accord, the less we women interfere the better.”
“That may be your degraded opinion of the rights of women, Mrs. Carraways; of the rights of a mother. Happily, however, I have other notions; other feelings. To be sure, you may very calmly contemplate the marriage of your daughter with a husband of untold affluence—of untold affluence, ma’am.”
“Untold,—I believe so; yes, untold,” observed Mrs. Carraways, very quietly.
Mrs. Jericho would not pause in her course to notice the sarcasm. “But, madam, it is otherwise to the mother whosechild, whose only son, is to be lured, entrapped, and cruelly sacrificed to the hopeless condition of a penniless wife.”
“I assure you, madam,”—Mrs. Carraways’ cheek tingled a little; but she had made up her mind to be cool, and cool she would be though—as she afterwards phrased it—her blood was boiling—“I assure you, Mr. Carraways has no thought of Mr. Pennibacker’s probable, I might say, his problematical wealth; though, no doubt, it must be immense, if all the stories be true about the mines of platina.”
“My dear Mrs. Carraways”—that lady stared at the sudden courtesy—“let us understand one another. Mr. Jericho has, I can answer for it, every wish to serve the family. You are about to make a voyage; about to begin the world anew. Just grant us one favour, and there is nothing we will not do for you.” It was thus, without effort, Mrs. Jericho subsided from the imperious to the polite, when she found it best to sink to an advantage.
“You are very kind; very suddenly kind,” said Mrs. Carraways; “but I think even now we are so rich—yes, so very rich, that it is impossible Mr. Jericho can assist us.”
“Come, come”—said Mrs. Jericho, laying her hand upon Mrs. Carraways’ hand, and the good lady smiled a little sourly at the action—“we are both mothers; and must consider our children’s happiness. As for Basil, he is quite a boy; absurdly young to take a wife. No fixed affections. A very boy.”
“He is young; very young,” confessed Mrs. Carraways.
“Do not suppose, my dear madam, that I would thwart his affections when pronounced and real. And as for any inequality of fortune, why, after all, I would not weigh my boy’s heart against money. Certainly not. So pray, my dear Mrs. Carraways, think what I said about fortune, as so much idle temper; mere heat of words, with no meaning; none, I assure you.” And then Mrs. Jericho, in the simplest manner possible, asked—“Pray, when do you sail?”
“In about a fortnight, I believe,” was the answer, and Mrs. Carraways could not repress a sigh.
“So soon!” cried Mrs. Jericho, and her face darkened.—“Well, that is early—very early. Now, dear Mrs. Carraways”—and Mrs. Jericho drawing up her chair, became impressive, then pathetic—“what I ask for the happiness of both our children is only this.—Leave Basil here; let him remain a year or two with us; and then, if his affection still holds for your daughter, why, I’m sure the young people shall have my—my blessing. Say two years only, my dear creature.”
“I can say nothing,” replied Mrs. Carraways. “Gilbert has pledged his word.”
“A pledge that may be easily removed, explained; anything. All I ask for Basil”—cried his mother with new energy—“is the trial of two years.”
“A trial for me,” cried Basil, hurrying into the room, “my dear lady, on what account? Ha! Ha! Susan told me you were here, and I lost no time to ask your blessing,” and Basil bent his head, and kissed his mother’s hand. Then, he gaily asked—“Where’s father?”
“I thought it best to come alone,” answered Mrs. Jericho.
“Oh! I wouldn’t trouble Mr. Jericho for the world; I meant my other father,—father Carraways.” Mrs. Jericho frowned and bit her lip. “I thought he’d be home before me. We’ve had such a ramble; and—my dear lady—we have selected two such ploughs. Fit to plough Elysium.”
“Ploughs!” cried Mrs. Jericho. “In heaven’s name, Basil, what do you mean?”
“Mean! The noblest meaning in the world, my dear mother. The first meaning of the first man,—work, mother; work. Two such ploughs! The true philanthropic iron,” cried Basil.
“My poor boy! you must be mad,” and Mrs. Jericho sighed and shook her head.
“Not mad, my dear lady; only wondrous happy. You see, mother, we’ve been shopping. Delightful employment, you’ll own that? Been cheapening a few of Vulcan’s nick-nacks with which we propose to set-off nature. Such ploughs, I say;fancy took a flight into the future, and I thought I heard the corn wave to and fro while I looked at ’em. Such axes! How they will startle the wood-nymphs! Such hoes, such rakes, such pitchforks! I never felt so proud in my life, as while I handled ’em. Every tool seemed to me at once the weapon and the ornament of independence. With such magnificent arms a true man may go forth and conquer the wilderness; making the earth smile with the noblest of victories.”
“Rhapsodist!” cried Mrs. Jericho. “And you can leave home, can quit fortune, family, every grace and happiness of life for the whim of a desert?”
“Grace and happiness a man may, if he will, always carry with him. The most valuable of luggage, they pack very easily. Desert! Look here, my dear mother—see,” and Basil took from his pocket a map, which unfolding, he spread upon the table. “Quite a land of plenty! Earth is here so kind, that just tickle her with a hoe and she laughs with a harvest.”
Mrs. Jericho said nothing; but shook her head and sighed. And here Mrs. Carraways quietly withdrew.
“Look here, my dear mother,” and Basil traced the map with his finger, “see, here’s where we shall disembark. Here, you see is Port Pancake. Here is Van Dumplings Land—now we skirt along here, till we come to Smokejack Point. Then we trend to the left by Pudding Mount, until we break upon Sea Pie Bay. Then we at once get into the Lavender.”
“Lavender!” echoed Mrs. Jericho feebly.
“Yes, a home in the Lavender is where we are bound for—and then, you see—and then”—
For a minute Mrs. Jericho’s tears had fallen upon the map; Basil would not see them; at length his voice thickened, then fairly broke, and the next moment son and mother were sobbing in each other’s arms.
“And you can leave me—you can quit us?” said the mother. “Oh Basil! can you leave us?”
“What remains for me,—what can I do? I shall be better away—much better.”
“Wherefore better? Have you not position—fortune? All that should make you happy?”
“My position, splendid serfdom”—answered Basil—“my fortune, money that would damn me.”
“Basil,” said his mother, startled by the passion of her son. “Your father’s money!”
“I would have avoided this; I hoped to avoid it,—but mother, I suspect your husband.” The wife drew herself up; nevertheless, a something in her heart seemed to baffle her. “There are odd tales told of Mr. Jericho. Have an eye upon him. I don’t believe the words in their vulgar, nursery meaning; but it is said that Mr. Jericho’s mines, whence he derives his wealth, is the very mine that some day”—
Basil’s mother grew pale. She tried to speak; and then to smile, as though in scorn and utter incredulity.
“I only repeat the rumour; of course, mother, I give no faith to bonds of brimstone. Still, I should like to be assured of the source of his means. Why, mother, you have eyes. You cannot, if you would, be blind to the daily, hourly waste of the man. Like a waxen figure made by a witch, he dwindles—dwindles. People say, too, such waste is the tribute exacted by the devil.”
“Basil!” shrieked the frightened woman.
“And, I take it,” answered the young man with solemn voice, and saddest looks, “I take it to be so. Come, you must hear me out. I shall not offend again; and you must hear me. What are the ravages of conscience but tribute paid to evil? What the pains, the tremors, the heartquakes that I know the man endures—for I have watched him—what are all, but the devil’s tribute?”
“You are a dreamer—an enthusiast—a foolish boy,” cried Mrs. Jericho, laughing and shuddering.
“Well, we shall see—we shall see. We will talk no more of it,” said Basil.
“With all my heart; I am sure I must reproach myself that I have listened so long.”
“Yet, a word,” said Basil. “I quit England in a fortnight.”
“With a wife?” asked the mother, tremulously.
“With a wife,” exclaimed Basil, and with the words his heart shone in his face.
“Foolish, imprudent, ungrateful boy!” and the mother wept.
“May you have no worse cause for tears, madam, till we meet again,” said Basil proudly. “But pray hear me. We go to make a house in the wilderness. Yet do not think, my mother, my sisters, are forgotten. No: they shall find a home too.”
“In the wilderness?” asked Mrs. Jericho, with contempt.
“In the wilderness,” answered Basil, “and bless the solitude that gives them happy shelter from the falsehood of the dreary finery of life. I say, in the wilderness. Once there, what a new hunger you will feel for nature! Well, all shall be prepared for you.”
“No, Basil,” said the mother mournfully, “we never meet again: mother, sisters, all to you will be as the dead. I suppose you have heard? Agatha marries Sir Arthur, and in a few days.”
“If it be so, poor wench!” said Basil. “But I have hope, mother; hope.”
“Of course, Basil, you will come to the ceremony?”
“And Bessy?”—inquired Basil. His mother made no answer; Basil calmly continued. “Nevertheless, should the wedding-cup slip from the lip—there are such slips, you know—Aggy shall find that her new sister has thought of her—even, I say, in the wilderness. I shall leave behind those who will watch you”—
“Watch?” cried Mrs. Jericho, impatiently.
“For a kind purpose,” said the son. “And you shall see what a house we’ll have for you. Oh! you’ll need it. What a garden! What freedom! What a new life of happiness and honour—the life of the husbandman, a life fed by the bounty of earth, and sweetened by the airs of heaven. Good-bye.”
“Oh, Basil; we shall meet before you—before”—the mother could say no more.
“Oh, yes; truly yes,” and Basil took his mother to his bosom; and the woman’s heart flowed in tears—and pride and vanity, and worldly thoughts were, for the moment, conquered.“Will you see Bessy?” asked Basil; his mother responded with a pressure of her arms. In a moment, Bessy—answering the call of Basil—stood, blushing in the room.
Mrs. Jericho felt rebuked, humbled, by the sweet, frank, innocence of the girl. “Bless you, Bessy,” she cried; and kissing her, with an effort smiled; then saying, “Basil, you will see me to the door,” hurried down stairs. In a minute, Mrs. Jericho was in her carriage. “Home!” cried Basil, and homewards the lady went. And the figure of Bessy still went with her; the good, happy face of the fair creature that had smiled so sweetly at the tyranny of fortune; that, in the confiding purity of her heart, seemed invulnerable to evil,—the face went with her; and the wife of the Man of Money for the moment blushed for her possessions; felt ashamed of her wealth.
And then she thought of Basil and his young bride in the wilderness; and the next thought sent the recollection of that word—was it scornfully uttered by Basil?—that word “Home” through her brain. Never before had the sound so jarred upon her heart. “Home!” With what sad, sullen thoughts, she now considered that magnificent dungeon; that gorgeous prison, her home. How its splendour came feverishly upon her soul! How little was there in that home that consecrated it from any temple where the creed was money, and the worshipper, the world.
“Home!” a sweet and terrible word. How often may it have made its way into the carriage, sickening youth and beauty with its sound—striking cold misery to the poor, aching heart; some sad, church-bargain, receipted by the priest. How often, the miserable creature, begging at the carriage-door, kneading the mud beneath his naked feet, with all his tattered wretchedness feels no such pang as that word “Home” inflicts upon the seeming felicity he prays to. “Home!” How merrily the hours dance onward! How the heart has forgotten, thrown down its daily load, letting itself be cheated into joy! Still the hours glide on, glowing as they pass, and sorrow is tricked into happiness. And it may be the dream lasts until the dreamer departs. And then the word “Home” isflung, like a snake, to the victim—the daily viper that daily stings.
And whilst we have hammered out this iron sermon upon one kind of home, what a different home have our lovers—Basil and Bessy—already made in the wilderness! Basil has talked of all he has purchased,—ploughs, axes, hammers; all sorts of field implements; and Bessy has listened with an earnestness that tried to understand their separate use. And then Basil had given particular orders for plants and seeds. “For you see, my love,” said he, “I intend to take as much of England as we can with us.”
“To be sure,” cried Bessy. “Oh yes!”
“And so, I’ve cuttings of raspberry, and currant, and gooseberry; and for flowering shrubs, rhododendrons, and camellias, and roses as various, yes as the beauty they are the type of.”
“And I too have seen to a great many seeds,” said Bessy. “Above all, I’ve not forgotten the heart’s-ease.”
“That”—said Basil, taking a kiss as the best comment—“that, Bessy, I may be always sure of.”