There came a delightful letter from Grace Carden, announcing her return on a certain evening, and hoping to see Henry next morning.
He called accordingly, and was received with outstretched hands and sparkling eyes, and words that repaid him for her absence.
After the first joyful burst, she inquired tenderly why he was so pale: had he been ill?
“No.”
“No trouble nor anxiety, dear?”
“A little, at first, till your sweet letters made me happy. No; I did not even know that I was pale. Overstudy, I suppose. Inventing is hard work.”
“What are you inventing?”
“All manner of things. Machine to forge large axes; another to grind circular saws; a railway clip: but you don't care about such things.”
“I beg your pardon, sir. I care about whatever interests you.”
“Well, these inventions interest me very much. One way or other, they are roads to fortune; and you know why I desire fortune.”
“Ah, that I do. But excuse me, you value independence more. Oh, I respect you for it. Only don't make yourself pale, or you will make me unhappy, and a foe to invention.”
On this Mr. Little made himself red instead of pale, and beamed with happiness.
They spent a delightful hour together, and, even when they parted, their eyes lingered on each other.
Soon after this the Cardens gave a dinner-party, and Grace asked if she might invite Mrs. Little and Mr. Little.
“What, is he presentable?”
“More than that,” said Grace, coloring. “They are both very superior to most of our Hillsborough friends.”
“Well, but did you not tell me he had quarreled with Mr. Raby?”
“No, not quarreled. Mr. Raby offered to make him his heir: but he chooses to be independent, and make his own fortune, that's all.”
“Well, if you think our old friend would not take it amiss, invite them by all means. I remember her a lovely woman.”
So the Littles were invited; and the young ladies admired Mr. Little on the whole, but sneered at him a little for gazing on Miss Carden, as if she was a divinity: the secret, which escaped the father, girls of seventeen detected in a minute, and sat whispering over it in the drawing-room.
After this invitation, Henry and his mother called, and then Grace called on Mrs. Little; and this was a great step for Henry, the more so as the ladies really took to each other.
The course of true love was beginning to run smooth, when it was disturbed by Mr. Coventry.
That gentleman's hopes had revived in London; Grace Carden had been very kind and friendly to him, and always in such good spirits, that he thought absence had cured her of Little, and his turn was come again. The most experienced men sometimes mistake a woman in this way. The real fact was that Grace, being happy herself, thanks to a daily letter from the man she adored, had not the heart to be unkind to another, whose only fault was loving her, and to whom she feared she had not behaved very well. However, Mr. Coventry did mistake her. He was detained in town by business, but he wrote Mr. Carden a charming letter, and proposed formally for his daughter's hand.
Mr. Carden had seen the proposal coming this year and more; so he was not surprised; but he was gratified. The letter was put into his hand while he was dressing for dinner. Of course he did not open the subject before the servants: but, as soon as they had retired, he said, “Grace, I want your attention on a matter of importance.”
Grace stared a little, but said faintly, “Yes, papa,” and all manner of vague maidenly misgivings crowded through her brain.
“My child, you are my only one, and the joy of the house; and need I say I shall feel your loss bitterly whenever your time comes to leave me?”
“Then I never will leave you,” cried Grace, and came and wreathed her arms round his neck.
He kissed her, and parting her hair, looked with parental fondness at her white brow, and her deep clear eyes.
“You shall never leave me, for the worse,” said he: “but you are sure to marry some day, and therefore it is my duty to look favorably on a downright good match. Well, my dear, such a match offers itself. I have a proposal for you.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“Wait till you hear who it is. It is Mr. Coventry, of Bollinghope.”
Grace sighed, and looked very uncomfortable.
“Why, what is the matter? you always used to like him.”
“So I do now; but not for a husband.”
“I see no one to whom I could resign you so willingly. He is well born and connected, has a good estate, not too far from your poor father.”
“Dear papa!”
“He speaks pure English: now these Hillsborough manufacturers, with their provincial twang, are hardly presentable in London society.”
“Dear papa, Mr. Coventry is an accomplished gentleman, who has done me the highest honor he can. You must decline him very politely: but, between ourselves, I am a little angry with him, because he knows I do not love him; and I am afraid he has made this offer to YOU, thinking you might be tempted to constrain my affections: but you won't do that, my own papa, will you? you will not make your child unhappy, who loves you?”
“No, no. I will never let you make an imprudent match; but I won't force you into a good one.”
“And you know I shall never marry without your consent, papa. But I'm only nineteen, and I don't want to be driven away to Bollinghope.”
“And I'm sure I don't want to drive you away anywhere. Mine will be a dull, miserable home without you. Only please tell me what to say to him.”
“Oh, I leave that to you. I have often admired the way you soften your refusals. 'Le seigneur Jupiter sait dorer la pillule'—there, that's Moliere.”
“Well, I suppose I must say—”
“Let me see what HE says first.”
She scanned the letter closely, to see whether there was any thing that could point to Henry Little. But there was not a word to indicate he feared a rival, though the letter was any thing but presumptuous.
Then Grace coaxed her father, and told him she feared her inexperience had made her indiscreet. She had liked Mr. Coventry's conversation, and perhaps had, inadvertently, given him more encouragement than she intended: would he be a good, kind papa, and get her out of the scrape, as creditably as he could? She relied on his superior wisdom. So then he kissed her, and said he would do his best.
He wrote a kind, smooth letter, gilding and double-gilding the pill. He said, amongst the rest, that there appeared to be no ground of refusal, except a strong disinclination to enter the wedded state. “I believe there is no one she likes as well as you; and, as for myself, I know no gentleman to whom I would so gladly confide my daughter's happiness,” etc., etc.
He handed this letter to his daughter to read, but she refused. “I have implicit confidence in you,” said she.
Mr. Coventry acknowledged receipt of the letter, thanked Mr. Carden for the kind and feeling way in which he had inflicted the wound, and said that he had a verbal communication to make before he could quite drop the matter; would be down in about a fort-night.
Soon after this Grace dined with Mrs. Little: and, the week after that, Henry contrived to meet her at a ball, and, after waiting patiently some time, he waltzed with her.
This waltz was another era in their love. It was an inspired whirl of two lovers, whose feet hardly felt the ground, and whose hearts bounded and thrilled, and their cheeks glowed, and their eyes shot fire; and when Grace was obliged to stop, because the others stopped, her elastic and tense frame turned supple and soft directly, and she still let her eyes linger on his, and her hand nestle in his a moment: this, and a faint sigh of pleasure and tenderness, revealed how sweet her partner was to her.
Need I say the first waltz was not the last? and that evening they were more in love than ever, if possible.
Mr. Coventry came down from London, and, late that evening, he and Mr. Carden met at the Club.
Mr. Carden found him in an arm-chair, looking careworn and unhappy, and felt quite sorry for him. He hardly knew what to say to him; but Coventry with his usual grace relieved him; he rose, and shook hands, and even pressed Mr. Carden's hand, and held it.
Mr. Carden was so touched, that he pressed his hand in return, and said, “Courage! my poor fellow; the case is not desperate, you know.”
Mr. Coventry shook his head, and sat down. Mr. Carden sat down beside him.
“Why, Coventry, it is not as if there was another attachment.”
“There IS another attachment; at least I have too much reason to fear so. But you shall judge for yourself. I have long paid my respectful addresses to Miss Carden, and I may say without vanity that she used to distinguish me beyond her other admirers; I was not the only one who thought so; Mr. Raby has seen us together, and he asked me to meet her at Raby Hall. There I became more particular in my attentions, and those attentions, sir, were well received.”
“But were they UNDERSTOOD? that is the question.”
“Understood and received, upon my honor.”
“Then she will marry you, soon or late: for I'm sure there is no other man. Grace was never deceitful.”
“All women are deceitful.”
“Oh, come!”
“Let me explain: all women, worthy of the name, are cowards; and cowardice drives them to deceit, even against their will. Pray bear me to an end. On the fifth of last December, I took Miss Carden to the top of Cairnhope hill. I showed her Bollinghope in the valley, and asked her to be its mistress.”
“And what did she say? Yes, or no?”
“She made certain faint objections, such as a sweet, modest girl like her makes as a matter of course, and then she yielded.”
“What! consented to be your wife?”
“Not in those very words; but she said she esteemed me, and she knew I loved her; and, when I asked her whether I might speak to you, she said 'Yes.'”
“But that was as good as accepting you.”
“I am glad you agree with me. You know, Mr. Carden, thousands have been accepted in that very form. Well, sir, the next thing was we were caught in that cursed snow-storm.”
“Yes, she has told me all about that.”
“Not all, I suspect. We got separated for a few minutes, and I found her in an old ruined church, where a sort of blacksmith was working at his forge. I found her, sir, I might say almost in the blacksmith's arms. I thought little of that at first: any man has a right to succor any woman in distress: but, sir, I discovered that Miss Carden and this man were acquaintances: and, by degrees, I found, to my horror, that he had a terrible power over her.”
“What do you mean, sir? Do you intend to affront us?”
“No. And, if the truth gives you pain, pray remember it gives me agony. However, I must tell you the man was not what he looked, a mere blacksmith; he is a sort of Proteus, who can take all manner of shapes: at the time I'm speaking of, he was a maker of carving tools. Well, sir, you could hardly believe the effect of this accidental interview with that man: the next day, when I renewed my addresses, Miss Carden evaded me, and was as cold as she had been kind: she insisted on it she was not engaged to me, and said she would not marry anybody for two years; and this, I am sorry to say, was not her own idea, but this Little's; for I overheard him ask her to wait two years for him.”
“Little! What, Raby's new nephew?”
“That is the man.”
Mr. Carden was visibly discomposed by this communication. He did not choose to tell Coventry how shocked he was at his own daughter's conduct; but, after a considerable pause, he said, “If what you have told me is the exact truth, I shall interpose parental authority, and she shall keep her engagement with you, in spite of all the Littles in the world.”
“Pray do not be harsh,” said Coventry.
“No, but I shall be firm.”
“Insanity in his family, for one thing,” suggested Coventry, scarcely above a whisper.
“That is true; his father committed suicide. But really that consideration is not needed. My daughter must keep her engagements, as I keep mine.”
With this understanding the friends parted.
Grace happened to have a headache next morning, and did not come down to breakfast: but it was Saturday, and Mr. Carden always lunched at home on that day. So did Grace, because it was one of Little's days. This gave Mr. Carden the opportunity he wanted. When they were alone he fixed his eyes on his daughter, and said quietly, “What is your opinion of—a jilt?”
“A heartless, abominable creature,” replied Grace, as glibly as if she was repeating some familiar catechism.
“Would you like to be called one?”
“Oh, papa!”
“Is there nobody who has the right to apply the term to you?”
“I hope not.” (Red.)
“You encouraged Mr. Coventry's addresses?”
“I am afraid I did not discourage them, as I wish I had. It is so hard to foresee every thing.”
“Pray do you remember the fifth day of last December?”
“Can I ever forget it?” (Redder.)
“Is it true that Mr. Coventry proposed for you, that day?”
“Yes.”
“And you accepted him.”
“No; no. Then he has told you so? How ungenerous! All I did was, I hesitated, and cried, and didn't say 'no,' downright—like a fool. Oh, papa, have pity on me, and save me.” And now she was pale.
Mr. Carden's paternal heart was touched by this appeal, but he was determined to know the whole truth. “You could love him, in time, I suppose?”
“Never.”
“Why?”
“Because—”
“Now tell me the truth. Have you another attachment?”
“Yes, dear papa.” (In a whisper and as red as fire.)
“Somebody of whom you are not proud.”
“I AM proud of him. He is Mr. Coventry's superior. He is everybody's superior in everything in the world.”
“No, Grace, you can hardly be proud of your attachment; if you had been, you would not have hidden it all this time from your father.” And Mr. Carden sighed.
Grace burst out crying, and flung herself on her knees and clung, sobbing, to him.
“There, there,” said he, “I don't want to reproach you; but to advise you.”
“Oh, papa! Take and kill me. Do: I want to die.”
“Foolish child! Be calm now; and let us talk sense.”
At this moment there was a peculiar ring at the door, a ring not violent, but vigorous.
Grace started and looked terrified: “Papa!” said she, “say what you like to me, but do not affront HIM; for you might just as well take that knife and stab your daughter to the heart. I love him so. Have pity on me.”
The servant announced “Mr. Little!”
Grace started up, and stood with her hand gripping the chair; her cheek was pale, and her eyes glittered; she looked wild, and evidently strained up to defend her lover.
All this did not escape Mr. Carden. He said gently, “Show him into the library.” Then to Grace as soon as the servant had retired, “Come here, my child.”
She knelt at his knees again, and turned her imploring, streaming eyes up to him.
“Is it really so serious as all this?”
“Papa, words cannot tell you how I love. But if you affront him, and he leaves me, you will see how I love him; you will know, by my grave-side, how I love him.”
“Then I suppose I must swallow my disappointment how I can.”
“It shall be no disappointment; he will do you honor and me too.”
“But he can't make a settlement on his wife, and no man shall marry my daughter till he can do that.”
“We can wait,” said Grace, humbly.
“Yes, wait—till you and your love are both worn out.”
“I shall wear out before my love.”
Mr. Carden looked at her, as she knelt before him, and his heart was very much softened. “Will you listen to reason at all?” said he.
“From you, I will, dear papa.” She added, swiftly, “and then you will listen to affection, will you not?”
“Yes. Promise me there shall be no formal engagement, and I will let him come now and then.”
This proposal, though not very pleasant, relieved Grace of such terrible fears, that she consented eagerly.
Mr. Carden then kissed her, and rose, to go to young Little; but, before he had taken three steps, she caught him by the arm, and said, imploringly, “Pray remember while you are speaking to him that you would not have me to bestow on any man but for him; for he saved my life, and Mr. Coventry's too. Mr. Coventry forgets that: but don't you: and, if you wound him, you wound me; he carries my heart in his bosom.”
Mr. Carden promised he would do his duty as kindly as possible; and with that Grace was obliged to content herself.
When he opened the library door, young Little started up, his face irradiated with joy. Mr. Carden smiled a little satirically, but he was not altogether untouched by the eloquent love for his daughter, thus showing itself in a very handsome and amiable face. He said, “It is not the daughter this time, sir, it is only the father.”
Little colored up and looked very uneasy.
“Mr. Little, I am told you pay your addresses to Miss Carden. Is that so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have never given me any intimation.”
Little colored still more. He replied, with some hesitation, “Why, sir, you see I was brought up amongst workmen, and they court the girl first, and make sure of her, before they trouble the parents; and, besides, it was not ripe for your eye yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I'm no match for Miss Carden. But I hope to be, some day.”
“And she is to wait for you till then?”
“She says she will.”
“Well, Mr. Little, this is a delicate matter; but you are a straightforward man, I see, and it is the best way. Now I must do my duty as a parent, and I am afraid I shall not be able to do that without mortifying you a little; but believe me, it is not from any dislike or disrespect to you, but only because it IS my duty.”
“I am much obliged to you, sir; and I'll bear more from you than I would from any other man. You are her father, and I hope you'll be mine one day.”
“Well, then, Mr. Little, I always thought my daughter would marry a gentleman in this neighborhood, who has paid her great attention for years, and is a very suitable match for her. You are the cause of that match being broken off, and I am disappointed. But although I am disappointed, I will not be harsh nor unreasonable to you. All I say is this: my daughter shall never marry any man, nor engage herself to any man, who cannot make a proper settlement on her. Can YOU make a proper settlement on her?”
“Not at present,” said Little, with a sigh.
“Then I put it to you, as a man, is it fair of you to pay her open attentions, and compromise her? You must not think me very mercenary; I am not the man to give my daughter to the highest bidder. But there is a medium.”
“I understand you, sir, so far. But what am I to do? Am I to leave off loving, and hoping, and working, and inventing? You might as well tell me to leave off living.”
“No, my poor boy; I don't say that, neither. If it is really for her you work, and invent, and struggle with fortune so nobly as I know you do, persevere, and may God speed you. But, meantime, be generous, and don't throw yourself in her way to compromise her.”
The young man was overpowered by the kindness and firmness of his senior, who was also Grace's father. He said, in a choking voice, there was no self-denial he would not submit to, if it was understood that he might still love Grace, and might marry her as soon as he could make a proper settlement on her.
Then Mr. Carden, on his part, went further than he had intended, and assented distinctly to all this, provided the delay was not unreasonable in point of time. “I can't have her whole life wasted.”
“Give me two years: I'll win her or lose her in that time.” He then asked, piteously, if he might see her.
“I am sorry to say No to that,” was the reply; “but she has been already very much agitated, and I should be glad to spare her further emotion. You need not doubt her attachment to you, nor my esteem. You are a very worthy, honest young man, and your conduct does much to reconcile me to what I own is a disappointment.”
Having thus gilded the pill, Mr. Carden shook hands with Henry Little, and conducted him politely to the street door.
The young man went away slowly; for he was disconsolate at not seeing Grace.
But, when he got home, his stout Anglo-Saxon heart reacted, and he faced the situation.
He went to his mother and told her what had passed. She colored with indignation, but said nothing.
“Well, mother, of course it might be better; but then it might be worse. It's my own fault now if I lose her. Cutlery won't do it in the time, but Invention will: so, from this hour, I'm a practical inventor, and nothing but death shall stop me.”
Grace Carden ran to the window, and saw Henry Little go away slowly, and hanging his head. This visible dejection in her manly lover made her heart rise to her throat, and she burst out sobbing and weeping with alarming violence.
Mr. Carden found her in this state, and set himself to soothe her. He told her the understanding he had come to with Mr. Little, and begged her to be as reasonable and as patient as her lover was. But the appeal was not successful. “He came to see me,” she cried, “and he has gone away without seeing me. You have begun to break both our hearts, with your reason and your prudence. One comfort, mine will break first; I have not his fortitude. Oh, my poor Henry! He has gone away, hanging his head, broken-hearted: that is what you have DONE for me. After that, what are words? Air—air—and you can't feed hungry hearts with air.”
“Well, my child, I am sorry now I did not bring him in here. But I really did it for the best. I wished to spare you further agitation.”
“Agitation!” And she opened her eyes with astonishment. “Why, it is you who agitate me. He would have soothed me in a moment. One kind and hopeful word from him, one tender glance of his dear eye, one pressure of his dear hard hand, and I could have borne anything; but that drop of comfort you denied us both. Oh, cruel! cruel!”
“Calm yourself, Grace, and remember whom you are speaking to. It was an error in judgment, perhaps—nothing more.”
“But, then, if you know nothing about love, and its soothing power, why meddle with it at all?”
“Grace,” said Mr. Carden, sadly, but firmly, “we poor parents are all prepared for this. After many years of love and tenderness bestowed on our offspring, the day is sure to come when the young thing we have reared with so much care and tenderness will meet a person of her own age, a STRANGER; and, in a month or two, all our love, our care, our anxiety, our hopes, will be nothing in the balance. This wound is in store for us all. We foresee it; we receive it; we groan under it; we forgive it. We go patiently on, and still give our ungrateful children the benefit of our love and our experience. I have seen in my own family that horrible mixture, Gentility and Poverty. In our class of life, poverty is not only poverty, it is misery, and meanness as well. My income dies with me. My daughter and her children shall not go back to the misery and meanness out of which I have struggled. They shall be secured against it by law, before she marries, or she shall marry under her father's curse.”
Then Grace was frightened, and said she should never marry under her father's curse; but (with a fresh burst of weeping) what need was there to send Henry away without seeing her, and letting them comfort each other under this sudden affliction? “Ah, I was too happy this morning,” said the poor girl. “I was singing before breakfast. Jael always told me not to do that. Oh! oh! oh!”
Mr. Carden kept silence; but his fortitude was sorely tried.
That day Grace pleaded headache, and did not appear to dinner. Mr. Carden dined alone, and missed her bright face sadly. He sent his love to her, and went off to the club, not very happy. At the club he met Mr. Coventry, and told him frankly what he had done. Mr. Coventry, to his surprise, thanked him warmly. “She will be mine in two years,” said he. “Little will never be able to make a settlement on her.” This remark set Mr. Carden thinking.
Grace watched the window day after day, but Henry never came nor passed. She went a great deal more than usual into the town, in hopes of meeting him by the purest accident. She longed to call on Mrs. Little, but feminine instinct withheld her; she divined that Mrs. Little must be deeply offended.
She fretted for a sight of Henry, and for an explanation, in which she might clear herself, and show her love, without being in the least disobedient to her father. Now all this was too subtle to be written. So she fretted and pined for a meeting.
While she was in this condition, and losing color every day, who should call one day—to reconnoiter, I suppose—but Mr. Coventry.
Grace was lying on the sofa, languid and distraite, when he was announced. She sat up directly, and her eye kindled.
Mr. Coventry came in with his usual grace and cat-like step. “Ah, Miss Carden!”
Miss Carden rose majestically to her feet, made him a formal courtesy, and swept out of the room, without deigning him a word. She went to the study, and said, “Papa, here's a friend of yours—Mr. Coventry.”
“Dear me, I am very busy. I wish you would amuse him for a few minutes till I have finished this letter.”
“Excuse me, papa; I cannot stay in the same room with Mr. Coventry.”
“Why not, pray?”
“He is a dangerous man: he compromises one. He offered me an engagement-ring, and I refused it; yet he made you believe we were engaged. You have taken care I shall not be compromised with the man I love; and shall I be compromised with the man I don't care for? No, thank you.”
“Very well, Grace,” said Mr. Carden, coldly.
Shortly after this Mr. Carden requested Dr. Amboyne to call; he received the doctor in his study, and told him that he was beginning to be uneasy about Grace; she was losing her appetite, her color, and her spirits. Should he send her to the seaside?
“The seaside! I distrust conventional remedies. Let me see the patient.”
He entered the room and found her coloring a figure she had drawn: it was a beautiful woman, with an anchor at her feet. The door was open, and the doctor, entering softly, saw a tear fall on the work from a face so pale and worn with pining, that he could hardly repress a start; he did repress it though, for starts are unprofessional; he shook hands with her in his usual way. “Sorry to hear you are indisposed, my dear Miss Grace.” He then examined her tongue, and felt her pulse; and then he sat down, right before her, and fixed his eyes on her. “How long have you been unwell?”
“I am not unwell that I know of,” said Grace, a little sullenly.
“One reason I ask, I have another patient, who has been attacked somewhat in the same way.”
Grace colored, and fixed a searching eye on the doctor. “Do I know the lady?”
“No. For it happens to be a male patient.”
“Perhaps it is going about.”
“Possibly; this is the age of competition. Still it is hard you can't have a little malady of this kind all to yourself; don't you think so?”
At this Grace laughed hysterically.
“Come, none of that before me,” said the doctor sternly.
She stopped directly, frightened. The doctor smiled.
Mr. Carden peeped in from his study. “When you have done with her, come and prescribe for me. I am a little out of sorts too.” With this, he retired. “That means you are to go and tell him what is the matter with me,” said Grace bitterly.
“Is his curiosity unjustifiable?”
“Oh no. Poor papa!” Then she asked him dryly if he knew what was the matter with her.
“I think I do.”
“Then cure me.” This with haughty incredulity.
“I'll try; and a man can but do his best. I'll tell you one thing: if I can't cure you, no doctor in the world can: see how modest I am. Now for papa.”
She let him go to the very door: and then a meek little timid voice said, in a scarce audible murmur, “Doctor!”
Now when this meek murmur issued from a young lady who had, up to this period of the interview, been rather cold and cutting, the sagacious doctor smiled. “My dear?” said he, in a very gentle voice.
“Doctor! about your other patient!”
“Well?”
“Is he as bad as I am? For indeed, my dear friend, I feel—my food has no taste—life itself no savor. I used to go singing, now I sit sighing. Is he as bad as I am?”
“I'll tell you the truth; his malady is as strong as yours; but he has the great advantage of being a man; and, again, of being a man of brains. He is a worker, and an inventor; and now, instead of succumbing tamely to his disorder, he is working double tides, and inventing with all his might, in order to remove an obstacle between him and one he loves with all his manly soul. A contest so noble and so perpetual sustains and fortifies the mind. He is indomitable; only, at times, his heart of steel will soften, and then he has fits of deep dejection and depression, which I mourn to see; for his manly virtues, and his likeness to one I loved deeply in my youth, have made him dear to me.”
During this Grace turned her head away, and, ere the doctor ended, her tears were flowing freely; for to her, being a woman, this portrait of a male struggle with sorrow was far more touching than any description of feminine and unresisted grief could be: and, when the doctor said he loved his patient, she stole her little hand into his in a way to melt Old Nick, if he is a male. Ladies, forgive the unchivalrous doubt.
“Doctor,” said she, affecting all of a sudden a little air of small sprightliness, very small, “now, do—you—think—it would do your patient—the least good in the world—if you were to take him this?”
She handed him her work, and then she blushed divinely.
“Why, it is a figure of Hope.”
“Yes.”
“I think it might do him a great deal of good.”
“You could say I painted it for him.”
“So I will. That will do him no harm neither. Shall I say I found you crying over it?”
“Oh, no! no! That would make him cry too, perhaps.”
“Ah, I forgot that. Grace, you are an angel.”
“Ah, no. But you can tell him I am—if you think so. That will do him no great harm—will it?”
“Not an atom to him; but it will subject me to a pinch for stale news. There, give me my patient's picture, and let me go.”
She kissed the little picture half-furtively, and gave it him, and let him go; only, as he went out at the door, she murmured, “Come often.”
Now, when this artful doctor got outside the door, his face became grave all of a sudden, for he had seen enough to give him a degree of anxiety he had not betrayed to his interesting patient herself.
“Well, doctor?” said Mr. Carden, affecting more cheerfulness than he felt. “Nothing there beyond your skill, I suppose?”
“Her health is declining rapidly. Pale, hollow-eyed, listless, languid—not the same girl.”
“Is it bodily do you think, or only mental?”
“Mental as to its cause; but bodily in the result. The two things are connected in all of us, and very closely in Miss Carden. Her organization is fine, and, therefore, subtle. She is tuned in a high key. Her sensibility is great; and tough folk, like you and me, must begin by putting ourselves in her place before we prescribe for her, otherwise our harsh hands may crush a beautiful, but too tender, flower.”
“Good heavens!” said Carden, beginning to be seriously alarmed, “do you mean to say you think, if this goes on, she will be in any danger?”
“Why, if it were to go on at the same rate, it would be very serious. She must have lost a stone in weight already.”
“What, my child! my sweet Grace! Is it possible her life—”
“And do you think your daughter is not mortal like other people? The young girls that are carried past your door to the churchyard one after another, had they no fathers?”
At this blunt speech the father trembled from head to foot.
“Doctor,” said Mr. Carden, “you are an old friend, and a discreet man; I will confide the truth to you.”
“You may save yourself the trouble. I have watched the whole progress of this amour up to the moment when you gave them the advantage of your paternal wisdom, and made them both miserable.”
“It is very unreasonable of them, to be miserable.”
“Oh, lovers parted could never yet make themselves happy with reason.”
“But why do you say parted? All I said was, 'No engagement till you can make a settlement: and don't compromise her in the meanwhile.' I did not mean to interdict occasional visits.”
“Then why not say so? That is so like people. You made your unfavorable stipulation plain enough; but the little bit of comfort, you left that in doubt. This comes of not putting yourself in his place. I have had a talk with him about it, and he thinks he is not to show his face here till he is rich enough to purchase your daughter of you.”
“But I tell you he has misunderstood me.”
“Then write to him and say so.”
“No, no; you take an opportunity to let him know he has really rather overrated my severity, and that I trust to his honor, and do not object to a visit—say once a week.”
“It is a commission I will undertake with pleasure.”
“And do you really think that will do her bodily health any good?”
Before Doctor Amboyne could reply, the piano was suddenly touched in the next room, and a sweet voice began to sing a cheerful melody. “Hush!” said Doctor Amboyne. “Surely I know that tune. Yes, I have heard THE OTHER whistle it.”
“She has not sung for ever so long,” remarked Mr. Carden.
“And I think I can tell you why she is singing now: look at this picture of Hope; I just told her I had a male patient afflicted with her complaint, and the quick-witted creature asked me directly if I thought this picture would do him any good. I said yes, and I'd take it to him.”
“Come, doctor, that couldn't make her SING.”
“Why not? Heart can speak to heart, even by a flower or a picture. The separation was complete; sending this symbol has broken it a little, and so she is singing. This is a lesson for us ruder and less subtle spirits. Now mind, thwarted love seldom kills a busy man; but it often kills an idle woman, and your daughter is an idle woman. He is an iron pot, she is a china vase. Please don't hit them too hard with the hammer of paternal wisdom, or you will dent my iron pot, and break your china vase to atoms.”
Having administered this warning, Dr. Amboyne went straight from Woodbine Villa to Little's factory; but Little was still in London; he had gone there to take out patents. Bayne promised to send the doctor a line immediately on his return. Nevertheless, a fortnight elapsed, and then Dr. Amboyne received a short, mysterious line to tell him Mr. Little had come home, and would be all the better of a visit. On receipt of this the doctor went at once to the works, and found young Little lying on his carpenter's bench in a sort of gloomy apathy. “Hallo!” said the doctor, in his cheerful way, “why what's the matter now?”
“I'm fairly crushed,” groaned the inventor.
“And what has crushed you?”
“The roundabout swindle.”
“There, now, he invents words as well as things. Come, tell me all about the roundabout swindle.”
“No, no; I haven't the heart left to go through it all again, even in words. One would think an inventor was the enemy of the human race. Yes, I will tell you; the sight of you has revived me a bit; it always does. Well, then, you know I am driven to invention now; it is my only chance; and, ever since Mr. Carden spoke to me, I have given my whole soul to the best way of saw-grinding by machinery. The circular saws beat me for a while, but I mastered them; see, there's the model. I'm going to burn it this very afternoon. Well, a month ago, I took the other model—the long-saw grinder—up to London, to patent the invention, as you advised me. I thought I'd just have to exhibit the model, and lodge the description in some Government office, and pay a fee, of course, to some swell, and so be quit of it. Lord bless you—first I had to lay the specification before the Court of Chancery, and write a petition to the Queen, and pay, and, what is worse, wait. When I had paid and waited, I got my petition signed, not by the Queen, but by some go-between, and then I must take it to the Attorney-general. He made me pay—and wait. When I had waited ever so long, I was sent back to where I had come from—the Home Office. But even then I could not get to the Queen. Another of her go-betweens nailed me, and made me pay, and wait: these locusts steal your time as well as your money. At last, a copy of a copy of a copy of my patent got to the Queen, and she signed it like a lady at once, and I got it back. Then I thought I was all right. Not a bit of it: the Queen's signature wasn't good till another of her go-betweens had signed it. I think it was the Home Secretary this time. This go-between bled me again, and sent me with my hard-earned signatures to the Patent Office. There they drafted, and copied, and docketed, and robbed me of more time and money. And, when all was done, I had to take the document back to one of the old go-betweens that I hoped I had worn out, the Attorney-general. He signed, and bled me out of some more money. From him to the other go-betweens at Whitehall. From them to the Stamp Office, if I remember right, and oh Lord, didn't I fall among leeches there? They drafted, they copied, they engrossed, they juggled me out of time and money without end. The first leech was called the Lord Keeper of the Seal; the second leech was called the Lord Chancellor; it was some go-between that acted in his name; the third leech was the Clerk of the Patents. They demanded more copies, and then employed more go-betweens to charge ten times the value of a copy, and nailed the balance, no doubt. 'Stand and deliver thirty pounds for this stamp.' 'Stand and deliver to me that call myself the Chancellor's purse-bearer—and there's no such creature—two guineas.' 'Stand and deliver seven, thirteen, to the clerk of the Hanaper'—and there's no such thing as a Hanaper. 'Stand and deliver three, five,' to a go-between that calls himself the Lord Chancellor again, and isn't. 'Stand and deliver six, naught, to a go-between that acts for the deputy, that ought to put a bit of sealing-wax on the patent, but hasn't the brains to do it himself, so you must pay ME a fancy price for doing it, and then I won't do it; it will be done by a clerk at twenty-five shillings a week.' And, all this time, mind you, no disposition to soften all this official peculation by civility; no misgiving that the next wave of civilization may sweep nil these go-betweens and leeches out of the path of progress; no, the deputy-vice-go-betweens all scowled, as well as swindled: they broke my heart so, often I sat down in their antechambers and the scalding tears ran down my cheeks, at being pillaged of my time as well as my money, and treated like a criminal—for what? For being, in my small way, a national benefactor.”
“Ay,” said the doctor, “you had committed the crime of brains; and the worse crime of declining to be starved in return for them. I don't rebel against the fees so much: their only fault is that they are too heavy, since the monopoly they profess to secure is short-lived, and yet not very secure; the Lord Chancellor, as a judge, has often to upset the patent which he has sold in another character. But that system of go-betweens, and deputy-go-betweens, and deputy-lieutenant-go-betweens and nobody doing his own business in matters of State, it really is a national curse, and a great blot upon the national intellect. It is a disease; so let us name it. We doctors are great at naming diseases; greater than at curing them.