The parent who has seen and reflected upon this, and yet educates his son as an artist, because it is a "fine thing" to be an artist; the parent who suffers his self-love to blind him to his child's want of a decided genius, and chooses to call an ordinary aptitude "genius," is with selfish vanity destroying that child's future hopes of success in life. Music, painting, and sculpture, are arts founded on instincts so strong, and so unmistakeable in their early manifestation that unless the child very early exhibits extraordinary faculty for the arts, the parent should take Nature's warning; and not endeavour by cultivation to raise that flower which only grows wild in the secret spots Nature herself selects.
Now why must I disturb a dream of bliss,And bring cold sorrow 'twixt the wedded kiss?How mar the fate of beauty, and discloseThe weeping days that with the morning rose.LEIGH HUNT.—Rimini.
Ever since that night when Cecil had first entered a gambling-house, and lost the few pounds Frank had lent him, the image of the joyous winner huddling the notes and gold into his pocket pursued him like a phantom. He had resolved to play no more; he could not afford to lose; and his first venture had been so unfortunate, that he could not hope hazard would be in his favour. Men have extraordinary practical belief or disbelief in their own "luck." Ask a man if he seriously, theoretically believes in anything of the kind, and he will answer, No. Yet that very man puts his name down in a raffle, or cuts cards against an adversary, or stakes large sums on any game of chance, "because he always wins"—because "he is so lucky."
Cecil believed himself to be "unlucky." He was therefore averse to gambling. He had played, and—"it was so like his luck"—although the first time, yet he lost.
In spite of this conviction, the image of that fortunate winner with his file of notes and sovereigns,wouldforce itself upon him. While he was painting—while he was reading—at his meals—during his walks—while dozing in bed—that figure stood before him crumpling the notes, calling joyously for the champagne, and sauntering down stairs in thorough self-content. In his imagination he followed that young man through a series of fortunate nights, during which he had amassed a large sum, with which he purchased a charming little house in the country, and foreswore the gaming-table for ever. It was a most coherent story, coherent as imagination loves to be.
The real story may be told in few words: three weeks after that prosperous night, the winner, utterly ruined, poisoned himself!
Had Cecil known the real story it might have made him pause; but he only knew what he had seen, and fancy supplied the rest.
Like a tempting fiend did this image of the winner pursue him—seductive, irritating; he tried to banish it by thinking of his constant ill-luck, but it would return, and his present discouragement made the temptation stronger. By art he could not live. The age was too material; the country too commercial. Why should he struggle and starve when the gaming-table offered its facile resources?
"Frank," said he, "I wish you would take me again to Jermyn-street."
"What! you want to try anothercoup?"
"Yes; I have a presentiment I shall win. At any rate, it is worth risking a few pounds."
"I am going there this evening. Dine with me at the club. I will explain to you an infallible martingale by which wemustwin. Damme, I'll break all the banks in London."
"How? how?"
"You know enough, Cis, of the game to understand my explanation. The martingale is this: always to back the winning colour, and double your losses till you win. Look'ye here—Suppose I place a pound on the red, and black wins; black is then the winning colour and I back it; but having lost, I must double my stake: so I put two pounds on the black. Well, red wins, damme its eyes! I have lost three pounds. What do I? placefourpounds on the red, which is then the winning colour. If red wins again, I have recovered my three pounds staked, and one pound over. I back red again, and again, so long as red continues to win. Directly black wins, I double my stake, and regain my loss."
"I see, I see!"
"It's as clear as day. The only possibility of losing is, that red and black should alternately win all the night through; but as that never has been known, we must not think of such a chance."
"But then you only win your original stake each time?"
"Of course; but you aresureto win it. The only objection to our putting our scheme in practice is the absolute necessity for a large sum of money to begin with."
"How so, Frank?"
"Why, my dear fellow, you've no idea how doubling your stake mounts up. To stake a sovereign, and lose tencoups, you must have at least six hundred pounds in hand; for the stakes run one, two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, one hundred and twenty-eight, two hundred and fifty-six, five hundred and twelve, and so on."
"Whew!"
"That's it."
"And we stake five hundred pounds to win a sovereign?"
"Just so. Unless you play the martingale strictly, you cannot be certain of winning: but youmustwin if you play it."
"Ah! well, then I must give up the idea, for I cannot raise the money. Never mind, I'll let chance play for me; martingale or no martingale."
That night they went to the house in Jermyn-street, where Cecil had first played.
Frank won five and forty pounds.
Cecil lost every penny.
"Frank, lend me five pounds: I am desperate."
"Here they are, old boy. Play cautiously."
Cecil seized them with a greedy clutch.
"Make your game, gentlemen," said the dull-eyed dealer.
Cecil threw the five sovereigns on the red.
The cards were dealt with leisurely precision.
"Après," said the dealer.
The croupiers, in accordance with the laws of the same, deducted half the stakes on the table.
"Is that your caution, Cis?" whispered Frank.
"It is my desperation," he said between his teeth.
"Make your game, gentlemen!"
"The game is made."
"Red wins."
The perspiration burst from Cecil's pores, the tightening suffocation in his breast was relieved. He allowed the money to remain in its place again to take its fortune.
"Make your game, gentlemen," said the dealer in his unvarying voice.
"The game is made."
"Red wins."
There were now ten pounds upon the red belonging to Cecil.
"Take up five," suggested Frank.
"No: hit or miss: I risk all."
The gambler's recklessness possessed him; he was in such a state of excitement that he knew not what he did.
"Red wins," again said the dealer.
Twenty pounds were now heaped upon the red.
"Shall you keep the stake there, sir?" asked a smiling gentleman with bushy whiskers, who had taken great interest in the game.
"Yes," said Cecil, resolutely.
"Then I shall back against you," said the smiling gentleman, twirling a whisker round his finger, and throwing half a crown upon the black, with the air of a man undertaking an important enterprise.
"Red wins," again said the dealer.
"There's a run upon the red," sighed the bushy-whiskered gentleman, as his half-crown was raked away, and forty pounds stood there as Cecil's winnings. "I shall back you this time, sir; you are fortune's favourite, sir. Take a pinch of snuff, sir."
And with recovered hilarity he offered the box to Cecil, who bowed coldly, and took a pinch.
"Make your game, gentlemen," said the dealer.
"Try the red again, Cis," said Frank, "but take up five pounds to guard against accident." He staked twenty pounds himself upon the red.
Cecil followed his advice: he had now five and thirty pounds staked.
"The game is made."
"Wait a minute," said the bushy-whiskered gentleman; "I have not yet staked."
He threw down a half-crown upon the red. These three were the only players who backed the red; upwards of two hundred pounds were on the black; and the coup was watched with breathless anxiety.
With unimpassioned, inexpressive face did the dealer throw down the cards, as if all the chances of the game which so excited the players were powerless upon him.
"Red wins," he again said, in his hollow indifferent voice.
Cecil raked the seventy pounds towards him in a sort of delirium: the sight of the gold was to him like a vision of fairy land.
The smiling snuff-taker snatched up his five shillings, and again requested him to take a pinch.
"Pretty game, sir; very pretty, when fortune takes you in hand."
"We had better cut now," said Frank.
"Not yet."
"Yes, Cis; come while you've got the money. Don't tempt your luck too far."
"I must—I will play another coup. I'll try the red once more."
"Don't: be advised, Cis, don't."
"I must."
"Well, then, wait till the next. Let this deal go by, and try the next."
Cecil did so.
"Black wins," said the dealer.
Frank looked at Cecil as much as to say, "you see I was right."
Cecil smiled.
His smiling friend was glum, for he had lost two crowns on the red. He threw down another couple of crowns again upon the red.
"Back the winning colour," said Frank, staking twenty pounds upon the black.
Cecil made a pile of fifty sovereigns, and placed it also on the black.
He won again.
"Now, Frank, I'm ready to go."
"That's right."
"Waiter, some champagne!"
"And a cigar, waiter!"
Cecil having called for the champagne, placed the gold in his purse, and seemed to have realized his dream: glimpses even of the country house sparkled on the froth of the wine!
His brain was in a whirl, and the chink of money, the rattle of the dice, the unvarying phrases of the dealer, the brief remarks of the players, all sounded like fairy music in his ears. He was impatient to begone, for he felt that he was succumbing to the fascinations of the place, rightly named a 'Hell.'
As he went to the side table for his hat, he espied his smiling neighbour standing looking into the glass, with one hand under his chin, fiercely pushing his whiskers forward so as almost to cover his face, while with the other hand he made terrific menaces at the reflection of that face in the glass.
"Ugh! you old fool!" he vituperated his own image, at the same time shaking his fist at it. "Did I nottellyou so? Did I not say you would lose? You ass! you ass!Fiveandfortyshillings have you thrown awaythis blessed night! Five and fortyshillings? Will youneverlearn wisdom—will you neverleave off play? Ass! fool! Ass!"
Cecil with difficulty restrained his laughter, and advanced saying:—
"I'm sorry you have not been fortunate, sir."
"Youare sorry, are you," fiercely replied the little man, sharply turning round upon him, delighted at having some one else on whom to vent his wrath. "And pray sir, who areyou? Who are you, sir, thatpresumesto besorryforme! Am I anass, sir? am I aboy? am I anoodle? to be pestered by the pity of apuppylikeyou. Do you wish toquarrel with me, sir? do you wish to quarrel? If so, say theword. I am not quarrelsome, myself; not I; but Iam not to be bullied, sir; you shall find that I am not to be bullied.You may try it on, sir—you will find itno go! And since you aredetermined to fight me, sir, fight youshall. You force me to it, but I am notoneto back out of it."
Cecil looked at him for a moment in surprise, and then quietly turning on his heel, put an arm within Frank's, and went down stairs.
The little fiery gentleman ran his fingers several times through his whiskers, and then turned again to vituperate his own repentant face in the glass. Having relieved his choler thus, he called for some wine, and went home to bed, pathetic and moralizing.
Cecil and Frank supped joyously that night, and threw about their money with the lavish recklessness of those to whom money so gained loses its proper value.
Cecil came home exhausted with excitement, and on his way ruminated how he should deceive Blanche as to the source of his new gains:—
"I will tell her I have sold my Nero for three hundred pounds to a dealer, and this hundred and twenty-five is the sum paid down. That will open the door for fresh winnings!"
How happy did this falsehood make his little wife! At last, then, her Cecil admitted that something was to be done by art. Their future was secured.
Yet happiness grounded on such falsehoods must be fragile; and far wiser would it have been for Cecil to have told her the painful truth. She would have been shocked, terrified; she would have entreated him to gamble no more; there would have been "a scene," but who knows what good might not have resulted from it?
Cecil, like all weak men, sought refuge in a falsehood from the reproaches which he knew must follow an avowal.
"Your days are tedious, your hours burdensome:And wer't not for full suppers, midnight revels,Dancing, wine, riotous meetings, which do drownAnd bury quite in you all virtuous thoughts,And on your eyelids hang so heavilyThey have no power to look as high as heaven,You'd sit and muse on nothing but despair."DECKAR.
The next night and the next, Cecil played, and with varying fortunes, sometimes losing to the very last few pounds, at others rising to large gains. The end of the week found him a winner of some four hundred pounds.
He considered himself rich now, and looking on the gaming-table as a bank from which he could at any time draw largely, his first step was to move from Mrs. Tring's.
He took apartments in South Audley Street; furnished them with taste, and considerable luxury; engaged two servants, and began to live in a style more corresponding with his previous habits.
A run of luck in his favour having largely increased his resources, he started a cab; and boasted of one of the tiniest tigers in London; a strong square-built boy of fourteen, who did not look more than ten.
"Is this prudent, dearest?" said Blanche, when he proposed the cab. "Will our means ever permit it?"
"Yes, pet, it is genuine prudence. I am the rage just now; the dealers are all anxious I should paint them a picture. Moon has offered me a thousand guineas for one to engrave from. I have refused. I must have more. But to command more it is essential that I should appear rich; the richer I appear, the richer I shall be. A cab is, therefore, policy."
"You know best: but don't forget the little one that is to share our prosperity."
"Forget him, indeed! look here; I have bought him a coral; look at the gold bells! I saw it yesterday—it was a bargain, and I thought the opportunity should not be lost. Isn't it beautiful?"
"Beautiful! How thoughtful of you, dear one!"
"At the same time I saw a love of a watch. That, said I to myself, is just the thing for petkins—and behold!"
He held a gold breguet before her eyes.
"You dear, kind creature," she said, kissing him; "but I will not have you spend money on me in this way."
She did not remark the diamond studs in his shirt, nor the turquoise-headed cane which dangled from his wrist; she only thought of what he had spent upon a present for her.
Cecil was soon plunged into debt; but a man who has his cab, and is lavish in expense, easily finds enormous credit. He lived as if he had a certain income of two or three thousand a year. Brilliant dinners at the club, small but ruinous dinners at home, suppers, jewellery, cigars, gloves, and elegant trifles for his wife demanded no inconsiderable sums. Rouge et noir and credit supplied his wants. In spite of heavy losses, his luck at play was extraordinary, and was aided by his prudence in always retiring after gaining a certain sum.
The ordinary routine of his life, as it used to be at Mrs. Tring's, was now exchanged for one very unlike it in appearance, but to those who look beneath the surface very like itau fond.
He rose late; and sat in his dressing-gown and slippers, smoking cigars at two guineas the pound, turning over the leaves of a novel or new poem, chatting with Blanche, and listening to her plans for the education of their children. Impossible to be more charming than Cecil at such moments! He listened with unfeigned pleasure to her little schemes, threw in a gracefulbon mothere and there, drew her on his knee, and played with her golden hair, planned amusements for her, and taxed his ingenuity to discover what she would like to have bought.
About twelve, he dressed. No rubbing up of gloves—no oiling of boots now. His dress was a matter of study, and he stepped into his cab a perfect dandy.
Blanche, without inquiring, imagined he always went to his painting-rooms, but the club or Hester Mason's were his invariable resorts.
He had taken of late to calling frequently on Hester during the day. Not that he was in love with her, but she amused and flattered him. He saw pretty plainly that she regarded him with anything but indifferent feelings, and no man withstands that sort of flattery. He saw, moreover, that Sir Chetsom Chetsom was jealous, and what man is insensible to that compliment? He went, therefore, and was always amused.
Poor Hester had fallen seriously in love with him, and although his attentions to her were by no means explicit, yet she could not help fancying he had some love for her. Unfortunately he often brought his wife's name forward, and always spoke of her with an unostentatious respect and affection which cut Hester to the quick.
She who recognised no marriage tie; who thought that love, and love alone, was the only principle of union, was jealous and angry at this obstacle of a wife, and her tirades against marriage were not wholly unselfish. That Cecil loved her, she could not disbelieve—why, then, should he not tell her so?
She did not appreciate the distinction between flattered vanity and love; she did not understand that a man could find delight in her society, and be pleased at her evident partiality, while at the same time cherishing the image of his wife as something inalienable from his heart.
Cecil had no thought of being inconstant, yet he sought Hester's society with pleasure.
After spending an hour or sotête-à-têtewith her, he would drive down to the club, or into the Park; dine at the club, and spend his night at the Strangers', to which he had recently been admitted, and where he played fifty pound stakes with a recklessness which astonished most of the players, but which, on the whole, was attended with success. One night he carried off eight hundred pounds.
So large a sum in his possession betrayed to Blanche the source of his sudden prosperity. She had before been uneasy: doubts had crossed her mind; the abundance of money, coupled with his obvious idleness, looked very unlike an artist's gains, and now this eight hundred pounds threw a flash of light on the mystery.
"Cecil, dearest Cecil," she said timidly, "relieve me from my suspense—did you gain this money at play?"
He looked angrily at her, and, puffing forth a column of smoke, said,—
"How else should I gain it?"
She was silent. He continued to smoke fiercely for a minute or so, and then said, sneeringly,—
"Did you fancy money was to be gained by art? Did you imagine I was going to follow the example of all the other fools, and wear out my life in a miserable contest for a beggar's pittance? Painting would never support me; it is all very well for the mechanical fellows who make it atrade; I could never dothat; and I have no inclination to starve—there is you to think of—and our child."
Blanche could not reply; every phrase was a stab in her heart; she saw ruin and dishonour scowling upon them, and felt their descent was not to be averted.
"I was born a gentleman, thank God!" he continued, throwing away the end of his cigar, and rising from the sofa as he spoke; "I was bred a gentleman, and, damme, I will live like a gentleman!"
With this very gentlemanly, honourable sentiment, he walked out of the room.
Relieved from the restraint of his presence, Blanche threw herself upon the sofa, and gave way to a paroxysm of grief. What a blow to her happiness was that fearful discovery! Her husband—her adored Cecil—a gambler! Men living in the world, and accustomed to mingle with those who play, cannot overcome their repugnance to a professed gambler; but what is their repugnance compared with the loathing felt by women, whose horror is unmitigated by familiarity? and what is the abstract horror of a woman, compared with the shuddering terror of a wife, who sees written before her in characters of fire the ineffaceable dishonour, the inevitable ruin of her husband and her children?
A gambler! her husband was a gambler! The luxuries with which she was surrounded were not the fruits of honest labour, but of dishonourable gaming; the trinkets which he had given her, and which she had held as precious tokens of his affection, were not purchased by his genius and energy, but were purchased from the misery of others; the gold he squandered with a lavish hand, was the gold whose loss carried perhaps despair and suicide into many a wretched family. The thought was torture. It turned all her trinkets into manacles. It made the costly furniture around her dark, grim, and reproachful.
Bitter, bitter were the scalding tears which gushed from her, as she brooded on this immeasureable horror! Terrible were the fears which assailed her as she thought of the end—the inevitable end of such a career!
All hope of happiness was now swept from out her life. Their love, which had been so trusting; their sympathy, which had been so perfect; her esteem, which had been so unsullied, where were they? Gone—irrecoverably gone!
In their poverty, how happy they had been! how contented with their lot! In the prospect of the future, made radiant with love—in the thoughts of their children, as sharers and promoters of that love—what blissful dreams had tinged with magic hues the far horizon of a life which blended with the distant life to come! And now, in one single moment, all those dreams were shattered, and the horizon darkened with thunder-clouds over a stormy sea.
You may have seen a graceful vine, heavy with clusters of the purple grape, trailed up against a garden wall; the rusty nail that fastens it, half falling from out the crumbling wall; and you have felt that the first gust of autumnal wind must tear it completely out, and hurl the poor drooping vine upon the ground.
That is an image of their life. By no stronger bond were they now separated from ruin: one turn of Fortune's capricious wheel, and they were lost.
Weep, weep, poor wretched girl! weep and prepare yourself for greater woe! The babe which now moves beneath your heart, in the dim newness of its being, whose birth was to have been the advent of such joy; what will it be born to? Weep, and prepare yourself for greater woe!
Elle s'efforça de lui éviter la souffrance en lui cachant la sienne; elle s'habitua à souffrir seule, à n'avoir ni appui, ni consolation, ni conseil.
GEORGE SAND.—André.
The discovery of her husband's pursuits was made too late. Cecil had become a confirmed gambler; and although he saw—saw with anger and remorse—that his wife was heartbroken at the discovery, and could not be deluded by the fluent sophisms with which he tried to persuade her that he had no other career left—could not believe his present pursuits were only temporary, to be given up as soon as he had won sufficient money to be independent; yet his remorse only tormented, it did not cure him. It made him uneasy at home; made him seek excitement elsewhere, in which to intoxicate his conscience. And he continued to win!
Perhaps, had Violet been his wife, instead of the meek, resigned Blanche, the greater force of her will, and directness of her mind might have cowed him. Violet might have shamed him into honour. Her courage and her inflexible will, by braving his anger, by enduring scenes of domestic misery, but by unflinchingly keeping to the point, might, with one so weak, so impressionable, and so affectionate, have rescued him from perdition. But Blanche was ill suited to such a task. Her spirit, never strong, had been early broken. She had learned to endure evils, not to combat them. She bowed her head to the stroke, and exerted all her strength in gaining fortitude to endure.
Violet would have acted energetically, where Blanche only wept in silence.
Her tears distressed and irritated him; they made him impatient at her "folly," by bringing painfully home to him the sense of his own. Yet, inasmuch as he loved her, he could not see her constant melancholy without anguish; and in moments of contrition he had several times solemnly assured her that he would never again touch a card. The assurance made her deliriously happy for a day or two; but it never lasted long: he broke his vow, made it again, and again broke it. In fact, the fascination of the gaming-table was irresistible; and Frank Forrester was always at his elbow, like a tempter. So often had he deceived her, that she only smiled a melancholy smile, when he now promised never to play again. She had resigned herself to her fate as hopeless!
"Damn it, Cis," said Frank one day, "when are you going to play scientifically? You might try the martingale now: you've got the capital."
"My dear Frank, I lost six hundred pounds last night—and that, too, in trying your famous martingale."
"The devil you did!"
"Yes, and heartily I cursed you for having told me of it."
"Justice, Cis, damme, justice! If you lost money by my martingale, it must be because you didn't play it, for I'll stake my honour—or anything equally valueless upon it, that my plan is infallible."
"Perhaps so; if one could play it. But the fact is, one had need be a machine to play it."
"Of course—of course. That's why you should have let me play: I'm cast-iron. You could not resist the temptation of risking now and then, and in that risk you lost."
"Don't tell me, Frank. No man can sit playing all night, and winning paltry stakes, when every time he wins he reproaches himself for not having staked higher."
"So you lost?"
"I'm cleaned out. I don't believe there is eight pounds in my purse."
"Humph! I came to borrow."
"I'll accept a bill, if you will get it discounted, and we'll share."
"Bravo!"
"Have you a stamp about you?"
"Have I? ... My dear Cis, what a question! Why bill-stamps are my stock-in-trade; when the day—distant yet, I hope—shall arrive that is to find me without a stamp, and without a friend to go through the matter of form, then will Francis Forrester gracefully bid adieu to this dung-heap of civilization, and waft his charming person into other regions. Here you are, old fellow! just scrawl your name across that: your coachmaker will discount it."
Having settled this little matter of business, Cecil drove to Hester's.
To meet her spirit in a nimble kiss,Distilling panting ardour to her breast.JOHN MARSTON.—The Malcontent.
S'il ose m'alléguer une odieuse loiQuand je fais tout pour lui, s'il ne fait rien pour moi;Dès le moment, sans songer si je l'aime,Sans consulter enfin si je me perds moi mêmeJ'abandonne l'ingrat.RACINE.—Bajazet.
Cecil found Hester writing, in a charming négligé. She threw down her pen with a movement of impatient joy as he entered.
She took his outstretched hand in hers, and pressing it tenderly, looked with serious alarm into his face as she said, "You are not well. Something is on your mind. Am I right?"
"You are."
"Sit down on the sofa—there." She sat by his side still holding his hand, which he could not withdraw. "Now, tell me what it is."
He shook his head.
"Won't you make me your confidante? Am I not worthy to share your sorrows?"
"Don't ask me ... you are right .... I am unhappy. But I cannot tell you wherefore."
"How is your novel getting on? Why won't you tell me?" She pressed his hand as she said it.
He was perplexed, and knew not what to say. Her dark eyes were darting forth fire—her face was so close to his, that he felt its warmth—her loose morning dress, thrown slightly open by the attitude in which she sat bent forward, made a dangerous display of her finely moulded bust; he was surrounded with such an atmosphere of voluptuousness, that his intoxicated senses confused his reason. In that moment he forgot everything but the moment's intense sensation. His eyes answered hers; his hand returned her pressure; he drank her breath, and felt the blood flushing his face.
Both were silent; both feared to break that silence. With irresistible impulse they mutually bent forward till their lips touched, and then clung together in a burning kiss.
She burst into tears, and pressed him feverishly to her, as if in an embrace to express the unutterable fervour of her love. And in this delirium they remained some time, not a word passing, only a few deep sighs, and a fierce pressure of the hand, telling of the fire which consumed them.
Hester was supremely happy. Her doubts were set at rest. He loved her!
Cecil was violently excited, and in his excitement forgot whom he was embracing—forgot his wife—forgot the world. The vague suggestions of his conscience were stifled at once by the agitation of his senses. Hester by a word recalled him to himself.
"You love me, then?" she said, tenderly.
He started, and could not answer her.
"Cecil, dearest Cecil, my own, my best beloved!"
He was sobered in an instant.
But what could he do? To continue this scene was impossible; yet to undeceive her, to tell her that he loved her not! what man could do that?
"Why are you so silent?"
"I suffer horribly."
"From what?"
He beat his brow distractedly.
"Hester, .... you will curse me..... It is not my fault..... You ...."
"Do you not love me?" she almost shrieked.
"I do, I do!" he hurriedly exclaimed; "yes, Hester, I love you .... but .... how shall I tell it you? .... We must forget this .... we must meet no more...."
"Not meet, when you love me? Impossible! The whole world shall not separate us."
"It is the world which will separate us."
"What .... your wife!" she said scornfully, almost savagely.
"Alas!"
"I recognise no barrier in a wife. I scorn the whole system of marriage..... It is iniquitous! Two hearts that love to be separated by a sophism of convention! If you loveher, keep to her. If you loveme, you are mine." Hester rose from the sofa as she spoke: her whole frame trembled with passion.
Cecil remained seated; his eyes fixed on the ground, in a helpless state of irresolution.
"Cecil, one word—and but one. Are you afraid of the idle gossip of the world, and are your instincts cowed at it?"
"Hester! I feel, Hester, we must part for ever."
"Then you love me not?"
He did not answer.
A loud knocking at the street door startled them. She ran to the window, and looked out.
"It is Sir Chetsom. Cecil, this instant must decide my fate. Do you reject my love?"
"Believe me, this is a situation——"
"Heis coming up stairs. One word—yes, or no?"
He twirled his hat, and sought for an expression which should soften the blow, but could find none. She looked at him with intense eagerness, and reading in his hesitation her worst fears, gave a low heart-breaking sob, and rushed into the other room. In a few seconds the door opened, and the servant announced,—
"Sir Chetsom Chetsom."
Cecil brushed past him with a hurried bow, and made a precipitate retreat.
"What the devil is all this?" muttered the astonished baronet. "Hester not here!"
Hester's maid appeared, and informed him that her mistress would be down immediately, if he would only be good enough to wait.
"Where is your mistress, then?"
"In her dressing-room, Sir Chetsom."
Without saying another word, Sir Chetsom, to the horror of the maid, recovered the speed of his youth to ascend the stairs, and to rush into the dressing-room. On all ordinary occasions he preservedles convenanceswith great punctilio; but he was at this moment in an exasperation of jealousy, and only thought of clearing up his doubts. Cecil's exit, and Hester's absence, were alone startling circumstances; but when to these be added the jealousy which for a long time Sir Chetsom had felt towards Cecil, his exasperation may be conceived.
He found Hester extended on a couch, bathed in tears. She rose angrily at his approach, and with a gesture of great dignity pointed to the door. As he seemed noways disposed to obey her, she said,—
"I would be alone .... alone, Sir Chetsom."
"My dear Hester, what is all this? In tears! what has distressed you?"
Her only answer was to pass into her bedroom, and lock herself in.
Sir Chetsom felt foolish. He tapped at the door; but she gave no answer.
He threatened to break it open; but she remained silent.
He then began to wheedle and entreat, to threaten, to promise, to storm, and to implore, alternately. All in vain: not a word could he extort from her.
He went down into the drawing-room, there to await her pleasure; sulky and suspicious, angry yet anxious.
Hester, meanwhile, gave full scope to the paroxysm of her grief. In Cecil's manner, she had read her condemnation. She understood his momentary aberration. She saw that although he had not been able to withstand the excitement of that moment, yet it was not his heart, but his senses she had captivated. She saw that he loved his wife!
Fierce were the convulsions into which this conviction threw her, and many were the tears she shed; but after an hour's misery she grew calmer, and began to think of her condition.
Sir Chetsom was below, awaiting her. He was jealous; he was angry. He was ready to quarrel with her, and she felt that a good quarrel was just the thing she wanted.
Prepared, therefore, for a "scene," she descended into the drawing-room.
"Oh! at last," said Sir Chetsom, coldly.
"Yes, Sir Chetsom, at last. I presume I may choose my own time for seeing my visitors; those who do me the honour of calling upon me will be pleased to accept that condition, or else be pleased to stay away."
"Indeed, madam!" replied he, greatly astonished at her tone, and foreseeing that she was ready to burst forth at a word.
"So it is, Sir Chetsom. In which class am I to place you?"
"Hester, I don't understand this language."
"Then I will say good-morning. I dislike talking to those who do not comprehend me."
She rose and moved towards the door.
"Hester! Hester!"
She turned round again.
"Stay a moment.—Sit down again. There, now let us talk over matters quietly."
"Begin. What have you to say?"
"I found you in tears just now."
"You did; what then?"
She said this so angrily, that he was forced to pause a moment, and change his tone to say,—
"I wish—as a friend—my love prompts me to ask the cause of those tears?"
"Wretchedness!"
"You wretched?"
"Intensely!"
"My poor Hester! What has occurred?—Is Mr. Chamberlayne—has he anything to do with it?"
She made no reply.
"Answer me, dear girl. Do. I have a right to know."
She continued silent.
"I insist upon knowing."
"Insist then," she replied, quietly.
"I do insist!" he said, raising his voice.
"But your insistance is useless."
"Eh? Hester, do not go too far—Remember—"
"What?Whatam I to remember?"
"That you—that I may enforce——"
An ironical laugh was her answer.
"Hester, you forget—I am here as your protector—you owe everything to me.—Be careful, I am willing to overlook a great deal——"
"Are you willing to quit the room?" she said, her eyes flashing as she spoke. "There is the door. May you never enter it again! Go! I command you!Youinsist—youenforce? And do you imagine that I am to give up my youth and beauty to age and folly—that I am to sacrifice myself, and to such as you, and then to be told thatyouinsist! Undeceive yourself, Sir Chetsom. I am my own mistress. I follow my own caprices. My caprice once was to live with you. Now my caprice is to show you the door. Go! I owe you nothing. I have not sold myself. I have not bound myself. Go!—Why do you stand there gaping at me—do you not comprehend my words? or do you fancy that it is something so strange I should wish never to see you again? You imagine, perhaps, that I am not calm now, that I am unaware of what I do in relinquishing the protection of Sir Chetsom Chetsom? Undeceive yourself. If I am angry, I know perfectly what I do. I know theextentof my folly—shall I tell you what it is? It is that I ever listened to you! It is that I ever sullied my name by accepting your protection!Now, do you understand me?"
She sank in a chair, exhausted. Poor Sir Chetsom was troubled and confused. The scorn of her manner which lent such momentum to her words, quite crushed the feeling of anger which continually rose within him. She had often threatened to quit him; but never in such terms, and never seemed so earnest.
"My dear Hester," he said, submissively, taking a seat near her, "you have misunderstood me."
"I do not wish to understand you then."
"But are you serious?—do you wish to leave me?"
"Very serious."
"But what have I done? I am sure my life is spent in trying to make you happy. Every wish of yours, as soon as it is expressed, I endeavour to gratify."
"Then my wish is never to see you again; gratify that!"
"My dear Hester, be reasonable! You are angry now—I don't know wherefore—I won't inquire, if it displeases you—but you will get over this to-morrow, you will have forgotten it. To-morrow I will come and see you."
"I will not see you; so spare yourself the trouble."
"Not see me! Is everything over then between us? Is this your calm decision?"
"It is. I have told you so before. What makes you doubt it? Do you suppose your society is so fascinating that I cannot relinquish it? Try me!"
"I will," said Sir Chetsom, buttoning his coat, and rising in concentrated anger.
"Do so."
"You will repent this. You force me to it, recollect! You force me!"
"Good-morning!"
"I am not joking, I am serious now."
"Good-morning."
"If I once quit this house it will be never to return."
"Sir Chetsom I have the pleasure of wishing yougood-morning!"
There was no replying to the cutting coolness of her manner. He took up his hat, buttoned his coat up to the chin, fidgeted his gloves, and at last making an effort, said:—
"Very well, very well!" and left the room.
Hester felt considerably relieved. She had taken a savage pleasure in this contest, and utterly reckless of consequences, found in that very recklessness a satisfaction, which helped to console her mortified vanity and wounded affection. Towards Cecil, she felt hate and scorn; towards Sir Chetsom, contemptuous anger, she knew not why. She had played her whole existence in that quarrel; and knew that she was a beggar without a moment's anxiety.
The next Day, Sir Chetsom sent her a note, in which he deplored what had passed between them, but was willing to attribute it to some extraordinary irritation; and he moreover offered to settle six hundred a year upon her for her life, if she would only consent to remain his friend as heretofore.
The irritation in Hester's mind had not abated, and she returned this laconic answer:—
"CADOGAN PLACE, 13th June1841.
"Not for six thousand.
"H. M."
Sir Chetsom was alarmed. The idea of her quitting him was more than he could endure. Completely fascinated by her, the more he knew of her, the more hopelessly he became her slave. He could not imagine living without her.
He called; was refused admittance; called again; was refused again; wrote, and received back his letter unopened.
He was in despair. So great was his preoccupation, that he actually went out with his whiskers unoiled and undyed! Hester's servant at length took pity on his sorrow, and consented to let him enter the house, against her orders.
He stole up to her boudoir, and throwing himself at her feet, said,—
"Hester, I cannot exist without you."
"But I can without you," she said, smiling.
"You smile; then I am forgiven."
"Yes; but I keep to my resolution."
"Hester, hear me out; if, after what I have to say, you still keep your resolution, I shall have nothing to do but to leave you in peace. Here, then, I offer you my hand—be Lady Chetsom, and make me happy."
At that moment a strange image rose in Hester's mind. She had that afternoon met Cecil driving in the Park. He raised his hat in cold politeness, but made no attempt to speak to her. The recollection of this scene now presented itself, as the sort of background to Sir Chetsom on his knees offering a title, offering wealth, offering consideration to the friendless, forsaken, ambitious girl.
"Will you accept me?" again whispered Sir Chetsom.
"I shall plague your life out," she said.
"Then that is a settled matter!"
Sir Chetsom was the happiest of men.
But his happiness only lasted a fortnight, and was then suddenly cut short by that inflexible lady—Atropos. Driving home one evening, his horse shied at something in the road, and ran away with him down Constitution Hill, then stumbled and threw Sir Chetsom against the railings. A concussion of the brain was the consequence.
By this accident, Hester not only lost the honour of becoming Lady Chetsom, but she was absolutely left penniless, as Sir Chetsom died intestate.
To this had her ambition brought her! With no resources, with nofriends, without even a good name, she had to begin the world anew. Literature was the desperate resource which alone awaited her; and she resolved to live by her pen.
Pietro.—"This Malevole is one of the most prodigious affectations that ever conversed with nature. A man, or rather a monster: more discontent than Lucifer, when he was thrust out of the Presence. His appetite is as insatiable as the grave: as far from any content as from heaven."
JOHN MARSTON.—The Malcontent.
Mrs. Meredith Vyner was radiant again; if not happy, she was at least sprightly, occupied, and flattered. She had not forgotten Marmaduke, she had not forgiven him; but although his image sometimes lowered upon her, she banished it with a smile of triumph, for she was loved!
The silent, shy, and saturnine George Maxwell had taken Marmaduke's place, ascavalier servente; and across his dark, forbidding face there shone a gleam of sunshine, as he now watched the sylph-like enchantress, who for so long had made him more and more misanthropical by her gay indifference to him, and who at last had perceived his love.
Marmaduke, his hated favoured rival, was dismissed; and not only was a rival dismissed, but he, George, was admitted in his place.
The history of these two may be told in a few words. Maxwell, silent and watchful so long as Marmaduke was a visitor at the house, suddenly became more talkative and demonstrative when he found Marmaduke's visits cease. Hopes rose within him. He spoke with another accent, and with other looks to Mrs. Vyner. She was not long in understanding him. Once opening her eyes to his love, she saw as in a flash of light, the whole history of his passion, she understood the conduct of the silent, jealous lover, and deeply flattered at such constancy and unencouraged affection, began to turn a favourable eye upon him. Smarting herself from wounded affection, she could the more readily and truly sympathize with him. In a few weeks—for passion grows with strange rapidity, and days are epochs in its history—she gave him to understand that he was notindifferentto her. Of Marmaduke she spoke freely to him, telling him the same story she had told her husband; and he believed her: what will not lovers believe!
No word of love as yet had passed their lips, and yet they understood each other. Indeed, so plain was the avowal of her looks, that a man less shy and suspicious than Maxwell would long ago have declared his passion, certain of a return. But he was withheld by the very fierceness of his passion, and by his horror at ridicule. Maxwell was one of those men who never enter the water till they can swim—who never undertake anything till they are certain of succeeding, held back by the fear of failure. One trait in his character will set this disposition clearly forth: he had a fine tenor voice, and sang with some mastery, but he never could be prevailed upon to sing before any one, except his family, because he was waiting till he could execute as well as Rubini or Mario. Meanwhile, he was intensely jealous of those who, not having reached that standard,didsing; and his scornful criticisms on their curious presumption, was nothing but miserable spite at their not having so sensitive a vanity as his own.
Maxwell was in truth a bad, mean-spirited, envious, passionate man, in whom vanity, ludicrously susceptible and exacting, fostered the worst of passions, jealousy and revenge. He was misanthropical: not because his own high-thoughted soul turned from the pettiness of mankind with intolerant disgust,—not because he had pryed too curiously into the corruptions of human nature, without at the same time having been fortunate enough to know familiarly all that is great, and loving, and noble in the human heart—but simply because his life was a perpetual demand upon the abnegation, affection, and admiration of others, and because that demand could not, in the nature of things, be satisfied. It has been said that a man who affects misanthropy is a coxcomb, for real misanthropy is madness. Not always madness: seldom so; it is generally inordinate and unsatisfied vanity. A man hates his fellow-creatures because they, unwittingly, are always irritating him by refusing to submit to the exactions of his vanity: he construes their neglect into insult, their indifference into envy. He envies them for succeeding where he dare not venture; he hates them for not acknowledging his own standard of himself. Maxwell was one of these.
Conceive such a man suddenly caught in the meshes of a brilliant coquette like Mrs. Meredith Vyner! Conceive him after two years of angry expectation, during which she has never bestowed a smile on him which was not unmeaning, now awakening to the conviction that his merits are recognised, that his love is returned, that he has inspired a guilty passion!
The guilt added intensity to his joy: it was so immense a triumph!
What a pair! Love has been well said to delight in antitheses, otherwise we might stare at the contrast afforded by this little, hump-backed, golden-haired, coquettish, heartless woman, and this saturnine, gloomy, stupid, bad-hearted man.
Poor Meredith Vyner could not comprehend it. The evidence of his eyes told him plainly how the case stood; but his inexperienced mind refused to accept the evidence of his senses. Whatcouldshe see in so grim and uninteresting an animal? Marmaduke was quite another man; affection for him was intelligible at least; but Maxwell! And what could Maxwell see in her? Why, she was the very contradiction of all he must feel in his own breast!
In that contradiction was the charm: Maxwell did himself instinctively, but involuntarily, that justice; he would assuredly have hated a duplicate of himself, even more intensely than he hated others.
Meredith Vyner endeavoured once or twice to come to an "explanation" with his wife; for hewasmaster in his own house, andwouldbe, or he was greatly deceived. But she answered him with a few galling sarcasms (adding general allusions to the miseries of young wives subject to the absurd jealousies of foolish, old men), and ending in—hysterics! There was no combating hysterics, and Vyner was always defeated.
Mrs. Vyner again went into society as usual, the only difference being that she was generally accompanied by Maxwell instead of her husband. Rose often stayed at home, but sometimes went with her. Time had not made her forget Julius St. John, but it had brought back the elasticity of her spirits; and except an occasional sigh of regret, or a short reverie, she was much the same as she had been before.
One Saturday on which they went to Dr. Whiston's soirée, Rose accompanied them, and was delighted to see Cecil there in high spirits, and beautifully dressed. Blanche's condition of course prevented her being there.
"But she is quite well, is she not?"
"Charming, and looks lovelier than ever."
"I have not been to see her this week. Mama has not been able to let me have the carriage. How gets on your new picture?"
"Famously. How beautiful you are looking to-night, Rose!"
"Of course I am; do I ever fail? But tell me, what is the subject of your picture?"
He put his finger on his lips.
"That's a secret. I let none know anything about it, as I intend surprising you all."
"Papa is so proud of you now, that I think if you were to go to him, all would be made up."
"That's kind, certainly; now I no longer need him, he is willing to acknowledge his son-in-law. No, Rosy, no; I have made advances enough;hemust make them now."
"But think how delightful it would be for us all!"
"I know that; besides, I know it must come. He will make the first advance; and heshallmake it."
The secret of Cecil's holding back was not pride, but calculation. He fancied that if Vyner made the first advances to him, he couldmake terms; and his recent losses at the gaming-table had made him sensible of the precariousness of his present resources.
As they moved through the crowd, and were passing into the second room, they came face to face with Mrs. St. John and Julius.
There was no avoiding a recognition. Rose blushed deeply, and felt extremely embarrassed; but recovering herself, she held out her hand to Mrs. St. John, who took it coldly.
Cecil and Julius shook hands cordially.
"Have you long been returned?" asked Rose in a low voice.
"Six weeks," was the laconic reply. "I hope Mr. Vyner is quite well, and Mrs. Vyner?'
"Mama is here—in the other room," she said, with an effort.
She made a movement as if to pass on; her eye met Julius's as she bowed, but his face, though deadly pale, gave no sign of agitation.
In another instant, they were in the next room; and Rose, with well acted indifference, occupied herself with the specimens exhibited on the table, addressing common-place remarks to Cecil, much to his astonishment.
"Is it all over, then, Rose?" he said.
"All. Oh, do look at this machine for teaching the blind to write—how very curious."
"Are you serious, Rose?"
"Serious! Didn't you see the cut direct?"
"You take it calmly!"
"Would you have a scene? Shall I faint? Shall I pretend to be stabbed to the heart? Shall I act a part?"
"Pretend! Are you not acting now?"
"Not I. If you think their reception has pained me, pray undeceive yourself; it is no more than I expected. Months ago I made up my mind. I know what to think ofhim. I am glad he has behaved so; very glad, very glad. It now puts everything beyond a doubt. Very glad."
She muttered "very glad" to herself as she sat down in a chair just left by a dowager, and tried to cheat herself into the belief that she really was glad. In truth, she was at that moment more indignant than unhappy. The coldness of her reception, both by mother and son, had exasperated her. Had he looked pleased to see her, had he even looked very pained, she would have at once given him to understand that his retreat had been precipitate, and that she was ready to accept him with delight. But his coldness piqued her; she refrained from addressing a word to him; and was now indulging in somewhat bitter reflections on his conduct.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Vyner had been eloquent in her admiration of Cecil and his genius, to Lady F——, with whom she was talking. Maxwell, from time to time, threw in a sarcasm, and was evidently uneasy at hearing any one praised so highly.
"Well, but you know, my dear sir," said Lady F——, "he must be monstrous clever, or he would never make so much money."
Maxwell shrugged his shoulders, and said, with considerable significance in the tone,—
"That depends upon how he makes it."
Mrs. Vyner looked at him surprised. A little while afterwards, when they were standing retired apart from the company, she asked him what he meant by his reply to Lady F——, respecting Cecil's money-making.
"I mean this: he doesn't make money by hisgenius," Maxwell replied, with sneering emphasis.
"By what, then?"
Maxwell refused at first to answer.
"What can you be hinting at? By what means does he make his money?"
"By ... there, I may as well tell you; you must soon hear it ... by gambling."
A shudder of disgust ran over her frame.
"Are you sure—quite sure of this?"
"Quite: I had it from a man who plays nightly at the same table with him."
"How horrible! isn't it?"
"No," he replied, with a sardonic smile: "it'sgenius."
She looked at him astonished: at that moment, she hated him. Well would it have been for her if she had taken the warning of that moment, and flung from her the viper that was crawling to her heart. But she forgot it. Maxwell's smile passed away, and was replaced by one of tenderness for her.
Rose and her mother were both thoughtful as they rode home that night.
The next day, Rose communicated to her father what Cecil had said at Dr. Whiston's, and begged him to write to Cecil, and announce his forgiveness. Vyner, who would have been well pleased to do so, spoke with his wife about it.
"He is a credit to us now," added Vyner.
"Oh! yes, agreatcredit."
"Don't you think so?"
"How should I not? Vyner is an old name—a good name—it can gain no freshéclatfrom honours, but it may from infamy."
"From infamy, Mary?"
"Cecil Chamberlayne, your creditable son-in-law, is a gambler."
"Good heavens!"
"His cab and tiger, his dinners, his trinkets—all come from that infamous source: it is his means of livelihood."
"My poor, poor Blanche!" exclaimed the wretched father, as the tears came into his eyes. "But she shall not stay with him .... I will take her away ... She shall come to us .... she shall."
In vain his wife interposed; he ordered the carriage, and drove at once to Cecil's house.
Blanche was trimming a baby cap, when her father entered the room. With a cry of delight she sprang up, and rushed into his arms. He hugged her fondly, and the tears rolled down his cheeks as he pressed his child sadly to his bosom.
It was some time before either of them spoke.
"My poor child!" he said at last.
"Your happy child, papa; I am so happy! I knew you would forgive me soon. Oh! why is not Cecil here to join with me in gratitude?"
"Blanche," he said with an effort, "I am come to take you away with me: will you come?"
She looked her answer.
"That is right, ... that is right .... Pack up your things, then, at once."
"Pack up what things?" she asked in astonishment.
"Whatever you want to take with you .... Come .... don't stay in this house a moment longer than you can help."
Her astonishment increased.
"Do you mean me to leave my home?"
"Yes."
"And .... my husband?"
"Yes."
"Leave my husband?—leave my Cecil? Why, papa, what can have put that into your head? Do you suppose, I am not happy here? ... He is the best of husbands!"
Meredith Vyner had recourse to his snuff-box, as in all emergencies. He inserted thumb and index finger into it, and trifled mechanically with the grains, while seeking for some argument.
"Do, dear papa, relieve me from this suspense .... What is it you mean?"
"Are you serious, Blanche?—ishe a good husband?'
"I adore him; he is the kindest creature on earth."
Vyner took a huge pinch. That did not clear his ideas, and he sat silently brushing off the grains which had congregated in the wrinkles of his waistcoat, very much puzzled what to say.
"Papa, there is something on your mind. If it is anything against Cecil .... anything a wife ought not to hear, spare me, and do not utter it. If it is anything else, spare me the suspense, and tell me at once what it is."
"Blanche, my dearest child, I came here to save you from ruin, and I will save you. You must quit your husband."
"Why?"
"Is not my word sufficient? I say you must. Your welfare depends upon it."
"Why?—I say again—why?"
"Are you—no, you cannot be aware ofhowyour husband gains a livelihood."
She coloured violently and trembled. He noticed it, and read the avowal in her agitation.
"Youdoknow it then?"
She burst into tears.
"Well, my dear child, since you know it, that saves me an unpleasant explanation. But you must leave him; you cannot stay here longer: you cannot share his infamy; you shall not be dragged into his ruin. It has been a miserable match; I have always grieved over it; always knew it would end wretchedly. But to come to this!—to this! No, Blanche, you cannot remain here. Come and live at home; there at least you will not live in infamy."
She wept bitterly, but offered no remark.
"Come, Blanche," he said, taking her hand, "you will leave this place, will you not? You will live with us. I cannot promise to make you happy, but at least I can save you from the wretched existence of a gambler's wife. Come—come."
"I cannot!" she sobbed.
"Rouse yourself: conquer this emotion. Think of your future—think of your child!"
She shuddered.
"Think of the child you are to bring into the world. Must it also share in the ruin which its father will inevitably draw upon you? My dear Blanche, you must have courage; for your own sake—for your child's sake—you must quit this house. Come home to me. I am unhappy myself; I want to have some one about me I can love: Rose is the only one: Violet is away: your mother—but don't let me speak of her. You see, Blanche, dear, I want you; you will fill a place at home; you will be so petted; and the little one will have every comfort—and his aunt Rose—but don't sob so, my child: do restrain yourself. You will come, eh?"
"I cannot!"
Vyner took another pinch of snuff, and was disconcerted; there was such wretchedness, but such resolution in her tone, that he felt his arguments had been powerless.
Her sobs were pitiful to hear, and his own eyes were filled with tears, in spite of his rising anger at what he considered her obstinacy.
"Why can you not?"
"Because he is my husband—one whom I have chosen for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, to cherish, and to obey, till death do us part—one from whom death alone shall part me, for I love him, he loves me, and by his side I can smilingly await poverty, even ruin."
"Even infamy!" exclaimed Vyner.
"Even infamy!" she replied, in a low sad tone.
"This is madness."
"It is love—it is duty. I know the wretched fate which must befall us. I foresee it: but if it had already fallen, I should say the same. I cannot leave him! I may be miserable; we may be brought to beggary; my child may want every necessary—oh! I have not shut my eyes tothatterrible prospect! I have seen it; it has wrung my heart, but I cannot—would not, if I could—leave him who is all my happiness. Cecil is more than my husband: he is all that I hold dearest in life: he is the father of that child whose future you so gloomily foresee; shall that child—shallmychild not smile upon its father? You do not know what you ask."