London was rousing everywhere into morning activity, as I passed
through the streets. The shutters were being removed from the windows
of public-houses: the drink-vampyres that suck the life of London,
were opening their eyes betimes to look abroad for the new day's prey!
Small tobacco and provision-shops in poor neighbourhoods; dirty little
eating-houses, exhaling greasy-smelling steam, and displaying a leaf
of yesterday's paper, stained and fly-blown, hanging in the
windows--were already plying, or making ready to ply, their daily
trade. Here, a labouring man, late for his work, hurried by; there, a
hale old gentleman started for his early walk before breakfast. Now a
market-cart, already unloaded, passed me on its way back to the
country; now, a cab, laden with luggage and carrying pale,
sleepy-looking people, rattled by, bound for the morning train or the
morning steamboat. I saw the mighty vitality of the great city
renewing itself in every direction; and I felt an unwonted interest in
the sight. It was as if all things, on all sides, were reflecting
before me the aspect of my own heart.
But the quiet and torpor of the night still hung over Hollyoake
Square. That dreary neighbourhood seemed to vindicate its dreariness
by being the last to awaken even to a semblance of activity and life.
Nothing was stirring as yet at North Villa. I walked on, beyond the
last houses, into the sooty London fields; and tried to think of the
course I ought to pursue in order to see Margaret, and speak to her,
before I turned homeward again. After the lapse of more than half an
hour, I returned to the square, without plan or project; but resolved,
nevertheless, to carry my point.
The garden-gate of North Villa was now open. One of the female
servants of the house was standing at it, to breathe the fresh air,
and look about her, before the duties of the day began. I advanced;
determined, if money and persuasion could do it, to secure her
services.
She was young (that was one chance in my favour!)--plump, florid, and
evidently not by any means careless about her personal appearance
(that gave me another!) As she saw me approaching her, she smiled; and
passed her apron hurriedly over her face--carefully polishing it for
my inspection, much as a broker polishes a piece of furniture when you
stop to look at it.
"Are you in Mr. Sherwin's service?"--I asked, as I got to the garden
gate.
"As plain cook, Sir," answered the girl, administering to her face a
final and furious rub of the apron.
"Should you be very much surprised if I asked you to do me a great
favour?"
"Well--really, Sir--you're quite a stranger to me--I'm _sure_ I don't
know!" She stopped, and transferred the apron-rubbing to her arms.
"I hope we shall not be strangers long. Suppose I begin our
acquaintance, by telling you that you would look prettier in brighter
cap-ribbons, and asking you to buy some, just to see whether I am not
right?"
"It's very kind of you to say so, Sir; and thank you. But cap and
ribbons are the last things I can buy while I'm in _this_ place.
Master's master and missus too, here; and drives us half wild with the
fuss he makes about our caps and ribbons. He's such an austerious man,
that he will have our caps as he likes 'em. It's bad enough when a
missus meddles with a poor servant's ribbons; but to have master come
down into the kitchen, and-- Well, it's no use telling _you_ of it,
Sir--and--and thank you, Sir, for what you've given me, all the same!"
"I hope this is not the last time I shall make you a present. And now
I must come to the favour I want to ask of you: can you keep a
secret?"
"That I can, Sir! I've kep' a many secrets since I've been out at
service."
"Well: I want you to find me an opportunity of speaking to your young
lady--"
"To Miss Margaret, Sir?"
"Yes. I want an opportunity of seeing Miss Margaret, and speaking to
her in private--and not a word must be said to her about it,
beforehand."
"Oh Lord, Sir! I couldn't dare to do it!"
"Come! come! Can't you guess why I want to see your young lady, and
what I want to say to her?"
The girl smiled, and shook her head archly. "Perhaps you're in love
with Miss Margaret, Sir!--But I couldn't do it! I couldn't dare to do
it!"
"Very well; but you can tell me at least, whether Miss Margaret ever
goes out to take a walk?"
"Oh, yes, Sir; mostly every day."
"Do you ever go out with her?--just to take care of her when no one
else can be spared?"
"Don't ask me--please, Sir, don't!" She crumpled her apron between her
fingers, with a very piteous and perplexed air. "I don't know you; and
Miss Margaret don't know you, I'm sure--I couldn't, Sir, I really
couldn't!"
"Take a good look at me! Do you think I am likely to do you or your
young lady any harm? Am I too dangerous a man to be trusted? Would you
believe me on my promise?"
"Yes, Sir, I'm sure I would!--being so kind and so civil to _me,_
too!" (a fresh arrangement of the cap followed this speech.)
"Then suppose I promised, in the first place, not to tell Miss
Margaret that I had spoken to you about her at all. And suppose I
promised, in the second place, that, if you told me when you and Miss
Margaret go out together, I would only speak to her while she was in
your sight, and would leave her the moment you wished me to go away.
Don't you think you could venture to help me, if I promised all that?"
"Well, Sir, that would make a difference, to be sure. But then, it's
master I'm so afraid of--couldn't you speak to master first, Sir?"
"Suppose you were in Miss Margaret's place, would you like to be made
love to, by your father's authority, without your own wishes being
consulted first? would you like an offer of marriage, delivered like a
message, by means of your father? Come, tell me honestly, would you?"
She laughed, and shook her head very expressively. I knew the strength
of my last argument, and repeated it: "Suppose you were in Miss
Margaret's place?"
"Hush! don't speak so loud," resumed the girl in a confidential
whisper. "I'm sure you're a gentleman. I should like to help you--if I
could only dare to do it, I should indeed!"
"That's a good girl," I said. "Now tell me, when does Miss Margaret go
out to-day; and who goes with her?"
"Dear! dear!--it's very wrong to say it; but I must. She'll go out
with me to market, this morning, at eleven o'clock. She's done it for
the last week. Master don't like it; but Missus begged and prayed she
might; for Missus says she won't be fit to be married, if she knows
nothing about housekeeping, and prices, and what's good meat, and what
isn't, and all that, you know."
"Thank you a thousand times! you have given me all the help I want.
I'll be here before eleven, waiting for you to come out."
"Oh, please don't, Sir--I wish I hadn't told you--I oughtn't, indeed I
oughtn't!"
"No fear--you shall not lose by what you have told me--I promise all I
said I would promise--good bye. And mind, not a word to Miss Margaret
till I see her!"
As I hurried away, I heard the girl run a few paces after me--then
stop--then return, and close the garden gate, softly. She had
evidently put herself once more in Miss Margaret's place; and had
given up all idea of further resistance as she did so.
How should I occupy the hours until eleven o'clock? Deceit
whispered:--Go home; avoid even the chance of exciting suspicion, by
breakfasting with your family as usual. And as deceit counselled, so I
acted.
I never remember Clara more kind, more ready with all those trifling
little cares and attentions which have so exquisite a grace, when
offered by a woman to a man, and especially by a sister to a brother,
as when she and I and my father assembled together at the
breakfast-table. I now recollect with shame how little I thought about
her, or spoke to her on that morning; with how little hesitation or
self-reproach I excused myself from accepting an engagement which she
wished to make with me for that day. My father was absorbed in some
matter of business; to _him_ she could not speak. It was to me that
she addressed all her wonted questions and remarks of the morning. I
hardly listened to them; I answered them carelessly and briefly. The
moment breakfast was over, without a word of explanation I hastily
left the house again.
As I descended the steps, I glanced by accident at the dining-room
window. Clara was looking after me from it. There was the same anxious
expression on her face which it had worn when she left me the evening
before. She smiled as our eyes met--a sad, faint smile that made her
look unlike herself. But it produced no impression on me then: I had
no attention for anything but my approaching interview with Margaret.
My life throbbed and burned within me, in that direction: it was all
coldness, torpor, insensibility, in every other.
I reached Hollyoake Square nearly an hour before the appointed time.
In the suspense and impatience of that long interval, it was
impossible to be a moment in repose. I walked incessantly up and down
the square, and round and round the neighbourhood, hearing each
quarter chimed from a church clock near, and mechanically quickening
my pace the nearer the time came for the hour to strike. At last, I
heard the first peal of the eventful eleven. Before the clock was
silent, I had taken up my position within view of the gate of North
Villa.
Five minutes passed--ten--and no one appeared. In my impatience, I
could almost have rung the bell and entered the house, no matter who
might be there, or what might be the result. The first quarter struck;
and at that very moment I heard the door open, and saw Margaret, and
the servant with whom I had spoken, descending the steps.
They passed out slowly through the garden gate, and walked down the
square, away from where I was standing. The servant noticed me by one
significant look, as they went on. Her young mistress did not appear
to see me. At first, my agitation was so violent that I was perfectly
incapable of following them a single step. In a few moments I
recovered myself; and hastened to overtake them, before they arrived
at a more frequented part of the neighbourhood.
As I approached her side, Margaret turned suddenly and looked at me,
with an expression of anger and astonishment in her eyes. The next
instant, her lovely face became tinged all over with a deep, burning
blush; her head drooped a little; she hesitated for a moment; and then
abruptly quickened her pace. Did she remember me? The mere chance that
she did, gave me confidence: I--
--No! I cannot write down the words that I said to her. Recollecting
the end to which our fatal interview led, I recoil at the very thought
of exposing to others, or of preserving in any permanent form, the
words in which I first confessed my love. It may be pride--miserable,
useless pride--which animates me with this feeling: but I cannot
overcome it. Remembering what I do, I am ashamed to write, ashamed to
recall, what I said at my first interview with Margaret Sherwin. I can
give no good reason for the sensations which now influence me; I
cannot analyse them; and I would not if I could.
Let it be enough to say that I risked everything, and spoke to her. My
words, confused as they were, came hotly, eagerly, and eloquently from
my heart. In the space of a few minutes, I confessed to her all, and
more than all, that I have here painfully related in many pages. I
made use of my name and my rank in life--even now, my cheeks burn
while I think of it--to dazzle her girl's pride, to make her listen to
me for the sake of my station, if she would not for the sake of my
suit, however honourably urged. Never before had I committed the
meanness of trusting to my social advantages, what I feared to trust
to myself. It is true that love soars higher than the other passions;
but it can stoop lower as well.
Her answers to all that I urged were confused, commonplace, and
chilling enough. I had surprised her--frightened her--it was
impossible she could listen to such addresses from a total
stranger--it was very wrong of me to speak, and of her to stop and
hear me--I should remember what became me as a gentleman, and should
not make such advances to her again--I knew nothing of her--it was
impossible I could really care about her in so short a time--she must
beg that I would allow her to proceed unhindered.
Thus she spoke; sometimes standing still, sometimes moving hurriedly a
few steps forward. She might have expressed herself severely, even
angrily; but nothing she could have said would have counteracted the
fascination that her presence exercised over me. I saw her face,
lovelier than ever in its confusion, in its rapid changes of
expression; I saw her eloquent eyes once or twice raised to mine, then
instantly withdrawn again--and so long as I could look at her, I cared
not what I listened to. She was only speaking what she had been
educated to speak; it was not in her words that I sought the clue to
her thoughts and sensations; but in the tone of her voice, in the
language of her eyes, in the whole expression of her face. All these
contained indications which reassured me. I tried everything that
respect, that the persuasion of love could urge, to win her consent to
our meeting again; but she only answered with repetitions of what she
had said before, walking onward rapidly while she spoke. The servant,
who had hitherto lingered a few paces behind, now advanced to her
young mistress's side, with a significant look, as if to remind me of
my promise. Saying a few parting words, I let them proceed: at this
first interview, to have delayed them longer would have been risking
too much.
As they walked away, the servant turned round, nodding her head and
smiling, as if to assure me that I had lost nothing by the forbearance
which I had exercised. Margaret neither lingered nor looked back. This
last proof of modesty and reserve, so far from discouraging, attracted
me to her more powerfully than ever. After a first interview, it was
the most becoming virtue she could have shown. All my love for her
before, seemed as nothing compared with my love for her now that she
had left me, and left me without a parting look.
What course should I next pursue? Could I expect that Margaret, after
what she had said, would go out again at the same hour on the morrow?
No: she would not so soon abandon the modesty and restraint that she
had shown at our first interview. How communicate with her? how manage
most skilfully to make good the first favourable impression which
vanity whispered I had already produced? I determined to write to her.
How different was the writing of that letter, to the writing of those
once-treasured pages of my romance, which I had now abandoned for
ever! How slowly I worked; how cautiously and diffidently I built up
sentence after sentence, and doubtingly set a stop here, and
laboriously rounded off a paragraph there, when I toiled in the
service of ambition! Now, when I had given myself up to the service of
love, how rapidly the pen ran over the paper; how much more freely and
smoothly the desires of the heart flowed into words, than the thoughts
of the mind! Composition was an instinct now, an art no longer. I
could write eloquently, and yet write without pausing for an
expression or blotting a word--It was the slow progress up the hill,
in the service of ambition; it was the swift (too swift) career down
it, in the service of love!
There is no need to describe the contents of my letter to Margaret;
they comprised a mere recapitulation of what I had already said to
her. I insisted often and strongly on the honourable purpose of my
suit; and ended by entreating her to write an answer, and consent to
allow me another interview.
The letter was delivered by the servant. Another present, a little
more timely persuasion, and above all, the regard I had shown to my
promise, won the girl with all her heart to my interests. She was
ready to help me in every way, as long as her interference could be
kept a secret from her master.
I waited a day for the reply to my letter; but none came. The servant
could give me no explanation of this silence. Her young mistress had
not said one word to her about me, since the morning when we had met.
Still not discouraged, I wrote again. The letter contained some
lover's threats this time, as well as lover's entreaties; and it
produced its effect--an answer came.
It was very short--rather hurriedly and tremblingly written--and
simply said that the difference between my rank and hers made it her
duty to request of me, that neither by word nor by letter should I
ever address her again.
"Difference in rank,"--that was the only objection then! "Her
duty"--it was not from inclination that she refused me! So young a
creature; and yet so noble in self-sacrifice, so firm in her
integrity! I resolved to disobey her injunction, and see her again. My
rank! What was my rank? Something to cast at Margaret's feet, for
Margaret to trample on!
Once more I sought the aid of my faithful ally, the servant. After
delays which half maddened me with impatience, insignificant though
they were, she contrived to fulfil my wishes. One afternoon, while Mr.
Sherwin was away at business, and while his wife had gone out, I
succeeded in gaining admission to the garden at the back of the house,
where Margaret was then occupied in watering some flowers.
She started as she saw me, and attempted to return to the house. I
took her hand to detain her. She withdrew it, but neither abruptly nor
angrily. I seized the opportunity, while she hesitated whether to
persist or not in retiring; and repeated what I had already said to
her at our first interview (what is the language of love but a
language of repetitions?). She answered, as she had answered me in her
letter: the difference in our rank made it her duty to discourage me.
"But if this difference did not exist," I said: "if we were both
living in the same rank, Margaret--"
She looked up quickly; then moved away a step or two, as I addressed
her by her Christian name.
"Are you offended with me for calling you Margaret so soon? I do not
think of you as Miss Sherwin, but as Margaret--are you offended with
me for speaking as I think?"
No: she ought not to be offended with me, or with anybody, for doing
that.
"Suppose this difference in rank, which you so cruelly insist on, did
not exist, would you tell me not to hope, not to speak then, as coldly
as you tell me now?"
I must not ask her that--it was no use--the difference in rank _did_
exist.
"Perhaps I have met you too late?--perhaps you are already--"
"No! oh, no!"--she stopped abruptly, as the words passed her lips. The
same lovely blush which I had before seen spreading over her face,
rose on it now. She evidently felt that she had unguardedly said too
much: that she had given me an answer in a case where, according to
every established love-law of the female code, I had no right to
expect one. Her next words accused me--but in very low and broken
tones--of having committed an intrusion which she should hardly have
expected from a gentleman in my position.
"I will regain your better opinion," I said, eagerly catching at the
most favourable interpretation of her last words, "by seeing you for
the next time, and for all times after, with your father's full
permission. I will write to-day, and ask for a private interview with
him. I will tell him all I have told you: I will tell him that you
take a rank in beauty and goodness, which is the highest rank in the
land--a far higher rank than mine--the only rank I desire." (A smile,
which she vainly strove to repress, stole charmingly to her lips.)
"Yes, I will do this; I will never leave him till his answer is
favourable--and then what would be yours? One word, Margaret; one word
before I go--"
I attempted to take her hand a second time; but she broke from me, and
hurried into the house.
What more could I desire? What more could the modesty and timidity of
a young girl concede to me?
The moment I reached home, I wrote to Mr. Sherwin. The letter was
superscribed "Private;" and simply requested an interview with him on
a subject of importance, at any hour he might mention. Unwilling to
trust what I had written to the post, I sent my note by a
messenger--not one of our own servants, caution forbade that--and
instructed the man to wait for an answer: if Mr. Sherwin was out, to
wait till he came home.
After a long delay--long to _me;_ for my impatience would fain have
turned hours into minutes--I received a reply. It was written on
gilt-edged letter-paper, in a handwriting vulgarised by innumerable
flourishes. Mr. Sherwin presented his respectful compliments, and
would be happy to have the honour of seeing me at North Villa, if
quite convenient, at five o'clock to-morrow afternoon.
I folded up the letter carefully: it was almost as precious as a
letter from Margaret herself. That night I passed sleeplessly,
revolving in my mind every possible course that I could take at the
interview of the morrow. It would be a difficult and a delicate
business. I knew nothing of Mr. Sherwin's character; yet I must trust
him with a secret which I dared not trust to my own father. Any
proposals for paying addresses to his daughter, coming from one in my
position, might appear open to suspicion. What could I say about
marriage? A public, acknowledged marriage was impossible: a private
marriage might be a bold, if not fatal proposal. I could come to no
other conclusion, reflect as anxiously as I might, than that it was
best for me to speak candidly at all hazards. I could be candid enough
when it suited my purpose!
It was not till the next day, when the time approached for my
interview with Mr. Sherwin, that I thoroughly roused myself to face
the plain necessities of my position. Determined to try what
impression appearances could make on him, I took unusual pains with my
dress; and more, I applied to a friend whom I could rely on as likely
to ask no questions--I write this in shame and sorrow: I tell truth
here, where it is hard penance to tell it--I applied, I say, to a
friend for the loan of one of his carriages to take me to North Villa;
fearing the risk of borrowing my father's carriage, or my
sister's--knowing the common weakness of rank-worship and
wealth-worship in men of Mr. Sherwin's order, and meanly determining
to profit by it to the utmost. My friend's carriage was willingly lent
me. By my directions, it took me up at the appointed hour, at a shop
where I was a regular customer.