Some weeks passed away; Margaret and I resumed our usual employments
and amusements; the life at North Villa ran on as smoothly and
obscurely as usual--and still I remained ignorant of Mr. Mannion's
history and Mr. Mannion's character. He came frequently to the house,
in the evening; but was generally closeted with Mr. Sherwin, and
seldom accepted his employer's constant invitation to him to join the
party in the drawing-room. At those rare intervals when we did see
him, his appearance and behaviour were exactly the same as on the
night when I had met him for the first time; he spoke just as seldom,
and resisted just as resolutely and respectfully the many attempts
made on my part to lead him into conversation and familiarity. If he
had really been trying to excite my interest, he could not have
succeeded more effectually. I felt towards him much as a man feels in
a labyrinth, when every fresh failure in gaining the centre, only
produces fresh obstinacy in renewing the effort to arrive at it.
From Margaret I gained no sympathy for my newly-aroused curiosity. She
appeared, much to my surprise, to care little about Mr. Mannion; and
always changed the conversation, if it related to him, whenever it
depended upon her to continue the topic or not.
Mrs. Sherwin's conduct was far from resembling her daughter's, when I
spoke to her on the same subject. She always listened intently to what
I said; but her answers were invariably brief, confused, and sometimes
absolutely incomprehensible. It was only after great difficulty that I
induced her to confess her dislike of Mr. Mannion. Whence it proceeded
she could never tell. Did she suspect anything? In answering this
question, she always stammered, trembled, and looked away from me.
"How could she suspect anything? If she did suspect, it would be very
wrong without good reason: but she ought not to suspect, and did not,
of course."
I never obtained any replies from her more intelligible than these.
Attributing their confusion to the nervous agitation which more or
less affected her when she spoke on any subject, I soon ceased making
any efforts to induce her to explain herself; and determined to search
for the clue to Mr. Mannion's character, without seeking assistance
from any one.
Accident at length gave me an opportunity of knowing something of his
habits and opinions; and so far, therefore, of knowing something about
the man himself.
One night, I met him in the hall at North Villa, about to leave the
house at the same time that I was, after a business-consultation in
private with Mr. Sherwin. We went out together. The sky was unusually
black; the night atmosphere unusually oppressive and still. The roll
of distant thunder sounded faint and dreary all about us. The sheet
lightning, flashing quick and low in the horizon, made the dark
firmament look like a thick veil, rising and falling incessantly, over
a heaven of dazzling light behind it. Such few foot-passengers as
passed us, passed running--for heavy, warning drops were falling
already from the sky. We quickened our pace; but before we had walked
more than two hundred yards, the rain came down, furious and
drenching; and the thunder began to peal fearfully, right over our
heads.
"My house is close by," said my companion, just as quietly and
deliberately as usual--"pray step in, Sir, until the storm is over."
I followed him down a bye street; he opened a door with his own key;
and the next instant I was sheltered under Mr. Mannion's roof.
He led me at once into a room on the ground floor. The fire was
blazing in the grate; an arm-chair, with a reading easel attached, was
placed by it; the lamp was ready lit; the tea-things were placed on
the table; the dark, thick curtains were drawn close over the window;
and, as if to complete the picture of comfort before me, a large black
cat lay on the rug, basking luxuriously in the heat of the fire. While
Mr. Mannion went out to give some directions, as he said, to his
servant, I had an opportunity of examining the apartment more in
detail. To study the appearance of a man's dwelling-room, is very
often nearly equivalent to studying his own character.
The personal contrast between Mr. Sherwin and his clerk was remarkable
enough, but the contrast between the dimensions and furnishing of the
rooms they lived in, was to the full as extraordinary. The apartment I
now surveyed was less than half the size of the sitting-room at North
Villa. The paper on the walls was of a dark red; the curtains were of
the same colour; the carpet was brown, and if it bore any pattern,
that pattern was too quiet and unpretending to be visible by
candlelight. One wall was entirely occupied by rows of dark mahogany
shelves, completely filled with books, most of them cheap editions of
the classical works of ancient and modern literature. The opposite
wall was thickly hung with engravings in maple-wood frames from the
works of modern painters, English and French. All the minor articles
of furniture were of the plainest and neatest order--even the white
china tea-pot and tea-cup on the table, had neither pattern nor
colouring of any kind. What a contrast was this room to the
drawing-room at North Villa!
On his return, Mr. Mannion found me looking at his tea-equipage. "I am
afraid, Sir, I must confess myself an epicure and a prodigal in two
things," he said; "an epicure in tea, and a prodigal (at least for a
person in my situation) in books. However, I receive a liberal salary,
and can satisfy my tastes, such as they are, and save money too. What
can I offer you, Sir?"
Seeing the preparations on the table, I asked for tea. While he was
speaking to me, there was one peculiarity about him that I observed.
Almost all men, when they stand on their own hearths, in their own
homes, instinctively alter more or less from their out-of-door manner:
the stiffest people expand, the coldest thaw a little, by their own
firesides. It was not so with Mr. Mannion. He was exactly the same man
at his own house that he was at Mr. Sherwin's.
There was no need for him to have told me that he was an epicure in
tea; the manner in which he made it would have betrayed that to
anybody. He put in nearly treble the quantity which would generally be
considered sufficient for two persons; and almost immediately after he
had filled the tea-pot with boiling water, began to pour from it into
the cups--thus preserving all the aroma and delicacy of flavour in the
herb, without the alloy of any of the coarser part of its strength.
When we had finished our first cups, there was no pouring of dregs
into a basin, or of fresh water on the leaves. A middle-aged female
servant, neat and quiet, came up and took away the tray, bringing it
to us again with the tea-pot and tea-cups clean and empty, to receive
a fresh infusion from fresh leaves. These were trifles to notice; but
I thought of other tradesmen's clerks who were drinking their
gin-and-water jovially, at home or at a tavern, and found Mr. Mannion
a more exasperating mystery to me than ever.
The conversation between us turned at first on trivial subjects, and
was but ill sustained on my part--there were peculiarities in my
present position which made me thoughtful. Once, our talk ceased
altogether; and, just at that moment, the storm began to rise to its
height. Hail mingled with the rain, and rattled heavily against the
window. The thunder, bursting louder and louder with each successive
peal, seemed to shake the house to its foundations. As I listened to
the fearful crashing and roaring that seemed to fill the whole
measureless void of upper air, and then looked round on the calm,
dead-calm face of the man beside me--without one human emotion of any
kind even faintly pictured on it--I felt strange, unutterable
sensations creeping over me; our silence grew oppressive and sinister;
I began to wish, I hardly knew why, for some third person in the
room--for somebody else to look at and to speak to.
He was the first to resume the conversation. I should have imagined it
impossible for any man, in the midst of such thunder as now raged
above our heads, to think or talk of anything but the storm. And yet,
when he spoke, it was merely on a subject connected with his
introduction to me at North Villa. His attention seemed as far from
being attracted or impressed by the mighty elemental tumult without,
as if the tranquillity of the night were uninvaded by the slightest
murmur of sound.
"May I inquire, Sir," he began, "whether I am right in apprehending
that my conduct towards you, since we first met at Mr. Sherwin's
house, may have appeared strange, and even discourteous, in your
eyes?"
"In what respect, Mr. Mannion?" I asked, a little startled by the
abruptness of the question.
"I am perfectly sensible, Sir, that you have kindly set me the
example, on many occasions, in trying to better our acquaintance. When
such advances are made by one in your station to one in mine, they
ought to be immediately and gratefully responded to."
Why did he pause? Was he about to tell me he had discovered that my
advances sprang from curiosity to know more about him than he was
willing to reveal? I waited for him to proceed.
"I have only failed," he continued, "in the courtesy and gratitude you
had a right to expect from me, because, knowing how you were situated
with Mr. Sherwin's daughter, I thought any intrusion on my part, while
you were with the young lady, might not be so acceptable as you, Sir,
in your kindness, were willing to lead me to believe."
"Let me assure you," I answered; relieved to find myself unsuspected,
and really impressed by his delicacy--"let me assure you that I fully
appreciate the consideration you have shown--"
Just as the last words passed my lips, the thunder pealed awfully over
the house. I said no more: the sound silenced me.
"As my explanation has satisfied you, Sir," he went on; his clear and
deliberate utterance rising discordantly audible above the long,
retiring roll of the last burst of thunder--"may I feel justified in
speaking on the subject of your present position in my employer's
house, with some freedom? I mean, if I may say so without offence,
with the freedom of a friend."
I begged he would use all the freedom he wished; feeling really
desirous that he should do so, apart from any purpose of leading him
to talk unreservedly on the chance of hearing him talk of himself. The
profound respect of manner and phrase which he had hitherto
testified--observed by a man of his age, to a man of mine--made me
feel ill at ease. He was most probably my equal in acquirements: he
had the manners and tastes of a gentleman, and might have the birth
too, for aught I knew to the contrary. The difference between us was
only in our worldly positions. I had not enough of my father's pride
of caste to think that this difference alone, made it right that a man
whose years nearly doubled mine, whose knowledge perhaps surpassed
mine, should speak to me as Mr. Mannion had spoken up to this time.
"I may tell you then," he resumed, "that while I am anxious to commit
no untimely intrusion on your hours at North Villa, I am at the same
time desirous of being something more than merely inoffensive towards
you. I should wish to be positively useful, as far as I can. In my
opinion Mr. Sherwin has held you to rather a hard engagement--he is
trying your discretion a little too severely I think, at your years
and in your situation. Feeling thus, it is my sincere wish to render
what connection and influence I have with the family, useful in making
the probation you have still to pass through, as easy as possible. I
have more means of doing this, Sir, than you might at first imagine."
His offer took me a little by surprise. I felt with a sort of shame,
that candour and warmth of feeling were what I had not expected from
him. My attention insensibly wandered away from the storm, to attach
itself more and more closely to him, as he went on:
"I am perfectly sensible," he resumed, "that such a proposition as I
now make to you, proceeding from one little better than a stranger,
may cause surprise and even suspicion, at first. I can only explain
it, by asking you to remember that I have known the young lady since
childhood; and that, having assisted in forming her mind and
developing her character, I feel towards her almost as a second
father, and am therefore naturally interested in the gentleman who has
chosen her for a wife."
Was there a tremor at last in that changeless voice, as he spoke? I
thought so; and looked anxiously to catch the answering gleam of
expression, which might now, for the first time, be softening his iron
features, animating the blank stillness of his countenance. If any
such expression had been visible, I was too late to detect it. Just as
I looked at him he stooped down to poke the fire. When he turned
towards me again, his face was the same impenetrable face, his eye the
same hard, steady, inexpressive eye as before.
"Besides," he continued, "a man must have some object in life for his
sympathies to be employed on. I have neither wife nor child; and no
near relations to think of--I have nothing but my routine of business
in the day, and my books here by my lonely fireside, at night. Our
life is not much; but it was made for a little more than this. My
former pupil at North Villa is my pupil no longer. I can't help
feeling that it would be an object in existence for me to occupy
myself with her happiness and yours; to have two young people, in the
heyday of youth and first love, looking towards me occasionally for
the promotion of some of their pleasures--no matter how trifling. All
this will seem odd and incomprehensible to _you._ If you were of my
age, Sir, and in my position, you would understand it."
Was it possible that he could speak thus, without his voice faltering,
or his eye softening in the slightest degree? Yes: I looked at him and
listened to him intently; but here was not the faintest change in his
face or his tones--there was nothing to show outwardly whether he felt
what he said, or whether he did not. His words had painted such a
picture of forlornness on my mind, that I had mechanically half raised
my hand to take his, while he was addressing me; but the sight of him
when he ceased, checked the impulse almost as soon as it was formed.
He did not appear to have noticed either my involuntary gesture, or
its immediate repression; and went on speaking.
"I have said perhaps more than I ought," he resumed. "If I have not
succeeded in making you understand my explanation as I could wish, we
will change the subject, and not return to it again, until you have
known me for a much longer time."
"On no account change the subject, Mr. Mannion," I said; unwilling to
let it be implied that I would not put trust in him. "I am deeply
sensible of the kindness of your offer, and the interest you take in
Margaret and me. We shall both, I am sure, accept your good offices--"
I stopped. The storm had decreased a little in violence: but my
attention was now struck by the wind, which had risen as the thunder
and rain had partially lulled. How drearily it was moaning down the
street! It seemed, at that moment, to be wailing over _me;_ to be
wailing over _him;_ to be wailing over all mortal things! The strange
sensations I then felt, moved me to listen in silence; but I checked
them, and spoke again.
"If I have not answered you as I should," I continued, "you must
attribute it partly to the storm, which I confess rather discomposes
my ideas; and partly to a little surprise--a very foolish surprise, I
own--that you should still be able to feel so strong a sympathy with
interests which are generally only considered of importance to the
young."
"It is only in their sympathies, that men of my years can, and do,
live their youth over again," he said. "You may be surprised to hear a
tradesman's clerk talk in this manner; but I was not always what I am
now. I have gathered knowledge, and suffered in the gathering. I have
grown old before my time--my forty years are like the fifty of other
men--"
My heart beat quicker--was he, unasked, about to disclose the mystery
which evidently hung over his early life? No: he dropped the subject
at once, when he continued. I longed to ask him to resume it, but
could not. I feared the same repulse which Mr. Sherwin had received:
and remained silent.
"What I was," he proceeded, "matters little; the question is what can
I do for you? Any aid I can give, may be poor enough; but it may be of
some use notwithstanding. For instance, the other day, if I mistake
not, you were a little hurt at Mr. Sherwin's taking his daughter to a
party to which the family had been invited. This was very natural. You
could not be there to watch over her in your real character, without
disclosing a secret which must be kept safe; and you could not know
what young men she might meet, who would imagine her to be Miss
Sherwin still, and would regulate their conduct accordingly. Now, I
think I might be of use here. I have some influence--perhaps in strict
truth I ought to say great influence--with my employer; and, if you
wished it, I would use that influence to back yours, in inducing him
to forego, for the future, any intention of taking his daughter into
society, except when you desire it. Again: I think I am not wrong in
assuming that you infinitely prefer the company of Mrs. Sherwin to
that of Mr. Sherwin, during your interviews with the young lady?"
How he had found that out? At any rate, he was right; and I told him
so candidly.
"The preference is on many accounts a very natural one," he said; "but
if you suffered it to appear to Mr. Sherwin, it might, for obvious
reasons, produce a most unfavourable effect. I might interfere in the
matter, however, without suspicion; I should have many opportunities
of keeping him away from the room, in the evening, which I could use
if you wished it. And more than that, if you wanted longer and more
frequent communication with North Villa than you now enjoy, I might be
able to effect this also. I do not mention what I could do in these,
and in other matters, in any disparagement, Sir, of the influence
which you have with Mr. Sherwin, in your own right; but because I know
that in what concerns your intercourse with his daughter, my employer
_has_ asked, and _will_ ask my advice, from the habit of doing so in
other things. I have hitherto declined giving him this advice in your
affairs; but I will give it, and in your favour and the young lady's,
if you and she choose."
I thanked him--but not in such warm terms as I should have employed,
if I had seen even the faintest smile on his face, or had heard any
change in his steady, deliberate tones, as he spoke. While his words
attracted, his immovable looks repelled me, in spite of myself.
"I must again beg you"--he proceeded--"to remember what I have already
said, in your estimate of the motives of my offer. If I still appear
to be interfering officiously in your affairs, you have only to think
that I have presumed impertinently on the freedom you have allowed me,
and to treat me no longer on the terms of to-night. I shall not
complain of your conduct, and shall try hard not to consider you
unjust to me, if you do."
Such an appeal as this was not to be resisted: I answered him at once
and unreservedly. What right had I to draw bad inferences from a man's
face, voice, and manner, merely because they impressed me, as out of
the common? Did I know how much share the influence of natural
infirmity, or the outward traces of unknown sorrow and suffering,
might have had in producing the external peculiarities which had
struck me? He would have every right to upbraid me as unjust--and that
in the strongest terms--unless I spoke out fairly in reply.
"I am quite incapable, Mr. Mannion," I said, "of viewing your offer
with any other than grateful feelings. You will find I shall prove
this by employing your good offices for Margaret and myself in perfect
faith, and sooner perhaps than you may imagine."
He bowed and said a few cordial words, which I heard but
imperfectly--for, as I addressed him, a blast of wind fiercer than
usual, rushed down the street, shaking the window shutter violently as
it passed, and dying away in a low, melancholy, dirging swell, like a
spirit-cry of lamentation and despair.
When he spoke again, after a momentary silence, it was to make some
change in the conversation. He talked of Margaret--dwelling in terms
of high praise rather on her moral than on her personal qualities. He
spoke of Mr. Sherwin, referring to solid and attractive points in his
character which I had not detected. What he said of Mrs. Sherwin
appeared to be equally dictated by compassion and respect--he even
hinted at her coolness towards himself, considerately attributing it
to the involuntary caprice of settled nervousness and ill-health. His
language, in touching on these subjects, was just as unaffected, just
as devoid of any peculiarities, as I had hitherto found it when
occupied by other topics.
It was growing late. The thunder still rumbled at long intervals, with
a dull, distant sound; and the wind showed no symptoms of subsiding.
But the pattering of the rain against the window ceased to be audible.
There was little excuse for staying longer; and I wished to find none.
I had acquired quite knowledge enough of Mr. Mannion to assure me,
that any attempt on my part at extracting from him, in spite of his
reserve, the secrets which might be connected with his early life,
would prove perfectly fruitless. If I must judge him at all, I must
judge him by the experience of the present, and not by the history of
the past. I had heard good, and good only, of him from the shrewd
master who knew him best, and had tried him longest. He had shown the
greatest delicacy towards my feelings, and the strongest desire to do
me service--it would be a mean return for those acts of courtesy, to
let curiosity tempt me to pry into his private affairs.
I rose to go. He made no effort to detain me; but, after unbarring the
shutter and looking out of the window, simply remarked that the rain
had almost entirely ceased, and that my umbrella would be quite
sufficient protection against all that remained. He followed me into
the passage to light me out. As I turned round upon his door-step to
thank him for his hospitality, and to bid him good night, the thought
came across me, that my manner must have appeared cold and repelling
to him--especially when he was offering his services to my acceptance.
If I had really produced this impression, he was my inferior in
station, and it would be cruel to leave it. I tried to set myself
right at parting.
"Let me assure you again," I said, "that it will not be my fault if
Margaret and I do not thankfully employ your good offices, as the good
offices of a well-wisher and a friend."
The lightning was still in the sky, though it only appeared at long
intervals. Strangely enough, at the moment when I addressed him, a
flash came, and seemed to pass right over his face. It gave such a
hideously livid hue, such a spectral look of ghastliness and
distortion to his features, that he absolutely seemed to be glaring
and grinning on me like a fiend, in the one instant of its duration.
For the moment, it required all my knowledge of the settled calmness
of his countenance, to convince me that my eyes must have been only
dazzled by an optical illusion produced by the lightning.
When the darkness had come again, I bade him good night--first
mechanically repeating what I had just said, almost in the same words.
I walked home thoughtful. That night had given me much matter to think
of.