CHAPTER 17.

 

            LORD LITTMASS on his return was informed by the servant that Mr. Maynard had called and asked for him, and had said that he would call again before leaving town.

 

            ‘Nothing more?’

 

            ‘Only that finding your lordship was not within, he asked for Mrs. Partridge.’

 

            ‘Did he see her?’

 

            ‘Yes, my lord.’

 

            ‘Tell Mrs. Partridge I wish to speak with her.’

 

            Lord Littmass received his old retainer graciously, inquired what she thought of Miss Waring’s health, and expressed satisfaction at her good report, said that his physician recommended

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sea air for her, and ended by announcing that he had discovered a charming seaside cottage to which she was to go in two or three days attended by the dame.

 

            ‘Has your lordship any further directions?’

 

            ‘I wished also to inquire if your late husband’s brother has shown any signs of relenting and doing justice by you.’

 

            ‘He is dead, my lord, having left all his, or rather all my, property to a young wife whom he married a short time back. So that is gone for ever.’

 

            ‘Very sad, and very hard. I am truly sorry for you. I must try and keep you with me still.’

 

            ‘I am very grateful for all your lordship’s kindness. I really do not know what I should do else.’

 

            ‘Well, good afternoon; and I hope you will like your new residence.’

 

            ‘Good-day, my lord;’ and, much relieved, the dame turned to go.

 

            ‘Oh, by the way,’ said Lord Littmass, in a tone of indifference as she was leaving the room, ‘did Mr. Maynard give you any message for me?’

 

            ‘No, my lord, he said he should call again before leaving London.’

 

            ‘Ah, he is going away on another expedition. Now you and he have always been great friends. Tell me, do you think he will ever settle down quietly?

 

            ‘Never, till he takes a wife, my lord,’ said the dame, hardily. ‘That would break him of his wild habits. But I am told that gentlemen who have college fellowships are not allowed to marry.’

 

            ‘Very true, my good dame, and therefore it would be a kindness to warn all young ladies to be on their guard against him. Indeed, I consider that all men who are similarly incapacitated ought not to go at large unless ticketed “ineligible.” ’

 

            It was a rare event for Lord Littmass to gossip thus with the dame, and she was wondering what it betokened, when he asked, –

 

            ‘And does Miss Margaret exhibit any symptoms of restlessness? She is growing into a woman now. Is she impatient to go into society? Does she manifest any preferences? Has she a liking for–– for Mr. Maynard, for instance?’

 

            ‘Bless you, sir’ cried the old woman, now seeing his drift, and assuming a tone of simplicity as the best defence against

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his subtle penetration; ‘bless your lordship’s heart, my young lady is but a child still for all her years; and as for society or marriage, she does not know the meaning of such words. Mr. James was always good-natured to her, as he is to everybody, bless him, from childhood, lending her books and the like; and to-day, when he bid her good-bye, he gave her a long German lesson to do against his return. Of course she is grateful for any notice, seeing so few people as she does.’

 

            ‘And he, you believe, thinks no more of her than that, or indeed of any other woman?’

 

            ‘I can only judge by what I see and know of the characters of both of them; and I can’t fancy Mr. James ever giving up his liberty and settling down with a wife. But perhaps your lordship would be glad if they would think of each other in that way?’ added the dame, with a sudden thought of surprising him into a revelation of his plans, and diverting his attention from her to himself.

 

            On his part Lord Littmass considered that he would best secure her good offices by abstaining from pressing her, and appearing to take her into his confidence. So he said seriously, but gently and firmly, –

 

            ‘You will do a real service to both of these young people, and to your old master too, dame, by discouraging any tendency whatever to matrimony on either side. Mr. Maynard cannot possibly wed a delicate portionless girl; indeed I doubt if he can ever wed at all. Miss Waring is entirely dependent upon me, and I have almost more to do with my money than I can accomplish, without giving her a fortune. I could not allow her to go from my house a penniless bride. Were she to marry, therefore, I should have to reduce my establishment, and retain only my necessary personal attendants. Of course this confidence does not go beyond yourself, but you can act accordingly. Now go and prepare your young lady for her trip to the sea-side, and tell her that I shall be glad to see her in the evening.’

 

            The dame was shrewd enough to interpret this last speech as a threat of dismissal in the event of her master being thwarted in his wishes. All that she said to Margaret was to advise her to be perfectly frank and unembarrassed with her guardian, and avoid betraying James’s secret, if possible, since there was no knowing how the knowledge of it might affect him with his lordship. But thus putting her on the defensive for Maynard’s sake, the good dame knew that she was taking the

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most effectual means to suppress any timidity that Margaret might have felt on her own account, and to put her on her mettle to ward off any injurious suspicion from her friend.

 

            Lord Littmass received his ward in the evening with a marked kindness that set her entirely at her ease. He complimented her on her improving looks, spoke of the great hope he had that sea air and bathing would quite set her up, and how, after her health was restored and her education finished, he should begin to think of placing her in the world; – until Margaret thought that he must be the most careful and amiable of guardians. Then he went on to lift up a comer of the curtain of life, and give her a glimpse of the world and its ways. And Margaret listened half amused, half frightened, at the revelation of the drama in action around her, and thought that either her guardian must be the most cynical of men, or the world the most undesirable of places. A bystander would have perceived that Lord Littmass was artfully exhibiting a twofold picture to the girl’s simple mind in order that, whatever her real character was, she might equally be influenced in the direction he desired. He told her of the supremacy of wealth and its triumph over all other considerations as the leading motive that swayed men and women alike. He enlarged upon the pleasures it conferred in ministering to ambition, love, science, art, and charity, drawing a vivid picture first of the delight of being able with open-handed generosity to minister to the needs of the less fortunate; and then of the sordid miseries of the poverty that blackens life, and closes perforce the intellect to all sense of beauty and truth, and the heart to all emotions of sympathy and benevolence.

 

            Seeing Margaret listening, absorbed, to his eloquence, be went on to describe the struggles of men to ward off this dreadful fiend of poverty, and to achieve the blissful certainty of competence; and he told her how sad it was to see, as he had many and many a time seen, a man of genius on the point of success in his chosen career suddenly dragged down from his high hopes by a foolish yielding to the light impulses of love for some useless and portionless woman; and how much nobler it would have been for such man and such woman to deny themselves, and consult the dictates of prudence. And as Margaret listened, her thoughts naturally turned to the one man in whom she was interested, who sought her love, and of whose genius she had no doubt; and it occurred to her that she

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might play this noble part, and refuse him for his own sake that which he sought from her, and so leave him to follow his career unburdened and unfettered.

 

            This was her first thought, conceived under the impression that she was one of those same useless and portionless maidens whom Lord Littmass described as forming so dangerous a class. This was the end toward which her guardian was artfully leading her, for he could not look on her face without believing in the innate nobility of her disposition. But the first impression soon gave way to this other: ‘Am I a portionless girl? and, if not, can I not help James, instead of hindering him?’

 

            In revolving her idea, she lost something of the glowing discourse that was being pronounced for her edification. Her nurse’s dictum against the propriety of giving her money without herself rose before her, and she rebelled against it. At length she determined to clear up her difficulty by appealing to Lord Littmass.

 

            There was as yet no break in his discourse of which she could avail herself. She, therefore, resumed her listening. It seemed to her as if he read her thoughts, and was resolved to leave her no resource; for he went on to say,

 

            ‘It is in the hopeful struggle with poverty that genius finds its best education, where the work brings its own legitimate reward as it progresses. The sudden accession to unearned wealth is apt to be almost as fatal to genius as the depressing effects of continued poverty. Yet the alliance between the ideal and the real, between genius and business, is of a nature so delicate and evanescent that, as in the charming allegory of Cupid and Psyche, repulsion and separation follow hard upon the introduction of too strong a light upon their union. Their most intimate relations must be held under a veil of obscurity; the artist never allowing his mind to be so withdrawn from the contemplation of his work as to behold in all its palpable reality the grosser reward of success. No: God and Mammon, the standard and the payment, will not be served at once. Tell me,’ he added, quitting his abstract vein and addressing her personally; ‘you have acquired considerable skill in painting. Can you imagine yourself working as well if you were thinking all the time of the money you were to get for your picture, as you were labouring earnestly, and with a single eye to the truth or beauty of your idea, and the faithfulness of your representation?’

 

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            ‘Oh, no, indeed,’ cried Margaret; ‘and yet, I think that if I were compelled to paint in order to earn money for those I loved, the thought of their need would make me work much harder and better than if I were a mere dilettante.’

 

            ‘Harder, possibly; but not better, in the highest sense. In such case quality would have to defer to quantity. But I was speaking of the efforts of genius to manifest itself to mankind, and enrich the world with the fruits of its inspiration. An artist looking only to his pay will, perforce, consult the taste and culture of his audience, and lower his representation to be in accordance with their condition of mind, rather than maintain his own standard of excellence.’

 

            ‘Oh, yes, I see now your meaning,’ cried Margaret, carried away by the eagerness of her comprehension, and forgetting altogether the augustness of her monitor’s presence. ‘It is the way in which things appear to him that the artist is expected to portray, not merely that in which they appear to the commonplace view. To do any good work one must be free from any bias that may distort the vision. This must be one reason why, as you say, we cannot serve God and Mammon. And the other, that the possession of wealth is likely to overlay the soul, and dull its apprehension of beauty or truth.’

 

            ‘I am glad to find that you comprehend me so perfectly.’

 

            ‘Pray, Lord Littmass, have I any wealth?’

 

            ‘You! Why?’

 

            ‘Because, if I have, I should so like to give it, or some of it, to Mr. Maynard, to enable him to pursue his single path to usefulness and fame, without his being obliged to think about the mean end of money.’

 

            And having at last hazarded her shot, the fair girl sat trembling and frightened, doubting whether she had committed some enormity in her guardian’s eyes.

 

            ‘You have a great regard for that gentleman?’ he inquired, looking penetratingly at her.

 

            ‘He has always been my good and kind friend,’ she answered, plucking up her courage anew on finding no storm descending upon her; ‘and he deserves all the gratitude that I can show him. Besides––’

 

            ‘Besides what? Do not fear to tell me.’

 

            ‘I think and hope that if he felt himself at ease about money, he would not be going away to wild countries to earn

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it, but would follow his studies at home, and be content to regard me as his child-friend, as he has always done.’

 

            ‘Perhaps he thinks you are outgrowing such a position, and he would promote you to something more. What do you think about it?’

 

            ‘I honour and respect him very much, but would rather remain always as I am, if I could be of service to him without changing. But I am so ignorant of everything. I do not even know whether I have anything of my own, or am dependent on your bounty for the means of living.’

 

            ‘So that if you had money you would give it to him, and remain your own mistress?’

 

            ‘Oh, yes, that I would, indeed.’

 

            ‘My child, you have nothing but what I may be able to give you some day. He has enough to enable any reasonable man to follow his bent. You need not fear on his account. Neither need you fear for yourself. No one shall carry you off against your will.’

 

            Thus spake Lord Littmass, perceiving that his wisdom had overreached itself, being defective in respect of its omission to take into account that sweet perversity of the womanly heart which makes pity the shortest cut to the affections, and self-sacrifice for a friend a positive delight. Wishing to excite her to covet wealth for herself, and despise Maynard for his poverty, he had led her to covet wealth for him and despise it for herself, even to sacrificing her own prospects to that end. Desirous now to withdraw her from dwelling upon any disappointment she might feel at finding her fair scheme blighted, Lord Littmass hastened, to bring her attention back to herself, and so asked, –

 

            ‘Do you detect any new ambitions or desires springing up in yourself since you came home and health began to glow in your veins, that may indicate the turn you may wish your life to take in the future?’

 

            ‘My future life!’ asked Margaret, with a start. ‘I have never had a thought beyond the present. I suppose I am very odd and foolish. Indeed the nuns in France used to tell me so; but I have never been conscious of any other wish than to serve God by making all the beauty possible to me by means of Art, and Music, and Worship, believing that I had but a short time to live, and that I should thus best fulfil my duty. But

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the little I have seen since I have come home to England has convinced me that there is more ugliness of life to be banished than can be got at by any art I have known, or any prayers I have prayed. If you would only tell me some duty I may set about at once, I shall be so grateful. Being good serves none, or at most, one. Show me any way of doing good, and I shall wish to live and to toil.’

 

            For one reason, at least, the natural animation and freedom with which she spoke, gratified her guardian exceedingly, for it proved to him that he had played his part to perfection in the winning of her confidence. And as the consciousness of the wide interval between their respective moral natures rose vividly before him, exhibiting him to himself very much in the light of a wily demon confessing a simple and unsuspecting angel, he smiled complacently upon his achievement, and warmed towards the unconscious instrument of his gratification.

 

            ‘Were you strong, and robust, and some years older,’ he said, ‘many courses would be open to you that might lead you in the path which your enthusiasm inclines you to tread. But my first care is for your health and education. My second for your fitting establishment in life. After a few months by the sea you will return hither, I hope, a new creature in body. In the mean time, it is my wish that you should pursue the means of culture you have hitherto followed, and perfect yourself as well as may be in music, painting, and languages. If masters are procurable where you will be staying, you shall have them. Every faculty cultivated becomes part of our life’s outfit, and is often available for our service when least anticipated. You may retire now, trusting all to me. In a very few days you will be accompanied by Mrs. Partridge to the coast.

 

 

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