CHAPTER 25.

 

            LORD LITTMASS’S house in Mayfair was small, but sumptuous. In an apartment, which was furnished in a singularly rich and tasteful manner, he sat at breakfast, on the third morning after his return from Devonshire; and opposite to him sat his ward, Margaret Waring. Strewing the carpet on his right hand were the morning’s papers, already hastily glanced over, and on his left stood a small writing table. Lord Littmass was now breaking through his cherished habit of breakfasting alone when in his own house. It was a habit dictated by his literary character. His writings were essentially books of ideas. As philosophical novels they were unapproached in excellence. Having been warned of the weak point in his constitution, he had learned to manage himself so well that his digestion rarely failed to be in most excellent order, and his sleep light; so that a good night’s rest generally sufficed to efface any sense of the previous day’s annoyances, including even the not unfrequent one of heavy losses at the club whist-table over night.

 

(p. 137)

            It was a happy peculiarity of his temperament that he could avail himself of the Scriptural maxim ‘Sufficient for the day,’ to an extent rarely attained by others. For he applied it retrospectively, and refused to allow past ills to affect his present satisfaction.

 

            ‘Remorse,’ he wrote in one of those charming, half-serious, half-sarcastic, tales which at once instructed and delighted a whole generation, – ‘Remorse is the indigestion of the mind. As the removal of the offending substance from the dyspeptic body allows a return to comfort and pleasure, so the ejection of the disagreeable from the memory permits the mind to proceed in satisfaction. The continued presence of a noxious idea or reflection can have only an irritating and injurious effect upon the mental system. That the dead should be quickly buried out of sight was the leading idea of the wise apostle who warned his readers not to look back to things past, but ever to press forward; and who, in his ardent enthusiasm for vitality, made even his dead Lord live again.’

 

            Lord Littmass’s forte thus appears to have consisted in morals rather than in theology. The sentiments which he regarded with the greatest complacency were the offspring of his morning meditations, conceived under the threefold influence of sound sleep, a clean tongue, and an untroubled mind. On the morning in question he had written but few sentences before breakfast was announced and Margaret entered the room. The last of these sentences, put into the mouth of one of his characters, ran thus: –

 

            ‘It matters little, in the estimate of moral character, what our relations with others may be, so long as in those relations we act up to the highest standard which the particular circumstances admit of being applied. The game of our life may be a bad one, but it is for us to make the best move the situation allows.’

 

            At this moment Margaret stood beside him, timidly presenting her fair forehead for the salutation which, in these last few days of their companionship, Lord Littmass had adopted the habit of benignantly imposing.

 

            ‘Good morning, guardian,’ she said, in a full rich voice, as he rose to greet her.

 

            ‘Does the noise of the great city still banish sleep?’ he asked.

 

            ‘I think I am becoming more accustomed to it, but the

(p. 138)

gloom and ugliness of London will never diminish for me, I fear.’

 

            ‘You have been rather spoilt for real life, I am afraid,’ returned Lord Littmass. ‘The desultoriness of Italy, and the abandon of the sea are bad teachers for one already a little too much disposed to reverie.’

 

            ‘I think I could do real work, if – if I had real work to do.’

 

            ‘And what would you do if you were absolutely free – free to go where you pleased, and to do as you pleased?’

 

            ‘I have never contemplated such a fate; but it seems to me that I should make haste and see all the paintings and hear all the music in London, and then away to my studio in dear old Rome.’

 

            ‘Yet you left that for the gloom, and ugliness, and, I may say, dirt of a convent.’

 

            ‘Ah, I was ill, and discontented with life, and I understood that ––’ And here she hesitated and was silent, as if remembering that she was in reality speaking to a stranger, who could not comprehend her, or else to one to whom she had no impulse to reveal herself.

 

            ‘You found that the conventual life differed from what you expected. Well, I am scarcely surprised at that. But we won’t recall any painful experiences. It is sufficient to discover and repent of our mistakes, without keeping them ever before us. There is one lesson at least which it will be enough to have learnt; that while in this world you belong to this world, and that its duties are not to be shunned for the selfish gratification even of the devotee. I do not doubt,’ he continued, waving his hand to arrest the indignant remonstrance which he felt was about to escape from her lips, that you were actuated by motives which presented themselves to you in the divinest aspect. Such has ever been the case, even with zealots who have disgraced humanity by their crimes. But you are old enough now to be told that it is not only by the motives, but also by the results, of any course of action, that its propriety must be determined. For instance, it would be a dereliction of your duty as a woman, were you now to continue to devote yourself exclusively to the mode of life you have hitherto followed. Education, or self-culture, when merely desultory, degenerates into selfishness. You have read one or two of my earlier tales, and have acknowledged that you enjoyed reading them. What would you have thought of me had I written them for my own

(p. 139)

sole gratification, and kept them to myself? You would rightly have considered me culpably selfish. The artist who produces beauty has no right to hide it under a bushel. His faculty is a wealth entrusted to him for the good of all.’

 

            Lord Littmass paused to help himself to some of the good things on the table, and Margaret remained silent, wondering what change in her life his serious tone portended. She remembered, too, that James Maynard had more than once talked to her in a precisely similar strain. The practical end at which he aimed was her marriage with himself. But what could be Lord Littmass’s intention?

 

            ‘You, too, possess faculties,’ he resumed; ‘and a time may soon come for turning them to account. I do not mean in the accomplishments the pursuit of which has constituted your education; but in the fact of your being a Woman. You look surprised, as if the announcement were a novel, and scarcely credible one; but you may rest assured, my dear ward, that men generally will be of my opinion on this point. I can easily understand your not having thought of it before; yet that not very prudent or observing person, Mr. Maynard, found it out. But we will not speak of him. You need not anticipate further annoyance from that quarter. Well, in addition to the supreme fact of your sex, you have certain invaluable gifts of mind and body bestowed upon you by Providence, which constitute am ample capital for the uses of life. I am aware that this is not the view taken by certain good people whom you have met abroad, and that they rather hold it a duty to reproach the bounty of Nature, and to reject the good things kindly provided for our benefit. But your perceptions and experiences have now grown sufficiently to enable you to see that there is a worldliness of another world, little, if at all, less mischievous than the most overweening worldliness of this world. As I read you, you are one in whom a mere selfish existence for your own benefit, whether in respect of this world or of the next, would be impossible. Is it not so?’

 

            ‘Oh, yes, indeed. Do you not remember my saying how rejoiced I should be to have some duty to perform? Only show me how I can be useful, and I shall be grateful indeed.’

 

            ‘I was sure that it is so. Well, the first duty that I shall impose upon you will not, I hope, tax you very heavily. After that has been done there may be something to occupy you more seriously. At present I have only to enjoin upon you the

(p. 140)

absolute necessity of putting an end to Mr. Maynard’s presumption. Hope on his part is vain, and the suspense is injuring his career. I expect that when he next addresses you, you will show a firmness and decision in refusing him which will bring matters to a termination. Now, go into that room, and wake up the piano. You need not fear disturbing me.’

 

            Lord Littmass looked after Margaret, as she passed through the folding-doors. saying to himself, –

 

            ‘Nineteen, and still almost a child as much so, too, in form as in mind. The dame is right. She is not as other girls. Yet there is no defect anywhere, only the development is slow. The French proverb says, “God makes females, and man makes woman.” The idea of man suffices to make most of them, but that idea has not yet occurred to her. What I have been saying to her would have set any other maiden’s heart beating with curiosity or apprehension; but there she sits, already absorbed in the reverie that oozes in music from her fingers. She does not know what a personal human sympathy means. What a sensation she would create were I to introduce her into society. It would take all the art of a Raphael to paint her Madonna face; of a Titian to match the warm angelic tint of her hair; of a Murillo to hint the undeveloped marvels of her form through fitting mystery. Woe to the man who shall love her, for she will be pitiless in her insensibility. That clear lofty brow, where the moral and intellectual natures combine to dominate and repress the as yet unconscious physical, will bow to no ordinary assault. Not that her nature is a cold one. No, there is not the whiteness of complexion which indicates the hard, insincere, self-engrossed disposition. One endowed with such wealth of gold in her tresses must some day learn to love. She will love but once, and with an all-absorbing passion. Woe to her should she discover that she has done so unworthily. One man will be a fate to her. She will be the fate of many men. What to do with her? The nunnery scheme has failed. I cannot send her back to Rome, or give her a separate home. He will seek her out again. And I cannot long conceal her here. A rich marriage to one who will take her without any portion, seems the only escape from the dilemma. There must be no going into society, where, even about her, the second question will be, “How much has she?” By-the-by, I wonder what has become of James. The dame says but little of his visit in her letter. It is clear

(p. 141)

that Margaret does not care for him, except, perhaps, as a friend. He has always been good-natured to her, and is intelligent, imaginative, and well-looking. I rather wonder at her indifference. But it must not be. Back to Mexico he may go; but he goes alone, or not at all. I must settle that point with Tresham. Any letters?’

 

            This to the servant, who came in to clear the breakfast table.

 

            ‘They are in your lordship’s study.’

 

            ‘Bring them here. No, never mind, I will go there.’ Then, to Margaret, he said, looking in through the open doors, –

 

            ‘Thank you, my child. I like your playing very much. You must have some lessons of G––. You will do him credit. You can do as you like now; amuse yourself here or in the library until luncheon. I propose to take you in the afternoon to see some paintings.’

 

            Passing into his study, Lord Littmass threw a glance over the letters, which lay in a row upon his table, arranged so that he could see at once what the morning’s delivery had brought forth.

 

            ‘Oh, money, money!’ he murmured; but passed over the letters which seemed to have extracted the groan, to take up one which he recognised as in Lady Bevan’s handwriting.

 

            The contents were brief, but they caused him vast annoyance.

 

                                                                                              LINNWOOD, Wednesday.

                        ‘DEAR COUSIN LITTMASS,

            ‘Your devotion to your duty shames me; for I see now that I have neglected mine in relation to that poor child. Her mother’s fault has been too long visited upon her; and if she be inferior to other girls in intelligence, she the more requires the consideration of her relatives, of whom I am the nearest, was anxious to hear something of her from Partridge, and drove over to the cottage this morning intending to make friends with her, but was too late to see her. What I have now to propose and urge is, that they both come and pay us a visit here. We are going to be very quiet, until Christmas at least. Sophy already takes a great interest in Margaret, and vehemently backs my invitation. She had some conversation about her with Partridge yesterday, and thinks she can be useful to the poor child. James arrived at the same time, on foot, and hurried away after seeing the dame; so I suppose you will soon

(p. 142)

see him in town. If you are correct in your estimate of his flighty character, it would be very unwise for two such unpractical ones to come together, even if there were no other objection. I sympathise in the anxiety all this business causes you, and would gladly bear my share of it. Your literary studies demand that you should be free from such disturbing influences. At the end of this week we shall be alone. It will be much the best so for Margaret at the first.

                        ‘Your faithful and affectionate cousin,

                                                                                              ‘HARRIET BEVAN.’

 

            ‘ “Faithful and affectionate.” Yes, she is all that, so long as she believes in my –– believes that what she knows is all that there is to be known. But how will it be when she learns the extent to which I have allowed her to remain in error about her niece? and about my own real position too? There will be no possibility of friendship; no certainty that I shall not be publicly disgraced. The affair is becoming frightfully complicated. The unexpected development of this queer, sickly child into a beautiful and healthy woman is but an ill return for the solicitude which I bestowed upon her in expectation of an early death. If I let her go to Linnwood, she cannot go alone, and I can hardly prevent the old woman from going with her, since they know that I have no other use for her services here. So that in this case also I am ill-rewarded for my good-nature. The concealment of the mother’s marriage might be got over, perhaps, with a little dexterity, but my inability to replace her fortune makes any step in that direction impossible. Then for him to be wanting to marry her, as if for the express purpose of adding to my difficulties. Who could have expected him to be caught in this way? An enthusiastic student, with his whole soul in his books, and minerals, and antiquities, careless how he dresses, and ignoring whether or not he has had his dinner: a born college don, whole sphere is celibacy. And what a lover! to walk through half a county, as he must have done, to see his object, and just miss her thereby. It is true he could not guess that he would find the bird flown. I am not quite sure that I should have removed her on his account, but for Noel’s unlucky discovery of her and her retreat. Curiosity would be sure to have taken him there again; or Sophia, who did not before know she was there. If it would suit me for her to marry at all, I suspect that she and Noel would just do for each other. He

(p. 143)

will have plenty for both, if he has not already, unless that speculative uncle of his makes as complete a mess of his affairs as I have done of mine. But I don’t like Noel: or, which is, perhaps, nearer the mark, he does not like me. He is civil enough, and even deferent to me; has high respect for my books, and all that, but I can see that he mistrusts me. I find myself shrinking from his clear, direct gaze. I bate the innocence that comes of ignorance – in a man. It is a feminine quality, and is very well in a woman; but in a man it is a monstrosity. What would virtue be if it had no exercise? Flabby and soft, like any other muscle. “Lead us not into temptation” means, really, “Keep from us the experience which alone gives exercise and strength.” Capital petition for women, though. Religion is essentially feminine. It involves emotions, which they so dearly love. Noel could hardly marry Margaret without learning about her birth and fortune. He would deem his instinctive aversion justified. It is true that I might overcome all that. A little flattery, skilfully administered, goes a long way with the young. A man in my position, taking this young fellow into my confidence, appealing to the sense I have of his honour and generosity, as the only means of averting ruin, if not disgrace, from a name honoured in British literature, – above all, if he happened to fall in love with Margaret, as I believe he would be sure to do if introduced to her, – yes, the scheme is feasible; but – can I humiliate myself so far? And my answer to Harriet? I cannot delay that long. And what can have become of James? He must have gone to Oxford to digest his disappointment there. Yet he is bound to present himself to the Board. The first thing to do is to get him off again without seeing Margaret, except in the brief interview necessary for her to dismiss him. Hard work in a Mexican mine will soon enable him to recover from that blow; at least, I hope so.

 

            ‘And now to work, for I must not waste the whole morning in there reflections. Already is my publisher growing impatient. Would that I had not been obliged to take part payment in advance. The very feeling of .being compelled to get on seems to arrest my hand. It destroys the freedom with which my thoughts used to form and shape themselves, and impairs the excellence of my work. Ah me! had I lived the life I endeavour to describe, how much purer, methinks, had been my style. I know how artificial it is, and the world is beginning

(p. 144)

to suspect it. Did it know all, could it behold the mass of entanglement from which the Man struggles to put forth the Work – work that shall be acceptable by its purity and simplicity – bow it would marvel at the contrast between his actual and his ideal, himself and his performance! Yet, why should this astonish? Is it not the unvarying law that out of death springs life; out of corruption, beauty? and this, in the world moral and artistic, as well as in the world physical. But to work.

 

            ‘ “It matters little what our relations to other may be, so long as in those relations we act up to the highest standard which the particular circumstances admit of being applied.” An unimpeachable sentiment, with my own practice for illustration; yet I have put it in the mouth of the villain of the piece. But I must not stop to analyse my own position, but set with resolute will to work, aiming at the ideal, which, after all, is perhaps the brighter and clearer for its contrast with the gloom from amid which it shines. From the combustion of the refuse comes the illumination of the city. Even. Tophet has to be utilised now-a-days.’

 

 

Sections: General Index   Present Section: Index   Present Work: Index   Previous: Chapter 24    Next: Chapter 26