THE PROFESSOR

CHARLOTTE BRONTË

PUBLISHED: 1857
CATEGORIES: FICTION, ROMANCE
SOURCE: HTTP://WWW.GUTENBERG.ORG/ETEXT/1028

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 PREFACE

This little book was written before either "Jane Eyre" or "Shirley," and yet
no indulgence can be solicited for it on the plea of a first attempt. A first at-
tempt it certainly was not, as the pen which wrote it had been previously
worn a good deal in a practice of some years. I had not indeed published
anything before I commenced "The Professor," but in many a crude effort,
destroyed almost as soon as composed, I had got over any such taste as I
might once have had for ornamented and redundant composition, and come
to prefer what was plain and homely. At the same time I had adopted a set
of principles on the subject of incident, &c., such as would be generally ap-
proved in theory, but the result of which, when carried out into practice, of-
ten procures for an author more surprise than pleasure.
I said to myself that my hero should work his way through life as I had
seen real living men work theirs—that he should never get a shilling he had
not earned—that no sudden turns should lift him in a moment to wealth and
high station; that whatever small competency he might gain, should be won
by the sweat of his brow; that, before he could find so much as an arbour to
sit down in, he should master at least half the ascent of "the Hill of Difficul-
ty;" that he should not even marry a beautiful girl or a lady of rank. As
Adam's son he should share Adam's doom, and drain throughout life a
mixed and moderate cup of enjoyment.
In the sequel, however, I find that publishers in general scarcely approved
of this system, but would have liked something more imaginative and poeti-
cal—something more consonant with a highly wrought fancy, with a taste
for pathos, with sentiments more tender, elevated, unworldly. Indeed, until
an author has tried to dispose of a manuscript of this kind, he can never
know what stores of romance and sensibility lie hidden in breasts he would
not have suspected of casketing such treasures. Men in business are usually
thought to prefer the real; on trial the idea will be often found fallacious: a
passionate preference for the wild, wonderful, and thrilling—the strange,
startling, and harrowing—agitates divers souls that show a calm and sober
surface.
Such being the case, the reader will comprehend that to have reached him
in the form of a printed book, this brief narrative must have gone through
some struggles—which indeed it has. And after all, its worst struggle and
strongest ordeal is yet to come but it takes comfort—subdues fear—leans
on the staff of a moderate expectation—and mutters under its breath, while
lifting its eye to that of the public,
"He that is low need fear no fall."
CURRER BELL.

The foregoing preface was written by my wife with a view to the publica-
tion of "The Professor," shortly after the appearance of "Shirley." Being dis-
suaded from her intention, the authoress made some use of the materials in
a subsequent work—"Villette," As, however, these two stories are in most
respects unlike, it has been represented to me that I ought not to withhold
"The Professor" from the public. I have therefore consented to its
publication.
A. B. NICHOLLS
Haworth Parsonage,
September 22nd, 1856.
 CHAPTER 1

THE other day, in looking over my papers, I found in my desk the follow-
ing copy of a letter, sent by me a year since to an old school acquaintance:
—

"DEAR CHARLES,
"I think when you and I were at Eton together, we were neither of us
what could be called popular characters: you were a sarcastic, obser-
vant, shrewd, cold-blooded creature; my own portrait I will not attempt
to draw, but I cannot recollect that it was a strikingly attractive one—
can you? What animal magnetism drew thee and me together I know
not; certainly I never experienced anything of the Pylades and Orestes
sentiment for you, and I have reason to believe that you, on your part,
were equally free from all romantic regard to me. Still, out of school
hours we walked and talked continually together; when the theme of
conversation was our companions or our masters we understood each
other, and when I recurred to some sentiment of affection, some vague
love of an excellent or beautiful object, whether in animate or inani-
mate nature, your sardonic coldness did not move me. I felt myself su-
perior to that check THEN as I do NOW.
"It is a long time since I wrote to you, and a still longer time since I
saw you. Chancing to take up a newspaper of your county the other
day, my eye fell upon your name. I began to think of old times; to run
over the events which have transpired since we separated; and I sat
down and commenced this letter. What you have been doing I know
not; but you shall hear, if you choose to listen, how the world has
wagged with me.
 "First, after leaving Eton, I had an interview with my maternal un-
cles, Lord Tynedale and the Hon. John Seacombe. They asked me if I
would enter the Church, and my uncle the nobleman offered me the
living of Seacombe, which is in his gift, if I would; then my other un-
cle, Mr. Seacombe, hinted that when I became rector of Seacombe-
cum-Scaife, I might perhaps be allowed to take, as mistress of my
house and head of my parish, one of my six cousins, his daughters, all
of whom I greatly dislike.
"I declined both the Church and matrimony. A good clergyman is a
good thing, but I should have made a very bad one. As to the wife—oh
how like a night-mare is the thought of being bound for life to one of
my cousins! No doubt they are accomplished and pretty; but not an ac-
complishment, not a charm of theirs, touches a chord in my bosom. To
think of passing the winter evenings by the parlour fire-side of Sea-
combe Rectory alone with one of them—for instance, the large and
well-modelled statue, Sarah—no; I should be a bad husband, under
such circumstances, as well as a bad clergyman.
"When I had declined my uncles' offers they asked me 'what I in-
tended to do?' I said I should reflect. They reminded me that I had no
fortune, and no expectation of any, and, after a considerable pause,
Lord Tynedale demanded sternly, 'Whether I had thoughts of following
my father's steps and engaging in trade?' Now, I had had no thoughts
of the sort. I do not think that my turn of mind qualifies me to make a
good tradesman; my taste, my ambition does not lie in that way; but
such was the scorn expressed in Lord Tynedale's countenance as he
pronounced the word TRADE—such the contemptuous sarcasm of his
tone—that I was instantly decided. My father was but a name to me,
yet that name I did not like to hear mentioned with a sneer to my very
face. I answered then, with haste and warmth, 'I cannot do better than
follow in my father's steps; yes, I will be a tradesman.' My uncles did
not remonstrate; they and I parted with mutual disgust. In reviewing
this transaction, I find that I was quite right to shake off the burden of
Tynedale's patronage, but a fool to offer my shoulders instantly for the
reception of another burden—one which might be more intolerable,
and which certainly was yet untried.
"I wrote instantly to Edward—you know Edward—my only brother,
ten years my senior, married to a rich mill-owner's daughter, and now
possessor of the mill and business which was my father's before he
failed. You are aware that my father-once reckoned a Croesus of
wealth—became bankrupt a short time previous to his death, and that
my mother lived in destitution for some six months after him, un-
helped by her aristocratical brothers, whom she had mortally offended
by her union with Crimsworth, the——shire manufacturer. At the end
of the six months she brought me into the world, and then herself left it
without, I should think, much regret, as it contained little hope or com-
fort for her.
"My father's relations took charge of Edward, as they did of me, till
I was nine years old. At that period it chanced that the representation
of an important borough in our county fell vacant; Mr. Seacombe stood
for it. My uncle Crimsworth, an astute mercantile man, took the oppor-
tunity of writing a fierce letter to the candidate, stating that if he and
Lord Tynedale did not consent to do something towards the support of
their sister's orphan children, he would expose their relentless and ma-
lignant conduct towards that sister, and do his best to turn the circum-
stances against Mr. Seacombe's election. That gentleman and Lord T.
knew well enough that the Crimsworths were an unscrupulous and de-
termined race; they knew also that they had influence in the borough of
X——; and, making a virtue of necessity, they consented to defray the
expenses of my education. I was sent to Eton, where I remained ten
years, during which space of time Edward and I never met. He, when
he grew up, entered into trade, and pursued his calling with such dili-
gence, ability, and success, that now, in his thirtieth year, he was fast
making a fortune. Of this I was apprised by the occasional short letters
I received from him, some three or four times a year; which said letters
never concluded without some expression of determined enmity
against the house of Seacombe, and some reproach to me for living, as
he said, on the bounty of that house. At first, while still in boyhood, I
could not understand why, as I had no parents, I should not be indebted
to my uncles Tynedale and Seacombe for my education; but as I grew
up, and heard by degrees of the persevering hostility, the hatred till
death evinced by them against my father—of the sufferings of my
mother—of all the wrongs, in short, of our house—then did I conceive
shame of the dependence in which I lived, and form a resolution no
more to take bread from hands which had refused to minister to the ne-
cessities of my dying mother. It was by these feelings I was influenced
when I refused the Rectory of Seacombe, and the union with one of
my patrician cousins.
"An irreparable breach thus being effected between my uncles and
myself, I wrote to Edward; told him what had occurred, and informed
him of my intention to follow his steps and be a tradesman. I asked,
moreover, if he could give me employment. His answer expressed no
approbation of my conduct, but he said I might come down to ——
shire, if I liked, and he would 'see what could be done in the way of
furnishing me with work.' I repressed all—even mental comment on
his note—packed my trunk and carpet-bag, and started for the North
directly.
"After two days' travelling (railroads were not then in existence) I
arrived, one wet October afternoon, in the town of X——. I had al-
ways understood that Edward lived in this town, but on inquiry I found
that it was only Mr. Crimsworth's mill and warehouse which were situ-
ated in the smoky atmosphere of Bigben Close; his RESIDENCE lay
four miles out, in the country.
"It was late in the evening when I alighted at the gates of the habita-
tion designated to me as my brother's. As I advanced up the avenue, I
could see through the shades of twilight, and the dark gloomy mists
which deepened those shades, that the house was large, and the
grounds surrounding it sufficiently spacious. I paused a moment on the
lawn in front, and leaning my back against a tall tree which rose in the
centre, I gazed with interest on the exterior of Crimsworth Hall.
"Edward is rich," thought I to myself. 'I believed him to be doing
well—but I did not know he was master of a mansion like this.' Cut-
ting short all marvelling; speculation, conjecture, &c., I advanced to
the front door and rang. A man-servant opened it—I announced myself
—he relieved me of my wet cloak and carpet-bag, and ushered me into
a room furnished as a library, where there was a bright fire and candles
burning on the table; he informed me that his master was not yet re-
turned from X——market, but that he would certainly be at home in
the course of half an hour.
"Being left to myself, I took the stuffed easy chair, covered with red
morocco, which stood by the fireside, and while my eyes watched the
flames dart from the glowing coals, and the cinders fall at intervals on
the hearth, my mind busied itself in conjectures concerning the meet-
ing about to take place. Amidst much that was doubtful in the subject
of these conjectures, there was one thing tolerably certain—I was in no
danger of encountering severe disappointment; from this, the modera-
tion of my expectations guaranteed me. I anticipated no overflowings
of fraternal tenderness; Edward's letters had always been such as to
prevent the engendering or harbouring of delusions of this sort. Still, as
I sat awaiting his arrival, I felt eager—very eager—I cannot tell you
why; my hand, so utterly a stranger to the grasp of a kindred hand,
clenched itself to repress the tremor with which impatience would fain
have shaken it.
"I thought of my uncles; and as I was engaged in wondering whether
Edward's indifference would equal the cold disdain I had always expe-
rienced from them, I heard the avenue gates open: wheels approached
the house; Mr. Crimsworth was arrived; and after the lapse of some
minutes, and a brief dialogue between himself and his servant in the
hall, his tread drew near the library door—that tread alone announced
the master of the house.
"I still retained some confused recollection of Edward as he was ten
years ago—a tall, wiry, raw youth; NOW, as I rose from my seat and
turned towards the library door, I saw a fine-looking and powerful
man, light-complexioned, well-made, and of athletic proportions; the
first glance made me aware of an air of promptitude and sharpness,
shown as well in his movements as in his port, his eye, and the general
expression of his face. He greeted me with brevity, and, in the moment
of shaking hands, scanned me from head to foot; he took his seat in the
morocco covered arm-chair, and motioned me to another sent.
"'I expected you would have called at the counting-house in the
Close,' said he; and his voice, I noticed, had an abrupt accent, probably
habitual to him; he spoke also with a guttural northern tone, which
sounded harsh in my ears, accustomed to the silvery utterance of the
South.
"'The landlord of the inn, where the coach stopped, directed me
here,' said I. 'I doubted at first the accuracy of his information, not be-
ing aware that you had such a residence as this.'
"'Oh, it is all right!' he replied, 'only I was kept half an hour behind
time, waiting for you—that is all. I thought you must be coming by the
eight o'clock coach.'
"I expressed regret that he had had to wait; he made no answer, but
stirred the fire, as if to cover a movement of impatience; then he
scanned me again.
"I felt an inward satisfaction that I had not, in the first moment of
meeting, betrayed any warmth, any enthusiasm; that I had saluted this
man with a quiet and steady phlegm.
"'Have you quite broken with Tynedale and Seacombe?' he asked
hastily.
"'I do not think I shall have any further communication with them;
my refusal of their proposals will, I fancy, operate as a barrier against
all future intercourse.'
"'Why,' said he, 'I may as well remind you at the very outset of our
connection, that "no man can serve two masters." Acquaintance with
Lord Tynedale will be incompatible with assistance from me.' There
was a kind of gratuitous menace in his eye as he looked at me in finish-
ing this observation.
"Feeling no disposition to reply to him, I contented myself with an
inward speculation on the differences which exist in the constitution of
men's minds. I do not know what inference Mr. Crimsworth drew from
my silence—whether he considered it a symptom of contumacity or an
evidence of my being cowed by his peremptory manner. After a long
and hard stare at me, he rose sharply from his seat.
"'To-morrow,' said he, 'I shall call your attention to some other
points; but now it is supper time, and Mrs. Crimsworth is probably
waiting; will you come?'
"He strode from the room, and I followed. In crossing the hall, I
wondered what Mrs. Crimsworth might be. 'Is she,' thought I, 'as alien
to what I like as Tynedale, Seacombe, the Misses Seacombe—as the
affectionate relative now striding before me? or is she better than
these? Shall I, in conversing with her, feel free to show something of
my real nature; or—' Further conjectures were arrested by my entrance
into the dining-room.
"A lamp, burning under a shade of ground-glass, showed a hand-
some apartment, wainscoted with oak; supper was laid on the table; by
the fire-place, standing as if waiting our entrance, appeared a lady; she
was young, tall, and well shaped; her dress was handsome and fashion-
able: so much my first glance sufficed to ascertain. A gay salutation
passed between her and Mr. Crimsworth; she chid him, half playfully,
half poutingly, for being late; her voice (I always take voices into the
account in judging of character) was lively—it indicated, I thought,
good animal spirits. Mr. Crimsworth soon checked her animated scold-
ing with a kiss—a kiss that still told of the bridegroom (they had not
yet been married a year); she took her seat at the supper-table in first-
rate spirits. Perceiving me, she begged my pardon for not noticing me
before, and then shook hands with me, as ladies do when a flow of
good-humour disposes them to be cheerful to all, even the most indif-
ferent of their acquaintance. It was now further obvious to me that she
had a good complexion, and features sufficiently marked but agree-
able; her hair was red—quite red. She and Edward talked much, al-
ways in a vein of playful contention; she was vexed, or pretended to be
vexed, that he had that day driven a vicious horse in the gig, and he
made light of her fears. Sometimes she appealed to me.
"'Now, Mr. William, isn't it absurd in Edward to talk so? He says he
will drive Jack, and no other horse, and the brute has thrown him twice
already.
"She spoke with a kind of lisp, not disagreeable, but childish. I soon
saw also that there was more than girlish—a somewhat infantine ex-
pression in her by no means small features; this lisp and expression
were, I have no doubt, a charm in Edward's eyes, and would be so to
those: of most men, but they were not to mine. I sought her eye, de-
sirous to read there the intelligence which I could not discern in her
face or hear in her conversation; it was merry, rather small; by turns I
saw vivacity, vanity, coquetry, look out through its irid, but I watched
in vain for a glimpse of soul. I am no Oriental; white necks, carmine
lips and cheeks, clusters of bright curls, do not suffice for me without
that Promethean spark which will live after the roses and lilies are fad-
ed, the burnished hair grown grey. In sunshine, in prosperity, the flow-
ers are very well; but how many wet days are there in life—November
seasons of disaster, when a man's hearth and home would be cold in-
deed, without the clear, cheering gleam of intellect.
"Having perused the fair page of Mrs. Crimsworth's face, a deep,
involuntary sigh announced my disappointment; she took it as a
homage to her beauty, and Edward, who was evidently proud of his
 rich and handsome young wife, threw on me a glance—half ridicule,
half ire.
"I turned from them both, and gazing wearily round the room, I saw
two pictures set in the oak panelling—one on each side the mantel-
piece. Ceasing to take part in the bantering conversation that flowed on
between Mr. and Mrs. Crimsworth, I bent my thoughts to the examina-
tion of these pictures. They were portraits—a lady and a gentleman,
both costumed in the fashion of twenty years ago. The gentleman was
in the shade. I could not see him well. The lady had the benefit of a full
beam from the softly shaded lamp. I presently recognised her; I had
seen this picture before in childhood; it was my mother; that and the
companion picture being the only heir-looms saved out of the sale of
my father's property.
"The face, I remembered, had pleased me as a boy, but then I did not
understand it; now I knew how rare that class of face is in the world,
and I appreciated keenly its thoughtful, yet gentle expression. The seri-
ous grey eye possessed for me a strong charm, as did certain lines in
the features indicative of most true and tender feeling. I was sorry it
was only a picture.
"I soon left Mr. and Mrs. Crimsworth to themselves; a servant con-
ducted me to my bed-room; in closing my chamber-door, I shut out all
intruders—you, Charles, as well as the rest.
"Good-bye for the present,
"WILLIAM CRIMSWORTH."

To this letter I never got an answer; before my old friend received it, he
had accepted a Government appointment in one of the colonies, and was
already on his way to the scene of his official labours. What has become of
him since, I know not.
The leisure time I have at command, and which I intended to employ for
his private benefit, I shall now dedicate to that of the public at large. My
narrative is not exciting, and above all, not marvellous; but it may interest
some individuals, who, having toiled in the same vocation as myself, will
find in my experience frequent reflections of their own. The above letter
will serve as an introduction. I now proceed.
 CHAPTER 2

A FINE October morning succeeded to the foggy evening that had wit-
nessed my first introduction to Crimsworth Hall. I was early up and walking
in the large park-like meadow surrounding the house. The autumn sun, ris-
ing over the ——shire hills, disclosed a pleasant country; woods brown and
mellow varied the fields from which the harvest had been lately carried; a
river, gliding between the woods, caught on its surface the somewhat cold
gleam of the October sun and sky; at frequent intervals along the banks of
the river, tall, cylindrical chimneys, almost like slender round towers, indi-
cated the factories which the trees half concealed; here and there mansions,
similar to Crimsworth Hall, occupied agreeable sites on the hill-side; the
country wore, on the whole, a cheerful, active, fertile look. Steam, trade,
machinery had long banished from it all romance and seclusion. At a dis-
tance of five miles, a valley, opening between the low hills, held in its cups
the great town of X——. A dense, permanent vapour brooded over this lo-
cality—there lay Edward's "Concern."
I forced my eye to scrutinize this prospect, I forced my mind to dwell on
it for a time, and when I found that it communicated no pleasurable emotion
to my heart—that it stirred in me none of the hopes a man ought to feel,
when he sees laid before him the scene of his life's career—I said to myself,
"William, you are a rebel against circumstances; you are a fool, and know
not what you want; you have chosen trade and you shall be a tradesman.
Look!" I continued mentally—"Look at the sooty smoke in that hollow, and
know that there is your post! There you cannot dream, you cannot speculate
and theorize—there you shall out and work!"
Thus self-schooled, I returned to the house. My brother was in the break-
fast-room. I met him collectedly—I could not meet him cheerfully; he was
standing on the rug, his back to the fire—how much did I read in the ex-
pression of his eye as my glance encountered his, when I advanced to bid
him good morning; how much that was contradictory to my nature! He said
"Good morning" abruptly and nodded, and then he snatched, rather than
took, a newspaper from the table, and began to read it with the air of a mas-
ter who seizes a pretext to escape the bore of conversing with an underling.
It was well I had taken a resolution to endure for a time, or his manner
would have gone far to render insupportable the disgust I had just been en-
deavouring to subdue. I looked at him: I measured his robust frame and
powerful proportions; I saw my own reflection in the mirror over the man-
tel-piece; I amused myself with comparing the two pictures. In face I re-
sembled him, though I was not so handsome; my features were less regular;
I had a darker eye, and a broader brow—in form I was greatly inferior—
thinner, slighter, not so tall. As an animal, Edward excelled me far; should
he prove as paramount in mind as in person I must be a slave—for I must
expect from him no lion-like generosity to one weaker than himself; his
cold, avaricious eye, his stern, forbidding manner told me he would not
spare. Had I then force of mind to cope with him? I did not know; I had
never been tried.
Mrs. Crimsworth's entrance diverted my thoughts for a moment. She
looked well, dressed in white, her face and her attire shining in morning and
bridal freshness. I addressed her with the degree of ease her last night's
careless gaiety seemed to warrant, but she replied with coolness and re-
straint: her husband had tutored her; she was not to be too familiar with his
clerk.
As soon as breakfast was over Mr. Crimsworth intimated to me that they
were bringing the gig round to the door, and that in five minutes he should
expect me to be ready to go down with him to X——. I did not keep him
waiting; we were soon dashing at a rapid rate along the road. The horse he
drove was the same vicious animal about which Mrs. Crimsworth had ex-
pressed her fears the night before. Once or twice Jack seemed disposed to
turn restive, but a vigorous and determined application of the whip from the
ruthless hand of his master soon compelled him to submission, and Ed-
ward's dilated nostril expressed his triumph in the result of the contest; he
scarcely spoke to me during the whole of the brief drive, only opening his
lips at intervals to damn his horse.
 X—— was all stir and bustle when we entered it; we left the clean streets
where there were dwelling-houses and shops, churches, and public build-
ings; we left all these, and turned down to a region of mills and warehouses;
thence we passed through two massive gates into a great paved yard, and
we were in Bigben Close, and the mill was before us, vomiting soot from its
long chimney, and quivering through its thick brick walls with the commo-
tion of its iron bowels. Workpeople were passing to and fro; a waggon was
being laden with pieces. Mr. Crimsworth looked from side to side, and
seemed at one glance to comprehend all that was going on; he alighted, and
leaving his horse and gig to the care of a man who hastened to take the reins
from his hand, he bid me follow him to the counting-house. We entered it; a
very different place from the parlours of Crimsworth Hall—a place for
business, with a bare, planked floor, a safe, two high desks and stools, and
some chairs. A person was seated at one of the desks, who took off his
square cap when Mr. Crimsworth entered, and in an instant was again ab-
sorbed in his occupation of writing or calculating—I know not which.
Mr. Crimsworth, having removed his mackintosh, sat down by the fire. I
remained standing near the hearth; he said presently—
"Steighton, you may leave the room; I have some business to transact
with this gentleman. Come back when you hear the bell."
The individual at the desk rose and departed, closing the door as he went
out. Mr. Crimsworth stirred the fire, then folded his arms, and sat a moment
thinking, his lips compressed, his brow knit. I had nothing to do but to
watch him—how well his features were cut! what a handsome man he was!
Whence, then, came that air of contraction—that narrow and hard aspect on
his forehead, in all his lineaments?
Turning to me he began abruptly:
"You are come down to ——shire to learn to be a tradesman?"
"Yes, I am."
"Have you made up your mind on the point? Let me know that at once."
"Yes."
"Well, I am not bound to help you, but I have a place here vacant, if you
are qualified for it. I will take you on trial. What can you do? Do you know
anything besides that useless trash of college learning—Greek, Latin, and
so forth?"
"I have studied mathematics."
"Stuff! I dare say you have."
 "I can read and write French and German."
"Hum!" He reflected a moment, then opening a drawer in a desk near him
took out a letter, and gave it to me.
"Can you read that?" he asked.
It was a German commercial letter; I translated it; I could not tell whether
he was gratified or not—his countenance remained fixed.
"It is well;" he-said, after a pause, "that you are acquainted with some-
thing useful, something that may enable you to earn your board and lodg-
ing: since you know French and German, I will take you as second clerk to
manage the foreign correspondence of the house. I shall give you a good
salary—90l. a year—and now," he continued, raising his voice, "hear once
for all what I have to say about our relationship, and all that sort of hum-
bug! I must have no nonsense on that point; it would never suit me. I shall
excuse you nothing on the plea of being my brother; if I find you stupid,
negligent, dissipated, idle, or possessed of any faults detrimental to the in-
terests of the house, I shall dismiss you as I would any other clerk. Ninety
pounds a year are good wages, and I expect to have the full value of my
money out of you; remember, too, that things are on a practical footing in
my establishment—business-like habits, feelings, and ideas, suit me best.
Do you understand?"
"Partly," I replied. "I suppose you mean that I am to do my work for my
wages; not to expect favour from you, and not to depend on you for any
help but what I earn; that suits me exactly, and on these terms I will consent
to be your clerk."
I turned on my heel, and walked to the window; this time I did not con-
sult his face to learn his opinion: what it was I do not know, nor did I then
care. After a silence of some minutes he recommenced:—
"You perhaps expect to be accommodated with apartments at Crimsworth
Hall, and to go and come with me in the gig. I wish you, however, to be
aware that such an arrangement would be quite inconvenient to me. I like to
have the seat in my gig at liberty for any gentleman whom for business rea-
sons I may wish to take down to the hall for a night or so. You will seek out
lodgings in X——."
Quitting the window, I walked back to the hearth.
"Of course I shall seek out lodgings in X——," I answered. "It would not
suit me either to lodge at Crimsworth Hall."
 My tone was quiet. I always speak quietly. Yet Mr. Crimsworth's blue eye
became incensed; he took his revenge rather oddly. Turning to me he said
bluntly—
"You are poor enough, I suppose; how do you expect to live till your
quarter's salary becomes due?"
"I shall get on," said I.
"How do you expect to live?" he repeated in a louder voice.
"As I can, Mr. Crimsworth."
"Get into debt at your peril! that's all," he answered. "For aught I know
you may have extravagant aristocratic habits: if you have, drop them; I tol-
erate nothing of the sort here, and I will never give you a shilling extra,
whatever liabilities you may incur—mind that."
"Yes, Mr. Crimsworth, you will find I have a good memory."
I said no more. I did not think the time was come for much parley. I had
an instinctive feeling that it would be folly to let one's temper effervesce of-
ten with such a man as Edward. I said to myself, "I will place my cup under
this continual dropping; it shall stand there still and steady; when full, it
will run over of itself—meantime patience. Two things are certain. I am ca-
pable of performing the work Mr. Crimsworth has set me; I can earn my
wages conscientiously, and those wages are sufficient to enable me to live.
As to the fact of my brother assuming towards me the bearing of a proud,
harsh master, the fault is his, not mine; and shall his injustice, his bad feel-
ing, turn me at once aside from the path I have chosen? No; at least, ere I
deviate, I will advance far enough to see whither my career tends. As yet I
am only pressing in at the entrance—a strait gate enough; it ought to have a
good terminus." While I thus reasoned, Mr. Crimsworth rang a bell; his first
clerk, the individual dismissed previously to our conference, re-entered.
"Mr. Steighton," said he, "show Mr. William the letters from Voss, Broth-
ers, and give him English copies of the answers; he will translate them."
Mr. Steighton, a man of about thirty-five, with a face at once sly and
heavy, hastened to execute this order; he laid the letters on the desk, and I
was soon seated at it, and engaged in rendering the English answers into
German. A sentiment of keen pleasure accompanied this first effort to earn
my own living—a sentiment neither poisoned nor weakened by the pres-
ence of the taskmaster, who stood and watched me for some time as I wrote.
I thought he was trying to read my character, but I felt as secure against his
scrutiny as if I had had on a casque with the visor down-or rather I showed
him my countenance with the confidence that one would show an unlearned
man a letter written in Greek; he might see lines, and trace characters, but
he could make nothing of them; my nature was not his nature, and its signs
were to him like the words of an unknown tongue. Ere long he turned away
abruptly, as if baffled, and left the counting-house; he returned to it but
twice in the course of that day; each time he mixed and swallowed a glass
of brandy-and-water, the materials for making which he extracted from a
cupboard on one side of the fireplace; having glanced at my translations—
he could read both French and German—he went out again in silence.
 CHAPTER 3

I SERVED Edward as his second clerk faithfully, punctually, diligently.

What was given me to do I had the power and the determination to do well.
Mr. Crimsworth watched sharply for defects, but found none; he set Timo-
thy Steighton, his favourite and head man, to watch also. Tim was baffled; I
was as exact as himself, and quicker. Mr. Crimsworth made inquiries as to
how I lived, whether I got into debt—no, my accounts with my landlady
were always straight. I had hired small lodgings, which I contrived to pay
for out of a slender fund—the accumulated savings of my Eton pocket-
money; for as it had ever been abhorrent to my nature to ask pecuniary as-
sistance, I had early acquired habits of self-denying economy; husbanding
my monthly allowance with anxious care, in order to obviate the danger of
being forced, in some moment of future exigency, to beg additional aid. I
remember many called me miser at the time, and I used to couple the re-
proach with this consolation—better to be misunderstood now than repulsed
hereafter. At this day I had my reward; I had had it before, when on parting
with my irritated uncles one of them threw down on the table before me a
5l. note, which I was able to leave there, saying that my travelling expenses
were already provided for. Mr. Crimsworth employed Tim to find out
whether my landlady had any complaint to make on the score of my morals;
she answered that she believed I was a very religious man, and asked Tim,
in her turn, if he thought I had any intention of going into the Church some
day; for, she said, she had had young curates to lodge in her house who
were nothing equal to me for steadiness and quietness. Tim was "a religious
man" himself; indeed, he was "a joined Methodist," which did not (be it un-
derstood) prevent him from being at the same time an engrained rascal, and
he came away much posed at hearing this account of my piety. Having im-
parted it to Mr. Crimsworth, that gentleman, who himself frequented no
place of worship, and owned no God but Mammon, turned the information
into a weapon of attack against the equability of my temper. He commenced
a series of covert sneers, of which I did not at first perceive the drift, till my
landlady happened to relate the conversation she had had with Mr.
Steighton; this enlightened me; afterwards I came to the counting-house
prepared, and managed to receive the millowner's blasphemous sarcasms,
when next levelled at me, on a buckler of impenetrable indifference. Ere
long he tired of wasting his ammunition on a statue, but he did not throw
away the shafts—he only kept them quiet in his quiver.
Once during my clerkship I had an invitation to Crimsworth Hall; it was
on the occasion of a large party given in honour of the master's birthday; he
had always been accustomed to invite his clerks on similar anniversaries,
and could not well pass me over; I was, however, kept strictly in the back-
ground. Mrs. Crimsworth, elegantly dressed in satin and lace, blooming in
youth and health, vouchsafed me no more notice than was expressed by a
distant move; Crimsworth, of course, never spoke to me; I was introduced
to none of the band of young ladies, who, enveloped in silvery clouds of
white gauze and muslin, sat in array against me on the opposite side of a
long and large room; in fact, I was fairly isolated, and could but contem-
plate the shining ones from affar, and when weary of such a dazzling scene,
turn for a change to the consideration of the carpet pattern. Mr. Crimsworth,
standing on the rug, his elbow supported by the marble mantelpiece, and
about him a group of very pretty girls, with whom he conversed gaily—Mr.
Crimsworth, thus placed, glanced at me; I looked weary, solitary, kept down
like some desolate tutor or governess; he was satisfied.
Dancing began; I should have liked well enough to be introduced to some
pleasing and intelligent girl, and to have freedom and opportunity to show
that I could both feel and communicate the pleasure of social intercourse—
that I was not, in short, a block, or a piece of furniture, but an acting, think-
ing, sentient man. Many smiling faces and graceful figures glided past me,
but the smiles were lavished on other eyes, the figures sustained by other
hands than mine. I turned away tantalized, left the dancers, and wandered
into the oak-panelled dining-room. No fibre of sympathy united me to any
living thing in this house; I looked for and found my mother's picture. I
took a wax taper from a stand, and held it up. I gazed long, earnestly; my
heart grew to the image. My mother, I perceived, had bequeathed to me
much of her features and countenance—her forehead, her eyes, her com-
plexion. No regular beauty pleases egotistical human beings so much as a
softened and refined likeness of themselves; for this reason, fathers regard
with complacency the lineaments of their daughters' faces, where frequently
their own similitude is found flatteringly associated with softness of hue and
delicacy of outline. I was just wondering how that picture, to me so interest-
ing, would strike an impartial spectator, when a voice close behind me pro-
nounced the words—
"Humph! there's some sense in that face."
I turned; at my elbow stood a tall man, young, though probably five or
six years older than I—in other respects of an appearance the opposite to
common place; though just now, as I am not disposed to paint his portrait in
detail, the reader must be content with the silhouette I have just thrown off;
it was all I myself saw of him for the moment: I did not investigate the
colour of his eyebrows, nor of his eyes either; I saw his stature, and the out-
line of his shape; I saw, too, his fastidious-looking RETROUSSE nose;
these observations, few in number, and general in character (the last except-
ed), sufficed, for they enabled me to recognize him.
"Good evening, Mr. Hunsden," muttered I with a bow, and then, like a
shy noodle as I was, I began moving away—and why? Simply because Mr.
Hunsden was a manufacturer and a millowner, and I was only a clerk, and
my instinct propelled me from my superior. I had frequently seen Hunsden
in Bigben Close, where he came almost weekly to transact business with
Mr. Crimsworth, but I had never spoken to him, nor he to me, and I owed
him a sort of involuntary grudge, because he had more than once been the
tacit witness of insults offered by Edward to me. I had the conviction that
he could only regard me as a poor-spirited slave, wherefore I now went
about to shun his presence and eschew his conversation.
"Where are you going?" asked he, as I edged off sideways. I had already
noticed that Mr. Hunsden indulged in abrupt forms of speech, and I per-
versely said to myself—
"He thinks he may speak as he likes to a poor clerk; but my mood is not,
perhaps, so supple as he deems it, and his rough freedom pleases me not at
all."
I made some slight reply, rather indifferent than courteous, and continued
to move away. He coolly planted himself in my path.
 "Stay here awhile," said he: "it is so hot in the dancing-room; besides,
you don't dance; you have not had a partner to-night."
He was right, and as he spoke neither his look, tone, nor manner dis-
pleased me; my AMOUR-PROPRE was propitiated; he had not addressed
me out of condescension, but because, having repaired to the cool dining-
room for refreshment, he now wanted some one to talk to, by way of tem-
porary amusement. I hate to be condescended to, but I like well enough to
oblige; I stayed.
"That is a good picture," he continued, recurring to the portrait.
"Do you consider the face pretty?" I asked.
"Pretty! no—how can it be pretty, with sunk eyes and hollow cheeks? but
it is peculiar; it seems to think. You could have a talk with that woman, if
she were alive, on other subjects than dress, visiting, and compliments."
I agreed with him, but did not say so. He went on.
"Not that I admire a head of that sort; it wants character and force; there's
too much of the sen-si-tive (so he articulated it, curling his lip at the same
time) in that mouth; besides, there is Aristocrat written on the brow and de-
fined in the figure; I hate your aristocrats."
"You think, then, Mr. Hunsden, that patrician descent may be read in a
distinctive cast of form and features?"
"Patrician descent be hanged! Who doubts that your lordlings may have
their 'distinctive cast of form and features' as much as we——shire trades-
men have ours? But which is the best? Not theirs assuredly. As to their
women, it is a little different: they cultivate beauty from childhood up-
wards, and may by care and training attain to a certain degree of excellence
in that point, just like the oriental odalisques. Yet even this superiority is
doubtful. Compare the figure in that frame with Mrs. Edward Crimsworth—
which is the finer animal?"
I replied quietly: "Compare yourself and Mr. Edward Crimsworth, Mr
Hunsden."
"Oh, Crimsworth is better filled up than I am, I know besides he has a
straight nose, arched eyebrows, and all that; but these advantages—if they
are advantages—he did not inherit from his mother, the patrician, but from
his father, old Crimsworth, who, MY father says, was as veritable a ——
shire blue-dyer as ever put indigo in a vat yet withal the handsomest man in
the three Ridings. It is you, William, who are the aristocrat of your family,
and you are not as fine a fellow as your plebeian brother by long chalk."
 There was something in Mr. Hunsden's point-blank mode of speech
which rather pleased me than otherwise because it set me at my ease. I con-
tinued the conversation with a degree of interest.
"How do you happen to know that I am Mr. Crimsworth's brother? I
thought you and everybody else looked upon me only in the light of a poor
clerk."
"Well, and so we do; and what are you but a poor clerk? You do
Crimsworth's work, and he gives you wages—shabby wages they are, too."
I was silent. Hunsden's language now bordered on the impertinent, still
his manner did not offend me in the least—it only piqued my curiosity; I
wanted him to go on, which he did in a little while.
"This world is an absurd one," said he.
"Why so, Mr. Hunsden?"
"I wonder you should ask: you are yourself a strong proof of the absurdi-
ty I allude to."
I was determined he should explain himself of his own accord, without
my pressing him so to do—so I resumed my silence.
"Is it your intention to become a tradesman?" he inquired presently.
"It was my serious intention three months ago."
"Humph! the more fool you—you look like a tradesman! What a practi-
cal business-like face you have!"
"My face is as the Lord made it, Mr. Hunsden."
"The Lord never made either your face or head for X—— What good can
your bumps of ideality, comparison, self-esteem, conscientiousness, do you
here? But if you like Bigben Close, stay there; it's your own affair, not
mine."
"Perhaps I have no choice."
"Well, I care nought about it—it will make little difference to me what
you do or where you go; but I'm cool now—I want to dance again; and I see
such a fine girl sitting in the corner of the sofa there by her mamma; see if I
don't get her for a partner in a jiffy! There's Waddy—Sam Waddy making
up to her; won't I cut him out?"
And Mr. Hunsden strode away. I watched him through the open folding-
doors; he outstripped Waddy, applied for the hand of the fine girl, and led
her off triumphant. She was a tall, well-made, full-formed, dashingly-
dressed young woman, much in the style of Mrs. E. Crimsworth; Hunsden
whirled her through the waltz with spirit; he kept at her side during the re-
mainder of the evening, and I read in her animated and gratified counte-
nance that he succeeded in making himself perfectly agreeable. The mam-
ma too (a stout person in a turban—Mrs. Lupton by name) looked well
pleased; prophetic visions probably flattered her inward eye. The Hunsdens
were of an old stem; and scornful as Yorke (such was my late interlocutor's
name) professed to be of the advantages of birth, in his secret heart he well
knew and fully appreciated the distinction his ancient, if not high lineage
conferred on him in a mushroom-place like X——, concerning whose in-
habitants it was proverbially said, that not one in a thousand knew his own
grandfather. Moreover the Hunsdens, once rich, were still independent; and
report affirmed that Yorke bade fair, by his success in business, to restore to
pristine prosperity the partially decayed fortunes of his house. These cir-
cumstances considered, Mrs. Lupton's broad face might well wear a smile
of complacency as she contemplated the heir of Hunsden Wood occupied in
paying assiduous court to her darling Sarah Martha. I, however, whose ob-
servations being less anxious, were likely to be more accurate, soon saw
that the grounds for maternal self-congratulation were slight indeed; the
gentleman appeared to me much more desirous of making, than susceptible
of receiving an impression. I know not what it was in Mr. Hunsden that, as I
watched him (I had nothing better to do), suggested to me, every now and
then, the idea of a foreigner. In form and features he might be pronounced
English, though even there one caught a dash of something Gallic; but he
had no English shyness: he had learnt somewhere, somehow, the art of set-
ting himself quite at his ease, and of allowing no insular timidity to inter-
vene as a barrier between him and his convenience or pleasure. Refinement
he did not affect, yet vulgar he could not be called; he was not odd—no
quiz—yet he resembled no one else I had ever seen before; his general bear-
ing intimated complete, sovereign satisfaction with himself; yet, at times, an
indescribable shade passed like an eclipse over his countenance, and
seemed to me like the sign of a sudden and strong inward doubt of himself,
his words and actions-an energetic discontent at his life or his social posi-
tion, his future prospects or his mental attainments—I know not which; per-
haps after all it might only be a bilious caprice.
 CHAPTER 4

No man likes to acknowledge that he has made a mistake in the choice of

his profession, and every man, worthy of the name, will row long against
wind and tide before he allows himself to cry out, "I am baffled!" and sub-
mits to be floated passively back to land. From the first week of my resi-
dence in X—— I felt my occupation irksome. The thing itself—the work of
copying and translating business-letters—was a dry and tedious task
enough, but had that been all, I should long have borne with the nuisance; I
am not of an impatient nature, and influenced by the double desire of get-
ting my living and justifying to myself and others the resolution I had taken
to become a tradesman, I should have endured in silence the rust and cramp
of my best faculties; I should not have whispered, even inwardly, that I
longed for liberty; I should have pent in every sigh by which my heart
might have ventured to intimate its distress under the closeness, smoke, mo-
notony and joyless tumult of Bigben Close, and its panting desire for freer
and fresher scenes; I should have set up the image of Duty, the fetish of Per-
severance, in my small bedroom at Mrs. King's lodgings, and they two
should have been my household gods, from which my darling, my cher-
ished-in-secret, Imagination, the tender and the mighty, should never, either
by softness or strength, have severed me. But this was not all; the antipathy
which had sprung up between myself and my employer striking deeper root
and spreading denser shade daily, excluded me from every glimpse of the
sunshine of life; and I began to feel like a plant growing in humid darkness
out of the slimy walls of a well.
Antipathy is the only word which can express the feeling Edward
Crimsworth had for me—a feeling, in a great measure, involuntary, and
which was liable to be excited by every, the most trifling movement, look,
or word of mine. My southern accent annoyed him; the degree of education
evinced in my language irritated him; my punctuality, industry, and accura-
cy, fixed his dislike, and gave it the high flavour and poignant relish of
envy; he feared that I too should one day make a successful tradesman. Had
I been in anything inferior to him, he would not have hated me so thorough-
ly, but I knew all that he knew, and, what was worse, he suspected that I
kept the padlock of silence on mental wealth in which he was no sharer. If
he could have once placed me in a ridiculous or mortifying position, he
would have forgiven me much, but I was guarded by three faculties—Cau-
tion, Tact, Observation; and prowling and prying as was Edward's maligni-
ty, it could never baffle the lynx-eyes of these, my natural sentinels. Day by
day did his malice watch my tact, hoping it would sleep, and prepared to
steal snake-like on its slumber; but tact, if it be genuine, never sleeps.
I had received my first quarter's wages, and was returning to my lodg-
ings, possessed heart and soul with the pleasant feeling that the master who
had paid me grudged every penny of that hard-earned pittance—(I had long
ceased to regard Mr. Crimsworth as my brother—he was a hard, grinding
master; he wished to be an inexorable tyrant: that was all). Thoughts, not
varied but strong, occupied my mind; two voices spoke within me; again
and again they uttered the same monotonous phrases. One said: "William,
your life is intolerable." The other: "What can you do to alter it?" I walked
fast, for it was a cold, frosty night in January; as I approached my lodgings,
I turned from a general view of my affairs to the particular speculation as to
whether my fire would be out; looking towards the window of my sitting-
room, I saw no cheering red gleam.
"That slut of a servant has neglected it as usual," said I, "and I shall see
nothing but pale ashes if I go in; it is a fine starlight night—I will walk a lit-
tle farther."
It WAS a fine night, and the streets were dry and even clean for X——;
there was a crescent curve of moonlight to be seen by the parish church
tower, and hundreds of stars shone keenly bright in all quarters of the sky.
Unconsciously I steered my course towards the country; I had got into
Grove-street, and began to feel the pleasure of seeing dim trees at the ex-
tremity, round a suburban house, when a person leaning over the iron gate
of one of the small gardens which front the neat dwelling-houses in this
street, addressed me as I was hurrying with quick stride past.
 "What the deuce is the hurry? Just so must Lot have left Sodom, when he
expected fire to pour down upon it, out of burning brass clouds."
I stopped short, and looked towards the speaker. I smelt the fragrance,
and saw the red spark of a cigar; the dusk outline of a man, too, bent to-
wards me over the wicket.
"You see I am meditating in the field at eventide," continued this shade.
"God knows it's cool work! especially as instead of Rebecca on a camel's
hump, with bracelets on her arms and a ring in her nose, Fate sends me only
a counting-house clerk, in a grey tweed wrapper." The voice was familiar to
me—its second utterance enabled me to seize the speaker's identity.
"Mr. Hunsden! good evening."
"Good evening, indeed! yes, but you would have passed me without
recognition if I had not been so civil as to speak first."
"I did not know you."
"A famous excuse! You ought to have known me; I knew you, though
you were going ahead like a steam-engine. Are the police after you?"
"It wouldn't be worth their while; I'm not of consequence enough to at-
tract them.
"Alas, poor shepherd! Alack and well-a-day! What a theme for regret,
and how down in the mouth you must be, judging from the sound of your
voice! But since you're not running from the police, from whom are you
running? the devil?"
"On the contrary, I am going post to him."
"That is well—you're just in luck: this is Tuesday evening; there are
scores of market gigs and carts returning to Dinneford to-night; and he, or
some of his, have a seat in all regularly; so, if you'll step in and sit half-an-
hour in my bachelor's parlour, you may catch him as he passes without
much trouble. I think though you'd better let him alone to-night, he'll have
so many customers to serve; Tuesday is his busy day in X—— and Din-
neford; come in at all events."
He swung the wicket open as he spoke.
"Do you really wish me to go in?" I asked.
"As you please—I'm alone; your company for an hour or two would be
agreeable to me; but, if you don't choose to favour me so far, I'll not press
the point. I hate to bore any one."
It suited me to accept the invitation as it suited Hunsden to give it. I
passed through the gate, and followed him to the front door, which he
opened; thence we traversed a passage, and entered his parlour; the door be-
ing shut, he pointed me to an arm-chair by the hearth; I sat down, and
glanced round me.
It was a comfortable room, at once snug and handsome; the bright grate
was filled with a genuine ——shire fire, red, clear, and generous, no penuri-
ous South-of-England embers heaped in the corner of a grate. On the table a
shaded lamp diffused around a soft, pleasant, and equal light; the furniture
was almost luxurious for a young bachelor, comprising a couch and two
very easy chairs; bookshelves filled the recesses on each side of the mantel-
piece; they were well-furnished, and arranged with perfect order. The neat-
ness of the room suited my taste; I hate irregular and slovenly habits. From
what I saw I concluded that Hunsden's ideas on that point corresponded
with my own. While he removed from the centre-table to the side-board a
few pamphlets and periodicals, I ran my eye along the shelves of the book-
case nearest me. French and German works predominated, the old French
dramatists, sundry modern authors, Thiers, Villemain, Paul de Kock,
George Sand, Eugene Sue; in German—Goethe, Schiller, Zschokke, Jean
Paul Richter; in English there were works on Political Economy. I exam-
ined no further, for Mr. Hunsden himself recalled my attention.
"You shall have something," said he, "for you ought to feel disposed for
refreshment after walking nobody knows how far on such a Canadian night
as this; but it shall not be brandy-and-water, and it shall not be a bottle of
port, nor ditto of sherry. I keep no such poison. I have Rhein-wein for my
own drinking, and you may choose between that and coffee."
Here again Hunsden suited me: if there was one generally received prac-
tice I abhorred more than another, it was the habitual imbibing of spirits and
strong wines. I had, however, no fancy for his acid German nectar, but I
liked coffee, so I responded—
"Give me some coffee, Mr. Hunsden."
I perceived my answer pleased him; he had doubtless expected to see a
chilling effect produced by his steady announcement that he would give me
neither wine nor spirits; he just shot one searching glance at my face to as-
certain whether my cordiality was genuine or a mere feint of politeness. I
smiled, because I quite understood him; and, while I honoured his conscien-
tious firmness, I was amused at his mistrust; he seemed satisfied, rang the
bell, and ordered coffee, which was presently brought; for himself, a bunch
of grapes and half a pint of something sour sufficed. My coffee was excel-
lent; I told him so, and expressed the shuddering pity with which his an-
chorite fare inspired me. He did not answer, and I scarcely think heard my
remark. At that moment one of those momentary eclipses I before alluded
to had come over his face, extinguishing his smile, and replacing, by an ab-
stracted and alienated look, the customarily shrewd, bantering glance of his
eye. I employed the interval of silence in a rapid scrutiny of his physiogno-
my. I had never observed him closely before; and, as my sight is very short,
I had gathered only a vague, general idea of his appearance; I was surprised
now, on examination, to perceive how small, and even feminine, were his
lineaments; his tall figure, long and dark locks, his voice and general bear-
ing, had impressed me with the notion of something powerful and massive;
not at all:—my own features were cast in a harsher and squarer mould than
his. I discerned that there would be contrasts between his inward and out-
ward man; contentions, too; for I suspected his soul had more of will and
ambition than his body had of fibre and muscle. Perhaps, in these incompat-
ibilities of the "physique" with the "morale," lay the secret of that fitful
gloom; he WOULD but COULD not, and the athletic mind scowled scorn
on its more fragile companion. As to his good looks, I should have liked to
have a woman's opinion on that subject; it seemed to me that his face might
produce the same effect on a lady that a very piquant and interesting,
though scarcely pretty, female face would on a man. I have mentioned his
dark locks—they were brushed sideways above a white and sufficiently ex-
pansive forehead; his cheek had a rather hectic freshness; his features might
have done well on canvas, but indifferently in marble: they were plastic;
character had set a stamp upon each; expression re-cast them at her plea-
sure, and strange metamorphoses she wrought, giving him now the mien of
a morose bull, and anon that of an arch and mischievous girl; more fre-
quently, the two semblances were blent, and a queer, composite counte-
nance they made.
Starting from his silent fit, he began:—
"William! what a fool you are to live in those dismal lodgings of Mrs.
King's, when you might take rooms here in Grove Street, and have a garden
like me!"
"I should be too far from the mill."
"What of that? It would do you good to walk there and back two or three
times a day; besides, are you such a fossil that you never wish to see a
flower or a green leaf?"
 "I am no fossil."
"What are you then? You sit at that desk in Crimsworth's counting-house
day by day and week by week, scraping with a pen on paper, just like an au-
tomaton; you never get up; you never say you are tired; you never ask for a
holiday; you never take change or relaxation; you give way to no excess of
an evening; you neither keep wild company, nor indulge in strong drink."
"Do you, Mr. Hunsden?"
"Don't think to pose me with short questions; your case and mine are dia-
metrically different, and it is nonsense attempting to draw a parallel. I say,
that when a man endures patiently what ought to be unendurable, he is a
fossil."
"Whence do you acquire the knowledge of my patience?"
"Why, man, do you suppose you are a mystery? The other night you
seemed surprised at my knowing to what family you belonged; now you
find subject for wonderment in my calling you patient. What do you think I
do with my eyes and ears? I've been in your counting-house more than once
when Crimsworth has treated you like a dog; called for a book, for instance,
and when you gave him the wrong one, or what he chose to consider the
wrong one, flung it back almost in your face; desired you to shut or open
the door as if you had been his flunkey; to say nothing of your position at
the party about a month ago, where you had neither place nor partner, but
hovered about like a poor, shabby hanger-on; and how patient you were un-
der each and all of these circumstances!"
"Well, Mr. Hunsden, what then?"
"I can hardly tell you what then; the conclusion to be drawn as to your
character depends upon the nature of the motives which guide your con-
duct; if you are patient because you expect to make something eventually
out of Crimsworth, notwithstanding his tyranny, or perhaps by means of it,
you are what the world calls an interested and mercenary, but may be a very
wise fellow; if you are patient because you think it a duty to meet insult
with submission, you are an essential sap, and in no shape the man for my
money; if you are patient because your nature is phlegmatic, flat, inex-
citable, and that you cannot get up to the pitch of resistance, why, God
made you to be crushed; and lie down by all means, and lie flat, and let Jug-
gernaut ride well over you."
Mr. Hunsden's eloquence was not, it will be perceived, of the smooth and
oily order. As he spoke, he pleased me ill. I seem to recognize in him one of
those characters who, sensitive enough themselves, are selfishly relentless
towards the sensitiveness of others. Moreover, though he was neither like
Crimsworth nor Lord Tynedale, yet he was acrid, and, I suspected, over-
bearing in his way: there was a tone of despotism in the urgency of the very
reproaches by which, he aimed at goading the oppressed into rebellion
against the oppressor. Looking at him still more fixedly than I had yet done,
I saw written in his eye and mien a resolution to arrogate to himself a free-
dom so unlimited that it might often trench on the just liberty of his neigh-
bours. I rapidly ran over these thoughts, and then I laughed a low and invol-
untary laugh, moved thereto by a slight inward revelation of the inconsis-
tency of man. It was as I thought: Hunsden had expected me to take with
calm his incorrect and offensive surmises, his bitter and haughty taunts; and
himself was chafed by a laugh, scarce louder than a whisper.
His brow darkened, his thin nostril dilated a little.
"Yes," he began, "I told you that you were an aristocrat, and who but an
aristocrat would laugh such a laugh as that, and look such a look? A laugh
frigidly jeering; a look lazily mutinous; gentlemanlike irony, patrician re-
sentment. What a nobleman you would have made, William Crimsworth!
You are cut out for one; pity Fortune has baulked Nature! Look at the fea-
tures, figure, even to the hands—distinction all over—ugly distinction!
Now, if you'd only an estate and a mansion, and a park, and a title, how you
could play the exclusive, maintain the rights of your class, train your ten-
antry in habits of respect to the peerage, oppose at every step the advancing
power of the people, support your rotten order, and be ready for its sake to
wade knee-deep in churls' blood; as it is, you've no power; you can do noth-
ing; you're wrecked and stranded on the shores of commerce; forced into
collision with practical men, with whom you cannot cope, for YOU'LL
NEVER BE A TRADESMAN."
The first part of Hunsden's speech moved me not at all, or, if it did, it was
only to wonder at the perversion into which prejudice had twisted his judg-
ment of my character; the concluding sentence, however, not only moved,
but shook me; the blow it gave was a severe one, because Truth wielded the
weapon. If I smiled now, it, was only in disdain of myself.
Hunsden saw his advantage; he followed it up.
"You'll make nothing by trade," continued he; "nothing more than the
crust of dry bread and the draught of fair water on which you now live; your
only chance of getting a competency lies in marrying a rich widow, or run-
ning away with an heiress."
"I leave such shifts to be put in practice by those who devise them," said
I, rising.
"And even that is hopeless," he went on coolly. "What widow would
have you? Much less, what heiress? You're not bold and venturesome
enough for the one, nor handsome and fascinating enough for the other. You
think perhaps you look intelligent and polished; carry your intellect and re-
finement to market, and tell me in a private note what price is bid for them."
Mr. Hunsden had taken his tone for the night; the string he struck was out
of tune, he would finger no other. Averse to discord, of which I had enough
every day and all day long, I concluded, at last, that silence and solitude
were preferable to jarring converse; I bade him good-night.
"What! Are you going, lad? Well, good-night: you'll find the door." And
he sat still in front of the fire, while I left the room and the house. I had got
a good way on my return to my lodgings before I found out that I was walk-
ing very fast, and breathing very hard, and that my nails were almost stuck
into the palms of my clenched hands, and that my teeth were set fast; on
making this discovery, I relaxed both my pace, fists, and jaws, but I could
not so soon cause the regrets rushing rapidly through my mind to slacken
their tide. Why did I make myself a tradesman? Why did I enter Hunsden's
house this evening? Why, at dawn to-morrow, must I repair to Crimsworth's
mill? All that night did I ask myself these questions, and all that night
fiercely demanded of my soul an answer. I got no sleep; my head burned,
my feet froze; at last the factory bells rang, and I sprang from my bed with
other slaves.
 CHAPTER 5

THERE is a climax to everything, to every state of feeling as well as to

every position in life. I turned this truism over in my mind as, in the frosty
dawn of a January morning, I hurried down the steep and now icy street
which descended from Mrs. King's to the Close. The factory workpeople
had preceded me by nearly an hour, and the mill was all lighted up and in
full operation when I reached it. I repaired to my post in the counting-house
as usual; the fire there, but just lit, as yet only smoked; Steighton had not
yet arrived. I shut the door and sat down at the desk; my hands, recently
washed in half-frozen water, were still numb; I could not write till they had
regained vitality, so I went on thinking, and still the theme of my thoughts
was the "climax." Self-dissatisfaction troubled exceedingly the current of
my meditations.
"Come, William Crimsworth," said my conscience, or whatever it is that
within ourselves takes ourselves to task—"come, get a clear notion of what
you would have, or what you would not have. You talk of a climax; pray
has your endurance reached its climax? It is not four months old. What a
fine resolute fellow you imagined yourself to be when you told Tynedale
you would tread in your father's steps, and a pretty treading you are likely to
make of it! How well you like X——! Just at this moment how redolent of
pleasant associations are its streets, its shops, its warehouses, its factories!
How the prospect of this day cheers you! Letter-copying till noon, solitary
dinner at your lodgings, letter-copying till evening, solitude; for you neither
find pleasure in Brown's, nor Smith's, nor Nicholl's, nor Eccle's company;
and as to Hunsden, you fancied there was pleasure to be derived from his
society—he! he! how did you like the taste you had of him last night? was it
sweet? Yet he is a talented, an original-minded man, and even he does not
like you; your self-respect defies you to like him; he has always seen you to
disadvantage; he always will see you to disadvantage; your positions are
unequal, and were they on the same level your minds could not; assimilate;
never hope, then, to gather the honey of friendship out of that thorn-guarded
plant. Hello, Crimsworth! where are your thoughts tending? You leave the
recollection of Hunsden as a bee would a rock, as a bird a desert; and your
aspirations spread eager wings towards a land of visions where, now in ad-
vancing daylight—in X—— daylight—you dare to dream of congeniality,
repose, union. Those three you will never meet in this world; they are an-
gels. The souls of just men made perfect may encounter them in heaven, but
your soul will never be made perfect. Eight o'clock strikes! your hands are
thawed, get to work!"
"Work? why should I work?" said I sullenly: "I cannot please though I
toil like a slave." "Work, work!" reiterated the inward voice. "I may work, it
will do no good," I growled; but nevertheless I drew out a packet of letters
and commenced my task—task thankless and bitter as that of the Israelite
crawling over the sun-baked fields of Egypt in search of straw and stubble
wherewith to accomplish his tale of bricks.
About ten o'clock I heard Mr. Crimsworth's gig turn into the yard, and in
a minute or two he entered the counting-house. It was his custom to glance
his eye at Steighton and myself, to hang up his mackintosh, stand a minute
with his back to the fire, and then walk out. Today he did not deviate from
his usual habits; the only difference was that when he looked at me, his
brow, instead of being merely hard, was surly; his eye, instead of being
cold, was fierce. He studied me a minute or two longer than usual, but went
out in silence.
Twelve o'clock arrived; the bell rang for a suspension of labour; the
workpeople went off to their dinners; Steighton, too, departed, desiring me
to lock the counting-house door, and take the key with me. I was tying up a
bundle of papers, and putting them in their place, preparatory to closing my
desk, when Crimsworth reappeared at the door, and entering closed it be-
hind him.
"You'll stay here a minute," said he, in a deep, brutal voice, while his nos-
trils distended and his eye shot a spark of sinister fire.
Alone with Edward I remembered our relationship, and remembering that
forgot the difference of position; I put away deference and careful forms of
speech; I answered with simple brevity.
 "It is time to go home," I said, turning the key in my desk.
"You'll stay here!" he reiterated. "And take your hand off that key! leave
it in the lock!"
"Why?" asked I. "What cause is there for changing my usual plans?"
"Do as I order," was the answer, "and no questions! You are my servant,
obey me! What have you been about—?" He was going on in the same
breath, when an abrupt pause announced that rage had for the moment got
the better of articulation.
"You may look, if you wish to know," I replied. "There is the open desk,
there are the papers."
"Confound your insolence! What have you been about?"
"Your work, and have done it well."
"Hypocrite and twaddler! Smooth-faced, snivelling greasehorn!" (this last
term is, I believe, purely ——shire, and alludes to the horn of black, rancid
whale-oil, usually to be seen suspended to cart-wheels, and employed for
greasing the same.)
"Come, Edward Crimsworth, enough of this. It is time you and I wound
up accounts. I have now given your service three months' trial, and I find it
the most nauseous slavery under the sun. Seek another clerk. I stay no
longer."
"What I do you dare to give me notice? Stop at least for your wages." He
took down the heavy gig whip hanging beside his mackintosh.
I permitted myself to laugh with a degree of scorn I took no pains to tem-
per or hide. His fury boiled up, and when he had sworn half-a-dozen vulgar,
impious oaths, without, however, venturing to lift the whip, he continued:
"I've found you out and know you thoroughly, you mean, whining lick-
spittle! What have you been saying all over X—— about me? answer me
that!"
"You? I have neither inclination nor temptation to talk about you."
"You lie! It is your practice to talk about me; it is your constant habit to
make public complaint of the treatment you receive at my hands. You have
gone and told it far and near that I give you low wages and knock you about
like a dog. I wish you were a dog! I'd set-to this minute, and never stir from
the spot till I'd cut every strip of flesh from your bones with this whip."
He flourished his tool. The end of the lash just touched my forehead. A
warm excited thrill ran through my veins, my blood seemed to give abound,
and then raced fast and hot along its channels. I got up nimbly, came round
to where he stood, and faced him.
"Down with your whip!" said I, "and explain this instant what you
mean."
"Sirrah! to whom are you speaking?"
"To you. There is no one else present, I think. You say I have been ca-
lumniating you—complaining of your low wages and bad treatment. Give
your grounds for these assertions."
Crimsworth had no dignity, and when I sternly demanded an explanation,
he gave one in a loud, scolding voice.
"Grounds! you shall have them; and turn to the light that I may see your
brazen face blush black, when you hear yourself proved to be a liar and a
hypocrite. At a public meeting in the Town-hall yesterday, I had the plea-
sure of hearing myself insulted by the speaker opposed to me in the ques-
tion under discussion, by allusions to my private affairs; by cant about mon-
sters without natural affection, family despots, and such trash; and when I
rose to answer, I was met by a shout from the filthy mob, where the mention
of your name enabled me at once to detect the quarter in which this base at-
tack had originated. When I looked round, I saw that treacherous villain,
Hunsden acting as fugleman. I detected you in close conversation with
Hunsden at my house a month ago, and I know that you were at Hunsden's
rooms last night. Deny it if you dare."
"Oh, I shall not deny it! And if Hunsden hounded on the people to hiss
you, he did quite right. You deserve popular execration; for a worse man, a
harder master, a more brutal brother than you are has seldom existed."
"Sirrah! sirrah!" reiterated Crimsworth; and to complete his apostrophe,
he cracked the whip straight over my head.
A minute sufficed to wrest it from him, break it in two pieces, and throw
it under the grate. He made a headlong rush at me, which I evaded, and said
—
"Touch me, and I'll have you up before the nearest magistrate."
Men like Crimsworth, if firmly and calmly resisted, always abate some-
thing of their exorbitant insolence; he had no mind to be brought before a
magistrate, and I suppose he saw I meant what I said. After an odd and long
stare at me, at once bull-like and amazed, he seemed to bethink himself
that, after all, his money gave him sufficient superiority over a beggar like
me, and that he had in his hands a surer and more dignified mode of re-
venge than the somewhat hazardous one of personal chastisement.
"Take your hat," said he. "Take what belongs to you, and go out at that
door; get away to your parish, you pauper: beg, steal, starve, get transport-
ed, do what you like; but at your peril venture again into my sight! If ever I
hear of your setting foot on an inch of ground belonging to me, I'll hire a
man to cane you."
"It is not likely you'll have the chance; once off your premises, what
temptation can I have to return to them? I leave a prison, I leave a tyrant; I
leave what is worse than the worst that can lie before me, so no fear of my
coming back."
"Go, or I'll make you!" exclaimed Crimsworth.
I walked deliberately to my desk, took out such of its contents as were
my own property, put them in my pocket, locked the desk, and placed the
key on the top.
"What are you abstracting from that desk?" demanded the millowner.
"Leave all behind in its place, or I'll send for a policeman to search you."
"Look sharp about it, then," said I, and I took down my hat, drew on my
gloves, and walked leisurely out of the counting-house—walked out of it to
enter it no more.
I recollect that when the mill-bell rang the dinner hour, before Mr.
Crimsworth entered, and the scene above related took place, I had had
rather a sharp appetite, and had been waiting somewhat impatiently to hear
the signal of feeding time. I forgot it now, however; the images of potatoes
and roast mutton were effaced from my mind by the stir and tumult which
the transaction of the last half-hour had there excited. I only thought of
walking, that the action of my muscles might harmonize with the action of
my nerves; and walk I did, fast and far. How could I do otherwise? A load
was lifted off my heart; I felt light and liberated. I had got away from Big-
ben Close without a breach of resolution; without injury to my self-respect.
I had not forced circumstances; circumstances had freed me. Life was again
open to me; no longer was its horizon limited by the high black wall sur-
rounding Crimsworth's mill. Two hours had elapsed before my sensations
had so far subsided as to leave me calm enough to remark for what wider
and clearer boundaries I had exchanged that sooty girdle. When I did look
up, lo! straight before me lay Grovetown, a village of villas about five miles
out of X——. The short winter day, as I perceived from the far-declined
sun, was already approaching its close; a chill frost-mist was rising from the
river on which X—— stands, and along whose banks the road I had taken
lay; it dimmed the earth, but did not obscure the clear icy blue of the Jan-
uary sky. There was a great stillness near and far; the time of the day
favoured tranquillity, as the people were all employed within-doors, the
hour of evening release from the factories not being yet arrived; a sound of
full-flowing water alone pervaded the air, for the river was deep and abun-
dant, swelled by the melting of a late snow. I stood awhile, leaning over a
wall; and looking down at the current: I watched the rapid rush of its waves.
I desired memory to take a clear and permanent impression of the scene,
and treasure it for future years. Grovetown church clock struck four; look-
ing up, I beheld the last of that day's sun, glinting red through the leafless
boughs of some very old oak trees surrounding the church—its light
coloured and characterized the picture as I wished. I paused yet a moment,
till the sweet, slow sound of the bell had quite died out of the air; then ear,
eye and feeling satisfied, I quitted the wall and once more turned my face
towards X——.
 CHAPTER 6

I RE-ENTERED the town a hungry man; the dinner I had forgotten recurred
seductively to my recollection; and it was with a quick step and sharp ap-
petite I ascended the narrow street leading to my lodgings. It was dark when
I opened the front door and walked into the house. I wondered how my fire
would be; the night was cold, and I shuddered at the prospect of a grate full
of sparkless cinders. To my joyful surprise, I found, on entering my sitting-
room, a good fire and a clean hearth. I had hardly noticed this phenomenon,
when I became aware of another subject for wonderment; the chair I usually
occupied near the hearth was already filled; a person sat there with his arms
folded on his chest, and his legs stretched out on the rug. Short-sighted as I
am, doubtful as was the gleam of the firelight, a moment's examination en-
abled me to recognize in this person my acquaintance, Mr. Hunsden. I could
not of course be much pleased to see him, considering the manner in which
I had parted from him the night before, and as I walked to the hearth, stirred
the fire, and said coolly, "Good evening," my demeanour evinced as little
cordiality as I felt; yet I wondered in my own mind what had brought him
there; and I wondered, also, what motives had induced him to interfere so
actively between me and Edward; it was to him, it appeared, that I owed my
welcome dismissal; still I could not bring myself to ask him questions, to
show any eagerness of curiosity; if he chose to explain, he might, but the
explanation should be a perfectly voluntary one on his part; I thought he
was entering upon it.
"You owe me a debt of gratitude," were his first words.
"Do I?" said I; "I hope it is not a large one, for I am much too poor to
charge myself with heavy liabilities of any kind."
 "Then declare yourself bankrupt at once, for this liability is a ton weight
at least. When I came in I found your fire out, and I had it lit again, and
made that sulky drab of a servant stay and blow at it with the bellows till it
had burnt up properly; now, say 'Thank you!'"
"Not till I have had something to eat; I can thank nobody while I am so
famished."
I rang the bell and ordered tea and some cold meat.
"Cold meat!" exclaimed Hunsden, as the servant closed the door, "what a
glutton you are; man! Meat with tea! you'll die of eating too much."
"No, Mr. Hunsden, I shall not." I felt a necessity for contradicting him; I
was irritated with hunger, and irritated at seeing him there, and irritated at
the continued roughness of his manner.
"It is over-eating that makes you so ill-tempered," said he.
"How do you know?" I demanded. "It is like you to give a pragmatical
opinion without being acquainted with any of the circumstances of the case;
I have had no dinner."
What I said was petulant and snappish enough, and Hunsden only replied
by looking in my face and laughing.
"Poor thing!" he whined, after a pause. "It has had no dinner, has it?
What! I suppose its master would not let it come home. Did Crimsworth or-
der you to fast by way of punishment, William!"
"No, Mr. Hunsden. Fortunately at this sulky juncture, tea, was brought in,
and I fell to upon some bread and butter and cold beef directly. Having
cleared a plateful, I became so far humanized as to intimate to Mr. Hunsden
that he need not sit there staring, but might come to the table and do as I
did, if he liked."
"But I don't like in the least," said he, and therewith he summoned the
servant by a fresh pull of the bell-rope, and intimated a desire to have a
glass of toast-and-water. "And some more coal," he added; "Mr.
Crimsworth shall keep a good fire while I stay."
His orders being executed, he wheeled his chair round to the table, so as
to be opposite me.
"Well," he proceeded. "You are out of work, I suppose."
"Yes," said I; and not disposed to show the satisfaction I felt on this
point, I, yielding to the whim of the moment, took up the subject as though
I considered myself aggrieved rather than benefited by what had been done.
"Yes—thanks to you, I am. Crimsworth turned me off at a minute's notice,
owing to some interference of yours at a public meeting, I understand."
"Ah! what! he mentioned that? He observed me signalling the lads, did
he? What had he to say about his friend Hunsden—anything sweet?"
"He called you a treacherous villain."
"Oh, he hardly knows me yet! I'm one of those shy people who don't
come out all at once, and he is only just beginning to make my acquain-
tance, but he'll find I've some good qualities—excellent ones! The Huns-
dens were always unrivalled at tracking a rascal; a downright, dishon-
ourable villain is their natural prey—they could not keep off him wherever
they met him; you used the word pragmatical just now—that word is the
property of our family; it has been applied to us from generation to genera-
tion; we have fine noses for abuses; we scent a scoundrel a mile off; we are
reformers born, radical reformers; and it was impossible for me to live in
the same town with Crimsworth, to come into weekly contact with him, to
witness some of his conduct to you (for whom personally I care nothing; I
only consider the brutal injustice with which he violated your natural claim
to equality)—I say it was impossible for me to be thus situated and not feel
the angel or the demon of my race at work within me. I followed my in-
stinct, opposed a tyrant, and broke a chain."
Now this speech interested me much, both because it brought out Huns-
den's character, and because it explained his motives; it interested me so
much that I forgot to reply to it, and sat silent, pondering over a throng of
ideas it had suggested.
"Are you grateful to me?" he asked, presently.
In fact I was grateful, or almost so, and I believe I half liked him at the
moment, notwithstanding his proviso that what he had done was not out of
regard for me. But human nature is perverse. Impossible to answer his blunt
question in the affirmative, so I disclaimed all tendency to gratitude, and
advised him if he expected any reward for his championship, to look for it
in a better world, as he was not likely to meet with it here. In reply he
termed me "a dry-hearted aristocratic scamp," whereupon I again charged
him with having taken the bread out of my mouth.
"Your bread was dirty, man!" cried Hunsden—"dirty and unwholesome!
It came through the hands of a tyrant, for I tell you Crimsworth is a tyrant,
—a tyrant to his workpeople, a tyrant to his clerks, and will some day be a
tyrant to his wife."
 "Nonsense! bread is bread, and a salary is a salary. I've lost mine, and
through your means."
"There's sense in what you say, after all," rejoined Hunsden. "I must say I
am rather agreeably surprised to hear you make so practical an observation
as that last. I had imagined now, from my previous observation of your
character, that the sentimental delight you would have taken in your newly
regained liberty would, for a while at least, have effaced all ideas of fore-
thought and prudence. I think better of you for looking steadily to the
needful."
"Looking steadily to the needful! How can I do otherwise? I must live,
and to live I must have what you call 'the needful,' which I can only get by
working. I repeat it, you have taken my work from me."
"What do you mean to do?" pursued Hunsden coolly. "You have influen-
tial relations; I suppose they'll soon provide you with another place."
"Influential relations? Who? I should like to know their names."
"The Seacombes."
"Stuff! I have cut them."
Hunsden looked at me incredulously.
"I have," said I, "and that definitively."
"You must mean they have cut you, William."
"As you please. They offered me their patronage on condition of my en-
tering the Church; I declined both the terms and the recompence; I with-
drew from my cold uncles, and preferred throwing myself into my elder
brother's arms, from whose affectionate embrace I am now torn by the cruel
intermeddling of a stranger—of yourself, in short."
I could not repress a half-smile as I said this; a similar demi-manifesta-
tion of feeling appeared at the same moment on Hunsden's lips.
"Oh, I see!" said he, looking into my eyes, and it was evident he did see
right down into my heart. Having sat a minute or two with his chin resting
on his hand, diligently occupied in the continued perusal of my counte-
nance, he went on:
"Seriously, have you then nothing to expect from the Seacombes?"
"Yes, rejection and repulsion. Why do you ask me twice? How can hands
stained with the ink of a counting-house, soiled with the grease of a wool-
warehouse, ever again be permitted to come into contact with aristocratic
palms?"
 "There would be a difficulty, no doubt; still you are such a complete Sea-
combe in appearance, feature, language, almost manner, I wonder they
should disown you."
"They have disowned me; so talk no more about it."
"Do you regret it, William?"
"No."
"Why not, lad?"
"Because they are not people with whom I could ever have had any
sympathy."
"I say you are one of them."
"That merely proves that you know nothing at all about it; I am my moth-
er's son, but not my uncles' nephew."
"Still—one of your uncles is a lord, though rather an obscure and not a
very wealthy one, and the other a right honourable: you should consider
worldly interest."
"Nonsense, Mr. Hunsden. You know or may know that even had I desired
to be submissive to my uncles, I could not have stooped with a good enough
grace ever to have won their favour. I should have sacrificed my own com-
fort and not have gained their patronage in return."
"Very likely—so you calculated your wisest plan was to follow your own
devices at once?"
"Exactly. I must follow my own devices—I must, till the day of my
death; because I can neither comprehend, adopt, nor work out those of other
people."
Hunsden yawned. "Well," said he, "in all this, I see but one thing clearly-
that is, that the whole affair is no business of mine." He stretched himself
and again yawned. "I wonder what time it is," he went on: "I have an ap-
pointment for seven o'clock."
"Three quarters past six by my watch."
"Well, then I'll go." He got up. "You'll not meddle with trade again?" said
he, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece.
"No; I think not."
"You would be a fool if you did. Probably, after all, you'll think better of
your uncles' proposal and go into the Church."
"A singular regeneration must take place in my whole inner and outer
man before I do that. A good clergyman is one of the best of men."
"Indeed! Do you think so?" interrupted Hunsden, scoffingly.
 "I do, and no mistake. But I have not the peculiar points which go to
make a good clergyman; and rather than adopt a profession for which I have
no vocation, I would endure extremities of hardship from poverty."
"You're a mighty difficult customer to suit. You won't be a tradesman or a
parson; you can't be a lawyer, or a doctor, or a gentleman, because you've
no money. I'd recommend you to travel."
"What! without money?"
"You must travel in search of money, man. You can speak French—with
a vile English accent, no doubt—still, you can speak it. Go on to the Conti-
nent, and see what will turn up for you there."
"God knows I should like to go!" exclaimed I with involuntary ardour.
"Go: what the deuce hinders you? You may get to Brussels, for instance,
for five or six pounds, if you know how to manage with economy."
"Necessity would teach me if I didn't."
"Go, then, and let your wits make a way for you when you get there. I
know Brussels almost as well as I know X——, and I am sure it would suit
such a one as you better than London."
"But occupation, Mr. Hunsden! I must go where occupation is to be had;
and how could I get recommendation, or introduction, or employment at
Brussels?"
"There speaks the organ of caution. You hate to advance a step before
you know every inch of the way. You haven't a sheet of paper and a pen-
and-ink?"
"I hope so," and I produced writing materials with alacrity; for I guessed
what he was going to do. He sat down, wrote a few lines, folded, sealed,
and addressed a letter, and held it out to me.
"There, Prudence, there's a pioneer to hew down the first rough difficul-
ties of your path. I know well enough, lad, you are not one of those who
will run their neck into a noose without seeing how they are to get it out
again, and you're right there. A reckless man is my aversion, and nothing
should ever persuade me to meddle with the concerns of such a one. Those
who are reckless for themselves are generally ten times more so for their
friends."
"This is a letter of introduction, I suppose?" said I, taking the epistle.
"Yes. With that in your pocket you will run no risk of finding yourself in
a state of absolute destitution, which, I know, you will regard as a degrada-
tion—so should I, for that matter. The person to whom you will present it
generally has two or three respectable places depending upon his
recommendation."
"That will just suit me," said I.
"Well, and where's your gratitude?" demanded Mr. Hunsden; "don't you
know how to say 'Thank you?'"
"I've fifteen pounds and a watch, which my godmother, whom I never
saw, gave me eighteen years ago," was my rather irrelevant answer; and I
further avowed myself a happy man, and professed that I did not envy any
being in Christendom.
"But your gratitude?"
"I shall be off presently, Mr. Hunsden—to-morrow, if all be well: I'll not
stay a day longer in X—— than I'm obliged."
"Very good—but it will be decent to make due acknowledgment for the
assistance you have received; be quick! It is just going to strike seven: I'm
waiting to be thanked."
"Just stand out of the way, will you, Mr. Hunsden: I want a key there is
on the corner of the mantelpiece. I'll pack my portmanteau before I go to
bed."
The house clock struck seven.
"The lad is a heathen," said Hunsden, and taking his hat from a side-
board, he left the room, laughing to himself. I had half an inclination to fol-
low him: I really intended to leave X—— the next morning, and should cer-
tainly not have another opportunity of bidding him good-bye. The front
door banged to.
"Let him go," said I, "we shall meet again some day."
 CHAPTER 7

READER, perhaps you were never in Belgium? Haply you don't know the
physiognomy of the country? You have not its lineaments defined upon
your memory, as I have them on mine?
Three—nay four—pictures line the four-walled cell where are stored for
me the records of the past. First, Eton. All in that picture is in far perspec-
tive, receding, diminutive; but freshly coloured, green, dewy, with a spring
sky, piled with glittering yet showery clouds; for my childhood was not all
sunshine—it had its overcast, its cold, its stormy hours. Second, X——,
huge, dingy; the canvas cracked and smoked; a yellow sky, sooty clouds; no
sun, no azure; the verdure of the suburbs blighted and sullied—a very drea-
ry scene.
Third, Belgium; and I will pause before this landscape. As to the fourth, a
curtain covers it, which I may hereafter withdraw, or may not, as suits my
convenience and capacity. At any rate, for the present it must hang undis-
turbed. Belgium! name unromantic and unpoetic, yet name that whenever
uttered has in my ear a sound, in my heart an echo, such as no other assem-
blage of syllables, however sweet or classic, can produce. Belgium! I repeat
the word, now as I sit alone near midnight. It stirs my world of the past like
a summons to resurrection; the graves unclose, the dead are raised;
thoughts, feelings, memories that slept, are seen by me ascending from the
clouds—haloed most of them—but while I gaze on their vapoury forms,
and strive to ascertain definitely their outline, the sound which wakened
them dies, and they sink, each and all, like a light wreath of mist, absorbed
in the mould, recalled to urns, resealed in monuments. Farewell, luminous
phantoms!
 This is Belgium, reader. Look! don't call the picture a flat or a dull one—
it was neither flat nor dull to me when I first beheld it. When I left Ostend
on a mild February morning, and found myself on the road to Brussels,
nothing could look vapid to me. My sense of enjoyment possessed an edge
whetted to the finest, untouched, keen, exquisite. I was young; I had good
health; pleasure and I had never met; no indulgence of hers had enervated
or sated one faculty of my nature. Liberty I clasped in my arms for the first
time, and the influence of her smile and embrace revived my life like the
sun and the west wind. Yes, at that epoch I felt like a morning traveller who
doubts not that from the hill he is ascending he shall behold a glorious sun-
rise; what if the track be strait, steep, and stony? he sees it not; his eyes are
fixed on that summit, flushed already, flushed and gilded, and having gained
it he is certain of the scene beyond. He knows that the sun will face him,
that his chariot is even now coming over the eastern horizon, and that the
herald breeze he feels on his cheek is opening for the god's career a clear,
vast path of azure, amidst clouds soft as pearl and warm as flame. Difficulty
and toil were to be my lot, but sustained by energy, drawn on by hopes as
bright as vague, I deemed such a lot no hardship. I mounted now the hill in
shade; there were pebbles, inequalities, briars in my path, but my eyes were
fixed on the crimson peak above; my imagination was with the refulgent
firmament beyond, and I thought nothing of the stones turning under my
feet, or of the thorns scratching my face and hands.
I gazed often, and always with delight, from the window of the diligence
(these, be it remembered, were not the days of trains and railroads). Well!
and what did I see? I will tell you faithfully. Green, reedy swamps; fields
fertile but flat, cultivated in patches that made them look like magnified
kitchen-gardens; belts of cut trees, formal as pollard willows, skirting the
horizon; narrow canals, gliding slow by the road-side; painted Flemish
farmhouses; some very dirty hovels; a gray, dead sky; wet road, wet fields,
wet house-tops: not a beautiful, scarcely a picturesque object met my eye
along the whole route; yet to me, all was beautiful, all was more than pic-
turesque. It continued fair so long as daylight lasted, though the moisture of
many preceding damp days had sodden the whole country; as it grew dark,
however, the rain recommenced, and it was through streaming and starless
darkness my eye caught the first gleam of the lights of Brussels. I saw little
of the city but its lights that night. Having alighted from the diligence, a fi-
acre conveyed me to the Hotel de ——, where I had been advised by a fel-
low-traveller to put up; having eaten a traveller's supper, I retired to bed,
and slept a traveller's sleep.
Next morning I awoke from prolonged and sound repose with the impres-
sion that I was yet in X——, and perceiving it to be broad daylight I started
up, imagining that I had overslept myself and should be behind time at the
counting-house. The momentary and painful sense of restraint vanished be-
fore the revived and reviving consciousness of freedom, as, throwing back
the white curtains of my bed, I looked forth into a wide, lofty foreign cham-
ber; how different from the small and dingy, though not uncomfortable,
apartment I had occupied for a night or two at a respectable inn in London
while waiting for the sailing of the packet! Yet far be it from me to profane
the memory of that little dingy room! It, too, is dear to my soul; for there, as
I lay in quiet and darkness, I first heard the great bell of St. Paul's telling
London it was midnight, and well do I recall the deep, deliberate tones, so
full charged with colossal phlegm and force. From the small, narrow win-
dow of that room, I first saw THE dome, looming through a London mist. I
suppose the sensations, stirred by those first sounds, first sights, are felt but
once; treasure them, Memory; seal them in urns, and keep them in safe
niches! Well—I rose. Travellers talk of the apartments in foreign dwellings
being bare and uncomfortable; I thought my chamber looked stately and
cheerful. It had such large windows—CROISEES that opened like doors,
with such broad, clear panes of glass; such a great looking-glass stood on
my dressing-table—such a fine mirror glittered over the mantelpiece—the
painted floor looked so clean and glossy; when I had dressed and was de-
scending the stairs, the broad marble steps almost awed me, and so did the
lofty hall into which they conducted. On the first landing I met a Flemish
housemaid: she had wooden shoes, a short red petticoat, a printed cotton
bedgown, her face was broad, her physiognomy eminently stupid; when I
spoke to her in French, she answered me in Flemish, with an air the reverse
of civil; yet I thought her charming; if she was not pretty or polite, she was,
I conceived, very picturesque; she reminded me of the female figures in cer-
tain Dutch paintings I had seen in other years at Seacombe Hall.
I repaired to the public room; that, too, was very large and very lofty, and
warmed by a stove; the floor was black, and the stove was black, and most
of the furniture was black: yet I never experienced a freer sense of exhilara-
tion than when I sat down at a very long, black table (covered, however, in
part by a white cloth), and, having ordered breakfast, began to pour out my
coffee from a little black coffee-pot. The stove might be dismal-looking to
some eyes, not to mine, but it was indisputably very warm, and there were
two gentlemen seated by it talking in French; impossible to follow their
rapid utterance, or comprehend much of the purport of what they said—yet
French, in the mouths of Frenchmen, or Belgians (I was not then sensible of
the horrors of the Belgian accent) was as music to my ears. One of these
gentlemen presently discerned me to be an Englishman—no doubt from the
fashion in which I addressed the waiter; for I would persist in speaking
French in my execrable South-of-England style, though the man understood
English. The gentleman, after looking towards me once or twice, politely
accosted me in very good English; I remember I wished to God that I could
speak French as well; his fluency and correct pronunciation impressed me
for the first time with a due notion of the cosmopolitan character of the cap-
ital I was in; it was my first experience of that skill in living languages I af-
terwards found to be so general in Brussels.
I lingered over my breakfast as long as I could; while it was there on the
table, and while that stranger continued talking to me, I was a free, indepen-
dent traveller; but at last the things were removed, the two gentlemen left
the room; suddenly the illusion ceased, reality and business came back. I, a
bondsman just released from the yoke, freed for one week from twenty-one
years of constraint, must, of necessity, resume the fetters of dependency.
Hardly had I tasted the delight of being without a master when duty issued
her stern mandate: "Go forth and seek another service." I never linger over a
painful and necessary task; I never take pleasure before business, it is not in
my nature to do so; impossible to enjoy a leisurely walk over the city,
though I perceived the morning was very fine, until I had first presented Mr.
Hunsden's letter of introduction, and got fairly on to the track of a new situ-
ation. Wrenching my mind from liberty and delight, I seized my hat, and
forced my reluctant body out of the Hotel de —— into the foreign street.
It was a fine day, but I would not look at the blue sky or at the stately
houses round me; my mind was bent on one thing, finding out "Mr. Brown,
Numero —, Rue Royale," for so my letter was addressed. By dint of inquiry
I succeeded; I stood at last at the desired door, knocked, asked for Mr.
Brown, and was admitted.
Being shown into a small breakfast-room, I found myself in the presence
of an elderly gentleman—very grave, business-like, and respectable-look-
ing. I presented Mr. Hunsden's letter; he received me very civilly. After a
little desultory conversation he asked me if there was anything in which his
advice or experience could be of use. I said, "Yes," and then proceeded to
tell him that I was not a gentleman of fortune, travelling for pleasure, but an
ex-counting-house clerk, who wanted employment of some kind, and that
immediately too. He replied that as a friend of Mr. Hunsden's he would be
willing to assist me as well as he could. After some meditation he named a
place in a mercantile house at Liege, and another in a bookseller's shop at
Louvain.
"Clerk and shopman!" murmured I to myself. "No." I shook my head. I
had tried the high stool; I hated it; I believed there were other occupations
that would suit me better; besides I did not wish to leave Brussels.
"I know of no place in Brussels," answered Mr. Brown, "unless indeed
you were disposed to turn your attention to teaching. I am acquainted with
the director of a large establishment who is in want of a professor of Eng-
lish and Latin."
I thought two minutes, then I seized the idea eagerly.
"The very thing, sir!" said I.
"But," asked he, "do you understand French well enough to teach Belgian
boys English?"
Fortunately I could answer this question in the affirmative; having stud-
ied French under a Frenchman, I could speak the language intelligibly
though not fluently. I could also read it well, and write it decently.
"Then," pursued Mr. Brown, "I think I can promise you the place, for
Monsieur Pelet will not refuse a professor recommended by me; but come
here again at five o'clock this afternoon, and I will introduce you to him."
The word "professor" struck me. "I am not a professor," said I.
"Oh," returned Mr. Brown, "professor, here in Belgium, means a teacher,
that is all."
My conscience thus quieted, I thanked Mr. Brown, and, for the present,
withdrew. This time I stepped out into the street with a relieved heart; the
task I had imposed on myself for that day was executed. I might now take
some hours of holiday. I felt free to look up. For the first time I remarked
the sparkling clearness of the air, the deep blue of the sky, the gay clean as-
pect of the white-washed or painted houses; I saw what a fine street was the
Rue Royale, and, walking leisurely along its broad pavement, I continued to
survey its stately hotels, till the palisades, the gates, and trees of the park
appearing in sight, offered to my eye a new attraction. I remember, before
entering the park, I stood awhile to contemplate the statue of General Bel-
liard, and then I advanced to the top of the great staircase just beyond, and I
looked down into a narrow back street, which I afterwards learnt was called
the Rue d'Isabelle. I well recollect that my eye rested on the green door of a
rather large house opposite, where, on a brass plate, was inscribed, "Pen-
sionnat de Demoiselles." Pensionnat! The word excited an uneasy sensation
in my mind; it seemed to speak of restraint. Some of the demoiselles, exter-
nats no doubt, were at that moment issuing from the door—I looked for a
pretty face amongst them, but their close, little French bonnets hid their fea-
tures; in a moment they were gone.
I had traversed a good deal of Brussels before five o'clock arrived, but
punctually as that hour struck I was again in the Rue Royale. Re-admitted
to Mr. Brown's breakfast-room, I found him, as before, seated at the table,
and he was not alone—a gentleman stood by the hearth. Two words of in-
troduction designated him as my future master. "M. Pelet, Mr. Crimsworth;
Mr. Crimsworth, M. Pelet" a bow on each side finished the ceremony. I
don't know what sort of a bow I made; an ordinary one, I suppose, for I was
in a tranquil, commonplace frame of mind; I felt none of the agitation
which had troubled my first interview with Edward Crimsworth. M. Pelet's
bow was extremely polite, yet not theatrical, scarcely French; he and I were
presently seated opposite to each other. In a pleasing voice, low, and, out of
consideration to my foreign ears, very distinct and deliberate, M. Pelet inti-
mated that he had just been receiving from "le respectable M. Brown," an
account of my attainments and character, which relieved him from all scru-
ple as to the propriety of engaging me as professor of English and Latin in
his establishment; nevertheless, for form's sake, he would put a few ques-
tions to test; my powers. He did, and expressed in flattering terms his satis-
faction at my answers. The subject of salary next came on; it was fixed at
one thousand francs per annum, besides board and lodging. "And in addi-
tion," suggested M. Pelet, "as there will be some hours in each day during
which your services will not be required in my establishment, you may, in
time, obtain employment in other seminaries, and thus turn your vacant mo-
ments to profitable account."
I thought this very kind, and indeed I found afterwards that the terms on
which M. Pelet had engaged me were really liberal for Brussels; instruction
being extremely cheap there on account of the number of teachers. It was
further arranged that I should be installed in my new post the very next day,
after which M. Pelet and I parted.
Well, and what was he like? and what were my impressions concerning
him? He was a man of about forty years of age, of middle size, and rather
emaciated figure; his face was pale, his cheeks were sunk, and his eyes hol-
low; his features were pleasing and regular, they had a French turn (for M.
Pelet was no Fleming, but a Frenchman both by birth and parentage), yet
the degree of harshness inseparable from Gallic lineaments was, in his case,
softened by a mild blue eye, and a melancholy, almost suffering, expression
of countenance; his physiognomy was "fine et spirituelle." I use two French
words because they define better than any English terms the species of in-
telligence with which his features were imbued. He was altogether an inter-
esting and prepossessing personage. I wondered only at the utter absence of
all the ordinary characteristics of his profession, and almost feared he could
not be stern and resolute enough for a schoolmaster. Externally at least M.
Pelet presented an absolute contrast to my late master, Edward Crimsworth.
Influenced by the impression I had received of his gentleness, I was a
good deal surprised when, on arriving the next day at my new employer's
house, and being admitted to a first view of what was to be the sphere of my
future labours, namely the large, lofty, and well lighted schoolrooms, I be-
held a numerous assemblage of pupils, boys of course, whose collective ap-
pearance showed all the signs of a full, flourishing, and well-disciplined
seminary. As I traversed the classes in company with M. Pelet, a profound
silence reigned on all sides, and if by chance a murmur or a whisper arose,
one glance from the pensive eye of this most gentle pedagogue stilled it in-
stantly. It was astonishing, I thought, how so mild a check could prove so
effectual. When I had perambulated the length and breadth of the classes,
M. Pelet turned and said to me—
"Would you object to taking the boys as they are, and testing their profi-
ciency in English?"
The proposal was unexpected. I had thought I should have been allowed
at least 3 days to prepare; but it is a bad omen to commence any career by
hesitation, so I just stepped to the professor's desk near which we stood, and
faced the circle of my pupils. I took a moment to collect my thoughts, and
likewise to frame in French the sentence by which I proposed to open busi-
ness. I made it as short as possible:—
"Messieurs, prenez vos livres de lecture."
 "Anglais ou Francais, monsieur?" demanded a thickset, moon-faced
young Flamand in a blouse. The answer was fortunately easy:—
"Anglais."
I determined to give myself as little trouble as possible in this lesson; it
would not do yet to trust my unpractised tongue with the delivery of expla-
nations; my accent and idiom would be too open to the criticisms of the
young gentlemen before me, relative to whom I felt already it would be
necessary at once to take up an advantageous position, and I proceeded to
employ means accordingly.
"Commencez!" cried I, when they had all produced their books. The
moon-faced youth (by name Jules Vanderkelkov, as I afterwards learnt)
took the first sentence. The "livre de lecture" was the "Vicar of Wakefield,"
much used in foreign schools because it is supposed to contain prime sam-
ples of conversational English; it might, however, have been a Runic scroll
for any resemblance the words, as enunciated by Jules, bore to the language
in ordinary use amongst the natives of Great Britain. My God! how he did
snuffle, snort, and wheeze! All he said was said in his throat and nose, for it
is thus the Flamands speak, but I heard him to the end of his paragraph
without proffering a word of correction, whereat he looked vastly self-com-
placent, convinced, no doubt, that he had acquitted himself like a real born
and bred "Anglais." In the same unmoved silence I listened to a dozen in
rotation, and when the twelfth had concluded with splutter, hiss, and mum-
ble, I solemnly laid down the book.
"Arretez!" said I. There was a pause, during which I regarded them all
with a steady and somewhat stern gaze; a dog, if stared at hard enough and
long enough, will show symptoms of embarrassment, and so at length did
my bench of Belgians. Perceiving that some of the faces before me were
beginning to look sullen, and others ashamed, I slowly joined my hands,
and ejaculated in a deep "voix de poitrine"—
"Comme c'est affreux!"
They looked at each other, pouted, coloured, swung their heels; they were
not pleased, I saw, but they were impressed, and in the way I wished them
to be. Having thus taken them down a peg in their self-conceit, the next step
was to raise myself in their estimation; not a very easy thing, considering
that I hardly dared to speak for fear of betraying my own deficiencies.
"Ecoutez, messieurs!" said I, and I endeavoured to throw into my accents
the compassionate tone of a superior being, who, touched by the extremity
of the helplessness, which at first only excited his scorn, deigns at length to
bestow aid. I then began at the very beginning of the "Vicar of Wakefield,"
and read, in a slow, distinct voice, some twenty pages, they all the while sit-
ting mute and listening with fixed attention; by the time I had done nearly
an hour had elapsed. I then rose and said:—
"C'est assez pour aujourd'hui, messieurs; demain nous recommencerons,
et j'espere que tout ira bien."
With this oracular sentence I bowed, and in company with M. Pelet quit-
ted the school-room.
"C'est bien! c'est tres bien!" said my principal as we entered his parlour.
"Je vois que monsieur a de l'adresse; cela, me plait, car, dans l'instruction,
l'adresse fait tout autant que le savoir."
From the parlour M. Pelet conducted me to my apartment, my
"chambre," as Monsieur said with a certain air of complacency. It was a
very small room, with an excessively small bed, but M. Pelet gave me to
understand that I was to occupy it quite alone, which was of course a great
comfort. Yet, though so limited in dimensions, it had two windows. Light
not being taxed in Belgium, the people never grudge its admission into their
houses; just here, however, this observation is not very APROPOS, for one
of these windows was boarded up; the open windows looked into the boys'
playground. I glanced at the other, as wondering what aspect it would
present if disencumbered of the boards. M. Pelet read, I suppose, the ex-
pression of my eye; he explained:—
"La fenetre fermee donne sur un jardin appartenant a un pensionnat de
demoiselles," said he, "et les convenances exigent—enfin, vous comprenez
—n'est-ce pas, monsieur?"
"Oui, oui," was my reply, and I looked of course quite satisfied; but when
M. Pelet had retired and closed the door after him, the first thing I did was
to scrutinize closely the nailed boards, hoping to find some chink or crevice
which I might enlarge, and so get a peep at the consecrated ground. My re-
searches were vain, for the boards were well joined and strongly nailed. It is
astonishing how disappointed I felt. I thought it would have been so pleas-
ant to have looked out upon a garden planted with flowers and trees, so
amusing to have watched the demoiselles at their play; to have studied fe-
male character in a variety of phases, myself the while sheltered from view
by a modest muslin curtain, whereas, owing doubtless to the absurd scru-
ples of some old duenna of a directress, I had now only the option of look-
ing at a bare gravelled court, with an enormous "pas de geant" in the mid-
dle, and the monotonous walls and windows of a boys' school-house round.
Not only then, but many a time after, especially in moments of weariness
and low spirits, did I look with dissatisfied eyes on that most tantalizing
board, longing to tear it away and get a glimpse of the green region which I
imagined to lie beyond. I knew a tree grew close up to the window, for
though there were as yet no leaves to rustle, I often heard at night the tap-
ping of branches against the panes. In the daytime, when I listened atten-
tively, I could hear, even through the boards, the voices of the demoiselles
in their hours of recreation, and, to speak the honest truth, my sentimental
reflections were occasionally a trifle disarranged by the not quite silvery, in
fact the too often brazen sounds, which, rising from the unseen paradise be-
low, penetrated clamorously into my solitude. Not to mince matters, it real-
ly seemed to me a doubtful case whether the lungs of Mdlle. Reuter's girls
or those of M. Pelet's boys were the strongest, and when it came to shriek-
ing the girls indisputably beat the boys hollow. I forgot to say, by-the-by,
that Reuter was the name of the old lady who had had my window bearded
up. I say old, for such I, of course, concluded her to be, judging from her
cautious, chaperon-like proceedings; besides, nobody ever spoke of her as
young. I remember I was very much amused when I first heard her Christ-
ian name; it was Zoraide—Mademoiselle Zoraide Reuter. But the continen-
tal nations do allow themselves vagaries in the choice of names, such as we
sober English never run into. I think, indeed, we have too limited a list to
choose from.
Meantime my path was gradually growing smooth before me. I, in a few
weeks, conquered the teasing difficulties inseparable from the commence-
ment of almost every career. Ere long I had acquired as much facility in
speaking French as set me at my ease with my pupils; and as I had encoun-
tered them on a right footing at the very beginning, and continued tena-
ciously to retain the advantage I had early gained, they never attempted
mutiny, which circumstance, all who are in any degree acquainted with the
ongoings of Belgian schools, and who know the relation in which profes-
sors and pupils too frequently stand towards each other in those establish-
ments, will consider an important and uncommon one. Before concluding
this chapter I will say a word on the system I pursued with regard to my
classes: my experience may possibly be of use to others.
 It did not require very keen observation to detect the character of the
youth of Brabant, but it needed a certain degree of tact to adopt one's mea-
sures to their capacity. Their intellectual faculties were generally weak, their
animal propensities strong; thus there was at once an impotence and a kind
of inert force in their natures; they were dull, but they were also singularly
stubborn, heavy as lead and, like lead, most difficult to move. Such being
the case, it would have been truly absurd to exact from them much in the
way of mental exertion; having short memories, dense intelligence, feeble
reflective powers, they recoiled with repugnance from any occupation that
demanded close study or deep thought. Had the abhorred effort been extort-
ed from them by injudicious and arbitrary measures on the part of the Pro-
fessor, they would have resisted as obstinately, as clamorously, as desperate
swine; and though not brave singly, they were relentless acting EN MASSE.
I understood that before my arrival in M. Pelet's establishment, the com-
bined insubordination of the pupils had effected the dismissal of more than
one English master. It was necessary then to exact only the most moderate
application from natures so little qualified to apply—to assist, in every prac-
ticable way, understandings so opaque and contracted—to be ever gentle,
considerate, yielding even, to a certain point, with dispositions so irrational-
ly perverse; but, having reached that culminating point of indulgence, you
must fix your foot, plant it, root it in rock—become immutable as the tow-
ers of Ste. Gudule; for a step—but half a step farther, and you would plunge
headlong into the gulf of imbecility; there lodged, you would speedily re-
ceive proofs of Flemish gratitude and magnanimity in showers of Brabant
saliva and handfuls of Low Country mud. You might smooth to the utmost
the path of learning, remove every pebble from the track; but then you must
finally insist with decision on the pupil taking your arm and allowing him-
self to be led quietly along the prepared road. When I had brought down my
lesson to the lowest level of my dullest pupil's capacity—when I had shown
myself the mildest, the most tolerant of masters—a word of impertinence, a
movement of disobedience, changed me at once into a despot. I offered then
but one alternative—submission and acknowledgment of error, or ignomin-
ious expulsion. This system answered, and my influence, by degrees, be-
came established on a firm basis. "The boy is father to the man," it is said;
and so I often thought when looked at my boys and remembered the politi-
cal history of their ancestors. Pelet's school was merely an epitome of the
Belgian nation.
 CHAPTER 8

AND Pelet himself? How did I continue to like him? Oh, extremely well!
Nothing could be more smooth, gentlemanlike, and even friendly, than his
demeanour to me. I had to endure from him neither cold neglect, irritating
interference, nor pretentious assumption of superiority. I fear, however, two
poor, hard-worked Belgian ushers in the establishment could not have said
as much; to them the director's manner was invariably dry, stern, and cool. I
believe he perceived once or twice that I was a little shocked at the differ-
ence he made between them and me, and accounted for it by saying, with a
quiet sarcastic smile—
"Ce ne sont que des Flamands—allez!"
And then he took his cigar gently from his lips and spat on the painted
floor of the room in which we were sitting. Flamands certainly they were,
and both had the true Flamand physiognomy, where intellectual inferiority
is marked in lines none can mistake; still they were men, and, in the main,
honest men; and I could not see why their being aboriginals of the flat, dull
soil should serve as a pretext for treating them with perpetual severity and
contempt. This idea, of injustice somewhat poisoned the pleasure I might
otherwise have derived from Pelet's soft affable manner to myself. Certainly
it was agreeable, when the day's work was over, to find one's employer an
intelligent and cheerful companion; and if he was sometimes a little sarcas-
tic and sometimes a little too insinuating, and if I did discover that his mild-
ness was more a matter of appearance than of reality—if I did occasionally
suspect the existence of flint or steel under an external covering of velvet—
still we are none of us perfect; and weary as I was of the atmosphere of bru-
tality and insolence in which I had constantly lived at X——, I had no incli-
nation now, on casting anchor in calmer regions, to institute at once a pry-
ing search after defects that were scrupulously withdrawn and carefully
veiled from my view. I was willing to take Pelet for what he seemed—to
believe him benevolent and friendly until some untoward event should
prove him otherwise. He was not married, and I soon perceived he had all a
Frenchman's, all a Parisian's notions about matrimony and women. I sus-
pected a degree of laxity in his code of morals, there was something so cold
and BLASE in his tone whenever he alluded to what he called "le beau
sexe;" but he was too gentlemanlike to intrude topics I did not invite, and as
he was really intelligent and really fond of intellectual subjects of discourse,
he and I always found enough to talk about, without seeking themes in the
mire. I hated his fashion of mentioning love; I abhorred, from my soul,
mere licentiousness. He felt the difference of our notions, and, by mutual
consent, we kept off ground debateable.
Pelet's house was kept and his kitchen managed by his mother, a real old
Frenchwoman; she had been handsome—at least she told me so, and I
strove to believe her; she was now ugly, as only continental old women can
be; perhaps, though, her style of dress made her look uglier than she really
was. Indoors she would go about without cap, her grey hair strangely di-
shevelled; then, when at home, she seldom wore a gown—only a shabby
cotton camisole; shoes, too, were strangers to her feet, and in lieu of them
she sported roomy slippers, trodden down at the heels. On the other hand,
whenever it was her pleasure to appear abroad, as on Sundays and fete-
days, she would put on some very brilliant-coloured dress, usually of thin
texture, a silk bonnet with a wreath of flowers, and a very fine shawl. She
was not, in the main, an ill-natured old woman, but an incessant and most
indiscreet talker; she kept chiefly in and about the kitchen, and seemed
rather to avoid her son's august presence; of him, indeed, she evidently
stood in awe. When he reproved her, his reproofs were bitter and unsparing;
but he seldom gave himself that trouble.
Madame Pelet had her own society, her own circle of chosen visitors,
whom, however, I seldom saw, as she generally entertained them in what
she called her "cabinet," a small den of a place adjoining the kitchen, and
descending into it by one or two steps. On these steps, by-the-by, I have not
unfrequently seen Madame Pelet seated with a trencher on her knee, en-
gaged in the threefold employment of eating her dinner, gossiping with her
favourite servant, the housemaid, and scolding her antagonist, the cook; she
never dined, and seldom indeed took any meal with her son; and as to
showing her face at the boys' table, that was quite out of the question. These
details will sound very odd in English ears, but Belgium is not England, and
its ways are not our ways.
Madame Pelet's habits of life, then, being taken into consideration, I was
a good deal surprised when, one Thursday evening (Thursday was always a
half-holiday), as I was sitting all alone in my apartment, correcting a huge
pile of English and Latin exercises, a servant tapped at the door, and, on its
being opened, presented Madame Pelet's compliments, and she would be
happy to see me to take my "gouter" (a meal which answers to our English
"tea") with her in the dining-room.
"Plait-il?" said I, for I thought I must have misunderstood, the message
and invitation were so unusual; the same words were repeated. I accepted,
of course, and as I descended the stairs, I wondered what whim had entered
the old lady's brain; her son was out—gone to pass the evening at the Salle
of the Grande Harmonie or some other club of which he was a member. Just
as I laid my hand on the handle of the dining-room door, a queer idea
glanced across my mind.
"Surely she's not going to make love to me," said I. "I've heard of old
Frenchwomen doing odd things in that line; and the gouter? They generally
begin such affairs with eating and drinking, I believe."
There was a fearful dismay in this suggestion of my excited imagination,
and if I had allowed myself time to dwell upon it, I should no doubt have
cut there and then, rushed back to my chamber, and bolted myself in; but
whenever a danger or a horror is veiled with uncertainty, the primary wish
of the mind is to ascertain first the naked truth, reserving the expedient of
flight for the moment when its dread anticipation shall be realized. I turned
the door-handle, and in an instant had crossed the fatal threshold, closed the
door behind me, and stood in the presence of Madame Pelet.
Gracious heavens! The first view of her seemed to confirm my worst ap-
prehensions. There she sat, dressed out in a light green muslin gown, on her
head a lace cap with flourishing red roses in the frill; her table was carefully
spread; there were fruit, cakes, and coffee, with a bottle of something—I
did not know what. Already the cold sweat started on my brow, already I
glanced back over my shoulder at the closed door, when, to my unspeakable
relief, my eye, wandering mildly in the direction of the stove, rested upon a
second figure, seated in a large fauteuil beside it. This was a woman, too,
and, moreover, an old woman, and as fat and as rubicund as Madame Pelet
was meagre and yellow; her attire was likewise very fine, and spring flow-
ers of different hues circled in a bright wreath the crown of her violet-
coloured velvet bonnet.
I had only time to make these general observations when Madame Pelet,
coming forward with what she intended should be a graceful and elastic
step, thus accosted me:
"Monsieur is indeed most obliging to quit his books, his studies, at the
request of an insignificant person like me—will Monsieur complete his
kindness by allowing me to present him to my dear friend Madame Reuter,
who resides in the neighbouring house—the young ladies' school."
"Ah!" thought I, "I knew she was old," and I bowed and took my seat.
Madame Reuter placed herself at the table opposite to me.
"How do you like Belgium, Monsieur?" asked she, in an accent of the
broadest Bruxellois. I could now well distinguish the difference between the
fine and pure Parisian utterance of M. Pelet, for instance, and the guttural
enunciation of the Flamands. I answered politely, and then wondered how
so coarse and clumsy an old woman as the one before me should be at the
head of a ladies' seminary, which I had always heard spoken of in terms of
high commendation. In truth there was something to wonder at. Madame
Reuter looked more like a joyous, free-living old Flemish fermiere, or even
a maitresse d'auberge, than a staid, grave, rigid directrice de pensionnat. In
general the continental, or at least the Belgian old women permit them-
selves a licence of manners, speech, and aspect, such as our venerable
granddames would recoil from as absolutely disreputable, and Madame
Reuter's jolly face bore evidence that she was no exception to the rule of her
country; there was a twinkle and leer in her left eye; her right she kept ha-
bitually half shut, which I thought very odd indeed. After several vain at-
tempts to comprehend the motives of these two droll old creatures for invit-
ing me to join them at their gouter, I at last fairly gave it up, and resigning
myself to inevitable mystification, I sat and looked first at one, then at the
other, taking care meantime to do justice to the confitures, cakes, and cof-
fee, with which they amply supplied me. They, too, ate, and that with no
delicate appetite, and having demolished a large portion of the solids, they
proposed a "petit verre." I declined. Not so Mesdames Pelet and Reuter;
each mixed herself what I thought rather a stiff tumbler of punch, and plac-
ing it on a stand near the stove, they drew up their chairs to that conve-
nience, and invited me to do the same. I obeyed; and being seated fairly be-
tween them, I was thus addressed first by Madame Pelet, then by Madame
Reuter.
"We will now speak of business," said Madame Pelet, and she went on to
make an elaborate speech, which, being interpreted, was to the effect that
she had asked for the pleasure of my company that evening in order to give
her friend Madame Reuter an opportunity of broaching an important pro-
posal, which might turn out greatly to my advantage.
"Pourvu que vous soyez sage," said Madame Reuter, "et a vrai dire, vous
en avez bien l'air. Take one drop of the punch" (or ponche, as she pro-
nounced it); "it is an agreeable and wholesome beverage after a full meal."
I bowed, but again declined it. She went on:
"I feel," said she, after a solemn sip—"I feel profoundly the importance
of the commission with which my dear daughter has entrusted me, for you
are aware, Monsieur, that it is my daughter who directs the establishment in
the next house?"
"Ah! I thought it was yourself, madame." Though, indeed, at that mo-
ment I recollected that it was called Mademoiselle, not Madame Reuter's
pensionnat.
"I! Oh, no! I manage the house and look after the servants, as my friend
Madame Pelet does for Monsieur her son—nothing more. Ah! you thought
I gave lessons in class—did you?"
And she laughed loud and long, as though the idea tickled her fancy
amazingly.
"Madame is in the wrong to laugh," I observed; "if she does not give
lessons, I am sure it is not because she cannot;" and I whipped out a white
pocket-handkerchief and wafted it, with a French grace, past my nose, bow-
ing at the name time.
"Quel charmant jeune homme!" murmured Madame Pelet in a low voice.
Madame Reuter, being less sentimental, as she was Flamand and not
French, only laughed again.
"You are a dangerous person, I fear," said she; "if you can forge compli-
ments at that rate, Zoraide will positively be afraid of you; but if you are
good, I will keep your secret, and not tell her how well you can flatter. Now,
listen what sort of a proposal she makes to you. She has heard that you are
an excellent professor, and as she wishes to get the very beet masters for her
school (car Zoraide fait tout comme une reine, c'est une veritable maitresse-
femme), she has commissioned me to step over this afternoon, and sound
Madame Pelet as to the possibility of engaging you. Zoraide is a wary gen-
eral; she never advances without first examining well her ground I don't
think she would be pleased if she knew I had already disclosed her inten-
tions to you; she did not order me to go so far, but I thought there would be
no harm in letting you into the secret, and Madame Pelet was of the same
opinion. Take care, however, you don't betray either of us to Zoraide—to
my daughter, I mean; she is so discreet and circumspect herself, she cannot
understand that one should find a pleasure in gossiping a little—"
"C'est absolument comme mon fils!" cried Madame Pelet.
"All the world is so changed since our girlhood!" rejoined the other:
"young people have such old heads now. But to return, Monsieur. Madame
Pelet will mention the subject of your giving lessons in my daughter's estab-
lishment to her son, and he will speak to you; and then to-morrow, you will
step over to our house, and ask to see my daughter, and you will introduce
the subject as if the first intimation of it had reached you from M. Pelet
himself, and be sure you never mention my name, for I would not displease
Zoraide on any account.
"Bien! bien!" interrupted I—for all this chatter and circumlocution began
to bore me very much; "I will consult M. Pelet, and the thing shall be set-
tled as you desire. Good evening, mesdames—I am infinitely obliged to
you."
"Comment! vous vous en allez deja?" exclaimed Madame Pelet.
"Prenez encore quelquechose, monsieur; une pomme cuite, des biscuits,
encore une tasse de cafe?"
"Merci, merci, madame—au revoir." And I backed at last out of the
apartment.
Having regained my own room, I set myself to turn over in my mind the
incident of the evening. It seemed a queer affair altogether, and queerly
managed; the two old women had made quite a little intricate mess of it;
still I found that the uppermost feeling in my mind on the subject was one
of satisfaction. In the first place it would be a change to give lessons in an-
other seminary, and then to teach young ladies would be an occupation so
interesting—to be admitted at all into a ladies' boarding-school would be an
incident so new in my life. Besides, thought I, as I glanced at the boarded
window, "I shall now at last see the mysterious garden: I shall gaze both on
the angels and their Eden."
 CHAPTER 9

M. PELET could not of course object to the proposal made by Mdlle.

Reuter; permission to accept such additional employment, should it offer,
having formed an article of the terms on which he had engaged me. It was,
therefore, arranged in the course of next day that I should be at liberty to
give lessons in Mdlle. Reuter's establishment four afternoons in every week.
When evening came I prepared to step over in order to seek a conference
with Mademoiselle herself on the subject; I had not had time to pay the visit
before, having been all day closely occupied in class. I remember very well
that before quitting my chamber, I held a brief debate with myself as to
whether I should change my ordinary attire for something smarter. At last I
concluded it would be a waste of labour. "Doubtless," thought I, "she is
some stiff old maid; for though the daughter of Madame Reuter, she may
well number upwards of forty winters; besides, if it were otherwise, if she
be both young and pretty, I am not handsome, and no dressing can make me
so, therefore I'll go as I am." And off I started, cursorily glancing sideways
as I passed the toilet-table, surmounted by a looking-glass: a thin irregular
face I saw, with sunk, dark eyes under a large, square forehead, complexion
destitute of bloom or attraction; something young, but not youthful, no ob-
ject to win a lady's love, no butt for the shafts of Cupid.
I was soon at the entrance of the pensionnat, in a moment I had pulled the
bell; in another moment the door was opened, and within appeared a pas-
sage paved alternately with black and white marble; the walls were painted
in imitation of marble also; and at the far end opened a glass door, through
which I saw shrubs and a grass-plat, looking pleasant in the sunshine of the
mild spring evening-for it was now the middle of April.
 This, then, was my first glimpse of the garden; but I had not time to look
long, the portress, after having answered in the affirmative my question as
to whether her mistress was at home, opened the folding-doors of a room to
the left, and having ushered me in, closed them behind me. I found myself
in a salon with a very well-painted, highly varnished floor; chairs and sofas
covered with white draperies, a green porcelain stove, walls hung with pic-
tures in gilt frames, a gilt pendule and other ornaments on the mantelpiece,
a large lustre pendent from the centre of the ceiling, mirrors, consoles,
muslin curtains, and a handsome centre table completed the inventory of
furniture. All looked extremely clean and glittering, but the general effect
would have been somewhat chilling had not a second large pair of folding-
doors, standing wide open, and disclosing another and smaller salon, more
snugly furnished, offered some relief to the eye. This room was carpeted,
and therein was a piano, a couch, a chiffonniere—above all, it contained a
lofty window with a crimson curtain, which, being undrawn, afforded an-
other glimpse of the garden, through the large, clear panes, round which
some leaves of ivy, some tendrils of vine were trained.
"Monsieur Creemsvort, n'est ce pas?" said a voice behind me; and, start-
ing involuntarily, I turned. I had been so taken up with the contemplation of
the pretty little salon that I had not noticed the entrance of a person into the
larger room. It was, however, Mdlle. Reuter who now addressed me, and
stood close beside me; and when I had bowed with instantaneously recov-
ered sang-froid—for I am not easily embarrassed—I commenced the con-
versation by remarking on the pleasant aspect of her little cabinet, and the
advantage she had over M. Pelet in possessing a garden.
"Yes," she said, "she often thought so;" and added, "it is my garden, mon-
sieur, which makes me retain this house, otherwise I should probably have
removed to larger and more commodious premises long since; but you see I
could not take my garden with me, and I should scarcely find one so large
and pleasant anywhere else in town."
I approved her judgment.
"But you have not seen it yet," said she, rising; "come to the window and
take a better view." I followed her; she opened the sash, and leaning out I
saw in full the enclosed demesne which had hitherto been to me an un-
known region. It was a long, not very broad strip of cultured ground, with
an alley bordered by enormous old fruit trees down the middle; there was a
sort of lawn, a parterre of rose-trees, some flower-borders, and, on the far
side, a thickly planted copse of lilacs, laburnums, and acacias. It looked
pleasant, to me—very pleasant, so long a time had elapsed since I had seen
a garden of any sort. But it was not only on Mdlle. Reuter's garden that my
eyes dwelt; when I had taken a view of her well-trimmed beds and budding
shrubberies, I allowed my glance to come back to herself, nor did I hastily
withdraw it.
I had thought to see a tall, meagre, yellow, conventual image in black,
with a close white cap, bandaged under the chin like a nun's head-gear;
whereas, there stood by me a little and roundly formed woman, who might
indeed be older than I, but was still young; she could not, I thought, be
more than six or seven and twenty; she was as fair as a fair Englishwoman;
she had no cap; her hair was nut-brown, and she wore it in curls; pretty her
features were not, nor very soft, nor very regular, but neither were they in
any degree plain, and I already saw cause to deem them expressive. What
was their predominant cast? Was it sagacity?—sense? Yes, I thought so; but
I could scarcely as yet be sure. I discovered, however, that there was a cer-
tain serenity of eye, and freshness of complexion, most pleasing to behold.
The colour on her cheek was like the bloom on a good apple, which is as
sound at the core as it is red on the rind.
Mdlle. Reuter and I entered upon business. She said she was not abso-
lutely certain of the wisdom of the step she was about to take, because I was
so young, and parents might possibly object to a professor like me for their
daughters: "But it is often well to act on one's own judgment," said she,
"and to lead parents, rather than be led by them. The fitness of a professor is
not a matter of age; and, from what I have heard, and from what I observe
myself, I would much rather trust you than M. Ledru, the music-master,
who is a married man of near fifty."
I remarked that I hoped she would find me worthy of her good opinion;
that if I knew myself, I was incapable of betraying any confidence reposed
in me. "Du reste," said she, "the surveillance will be strictly attended to."
And then she proceeded to discuss the subject of terms. She was very cau-
tious, quite on her guard; she did not absolutely bargain, but she warily
sounded me to find out what my expectations might be; and when she could
not get me to name a sum, she reasoned and reasoned with a fluent yet quiet
circumlocution of speech, and at last nailed me down to five hundred francs
per annum—not too much, but I agreed. Before the negotiation was com-
pleted, it began to grow a little dusk. I did not hasten it, for I liked well
enough to sit and hear her talk; I was amused with the sort of business talent
she displayed. Edward could not have shown himself more practical,
though he might have evinced more coarseness and urgency; and then she
had so many reasons, so many explanations; and, after all, she succeeded in
proving herself quite disinterested and even liberal. At last she concluded,
she could say no more, because, as I acquiesced in all things, there was no
further ground for the exercise of her parts of speech. I was obliged to rise. I
would rather have sat a little longer; what had I to return to but my small
empty room? And my eyes had a pleasure in looking at Mdlle. Reuter, espe-
cially now, when the twilight softened her features a little, and, in the
doubtful dusk, I could fancy her forehead as open as it was really elevated,
her mouth touched with turns of sweetness as well as defined in lines of
sense. When I rose to go, I held out my hand, on purpose, though I knew it
was contrary to the etiquette of foreign habits; she smiled, and said—
"Ah! c'est comme tous les Anglais," but gave me her hand very kindly.
"It is the privilege of my country, Mademoiselle," said I; "and, remember,
I shall always claim it."
She laughed a little, quite good-naturedly, and with the sort of tranquillity
obvious in all she did—a tranquillity which soothed and suited me singular-
ly, at least I thought so that evening. Brussels seemed a very pleasant place
to me when I got out again into the street, and it appeared as if some cheer-
ful, eventful, upward-tending career were even then opening to me, on that
selfsame mild, still April night. So impressionable a being is man, or at
least such a man as I was in those days.
 CHAPTER 10

NEXT day the morning hours seemed to pass very slowly at M. Pelet's; I
wanted the afternoon to come that I might go again to the neighbouring
pensionnat and give my first lesson within its pleasant precincts; for pleas-
ant they appeared to me. At noon the hour of recreation arrived; at one
o'clock we had lunch; this got on the time, and at last St. Gudule's deep bell,
tolling slowly two, marked the moment for which I had been waiting.
At the foot of the narrow back-stairs that descended from my room, I met
M. Pelet.
"Comme vous avez l'air rayonnant!" said he. "Je ne vous ai jamais vu
aussi gai. Que s'est-il donc passe?"
"Apparemment que j'aime les changements," replied I.
"Ah! je comprends—c'est cela-soyez sage seulement. Vous etes bien je-
une—trop jeune pour le role que vous allez jouer; il faut prendre garde—
savez-vous?"
"Mais quel danger y a-t-il?"
"Je n'en sais rien—ne vous laissez pas aller a de vives impressions—
voila tout."
I laughed: a sentiment of exquisite pleasure played over my nerves at the
thought that "vives impressions" were likely to be created; it was the dead-
ness, the sameness of life's daily ongoings that had hitherto been my bane;
my blouse-clad "eleves" in the boys' seminary never stirred in me any
"vives impressions" except it might be occasionally some of anger. I broke
from M. Pelet, and as I strode down the passage he followed me with one of
his laughs—a very French, rakish, mocking sound.
Again I stood at the neighbouring door, and soon was re-admitted into
the cheerful passage with its clear dove-colour imitation marble walls. I fol-
lowed the portress, and descending a step, and making a turn, I found my-
self in a sort of corridor; a side-door opened, Mdlle. Reuter's little figure, as
graceful as it was plump, appeared. I could now see her dress in full day-
light; a neat, simple mousseline-laine gown fitted her compact round shape
to perfection—delicate little collar and manchettes of lace, trim Parisian
brodequins showed her neck, wrists, and feet, to complete advantage; but
how grave was her face as she came suddenly upon me! Solicitude and
business were in her eye—on her forehead; she looked almost stern. Her
"Bon jour, monsieur," was quite polite, but so orderly, so commonplace, it
spread directly a cool, damp towel over my "vives impressions." The ser-
vant turned back when her mistress appeared, and I walked slowly along the
corridor, side by side with Mdlle. Reuter.
"Monsieur will give a lesson in the first class to-day," said she; "dictation
or reading will perhaps be the best thing to begin with, for those are the eas-
iest forms of communicating instruction in a foreign language; and, at the
first, a master naturally feels a little unsettled."
She was quite right, as I had found from experience; it only remained for
me to acquiesce. We proceeded now in silence. The corridor terminated in a
hall, large, lofty, and square; a glass door on one side showed within a long
narrow refectory, with tables, an armoire, and two lamps; it was empty;
large glass doors, in front, opened on the playground and garden; a broad
staircase ascended spirally on the opposite side; the remaining wall showed
a pair of great folding-doors, now closed, and admitting: doubtless, to the
classes.
Mdlle. Reuter turned her eye laterally on me, to ascertain, probably,
whether I was collected enough to be ushered into her sanctum sanctorum. I
suppose she judged me to be in a tolerable state of self-government, for she
opened the door, and I followed her through. A rustling sound of uprising
greeted our entrance; without looking to the right or left, I walked straight
up the lane between two sets of benches and desks, and took possession of
the empty chair and isolated desk raised on an estrade, of one step high, so
as to command one division; the other division being under the surveillance
of a maitresse similarly elevated. At the back of the estrade, and attached to
a moveable partition dividing this schoolroom from another beyond, was a
large tableau of wood painted black and varnished; a thick crayon of white
chalk lay on my desk for the convenience of elucidating any grammatical or
verbal obscurity which might occur in my lessons by writing it upon the
tableau; a wet sponge appeared beside the chalk, to enable me to efface the
marks when they had served the purpose intended.
I carefully and deliberately made these observations before allowing my-
self to take one glance at the benches before me; having handled the crayon,
looked back at the tableau, fingered the sponge in order to ascertain that it
was in a right state of moisture, I found myself cool enough to admit of
looking calmly up and gazing deliberately round me.
And first I observed that Mdlle. Reuter had already glided away, she was
nowhere visible; a maitresse or teacher, the one who occupied the corre-
sponding estrade to my own, alone remained to keep guard over me; she
was a little in the shade, and, with my short sight, I could only see that she
was of a thin bony figure and rather tallowy complexion, and that her atti-
tude, as she sat, partook equally of listlessness and affectation. More obvi-
ous, more prominent, shone on by the full light of the large window, were
the occupants of the benches just before me, of whom some were girls of
fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, some young women from eighteen (as it appeared
to me) up to twenty; the most modest attire, the simplest fashion of wearing
the hair, were apparent in all; and good features, ruddy, blooming complex-
ions, large and brilliant eyes, forms full, even to solidity, seemed to abound.
I did not bear the first view like a stoic; I was dazzled, my eyes fell, and in a
voice somewhat too low I murmured—
"Prenez vos cahiers de dictee, mesdemoiselles."
Not so had I bid the boys at Pelet's take their reading-books. A rustle fol-
lowed, and an opening of desks; behind the lifted lids which momentarily
screened the heads bent down to search for exercise-books, I heard tittering
and whispers.
"Eulalie, je suis prete a pamer de rire," observed one.
"Comme il a rougi en parlant!"
"Oui, c'est un veritable blanc-bec."
"Tais-toi, Hortense—il nous ecoute."
And now the lids sank and the heads reappeared; I had marked three, the
whisperers, and I did not scruple to take a very steady look at them as they
emerged from their temporary eclipse. It is astonishing what ease and
courage their little phrases of flippancy had given me; the idea by which I
had been awed was that the youthful beings before me, with their dark nun-
like robes and softly braided hair, were a kind of half-angels. The light tit-
ter, the giddy whisper, had already in some measure relieved my mind of
that fond and oppressive fancy.
The three I allude to were just in front, within half a yard of my estrade,
and were among the most womanly-looking present. Their names I knew
afterwards, and may as well mention now; they were Eulalie, Hortense,
Caroline. Eulalie was tall, and very finely shaped: she was fair, and her fea-
tures were those of a Low Country Madonna; many a "figure de Vierge"
have I seen in Dutch pictures exactly resembling hers; there were no angles
in her shape or in her face, all was curve and roundness—neither thought,
sentiment, nor passion disturbed by line or flush the equality of her pale,
clear skin; her noble bust heaved with her regular breathing, her eyes
moved a little—by these evidences of life alone could I have distinguished
her from some large handsome figure moulded in wax. Hortense was of
middle size and stout, her form was ungraceful, her face striking, more alive
and brilliant than Eulalie's, her hair was dark brown, her complexion richly
coloured; there were frolic and mischief in her eye: consistency and good
sense she might possess, but none of her features betokened those qualities.
Caroline was little, though evidently full grown; raven-black hair, very
dark eyes, absolutely regular features, with a colourless olive complexion,
clear as to the face and sallow about the neck, formed in her that assem-
blage of points whose union many persons regard as the perfection of beau-
ty. How, with the tintless pallor of her skin and the classic straightness of
her lineaments, she managed to look sensual, I don't know. I think her lips
and eyes contrived the affair between them, and the result left no uncertain-
ty on the beholder's mind. She was sensual now, and in ten years' time she
would be coarse—promise plain was written in her face of much future
folly.
If I looked at these girls with little scruple, they looked at me with still
less. Eulalie raised her unmoved eye to mine, and seemed to expect, pas-
sively but securely, an impromptu tribute to her majestic charms. Hortense
regarded me boldly, and giggled at the same time, while she said, with an
air of impudent freedom—
"Dictez-nous quelquechose de facile pour commencer, monsieur."
Caroline shook her loose ringlets of abundant but somewhat coarse hair
over her rolling black eyes; parting her lips, as full as those of a hot-blooded
Maroon, she showed her well-set teeth sparkling between them, and treated
me at the same time to a smile "de sa facon." Beautiful as Pauline Borghese,
she looked at the moment scarcely purer than Lucrece de Borgia. Caroline
was of noble family. I heard her lady-mother's character afterwards, and
then I ceased to wonder at the precocious accomplishments of the daughter.
These three, I at once saw, deemed themselves the queens of the school, and
conceived that by their splendour they threw all the rest into the shade. In
less than five minutes they had thus revealed to me their characters, and in
less than five minutes I had buckled on a breast-plate of steely indifference,
and let down a visor of impassible austerity.
"Take your pens and commence writing," said I, in as dry and trite a
voice as if I had been addressing only Jules Vanderkelkov and Co.
The dictee now commenced. My three belles interrupted me perpetually
with little silly questions and uncalled-for remarks, to some of which I
made no answer, and to others replied very quietly and briefly. "Comment
dit-on point et virgule en Anglais, monsieur?"
"Semi-colon, mademoiselle."
"Semi-collong? Ah, comme c'est drole!" (giggle.)
"J'ai une si mauvaise plume—impossible d'ecrire!"
"Mais, monsieur—je ne sais pas suivre—vous allez si vite."
"Je n'ai rien compris, moi!"
Here a general murmur arose, and the teacher, opening her lips for the
first time, ejaculated—
"Silence, mesdemoiselles!"
No silence followed—on the contrary, the three ladies in front began to
talk more loudly.
"C'est si difficile, l'Anglais!"
"Je deteste la dictee."
"Quel ennui d'ecrire quelquechose que l'on ne comprend pas!"
Some of those behind laughed: a degree of confusion began to pervade
the class; it was necessary to take prompt measures.
"Donnez-moi votre cahier," said I to Eulalie in an abrupt tone; and bend-
ing over, I took it before she had time to give it.
"Et vous, mademoiselle-donnez-moi le votre," continued I, more mildly,
addressing a little pale, plain looking girl who sat in the first row of the oth-
er division, and whom I had remarked as being at once the ugliest and the
most attentive in the room; she rose up, walked over to me, and delivered
her book with a grave, modest curtsey. I glanced over the two dictations;
Eulalie's was slurred, blotted, and full of silly mistakes—Sylvie's (such was
the name of the ugly little girl) was clearly written, it contained no error
against sense, and but few faults of orthography. I coolly read aloud both
exercises, marking the faults—then I looked at Eulalie:
"C'est honteux!" said I, and I deliberately tore her dictation in four parts,
and presented her with the fragments. I returned Sylvie her book with a
smile, saying—
"C'est bien—je suis content de vous."
Sylvie looked calmly pleased, Eulalie swelled like an incensed turkey,
but the mutiny was quelled: the conceited coquetry and futile flirtation of
the first bench were exchanged for a taciturn sullenness, much more conve-
nient to me, and the rest of my lesson passed without interruption.
A bell clanging out in the yard announced the moment for the cessation
of school labours. I heard our own bell at the same time, and that of a cer-
tain public college immediately after. Order dissolved instantly; up started
every pupil, I hastened to seize my hat, bow to the maitresse, and quit the
room before the tide of externats should pour from the inner class, where I
knew near a hundred were prisoned, and whose rising tumult I already
heard.
I had scarcely crossed the hall and gained the corridor, when Mdlle.
Reuter came again upon me.
"Step in here a moment," said she, and she held open the door of the side
room from whence she had issued on my arrival; it was a SALLE-A-
MANGER, as appeared from the beaufet and the armoire vitree, filled with
glass and china, which formed part of its furniture. Ere she had closed the
door on me and herself, the corridor was already filled with day-pupils,
tearing down their cloaks, bonnets, and cabas from the wooden pegs on
which they were suspended; the shrill voice of a maitresse was heard at in-
tervals vainly endeavouring to enforce some sort of order; vainly, I say: dis-
cipline there was none in these rough ranks, and yet this was considered one
of the best-conducted schools in Brussels.
"Well, you have given your first lesson," began Mdlle. Reuter in the most
calm, equable voice, as though quite unconscious of the chaos from which
we were separated only by a single wall.
"Were you satisfied with your pupils, or did any circumstance in their
conduct give you cause for complaint? Conceal nothing from me, repose in
me entire confidence."
 Happily, I felt in myself complete power to manage my pupils without
aid; the enchantment, the golden haze which had dazzled my perspicuity at
first, had been a good deal dissipated. I cannot say I was chagrined or
downcast by the contrast which the reality of a pensionnat de demoiselles
presented to my vague ideal of the same community; I was only enlightened
and amused; consequently, I felt in no disposition to complain to Mdlle.
Reuter, and I received her considerate invitation to confidence with a smile.
"A thousand thanks, mademoiselle, all has gone very smoothly."
She looked more than doubtful.
"Et les trois demoiselles du premier banc?" said she.
"Ah! tout va au mieux!" was my answer, and Mdlle. Reuter ceased to
question me; but her eye—not large, not brilliant, not melting, or kindling,
but astute, penetrating, practical, showed she was even with me; it let out a
momentary gleam, which said plainly, "Be as close as you like, I am not de-
pendent on your candour; what you would conceal I already know."
By a transition so quiet as to be scarcely perceptible, the directress's man-
ner changed; the anxious business-air passed from her face, and she began
chatting about the weather and the town, and asking in neighbourly wise
after M. and Madame Pelet. I answered all her little questions; she pro-
longed her talk, I went on following its many little windings; she sat so
long, said so much, varied so often the topics of discourse, that it was not
difficult to perceive she had a particular aim in thus detaining me. Her mere
words could have afforded no clue to this aim, but her countenance aided;
while her lips uttered only affable commonplaces, her eyes reverted contin-
ually to my face. Her glances were not given in full, but out of the corners,
so quietly, so stealthily, yet I think I lost not one. I watched her as keenly as
she watched me; I perceived soon that she was feeling after my real charac-
ter; she was searching for salient points, and weak; points, and eccentric
points; she was applying now this test, now that, hoping in the end to find
some chink, some niche, where she could put in her little firm foot and
stand upon my neck—mistress of my nature, Do not mistake me, reader, it
was no amorous influence she wished to gain—at that time it was only the
power of the politician to which she aspired; I was now installed as a pro-
fessor in her establishment, and she wanted to know where her mind was
superior to mine—by what feeling or opinion she could lead me.
I enjoyed the game much, and did not hasten its conclusion; sometimes I
gave her hopes, beginning a sentence rather weakly, when her shrewd eye
would light up—she thought she had me; having led her a little way, I de-
lighted to turn round and finish with sound, hard sense, whereat her counte-
nance would fall. At last a servant entered to announce dinner; the conflict
being thus necessarily terminated, we parted without having gained any ad-
vantage on either side: Mdlle. Reuter had not even given me an opportunity
of attacking her with feeling, and I had managed to baffle her little schemes
of craft. It was a regular drawn battle. I again held out my hand when I left
the room, she gave me hers; it was a small and white hand, but how cool! I
met her eye too in full—obliging her to give me a straightforward look; this
last test went against me: it left her as it found her—moderate, temperate,
tranquil; me it disappointed.
"I am growing wiser," thought I, as I walked back to M. Pelet's. "Look at
this little woman; is she like the women of novelists and romancers? To
read of female character as depicted in Poetry and Fiction, one would think
it was made up of sentiment, either for good or bad—here is a specimen,
and a most sensible and respectable specimen, too, whose staple ingredient
is abstract reason. No Talleyrand was ever more passionless than Zoraide
Reuter!" So I thought then; I found afterwards that blunt susceptibilities are
very consistent with strong propensities.
 CHAPTER 11

I HAD indeed had a very long talk with the crafty little politician, and on
regaining my quarters, I found that dinner was half over. To be late at meals
was against a standing rule of the establishment, and had it been one of the
Flemish ushers who thus entered after the removal of the soup and the com-
mencement of the first course, M. Pelet would probably have greeted him
with a public rebuke, and would certainly have mulcted him both of soup
and fish; as it was, that polite though partial gentleman only shook his head,
and as I took my place, unrolled my napkin, and said my heretical grace to
myself, he civilly despatched a servant to the kitchen, to bring me a plate of
"puree aux carottes" (for this was a maigre-day), and before sending away
the first course, reserved for me a portion of the stock-fish of which it con-
sisted. Dinner being over, the boys rushed out for their evening play; Kint
and Vandam (the two ushers) of course followed them. Poor fellows! if they
had not looked so very heavy, so very soulless, so very indifferent to all
things in heaven above or in the earth beneath, I could have pitied them
greatly for the obligation they were under to trail after those rough lads
everywhere and at all times; even as it was, I felt disposed to scout myself
as a privileged prig when I turned to ascend to my chamber, sure to find
there, if not enjoyment, at least liberty; but this evening (as had often hap-
pened before) I was to be still farther distinguished.
"Eh bien, mauvais sujet!" said the voice of M. Pelet behind me, as I set
my foot on the first step of the stair, "ou allez-vous? Venez a la salle-a-
manger, que je vous gronde un peu."
"I beg pardon, monsieur," said I, as I followed him to his private sitting-
room, "for having returned so late—it was not my fault."
 "That is just what I want to know," rejoined M. Pelet, as he ushered me
into the comfortable parlour with a good wood-fire—for the stove had now
been removed for the season. Having rung the bell he ordered "Coffee for
two," and presently he and I were seated, almost in English comfort, one on
each side of the hearth, a little round table between us, with a coffee-pot, a
sugar-basin, and two large white china cups. While M. Pelet employed him-
self in choosing a cigar from a box, my thoughts reverted to the two outcast
ushers, whose voices I could hear even now crying hoarsely for order in the
playground.
"C'est une grande responsabilite, que la surveillance," observed I.
"Plait-il?" dit M. Pelet.
I remarked that I thought Messieurs Vandam and Kint must sometimes be
a little fatigued with their labours.
"Des betes de somme,—des betes de somme," murmured scornfully the
director. Meantime I offered him his cup of coffee.
"Servez-vous mon garcon," said he blandly, when I had put a couple of
huge lumps of continental sugar into his cup. "And now tell me why you
stayed so long at Mdlle. Reuter's. I know that lessons conclude, in her es-
tablishment as in mine, at four o'clock, and when you returned it was past
five."
"Mdlle. wished to speak with me, monsieur."
"Indeed! on what subject? if one may ask."
"Mademoiselle talked about nothing, monsieur."
"A fertile topic! and did she discourse thereon in the schoolroom, before
the pupils?"
"No; like you, monsieur, she asked me to walk into her parlour."
"And Madame Reuter—the old duenna—my mother's gossip, was there,
of course?"
"No, monsieur; I had the honour of being quite alone with
mademoiselle."
"C'est joli—cela," observed M. Pelet, and he smiled and looked into the
fire.
"Honi soit qui mal y pense," murmured I, significantly.
"Je connais un peu ma petite voisine—voyez-vous."
"In that case, monsieur will be able to aid me in finding out what was
mademoiselle's reason for making me sit before her sofa one mortal hour,
listening to the most copious and fluent dissertation on the merest
frivolities."
"She was sounding your character."
"I thought so, monsieur."
"Did she find out your weak point?"
"What is my weak point?"
"Why, the sentimental. Any woman sinking her shaft deep enough, will
at last reach a fathomless spring of sensibility in thy breast, Crimsworth."
I felt the blood stir about my heart and rise warm to my cheek.
"Some women might, monsieur."
"Is Mdlle. Reuter of the number? Come, speak frankly, mon fils; elle est
encore jeune, plus agee que toi peut-etre, mais juste asset pour unir la ten-
dresse d'une petite maman a l'amour d'une epouse devouee; n'est-ce pas que
cela t'irait superieurement?"
"No, monsieur; I should like my wife to be my wife, and not half my
mother."
"She is then a little too old for you?"
"No, monsieur, not a day too old if she suited me in other things."
"In what does she not suit you, William? She is personally agreeable, is
she not?"
"Very; her hair and complexion are just what I admire; and her turn of
form, though quite Belgian, is full of grace."
"Bravo! and her face? her features? How do you like them?"
"A little harsh, especially her mouth."
"Ah, yes! her mouth," said M. Pelet, and he chuckled inwardly. "There is
character about her mouth—firmness—but she has a very pleasant smile;
don't you think so?"
"Rather crafty."
"True, but that expression of craft is owing to her eyebrows; have you re-
marked her eyebrows?"
I answered that I had not.
"You have not seen her looking down then?" said he.
"No."
"It is a treat, notwithstanding. Observe her when she has some knitting,
or some other woman's work in hand, and sits the image of peace, calmly
intent on her needles and her silk, some discussion meantime going on
around her, in the course of which peculiarities of character are being devel-
oped, or important interests canvassed; she takes no part in it; her humble,
feminine mind is wholly with her knitting; none of her features move; she
neither presumes to smile approval, nor frown disapprobation; her little
hands assiduously ply their unpretending task; if she can only get this purse
finished, or this bonnet-grec completed, it is enough for her. If gentlemen
approach her chair, a deeper quiescence, a meeker modesty settles on her
features, and clothes her general mien; observe then her eyebrows, et dites-
moi s'il n'y a pas du chat dans l'un et du renard dans l'autre."
"I will take careful notice the first opportunity," said I.
"And then," continued M. Pelet, "the eyelid will flicker, the light-
coloured lashes be lifted a second, and a blue eye, glancing out from under
the screen, will take its brief, sly, searching survey, and retreat again."
I smiled, and so did Pelet, and after a few minutes' silence, I asked:
"Will she ever marry, do you think?"
"Marry! Will birds pair? Of course it is both her intention and resolution
to marry when she finds a suitable match, and no one is better aware than
herself of the sort of impression she is capable of producing; no one likes
better to captivate in a quiet way. I am mistaken if she will not yet leave the
print of her stealing steps on thy heart, Crimsworth."
"Of her steps? Confound it, no! My heart is not a plank to be walked on."
"But the soft touch of a patte de velours will do it no harm."
"She offers me no patte de velours; she is all form and reserve with me."
"That to begin with; let respect be the foundation, affection the first floor,
love the superstructure; Mdlle. Reuter is a skilful architect."
"And interest, M. Pelet—interest. Will not mademoiselle consider that
point?"
"Yes, yes, no doubt; it will be the cement between every stone. And now
we have discussed the directress, what of the pupils? N'y-a-t-il pas de belles
etudes parmi ces jeunes tetes?"
"Studies of character? Yes; curious ones, at least, I imagine; but one can-
not divine much from a first interview."
"Ah, you affect discretion; but tell me now, were you not a little abashed
before these blooming young creatures?
"At first, yes; but I rallied and got through with all due sang-froid."
"I don't believe you."
"It is true, notwithstanding. At first I thought them angels, but they did
not leave me long under that delusion; three of the eldest and handsomest
undertook the task of setting me right, and they managed so cleverly that in
five minutes I knew them, at least, for what they were—three arrant
coquettes."
"Je les connais!" exclaimed M. Pelet. "Elles sont toujours au premier
rang a l'eglise et a la promenade; une blonde superbe, une jolie espiegle,
une belle brune."
"Exactly."
"Lovely creatures all of them—heads for artists; what a group they would
make, taken together! Eulalie (I know their names), with her smooth braid-
ed hair and calm ivory brow. Hortense, with her rich chesnut locks so luxu-
riantly knotted, plaited, twisted, as if she did not know how to dispose of all
their abundance, with her vermilion lips, damask cheek, and roguish laugh-
ing eye. And Caroline de Blemont! Ah, there is beauty! beauty in perfec-
tion. What a cloud of sable curls about the face of a houri! What fascinating
lips! What glorious black eyes! Your Byron would have worshipped her,
and you—you cold, frigid islander!—you played the austere, the insensible
in the presence of an Aphrodite so exquisite?"
I might have laughed at the director's enthusiasm had I believed it real,
but there was something in his tone which indicated got-up raptures. I felt
he was only affecting fervour in order to put me off my guard, to induce me
to come out in return, so I scarcely even smiled. He went on:
"Confess, William, do not the mere good looks of Zoraide Reuter appear
dowdyish and commonplace compared with the splendid charms of some of
her pupils?"
The question discomposed me, but I now felt plainly that my principal
was endeavouring (for reasons best known to himself—at that time I could
not fathom them) to excite ideas and wishes in my mind alien to what was
right and honourable. The iniquity of the instigation proved its antidote, and
when he further added:—
"Each of those three beautiful girls will have a handsome fortune; and
with a little address, a gentlemanlike, intelligent young fellow like you
might make himself master of the hand, heart, and purse of any one of the
trio."
I replied by a look and an interrogative "Monsieur?" which startled him.
He laughed a forced laugh, affirmed that he had only been joking, and
demanded whether I could possibly have thought him in earnest. Just then
the bell rang; the play-hour was over; it was an evening on which M. Pelet
was accustomed to read passages from the drama and the belles lettres to
his pupils. He did not wait for my answer, but rising, left the room, hum-
ming as he went some gay strain of Beranger's.
 CHAPTER 12

DAILY, as I continued my attendance at the seminary of Mdlle. Reuter, did

I find fresh occasions to compare the ideal with the real. What had I known
of female character previously to my arrival at Brussels? Precious little.
And what was my notion of it? Something vague, slight, gauzy, glittering;
now when I came in contact with it I found it to be a palpable substance
enough; very hard too sometimes, and often heavy; there was metal in it,
both lead and iron.
Let the idealists, the dreamers about earthly angel and human flowers,
just look here while I open my portfolio and show them a sketch or two,
pencilled after nature. I took these sketches in the second-class schoolroom
of Mdlle. Reuter's establishment, where about a hundred specimens of the
genus "jeune fille" collected together, offered a fertile variety of subject. A
miscellaneous assortment they were, differing both in caste and country; as
I sat on my estrade and glanced over the long range of desks, I had under
my eye French, English, Belgians, Austrians, and Prussians. The majority
belonged to the class bourgeois; but there were many countesses, there were
the daughters of two generals and of several colonels, captains, and govern-
ment EMPLOYES; these ladies sat side by side with young females des-
tined to be demoiselles de magasins, and with some Flamandes, genuine
aborigines of the country. In dress all were nearly similar, and in manners
there was small difference; exceptions there were to the general rule, but the
majority gave the tone to the establishment, and that tone was rough, bois-
terous, masked by a point-blank disregard of all forbearance towards each
other or their teachers; an eager pursuit by each individual of her own inter-
est and convenience; and a coarse indifference to the interest and conve-
nience of every one else. Most of them could lie with audacity when it ap-
peared advantageous to do so. All understood the art of speaking fair when
a point was to be gained, and could with consummate skill and at a mo-
ment's notice turn the cold shoulder the instant civility ceased to be prof-
itable. Very little open quarrelling ever took place amongst them; but back-
biting and talebearing were universal. Close friendships were forbidden by
the rules of the school, and no one girl seemed to cultivate more regard for
another than was just necessary to secure a companion when solitude would
have been irksome. They were each and all supposed to have been reared in
utter unconsciousness of vice. The precautions used to keep them ignorant,
if not innocent, were innumerable. How was it, then, that scarcely one of
those girls having attained the age of fourteen could look a man in the face
with modesty and propriety? An air of bold, impudent flirtation, or a loose,
silly leer, was sure to answer the most ordinary glance from a masculine
eye. I know nothing of the arcana of the Roman Catholic religion, and I am
not a bigot in matters of theology, but I suspect the root of this precocious
impurity, so obvious, so general in Popish countries, is to be found in the
discipline, if not the doctrines of the Church of Rome. I record what I have
seen: these girls belonged to what are called the respectable ranks of soci-
ety; they had all been carefully brought up, yet was the mass of them men-
tally depraved. So much for the general view: now for one or two selected
specimens.
The first picture is a full length of Aurelia Koslow, a German fraulein, or
rather a half-breed between German and Russian. She is eighteen years of
age, and has been sent to Brussels to finish her education; she is of middle
size, stiffly made, body long, legs short, bust much developed but not com-
pactly moulded, waist disproportionately compressed by an inhumanly
braced corset, dress carefully arranged, large feet tortured into small bot-
tines, head small, hair smoothed, braided, oiled, and gummed to perfection;
very low forehead, very diminutive and vindictive grey eyes, somewhat
Tartar features, rather flat nose, rather high-cheek bones, yet the ensemble
not positively ugly; tolerably good complexion. So much for person. As to
mind, deplorably ignorant and ill-informed: incapable of writing or speak-
ing correctly even German, her native tongue, a dunce in French, and her
attempts at learning English a mere farce, yet she has been at school twelve
years; but as she invariably gets her exercises, of every description, done by
a fellow pupil, and reads her lessons off a book; concealed in her lap, it is
not wonderful that her progress has been so snail-like. I do not know what
Aurelia's daily habits of life are, because I have not the opportunity of ob-
serving her at all times; but from what I see of the state of her desk, books,
and papers, I should say she is slovenly and even dirty; her outward dress,
as I have said, is well attended to, but in passing behind her bench, I have
remarked that her neck is gray for want of washing, and her hair, so glossy
with gum and grease, is not such as one feels tempted to pass the hand over,
much less to run the fingers through. Aurelia's conduct in class, at least
when I am present, is something extraordinary, considered as an index of
girlish innocence. The moment I enter the room, she nudges her next neigh-
bour and indulges in a half-suppressed laugh. As I take my seat on the
estrade, she fixes her eye on me; she seems resolved to attract, and, if possi-
ble, monopolize my notice: to this end she launches at me all sorts of looks,
languishing, provoking, leering, laughing. As I am found quite proof
against this sort of artillery—for we scorn what, unasked, is lavishly offered
—she has recourse to the expedient of making noises; sometimes she sighs,
sometimes groans, sometimes utters inarticulate sounds, for which language
has no name. If, in walking up the schoolroom, I pass near her, she puts out
her foot that it may touch mine; if I do not happen to observe the manoeu-
vre, and my boot comes in contact with her brodequin, she affects to fall
into convulsions of suppressed laughter; if I notice the snare and avoid it,
she expresses her mortification in sullen muttering, where I hear myself
abused in bad French, pronounced with an intolerable Low German accent.
Not far from Mdlle. Koslow sits another young lady by name Adele
Dronsart: this is a Belgian, rather low of stature, in form heavy, with broad
waist, short neck and limbs, good red and white complexion, features well
chiselled and regular, well-cut eyes of a clear brown colour, light brown
hair, good teeth, age not much above fifteen, but as full-grown as a stout
young Englishwoman of twenty. This portrait gives the idea of a somewhat
dumpy but good-looking damsel, does it not? Well, when I looked along the
row of young heads, my eye generally stopped at this of Adele's; her gaze
was ever waiting for mine, and it frequently succeeded in arresting it. She
was an unnatural-looking being—so young, fresh, blooming, yet so Gor-
gon-like. Suspicion, sullen ill-temper were on her forehead, vicious propen-
sities in her eye, envy and panther-like deceit about her mouth. In general
she sat very still; her massive shape looked as if it could not bend much, nor
did her large head—so broad at the base, so narrow towards the top—seem
made to turn readily on her short neck. She had but two varieties of expres-
sion; the prevalent one a forbidding, dissatisfied scowl, varied sometimes
by a most pernicious and perfidious smile. She was shunned by her fellow-
pupils, for, bad as many of them were, few were as bad as she.
Aurelia and Adele were in the first division of the second class; the sec-
ond division was headed by a pensionnaire named Juanna Trista. This girl
was of mixed Belgian and Spanish origin; her Flemish mother was dead,
her Catalonian father was a merchant residing in the —— Isles, where
Juanna had been born and whence she was sent to Europe to be educated. I
wonder that any one, looking at that girl's head and countenance, would
have received her under their roof. She had precisely the same shape of
skull as Pope Alexander the Sixth; her organs of benevolence, veneration,
conscientiousness, adhesiveness, were singularly small, those of self-es-
teem, firmness, destructiveness, combativeness, preposterously large; her
head sloped up in the penthouse shape, was contracted about the forehead,
and prominent behind; she had rather good, though large and marked fea-
tures; her temperament was fibrous and bilious, her complexion pale and
dark, hair and eyes black, form angular and rigid but proportionate, age
fifteen.
Juanna was not very thin, but she had a gaunt visage, and her "regard"
was fierce and hungry; narrow as was her brow, it presented space enough
for the legible graving of two words, Mutiny and Hate; in some one of her
other lineaments I think the eye—cowardice had also its distinct cipher.
Mdlle. Trista thought fit to trouble my first lessons with a coarse work-day
sort of turbulence; she made noises with her mouth like a horse, she ejected
her saliva, she uttered brutal expressions; behind and below her were seated
a band of very vulgar, inferior-looking Flamandes, including two or three
examples of that deformity of person and imbecility of intellect whose fre-
quency in the Low Countries would seem to furnish proof that the climate is
such as to induce degeneracy of the human mind and body; these, I soon
found, were completely under her influence, and with their aid she got up
and sustained a swinish tumult, which I was constrained at last to quell by
ordering her and two of her tools to rise from their seats, and, having kept
them standing five minutes, turning them bodily out of the schoolroom: the
accomplices into a large place adjoining called the grands salle; the princi-
pal into a cabinet, of which I closed the door and pocketed the key. This
judgment I executed in the presence of Mdlle. Reuter, who looked much
aghast at beholding so decided a proceeding—the most severe that had ever
been ventured on in her establishment. Her look of affright I answered with
one of composure, and finally with a smile, which perhaps flattered, and
certainly soothed her. Juanna Trista remained in Europe long enough to re-
pay, by malevolence and ingratitude, all who had ever done her a good turn;
and she then went to join her father in the—— Isles, exulting in the thought
that she should there have slaves, whom, as she said, she could kick and
strike at will.
These three pictures are from the life. I possess others, as marked and as
little agreeable, but I will spare my reader the exhibition of them.
Doubtless it will be thought that I ought now, by way of contrast, to show
something charming; some gentle virgin head, circled with a halo, some
sweet personification of innocence, clasping the dove of peace to her bo-
som. No: I saw nothing of the sort, and therefore cannot portray it. The
pupil in the school possessing the happiest disposition was a young girl
from the country, Louise Path; she was sufficiently benevolent and obliging,
but not well taught nor well mannered; moreover, the plague-spot of dissim-
ulation was in her also; honour and principle were unknown to her, she had
scarcely heard their names. The least exceptionable pupil was the poor little
Sylvie I have mentioned once before. Sylvie was gentle in manners, intelli-
gent in mind; she was even sincere, as far as her religion would permit her
to be so, but her physical organization was defective; weak health stunted
her growth and chilled her spirits, and then, destined as she was for the
cloister, her whole soul was warped to a conventual bias, and in the tame,
trained subjection of her manner, one read that she had already prepared
herself for her future course of life, by giving up her independence of
thought and action into the hands of some despotic confessor. She permitted
herself no original opinion, no preference of companion or employment; in
everything she was guided by another. With a pale, passive, automaton air,
she went about all day long doing what she was bid; never what she liked,
or what, from innate conviction, she thought it right to do. The poor little
future religieuse had been early taught to make the dictates of her own rea-
son and conscience quite subordinate to the will of her spiritual director.
She was the model pupil of Mdlle. Reuter's establishment; pale, blighted
image, where life lingered feebly, but whence the soul had been conjured by
Romish wizard-craft!
A few English pupils there were in this school, and these might be divid-
ed into two classes. 1st. The continental English—the daughters chiefly of
broken adventurers, whom debt or dishonour had driven from their own
country. These poor girls had never known the advantages of settled homes,
decorous example, or honest Protestant education; resident a few months
now in one Catholic school, now in another, as their parents wandered from
land to land—from France to Germany, from Germany to Belgium—they
had picked up some scanty instruction, many bad habits, losing every no-
tion even of the first elements of religion and morals, and acquiring an im-
becile indifference to every sentiment that can elevate humanity; they were
distinguishable by an habitual look of sullen dejection, the result of crushed
self-respect and constant browbeating from their Popish fellow-pupils, who
hated them as English, and scorned them as heretics.
The second class were British English. Of these I did not encounter half a
dozen during the whole time of my attendance at the seminary; their charac-
teristics were clean but careless dress, ill-arranged hair (compared with the
tight and trim foreigners), erect carriage, flexible figures, white and taper
hands, features more irregular, but also more intellectual than those of the
Belgians, grave and modest countenances, a general air of native propriety
and decency; by this last circumstance alone I could at a glance distinguish
the daughter of Albion and nursling of Protestantism from the foster-child
of Rome, the PROTEGEE of Jesuistry: proud, too, was the aspect of these
British girls; at once envied and ridiculed by their continental associates,
they warded off insult with austere civility, and met hate with mute disdain;
they eschewed company-keeping, and in the midst of numbers seemed to
dwell isolated.
The teachers presiding over this mixed multitude were three in number,
all French—their names Mdlles. Zephyrine, Pelagie, and Suzette; the two
last were commonplace personages enough; their look was ordinary, their
manner was ordinary, their temper was ordinary, their thoughts, feelings,
and views were all ordinary—were I to write a chapter on the subject I
could not elucidate it further. Zephyrine was somewhat more distinguished
in appearance and deportment than Pelagie and Suzette, but in character
genuine Parisian coquette, perfidious, mercenary, and dry-hearted. A fourth
maitresse I sometimes saw who seemed to come daily to teach needlework,
or netting, or lace-mending, or some such flimsy art; but of her I never had
more than a passing glimpse, as she sat in the CARRE, with her frames and
some dozen of the elder pupils about her, consequently I had no opportunity
of studying her character, or even of observing her person much; the latter, I
remarked, had a very English air for a maitresse, otherwise it was not strik-
ing; of character I should think; she possessed but little, as her pupils
seemed constantly "en revolte" against her authority. She did not reside in
the house; her name, I think, was Mdlle. Henri.
Amidst this assemblage of all that was insignificant and defective, much
that was vicious and repulsive (by that last epithet many would have de-
scribed the two or three stiff, silent, decently behaved, ill-dressed British
girls), the sensible, sagacious, affable directress shone like a steady star
over a marsh full of Jack-o'-lanthorns; profoundly aware of her superiority,
she derived an inward bliss from that consciousness which sustained her un-
der all the care and responsibility inseparable from her position; it kept her
temper calm, her brow smooth, her manner tranquil. She liked—as who
would not?—on entering the school-room, to feel that her sole presence suf-
ficed to diffuse that order and quiet which all the remonstrances, and even
commands, of her underlings frequently failed to enforce; she liked to stand
in comparison, or rather—contrast, with those who surrounded her, and to
know that in personal as well as mental advantages, she bore away the
undisputed palm of preference—(the three teachers were all plain.) Her
pupils she managed with such indulgence and address, taking always on
herself the office of recompenser and eulogist, and abandoning to her subal-
terns every invidious task of blame and punishment, that they all regarded
her with deference, if not with affection; her teachers did not love her, but
they submitted because they were her inferiors in everything; the various
masters who attended her school were each and all in some way or other
under her influence; over one she had acquired power by her skilful man-
agement of his bad temper; over another by little attentions to his petty
caprices; a third she had subdued by flattery; a fourth—a timid man—she
kept in awe by a sort of austere decision of mien; me, she still watched, still
tried by the most ingenious tests—she roved round me, baffled, yet perse-
vering; I believe she thought I was like a smooth and bare precipice, which
offered neither jutting stone nor tree-root, nor tuft of grass to aid the
climber. Now she flattered with exquisite tact, now she moralized, now she
tried how far I was accessible to mercenary motives, then she disported on
the brink of affection—knowing that some men are won by weakness—
anon, she talked excellent sense, aware that others have the folly to admire
judgment. I found it at once pleasant and easy to evade all these efforts; it
was sweet, when she thought me nearly won, to turn round and to smile in
her very eyes, half scornfully, and then to witness her scarcely veiled,
though mute mortification. Still she persevered, and at last, I am bound to
confess it, her finger, essaying, proving every atom of the casket, touched
its secret spring, and for a moment the lid sprung open; she laid her hand on
the jewel within; whether she stole and broke it, or whether the lid shut
again with a snap on her fingers, read on, and you shall know.
It happened that I came one day to give a lesson when I was indisposed; I
had a bad cold and a cough; two hours' incessant talking left me very hoarse
and tired; as I quitted the schoolroom, and was passing along the corridor, I
met Mdlle. Reuter; she remarked, with an anxious air, that I looked very
pale and tired. "Yes," I said, "I was fatigued;" and then, with increased in-
terest, she rejoined, "You shall not go away till you have had some refresh-
ment." She persuaded me to step into the parlour, and was very kind and
gentle while I stayed. The next day she was kinder still; she came herself
into the class to see that the windows were closed, and that there was no
draught; she exhorted me with friendly earnestness not to over-exert myself;
when I went away, she gave me her hand unasked, and I could not but
mark, by a respectful and gentle pressure, that I was sensible of the favour,
and grateful for it. My modest demonstration kindled a little merry smile on
her countenance; I thought her almost charming. During the remainder of
the evening, my mind was full of impatience for the afternoon of the next
day to arrive, that I might see her again.
I was not disappointed, for she sat in the class during the whole of my
subsequent lesson, and often looked at me almost with affection. At four
o'clock she accompanied me out of the schoolroom, asking with solicitude
after my health, then scolding me sweetly because I spoke too loud and
gave myself too much trouble; I stopped at the glass-door which led into the
garden, to hear her lecture to the end; the door was open, it was a very fine
day, and while I listened to the soothing reprimand, I looked at the sunshine
and flowers, and felt very happy. The day-scholars began to pour from the
schoolrooms into the passage.
"Will you go into the garden a minute or two," asked she, "till they are
gone?"
I descended the steps without answering, but I looked back as much as to
say—
"You will come with me?"
 In another minute I and the directress were walking side by side down the
alley bordered with fruit-trees, whose white blossoms were then in full
blow as well as their tender green leaves. The sky was blue, the air still, the
May afternoon was full of brightness and fragrance. Released from the sti-
fling class, surrounded with flowers and foliage, with a pleasing, smiling,
affable woman at my side—how did I feel? Why, very enviably. It seemed
as if the romantic visions my imagination had suggested of this garden,
while it was yet hidden from me by the jealous boards, were more than real-
ized; and, when a turn in the alley shut out the view of the house, and some
tall shrubs excluded M. Pelet's mansion, and screened us momentarily from
the other houses, rising amphitheatre-like round this green spot, I gave my
arm to Mdlle. Reuter, and led her to a garden-chair, nestled under some
lilacs near. She sat down; I took my place at her side. She went on talking to
me with that ease which communicates ease, and, as I listened, a revelation
dawned in my mind that I was on the brink of falling in love. The dinner-
bell rang, both at her house and M. Pelet's; we were obliged to part; I de-
tained her a moment as she was moving away.
"I want something," said I.
"What?" asked Zoraide naively.
"Only a flower."
"Gather it then—or two, or twenty, if you like."
"No—one will do-but you must gather it, and give it to me."
"What a caprice!" she exclaimed, but she raised herself on her tip-toes,
and, plucking a beautiful branch of lilac, offered it to me with grace. I took
it, and went away, satisfied for the present, and hopeful for the future.
Certainly that May day was a lovely one, and it closed in moonlight night
of summer warmth and serenity. I remember this well; for, having sat up
late that evening, correcting devoirs, and feeling weary and a little op-
pressed with the closeness of my small room, I opened the often-mentioned
boarded window, whose boards, however, I had persuaded old Madame
Pelet to have removed since I had filled the post of professor in the pension-
nat de demoiselles, as, from that time, it was no longer "inconvenient" for
me to overlook my own pupils at their sports. I sat down in the window-
seat, rested my arm on the sill, and leaned out: above me was the clear-ob-
scure of a cloudless night sky—splendid moonlight subdued the tremulous
sparkle of the stars—below lay the garden, varied with silvery lustre and
deep shade, and all fresh with dew—a grateful perfume exhaled from the
closed blossoms of the fruit-trees—not a leaf stirred, the night was breeze-
less. My window looked directly down upon a certain walk of Mdlle.
Reuter's garden, called "l'allee defendue," so named because the pupils were
forbidden to enter it on account of its proximity to the boys' school. It was
here that the lilacs and laburnums grew especially thick; this was the most
sheltered nook in the enclosure, its shrubs screened the garden-chair where
that afternoon I had sat with the young directress. I need not say that my
thoughts were chiefly with her as I leaned from the lattice, and let my eye
roam, now over the walks and borders of the garden, now along the many-
windowed front of the house which rose white beyond the masses of fo-
liage. I wondered in what part of the building was situated her apartment;
and a single light, shining through the persiennes of one croisee, seemed to
direct me to it.
"She watches late," thought I, "for it must be now near midnight. She is a
fascinating little woman," I continued in voiceless soliloquy; "her image
forms a pleasant picture in memory; I know she is not what the world calls
pretty—no matter, there is harmony in her aspect, and I like it; her brown
hair, her blue eye, the freshness of her cheek, the whiteness of her neck, all
suit my taste. Then I respect her talent; the idea of marrying a doll or a fool
was always abhorrent to me: I know that a pretty doll, a fair fool, might do
well enough for the honeymoon; but when passion cooled, how dreadful to
find a lump of wax and wood laid in my bosom, a half idiot clasped in my
arms, and to remember that I had made of this my equal—nay, my idol—to
know that I must pass the rest of my dreary life with a creature incapable of
understanding what I said, of appreciating what I thought, or of sympathiz-
ing with what I felt! "Now, Zoraide Reuter," thought I, "has tact, CARAC-
TERE, judgment, discretion; has she heart? What a good, simple little smile
played about her lips when she gave me the branch of lilacs! I have thought
her crafty, dissembling, interested sometimes, it is true; but may not much
that looks like cunning and dissimulation in her conduct be only the efforts
made by a bland temper to traverse quietly perplexing difficulties? And as
to interest, she wishes to make her way in the world, no doubt, and who can
blame her? Even if she be truly deficient in sound principle, is it not rather
her misfortune than her fault? She has been brought up a Catholic: had she
been born an Englishwoman, and reared a Protestant, might she not have
added straight integrity to all her other excellences? Supposing she were to
marry an English and Protestant husband, would she not, rational, sensible
as she is, quickly acknowledge the superiority of right over expediency,
honesty over policy? It would be worth a man's while to try the experiment;
to-morrow I will renew my observations. She knows that I watch her: how
calm she is under scrutiny! it seems rather to gratify than annoy her." Here a
strain of music stole in upon my monologue, and suspended it; it was a bu-
gle, very skilfully played, in the neighbourhood of the park, I thought, or on
the Place Royale. So sweet were the tones, so subduing their effect at that
hour, in the midst of silence and under the quiet reign of moonlight, I
ceased to think, that I might listen more intently. The strain retreated, its
sound waxed fainter and was soon gone; my ear prepared to repose on the
absolute hush of midnight once more. No. What murmur was that which,
low, and yet near and approaching nearer, frustrated the expectation of total
silence? It was some one conversing—yes, evidently, an audible, though
subdued voice spoke in the garden immediately below me. Another an-
swered; the first voice was that of a man, the second that of a woman; and a
man and a woman I saw coming slowly down the alley. Their forms were at
first in shade, I could but discern a dusk outline of each, but a ray of moon-
light met them at the termination of the walk, when they were under my
very nose, and revealed very plainly, very unequivocally, Mdlle. Zoraide
Reuter, arm-in-arm, or hand-in-hand (I forget which) with my principal,
confidant, and counsellor, M. Francois Pelet. And M. Pelet was saying—
"A quand donc le jour des noces, ma bien-aimee?"
And Mdlle. Reuter answered—
"Mais, Francois, tu sais bien qu'il me serait impossible de me marier
avant les vacances."
"June, July, August, a whole quarter!" exclaimed the director. "How can I
wait so long?—I who am ready, even now, to expire at your feet with
impatience!"
"Ah! if you die, the whole affair will be settled without any trouble about
notaries and contracts; I shall only have to order a slight mourning dress,
which will be much sooner prepared than the nuptial trousseau."
"Cruel Zoraide! you laugh at the distress of one who loves you so devot-
edly as I do: my torment is your sport; you scruple not to stretch my soul on
the rack of jealousy; for, deny it as you will, I am certain you have cast en-
couraging glances on that school-boy, Crimsworth; he has presumed to fall
in love, which he dared not have done unless you had given him room to
hope."
 "What do you say, Francois? Do you say Crimsworth is in love with
me?"
"Over head and ears."
"Has he told you so?"
"No—but I see it in his face: he blushes whenever your name is men-
tioned." A little laugh of exulting coquetry announced Mdlle. Reuter's grati-
fication at this piece of intelligence (which was a lie, by-the-by—I had nev-
er been so far gone as that, after all). M. Pelet proceeded to ask what she
intended to do with me, intimating pretty plainly, and not very gallantly,
that it was nonsense for her to think of taking such a "blanc-bec" as a hus-
band, since she must be at least ten years older than I (was she then thirty-
two? I should not have thought it). I heard her disclaim any intentions on
the subject—the director, however, still pressed her to give a definite
answer.
"Francois," said she, "you are jealous," and still she laughed; then, as if
suddenly recollecting that this coquetry was not consistent with the charac-
ter for modest dignity she wished to establish, she proceeded, in a demure
voice: "Truly, my dear Francois, I will not deny that this young Englishman
may have made some attempts to ingratiate himself with me; but, so far
from giving him any encouragement, I have always treated him with as
much reserve as it was possible to combine with civility; affianced as I am
to you, I would give no man false hopes; believe me, dear friend." Still
Pelet uttered murmurs of distrust—so I judged, at least, from her reply.
"What folly! How could I prefer an unknown foreigner to you? And then
—not to flatter your vanity—Crimsworth could not bear comparison with
you either physically or mentally; he is not a handsome man at all; some
may call him gentleman-like and intelligent-looking, but for my part—"
The rest of the sentence was lost in the distance, as the pair, rising from
the chair in which they had been seated, moved away. I waited their return,
but soon the opening and shutting of a door informed me that they had re-
entered the house; I listened a little longer, all was perfectly still; I listened
more than an hour—at last I heard M. Pelet come in and ascend to his
chamber. Glancing once more towards the long front of the garden-house, I
perceived that its solitary light was at length extinguished; so, for a time,
was my faith in love and friendship. I went to bed, but something feverish
and fiery had got into my veins which prevented me from sleeping much
that night.
 CHAPTER 13

NEXT morning I rose with the dawn, and having dressed myself and stood
half-an-hour, my elbow leaning on the chest of drawers, considering what
means I should adopt to restore my spirits, fagged with sleeplessness, to
their ordinary tone—for I had no intention of getting up a scene with M.
Pelet, reproaching him with perfidy, sending him a challenge, or performing
other gambadoes of the sort—I hit at last on the expedient of walking out in
the cool of the morning to a neighbouring establishment of baths, and treat-
ing myself to a bracing plunge. The remedy produced the desired effect. I
came back at seven o'clock steadied and invigorated, and was able to greet
M. Pelet, when he entered to breakfast, with an unchanged and tranquil
countenance; even a cordial offering of the hand and the flattering appella-
tion of "mon fils," pronounced in that caressing tone with which Monsieur
had, of late days especially, been accustomed to address me, did not elicit
any external sign of the feeling which, though subdued, still glowed at my
heart. Not that I nursed vengeance—no; but the sense of insult and treach-
ery lived in me like a kindling, though as yet smothered coal. God knows I
am not by nature vindictive; I would not hurt a man because I can no longer
trust or like him; but neither my reason nor feelings are of the vacillating
order—they are not of that sand-like sort where impressions, if soon made,
are as soon effaced. Once convinced that my friend's disposition is incom-
patible with my own, once assured that he is indelibly stained with certain
defects obnoxious to my principles, and I dissolve the connection. I did so
with Edward. As to Pelet, the discovery was yet new; should I act thus with
him? It was the question I placed before my mind as I stirred my cup of cof-
fee with a half-pistolet (we never had spoons), Pelet meantime being seated
opposite, his pallid face looking as knowing and more haggard than usual,
his blue eye turned, now sternly on his boys and ushers, and now graciously
on me.
"Circumstances must guide me," said I; and meeting Pelet's false glance
and insinuating smile, I thanked heaven that I had last night opened my
window and read by the light of a full moon the true meaning of that guile-
ful countenance. I felt half his master, because the reality of his nature was
now known to me; smile and flatter as he would, I saw his soul lurk behind
his smile, and heard in every one of his smooth phrases a voice interpreting
their treacherous import.
But Zoraide Reuter? Of course her defection had cut me to the quick?
That stint; must have gone too deep for any consolations of philosophy to
be available in curing its smart? Not at all. The night fever over, I looked
about for balm to that wound also, and found some nearer home than at
Gilead. Reason was my physician; she began by proving that the prize I had
missed was of little value: she admitted that, physically, Zoraide might have
suited me, but affirmed that our souls were not in harmony, and that discord
must have resulted from the union of her mind with mine. She then insisted
on the suppression of all repining, and commanded me rather to rejoice that
I had escaped a snare. Her medicament did me good. I felt its strengthening
effect when I met the directress the next day; its stringent operation on the
nerves suffered no trembling, no faltering; it enabled me to face her with
firmness, to pass her with ease. She had held out her hand to me—that I did
not choose to see. She had greeted me with a charming smile—it fell on my
heart like light on stone. I passed on to the estrade, she followed me; her
eye, fastened on my face, demanded of every feature the meaning of my
changed and careless manner. "I will give her an answer," thought I; and,
meeting her gaze full, arresting, fixing her glance, I shot into her eyes, from
my own, a look, where there was no respect, no love, no tenderness, no gal-
lantry; where the strictest analysis could detect nothing but scorn, hardi-
hood, irony. I made her bear it, and feel it; her steady countenance did not
change, but her colour rose, and she approached me as if fascinated. She
stepped on to the estrade, and stood close by my side; she had nothing to
say. I would not relieve her embarrassment, and negligently turned over the
leaves of a book.
"I hope you feel quite recovered to-day," at last she said, in a low tone.
"And I, mademoiselle, hope that you took no cold last night in conse-
quence of your late walk in the garden."
 Quick enough of comprehension, she understood me directly; her face
became a little blanched—a very little—but no muscle in her rather marked
features moved; and, calm and self-possessed, she retired from the estrade,
taking her seat quietly at a little distance, and occupying herself with netting
a purse. I proceeded to give my lesson; it was a "Composition," i.e., I dictat-
ed certain general questions, of which the pupils were to compose the an-
swers from memory, access to books being forbidden. While Mdlle. Eulalie,
Hortense, Caroline, &c., were pondering over the string of rather abstruse
grammatical interrogatories I had propounded, I was at liberty to employ
the vacant half hour in further observing the directress herself. The green
silk purse was progressing fast in her hands; her eyes were bent upon it; her
attitude, as she sat netting within two yards of me, was still yet guarded; in
her whole person were expressed at once, and with equal clearness, vigi-
lance and repose—a rare union! Looking at her, I was forced, as I had often
been before, to offer her good sense, her wondrous self-control, the tribute
of involuntary admiration. She had felt that I had withdrawn from her my
esteem; she had seen contempt and coldness in my eye, and to her, who
coveted the approbation of all around her, who thirsted after universal good
opinion, such discovery must have been an acute wound. I had witnessed its
effect in the momentary pallor of her cheek-cheek unused to vary; yet how
quickly, by dint of self-control, had she recovered her composure! With
what quiet dignity she now sat, almost at my side, sustained by her sound
and vigorous sense; no trembling in her somewhat lengthened, though
shrewd upper lip, no coward shame on her austere forehead!
"There is metal there," I said, as I gazed. "Would that there were fire also,
living ardour to make the steel glow—then I could love her."
Presently I discovered that she knew I was watching her, for she stirred
not, she lifted not her crafty eyelid; she had glanced down from her netting
to her small foot, peeping from the soft folds of her purple merino gown;
thence her eye reverted to her hand, ivory white, with a bright garnet ring
on the forefinger, and a light frill of lace round the wrist; with a scarcely
perceptible movement she turned her head, causing her nut-brown curls to
wave gracefully. In these slight signs I read that the wish of her heart, the
design of her brain, was to lure back the game she had scared. A little inci-
dent gave her the opportunity of addressing me again.
While all was silence in the class—silence, but for the rustling of copy-
books and the travelling of pens over their pages—a leaf of the large fold-
ing-door, opening from the hall, unclosed, admitting a pupil who, after
making a hasty obeisance, ensconced herself with some appearance of trepi-
dation, probably occasioned by her entering so late, in a vacant seat at the
desk nearest the door. Being seated, she proceeded, still with an air of hurry
and embarrassment, to open her cabas, to take out her books; and, while I
was waiting for her to look up, in order to make out her identity—for, short-
sighted as I was, I had not recognized her at her entrance—Mdlle. Reuter,
leaving her chair, approached the estrade.
"Monsieur Creemsvort," said she, in a whisper: for when the school-
rooms were silent, the directress always moved with velvet tread, and spoke
in the most subdued key, enforcing order and stillness fully as much by ex-
ample as precept: "Monsieur Creemsvort, that young person, who has just
entered, wishes to have the advantage of taking lessons with you in English;
she is not a pupil of the house; she is, indeed, in one sense, a teacher, for she
gives instruction in lace-mending, and in little varieties of ornamental nee-
dle-work. She very properly proposes to qualify herself for a higher depart-
ment of education, and has asked permission to attend your lessons, in order
to perfect her knowledge of English, in which language she has, I believe,
already made some progress; of course it is my wish to aid her in an effort
so praiseworthy; you will permit her then to benefit by your instruction—
n'est ce pas, monsieur?" And Mdlle. Reuter's eyes were raised to mine with
a look at once naive, benign, and beseeching.
I replied, "Of course," very laconically, almost abruptly.
"Another word," she said, with softness: "Mdlle. Henri has not received a
regular education; perhaps her natural talents are not of the highest order:
but I can assure you of the excellence of her intentions, and even of the
amiability of her disposition. Monsieur will then, I am sure, have the good-
ness to be considerate with her at first, and not expose her backwardness,
her inevitable deficiencies, before the young ladies, who, in a sense, are her
pupils. Will Monsieur Creemsvort favour me by attending to this hint?" I
nodded. She continued with subdued earnestness—
"Pardon me, monsieur, if I venture to add that what I have just said is of
importance to the poor girl; she already experiences great difficulty in im-
pressing these giddy young things with a due degree of deference for her
authority, and should that difficulty be increased by new discoveries of her
incapacity, she might find her position in my establishment too painful to be
retained; a circumstance I should much regret for her sake, as she can ill af-
ford to lose the profits of her occupation here."
Mdlle. Reuter possessed marvellous tact; but tact the most exclusive, un-
supported by sincerity, will sometimes fail of its effect; thus, on this occa-
sion, the longer she preached about the necessity of being indulgent to the
governess pupil, the more impatient I felt as I listened. I discerned so clear-
ly that while her professed motive was a wish to aid the dull, though well-
meaning Mdlle. Henri, her real one was no other than a design to impress
me with an idea of her own exalted goodness and tender considerateness; so
having again hastily nodded assent to her remarks, I obviated their renewal
by suddenly demanding the compositions, in a sharp accent, and stepping
from the estrade, I proceeded to collect them. As I passed the governess-
pupil, I said to her—
"You have come in too late to receive a lesson to-day; try to be more
punctual next time."
I was behind her, and could not read in her face the effect of my not very
civil speech. Probably I should not have troubled myself to do so, had I
been full in front; but I observed that she immediately began to slip her
books into her cabas again; and, presently, after I had returned to the
estrade, while I was arranging the mass of compositions, I heard the fold-
ing-door again open and close; and, on looking up, I perceived her place va-
cant. I thought to myself, "She will consider her first attempt at taking a les-
son in English something of a failure;" and I wondered whether she had de-
parted in the sulks, or whether stupidity had induced her to take my words
too literally, or, finally, whether my irritable tone had wounded her feelings.
The last notion I dismissed almost as soon as I had conceived it, for not
having seen any appearance of sensitiveness in any human face since my
arrival in Belgium, I had begun to regard it almost as a fabulous quality.
Whether her physiognomy announced it I could not tell, for her speedy exit
had allowed me no time to ascertain the circumstance. I had, indeed, on two
or three previous occasions, caught a passing view of her (as I believe has
been mentioned before); but I had never stopped to scrutinize either her
face or person, and had but the most vague idea of her general appearance.
Just as I had finished rolling up the compositions, the four o'clock bell rang;
with my accustomed alertness in obeying that signal, I grasped my hat and
evacuated the premises.
 CHAPTER 14

IF I was punctual in quitting Mdlle. Reuter's domicile, I was at least equally

punctual in arriving there; I came the next day at five minutes before two,
and on reaching the schoolroom door, before I opened it, I heard a rapid,
gabbling sound, which warned me that the "priere du midi" was not yet con-
cluded. I waited the termination thereof; it would have been impious to in-
trude my heretical presence during its progress. How the repeater of the
prayer did cackle and splutter! I never before or since heard language
enounced with such steam-engine haste. "Notre Pere qui etes au ciel" went
off like a shot; then followed an address to Marie "vierge celeste, reine des
anges, maison d'or, tour d'ivoire!" and then an invocation to the saint of the
day; and then down they all sat, and the solemn (?) rite was over; and I en-
tered, flinging the door wide and striding in fast, as it was my wont to do
now; for I had found that in entering with aplomb, and mounting the estrade
with emphasis, consisted the grand secret of ensuring immediate silence.
The folding-doors between the two classes, opened for the prayer, were in-
stantly closed; a maitresse, work-box in hand, took her seat at her appropri-
ate desk; the pupils sat still with their pens and books before them; my three
beauties in the van, now well humbled by a demeanour of consistent cool-
ness, sat erect with their hands folded quietly on their knees; they had given
up giggling and whispering to each other, and no longer ventured to utter
pert speeches in my presence; they now only talked to me occasionally with
their eyes, by means of which organs they could still, however, say very au-
dacious and coquettish things. Had affection, goodness, modesty, real talent,
ever employed those bright orbs as interpreters, I do not think I could have
refrained from giving a kind and encouraging, perhaps an ardent reply now
and then; but as it was, I found pleasure in answering the glance of vanity
with the gaze of stoicism. Youthful, fair, brilliant, as were many of my
pupils, I can truly say that in me they never saw any other bearing than such
as an austere, though just guardian, might have observed towards them. If
any doubt the accuracy of this assertion, as inferring more conscientious
self-denial or Scipio-like self-control than they feel disposed to give me
credit for, let them take into consideration the following circumstances,
which, while detracting from my merit, justify my veracity.
Know, O incredulous reader! that a master stands in a somewhat different
relation towards a pretty, light-headed, probably ignorant girl, to that occu-
pied by a partner at a ball, or a gallant on the promenade. A professor does
not meet his pupil to see her dressed in satin and muslin, with hair perfumed
and curled, neck scarcely shaded by aerial lace, round white arms circled
with bracelets, feet dressed for the gliding dance. It is not his business to
whirl her through the waltz, to feed her with compliments, to heighten her
beauty by the flush of gratified vanity. Neither does he encounter her on the
smooth-rolled, tree shaded Boulevard, in the green and sunny park, whither
she repairs clad in her becoming walking dress, her scarf thrown with grace
over her shoulders, her little bonnet scarcely screening her curls, the red
rose under its brim adding a new tint to the softer rose on her cheek; her
face and eyes, too, illumined with smiles, perhaps as transient as the sun-
shine of the gala-day, but also quite as brilliant; it is not his office to walk
by her side, to listen to her lively chat, to carry her parasol, scarcely larger
than a broad green leaf, to lead in a ribbon her Blenheim spaniel or Italian
greyhound. No: he finds her in the schoolroom, plainly dressed, with books
before her. Owing to her education or her nature books are to her a nui-
sance, and she opens them with aversion, yet her teacher must instil into her
mind the contents of these books; that mind resists the admission of grave
information, it recoils, it grows restive, sullen tempers are shown, disfigur-
ing frowns spoil the symmetry of the face, sometimes coarse gestures ban-
ish grace from the deportment, while muttered expressions, redolent of na-
tive and ineradicable vulgarity, desecrate the sweetness of the voice. Where
the temperament is serene though the intellect be sluggish, an unconquer-
able dullness opposes every effort to instruct. Where there is cunning but
not energy, dissimulation, falsehood, a thousand schemes and tricks are put
in play to evade the necessity of application; in short, to the tutor, female
youth, female charms are like tapestry hangings, of which the wrong side is
continually turned towards him; and even when he sees the smooth, neat
external surface he so well knows what knots, long stitches, and jagged
ends are behind that he has scarce a temptation to admire too fondly the
seemly forms and bright colours exposed to general view.
Our likings are regulated by our circumstances. The artist prefers a hilly
country because it is picturesque; the engineer a flat one because it is conve-
nient; the man of pleasure likes what he calls "a fine woman"—she suits
him; the fashionable young gentleman admires the fashionable young lady
—she is of his kind; the toil-worn, fagged, probably irritable tutor, blind al-
most to beauty, insensible to airs and graces, glories chiefly in certain men-
tal qualities: application, love of knowledge, natural capacity, docility,
truthfulness, gratefulness, are the charms that attract his notice and win his
regard. These he seeks, but seldom meets; these, if by chance he finds, he
would fain retain for ever, and when separation deprives him of them he
feels as if some ruthless hand had snatched from him his only ewe-lamb.
Such being the case, and the case it is, my readers will agree with me that
there was nothing either very meritorious or very marvellous in the integrity
and moderation of my conduct at Mdlle. Reuter's pensionnat de
demoiselles.
My first business this afternoon consisted in reading the list of places for
the month, determined by the relative correctness of the compositions given
the preceding day. The list was headed, as usual, by the name of Sylvie, that
plain, quiet little girl I have described before as being at once the best and
ugliest pupil in the establishment; the second place had fallen to the lot of a
certain Leonie Ledru, a diminutive, sharp-featured, and parchment-skinned
creature of quick wits, frail conscience, and indurated feelings; a lawyer-
like thing, of whom I used to say that, had she been a boy, she would have
made a model of an unprincipled, clever attorney. Then came Eulalie, the
proud beauty, the Juno of the school, whom six long years of drilling in the
simple grammar of the English language had compelled, despite the stiff
phlegm of her intellect, to acquire a mechanical acquaintance with most of
its rules. No smile, no trace of pleasure or satisfaction appeared in Sylvie's
nun-like and passive face as she heard her name read first. I always felt sad-
dened by the sight of that poor girl's absolute quiescence on all occasions,
and it was my custom to look at her, to address her, as seldom as possible;
her extreme docility, her assiduous perseverance, would have recommended
her warmly to my good opinion; her modesty, her intelligence, would have
induced me to feel most kindly—most affectionately towards her, not-
withstanding the almost ghastly plainness of her features, the disproportion
of her form, the corpse-like lack of animation in her countenance, had I not
been aware that every friendly word, every kindly action, would be reported
by her to her confessor, and by him misinterpreted and poisoned. Once I
laid my hand on her head, in token of approbation; I thought Sylvie was go-
ing to smile, her dim eye almost kindled; but, presently, she shrank from
me; I was a man and a heretic; she, poor child! a destined nun and devoted
Catholic: thus a four-fold wall of separation divided her mind from mine. A
pert smirk, and a hard glance of triumph, was Leonie's method of testifying
her gratification; Eulalie looked sullen and envious—she had hoped to be
first. Hortense and Caroline exchanged a reckless grimace on hearing their
names read out somewhere near the bottom of the list; the brand of mental
inferiority was considered by them as no disgrace, their hopes for the future
being based solely on their personal attractions.
This affair arranged, the regular lesson followed. During a brief interval,
employed by the pupils in ruling their books, my eye, ranging carelessly
over the benches, observed, for the first time, that the farthest seat in the far-
thest row—a seat usually vacant—was again filled by the new scholar, the
Mdlle. Henri so ostentatiously recommended to me by the directress. To-
day I had on my spectacles; her appearance, therefore, was clear to me at
the first glance; I had not to puzzle over it. She looked young; yet, had I
been required to name her exact age, I should have been somewhat non-
plussed; the slightness of her figure might have suited seventeen; a certain
anxious and pre-occupied expression of face seemed the indication of riper
years. She was dressed, like all the rest, in a dark stuff gown and a white
collar; her features were dissimilar to any there, not so rounded, more de-
fined, yet scarcely regular. The shape of her head too was different, the su-
perior part more developed, the base considerably less. I felt assured, at first
sight, that she was not a Belgian; her complexion, her countenance, her lin-
eaments, her figure, were all distinct from theirs, and, evidently, the type of
another race—of a race less gifted with fullness of flesh and plenitude of
blood; less jocund, material, unthinking. When I first cast my eyes on her,
she sat looking fixedly down, her chin resting on her hand, and she did not
change her attitude till I commenced the lesson. None of the Belgian girls
would have retained one position, and that a reflective one, for the same
length of time. Yet, having intimated that her appearance was peculiar, as
being unlike that of her Flemish companions, I have little more to say re-
specting it; I can pronounce no encomiums on her beauty, for she was not
beautiful; nor offer condolence on her plainness, for neither was she plain; a
careworn character of forehead, and a corresponding moulding of the
mouth, struck me with a sentiment resembling surprise, but these traits
would probably have passed unnoticed by any less crotchety observer.
Now, reader, though I have spent more than a page in describing Mdlle.
Henri, I know well enough that I have left on your mind's eye no distinct
picture of her; I have not painted her complexion, nor her eyes, nor her hair,
nor even drawn the outline of her shape. You cannot tell whether her nose
was aquiline or retrousse, whether her chin was long or short, her face
square or oval; nor could I the first day, and it is not my intention to com-
municate to you at once a knowledge I myself gained by little and little.
I gave a short exercise: which they all wrote down. I saw the new pupil
was puzzled at first with the novelty of the form and language; once or
twice she looked at me with a sort of painful solicitude, as not comprehend-
ing at all what I meant; then she was not ready when the others were, she
could not write her phrases so fast as they did; I would not help her, I went
on relentless. She looked at me; her eye said most plainly, "I cannot follow
you." I disregarded the appeal, and, carelessly leaning back in my chair,
glancing from time to time with a NONCHALANT air out of the window, I
dictated a little faster. On looking towards her again, I perceived her face
clouded with embarrassment, but she was still writing on most diligently; I
paused a few seconds; she employed the interval in hurriedly re-perusing
what she had written, and shame and discomfiture were apparent in her
countenance; she evidently found she had made great nonsense of it. In ten
minutes more the dictation was complete, and, having allowed a brief space
in which to correct it, I took their books; it was with a reluctant hand Mdlle.
Henri gave up hers, but, having once yielded it to my possession, she com-
posed her anxious face, as if, for the present she had resolved to dismiss re-
gret, and had made up her mind to be thought unprecedentedly stupid.
Glancing over her exercise, I found that several lines had been omitted, but
what was written contained very few faults; I instantly inscribed "Bon" at
the bottom of the page, and returned it to her; she smiled, at first incredu-
lously, then as if reassured, but did not lift her eyes; she could look at me, it
seemed, when perplexed and bewildered, but not when gratified; I thought
that scarcely fair.
 CHAPTER 15

SOME time elapsed before I again gave a lesson in the first class; the holi-
day of Whitsuntide occupied three days, and on the fourth it was the turn of
the second division to receive my instructions. As I made the transit of the
CARRE, I observed, as usual, the band of sewers surrounding Mdlle. Henri;
there were only about a dozen of them, but they made as much noise as
might have sufficed for fifty; they seemed very little under her control; three
or four at once assailed her with importunate requirements; she looked ha-
rassed, she demanded silence, but in vain. She saw me, and I read in her eye
pain that a stranger should witness the insubordination of her pupils; she
seemed to entreat order—her prayers were useless; then I remarked that she
compressed her lips and contracted her brow; and her countenance, if I read
it correctly, said—"I have done my best; I seem to merit blame not-
withstanding; blame me then who will." I passed on; as I closed the school-
room door, I heard her say, suddenly and sharply, addressing one of the el-
dest and most turbulent of the lot—
"Amelie Mullenberg, ask me no question, and request of me no as-
sistance, for a week to come; during that space of time I will neither speak
to you nor help you."
The words were uttered with emphasis—nay, with vehemence—and a
comparative silence followed; whether the calm was permanent, I know
not; two doors now closed between me and the CARRE.
Next day was appropriated to the first class; on my arrival, I found the
directress seated, as usual, in a chair between the two estrades, and before
her was standing Mdlle. Henri, in an attitude (as it seemed to me) of some-
what reluctant attention. The directress was knitting and talking at the same
time. Amidst the hum of a large school-room, it was easy so to speak in the
ear of one person, as to be heard by that person alone, and it was thus
Mdlle. Reuter parleyed with her teacher. The face of the latter was a little
flushed, not a little troubled; there was vexation in it, whence resulting I
know not, for the directress looked very placid indeed; she could not be
scolding in such gentle whispers, and with so equable a mien; no, it was
presently proved that her discourse had been of the most friendly tendency,
for I heard the closing words—
"C'est assez, ma bonne amie; a present je ne veux pas vous retenir
davantage."
Without reply, Mdlle. Henri turned away; dissatisfaction was plainly
evinced in her face, and a smile, slight and brief, but bitter, distrustful, and,
I thought, scornful, curled her lip as she took her place in the class; it was a
secret, involuntary smile, which lasted but a second; an air of depression
succeeded, chased away presently by one of attention and interest, when I
gave the word for all the pupils to take their reading-books. In general I hat-
ed the reading-lesson, it was such a torture to the ear to listen to their un-
couth mouthing of my native tongue, and no effort of example or precept on
my part ever seemed to effect the slightest improvement in their accent. To-
day, each in her appropriate key, lisped, stuttered, mumbled, and jabbered as
usual; about fifteen had racked me in turn, and my auricular nerve was ex-
pecting with resignation the discords of the sixteenth, when a full, though
low voice, read out, in clear correct English.
"On his way to Perth, the king was met by a Highland woman, calling
herself a prophetess; she stood at the side of the ferry by which he was
about to travel to the north, and cried with a loud voice, 'My lord the king, if
you pass this water you will never return again alive!'"—(VIDE the HIS-
TORY OF SCOTLAND).
I looked up in amazement; the voice was a voice of Albion; the accent
was pure and silvery; it only wanted firmness, and assurance, to be the
counterpart of what any well-educated lady in Essex or Middlesex might
have enounced, yet the speaker or reader was no other than Mdlle. Henri, in
whose grave, joyless face I saw no mark of consciousness that she had per-
formed any extraordinary feat. No one else evinced surprise either. Mdlle.
Reuter knitted away assiduously; I was aware, however, that at the conclu-
sion of the paragraph, she had lifted her eyelid and honoured me with a
glance sideways; she did not know the full excellency of the teacher's style
of reading, but she perceived that her accent was not that of the others, and
wanted to discover what I thought; I masked my visage with indifference,
and ordered the next girl to proceed.
When the lesson was over, I took advantage of the confusion caused by
breaking up, to approach Mdlle. Henri; she was standing near the window
and retired as I advanced; she thought I wanted to look out, and did not
imagine that I could have anything to say to her. I took her exercise-book;
out of her hand; as I turned over the leaves I addressed her:—
"You have had lessons in English before?" I asked.
"No, sir."
"No! you read it well; you have been in England?"
"Oh, no!" with some animation.
"You have been in English families?"
Still the answer was "No." Here my eye, resting on the flyleaf of the
book, saw written, "Frances Evan Henri."
"Your name?" I asked
"Yes, sir."
My interrogations were cut short; I heard a little rustling behind me, and
close at my back was the directress, professing to be examining the interior
of a desk.
"Mademoiselle," said she, looking up and addressing the teacher, "Will
you have the goodness to go and stand in the corridor, while the young
ladies are putting on their things, and try to keep some order?"
Mdlle. Henri obeyed.
"What splendid weather!" observed the directress cheerfully, glancing at
the same time from the window. I assented and was withdrawing. "What of
your new pupil, monsieur?" continued she, following my retreating steps.
"Is she likely to make progress in English?"
"Indeed I can hardly judge. She possesses a pretty good accent; of her
real knowledge of the language I have as yet had no opportunity of forming
an opinion."
"And her natural capacity, monsieur? I have had my fears about that: can
you relieve me by an assurance at least of its average power?"
"I see no reason to doubt its average power, mademoiselle, but really I
scarcely know her, and have not had time to study the calibre of her capaci-
ty. I wish you a very good afternoon."
She still pursued me. "You will observe, monsieur, and tell me what you
think; I could so much better rely on your opinion than on my own; women
cannot judge of these things as men can, and, excuse my pertinacity, mon-
sieur, but it is natural I should feel interested about this poor little girl (pau-
vre petite); she has scarcely any relations, her own efforts are all she has to
look to, her acquirements must be her sole fortune; her present position has
once been mine, or nearly so; it is then but natural I should sympathize with
her; and sometimes when I see the difficulty she has in managing pupils, I
reel quite chagrined. I doubt not she does her best, her intentions are excel-
lent; but, monsieur, she wants tact and firmness. I have talked to her on the
subject, but I am not fluent, and probably did not express myself with clear-
ness; she never appears to comprehend me. Now, would you occasionally,
when you see an opportunity, slip in a word of advice to her on the subject;
men have so much more influence than women have—they argue so much
more logically than we do; and you, monsieur, in particular, have so para-
mount a power of making yourself obeyed; a word of advice from you
could not but do her good; even if she were sullen and headstrong (which I
hope she is not), she would scarcely refuse to listen to you; for my own
part, I can truly say that I never attend one of your lessons without deriving
benefit from witnessing your management of the pupils. The other masters
are a constant source of anxiety to me; they cannot impress the young ladies
with sentiments of respect, nor restrain the levity natural to youth: in you,
monsieur, I feel the most absolute confidence; try then to put this poor child
into the way of controlling our giddy, high-spirited Brabantoises. But, mon-
sieur, I would add one word more; don't alarm her AMOUR PROPRE; be-
ware of inflicting a wound there. I reluctantly admit that in that particular
she is blameably—some would say ridiculously—susceptible. I fear I have
touched this sore point inadvertently, and she cannot get over it."
During the greater part of this harangue my hand was on the lock of the
outer door; I now turned it.
"Au revoir, mademoiselle," said I, and I escaped. I saw the directress's
stock of words was yet far from exhausted. She looked after me, she would
fain have detained me longer. Her manner towards me had been altered ever
since I had begun to treat her with hardness and indifference: she almost
cringed to me on every occasion; she consulted my countenance incessant-
ly, and beset me with innumerable little officious attentions. Servility cre-
ates despotism. This slavish homage, instead of softening my heart, only
pampered whatever was stern and exacting in its mood. The very circum-
stance of her hovering round me like a fascinated bird, seemed to transform
me into a rigid pillar of stone; her flatteries irritated my scorn, her blandish-
ments confirmed my reserve. At times I wondered what she meant by giv-
ing herself such trouble to win me, when the more profitable Pelet was al-
ready in her nets, and when, too, she was aware that I possessed her secret,
for I had not scrupled to tell her as much: but the fact is that as it was her
nature to doubt the reality and under-value the worth of modesty, affection,
disinterestedness—to regard these qualities as foibles of character—so it
was equally her tendency to consider pride, hardness, selfishness, as proofs
of strength. She would trample on the neck of humility, she would kneel at
the feet of disdain; she would meet tenderness with secret contempt, indif-
ference she would woo with ceaseless assiduities. Benevolence, devoted-
ness, enthusiasm, were her antipathies; for dissimulation and self-interest
she had a preference—they were real wisdom in her eyes; moral and physi-
cal degradation, mental and bodily inferiority, she regarded with indul-
gence; they were foils capable of being turned to good account as set-offs
for her own endowments. To violence, injustice, tyranny, she succumbed—
they were her natural masters; she had no propensity to hate, no impulse to
resist them; the indignation their behests awake in some hearts was un-
known in hers. From all this it resulted that the false and selfish called her
wise, the vulgar and debased termed her charitable, the insolent and unjust
dubbed her amiable, the conscientious and benevolent generally at first ac-
cepted as valid her claim to be considered one of themselves; but ere long
the plating of pretension wore off, the real material appeared below, and
they laid her aside as a deception.
 CHAPTER 16

In the course of another fortnight I had seen sufficient of Frances Evans

Henri, to enable me to form a more definite opinion of her character. I
found her possessed in a somewhat remarkable degree of at least two good
points, viz., perseverance and a sense of duty; I found she was really capa-
ble of applying to study, of contending with difficulties. At first I offered
her the same help which I had always found it necessary to confer on the
others; I began with unloosing for her each knotty point, but I soon discov-
ered that such help was regarded by my new pupil as degrading; she re-
coiled from it with a certain proud impatience. Hereupon I appointed her
long lessons, and left her to solve alone any perplexities they might present.
She set to the task with serious ardour, and having quickly accomplished
one labour, eagerly demanded more. So much for her perseverance; as to
her sense of duty, it evinced itself thus: she liked to learn, but hated to
teach; her progress as a pupil depended upon herself, and I saw that on her-
self she could calculate with certainty; her success as a teacher rested partly,
perhaps chiefly, upon the will of others; it cost her a most painful effort to
enter into conflict with this foreign will, to endeavour to bend it into subjec-
tion to her own; for in what regarded people in general the action of her will
was impeded by many scruples; it was as unembarrassed as strong where
her own affairs were concerned, and to it she could at any time subject her
inclination, if that inclination went counter to her convictions of right; yet
when called upon to wrestle with the propensities, the habits, the faults of
others, of children especially, who are deaf to reason, and, for the most part,
insensate to persuasion, her will sometimes almost refused to act; then came
in the sense of duty, and forced the reluctant will into operation. A wasteful
expense of energy and labour was frequently the consequence; Frances
toiled for and with her pupils like a drudge, but it was long ere her consci-
entious exertions were rewarded by anything like docility on their part, be-
cause they saw that they had power over her, inasmuch as by resisting her
painful attempts to convince, persuade, control—by forcing her to the em-
ployment of coercive measures—they could inflict upon her exquisite suf-
fering. Human beings—human children especially—seldom deny them-
selves the pleasure of exercising a power which they are conscious of pos-
sessing, even though that power consist only in a capacity to make others
wretched; a pupil whose sensations are duller than those of his instructor,
while his nerves are tougher and his bodily strength perhaps greater, has an
immense advantage over that instructor, and he will generally use it relent-
lessly, because the very young, very healthy, very thoughtless, know neither
how to sympathize nor how to spare. Frances, I fear, suffered much; a con-
tinual weight seemed to oppress her spirits; I have said she did not live in
the house, and whether in her own abode, wherever that might be, she wore
the same preoccupied, unsmiling, sorrowfully resolved air that always shad-
ed her features under the roof of Mdlle. Reuter, I could not tell.
One day I gave, as a devoir, the trite little anecdote of Alfred tending
cakes in the herdsman's hut, to be related with amplifications. A singular
affair most of the pupils made of it; brevity was what they had chiefly stud-
ied; the majority of the narratives were perfectly unintelligible; those of
Sylvie and Leonie Ledru alone pretended to anything like sense and con-
nection. Eulalie, indeed, had hit, upon a clever expedient for at once ensur-
ing accuracy and saving trouble; she had obtained access somehow to an
abridged history of England, and had copied the anecdote out fair. I wrote
on the margin of her production "Stupid and deceitful," and then tore it
down the middle.
Last in the pile of single-leaved devoirs, I found one of several sheets,
neatly written out and stitched together; I knew the hand, and scarcely need-
ed the evidence of the signature "Frances Evans Henri" to confirm my con-
jecture as to the writer's identity.
Night was my usual time for correcting devoirs, and my own room the
usual scene of such task—task most onerous hitherto; and it seemed strange
to me to feel rising within me an incipient sense of interest, as I snuffed the
candle and addressed myself to the perusal of the poor teacher's manuscript.
"Now," thought I, "I shall see a glimpse of what she really is; I shall get
an idea of the nature and extent of her powers; not that she can be expected
to express herself well in a foreign tongue, but still, if she has any mind,
here will be a reflection of it."
The narrative commenced by a description of a Saxon peasant's hut, situ-
ated within the confines of a great, leafless, winter forest; it represented an
evening in December; flakes of snow were falling, and the herdsman fore-
told a heavy storm; he summoned his wife to aid him in collecting their
flock, roaming far away on the pastoral banks of the Thone; he warns her
that it will be late ere they return. The good woman is reluctant to quit her
occupation of baking cakes for the evening meal; but acknowledging the
primary importance of securing the herds and flocks, she puts on her sheep-
skin mantle; and, addressing a stranger who rests half reclined on a bed of
rushes near the hearth, bids him mind the bread till her return.
"Take care, young man," she continues, "that you fasten the door well af-
ter us; and, above all, open to none in our absence; whatever sound you
hear, stir not, and look not out. The night will soon fall; this forest is most
wild and lonely; strange noises are often heard therein after sunset; wolves
haunt these glades, and Danish warriors infest the country; worse things are
talked of; you might chance to hear, as it were, a child cry, and on opening
the door to afford it succour, a greet black bull, or a shadowy goblin dog,
might rush over the threshold; or, more awful still, if something flapped, as
with wings, against the lattice, and then a raven or a white dove flew in and
settled on the hearth, such a visitor would be a sure sign of misfortune to
the house; therefore, heed my advice, and lift the latchet for nothing."
Her husband calls her away, both depart. The stranger, left alone, listens
awhile to the muffled snow-wind, the remote, swollen sound of the river,
and then he speaks.
"It is Christmas Eve," says he, "I mark the date; here I sit alone on a rude
couch of rushes, sheltered by the thatch of a herdsman's hut; I, whose inher-
itance was a kingdom, owe my night's harbourage to a poor serf; my throne
is usurped, my crown presses the brow of an invader; I have no friends; my
troops wander broken in the hills of Wales; reckless robbers spoil my coun-
try; my subjects lie prostrate, their breasts crushed by the heel of the brutal
Dane. Fate! thou hast done thy worst, and now thou standest before me rest-
ing thy hand on thy blunted blade. Ay; I see thine eye confront mine and de-
mand why I still live, why I still hope. Pagan demon, I credit not thine om-
nipotence, and so cannot succumb to thy power. My God, whose Son, as on
this night, took on Him the form of man, and for man vouchsafed to suffer
and bleed, controls thy hand, and without His behest thou canst not strike a
stroke. My God is sinless, eternal, all-wise—in Him is my trust; and though
stripped and crushed by thee—though naked, desolate, void of resource—I
do not despair, I cannot despair: were the lance of Guthrum now wet with
my blood, I should not despair. I watch, I toil, I hope, I pray; Jehovah, in his
own time, will aid."
I need not continue the quotation; the whole devoir was in the same
strain. There were errors of orthography, there were foreign idioms, there
were some faults of construction, there were verbs irregular transformed
into verbs regular; it was mostly made up, as the above example shows, of
short and somewhat rude sentences, and the style stood in great need of pol-
ish and sustained dignity; yet such as it was, I had hitherto seen nothing like
it in the course of my professorial experience. The girl's mind had con-
ceived a picture of the hut, of the two peasants, of the crownless king; she
had imagined the wintry forest, she had recalled the old Saxon ghost-leg-
ends, she had appreciated Alfred's courage under calamity, she had remem-
bered his Christian education, and had shown him, with the rooted confi-
dence of those primitive days, relying on the scriptural Jehovah for aid
against the mythological Destiny. This she had done without a hint from
me: I had given the subject, but not said a word about the manner of treat-
ing it.
"I will find, or make, an opportunity of speaking to her," I said to myself
as I rolled the devoir up; "I will learn what she has of English in her besides
the name of Frances Evans; she is no novice in the language, that is evident,
yet she told me she had neither been in England, nor taken lessons in Eng-
lish, nor lived in English families."
In the course of my next lesson, I made a report of the other devoirs,
dealing out praise and blame in very small retail parcels, according to my
custom, for there was no use in blaming severely, and high encomiums
were rarely merited. I said nothing of Mdlle. Henri's exercise, and, specta-
cles on nose, I endeavoured to decipher in her countenance her sentiments
at the omission. I wanted to find out whether in her existed a consciousness
of her own talents. "If she thinks she did a clever thing in composing that
devoir, she will now look mortified," thought I. Grave as usual, almost som-
bre, was her face; as usual, her eyes were fastened on the cahier open before
her; there was something, I thought, of expectation in her attitude, as I con-
cluded a brief review of the last devoir, and when, casting it from me and
rubbing my hands, I bade them take their grammars, some slight change did
pass over her air and mien, as though she now relinquished a faint prospect
of pleasant excitement; she had been waiting for something to be discussed
in which she had a degree of interest; the discussion was not to come on, so
expectation sank back, shrunk and sad, but attention, promptly filling up the
void, repaired in a moment the transient collapse of feature; still, I felt,
rather than saw, during the whole course of the lesson, that a hope had been
wrenched from her, and that if she did not show distress, it was because she
would not.
At four o'clock, when the bell rang and the room was in immediate tu-
mult, instead of taking my hat and starting from the estrade, I sat still a mo-
ment. I looked at Frances, she was putting her books into her cabas; having
fastened the button, she raised her head; encountering my eye, she made a
quiet, respectful obeisance, as bidding good afternoon, and was turning to
depart:—
"Come here," said I, lifting my finger at the same time. She hesitated; she
could not hear the words amidst the uproar now pervading both school-
rooms; I repeated the sign; she approached; again she paused within half a
yard of the estrade, and looked shy, and still doubtful whether she had mis-
taken my meaning.
"Step up," I said, speaking with decision. It is the only way of dealing
with diffident, easily embarrassed characters, and with some slight manual
aid I presently got her placed just where I wanted her to be, that is, between
my desk and the window, where she was screened from the rush of the sec-
ond division, and where no one could sneak behind her to listen.
"Take a seat," I said, placing a tabouret; and I made her sit down. I knew
what I was doing would be considered a very strange thing, and, what was
more, I did not care. Frances knew it also, and, I fear, by an appearance of
agitation and trembling, that she cared much. I drew from my pocket the
rolled-up devoir.
"This it, yours, I suppose?" said I, addressing her in English, for I now
felt sure she could speak English.
"Yes," she answered distinctly; and as I unrolled it and laid it out flat on
the desk before her with my hand upon it, and a pencil in that hand, I saw
her moved, and, as it were, kindled; her depression beamed as a cloud
might behind which the sun is burning.
 "This devoir has numerous faults," said I. "It will take you some years of
careful study before you are in a condition to write English with absolute
correctness. Attend: I will point out some principal defects." And I went
through it carefully, noting every error, and demonstrating why they were
errors, and how the words or phrases ought to have been written. In the
course of this sobering process she became calm. I now went on:
"As to the substance of your devoir, Mdlle. Henri, it has surprised me; I
perused it with pleasure, because I saw in it some proofs of taste and fancy.
Taste and fancy are not the highest gifts of the human mind, but such as
they are you possess them—not probably in a paramount degree, but in a
degree beyond what the majority can boast. You may then take courage;
cultivate the faculties that God and nature have bestowed on you, and do
not fear in any crisis of suffering, under any pressure of injustice, to derive
free and full consolation from the consciousness of their strength and
rarity."
"Strength and rarity!" I repeated to myself; "ay, the words are probably
true," for on looking up, I saw the sun had dissevered its screening cloud,
her countenance was transfigured, a smile shone in her eyes—a smile al-
most triumphant; it seemed to say—
"I am glad you have been forced to discover so much of my nature; you
need not so carefully moderate your language. Do you think I am myself a
stranger to myself? What you tell me in terms so qualified, I have known
fully from a child."
She did say this as plainly as a frank and flashing glance could, but in a
moment the glow of her complexion, the radiance of her aspect, had sub-
sided; if strongly conscious of her talents, she was equally conscious of her
harassing defects, and the remembrance of these obliterated for a single sec-
ond, now reviving with sudden force, at once subdued the too vivid charac-
ters in which her sense of her powers had been expressed. So quick was the
revulsion of feeling, I had not time to check her triumph by reproof; ere I
could contract my brows to a frown she had become serious and almost
mournful-looking.
"Thank you, sir," said she, rising. There was gratitude both in her voice
and in the look with which she accompanied it. It was time, indeed, for our
conference to terminate; for, when I glanced around, behold all the boarders
(the day-scholars had departed) were congregated within a yard or two of
my desk, and stood staring with eyes and mouths wide open; the three
maitresses formed a whispering knot in one corner, and, close at my elbow,
was the directress, sitting on a low chair, calmly clipping the tassels of her
finished purse.
 CHAPTER 17

AFTER all I had profited but imperfectly by the opportunity I had so boldly
achieved of speaking to Mdlle. Henri; it was my intention to ask her how
she came to be possessed of two English baptismal names, Frances and
Evans, in addition to her French surname, also whence she derived her good
accent. I had forgotten both points, or, rather, our colloquy had been so brief
that I had not had time to bring them forward; moreover, I had not half test-
ed her powers of speaking English; all I had drawn from her in that lan-
guage were the words "Yes," and "Thank you, sir." "No matter," I reflected.
"What has been left incomplete now, shall be finished another day." Nor did
I fail to keep the promise thus made to myself. It was difficult to get even a
few words of particular conversation with one pupil among so many; but,
according to the old proverb, "Where there is a will, there is a way;" and
again and again I managed to find an opportunity for exchanging a few
words with Mdlle. Henri, regardless that envy stared and detraction whis-
pered whenever I approached her.
"Your book an instant." Such was the mode in which I often began these
brief dialogues; the time was always just at the conclusion of the lesson;
and motioning to her to rise, I installed myself in her place, allowing her to
stand deferentially at my side; for I esteemed it wise and right in her case to
enforce strictly all forms ordinarily in use between master and pupil; the
rather because I perceived that in proportion as my manner grew austere
and magisterial, hers became easy and self-possessed—an odd contradic-
tion, doubtless, to the ordinary effect in such cases; but so it was.
"A pencil," said I, holding out my hand without looking at her. (I am now
about to sketch a brief report of the first of these conferences.) She gave me
one, and while I underlined some errors in a grammatical exercise she had
written, I observed—
"You are not a native of Belgium?"
"No."
"Nor of France?"
"No."
"Where, then, is your birthplace?"
"I was born at Geneva."
"You don't call Frances and Evans Swiss names, I presume?"
"No, sir; they are English names."
"Just so; and is it the custom of the Genevese to give their children Eng-
lish appellatives?"
"Non, Monsieur; mais—"
"Speak English, if you please."
"Mais—"
"English—"
"But" (slowly and with embarrassment) "my parents were not all the two
Genevese."
"Say BOTH, instead of 'all the two,' mademoiselle."
"Not BOTH Swiss: my mother was English."
"Ah! and of English extraction?"
"Yes—her ancestors were all English."
"And your father?"
"He was Swiss."
"What besides? What was his profession?"
"Ecclesiastic—pastor—he had a church."
"Since your mother is an Englishwoman, why do you not speak English
with more facility?"
"Maman est morte, il y a dix ans."
"And you do homage to her memory by forgetting her language. Have
the goodness to put French out of your mind so long as I converse with you
—keep to English."
"C'est si difficile, monsieur, quand on n'en a plus l'habitude."
"You had the habitude formerly, I suppose? Now answer me in your
mother tongue."
"Yes, sir, I spoke the English more than the French when I was a child."
"Why do you not speak it now?"
 "Because I have no English friends."
"You live with your father, I suppose?"
"My father is dead."
"You have brothers and sisters?"
"Not one."
"Do you live alone?"
"No—I have an aunt—ma tante Julienne."
"Your father's sister?"
"Justement, monsieur."
"Is that English?"
"No—but I forget—"
"For which, mademoiselle, if you were a child I should certainly devise
some slight punishment; at your age—you must be two or three and twenty,
I should think?"
"Pas encore, monsieur—en un mois j'aurai dix-neuf ans."
"Well, nineteen is a mature age, and, having attained it, you ought to be
so solicitous for your own improvement, that it should not be needful for a
master to remind you twice of the expediency of your speaking English
whenever practicable."
To this wise speech I received no answer; and, when I looked up, my
pupil was smiling to herself a much-meaning, though not very gay smile; it
seemed to say, "He talks of he knows not what:" it said this so plainly, that I
determined to request information on the point concerning which my igno-
rance seemed to be thus tacitly affirmed.
"Are you solicitous for your own improvement?"
"Rather."
"How do you prove it, mademoiselle?"
An odd question, and bluntly put; it excited a second smile.
"Why, monsieur, I am not inattentive—am I? I learn my lessons well—"
"Oh, a child can do that! and what more do you do?"
"What more can I do?"
"Oh, certainly, not much; but you are a teacher, are you not, as well as a
pupil?"
"Yes."
"You teach lace-mending?"
"Yes."
"A dull, stupid occupation; do you like it?"
 "No—it is tedious."
"Why do you pursue it? Why do you not rather teach history, geography,
grammar, even arithmetic?"
"Is monsieur certain that I am myself thoroughly acquainted with these
studies?"
"I don't know; you ought to be at your age."
"But I never was at school, monsieur—"
"Indeed! What then were your friends—what was your aunt about? She
is very much to blame."
"No monsieur, no—my aunt is good—she is not to blame—she does
what she can; she lodges and nourishes me" (I report Mdlle. Henri's phrases
literally, and it was thus she translated from the French). "She is not rich;
she has only an annuity of twelve hundred francs, and it would be impossi-
ble for her to send me to school."
"Rather," thought I to myself on hearing this, but I continued, in the dog-
matical tone I had adopted:—
"It is sad, however, that you should be brought up in ignorance of the
most ordinary branches of education; had you known something of history
and grammar you might, by degrees, have relinquished your lace-mending
drudgery, and risen in the world."
"It is what I mean to do."
"How? By a knowledge of English alone? That will not suffice; no re-
spectable family will receive a governess whose whole stock of knowledge
consists in a familiarity with one foreign language."
"Monsieur, I know other things."
"Yes, yes, you can work with Berlin wools, and embroider handkerchiefs
and collars—that will do little for you."
Mdlle. Henri's lips were unclosed to answer, but she checked herself, as
thinking the discussion had been sufficiently pursued, and remained silent.
"Speak," I continued, impatiently; "I never like the appearance of acqui-
escence when the reality is not there; and you had a contradiction at your
tongue's end."
"Monsieur, I have had many lessons both in grammar, history, geography,
and arithmetic. I have gone through a course of each study."
"Bravo! but how did you manage it, since your aunt could not afford lo
send you to school?"
"By lace-mending; by the thing monsieur despises so much."
 "Truly! And now, mademoiselle, it will be a good exercise for you to ex-
plain to me in English how such a result was produced by such means."
"Monsieur, I begged my aunt to have me taught lace-mending soon after
we came to Brussels, because I knew it was a METIER, a trade which was
easily learnt, and by which I could earn some money very soon. I learnt it in
a few days, and I quickly got work, for all the Brussels ladies have old lace
—very precious—which must be mended all the times it is washed. I earned
money a little, and this money I grave for lessons in the studies I have men-
tioned; some of it I spent in buying books, English books especially; soon I
shall try to find a place of governess, or school-teacher, when I can write
and speak English well; but it will be difficult, because those who know I
have been a lace-mender will despise me, as the pupils here despise me.
Pourtant j'ai mon projet," she added in a lower tone.
"What is it?"
"I will go and live in England; I will teach French there."
The words were pronounced emphatically. She said "England" as you
might suppose an Israelite of Moses' days would have said Canaan.
"Have you a wish to see England?"
"Yes, and an intention."
And here a voice, the voice of the directress, interposed:
"Mademoiselle Henri, je crois qu'il va pleuvoir; vous feriez bien, ma
bonne amie, de retourner chez vous tout de suite."
In silence, without a word of thanks for this officious warning, Mdlle.
Henri collected her books; she moved to me respectfully, endeavoured to
move to her superior, though the endeavour was almost a failure, for her
head seemed as if it would not bend, and thus departed.
Where there is one grain of perseverance or wilfulness in the composi-
tion, trifling obstacles are ever known rather to stimulate than discourage.
Mdlle. Reuter might as well have spared herself the trouble of giving that
intimation about the weather (by-the-by her prediction was falsified by the
event—it did not rain that evening). At the close of the next lesson I was
again at Mdlle. Henri's desk. Thus did I accost her:—
"What is your idea of England, mademoiselle? Why do you wish to go
there?"
Accustomed by this time to the calculated abruptness of my manner, it no
longer discomposed or surprised her, and she answered with only so much
of hesitation as was rendered inevitable by the difficulty she experienced in
improvising the translation of her thoughts from French to English.
"England is something unique, as I have heard and read; my idea of it is
vague, and I want to go there to render my idea clear, definite."
"Hum! How much of England do you suppose you could see if you went
there in the capacity of a teacher? A strange notion you must have of get-
ting a clear and definite idea of a country! All you could see of Great
Britain would be the interior of a school, or at most of one or two private
dwellings."
"It would be an English school; they would be English dwellings."
"Indisputably; but what then? What would be the value of observations
made on a scale so narrow?"
"Monsieur, might not one learn something by analogy? An-echantillon—
a—a sample often serves to give an idea of the whole; besides, narrow and
wide are words comparative, are they not? All my life would perhaps seem
narrow in your eyes—all the life of a—that little animal subterranean—une
taupe—comment dit-on?"
"Mole."
"Yes—a mole, which lives underground would seem narrow even to me."
"Well, mademoiselle—what then? Proceed."
"Mais, monsieur, vous me comprenez."
"Not in the least; have the goodness to explain."
"Why, monsieur, it is just so. In Switzerland I have done but little, learnt
but little, and seen but little; my life there was in a circle; I walked the same
round every day; I could not get out of it; had I rested—remained there
even till my death, I should never have enlarged it, because I am poor and
not skilful, I have not great acquirements; when I was quite tired of this
round, I begged my aunt to go to Brussels; my existence is no larger here,
because I am no richer or higher; I walk in as narrow a limit, but the scene
is changed; it would change again if I went to England. I knew something
of the bourgeois of Geneva, now I know something of the bourgeois of
Brussels; if I went to London, I would know something of the bourgeois of
London. Can you make any sense out of what I say, monsieur, or is it all
obscure?"
"I see, I see—now let us advert to another subject; you propose to devote
your life to teaching, and you are a most unsuccessful teacher; you cannot
keep your pupils in order."
 A flush of painful confusion was the result of this harsh remark; she bent
her head to the desk, but soon raising it replied—
"Monsieur, I am not a skilful teacher, it is true, but practice improves; be-
sides, I work under difficulties; here I only teach sewing, I can show no
power in sewing, no superiority—it is a subordinate art; then I have no as-
sociates in this house, I am isolated; I am too a heretic, which deprives me
of influence."
"And in England you would be a foreigner; that too would deprive you of
influence, and would effectually separate you from all round you; in Eng-
land you would have as few connections, as little importance as you have
here."
"But I should be learning something; for the rest, there are probably diffi-
culties for such as I everywhere, and if I must contend, and perhaps: be con-
quered, I would rather submit to English pride than to Flemish coarseness;
besides, monsieur—"
She stopped—not evidently from any difficulty in finding words to ex-
press herself, but because discretion seemed to say, "You have said
enough."
"Finish your phrase," I urged.
"Besides, monsieur, I long to live once more among Protestants; they are
more honest than Catholics; a Romish school is a building with porous
walls, a hollow floor, a false ceiling; every room in this house, monsieur,
has eyeholes and ear-holes, and what the house is, the inhabitants are, very
treacherous; they all think it lawful to tell lies; they all call it politeness to
profess friendship where they feel hatred."
"All?" said I; "you mean the pupils—the mere children—inexperienced,
giddy things, who have not learnt to distinguish the difference between right
and wrong?"
"On the contrary, monsieur—the children are the most sincere; they have
not yet had time to become accomplished in duplicity; they will tell lies, but
they do it inartificially, and you know they are lying; but the grown-up peo-
ple are very false; they deceive strangers, they deceive each other—"
A servant here entered:—
"Mdlle. Henri—Mdlle. Reuter vous prie de vouloir bien conduire la pe-
tite de Dorlodot chez elle, elle vous attend dans le cabinet de Rosalie la
portiere—c'est que sa bonne n'est pas venue la chercher—voyez-vous."
 "Eh bien! est-ce que je suis sa bonne—moi?" demanded Mdlle. Henri;
then smiling, with that same bitter, derisive smile I had seen on her lips
once before, she hastily rose and made her exit.
 CHAPTER 18

THE young Anglo-Swiss evidently derived both pleasure and profit from
the study of her mother-tongue. In teaching her I did not, of course, confine
myself to the ordinary school routine; I made instruction in English a chan-
nel for instruction in literature. I prescribed to her a course of reading; she
had a little selection of English classics, a few of which had been left her by
her mother, and the others she had purchased with her own penny-fee. I lent
her some more modern works; all these she read with avidity, giving me, in
writing, a clear summary of each work when she had perused it. Composi-
tion, too, she delighted in. Such occupation seemed the very breath of her
nostrils, and soon her improved productions wrung from me the avowal that
those qualities in her I had termed taste and fancy ought rather to have been
denominated judgment and imagination. When I intimated so much, which
I did as usual in dry and stinted phrase, I looked for the radiant and exulting
smile my one word of eulogy had elicited before; but Frances coloured. If
she did smile, it was very softly and shyly; and instead of looking up to me
with a conquering glance, her eyes rested on my hand, which, stretched
over her shoulder, was writing some directions with a pencil on the margin
of her book.
"Well, are you pleased that I am satisfied with your progress?" I asked.
"Yes," said she slowly, gently, the blush that had half subsided returning.
"But I do not say enough, I suppose?" I continued. "My praises are too
cool?"
She made no answer, and, I thought, looked a little sad. I divined her
thoughts, and should much have liked to have responded to them, had it
been expedient so to do. She was not now very ambitious of my admiration
—not eagerly desirous of dazzling me; a little affection—ever so little—
pleased her better than all the panegyrics in the world. Feeling this, I stood
a good while behind her, writing on the margin of her book. I could hardly
quit my station or relinquish my occupation; something retained me bend-
ing there, my head very near hers, and my hand near hers too; but the mar-
gin of a copy-book is not an illimitable space—so, doubtless, the directress
thought; and she took occasion to walk past in order to ascertain by what art
I prolonged so disproportionately the period necessary for filling it. I was
obliged to go. Distasteful effort—to leave what we most prefer!
Frances did not become pale or feeble in consequence of her sedentary
employment; perhaps the stimulus it communicated to her mind counterbal-
anced the inaction it imposed on her body. She changed, indeed, changed
obviously and rapidly; but it was for the better. When I first saw her, her
countenance was sunless, her complexion colourless; she looked like one
who had no source of enjoyment, no store of bliss anywhere in the world;
now the cloud had passed from her mien, leaving space for the dawn of
hope and interest, and those feelings rose like a clear morning, animating
what had been depressed, tinting what had been pale. Her eyes, whose
colour I had not at first known, so dim were they with repressed tears, so
shadowed with ceaseless dejection, now, lit by a ray of the sunshine that
cheered her heart, revealed irids of bright hazel—irids large and full,
screened with long lashes; and pupils instinct with fire. That look of wan
emaciation which anxiety or low spirits often communicates to a thoughtful,
thin face, rather long than round, having vanished from hers; a clearness of
skin almost bloom, and a plumpness almost embonpoint, softened the de-
cided lines of her features. Her figure shared in this beneficial change; it be-
came rounder, and as the harmony of her form was complete and her stature
of the graceful middle height, one did not regret (or at least I did not regret)
the absence of confirmed fulness, in contours, still slight, though compact,
elegant, flexible—the exquisite turning of waist, wrist, hand, foot, and ankle
satisfied completely my notions of symmetry, and allowed a lightness and
freedom of movement which corresponded with my ideas of grace.
Thus improved, thus wakened to life, Mdlle. Henri began to take a new
footing in the school; her mental power, manifested gradually but steadily,
ere long extorted recognition even from the envious; and when the young
and healthy saw that she could smile brightly, converse gaily, move with
vivacity and alertness, they acknowledged in her a sisterhood of youth and
health, and tolerated her as of their kind accordingly.
 To speak truth, I watched this change much as a gardener watches the
growth of a precious plant, and I contributed to it too, even as the said gar-
dener contributes to the development of his favourite. To me it was not dif-
ficult to discover how I could best foster my pupil, cherish her starved feel-
ings, and induce the outward manifestation of that inward vigour which
sunless drought and blighting blast had hitherto forbidden to expand. Con-
stancy of attention—a kindness as mute as watchful, always standing by
her, cloaked in the rough garb of austerity, and making its real nature known
only by a rare glance of interest, or a cordial and gentle word; real respect
masked with seeming imperiousness, directing, urging her actions, yet help-
ing her too, and that with devoted care: these were the means I used, for
these means best suited Frances' feelings, as susceptible as deep vibrating—
her nature at once proud and shy.
The benefits of my system became apparent also in her altered de-
meanour as a teacher; she now took her place amongst her pupils with an
air of spirit and firmness which assured them at once that she meant to be
obeyed—and obeyed she was. They felt they had lost their power over her.
If any girl had rebelled, she would no longer have taken her rebellion to
heart; she possessed a source of comfort they could not drain, a pillar of
support they could not overthrow: formerly, when insulted, she wept; now,
she smiled.
The public reading of one of her devoirs achieved the revelation of her
talents to all and sundry; I remember the subject—it was an emigrant's letter
to his friends at home. It opened with simplicity; some natural and graphic
touches disclosed to the reader the scene of virgin forest and great, New-
World river—barren of sail and flag—amidst which the epistle was sup-
posed to be indited. The difficulties and dangers that attend a settler's life,
were hinted at; and in the few words said on that subject, Mdlle. Henri
failed not to render audible the voice of resolve, patience, endeavour. The
disasters which had driven him from his native country were alluded to;
stainless honour, inflexible independence, indestructible self-respect there
took the word. Past days were spoken of; the grief of parting, the regrets of
absence, were touched upon; feeling, forcible and fine, breathed eloquent in
every period. At the close, consolation was suggested; religious faith be-
came there the speaker, and she spoke well.
The devoir was powerfully written in language at once chaste and choice,
in a style nerved with vigour and graced with harmony.
 Mdlle. Reuter was quite sufficiently acquainted with English to under-
stand it when read or spoken in her presence, though she could neither
speak nor write it herself. During the perusal of this devoir, she sat placidly
busy, her eyes and fingers occupied with the formation of a "riviere" or
open-work hem round a cambric handkerchief; she said nothing, and her
face and forehead, clothed with a mask of purely negative expression, were
as blank of comment as her lips. As neither surprise, pleasure, approbation,
nor interest were evinced in her countenance, so no more were disdain,
envy, annoyance, weariness; if that inscrutable mien said anything, it was
simply this—
"The matter is too trite to excite an emotion, or call forth an opinion."
As soon as I had done, a hum rose; several of the pupils, pressing round
Mdlle. Henri, began to beset her with compliments; the composed voice of
the directress was now heard:—
"Young ladies, such of you as have cloaks and umbrellas will hasten to
return home before the shower becomes heavier" (it was raining a little),
"the remainder will wait till their respective servants arrive to fetch them."
And the school dispersed, for it was four o'clock.
"Monsieur, a word," said Mdlle. Reuter, stepping on to the estrade, and
signifying, by a movement of the hand, that she wished me to relinquish,
for an instant, the castor I had clutched.
"Mademoiselle, I am at your service."
"Monsieur, it is of course an excellent plan to encourage effort in young
people by making conspicuous the progress of any particularly industrious
pupil; but do you not think that in the present instance, Mdlle. Henri can
hardly be considered as a concurrent with the other pupils? She is older than
most of them, and has had advantages of an exclusive nature for acquiring a
knowledge of English; on the other hand, her sphere of life is somewhat be-
neath theirs; under these circumstances, a public distinction, conferred upon
Mdlle. Henri, may be the means of suggesting comparisons, and exciting
feelings such as would be far from advantageous to the individual forming
their object. The interest I take in Mdlle. Henri's real welfare makes me de-
sirous of screening her from annoyances of this sort; besides, monsieur, as I
have before hinted to you, the sentiment of AMOUR-PROPRE has a some-
what marked preponderance in her character; celebrity has a tendency to
foster this sentiment, and in her it should be rather repressed—she rather
needs keeping down than bringing forward; and then I think, monsieur—it
appears to me that ambition, LITERARY ambition especially, is not a feel-
ing to be cherished in the mind of a woman: would not Mdlle. Henri be
much safer and happier if taught to believe that in the quiet discharge of so-
cial duties consists her real vocation, than if stimulated to aspire after ap-
plause and publicity? She may never marry; scanty as are her resources, ob-
scure as are her connections, uncertain as is her health (for I think her con-
sumptive, her mother died of that complaint), it is more than probable she
never will. I do not see how she can rise to a position, whence such a step
would be possible; but even in celibacy it would be better for her to retain
the character and habits of a respectable decorous female."
"Indisputably, mademoiselle," was my answer. "Your opinion admits of
no doubt;" and, fearful of the harangue being renewed, I retreated under
cover of that cordial sentence of assent.
At the date of a fortnight after the little incident noted above, I find it
recorded in my diary that a hiatus occurred in Mdlle. Henri's usually regular
attendance in class. The first day or two I wondered at her absence, but did
not like to ask an explanation of it; I thought indeed some chance word
might be dropped which would afford me the information I wished to ob-
tain, without my running the risk of exciting silly smiles and gossiping
whispers by demanding it. But when a week passed and the seat at the desk
near the door still remained vacant, and when no allusion was made to the
circumstance by any individual of the class—when, on the contrary, I found
that all observed a marked silence on the point—I determined, COUTE
QUI COUTE, to break the ice of this silly reserve. I selected Sylvie as my
informant, because from her I knew that I should at least get a sensible an-
swer, unaccompanied by wriggle, titter, or other flourish of folly.
"Ou donc est Mdlle. Henri?" I said one day as I returned an exercise-
book I had been examining.
"Elle est partie, monsieur."
"Partie? et pour combien de temps? Quand reviendra-t-elle?"
"Elle est partie pour toujours, monsieur; elle ne reviendra plus."
"Ah!" was my involuntary exclamation; then after a pause:—
"En etes-vous bien sure, Sylvie?"
"Oui, oui, monsieur, mademoiselle la directrice nous l'a dit elle-meme il
y a deux ou trois jours."
And I could pursue my inquiries no further; time, place, and circum-
stances forbade my adding another word. I could neither comment on what
had been said, nor demand further particulars. A question as to the reason of
the teacher's departure, as to whether it had been voluntary or otherwise,
was indeed on my lips, but I suppressed it—there were listeners all round.
An hour after, in passing Sylvie in the corridor as she was putting on her
bonnet, I stopped short and asked:—
"Sylvie, do you know Mdlle. Henri's address? I have some books of
hers," I added carelessly, "and I should wish to send them to her."
"No, monsieur," replied Sylvie; "but perhaps Rosalie, the portress, will be
able to give it you."
Rosalie's cabinet was just at hand; I stepped in and repeated the inquiry.
Rosalie—a smart French grisette—looked up from her work with a know-
ing smile, precisely the sort of smile I had been so desirous to avoid excit-
ing. Her answer was prepared; she knew nothing whatever of Mdlle. Henri's
address—had never known it. Turning from her with impatience—for I be-
lieved she lied and was hired to lie—I almost knocked down some one who
had been standing at my back; it was the directress. My abrupt movement
made her recoil two or three steps. I was obliged to apologize, which I did
more concisely than politely. No man likes to be dogged, and in the very
irritable mood in which I then was the sight of Mdlle. Reuter thoroughly
incensed me. At the moment I turned her countenance looked hard, dark,
and inquisitive; her eyes were bent upon me with an expression of almost
hungry curiosity. I had scarcely caught this phase of physiognomy ere it had
vanished; a bland smile played on her features; my harsh apology was re-
ceived with good-humoured facility.
"Oh, don't mention it, monsieur; you only touched my hair with your el-
bow; it is no worse, only a little dishevelled." She shook it back, and pass-
ing her fingers through her curls, loosened them into more numerous and
flowing ringlets. Then she went on with vivacity:
"Rosalie, I was coming to tell you to go instantly and close the windows
of the salon; the wind is rising, and the muslin curtains will be covered with
dust."
Rosalie departed. "Now," thought I, "this will not do; Mdlle. Reuter
thinks her meanness in eaves-dropping is screened by her art in devising a
pretext, whereas the muslin curtains she speaks of are not more transparent
than this same pretext." An impulse came over me to thrust the flimsy
screen aside, and confront her craft boldly with a word or two of plain truth.
"The rough-shod foot treads most firmly on slippery ground," thought I; so I
began:
"Mademoiselle Henri has left your establishment—been dismissed, I
presume?"
"Ah, I wished to have a little conversation with you, monsieur," replied
the directress with the most natural and affable air in the world; "but we
cannot talk quietly here; will Monsieur step into the garden a minute?" And
she preceded me, stepping out through the glass-door I have before
mentioned.
"There," said she, when we had reached the centre of the middle alley,
and when the foliage of shrubs and trees, now in their summer pride, clos-
ing behind end around us, shut out the view of the house, and thus imparted
a sense of seclusion even to this little plot of ground in the very core of a
capital.
"There, one feels quiet and free when there are only pear-trees and rose-
bushes about one; I dare say you, like me, monsieur, are sometimes tired of
being eternally in the midst of life; of having human faces always round
you, human eyes always upon you, human voices always in your ear. I am
sure I often wish intensely for liberty to spend a whole month in the country
at some little farm-house, bien gentille, bien propre, tout entouree de
champs et de bois; quelle vie charmante que la vie champetre! N'est-ce pas,
monsieur?"
"Cela depend, mademoiselle."
"Que le vent est bon et frais!" continued the directress; and she was right
there, for it was a south wind, soft and sweet. I carried my hat in my hand,
and this gentle breeze, passing through my hair, soothed my temples like
balm. Its refreshing effect, however, penetrated no deeper than the mere
surface of the frame; for as I walked by the side of Mdlle. Reuter, my heart
was still hot within me, and while I was musing the fire burned; then spake
I with my tongue:—
"I understand Mdlle. Henri is gone from hence, and will not return?"
"Ah, true! I meant to have named the subject to you some days ago, but
my time is so completely taken up, I cannot do half the things I wish: have
you never experienced what it is, monsieur, to find the day too short by
twelve hours for your numerous duties?"
"Not often. Mdlle. Henri's departure was not voluntary, I presume? If it
had been, she would certainly have given me some intimation of it, being
my pupil."
"Oh, did she not tell you? that was strange; for my part, I never thought
of adverting to the subject; when one has so many things to attend to, one is
apt to forget little incidents that are not of primary importance."
"You consider Mdlle. Henri's dismission, then, as a very insignificant
event?"
"Dismission? Ah! she was not dismissed; I can say with truth, monsieur,
that since I became the head of this establishment no master or teacher has
ever been dismissed from it."
"Yet some have left it, mademoiselle?"
"Many; I have found it necessary to change frequently—a change of in-
structors is often beneficial to the interests of a school; it gives life and vari-
ety to the proceedings; it amuses the pupils, and suggests to the parents the
idea of exertion and progress."
"Yet when you are tired of a professor or maitresse, you scruple to dis-
miss them?"
"No need to have recourse to such extreme measures, I assure you. Al-
lons, monsieur le professeur—asseyons-nous; je vais vous donner une petite
lecon dans votre etat d'instituteur." (I wish I might write all she said to me
in French—it loses sadly by being translated into English.) We had now
reached THE garden-chair; the directress sat down, and signed to me to sit
by her, but I only rested my knee on the seat, and stood leaning my head
and arm against the embowering branch of a huge laburnum, whose golden
flowers, blent with the dusky green leaves of a lilac-bush, formed a mixed
arch of shade and sunshine over the retreat. Mdlle. Reuter sat silent a mo-
ment; some novel movements were evidently working in her mind, and they
showed their nature on her astute brow; she was meditating some CHEF
D'OEUVRE of policy. Convinced by several months' experience that the
affectation of virtues she did not possess was unavailing to ensnare me—
aware that I had read her real nature, and would believe nothing of the char-
acter she gave out as being hers—she had determined, at last, to try a new
key, and see if the lock of my heart would yield to that; a little audacity, a
word of truth, a glimpse of the real. "Yes, I will try," was her inward re-
solve; and then her blue eye glittered upon me—it did not flash—nothing of
flame ever kindled in its temperate gleam.
"Monsieur fears to sit by me?" she inquired playfully.
 "I have no wish to usurp Pelet's place," I answered, for I had got the habit
of speaking to her bluntly—a habit begun in anger, but continued because I
saw that, instead of offending, it fascinated her. She cast down her eyes, and
drooped her eyelids; she sighed uneasily; she turned with an anxious ges-
ture, as if she would give me the idea of a bird that flutters in its cage, and
would fain fly from its jail and jailer, and seek its natural mate and pleasant
nest.
"Well—and your lesson?" I demanded briefly.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, recovering herself, "you are so young, so frank and
fearless, so talented, so impatient of imbecility, so disdainful of vulgarity,
you need a lesson; here it is then: far more is to be done in this world by
dexterity than by strength; but, perhaps, you knew that before, for there is
delicacy as well as power in your character—policy, as well as pride?"
"Go on," said I; and I could hardly help smiling, the flattery was so pi-
quant, so finely seasoned. She caught the prohibited smile, though I passed
my hand over my month to conceal it; and again she made room for me to
sit beside her. I shook my head, though temptation penetrated to my senses
at the moment, and once more I told her to go on.
"Well, then, if ever you are at the head of a large establishment, dismiss
nobody. To speak truth, monsieur (and to you I will speak truth), I despise
people who are always making rows, blustering, sending off one to the
right, and another to the left, urging and hurrying circumstances. I'll tell you
what I like best to do, monsieur, shall I?" She looked up again; she had
compounded her glance well this time—much archness, more deference, a
spicy dash of coquetry, an unveiled consciousness of capacity. I nodded; she
treated me like the great Mogul; so I became the great Mogul as far as she
was concerned.
"I like, monsieur, to take my knitting in my hands, and to sit quietly
down in my chair; circumstances defile past me; I watch their march; so
long as they follow the course I wish, I say nothing, and do nothing; I don't
clap my hands, and cry out 'Bravo! How lucky I am!' to attract the attention
and envy of my neighbours—I am merely passive; but when events fall out
ill—when circumstances become adverse—I watch very vigilantly; I knit
on still, and still I hold my tongue; but every now and then, monsieur, I just
put my toe out—so—and give the rebellious circumstance a little secret
push, without noise, which sends it the way I wish, and I am successful af-
ter all, and nobody has seen my expedient. So, when teachers or masters be-
come troublesome and inefficient—when, in short, the interests of the
school would suffer from their retaining their places—I mind my knitting,
events progress, circumstances glide past; I see one which, if pushed ever
so little awry, will render untenable the post I wish to have vacated—the
deed is done—the stumbling-block removed—and no one saw me: I have
not made an enemy, I am rid of an incumbrance."
A moment since, and I thought her alluring; this speech concluded, I
looked on her with distaste. "Just like you," was my cold answer. "And in
this way you have ousted Mdlle. Henri? You wanted her office, therefore
you rendered it intolerable to her?"
"Not at all, monsieur, I was merely anxious about Mdlle. Henri's health;
no, your moral sight is clear and piercing, but there you have failed to dis-
cover the truth. I took—I have always taken a real interest in Mdlle. Henri's
welfare; I did not like her going out in all weathers; I thought it would be
more advantageous for her to obtain a permanent situation; besides, I con-
sidered her now qualified to do something more than teach sewing. I rea-
soned with her; left the decision to herself; she saw the correctness of my
views, and adopted them."
"Excellent! and now, mademoiselle, you will have the goodness to give
me her address."
"Her address!" and a sombre and stony change came over the mien of the
directress. "Her address? Ah?—well—I wish I could oblige you, monsieur,
but I cannot, and I will tell you why; whenever I myself asked her for her
address, she always evaded the inquiry. I thought—I may be wrong—but I
THOUGHT her motive for doing so, was a natural, though mistaken reluc-
tance to introduce me to some, probably, very poor abode; her means were
narrow, her origin obscure; she lives somewhere, doubtless, in the 'basse
ville.'"
"I'll not lose sight of my best pupil yet," said I, "though she were born of
beggars and lodged in a cellar; for the rest, it is absurd to make a bugbear of
her origin to me—I happen to know that she was a Swiss pastor's daughter,
neither more nor less; and, as to her narrow means, I care nothing for the
poverty of her purse so long as her heart overflows with affluence."
"Your sentiments are perfectly noble, monsieur," said the directress, af-
fecting to suppress a yawn; her sprightliness was now extinct, her tempo-
rary candour shut up; the little, red-coloured, piratical-looking pennon of
audacity she had allowed to float a minute in the air, was furled, and the
broad, sober-hued flag of dissimulation again hung low over the citadel. I
did not like her thus, so I cut short the TETE-A-TETE and departed.
 CHAPTER 19

NOVELISTS should never allow themselves to weary of the study of real

life. If they observed this duty conscientiously, they would give us fewer
pictures chequered with vivid contrasts of light and shade; they would sel-
dom elevate their heroes and heroines to the heights of rapture—still sel-
domer sink them to the depths of despair; for if we rarely taste the fulness
of joy in this life, we yet more rarely savour the acrid bitterness of hopeless
anguish; unless, indeed, we have plunged like beasts into sensual indul-
gence, abused, strained, stimulated, again overstrained, and, at last, de-
stroyed our faculties for enjoyment; then, truly, we may find ourselves with-
out support, robbed of hope. Our agony is great, and how can it end? We
have broken the spring of our powers; life must be all suffering—too feeble
to conceive faith—death must be darkness—God, spirits, religion can have
no place in our collapsed minds, where linger only hideous and polluting
recollections of vice; and time brings us on to the brink of the grave, and
dissolution flings us in—a rag eaten through and through with disease,
wrung together with pain, stamped into the churchyard sod by the inex-
orable heel of despair.
But the man of regular life and rational mind never despairs. He loses his
property—it is a blow—he staggers a moment; then, his energies, roused by
the smart, are at work to seek a remedy; activity soon mitigates regret. Sick-
ness affects him; he takes patience—endures what he cannot cure. Acute
pain racks him; his writhing limbs know not where to find rest; he leans on
Hope's anchors. Death takes from him what he loves; roots up, and tears vi-
olently away the stem round which his affections were twined—a dark, dis-
mal time, a frightful wrench—but some morning Religion looks into his
desolate house with sunrise, and says, that in another world, another life, he
shall meet his kindred again. She speaks of that world as a place unsullied
by sin—of that life, as an era unembittered by suffering; she mightily
strengthens her consolation by connecting with it two ideas—which mortals
cannot comprehend, but on which they love to repose—Eternity, Immortali-
ty; and the mind of the mourner, being filled with an image, faint yet glori-
ous, of heavenly hills all light and peace—of a spirit resting there in bliss—
of a day when his spirit shall also alight there, free and disembodied—of a
reunion perfected by love, purified from fear—he takes courage—goes out
to encounter the necessities and discharge the duties of life; and, though
sadness may never lift her burden from his mind, Hope will enable him to
support it.
Well—and what suggested all this? and what is the inference to be drawn
therefrom? What suggested it, is the circumstance of my best pupil—my
treasure—being snatched from my hands, and put away out of my reach;
the inference to be drawn from it is—that, being a steady, reasonable man, I
did not allow the resentment, disappointment, and grief, engendered in my
mind by this evil chance, to grow there to any monstrous size; nor did I al-
low them to monopolize the whole space of my heart; I pent them, on the
contrary, in one strait and secret nook. In the daytime, too, when I was
about my duties, I put them on the silent system; and it was only after I had
closed the door of my chamber at night that I somewhat relaxed my severity
towards these morose nurslings, and allowed vent to their language of mur-
murs; then, in revenge, they sat on my pillow, haunted my bed, and kept me
awake with their long, midnight cry.
A week passed. I had said nothing more to Mdlle. Reuter. I had been
calm in my demeanour to her, though stony cold and hard. When I looked at
her, it was with the glance fitting to be bestowed on one who I knew had
consulted jealousy as an adviser, and employed treachery as an instrument
—the glance of quiet disdain and rooted distrust. On Saturday evening, ere I
left the house, I stept into the SALLE-A-MANGER, where she was sitting
alone, and, placing myself before her, I asked, with the same tranquil tone
and manner that I should have used had I put the question for the first time
—
"Mademoiselle, will you have the goodness to give me the address of
Frances Evans Henri?"
A little surprised, but not disconcerted, she smilingly disclaimed any
knowledge of that address, adding, "Monsieur has perhaps forgotten that I
explained all about that circumstance before—a week ago?"
"Mademoiselle," I continued, "you would greatly oblige me by directing
me to that young person's abode."
She seemed somewhat puzzled; and, at last, looking up with an ad-
mirably counterfeited air of naivete, she demanded, "Does Monsieur think I
am telling an untruth?"
Still avoiding to give her a direct answer, I said, "It is not then your inten-
tion, mademoiselle, to oblige me in this particular?"
"But, monsieur, how can I tell you what I do not know?"
"Very well; I understand you perfectly, mademoiselle, and now I have
only two or three words to say. This is the last week in July; in another
month the vacation will commence, have the goodness to avail yourself of
the leisure it will afford you to look out for another English master—at the
close of August, I shall be under the necessity of resigning my post in your
establishment."
I did not wait for her comments on this announcement, but bowed and
immediately withdrew.
That same evening, soon after dinner, a servant brought me a small pack-
et; it was directed in a hand I knew, but had not hoped so soon to see again;
being in my own apartment and alone, there was nothing to prevent my im-
mediately opening it; it contained four five-franc pieces, and a note in
English.
"MONSIEUR,
"I came to Mdlle. Reuter's house yesterday, at the time when I knew you
would be just about finishing your lesson, and I asked if I might go into the
schoolroom and speak to you. Mdlle. Reuter came out and said you were
already gone; it had not yet struck four, so I thought she must be mistaken,
but concluded it would be vain to call another day on the same errand. In
one sense a note will do as well—it will wrap up the 20 francs, the price of
the lessons I have received from you; and if it will not fully express the
thanks I owe you in addition—if it will not bid you good-bye as I could
wish to have done—if it will not tell you, as I long to do, how sorry I am
that I shall probably never see you more—why, spoken words would hardly
be more adequate to the task. Had I seen you, I should probably have stam-
mered out something feeble and unsatisfactory—something belying my
feelings rather than explaining them; so it is perhaps as well that I was de-
nied admission to your presence. You often remarked, monsieur, that my
devoirs dwelt a great deal on fortitude in bearing grief—you said I intro-
duced that theme too often: I find indeed that it is much easier to write
about a severe duty than to perform it, for I am oppressed when I see and
feel to what a reverse fate has condemned me; you were kind to me, mon-
sieur—very kind; I am afflicted—I am heart-broken to be quite separated
from you; soon I shall have no friend on earth. But it is useless troubling
you with my distresses. What claim have I on your sympathy? None; I will
then say no more.
"Farewell, Monsieur.
"F. E. HENRI."
I put up the note in my pocket-book. I slipped the five-franc pieces into
my purse—then I took a turn through my narrow chamber.
"Mdlle. Reuter talked about her poverty," said I, "and she is poor; yet she
pays her debts and more. I have not yet given her a quarter's lessons, and
she has sent me a quarter's due. I wonder of what she deprived herself to
scrape together the twenty francs—I wonder what sort of a place she has to
live in, and what sort of a woman her aunt is, and whether she is likely to
get employment to supply the place she has lost. No doubt she will have to
trudge about long enough from school to school, to inquire here, and apply
there—be rejected in this place, disappointed in that. Many an evening
she'll go to her bed tired and unsuccessful. And the directress would not let
her in to bid me good-bye? I might not have the chance of standing with her
for a few minutes at a window in the schoolroom and exchanging some
half-dozen of sentences—getting to know where she lived—putting matters
in train for having all things arranged to my mind? No address on the
note"—I continued, drawing it again from the pocket-book and examining
it on each side of the two leaves: "women are women, that is certain, and
always do business like women; men mechanically put a date and address
to their communications. And these five-franc pieces?"—(I hauled them
forth from my purse)—"if she had offered me them herself instead of tying
them up with a thread of green silk in a kind of Lilliputian packet, I could
have thrust them back into her little hand, and shut up the small, taper fin-
gers over them—so—and compelled her shame, her pride, her shyness, all
to yield to a little bit of determined Will—now where is she? How can I get
at her?"
Opening my chamber door I walked down into the kitchen.
 "Who brought the packet?" I asked of the servant who had delivered it to
me.
"Un petit commissionaire, monsieur."
"Did he say anything?"
"Rien."
And I wended my way up the back-stairs, wondrously the wiser for my
inquiries.
"No matter," said I to myself, as I again closed the door. "No matter—I'll
seek her through Brussels."
And I did. I sought her day by day whenever I had a moment's leisure, for
four weeks; I sought her on Sundays all day long; I sought her on the
Boulevards, in the Allee Verte, in the Park; I sought her in Ste. Gudule and
St. Jacques; I sought her in the two Protestant chapels; I attended these lat-
ter at the German, French, and English services, not doubting that I should
meet her at one of them. All my researches were absolutely fruitless; my
security on the last point was proved by the event to be equally groundless
with my other calculations. I stood at the door of each chapel after the ser-
vice, and waited till every individual had come out, scrutinizing every gown
draping a slender form, peering under every bonnet covering a young head.
In vain; I saw girlish figures pass me, drawing their black scarfs over their
sloping shoulders, but none of them had the exact turn and air of Mdlle.
Henri's; I saw pale and thoughtful faces "encadrees" in bands of brown hair,
but I never found her forehead, her eyes, her eyebrows. All the features of
all the faces I met seemed frittered away, because my eye failed to recog-
nize the peculiarities it was bent upon; an ample space of brow and a large,
dark, and serious eye, with a fine but decided line of eyebrow traced above.
"She has probably left Brussels—perhaps is gone to England, as she said
she would," muttered I inwardly, as on the afternoon of the fourth Sunday, I
turned from the door of the chapel-royal which the door-keeper had just
closed and locked, and followed in the wake of the last of the congregation,
now dispersed and dispersing over the square. I had soon outwalked the
couples of English gentlemen and ladies. (Gracious goodness! why don't
they dress better? My eye is yet filled with visions of the high-flounced,
slovenly, and tumbled dresses in costly silk and satin, of the large unbecom-
ing collars in expensive lace; of the ill-cut coats and strangely fashioned
pantaloons which every Sunday, at the English service, filled the choirs of
the chapel-royal, and after it, issuing forth into the square, came into disad-
vantageous contrast with freshly and trimly attired foreign figures, hasten-
ing to attend salut at the church of Coburg.) I had passed these pairs of
Britons, and the groups of pretty British children, and the British footmen
and waiting-maids; I had crossed the Place Royale, and got into the Rue
Royale, thence I had diverged into the Rue de Louvain—an old and quiet
street. I remember that, feeling a little hungry, and not desiring to go back
and take my share of the "gouter," now on the refectory-table at Pelet's—to
wit, pistolets and water—I stepped into a baker's and refreshed myself on a
COUC(?)—it is a Flemish word, I don't know how to spell it—A
CORINTHE-ANGLICE, a currant bun—and a cup of coffee; and then I
strolled on towards the Porte de Louvain. Very soon I was out of the city,
and slowly mounting the hill, which ascends from the gate, I took my time;
for the afternoon, though cloudy, was very sultry, and not a breeze stirred to
refresh the atmosphere. No inhabitant of Brussels need wander far to search
for solitude; let him but move half a league from his own city and he will
find her brooding still and blank over the wide fields, so drear though so fer-
tile, spread out treeless and trackless round the capital of Brabant. Having
gained the summit of the hill, and having stood and looked long over the
cultured but lifeless campaign, I felt a wish to quit the high road, which I
had hitherto followed, and get in among those tilled grounds—fertile as the
beds of a Brobdignagian kitchen-garden—spreading far and wide even to
the boundaries of the horizon, where, from a dusk green, distance changed
them to a sullen blue, and confused their tints with those of the livid and
thunderous-looking sky. Accordingly I turned up a by-path to the right; I
had not followed it far ere it brought me, as I expected, into the fields,
amidst which, just before me, stretched a long and lofty white wall enclos-
ing, as it seemed from the foliage showing above, some thickly planted
nursery of yew and cypress, for of that species were the branches resting on
the pale parapets, and crowding gloomily about a massive cross, planted
doubtless on a central eminence and extending its arms, which seemed of
black marble, over the summits of those sinister trees. I approached, won-
dering to what house this well-protected garden appertained; I turned the
angle of the wall, thinking to see some stately residence; I was close upon
great iron gates; there was a hut serving for a lodge near, but I had no occa-
sion to apply for the key—the gates were open; I pushed one leaf back—
rain had rusted its hinges, for it groaned dolefully as they revolved. Thick
planting embowered the entrance. Passing up the avenue, I saw objects on
each hand which, in their own mute language of inscription and sign, ex-
plained clearly to what abode I had made my way. This was the house ap-
pointed for all living; crosses, monuments, and garlands of everlastings an-
nounced, "The Protestant Cemetery, outside the gate of Louvain."
The place was large enough to afford half an hour's strolling without the
monotony of treading continually the same path; and, for those who love to
peruse the annals of graveyards, here was variety of inscription enough to
occupy the attention for double or treble that space of time. Hither people of
many kindreds, tongues, and nations, had brought their dead for interment;
and here, on pages of stone, of marble, and of brass, were written names,
dates, last tributes of pomp or love, in English, in French, in German, and
Latin. Here the Englishman had erected a marble monument over the re-
mains of his Mary Smith or Jane Brown, and inscribed it only with her
name. There the French widower had shaded the grave: of his Elmire or Ce-
lestine with a brilliant thicket of roses, amidst which a little tablet rising,
bore an equally bright testimony to her countless virtues. Every nation,
tribe, and kindred, mourned after its own fashion; and how soundless was
the mourning of all! My own tread, though slow and upon smooth-rolled
paths, seemed to startle, because it formed the sole break to a silence other-
wise total. Not only the winds, but the very fitful, wandering airs, were that
afternoon, as by common consent, all fallen asleep in their various quarters;
the north was hushed, the south silent, the east sobbed not, nor did the west
whisper. The clouds in heaven were condensed and dull, but apparently
quite motionless. Under the trees of this cemetery nestled a warm breathless
gloom, out of which the cypresses stood up straight and mute, above which
the willows hung low and still; where the flowers, as languid as fair, waited
listless for night dew or thunder-shower; where the tombs, and those they
hid, lay impassible to sun or shadow, to rain or drought.
Importuned by the sound of my own footsteps, I turned off upon the turf,
and slowly advanced to a grove of yews; I saw something stir among the
stems; I thought it might be a broken branch swinging, my short-sighted vi-
sion had caught no form, only a sense of motion; but the dusky shade
passed on, appearing and disappearing at the openings in the avenue. I soon
discerned it was a living thing, and a human thing; and, drawing nearer, I
perceived it was a woman, pacing slowly to and fro, and evidently deeming
herself alone as I had deemed myself alone, and meditating as I had been
meditating. Ere long she returned to a seat which I fancy she had but just
quitted, or I should have caught sight of her before. It was in a nook,
screened by a clump of trees; there was the white wall before her, and a lit-
tle stone set up against the wall, and, at the foot of the stone, was an allot-
ment of turf freshly turned up, a new-made grave. I put on my spectacles,
and passed softly close behind her; glancing at the inscription on the stone,
I read," Julienne Henri, died at Brussels, aged sixty. August 10th, 18—."
Having perused the inscription, I looked down at the form sitting bent and
thoughtful just under my eyes, unconscious of the vicinity of any living
thing; it was a slim, youthful figure in mourning apparel of the plainest
black stuff, with a little simple, black crape bonnet; I felt, as well as saw,
who it was; and, moving neither hand nor foot, I stood some moments en-
joying the security of conviction. I had sought her for a month, and had
never discovered one of her traces—never met a hope, or seized a chance of
encountering her anywhere. I had been forced to loosen my grasp on expec-
tation; and, but an hour ago, had sunk slackly under the discouraging
thought that the current of life, and the impulse of destiny, had swept her for
ever from my reach; and, behold, while bending suddenly earthward be-
neath the pressure of despondency—while following with my eyes the track
of sorrow on the turf of a graveyard—here was my lost jewel dropped on
the tear-fed herbage, nestling in the messy and mouldy roots of yew-trees.
Frances sat very quiet, her elbow on her knee, and her head on her hand.
I knew she could retain a thinking attitude a long time without change; at
last, a tear fell; she had been looking at the name on the stone before her,
and her heart had no doubt endured one of those constrictions with which
the desolate living, regretting the dead, are, at times, so sorely oppressed.
Many tears rolled down, which she wiped away, again and again, with her
handkerchief; some distressed sobs escaped her, and then, the paroxysm
over, she sat quiet as before. I put my hand gently on her shoulder; no need
further to prepare her, for she was neither hysterical nor liable to fainting-
fits; a sudden push, indeed, might have startled her, but the contact of my
quiet touch merely woke attention as I wished; and, though she turned
quickly, yet so lightning-swift is thought—in some minds especially—I be-
lieve the wonder of what—the consciousness of who it was that thus stole
unawares on her solitude, had passed through her brain, and flashed into her
heart, even before she had effected that hasty movement; at least, Amaze-
ment had hardly opened her eyes and raised them to mine, ere Recognition
informed their irids with most speaking brightness. Nervous surprise had
hardly discomposed her features ere a sentiment of most vivid joy shone
clear and warm on her whole countenance. I had hardly time to observe that
she was wasted and pale, ere called to feel a responsive inward pleasure by
the sense of most full and exquisite pleasure glowing in the animated flush,
and shining in the expansive light, now diffused over my pupil's face. It was
the summer sun flashing out after the heavy summer shower; and what fer-
tilizes more rapidly than that beam, burning almost like fire in its ardour?
I hate boldness—that boldness which is of the brassy brow and insensate
nerves; but I love the courage of the strong heart, the fervour of the gener-
ous blood; I loved with passion the light of Frances Evans' clear hazel eye
when it did not fear to look straight into mine; I loved the tones with which
she uttered the words—
"Mon maitre! mon maitre!"
I loved the movement with which she confided her hand to my hand; I
loved her as she stood there, penniless and parentless; for a sensualist
charmless, for me a treasure—my best object of sympathy on earth, think-
ing such thoughts as I thought, feeling such feelings as I felt; my ideal of
the shrine in which to seal my stores of love; personification of discretion
and forethought, of diligence and perseverance, of self-denial and self-con-
trol—those guardians, those trusty keepers of the gift I longed to confer on
her—the gift of all my affections; model of truth and honour, of indepen-
dence and conscientiousness—those refiners and sustainers of an honest
life; silent possessor of a well of tenderness, of a flame, as genial as still, as
pure as quenchless, of natural feeling, natural passion—those sources of re-
freshment and comfort to the sanctuary of home. I knew how quietly and
how deeply the well bubbled in her heart; I knew how the more dangerous
flame burned safely under the eye of reason; I had seen when the fire shot
up a moment high and vivid, when the accelerated heat troubled life's cur-
rent in its channels; I had seen reason reduce the rebel, and humble its blaze
to embers. I had confidence in Frances Evans; I had respect for her, and as I
drew her arm through mine, and led her out of the cemetery, I felt I had an-
other sentiment, as strong as confidence, as firm as respect, more fervid than
either—that of love.
"Well, my pupil," said I, as the ominous sounding gate swung to behind
us—"Well, I have found you again: a month's search has seemed long, and I
little thought to have discovered my lost sheep straying amongst graves."
 Never had I addressed her but as "Mademoiselle" before, and to speak
thus was to take up a tone new to both her and me. Her answer suprised me
that this language ruffled none of her feelings, woke no discord in her heart:
"Mon maitre," she said, "have you troubled yourself to seek me? I little
imagined you would think much of my absence, but I grieved bitterly to be
taken away from you. I was sorry for that circumstance when heavier trou-
bles ought to have made me forget it."
"Your aunt is dead?"
"Yes, a fortnight since, and she died full of regret, which I could not
chase from her mind; she kept repeating, even during the last night of her
existence, 'Frances, you will be so lonely when I am gone, so friendless:'
she wished too that she could have been buried in Switzerland, and it was I
who persuaded her in her old age to leave the banks of Lake Leman, and to
come, only as it seems to die, in this flat region of Flanders. Willingly
would I have observed her last wish, and taken her remains back to our own
country, but that was impossible; I was forced to lay her here."
"She was ill but a short time, I presume?"
"But three weeks. When she began to sink I asked Mdlle. Reuter's leave
to stay with her and wait on her; I readily got leave."
"Do you return to the pensionnat!" I demanded hastily.
"Monsieur, when I had been at home a week Mdlle. Reuter called one
evening, just after I had got my aunt to bed; she went into her room to speak
to her, and was extremely civil and affable, as she always is; afterwards she
came and sat with me a long time, and just as she rose to go away, she said:
"Mademoiselle, I shall not soon cease to regret your departure from my es-
tablishment, though indeed it is true that you have taught your class of
pupils so well that they are all quite accomplished in the little works you
manage so skilfully, and have not the slightest need of further instruction;
my second teacher must in future supply your place, with regard to the
younger pupils, as well as she can, though she is indeed an inferior artiste to
you, and doubtless it will be your part now to assume a higher position in
your calling; I am sure you will everywhere find schools and families will-
ing to profit by your talents.' And then she paid me my last quarter's salary.
I asked, as mademoiselle would no doubt think, very bluntly, if she de-
signed to discharge me from the establishment. She smiled at my inelegance
of speech, and answered that 'our connection as employer and employed
was certainly dissolved, but that she hoped still to retain the pleasure of my
acquaintance; she should always be happy to see me as a friend;' and then
she said something about the excellent condition of the streets, and the long
continuance of fine weather, and went away quite cheerful."
I laughed inwardly; all this was so like the directress—so like what I had
expected and guessed of her conduct; and then the exposure and proof of
her lie, unconsciously afforded by Frances:—"She had frequently applied
for Mdlle. Henri's address," forsooth; "Mdlle. Henri had always evaded giv-
ing it," &c., &c., and here I found her a visitor at the very house of whose
locality she had professed absolute ignorance!
Any comments I might have intended to make on my pupil's communica-
tion, were checked by the plashing of large rain-drops on our faces and on
the path, and by the muttering of a distant but coming storm. The warning
obvious in stagnant air and leaden sky had already induced me to take the
road leading back to Brussels, and now I hastened my own steps and those
of my companion, and, as our way lay downhill, we got on rapidly. There
was an interval after the fall of the first broad drops before heavy rain came
on; in the meantime we had passed through the Porte de Louvain, and were
again in the city.
"Where do you live?" I asked; "I will see you safe home."
"Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges," answered Frances.
It was not far from the Rue de Louvain, and we stood on the doorsteps of
the house we sought ere the clouds, severing with loud peal and shattered
cataract of lightning, emptied their livid folds in a torrent, heavy, prone, and
broad.
"Come in! come in!" said Frances, as, after putting her into the house, I
paused ere I followed: the word decided me; I stepped across the threshold,
shut the door on the rushing, flashing, whitening storm, and followed her
upstairs to her apartments. Neither she nor I were wet; a projection over the
door had warded off the straight-descending flood; none but the first, large
drops had touched our garments; one minute more and we should not have
had a dry thread on us.
Stepping over a little mat of green wool, I found myself in a small room
with a painted floor and a square of green carpet in the middle; the articles
of furniture were few, but all bright and exquisitely clean; order reigned
through its narrow limits—such order as it soothed my punctilious soul to
behold. And I had hesitated to enter the abode, because I apprehended after
all that Mdlle. Reuter's hint about its extreme poverty might be too well-
founded, and I feared to embarrass the lace-mender by entering her lodg-
ings unawares! Poor the place might be; poor truly it was; but its neatness
was better than elegance, and had but a bright little fire shone on that clean
hearth, I should have deemed it more attractive than a palace. No fire was
there, however, and no fuel laid ready to light; the lace-mender was unable
to allow herself that indulgence, especially now when, deprived by death of
her sole relative, she had only her own unaided exertions to rely on. Frances
went into an inner room to take off her bonnet, and she came out a model of
frugal neatness, with her well-fitting black stuff dress, so accurately defin-
ing her elegant bust and taper waist, with her spotless white collar turned
back from a fair and shapely neck, with her plenteous brown hair arranged
in smooth bands on her temples, and in a large Grecian plait behind: orna-
ments she had none—neither brooch, ring, nor ribbon; she did well enough
without them—perfection of fit, proportion of form, grace of carriage,
agreeably supplied their place. Her eye, as she re-entered the small sitting-
room, instantly sought mine, which was just then lingering on the hearth; I
knew she read at once the sort of inward ruth and pitying pain which the
chill vacancy of that hearth stirred in my soul: quick to penetrate, quick to
determine, and quicker to put in practice, she had in a moment tied a hol-
land apron round her waist; then she disappeared, and reappeared with a
basket; it had a cover; she opened it, and produced wood and coal; deftly
and compactly she arranged them in the grate.
"It is her whole stock, and she will exhaust it out of hospitality," thought
I.
"What are you going to do?" I asked: "not surely to light a fire this hot
evening? I shall be smothered."
"Indeed, monsieur, I feel it very chilly since the rain began; besides, I
must boil the water for my tea, for I take tea on Sundays; you will be oblig-
ed to try and bear the heat."
She had struck a light; the wood was already in a blaze; and truly, when
contrasted with the darkness, the wild tumult of the tempest without, that
peaceful glow which began to beam on the now animated hearth, seemed
very cheering. A low, purring sound, from some quarter, announced that an-
other being, besides myself, was pleased with the change; a black cat,
roused by the light from its sleep on a little cushioned foot-stool, came and
rubbed its head against Frances' gown as she knelt; she caressed it, saying it
had been a favourite with her "pauvre tante Julienne."
 The fire being lit, the hearth swept, and a small kettle of a very antique
pattern, such as I thought I remembered to have seen in old farmhouses in
England, placed over the now ruddy flame, Frances' hands were washed,
and her apron removed in an instant then she opened a cupboard, and took
out a tea-tray, on which she had soon arranged a china tea-equipage, whose
pattern, shape, and size, denoted a remote antiquity; a little, old-fashioned
silver spoon was deposited in each saucer; and a pair of silver tongs, equal-
ly old-fashioned, were laid on the sugar-basin; from the cupboard, too, was
produced a tidy silver cream-ewer, not larger then an egg-shell. While mak-
ing these preparations, she chanced to look up, and, reading curiosity in my
eyes, she smiled and asked—
"Is this like England, monsieur?"
"Like the England of a hundred years ago," I replied.
"Is it truly? Well, everything on this tray is at least a hundred years old:
these cups, these spoons, this ewer, are all heirlooms; my great-grandmother
left them to my grandmother, she to my mother, and my mother brought
them with her from England to Switzerland, and left them to me; and, ever
since I was a little girl, I have thought I should like to carry them back to
England, whence they came."
She put some pistolets on the table; she made the tea, as foreigners do
make tea—i.e., at the rate of a teaspoonful to half-a-dozen cups; she placed
me a chair, and, as I took it, she asked, with a sort of exaltation—
"Will it make you think yourself at home for a moment?"
"If I had a home in England, I believe it would recall it," I answered; and,
in truth, there was a sort of illusion in seeing the fair-complexioned Eng-
lish-looking girl presiding at the English meal, and speaking in the English
language.
"You have then no home?" was her remark.
"None, nor ever have had. If ever I possess a home, it must be of my own
making, and the task is yet to begin." And, as I spoke, a pang, new to me,
shot across my heart: it was a pang of mortification at the humility of my
position, and the inadequacy of my means; while with that pang was born a
strong desire to do more, earn more, be more, possess more; and in the in-
creased possessions, my roused and eager spirit panted to include the home
I had never had, the wife I inwardly vowed to win.
Frances' tea was little better than hot water, sugar, and milk; and her pis-
tolets, with which she could not offer me butter, were sweet to my palate as
manna.
The repast over, and the treasured plate and porcelain being washed and
put by, the bright table rubbed still brighter, "le chat de ma tante Julienne"
also being fed with provisions brought forth on a plate for its special use, a
few stray cinders, and a scattering of ashes too, being swept from the
hearth, Frances at last sat down; and then, as she took a chair opposite to
me, she betrayed, for the first time, a little embarrassment; and no wonder,
for indeed I had unconsciously watched her rather too closely, followed all
her steps and all her movements a little too perseveringly with my eyes, for
she mesmerized me by the grace and alertness of her action—by the deft,
cleanly, and even decorative effect resulting from each touch of her slight
and fine fingers; and when, at last, she subsided to stillness, the intelligence
of her face seemed beauty to me, and I dwelt on it accordingly. Her colour,
however, rising, rather than settling with repose, and her eyes remaining
downcast, though I kept waiting for the lids to be raised that I might drink a
ray of the light I loved—a light where fire dissolved in softness, where af-
fection tempered penetration, where, just now at least, pleasure played with
thought—this expectation not being gratified, I began at last to suspect that
I had probably myself to blame for the disappointment; I must cease gazing,
and begin talking, if I wished to break the spell under which she now sat
motionless; so recollecting the composing effect which an authoritative tone
and manner had ever been wont to produce on her, I said—
"Get one of your English books, mademoiselle, for the rain yet falls
heavily, and will probably detain me half an hour longer."
Released, and set at ease, up she rose, got her book, and accepted at once
the chair I placed for her at my side. She had selected "Paradise Lost" from
her shelf of classics, thinking, I suppose, the religious character of the book
best adapted it to Sunday; I told her to begin at the beginning, and while she
read Milton's invocation to that heavenly muse, who on the "secret top of
Oreb or Sinai" had taught the Hebrew shepherd how in the womb of chaos,
the conception of a world had originated and ripened, I enjoyed, undis-
turbed, the treble pleasure of having her near me, hearing the sound of her
voice—a sound sweet and satisfying in my ear—and looking, by intervals,
at her face: of this last privilege, I chiefly availed myself when I found fault
with an intonation, a pause, or an emphasis; as long as I dogmatized, I
might also gaze, without exciting too warm a flush.
 "Enough," said I, when she had gone through some half dozen pages (a
work of time with her, for she read slowly and paused often to ask and re-
ceive information)—"enough; and now the rain is ceasing, and I must soon
go." For indeed, at that moment, looking towards the window, I saw it all
blue; the thunder-clouds were broken and scattered, and the setting August
sun sent a gleam like the reflection of rubies through the lattice. I got up; I
drew on my gloves.
"You have not yet found another situation to supply the place of that from
which you were dismissed by Mdlle. Reuter?"
"No, monsieur; I have made inquiries everywhere, but they all ask me for
references; and to speak truth, I do not like to apply to the directress, be-
cause I consider she acted neither justly nor honourably towards me; she
used underhand means to set my pupils against me, and thereby render me
unhappy while I held my place in her establishment, and she eventually de-
prived me of it by a masked and hypocritical manoeuvre, pretending that
she was acting for my good, but really snatching from me my chief means
of subsistence, at a crisis when not only my own life, but that of another,
depended on my exertions: of her I will never more ask a favour."
"How, then, do you propose to get on? How do you live now?"
"I have still my lace-mending trade; with care it will keep me from star-
vation, and I doubt not by dint of exertion to get better employment yet; it is
only a fortnight since I began to try; my courage or hopes are by no means
worn out yet."
"And if you get what you wish, what then? what are your ultimate
views?"
"To save enough to cross the Channel: I always look to England as my
Canaan."
"Well, well—ere long I shall pay you another visit; good evening now,"
and I left her rather abruptly; I had much ado to resist a strong inward im-
pulse, urging me to take a warmer, more expressive leave: what so natural
as to fold her for a moment in a close embrace, to imprint one kiss on her
cheek or forehead? I was not unreasonable—that was all I wanted; satisfied
in that point, I could go away content; and Reason denied me even this; she
ordered me to turn my eyes from her face, and my steps from her apartment
—to quit her as dryly and coldly as I would have quitted old Madame Pelet.
I obeyed, but I swore rancorously to be avenged one day. "I'll earn a right to
do as I please in this matter, or I'll die in the contest. I have one object be-
fore me now—to get that Genevese girl for my wife; and my wife she shall
be—that is, provided she has as much, or half as much regard for her master
as he has for her. And would she be so docile, so smiling, so happy under
my instructions if she had not? would she sit at my side when I dictate or
correct, with such a still, contented, halcyon mien?" for I had ever re-
marked, that however sad or harassed her countenance might be when I en-
tered a room, yet after I had been near her, spoken to her a few words, given
her some directions, uttered perhaps some reproofs, she would, all at once,
nestle into a nook of happiness, and look up serene and revived. The re-
proofs suited her best of all: while I scolded she would chip away with her
pen-knife at a pencil or a pen; fidgetting a little, pouting a little, defending
herself by monosyllables, and when I deprived her of the pen or pencil,
fearing it would be all cut away, and when I interdicted even the monosyl-
labic defence, for the purpose of working up the subdued excitement a little
higher, she would at last raise her eyes and give me a certain glance, sweet-
ened with gaiety, and pointed with defiance, which, to speak truth, thrilled
me as nothing had ever done, and made me, in a fashion (though happily
she did not know it), her subject, if not her slave. After such little scenes her
spirits would maintain their flow, often for some hours, and, as I remarked
before, her health therefrom took a sustenance and vigour which, previously
to the event of her aunt's death and her dismissal, had almost recreated her
whole frame.
It has taken me several minutes to write these last sentences; but I had
thought all their purport during the brief interval of descending the stairs
from Frances' room. Just as I was opening the outer door, I remembered the
twenty francs which I had not restored; I paused: impossible to carry them
away with me; difficult to force them back on their original owner; I had
now seen her in her own humble abode, witnessed the dignity of her pover-
ty, the pride of order, the fastidious care of conservatism, obvious in the
arrangement and economy of her little home; I was sure she would not suf-
fer herself to be excused paying her debts; I was certain the favour of in-
demnity would be accepted from no hand, perhaps least of all from mine:
yet these four five-franc pieces were a burden to my self-respect, and I must
get rid of them. An expedient—a clumsy one no doubt, but the best I could
devise-suggested itself to me. I darted up the stairs, knocked, re-entered the
room as if in haste:—
 "Mademoiselle, I have forgotten one of my gloves; I must have left it
here."
She instantly rose to seek it; as she turned her back, I—being now at the
hearth—noiselessly lifted a little vase, one of a set of china ornaments, as
old-fashioned as the tea-cups—slipped the money under it, then saying
—"Oh here is my glove! I had dropped it within the fender; good evening,
mademoiselle," I made my second exit.
Brief as my impromptu return had been, it had afforded me time to pick
up a heart-ache; I remarked that Frances had already removed the red em-
bers of her cheerful little fire from the grate: forced to calculate every item,
to save in every detail, she had instantly on my departure retrenched a luxu-
ry too expensive to be enjoyed alone.
"I am glad it is not yet winter," thought I; "but in two months more come
the winds and rains of November; would to God that before then I could
earn the right, and the power, to shovel coals into that grate AD
LIBITUM!"
Already the pavement was drying; a balmy and fresh breeze stirred the
air, purified by lightning; I felt the West behind me, where spread a sky like
opal; azure immingled with crimson: the enlarged sun, glorious in Tyrian
tints, dipped his brim already; stepping, as I was, eastward, I faced a vast
bank of clouds, but also I had before me the arch of an evening rainbow; a
perfect rainbow—high, wide, vivid. I looked long; my eye drank in the
scene, and I suppose my brain must have absorbed it; for that night, after
lying awake in pleasant fever a long time, watching the silent sheet-light-
ning, which still played among the retreating clouds, and flashed silvery
over the stars, I at last fell asleep; and then in a dream were reproduced the
setting sun, the bank of clouds, the mighty rainbow. I stood, methought, on
a terrace; I leaned over a parapeted wall; there was space below me, depth I
could not fathom, but hearing an endless dash of waves, I believed it to be
the sea; sea spread to the horizon; sea of changeful green and intense blue:
all was soft in the distance; all vapour-veiled. A spark of gold glistened on
the line between water and air, floated up, approached, enlarged, changed;
the object hung midway between heaven and earth, under the arch of the
rainbow; the soft but dusk clouds diffused behind. It hovered as on wings;
pearly, fleecy, gleaming air streamed like raiment round it; light, tinted with
carnation, coloured what seemed face and limbs; A large star shone with
still lustre on an angel's forehead; an upraised arm and hand, glancing like a
ray, pointed to the bow overhead, and a voice in my heart whispered—
"Hope smiles on Effort!"
 CHAPTER 20

A COMPETENCY was what I wanted; a competency it was now my aim

and resolve to secure; but never had I been farther from the mark. With Au-
gust the school-year (l'annee scolaire) closed, the examinations concluded,
the prizes were adjudged, the schools dispersed, the gates of all colleges,
the doors of all pensionnats shut, not to be reopened till the beginning or
middle of October. The last day of August was at hand, and what was my
position? Had I advanced a step since the commencement of the past quar-
ter? On the contrary, I had receded one. By renouncing my engagement as
English master in Mdlle. Reuter's establishment, I had voluntarily cut off
20l. from my yearly income; I had diminished my 60l. per annum to 40l.,
and even that sum I now held by a very precarious tenure.
It is some time since I made any reference to M. Pelet. The moonlight
walk is, I think, the last incident recorded in this narrative where that gen-
tleman cuts any conspicuous figure: the fact is, since that event, a change
had come over the spirit of our intercourse. He, indeed, ignorant that the
still hour, a cloudless moon, and an open lattice, had revealed to me the se-
cret of his selfish love and false friendship, would have continued smooth
and complaisant as ever; but I grew spiny as a porcupine, and inflexible as a
blackthorn cudgel; I never had a smile for his raillery, never a moment for
his society; his invitations to take coffee with him in his parlour were in-
variably rejected, and very stiffly and sternly rejected too; his jesting allu-
sions to the directress (which he still continued) were heard with a grim
calm very different from the petulant pleasure they were formerly wont to
excite. For a long time Pelet bore with my frigid demeanour very patiently;
he even increased his attentions; but finding that even a cringing politeness
failed to thaw or move me, he at last altered too; in his turn he cooled; his
invitations ceased; his countenance became suspicious and overcast, and I
read in the perplexed yet brooding aspect of his brow, a constant examina-
tion and comparison of premises, and an anxious endeavour to draw thence
some explanatory inference. Ere long, I fancy, he succeeded, for he was not
without penetration; perhaps, too, Mdlle. Zoraide might have aided him in
the solution of the enigma; at any rate I soon found that the uncertainty of
doubt had vanished from his manner; renouncing all pretence of friendship
and cordiality, he adopted a reserved, formal, but still scrupulously polite
deportment. This was the point to which I had wished to bring him, and I
was now again comparatively at my ease. I did not, it is true, like my posi-
tion in his house; but being freed from the annoyance of false professions
and double-dealing I could endure it, especially as no heroic sentiment of
hatred or jealousy of the director distracted my philosophical soul; he had
not, I found, wounded me in a very tender point, the wound was so soon
and so radically healed, leaving only a sense of contempt for the treacher-
ous fashion in which it had been inflicted, and a lasting mistrust of the hand
which I had detected attempting to stab in the dark.
This state of things continued till about the middle of July, and then there
was a little change; Pelet came home one night, an hour after his usual time,
in a state of unequivocal intoxication, a thing anomalous with him; for if he
had some of the worst faults of his countrymen, he had also one at least of
their virtues, i.e. sobriety. So drunk, however, was he upon this occasion,
that after having roused the whole establishment (except the pupils, whose
dormitory being over the classes in a building apart from the dwelling-
house, was consequently out of the reach of disturbance) by violently ring-
ing the hall-bell and ordering lunch to be brought in immediately, for he
imagined it was noon, whereas the city bells had just tolled midnight; after
having furiously rated the servants for their want of punctuality, and gone
near to chastise his poor old mother, who advised him to go to bed, he be-
gan raving dreadfully about "le maudit Anglais, Creemsvort." I had not yet
retired; some German books I had got hold of had kept me up late; I heard
the uproar below, and could distinguish the director's voice exalted in a
manner as appalling as it was unusual. Opening my door a little, I became
aware of a demand on his part for "Creemsvort" to be brought down to him
that he might cut his throat on the hall-table and wash his honour, which he
affirmed to be in a dirty condition, in infernal British blood. "He is either
mad or drunk," thought I, "and in either case the old woman and the ser-
vants will be the better of a man's assistance," so I descended straight to the
hall. I found him staggering about, his eyes in a fine frenzy rolling—a pretty
sight he was, a just medium between the fool and the lunatic.
"Come, M. Pelet," said I, "you had better go to bed," and I took hold of
his arm. His excitement, of course, increased greatly at sight and touch of
the individual for whose blood he had been making application: he strug-
gled and struck with fury—but a drunken man is no match for a sober one;
and, even in his normal state, Pelet's worn out frame could not have stood
against my sound one. I got him up-stairs, and, in process of time, to bed.
During the operation he did not fail to utter comminations which, though
broken, had a sense in them; while stigmatizing me as the treacherous
spawn of a perfidious country, he, in the same breath, anathematized Zo-
raide Reuter; he termed her "femme sotte et vicieuse," who, in a fit of lewd
caprice, had thrown herself away on an unprincipled adventurer; directing
the point of the last appellation by a furious blow, obliquely aimed at me. I
left him in the act of bounding elastically out of the bed into which I had
tucked him; but, as I took the precaution of turning the key in the door be-
hind me, I retired to my own room, assured of his safe custody till the
morning, and free to draw undisturbed conclusions from the scene I had just
witnessed.
Now, it was precisely about this time that the directress, stung by my
coldness, bewitched by my scorn, and excited by the preference she sus-
pected me of cherishing for another, had fallen into a snare of her own lay-
ing—was herself caught in the meshes of the very passion with which she
wished to entangle me. Conscious of the state of things in that quarter, I
gathered, from the condition in which I saw my employer, that his lady-love
had betrayed the alienation of her affections—inclinations, rather, I would
say; affection is a word at once too warm and too pure for the subject—had
let him see that the cavity of her hollow heart, emptied of his image, was
now occupied by that of his usher. It was not without some surprise that I
found myself obliged to entertain this view of the case; Pelet, with his old-
established school, was so convenient, so profitable a match—Zoraide was
so calculating, so interested a woman—I wondered mere personal prefer-
ence could, in her mind, have prevailed for a moment over worldly advan-
tage: yet, it was evident, from what Pelet said, that, not only had she re-
pulsed him, but had even let slip expressions of partiality for me. One of his
drunken exclamations was, "And the jade doats on your youth, you raw
blockhead! and talks of your noble deportment, as she calls your accursed
English formality—and your pure morals, forsooth! des moeurs de Caton a-
t-elle dit—sotte!" Hers, I thought, must be a curious soul, where in spite of
a strong, natural tendency to estimate unduly advantages of wealth and sta-
tion, the sardonic disdain of a fortuneless subordinate had wrought a deeper
impression than could be imprinted by the most flattering assiduities of a
prosperous CHEF D'INSTITUTION. I smiled inwardly; and strange to say,
though my AMOUR PROPRE was excited not disagreeably by the con-
quest, my better feelings remained untouched. Next day, when I saw the di-
rectress, and when she made an excuse to meet me in the corridor, and be-
sought my notice by a demeanour and look subdued to Helot humility, I
could not love, I could scarcely pity her. To answer briefly and dryly some
interesting inquiry about my health—to pass her by with a stern bow—was
all I could; her presence and manner had then, and for some time previously
and consequently, a singular effect upon me: they sealed up all that was
good elicited all that was noxious in my nature; sometimes they enervated
my senses, but they always hardened my heart. I was aware of the detriment
done, and quarrelled with myself for the change. I had ever hated a tyrant;
and, behold, the possession of a slave, self-given, went near to transform
me into what I abhorred! There was at once a sort of low gratification in re-
ceiving this luscious incense from an attractive and still young worshipper;
and an irritating sense of degradation in the very experience of the pleasure.
When she stole about me with the soft step of a slave, I felt at once bar-
barous and sensual as a pasha. I endured her homage sometimes; sometimes
I rebuked it. My indifference or harshness served equally to increase the
evil I desired to check.
"Que le dedain lui sied bien!" I once overheard her say to her mother: "il
est beau comme Apollon quand il sourit de son air hautain."
And the jolly old dame laughed, and said she thought her daughter was
bewitched, for I had no point of a handsome man about me, except being
straight and without deformity. "Pour moi," she continued, "il me fait tout
l'effet d'un chat-huant, avec ses besicles."
Worthy old girl! I could have gone and kissed her had she not been a lit-
tle too old, too fat, and too red-faced; her sensible, truthful words seemed so
wholesome, contrasted with the morbid illusions of her daughter.
When Pelet awoke on the morning after his frenzy fit, he retained no rec-
ollection of what had happened the previous night, and his mother fortu-
nately had the discretion to refrain from informing him that I had been a
witness of his degradation. He did not again have recourse to wine for cur-
ing his griefs, but even in his sober mood he soon showed that the iron of
jealousy had entered into his soul. A thorough Frenchman, the national
characteristic of ferocity had not been omitted by nature in compounding
the ingredients of his character; it had appeared first in his access of drunk-
en wrath, when some of his demonstrations of hatred to my person were of
a truly fiendish character, and now it was more covertly betrayed by mo-
mentary contractions of the features, and flashes of fierceness in his light
blue eyes, when their glance chanced to encounter mine. He absolutely
avoided speaking to me; I was now spared even the falsehood of his polite-
ness. In this state of our mutual relations, my soul rebelled sometimes al-
most ungovernably, against living in the house and discharging the service
of such a man; but who is free from the constraint of circumstances? At that
time, I was not: I used to rise each morning eager to shake off his yoke, and
go out with my portmanteau under my arm, if a beggar, at least a freeman;
and in the evening, when I came back from the pensionnat de demoiselles, a
certain pleasant voice in my ear; a certain face, so intelligent, yet so docile,
so reflective, yet so soft, in my eyes; a certain cast of character, at once
proud and pliant, sensitive and sagacious, serious and ardent, in my head; a
certain tone of feeling, fervid and modest, refined and practical, pure and
powerful, delighting and troubling my memory—visions of new ties I
longed to contract, of new duties I longed to undertake, had taken the rover
and the rebel out of me, and had shown endurance of my hated lot in the
light of a Spartan virtue.
But Pelet's fury subsided; a fortnight sufficed for its rise, progress, and
extinction: in that space of time the dismissal of the obnoxious teacher had
been effected in the neighbouring house, and in the same interval I had de-
clared my resolution to follow and find out my pupil, and upon my applica-
tion for her address being refused, I had summarily resigned my own post.
This last act seemed at once to restore Mdlle. Reuter to her senses; her
sagacity, her judgment, so long misled by a fascinating delusion, struck
again into the right track the moment that delusion vanished. By the right
track, I do not mean the steep and difficult path of principle—in that path
she never trod; but the plain highway of common sense, from which she
had of late widely diverged. When there she carefully sought, and having
found, industriously pursued the trail of her old suitor, M. Pelet. She soon
overtook him. What arts she employed to soothe and blind him I know not,
but she succeeded both in allaying his wrath, and hoodwinking his discern-
ment, as was soon proved by the alteration in his mien and manner; she
must have managed to convince him that I neither was, nor ever had been, a
rival of his, for the fortnight of fury against me terminated in a fit of ex-
ceeding graciousness and amenity, not unmixed with a dash of exulting
self-complacency, more ludicrous than irritating. Pelet's bachelor's life had
been passed in proper French style with due disregard to moral restraint,
and I thought his married life promised to be very French also. He often
boasted to me what a terror he had been to certain husbands of his acquain-
tance; I perceived it would not now be difficult to pay him back in his own
coin.
The crisis drew on. No sooner had the holidays commenced than note of
preparation for some momentous event sounded all through the premises of
Pelet: painters, polishers, and upholsterers were immediately set to work,
and there was talk of "la chambre de Madame," "le salon de Madame." Not
deeming it probable that the old duenna at present graced with that title in
our house, had inspired her son with such enthusiasm of filial piety, as to
induce him to fit up apartments expressly for her use, I concluded, in com-
mon with the cook, the two housemaids, and the kitchen-scullion, that a
new and more juvenile Madame was destined to be the tenant of these gay
chambers.
Presently official announcement of the coming event was put forth. In
another week's time M. Francois Pelet, directeur, and Mdlle. Zoraide
Reuter, directrice, were to be joined together in the bands of matrimony.
Monsieur, in person, heralded the fact to me; terminating his communica-
tion by an obliging expression of his desire that I should continue, as
heretofore, his ablest assistant and most trusted friend; and a proposition to
raise my salary by an additional two hundred francs per annum. I thanked
him, gave no conclusive answer at the time, and, when he had left me,
threw off my blouse, put on my coat, and set out on a long walk outside the
Porte de Flandre, in order, as I thought, to cool my blood, calm my nerves,
and shake my disarranged ideas into some order. In fact, I had just received
what was virtually my dismissal. I could not conceal, I did not desire to
conceal from myself the conviction that, being now certain that Mdlle.
Reuter was destined to become Madame Pelet it would not do for me to re-
main a dependent dweller in the house which was soon to be hers. Her
present demeanour towards me was deficient neither in dignity nor propri-
ety; but I knew her former feeling was unchanged. Decorum now repressed,
and Policy masked it, but Opportunity would be too strong for either of
these—Temptation would shiver their restraints.
I was no pope—I could not boast infallibility: in short, if I stayed, the
probability was that, in three months' time, a practical modern French novel
would be in full process of concoction under the roof of the unsuspecting
Pelet. Now, modern French novels are not to my taste, either practically or
theoretically. Limited as had yet been my experience of life, I had once had
the opportunity of contemplating, near at hand, an example of the results
produced by a course of interesting and romantic domestic treachery. No
golden halo of fiction was about this example, I saw it bare and real, and it
was very loathsome. I saw a mind degraded by the practice of mean sub-
terfuge, by the habit of perfidious deception, and a body depraved by the
infectious influence of the vice-polluted soul. I had suffered much from the
forced and prolonged view of this spectacle; those sufferings I did not now
regret, for their simple recollection acted as a most wholesome antidote to
temptation. They had inscribed on my reason the conviction that unlawful
pleasure, trenching on another's rights, is delusive and envenomed pleasure
—its hollowness disappoints at the time, its poison cruelly tortures after-
wards, its effects deprave for ever.
From all this resulted the conclusion that I must leave Pelet's, and that
instantly; "but," said Prudence, "you know not where to go, nor how to
live;" and then the dream of true love came over me: Frances Henri seemed
to stand at my side; her slender waist to invite my arm; her hand to court
my hand; I felt it was made to nestle in mine; I could not relinquish my
right to it, nor could I withdraw my eyes for ever from hers, where I saw so
much happiness, such a correspondence of heart with heart; over whose ex-
pression I had such influence; where I could kindle bliss, infuse awe, stir
deep delight, rouse sparkling spirit, and sometimes waken pleasurable
dread. My hopes to will and possess, my resolutions to merit and rise, rose
in array against me; and here I was about to plunge into the gulf of absolute
destitution; "and all this," suggested an inward voice, "because you fear an
evil which may never happen!" "It will happen; you KNOW it will," an-
swered that stubborn monitor, Conscience. "Do what you feel is right; obey
me, and even in the sloughs of want I will plant for you firm footing." And
then, as I walked fast along the road, there rose upon me a strange, inly-felt
idea of some Great Being, unseen, but all present, who in His beneficence
desired only my welfare, and now watched the struggle of good and evil in
my heart, and waited to see whether I should obey His voice, heard in the
whispers of my conscience, or lend an ear to the sophisms by which His en-
emy and mine—the Spirit of Evil—sought to lead me astray. Rough and
steep was the path indicated by divine suggestion; mossy and declining the
green way along which Temptation strewed flowers; but whereas,
methought, the Deity of Love, the Friend of all that exists, would smile
well-pleased were I to gird up my loins and address myself to the rude as-
cent; so, on the other hand, each inclination to the velvet declivity seemed
to kindle a gleam of triumph on the brow of the man-hating, God-defying
demon. Sharp and short I turned round; fast I retraced my steps; in half an
hour I was again at M. Pelet's: I sought him in his study; brief parley, con-
cise explanation sufficed; my manner proved that I was resolved; he, per-
haps, at heart approved my decision. After twenty minutes' conversation, I
re-entered my own room, self-deprived of the means of living, self-sen-
tenced to leave my present home, with the short notice of a week in which
to provide another.
 CHAPTER 21

DIRECTLY as I closed the door, I saw laid on the table two letters; my
thought was, that they were notes of invitation from the friends of some of
my pupils; I had received such marks of attention occasionally, and with
me, who had no friends, correspondence of more interest was out of the
question; the postman's arrival had never yet been an event of interest to me
since I came to Brussels. I laid my hand carelessly on the documents, and
coldly and slowly glancing at them, I prepared to break the seals; my eye
was arrested and my hand too; I saw what excited me, as if I had found a
vivid picture where I expected only to discover a blank page: on one cover
was an English postmark; on the other, a lady's clear, fine autograph; the
last I opened first:—
"MONSIEUR,
"I FOUND out what you had done the very morning after your visit to
me; you might be sure I should dust the china, every day; and, as no one but
you had been in my room for a week, and as fairy-money is not current in
Brussels, I could not doubt who left the twenty francs on the chimney-
piece. I thought I heard you stir the vase when I was stooping to look for
your glove under the table, and I wondered you should imagine it had got
into such a little cup. Now, monsieur, the money is not mine, and I shall not
keep it; I will not send it in this note because it might be lost—besides, it is
heavy; but I will restore it to you the first time I see you, and you must
make no difficulties about taking it; because, in the first place, I am sure,
monsieur, you can understand that one likes to pay one's debts; that it is sat-
isfactory to owe no man anything; and, in the second place, I can now very
well afford to be honest, as I am provided with a situation. This last circum-
stance is, indeed, the reason of my writing to you, for it is pleasant to com-
municate good news; and, in these days, I have only my master to whom I
can tell anything.
"A week ago, monsieur, I was sent for by a Mrs. Wharton, an English
lady; her eldest daughter was going to be married, and some rich relation
having made her a present of a veil and dress in costly old lace, as precious,
they said, almost as jewels, but a little damaged by time, I was commis-
sioned to put them in repair. I had to do it at the house; they gave me, be-
sides, some embroidery to complete, and nearly a week elapsed before I had
finished everything. While I worked, Miss Wharton often came into the
room and sat with me, and so did Mrs. Wharton; they made me talk Eng-
lish; asked how I had learned to speak it so well; then they inquired what I
knew besides—what books I had read; soon they seemed to make a sort of
wonder of me, considering me no doubt as a learned grisette. One after-
noon, Mrs. Wharton brought in a Parisian lady to test the accuracy of my
knowledge of French; the result of it: was that, owing probably in a great
degree to the mother's and daughter's good humour about the marriage,
which inclined them to do beneficent deeds, and partly, I think, because
they are naturally benevolent people, they decided that the wish I had ex-
pressed to do something more than mend lace was a very legitimate one;
and the same day they took me in their carriage to Mrs. D.'s, who is the di-
rectress of the first English school at Brussels. It seems she happened to be
in want of a French lady to give lessons in geography, history, grammar,
and composition, in the French language. Mrs. Wharton recommended me
very warmly; and, as two of her younger daughters are pupils in the house,
her patronage availed to get me the place. It was settled that I am to attend
six hours daily (for, happily, it was not required that I should live in the
house; I should have been sorry to leave my lodgings), and, for this, Mrs. D.
will give me twelve hundred francs per annum.
"You see, therefore, monsieur, that I am now rich; richer almost than I
ever hoped to be: I feel thankful for it, especially as my sight was beginning
to be injured by constant working at fine lace; and I was getting, too, very
weary of sitting up late at nights, and yet not being able to find time for
reading or study. I began to fear that I should fall ill, and be unable to pay
my way; this fear is now, in a great measure, removed; and, in truth, mon-
sieur, I am very grateful to God for the relief; and I feel it necessary, almost,
to speak of my happiness to some one who is kind-hearted enough to derive
joy from seeing others joyful. I could not, therefore, resist the temptation of
writing to you; I argued with myself it is very pleasant for me to write, and
it will not be exactly painful, though it may be tiresome to monsieur to read.
Do not be too angry with my circumlocution and inelegancies of expres-
sion, and, believe me
"Your attached pupil,
"F. E. HENRI."
Having read this letter, I mused on its contents for a few moments—
whether with sentiments pleasurable or otherwise I will hereafter note—and
then took up the other. It was directed in a hand to me unknown—small,
and rather neat; neither masculine nor exactly feminine; the seal bore a coat
of arms, concerning which I could only decipher that it was not that of the
Seacombe family, consequently the epistle could be from none of my al-
most forgotten, and certainly quite forgetting patrician relations. From
whom, then, was it? I removed the envelope; the note folded within ran as
follows:
"I have no doubt in the world that you are doing well in that greasy Flan-
ders; living probably on the fat of the unctuous land; sitting like a black-
haired, tawny-skinned, long-nosed Israelite by the flesh-pots of Egypt; or
like a rascally son of Levi near the brass cauldrons of the sanctuary, and
every now and then plunging in a consecrated hook, and drawing out of the
sea, of broth the fattest of heave-shoulders and the fleshiest of wave-breasts.
I know this, because you never write to any one in England. Thankless dog
that you are! I, by the sovereign efficacy of my recommendation, got you
the place where you are now living in clover, and yet not a word of grati-
tude, or even acknowledgment, have you ever offered in return; but I am
coming to see you, and small conception can you, with your addled aristo-
cratic brains, form of the sort of moral kicking I have, ready packed in my
carpet-bag, destined to be presented to you immediately on my arrival.
"Meantime I know all about your affairs, and have just got information,
by Brown's last letter, that you are said to be on the point of forming an ad-
vantageous match with a pursy, little Belgian schoolmistress—a Mdlle.
Zenobie, or some such name. Won't I have a look at her when I come over!
And this you may rely on: if she pleases my taste, or if I think it worth
while in a pecuniary point of view, I'll pounce on your prize and bear her
away triumphant in spite of your teeth. Yet I don't like dumpies either, and
Brown says she is little and stout—the better fitted for a wiry, starved-look-
ing chap like you. "Be on the look-out, for you know neither the day nor
hour when your ——" (I don't wish to blaspheme, so I'll leave a blank)—
cometh.
"Yours truly,
"HUNSDEN YORKE HUNSDEN."
"Humph!" said I; and ere I laid the letter down, I again glanced at the
small, neat handwriting, not a bit like that of a mercantile man, nor, indeed,
of any man except Hunsden himself. They talk of affinities between the au-
tograph and the character: what affinity was there here? I recalled the
writer's peculiar face and certain traits I suspected, rather than knew, to ap-
pertain to his nature, and I answered, "A great deal."
Hunsden, then, was coming to Brussels, and coming I knew not when;
coming charged with the expectation of finding me on the summit of pros-
perity, about to be married, to step into a warm nest, to lie comfortably
down by the side of a snug, well-fed little mate.
"I wish him joy of the fidelity of the picture he has painted," thought I.
"What will he say when, instead of a pair of plump turtle doves, billing and
cooing in a bower of roses, he finds a single lean cormorant, standing mate-
less and shelterless on poverty's bleak cliff? Oh, confound him! Let him
come, and let him laugh at the contrast between rumour and fact. Were he
the devil himself, instead of being merely very like him, I'd not condescend
to get out of his way, or to forge a smile or a cheerful word wherewith to
avert his sarcasm."
Then I recurred to the other letter: that struck a chord whose sound I
could not deaden by thrusting my fingers into my ears, for it vibrated with-
in; and though its swell might be exquisite music, its cadence was a groan.
That Frances was relieved from the pressure of want, that the curse of ex-
cessive labour was taken off her, filled me with happiness; that her first
thought in prosperity should be to augment her joy by sharing it with me,
met and satisfied the wish of my heart. Two results of her letter were then
pleasant, sweet as two draughts of nectar; but applying my lips for the third
time to the cup, and they were excoriated as with vinegar and gall.
Two persons whose desires are moderate may live well enough in Brus-
sels on an income which would scarcely afford a respectable maintenance
for one in London: and that, not because the necessaries of life are so much
dearer in the latter capital, or taxes so much higher than in the former, but
because the English surpass in folly all the nations on God's earth, and are
more abject slaves to custom, to opinion, to the desire to keep up a certain
appearance, than the Italians are to priestcraft, the French to vain-glory, the
Russians to their Czar, or the Germans to black beer. I have seen a degree of
sense in the modest arrangement of one homely Belgian household, that
might put to shame the elegance, the superfluities, the luxuries, the strained
refinements of a hundred genteel English mansions. In Belgium, provided
you can make money, you may save it; this is scarcely possible in England;
ostentation there lavishes in a month what industry has earned in a year.
More shame to all classes in that most bountiful and beggarly country for
their servile following of Fashion; I could write a chapter or two on this
subject, but must forbear, at least for the present. Had I retained my 60l. per
annum I could, now that Frances was in possession of 50l., have gone
straight to her this very evening, and spoken out the words which, re-
pressed, kept fretting my heart with fever; our united income would, as we
should have managed it, have sufficed well for our mutual support; since we
lived in a country where economy was not confounded with meanness,
where frugality in dress, food, and furniture, was not synonymous with vul-
garity in these various points. But the placeless usher, bare of resource, and
unsupported by connections, must not think of this; such a sentiment as
love, such a word as marriage, were misplaced in his heart, and on his lips.
Now for the first time did I truly feel what it was to be poor; now did the
sacrifice I had made in casting from me the means of living put on a new
aspect; instead of a correct, just, honourable act, it seemed a deed at once
light and fanatical; I took several turns in my room, under the goading influ-
ence of most poignant remorse; I walked a quarter of an hour from the wall
to the window; and at the window, self-reproach seemed to face me; at the
wall, self-disdain: all at once out spoke Conscience:—
"Down, stupid tormenters!" cried she; "the man has done his duty; you
shall not bait him thus by thoughts of what might have been; he relin-
quished a temporary and contingent good to avoid a permanent and certain
evil he did well. Let him reflect now, and when your blinding dust and deaf-
ening hum subside, he will discover a path."
I sat down; I propped my forehead on both my hands; I thought and
thought an hour-two hours; vainly. I seemed like one sealed in a subter-
ranean vault, who gazes at utter blackness; at blackness ensured by yard-
thick stone walls around, and by piles of building above, expecting light to
penetrate through granite, and through cement firm as granite. But there are
chinks, or there may be chinks, in the best adjusted masonry; there was a
chink in my cavernous cell; for, eventually, I saw, or seemed to see, a ray—
pallid, indeed, and cold, and doubtful, but still a ray, for it showed that nar-
row path which conscience had promised after two, three hours' torturing
research in brain and memory, I disinterred certain remains of circum-
stances, and conceived a hope that by putting them together an expedient
might be framed, and a resource discovered. The circumstances were briefly
these:
Some three months ago M. Pelet had, on the occasion of his fete, given
the boys a treat, which treat consisted in a party of pleasure to a certain
place of public resort in the outskirts of Brussels, of which I do not at this
moment remember the name, but near it were several of those lakelets
called etangs; and there was one etang, larger than the rest, where on holi-
days people were accustomed to amuse themselves by rowing round it in
little boats. The boys having eaten an unlimited quantity of "gaufres," and
drank several bottles of Louvain beer, amid the shades of a garden made
and provided for such crams, petitioned the director for leave to take a row
on the etang. Half a dozen of the eldest succeeded in obtaining leave, and I
was commissioned to accompany them as surveillant. Among the half
dozen happened to be a certain Jean Baptiste Vandenhuten, a most ponder-
ous young Flamand, not tall, but even now, at the early age of sixteen, pos-
sessing a breadth and depth of personal development truly national. It
chanced that Jean was the first lad to step into the boat; he stumbled, rolled
to one side, the boat revolted at his weight and capsized. Vandenhuten sank
like lead, rose, sank again. My coat and waistcoat were off in an instant; I
had not been brought up at Eton and boated and bathed and swam there ten
long years for nothing; it was a natural and easy act for me to leap to the
rescue. The lads and the boatmen yelled; they thought there would be two
deaths by drowning instead of one; but as Jean rose the third time, I
clutched him by one leg and the collar, and in three minutes more both he
and I were safe landed. To speak heaven's truth, my merit in the action was
small indeed, for I had run no risk, and subsequently did not even catch
cold from the wetting; but when M. and Madame Vandenhuten, of whom
Jean Baptiste was the sole hope, came to hear of the exploit, they seemed to
think I had evinced a bravery and devotion which no thanks could suffi-
ciently repay. Madame, in particular, was "certain I must have dearly loved
their sweet son, or I would not thus have hazarded my own life to save his."
Monsieur, an honest-looking, though phlegmatic man, said very little, but
he would not suffer me to leave the room, till I had promised that in case I
ever stood in need of help I would, by applying to him, give him a chance
of discharging the obligation under which he affirmed I had laid him. These
words, then, were my glimmer of light; it was here I found my sole outlet;
and in truth, though the cold light roused, it did not cheer me; nor did the
outlet seem such as I should like to pass through. Right I had none to M.
Vandenhuten's good offices; it was not on the ground of merit I could apply
to him; no, I must stand on that of necessity: I had no work; I wanted work;
my best chance of obtaining it lay in securing his recommendation. This I
knew could be had by asking for it; not to ask, because the request revolted
my pride and contradicted my habits, would, I felt, be an indulgence of
false and indolent fastidiousness. I might repent the omission all my life; I
would not then be guilty of it.
That evening I went to M. Vandenhuten's; but I had bent the bow and ad-
justed the shaft in vain; the string broke. I rang the bell at the great door (it
was a large, handsome house in an expensive part of the town); a manser-
vant opened; I asked for M. Vandenhuten; M. Vandenhuten and family were
all out of town—gone to Ostend—did not know when they would be back. I
left my card, and retraced my steps.
 CHAPTER 22

A WEEK is gone; LE JOUR DES NOCES arrived; the marriage was sol-
emnized at St. Jacques; Mdlle. Zoraide became Madame Pelet, NEE Reuter;
and, in about an hour after this transformation, "the happy pair," as newspa-
pers phrase it, were on their way to Paris; where, according to previous
arrangement, the honeymoon was to be spent. The next day I quitted the
pensionnat. Myself and my chattels (some books and clothes) were soon
transferred to a modest lodging I had hired in a street not far off. In half an
hour my clothes were arranged in a commode, my books on a shelf, and the
"flitting" was effected. I should not have been unhappy that day had not one
pang tortured me—a longing to go to the Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges, re-
sisted, yet irritated by an inward resolve to avoid that street till such time as
the mist of doubt should clear from my prospects.
It was a sweet September evening—very mild, very still; I had nothing to
do; at that hour I knew Frances would be equally released from occupation;
I thought she might possibly be wishing for her master, I knew I wished for
my pupil. Imagination began with her low whispers, infusing into my soul
the soft tale of pleasures that might be.
"You will find her reading or writing," said she; "you can take your seat
at her side; you need not startle her peace by undue excitement; you need
not embarrass her manner by unusual action or language. Be as you always
are; look over what she has written; listen while she reads; chide her, or qui-
etly approve; you know the effect of either system; you know her smile
when pleased, you know the play of her looks when roused; you have the
secret of awakening that expression you will, and you can choose amongst
that pleasant variety. With you she will sit silent as long as it suits you to
talk alone; you can hold her under a potent spell: intelligent as she is, elo-
quent as she can be, you can seal her lips, and veil her bright countenance
with diffidence; yet, you know, she is not all monotonous mildness; you
have seen, with a sort of strange pleasure, revolt, scorn, austerity, bitterness,
lay energetic claim to a place in her feelings and physiognomy; you know
that few could rule her as you do; you know she might break, but never
bend under the hand of Tyranny and Injustice, but Reason and Affection
can guide her by a sign. Try their influence now. Go—they are not passions;
you may handle them safely."
"I will NOT go was my answer to the sweet temptress. A man is master
of himself to a certain point, but not beyond it. Could I seek Frances to-
night, could I sit with her alone in a quiet room, and address her only in the
language of Reason and Affection?"
"No," was the brief, fervent reply of that Love which had conquered and
now controlled me.
Time seemed to stagnate; the sun would not go down; my watch ticked,
but I thought the hands were paralyzed.
"What a hot evening!" I cried, throwing open the lattice; for, indeed, I
had seldom felt so feverish. Hearing a step ascending the common stair, I
wondered whether the "locataire," now mounting to his apartments, were as
unsettled in mind and condition as I was, or whether he lived in the calm of
certain resources, and in the freedom of unfettered feelings. What! was he
coming in person to solve the problem hardly proposed in inaudible
thought? He had actually knocked at the door—at MY door; a smart,
prompt rap; and, almost before I could invite him in, he was over the
threshold, and had closed the door behind him.
"And how are you?" asked an indifferent, quiet voice, in the English lan-
guage; while my visitor, without any sort of bustle or introduction, put his
hat on the table, and his gloves into his hat, and drawing the only armchair
the room afforded a little forward, seated himself tranquilly therein.
"Can't you speak?" he inquired in a few moments, in a tone whose non-
chalance seemed to intimate that it was much the same thing whether I an-
swered or not. The fact is, I found it desirable to have recourse to my good
friends "les besicles;" not exactly to ascertain the identity of my visitor—for
I already knew him, confound his impudence! but to see how he looked—to
get a clear notion of his mien and countenance. I wiped the glasses very de-
liberately, and put them on quite as deliberately; adjusting them so as not to
hurt the bridge of my nose or get entangled in my short tufts of dun hair. I
was sitting in the window-seat, with my back to the light, and I had him
VIS-A-VIS; a position he would much rather have had reversed; for, at any
time, he preferred scrutinizing to being scrutinized. Yes, it was HE, and no
mistake, with his six feet of length arranged in a sitting attitude; with his
dark travelling surtout with its velvet collar, his gray pantaloons, his black
stock, and his face, the most original one Nature ever modelled, yet the
least obtrusively so; not one feature that could be termed marked or odd, yet
the effect of the whole unique. There is no use in attempting to describe
what is indescribable. Being in no hurry to address him, I sat and stared at
my ease.
"Oh, that's your game—is it?" said he at last. "Well, we'll see which is
soonest tired." And he slowly drew out a fine cigar-case, picked one to his
taste, lit it, took a book from the shelf convenient to his hand, then leaning
back, proceeded to smoke and read as tranquilly as if he had been in his
own room, in Grove-street, X—-shire, England. I knew he was capable of
continuing in that attitude till midnight, if he conceived the whim, so I rose,
and taking the book from his hand, I said,—
"You did not ask for it, and you shall not have it."
"It is silly and dull," he observed, "so I have not lost much;" then the
spell being broken, he went on. "I thought you lived at Pelet's; I went there
this afternoon expecting to be starved to death by sitting in a boarding-
school drawing-room, and they told me you were gone, had departed this
morning; you had left your address behind you though, which I wondered
at; it was a more practical and sensible precaution than I should have imag-
ined you capable of. Why did you leave?"
"Because M. Pelet has just married the lady whom you and Mr. Brown
assigned to me as my wife."
"Oh, indeed!" replied Hunsden with a short laugh; "so you've lost both
your wife and your place?"
"Precisely so."
I saw him give a quick, covert glance all round my room; he marked its
narrow limits, its scanty furniture: in an instant he had comprehended the
state of matters—had absolved me from the crime of prosperity. A curious
effect this discovery wrought in his strange mind; I am morally certain that
if he had found me installed in a handsome parlour, lounging on a soft
couch, with a pretty, wealthy wife at my side, he would have hated me; a
brief, cold, haughty visit, would in such a case have been the extreme limit
of his civilities, and never would he have come near me more, so long as
the tide of fortune bore me smoothly on its surface; but the painted furni-
ture, the bare walls, the cheerless solitude of my room relaxed his rigid
pride, and I know not what softening change had taken place both in his
voice and look ere he spoke again.
"You have got another place?"
"No."
"You are in the way of getting one?"
"No."
"That is bad; have you applied to Brown?"
"No, indeed."
"You had better; he often has it in his power to give useful information in
such matters."
"He served me once very well; I have no claim on him, and am not in the
humour to bother him again."
"Oh, if you're bashful, and dread being intrusive, you need only commis-
sion me. I shall see him to-night; I can put in a word."
"I beg you will not, Mr. Hunsden; I am in your debt already; you did me
an important service when I was at X——; got me out of a den where I was
dying: that service I have never repaid, and at present I decline positively
adding another item to the account."
"If the wind sits that way, I'm satisfied. I thought my unexampled gen-
erosity in turning you out of that accursed counting-house would be duly
appreciated some day: 'Cast your bread on the waters, and it shall be found
after many days,' say the Scriptures. Yes, that's right, lad—make much of
me—I'm a nonpareil: there's nothing like me in the common herd. In the
meantime, to put all humbug aside and talk sense for a few moments, you
would be greatly the better of a situation, and what is more, you are a fool if
you refuse to take one from any hand that offers it."
"Very well, Mr. Hunsden; now you have settled that point, talk of some-
thing else. What news from X——?"
"I have not settled that point, or at least there is another to settle before
we get to X——. Is this Miss Zenobie" (Zoraide, interposed I)—"well, Zo-
raide—is she really married to Pelet?"
"I tell you yes—and if you don't believe me, go and ask the cure of St.
Jacques."
"And your heart is broken?"
 "I am not aware that it is; it feels all right—beats as usual."
"Then your feelings are less superfine than I took them to be; you must
be a coarse, callous character, to bear such a thwack without staggering un-
der it."
"Staggering under it? What the deuce is there to stagger under in the cir-
cumstance of a Belgian schoolmistress marrying a French schoolmaster?
The progeny will doubtless be a strange hybrid race; but that's their Look
out—not mine."
"He indulges in scurrilous jests, and the bride was his affianced one!"
"Who said so?"
"Brown."
"I'll tell you what, Hunsden—Brown is an old gossip."
"He is; but in the meantime, if his gossip be founded on less than fact—if
you took no particular interest in Miss Zoraide—why, O youthful peda-
gogue! did you leave your place in consequence of her becoming Madame
Pelet?"
"Because—" I felt my face grow a little hot; "because—in short, Mr.
Hunsden, I decline answering any more questions," and I plunged my hands
deep in my breeches pocket.
Hunsden triumphed: his eyes—his laugh announced victory.
"What the deuce are you laughing at, Mr. Hunsden?"
"At your exemplary composure. Well, lad, I'll not bore you; I see how it
is: Zoraide has jilted you—married some one richer, as any sensible woman
would have done if she had had the chance."
I made no reply—I let him think so, not feeling inclined to enter into an
explanation of the real state of things, and as little to forge a false account;
but it was not easy to blind Hunsden; my very silence, instead of convinc-
ing him that he had hit the truth, seemed to render him doubtful about it; he
went on:—
"I suppose the affair has been conducted as such affairs always are
amongst rational people: you offered her your youth and your talents-such
as they are—in exchange for her position and money: I don't suppose you
took appearance, or what is called LOVE, into the account—for I under-
stand she is older than you, and Brown says, rather sensible-looking than
beautiful. She, having then no chance of making a better bargain, was at
first inclined to come to terms with you, but Pelet—the head of a flourishing
school—stepped in with a higher bid; she accepted, and he has got her: a
correct transaction—perfectly so—business-like and legitimate. And now
we'll talk of something else."
"Do," said I, very glad to dismiss the topic, and especially glad to have
baffled the sagacity of my cross-questioner—if, indeed, I had baffled it; for
though his words now led away from the dangerous point, his eyes, keen
and watchful, seemed still preoccupied with the former idea.
"You want to hear news from X——? And what interest can you have in
X——? You left no friends there, for you made none. Nobody ever asks af-
ter you—neither man nor woman; and if I mention your name in company,
the men look as if I had spoken of Prester John; and the women sneer
covertly. Our X—— belles must have disliked you. How did you excite
their displeasure?"
"I don't know. I seldom spoke to them—they were nothing to me. I con-
sidered them only as something to be glanced at from a distance; their
dresses and faces were often pleasing enough to the eye: but I could not un-
derstand their conversation, nor even read their countenances. When I
caught snatches of what they said, I could never make much of it; and the
play of their lips and eyes did not help me at all."
"That was your fault, not theirs. There are sensible, as well as handsome
women in X——; women it is worth any man's while to talk to, and with
whom I can talk with pleasure: but you had and have no pleasant address;
there is nothing in you to induce a woman to be affable. I have remarked
you sitting near the door in a room full of company, bent on hearing, not on
speaking; on observing, not on entertaining; looking frigidly shy at the
commencement of a party, confusingly vigilant about the middle, and in-
sultingly weary towards the end. Is that the way, do you think, ever to com-
municate pleasure or excite interest? No; and if you are generally unpopu-
lar, it is because you deserve to be so."
"Content!" I ejaculated.
"No, you are not content; you see beauty always turning its back on you;
you are mortified and then you sneer. I verily believe all that is desirable on
earth—wealth, reputation, love—will for ever to you be the ripe grapes on
the high trellis: you'll look up at them; they will tantalize in you the lust of
the eye; but they are out of reach: you have not the address to fetch a ladder,
and you'll go away calling them sour."
Cutting as these words might have been under some circumstances, they
drew no blood now. My life was changed; my experience had been varied
since I left X——, but Hunsden could not know this; he had seen me only
in the character of Mr. Crimsworth's clerk—a dependant amongst wealthy
strangers, meeting disdain with a hard front, conscious of an unsocial and
unattractive exterior, refusing to sue for notice which I was sure would be
withheld, declining to evince an admiration which I knew would be scorned
as worthless. He could not be aware that since then youth and loveliness
had been to me everyday objects; that I had studied them at leisure and
closely, and had seen the plain texture of truth under the embroidery of ap-
pearance; nor could he, keen-sighted as he was, penetrate into my heart,
search my brain, and read my peculiar sympathies and antipathies; he had
not known me long enough, or well enough, to perceive how low my feel-
ings would ebb under some influences, powerful over most minds; how
high, how fast they would flow under other influences, that perhaps acted
with the more intense force on me, because they acted on me alone. Neither
could he suspect for an instant the history of my communications with
Mdlle. Reuter; secret to him and to all others was the tale of her strange in-
fatuation; her blandishments, her wiles had been seen but by me, and to me
only were they known; but they had changed me, for they had proved that I
COULD impress. A sweeter secret nestled deeper in my heart; one full of
tenderness and as full of strength: it took the sting out of Hunsden's sar-
casm; it kept me unbent by shame, and unstirred by wrath. But of all this I
could say nothing—nothing decisive at least; uncertainty sealed my lips,
and during the interval of silence by which alone I replied to Mr. Hunsden, I
made up my mind to be for the present wholly misjudged by him, and mis-
judged I was; he thought he had been rather too hard upon me, and that I
was crushed by the weight of his upbraidings; so to re-assure me he said,
doubtless I should mend some day; I was only at the beginning of life yet;
and since happily I was not quite without sense, every false step I made
would be a good lesson.
Just then I turned my face a little to the light; the approach of twilight,
and my position in the window-seat, had, for the last ten minutes, prevented
him from studying my countenance; as I moved, however, he caught an ex-
pression which he thus interpreted:—
"Confound it! How doggedly self-approving the lad looks! I thought he
was fit to die with shame, and there he sits grinning smiles, as good as to
say, 'Let the world wag as it will, I've the philosopher's stone in my waist-
coat pocket, and the elixir of life in my cupboard; I'm independent of both
Fate and Fortune.'"
"Hunsden—you spoke of grapes; I was thinking of a fruit I like better
than your X—— hot-house grapes—an unique fruit, growing wild, which I
have marked as my own, and hope one day to gather and taste. It is of no
use your offering me the draught of bitterness, or threatening me with death
by thirst: I have the anticipation of sweetness on my palate; the hope of
freshness on my lips; I can reject the unsavoury, and endure the
exhausting."
"For how long?"
"Till the next opportunity for effort; and as the prize of success will be a
treasure after my own heart, I'll bring a bull's strength to the struggle."
"Bad luck crushes bulls as easily as bullaces; and, I believe, the fury dogs
you: you were born with a wooden spoon in your mouth, depend on it."
"I believe you; sad I mean to make my wooden spoon do the work of
some people's silver ladles: grasped firmly, and handled nimbly, even a
wooden spoon will shovel up broth."
Hunsden rose: "I see," said he; "I suppose you're one of those who devel-
op best unwatched, and act best unaided-work your own way. Now, I'll go."
And, without another word, he was going; at the door he turned:—
"Crimsworth Hall is sold," said he.
"Sold!" was my echo.
"Yes; you know, of course, that your brother failed three months ago?"
"What! Edward Crimsworth?"
"Precisely; and his wife went home to her fathers; when affairs went
awry, his temper sympathized with them; he used her ill; I told you he
would be a tyrant to her some day; as to him—"
"Ay, as to him—what is become of him?"
"Nothing extraordinary—don't be alarmed; he put himself under the pro-
tection of the court, compounded with his creditors—tenpence in the pound;
in six weeks set up again, coaxed back his wife, and is flourishing like a
green bay-tree."
"And Crimsworth Hall—was the furniture sold too?"
"Everything—from the grand piano down to the rolling-pin."
"And the contents of the oak dining-room—were they sold?"
"Of course; why should the sofas and chairs of that room be held more
sacred than those of any other?"
 "And the pictures?"
"What pictures? Crimsworth had no special collection that I know of—he
did not profess to be an amateur."
"There were two portraits, one on each side the mantelpiece; you cannot
have forgotten them, Mr. Hunsden; you once noticed that of the lady—"
"Oh, I know! the thin-faced gentlewoman with a shawl put on like drap-
ery.—Why, as a matter of course, it would be sold among the other things.
If you had been rich, you might have bought it, for I remember you said it
represented your mother: you see what it is to be without a sou."
I did. "But surely," I thought to myself, "I shall not always be so poverty-
stricken; I may one day buy it back yet.—Who purchased it? do you
know?" I asked.
"How is it likely? I never inquired who purchased anything; there spoke
the unpractical man—to imagine all the world is interested in what interests
himself! Now, good night—I'm off for Germany to-morrow morning; I shall
be back here in six weeks, and possibly I may call and see you again; I
wonder whether you'll be still out of place!" he laughed, as mockingly, as
heartlessly as Mephistopheles, and so laughing, vanished.
Some people, however indifferent they may become after a considerable
space of absence, always contrive to leave a pleasant impression just at
parting; not so Hunsden, a conference with him affected one like a draught
of Peruvian bark; it seemed a concentration of the specially harsh, stringent,
bitter; whether, like bark, it invigorated, I scarcely knew.
A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow; I slept little on the night after this
interview; towards morning I began to doze, but hardly had my slumber be-
come sleep, when I was roused from it by hearing a noise in my sitting
room, to which my bed-room adjoined—a step, and a shoving of furniture;
the movement lasted barely two minutes; with the closing of the door it
ceased. I listened; not a mouse stirred; perhaps I had dreamt it; perhaps a
locataire had made a mistake, and entered my apartment instead of his own.
It was yet but five o'clock; neither I nor the day were wide awake; I turned,
and was soon unconscious. When I did rise, about two hours later, I had for-
gotten the circumstance; the first thing I saw, however, on quitting my
chamber, recalled it; just pushed in at the door of my sitting-room, and still
standing on end, was a wooden packing-case—a rough deal affair, wide but
shallow; a porter had doubtless shoved it forward, but seeing no occupant of
the room, had left it at the entrance.
 "That is none of mine," thought I, approaching; "it must be meant for
somebody else." I stooped to examine the address:—
"Wm. Crimsworth, Esq., No —, — St., Brussels."
I was puzzled, but concluding that the best way to obtain information was
to ask within, I cut the cords and opened the case. Green baize enveloped its
contents, sewn carefully at the sides; I ripped the pack-thread with my pen-
knife, and still, as the seam gave way, glimpses of gilding appeared through
the widening interstices. Boards and baize being at length removed, I lifted
from the case a large picture, in a magnificent frame; leaning it against a
chair, in a position where the light from the window fell favourably upon it,
I stepped back—already I had mounted my spectacles. A portrait-painter's
sky (the most sombre and threatening of welkins), and distant trees of a
conventional depth of hue, raised in full relief a pale, pensive-looking fe-
male face, shadowed with soft dark hair, almost blending with the equally
dark clouds; large, solemn eyes looked reflectively into mine; a thin cheek
rested on a delicate little hand; a shawl, artistically draped, half hid, half
showed a slight figure. A listener (had there been one) might have heard
me, after ten minutes' silent gazing, utter the word "Mother!" I might have
said more—but with me, the first word uttered aloud in soliloquy rouses
consciousness; it reminds me that only crazy people talk to themselves, and
then I think out my monologue, instead of speaking it. I had thought a long
while, and a long while had contemplated the intelligence, the sweetness,
and—alas! the sadness also of those fine, grey eyes, the mental power of
that forehead, and the rare sensibility of that serious mouth, when my
glance, travelling downwards, fell on a narrow billet, stuck in the corner of
the picture, between the frame and the canvas. Then I first asked, "Who sent
this picture? Who thought of me, saved it out of the wreck of Crimsworth
Hall, and now commits it to the care of its natural keeper?" I took the note
from its niche; thus it spoke:—
"There is a sort of stupid pleasure in giving a child sweets, a fool his
bells, a dog a bone. You are repaid by seeing the child besmear his face with
sugar; by witnessing how the fool's ecstasy makes a greater fool of him than
ever; by watching the dog's nature come out over his bone. In giving
William Crimsworth his mother's picture, I give him sweets, bells, and bone
all in one; what grieves me is, that I cannot behold the result; I would have
added five shillings more to my bid if the auctioneer could only have
promised me that pleasure.
 "H. Y. H.
"P.S.—You said last night you positively declined adding another item to
your account with me; don't you think I've saved you that trouble?"
I muffled the picture in its green baize covering, restored it to the case,
and having transported the whole concern to my bed-room, put it out of
sight under my bed. My pleasure was now poisoned by pungent pain; I de-
termined to look no more till I could look at my ease. If Hunsden had come
in at that moment, I should have said to him, "I owe you nothing, Hunsden
—not a fraction of a farthing: you have paid yourself in taunts!"
Too anxious to remain any longer quiescent, I had no sooner breakfasted,
than I repaired once more to M. Vandenhuten's, scarcely hoping to find him
at home; for a week had barely elapsed since my first call: but fancying I
might be able to glean information as to the time when his return was ex-
pected. A better result awaited me than I had anticipated, for though the
family were yet at Ostend, M. Vandenhuten had come over to Brussels on
business for the day. He received me with the quiet kindness of a sincere
though not excitable man. I had not sat five minutes alone with him in his
bureau, before I became aware of a sense of ease in his presence, such as I
rarely experienced with strangers. I was surprised at my own composure,
for, after all, I had come on business to me exceedingly painful—that of so-
liciting a favour. I asked on what basis the calm rested—I feared it might be
deceptive. Ere long I caught a glimpse of the ground, and at once I felt as-
sured of its solidity; I knew where it was.
M. Vandenhuten was rich, respected, and influential; I, poor, despised
and powerless; so we stood to the world at large as members of the world's
society; but to each other, as a pair of human beings, our positions were re-
versed. The Dutchman (he was not Flamand, but pure Hollandais) was
slow, cool, of rather dense intelligence, though sound and accurate judg-
ment; the Englishman far more nervous, active, quicker both to plan and to
practise, to conceive and to realize. The Dutchman was benevolent, the
Englishman susceptible; in short our characters dovetailed, but my mind
having more fire and action than his, instinctively assumed and kept the
predominance.
This point settled, and my position well ascertained, I addressed him on
the subject of my affairs with that genuine frankness which full confidence
can alone inspire. It was a pleasure to him to be so appealed to; he thanked
me for giving him this opportunity of using a little exertion in my behalf. I
went on to explain to him that my wish was not so much to be helped, as to
be put into the way of helping myself; of him I did not want exertion—that
was to be my part—but only information and recommendation. Soon after I
rose to go. He held out his hand at parting—an action of greater signifi-
cance with foreigners than with Englishmen. As I exchanged a smile with
him, I thought the benevolence of his truthful face was better than the intel-
ligence of my own. Characters of my order experience a balm-like solace in
the contact of such souls as animated the honest breast of Victor
Vandenhuten.
The next fortnight was a period of many alternations; my existence dur-
ing its lapse resembled a sky of one of those autumnal nights which are spe-
cially haunted by meteors and falling stars. Hopes and fears, expectations
and disappointments, descended in glancing showers from zenith to hori-
zon; but all were transient, and darkness followed swift each vanishing ap-
parition. M. Vandenhuten aided me faithfully; he set me on the track of sev-
eral places, and himself made efforts to secure them for me; but for a long
time solicitation and recommendation were vain—the door either shut in
my face when I was about to walk in, or another candidate, entering before
me, rendered my further advance useless. Feverish and roused, no disap-
pointment arrested me; defeat following fast on defeat served as stimulants
to will. I forgot fastidiousness, conquered reserve, thrust pride from me: I
asked, I persevered, I remonstrated, I dunned. It is so that openings are
forced into the guarded circle where Fortune sits dealing favours round. My
perseverance made me known; my importunity made me remarked. I was
inquired about; my former pupils' parents, gathering the reports of their
children, heard me spoken of as talented, and they echoed the word: the
sound, bandied about at random, came at last to ears which, but for its uni-
versality, it might never have reached; and at the very crisis when I had
tried my last effort and knew not what to do, Fortune looked in at me one
morning, as I sat in drear and almost desperate deliberation on my bedstead,
nodded with the familiarity of an old acquaintance—though God knows I
had never met her before—and threw a prize into my lap.
In the second week of October, 18—, I got the appointment of English
professor to all the classes of —— College, Brussels, with a salary of three
thousand francs per annum; and the certainty of being able, by dint of the
reputation and publicity accompanying the position, to make as much more
by private means. The official notice, which communicated this informa-
tion, mentioned also that it was the strong recommendation of M. Vanden-
huten, negociant, which had turned the scale of choice in my favour.
No sooner had I read the announcement than I hurried to M. Vanden-
huten's bureau, pushed the document under his nose, and when he had pe-
rused it, took both his hands, and thanked him with unrestrained vivacity.
My vivid words and emphatic gesture moved his Dutch calm to unwonted
sensation. He said he was happy—glad to have served me; but he had done
nothing meriting such thanks. He had not laid out a centime—only
scratched a few words on a sheet of paper.
Again I repeated to him—
"You have made me quite happy, and in a way that suits me; I do not feel
an obligation irksome, conferred by your kind hand; I do not feel disposed
to shun you because you have done me a favour; from this day you must
consent to admit me to your intimate acquaintance, for I shall hereafter re-
cur again and again to the pleasure of your society."
"Ainsi soit-il," was the reply, accompanied by a smile of benignant con-
tent. I went away with its sunshine in my heart.
 CHAPTER 23

IT was two o'clock when I returned to my lodgings; my dinner, just brought

in from a neighbouring hotel, smoked on the table; I sat down thinking to
eat—had the plate been heaped with potsherds and broken glass, instead of
boiled beef and haricots, I could not have made a more signal failure: ap-
petite had forsaken me. Impatient of seeing food which I could not taste, I
put it all aside into a cupboard, and then demanded, "What shall I do till
evening?" for before six P.M. it would be vain to seek the Rue Notre Dame
aux Neiges; its inhabitant (for me it had but one) was detained by her voca-
tion elsewhere. I walked in the streets of Brussels, and I walked in my own
room from two o'clock till six; never once in that space of time did I sit
down. I was in my chamber when the last-named hour struck; I had just
bathed my face and feverish hands, and was standing near the glass; my
cheek was crimson, my eye was flame, still all my features looked quite set-
tled and calm. Descending swiftly the stair and stepping out, I was glad to
see Twilight drawing on in clouds; such shade was to me like a grateful
screen, and the chill of latter Autumn, breathing in a fitful wind from the
north-west, met me as a refreshing coolness. Still I saw it was cold to oth-
ers, for the women I passed were wrapped in shawls, and the men had their
coats buttoned close.
When are we quite happy? Was I so then? No; an urgent and growing
dread worried my nerves, and had worried them since the first moment
good tidings had reached me. How was Frances? It was ten weeks since I
had seen her, six since I had heard from her, or of her. I had answered her
letter by a brief note, friendly but calm, in which no mention of continued
correspondence or further visits was made. At that hour my bark hung on
the topmost curl of a wave of fate, and I knew not on what shoal the onward
rush of the billow might hurl it; I would not then attach her destiny to mine
by the slightest thread; if doomed to split on the rock, or run a aground on
the sand-bank, I was resolved no other vessel should share my disaster: but
six weeks was a long time; and could it be that she was still well and doing
well? Were not all sages agreed in declaring that happiness finds no climax
on earth? Dared I think that but half a street now divided me from the full
cup of contentment—the draught drawn from waters said to flow only in
heaven?
I was at the door; I entered the quiet house; I mounted the stairs; the lob-
by was void and still, all the doors closed; I looked for the neat green mat; it
lay duly in its place.
"Signal of hope!" I said, and advanced. "But I will be a little calmer; I am
not going to rush in, and get up a scene directly." Forcibly staying my eager
step, I paused on the mat.
"What an absolute hush! Is she in? Is anybody in?" I demanded to my-
self. A little tinkle, as of cinders falling from a grate, replied; a movement
—a fire was gently stirred; and the slight rustle of life continuing, a step
paced equably backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, in the
apartment. Fascinated, I stood, more fixedly fascinated when a voice re-
warded the attention of my strained ear—so low, so self-addressed, I never
fancied the speaker otherwise than alone; solitude might speak thus in a
desert, or in the hall of a forsaken house.

"'And ne'er but once, my son,' he said,

'Was yon dark cavern trod;
In persecution's iron days,
When the land was left by God.
From Bewley's bog, with slaughter red,
A wanderer hither drew;
And oft he stopp'd and turn'd his head,
As by fits the night-winds blew.
For trampling round by Cheviot-edge
Were heard the troopers keen;
And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge
The death-shot flash'd between,'" &c. &c.
 The old Scotch ballad was partly recited, then dropt; a pause ensued; then
another strain followed, in French, of which the purport, translated, ran as
follows:—

I gave, at first, attention close;

Then interest warm ensued;
From interest, as improvement rose,
Succeeded gratitude.
Obedience was no effort soon,
And labour was no pain;
If tired, a word, a glance alone
Would give me strength again.
From others of the studious band,
Ere long he singled me;
But only by more close demand,
And sterner urgency.
The task he from another took,
From me he did reject;
He would no slight omission brook,
And suffer no defect.
If my companions went astray,
He scarce their wanderings blam'd;
If I but falter'd in the way,
His anger fiercely flam'd.

Something stirred in an adjoining chamber; it would not do to be sur-

prised eaves-dropping; I tapped hastily, And as hastily entered. Frances was
just before me; she had been walking slowly in her room, and her step was
checked by my advent: Twilight only was with her, and tranquil, ruddy
Firelight; to these sisters, the Bright and the Dark, she had been speaking,
ere I entered, in poetry. Sir Walter Scott's voice, to her a foreign, far-off
sound, a mountain echo, had uttered itself in the first stanzas; the second, I
thought, from the style and the substance, was the language of her own
heart. Her face was grave, its expression concentrated; she bent on me an
unsmiling eye—an eye just returning from abstraction, just awaking from
dreams: well-arranged was her simple attire, smooth her dark hair, orderly
her tranquil room; but what—with her thoughtful look, her serious self-re-
liance, her bent to meditation and haply inspiration—what had she to do
with love? "Nothing," was the answer of her own sad, though gentle counte-
nance; it seemed to say, "I must cultivate fortitude and cling to poetry; one
is to be my support and the other my solace through life. Human affections
do not bloom, nor do human passions glow for me." Other women have
such thoughts. Frances, had she been as desolate as she deemed, would not
have been worse off than thousands of her sex. Look at the rigid and formal
race of old maids—the race whom all despise; they have fed themselves,
from youth upwards, on maxims of resignation and endurance. Many of
them get ossified with the dry diet; self-control is so continually their
thought, so perpetually their object, that at last it absorbs the softer and
more agreeable qualities of their nature; and they die mere models of aus-
terity, fashioned out of a little parchment and much bone. Anatomists will
tell you that there is a heart in the withered old maid's carcase—the same as
in that of any cherished wife or proud mother in the land. Can this be so? I
really don't know; but feel inclined to doubt it.
I came forward, bade Frances "good evening," and took my seat. The
chair I had chosen was one she had probably just left; it stood by a little ta-
ble where were her open desk and papers. I know not whether she had fully
recognized me at first, but she did so now; and in a voice, soft but quiet, she
returned my greeting. I had shown no eagerness; she took her cue from me,
and evinced no surprise. We met as me had always met, as master and pupil
—nothing more. I proceeded to handle the papers; Frances, observant and
serviceable, stepped into an inner room, brought a candle, lit it, placed it by
me; then drew the curtain over the lattice, and having added a little fresh
fuel to the already bright fire, she drew a second chair to the table and sat
down at my right hand, a little removed. The paper on the top was a transla-
tion of some grave French author into English, but underneath lay a sheet
with stanzas; on this I laid hands. Frances half rose, made a movement to
recover the captured spoil, saying, that was nothing—a mere copy of vers-
es. I put by resistance with the decision I knew she never long opposed; but
on this occasion her fingers had fastened on the paper. I had quietly to un-
loose them; their hold dissolved to my touch; her hand shrunk away; my
own would fain have followed it, but for the present I forbade such impulse.
The first page of the sheet was occupied with the lines I had overheard; the
sequel was not exactly the writer's own experience, but a composition by
portions of that experience suggested. Thus while egotism was avoided, the
fancy was exercised, and the heart satisfied. I translate as before, and my
translation is nearly literal; it continued thus:—

When sickness stay'd awhile my course,

He seem'd impatient still,
Because his pupil's flagging force
Could not obey his will.
One day when summoned to the bed
Where pain and I did strive,
I heard him, as he bent his head,
Say, "God, she must revive!"
I felt his hand, with gentle stress,
A moment laid on mine,
And wished to mark my consciousness
By some responsive sign.
But pow'rless then to speak or move,
I only felt, within,
The sense of Hope, the strength of Love,
Their healing work begin.
And as he from the room withdrew,
My heart his steps pursued;
I long'd to prove, by efforts new;
My speechless gratitude.
When once again I took my place,
Long vacant, in the class,
Th' unfrequent smile across his face
Did for one moment pass.
The lessons done; the signal made
Of glad release and play,
He, as he passed, an instant stay'd,
One kindly word to say.
"Jane, till to-morrow you are free
From tedious task and rule;
This afternoon I must not see
That yet pale face in school.
"Seek in the garden-shades a seat,
Far from the play-ground din;
The sun is warm, the air is sweet:
Stay till I call you in."
A long and pleasant afternoon
I passed in those green bowers;
All silent, tranquil, and alone
With birds, and bees, and flowers.
Yet, when my master's voice I heard
Call, from the window, "Jane!"
I entered, joyful, at the word,
The busy house again.
He, in the hall, paced up and down;
He paused as I passed by;
His forehead stern relaxed its frown:
He raised his deep-set eye.
"Not quite so pale," he murmured low.
"Now Jane, go rest awhile."
And as I smiled, his smoothened brow
Returned as glad a smile.
My perfect health restored, he took
His mien austere again;
And, as before, he would not brook
The slightest fault from Jane.
The longest task, the hardest theme
Fell to my share as erst,
And still I toiled to place my name
In every study first.
He yet begrudged and stinted praise,
But I had learnt to read
The secret meaning of his face,
And that was my best meed.
Even when his hasty temper spoke
In tones that sorrow stirred,
My grief was lulled as soon as woke
By some relenting word.
And when he lent some precious book,
Or gave some fragrant flower,
I did not quail to Envy's look,
Upheld by Pleasure's power.
At last our school ranks took their ground,
The hard-fought field I won;
The prize, a laurel-wreath, was bound
My throbbing forehead on.
Low at my master's knee I bent,
The offered crown to meet;
Its green leaves through my temples sent
A thrill as wild as sweet.
The strong pulse of Ambition struck
In every vein I owned;
At the same instant, bleeding broke
A secret, inward wound.
The hour of triumph was to me
The hour of sorrow sore;
A day hence I must cross the sea,
Ne'er to recross it more.
An hour hence, in my master's room
I with him sat alone,
And told him what a dreary gloom
O'er joy had parting thrown.
He little said; the time was brief,
The ship was soon to sail,
And while I sobbed in bitter grief,
My master but looked pale.
They called in haste; he bade me go,
Then snatched me back again;
He held me fast and murmured low,
"Why will they part us, Jane?"
"Were you not happy in my care?
Did I not faithful prove?
Will others to my darling bear
As true, as deep a love?
"O God, watch o'er my foster child!
O guard her gentle head!
 When minds are high and tempests wild
Protection round her spread!
"They call again; leave then my breast;
Quit thy true shelter, Jane;
But when deceived, repulsed, opprest,
Come home to me again!"

I read—then dreamily made marks on the margin with my pencil; think-

ing all the while of other things; thinking that "Jane" was now at my side;
no child, but a girl of nineteen; and she might be mine, so my heart af-
firmed; Poverty's curse was taken off me; Envy and Jealousy were far away,
and unapprized of this our quiet meeting; the frost of the Master's manner
might melt; I felt the thaw coming fast, whether I would or not; no further
need for the eye to practise a hard look, for the brow to compress its ex-
pense into a stern fold: it was now permitted to suffer the outward revela-
tion of the inward glow—to seek, demand, elicit an answering ardour.
While musing thus, I thought that the grass on Hermon never drank the
fresh dews of sunset more gratefully than my feelings drank the bliss of this
hour.
Frances rose, as if restless; she passed before me to stir the fire, which
did not want stirring; she lifted and put down the little ornaments on the
mantelpiece; her dress waved within a yard of me; slight, straight, and ele-
gant, she stood erect on the hearth.
There are impulses we can control; but there are others which control us,
because they attain us with a tiger-leap, and are our masters ere we have
seen them. Perhaps, though, such impulses are seldom altogether bad; per-
haps Reason, by a process as brief as quiet, a process that is finished ere
felt, has ascertained the sanity of the deed Instinct meditates, and feels justi-
fied in remaining passive while it is performed. I know I did not reason, I
did not plan or intend, yet, whereas one moment I was sitting solus on the
chair near the table, the next, I held Frances on my knee, placed there with
sharpness and decision, and retained with exceeding tenacity.
"Monsieur!" cried Frances, and was still: not another word escaped her
lips; sorely confounded she seemed during the lapse of the first few mo-
ments; but the amazement soon subsided; terror did not succeed, nor fury:
after all, she was only a little nearer than she had ever been before, to one
she habitually respected and trusted; embarrassment might have impelled
her to contend, but self-respect checked resistance where resistance was
useless.
"Frances, how much regard have you for me?" was my demand. No an-
swer; the situation was yet too new and surprising to permit speech. On this
consideration, I compelled myself for some seconds to tolerate her silence,
though impatient of it: presently, I repeated the same question—probably,
not in the calmest of tones; she looked at me; my face, doubtless, was no
model of composure, my eyes no still wells of tranquillity.
"Do speak," I urged; and a very low, hurried, yet still arch voice said—
"Monsieur, vous me faites mal; de grace lachez un peu ma main droite."
In truth I became aware that I was holding the said "main droite" in a
somewhat ruthless grasp: I did as desired; and, for the third time, asked
more gently—
"Frances, how much regard have you for me?"
"Mon maitre, j'en ai beaucoup," was the truthful rejoinder.
"Frances, have you enough to give yourself to me as my wife?—to ac-
cept me as your husband?"
I felt the agitation of the heart, I saw "the purple light of love" cast its
glowing reflection on cheeks, temples, neck; I desired to consult the eye,
but sheltering lash and lid forbade.
"Monsieur," said the soft voice at last,—"Monsieur desire savoir si je
consens—si—enfin, si je veux me marier avec lui?"
"Justement."
"Monsieur sera-t-il aussi bon mari qu'il a ete bon maitre?"
"I will try, Frances."
A pause; then with a new, yet still subdued inflexion of the voice—an in-
flexion which provoked while it pleased me—accompanied, too, by a
"sourire a la fois fin et timide" in perfect harmony with the tone:—
"C'est a dire, monsieur sera toujours un peu entete exigeant, volontaire
—?"
"Have I been so, Frances?"
"Mais oui; vous le savez bien."
"Have I been nothing else?"
"Mais oui; vons avez ete mon meilleur ami."
"And what, Frances, are you to me?"
"Votre devouee eleve, qui vous aime de tout son coeur."
 "Will my pupil consent to pass her life with me? Speak English now,
Frances."
Some moments were taken for reflection; the answer, pronounced slowly,
ran thus:—
"You have always made me happy; I like to hear you speak; I like to see
you; I like to be near you; I believe you are very good, and very superior; I
know you are stern to those who are careless and idle, but you are kind,
very kind to the attentive and industrious, even if they are not clever. Mas-
ter, I should be GLAD to live with you always;" and she made a sort of
movement, as if she would have clung to me, but restraining herself she
only added with earnest emphasis—"Master, I consent to pass my life with
you."
"Very well, Frances."
I drew her a little nearer to my heart; I took a first kiss from her lips,
thereby sealing the compact, now framed between us; afterwards she and I
were silent, nor was our silence brief. Frances' thoughts, during this inter-
val, I know not, nor did I attempt to guess them; I was not occupied in
searching her countenance, nor in otherwise troubling her composure. The
peace I felt, I wished her to feel; my arm, it is true, still detained her; but
with a restraint that was gentle enough, so long as no opposition tightened
it. My gaze was on the red fire; my heart was measuring its own content; it
sounded and sounded, and found the depth fathomless.
"Monsieur," at last said my quiet companion, as stirless in her happiness
as a mouse in its terror. Even now in speaking she scarcely lifted her head.
"Well, Frances?" I like unexaggerated intercourse; it is not my way to
overpower with amorous epithets, any more than to worry with selfishly im-
portunate caresses.
"Monsieur est raisonnable, n'eut-ce pas?"
"Yes; especially when I am requested to be so in English: but why do you
ask me? You see nothing vehement or obtrusive in my manner; am I not
tranquil enough?"
"Ce n'est pas cela—" began Frances.
"English!" I reminded her.
"Well, monsieur, I wished merely to say, that I should like, of course, to
retain my employment of teaching. You will teach still, I suppose,
monsieur?"
"Oh, yes! It is all I have to depend on."
 "Bon!—I mean good. Thus we shall have both the same profession. I like
that; and my efforts to get on will be as unrestrained as yours—will they
not, monsieur?"
"You are laying plans to be independent of me," said I.
"Yes, monsieur; I must be no incumbrance to you—no burden in any
way."
"But, Frances, I have not yet told you what my prospects are. I have left
M. Pelet's; and after nearly a month's seeking, I have got another place, with
a salary of three thousand francs a year, which I can easily double by a little
additional exertion. Thus you see it would be useless for you to fag yourself
by going out to give lessons; on six thousand francs you and I can live, and
live well."
Frances seemed to consider. There is something flattering to man's
strength, something consonant to his honourable pride, in the idea of be-
coming the providence of what he loves—feeding and clothing it, as God
does the lilies of the field. So, to decide her resolution, I went on:—
"Life has been painful and laborious enough to you so far, Frances; you
require complete rest; your twelve hundred francs would not form a very
important addition to our income, and what sacrifice of comfort to earn it!
Relinquish your labours: you must be weary, and let me have the happiness
of giving you rest."
I am not sure whether Frances had accorded due attention to my ha-
rangue; instead of answering me with her usual respectful promptitude, she
only sighed and said,—
"How rich you are, monsieur!" and then she stirred uneasy in my arms.
"Three thousand francs!" she murmured, "While I get only twelve
hundred!" She went on faster. "However, it must be so for the present; and,
monsieur, were you not saying something about my giving up my place?
Oh no! I shall hold it fast;" and her little fingers emphatically tightened on
mine.
"Think of my marrying you to be kept by you, monsieur! I could not do
it; and how dull my days would be! You would be away teaching in close,
noisy school-rooms, from morning till evening, and I should be lingering at
home, unemployed and solitary; I should get depressed and sullen, and you
would soon tire of me."
"Frances, you could read and study—two things you like so well."
 "Monsieur, I could not; I like a contemplative life, but I like an active life
better; I must act in some way, and act with you. I have taken notice, mon-
sieur, that people who are only in each other's company for amusement,
never really like each other so well, or esteem each other so highly, as those
who work together, and perhaps suffer together."
"You speak God's truth," said I at last, "and you shall have your own way,
for it is the best way. Now, as a reward for such ready consent, give me a
voluntary kiss."
After some hesitation, natural to a novice in the art of kissing, she
brought her lips into very shy and gentle contact with my forehead; I took
the small gift as a loan, and repaid it promptly, and with generous interest.
I know not whether Frances was really much altered since the time I first
saw her; but, as I looked at her now, I felt that she was singularly changed
for me; the sad eye, the pale cheek, the dejected and joyless countenance I
remembered as her early attributes, were quite gone, and now I saw a face
dressed in graces; smile, dimple, and rosy tint, rounded its contours and
brightened its hues. I had been accustomed to nurse a flattering idea that my
strong attachment to her proved some particular perspicacity in my nature;
she was not handsome, she was not rich, she was not even accomplished,
yet was she my life's treasure; I must then be a man of peculiar discernment.
To-night my eyes opened on the mistake I had made; I began to suspect that
it was only my tastes which were unique, not my power of discovering and
appreciating the superiority of moral worth over physical charms. For me
Frances had physical charms: in her there was no deformity to get over;
none of those prominent defects of eyes, teeth, complexion, shape, which
hold at bay the admiration of the boldest male champions of intellect (for
women can love a downright ugly man if he be but talented); had she been
either "edentee, myope, rugueuse, ou bossue," my feelings towards her
might still have been kindly, but they could never have been impassioned; I
had affection for the poor little misshapen Sylvie, but for her I could never
have had love. It is true Frances' mental points had been the first to interest
me, and they still retained the strongest hold on my preference; but I liked
the graces of her person too. I derived a pleasure, purely material, from con-
templating the clearness of her brown eyes, the fairness of her fine skin, the
purity of her well-set teeth, the proportion of her delicate form; and that
pleasure I could ill have dispensed with. It appeared, then, that I too was a
sensualist, in my temperate and fastidious way.
 Now, reader, during the last two pages I have been giving you honey
fresh from flowers, but you must not live entirely on food so luscious; taste
then a little gall—just a drop, by way of change.
At a somewhat late hour I returned to my lodgings: having temporarily
forgotten that man had any such coarse cares as those of eating and drink-
ing, I went to bed fasting. I had been excited and in action all day, and had
tasted no food since eight that morning; besides, for a fortnight past, I had
known no rest either of body or mind; the last few hours had been a sweet
delirium, it would not subside now, and till long after midnight, broke with
troubled ecstacy the rest I so much needed. At last I dozed, but not for long;
it was yet quite dark when I awoke, and my waking was like that of Job
when a spirit passed before his face, and like him, "the hair of my flesh
stood up." I might continue the parallel, for in truth, though I saw nothing,
yet "a thing was secretly brought unto me, and mine ear received a little
thereof; there was silence, and I heard a voice," saying—"In the midst of
life we are in death."
That sound, and the sensation of chill anguish accompanying it, many
would have regarded as supernatural; but I recognized it at once as the ef-
fect of reaction. Man is ever clogged with his mortality, and it was my mor-
tal nature which now faltered and plained; my nerves, which jarred and
gave a false sound, because the soul, of late rushing headlong to an aim, had
overstrained the body's comparative weakness. A horror of great darkness
fell upon me; I felt my chamber invaded by one I had known formerly, but
had thought for ever departed. I was temporarily a prey to hypochondria.
She had been my acquaintance, nay, my guest, once before in boyhood; I
had entertained her at bed and board for a year; for that space of time I had
her to myself in secret; she lay with me, she ate with me, she walked out
with me, showing me nooks in woods, hollows in hills, where we could sit
together, and where she could drop her drear veil over me, and so hide sky
and sun, grass and green tree; taking me entirely to her death-cold bosom,
and holding me with arms of bone. What tales she would tell me at such
hours! What songs she would recite in my ears! How she would discourse
to me of her own country—the grave—and again and again promise to con-
duct me there ere long; and, drawing me to the very brink of a black, sullen
river, show me, on the other side, shores unequal with mound, monument,
and tablet, standing up in a glimmer more hoary than moonlight. "Necropo-
lis!" she would whisper, pointing to the pale piles, and add, "It contains a
mansion prepared for you."
But my boyhood was lonely, parentless; uncheered by brother or sister;
and there was no marvel that, just as I rose to youth, a sorceress, finding me
lost in vague mental wanderings, with many affections and few objects,
glowing aspirations and gloomy prospects, strong desires and slender
hopes, should lift up her illusive lamp to me in the distance, and lure me to
her vaulted home of horrors. No wonder her spells THEN had power; but
NOW, when my course was widening, my prospect brightening; when my
affections had found a rest; when my desires, folding wings, weary with
long flight, had just alighted on the very lap of fruition, and nestled there
warm, content, under the caress of a soft hand—why did hypochondria ac-
cost me now?
I repulsed her as one would a dreaded and ghastly concubine coming to
embitter a husband's heart toward his young bride; in vain; she kept her
sway over me for that night and the next day, and eight succeeding days.
Afterwards, my spirits began slowly to recover their tone; my appetite re-
turned, and in a fortnight I was well. I had gone about as usual all the time,
and had said nothing to anybody of what I felt; but I was glad when the evil
spirit departed from me, and I could again seek Frances, and sit at her side,
freed from the dreadful tyranny of my demon.
 CHAPTER 24

ONE fine, frosty Sunday in November, Frances and I took a long walk; we
made the tour of the city by the Boulevards; and, afterwards, Frances being
a little tired, we sat down on one of those wayside seats placed under the
trees, at intervals, for the accommodation of the weary. Frances was telling
me about Switzerland; the subject animated her; and I was just thinking that
her eyes spoke full as eloquently as her tongue, when she stopped and re-
marked—
"Monsieur, there is a gentleman who knows you."
I looked up; three fashionably dressed men were just then passing—Eng-
lishmen, I knew by their air and gait as well as by their features; in the
tallest of the trio I at once recognized Mr. Hunsden; he was in the act of lift-
ing his hat to Frances; afterwards, he made a grimace at me, and passed on.
"Who is he?"
"A person I knew in England."
"Why did he bow to me? He does not know me."
"Yes, he does know you, in his way."
"How, monsieur?" (She still called me "monsieur"; I could not persuade
her to adopt any more familiar term.)
"Did you not read the expression of his eyes?"
"Of his eyes? No. What did they say?"
"To you they said, 'How do you do, Wilhelmina, Crimsworth?' To me, 'So
you have found your counterpart at last; there she sits, the female of your
kind!'"
"Monsieur, you could not read all that in his eyes; He was so soon gone."
"I read that and more, Frances; I read that he will probably call on me
this evening, or on some future occasion shortly; and I have no doubt he
will insist on being introduced to you; shall I bring him to your rooms?"
"If you please, monsieur—I have no objection; I think, indeed, I should
rather like to see him nearer; he looks so original."
As I had anticipated, Mr. Hunsden came that evening. The first thing he
said was:—
"You need not begin boasting, Monsieur le Professeur; I know about your
appointment to —— College, and all that; Brown has told me." Then he in-
timated that he had returned from Germany but a day or two since; after-
wards, he abruptly demanded whether that was Madame Pelet-Reuter with
whom he had seen me on the Boulevards. I was going to utter a rather em-
phatic negative, but on second thoughts I checked myself, and, seeming to
assent, asked what he thought of her?
"As to her, I'll come to that directly; but first I've a word for you. I see
you are a scoundrel; you've no business to be promenading about with an-
other man's wife. I thought you had sounder sense than to get mixed up in
foreign hodge-podge of this sort."
"But the lady?"
"She's too good for you evidently; she is like you, but something better
than you—no beauty, though; yet when she rose (for I looked back to see
you both walk away) I thought her figure and carriage good. These foreign-
ers understand grace. What the devil has she done with Pelet? She has not
been married to him three months—he must be a spoon!"
I would not let the mistake go too far; I did not like it much.
"Pelet? How your head runs on Mons. and Madame Pelet! You are al-
ways talking about them. I wish to the gods you had wed Mdlle. Zoraide
yourself!"
"Was that young gentlewoman not Mdlle. Zoraide?"
"No; nor Madame Zoraide either."
"Why did you tell a lie, then?"
"I told no lie; but you are is such a hurry. She is a pupil of mine—a Swiss
girl."
"And of course you are going to be married to her? Don't deny that."
"Married! I think I shall—if Fate spares us both ten weeks longer. That is
my little wild strawberry, Hunsden, whose sweetness made me careless of
your hothouse grapes."
"Stop! No boasting—no heroics; I won't hear them. What is she? To what
caste does she belong?"
 I smiled. Hunsden unconsciously laid stress on the word caste, and, in
fact, republican, lordhater as he was, Hunsden was as proud of his old ——
shire blood, of his descent and family standing, respectable and respected
through long generations back, as any peer in the realm of his Norman race
and Conquest-dated title. Hunsden would as little have thought of taking a
wife from a caste inferior to his own, as a Stanley would think of mating
with a Cobden. I enjoyed the surprise I should give; I enjoyed the triumph
of my practice over his theory; and leaning over the table, and uttering the
words slowly but with repressed glee, I said concisely—
"She is a lace-mender."
Hunsden examined me. He did not SAY he was surprised, but surprised
he was; he had his own notions of good breeding. I saw he suspected I was
going to take some very rash step; but repressing declamation or remon-
strance, he only answered—
"Well, you are the best; judge of your own affairs. A lace-mender may
make a good wife as well as a lady; but of course you have taken care to as-
certain thoroughly that since she has not education, fortune or station, she is
well furnished with such natural qualities as you think most likely to con-
duce to your happiness. Has she many relations?"
"None in Brussels."
"That is better. Relations are often the real evil in such cases. I cannot but
think that a train of inferior connections would have been a bore to you to
your life's end."
After sitting in silence a little while longer, Hunsden rose, and was quiet-
ly bidding me good evening; the polite, considerate manner in which he of-
fered me his hand (a thing he had never done before), convinced me that he
thought I had made a terrible fool of myself; and that, ruined and thrown
away as I was, it was no time for sarcasm or cynicism, or indeed for any-
thing but indulgence and forbearance.
"Good night, William," he said, in a really soft voice, while his face
looked benevolently compassionate. "Good night, lad. I wish you and your
future wife much prosperity; and I hope she will satisfy your fastidious
soul."
I had much ado to refrain from laughing as I beheld the magnanimous
pity of his mien; maintaining, however, a grave air, I said:—
"I thought you would have liked to have seen Mdlle. Henri?"
 "Oh, that is the name! Yes—if it would be convenient, I should like to see
her—but——." He hesitated.
"Well?"
"I should on no account wish to intrude."
"Come, then," said I. We set out. Hunsden no doubt regarded me as a
rash, imprudent man, thus to show my poor little grisette sweetheart, in her
poor little unfurnished grenier; but he prepared to act the real gentleman,
having, in fact, the kernel of that character, under the harsh husk it pleased
him to wear by way of mental mackintosh. He talked affably, and even gen-
tly, as we went along the street; he had never been so civil to me in his life.
We reached the house, entered, ascended the stair; on gaining the lobby,
Hunsden turned to mount a narrower stair which led to a higher story; I saw
his mind was bent on the attics.
"Here, Mr. Hunsden," said I quietly, tapping at Frances' door. He turned;
in his genuine politeness he was a little disconcerted at having made the
mistake; his eye reverted to the green mat, but he said nothing.
We walked in, and Frances rose from her seat near the table to receive us;
her mourning attire gave her a recluse, rather conventual, but withal very
distinguished look; its grave simplicity added nothing to beauty, but much
to dignity; the finish of the white collar and manchettes sufficed for a relief
to the merino gown of solemn black; ornament was forsworn. Frances curt-
sied with sedate grace, looking, as she always did, when one first accosted
her, more a woman to respect than to love; I introduced Mr. Hunsden, and
she expressed her happiness at making his acquaintance in French. The pure
and polished accent, the low yet sweet and rather full voice, produced their
effect immediately; Hunsden spoke French in reply; I had not heard him
speak that language before; he managed it very well. I retired to the win-
dow-seat; Mr. Hunsden, at his hostess's invitation, occupied a chair near the
hearth; from my position I could see them both, and the room too, at a
glance. The room was so clean and bright, it looked like a little polished
cabinet; a glass filled with flowers in the centre of the table, a fresh rose in
each china cup on the mantelpiece gave it an air of FETE, Frances was seri-
ous, and Mr. Hunsden subdued, but both mutually polite; they got on at the
French swimmingly: ordinary topics were discussed with great state and
decorum; I thought I had never seen two such models of propriety, for
Hunsden (thanks to the constraint of the foreign tongue) was obliged to
shape his phrases, and measure his sentences, with a care that forbade any
eccentricity. At last England was mentioned, and Frances proceeded to ask
questions. Animated by degrees, she began to change, just as a grave night-
sky changes at the approach of sunrise: first it seemed as if her forehead
cleared, then her eyes glittered, her features relaxed, and became quite mo-
bile; her subdued complexion grew warm and transparent; to me, she now
looked pretty; before, she had only looked ladylike.
She had many things to say to the Englishman just fresh from his island-
country, and she urged him with an enthusiasm of curiosity, which ere long
thawed Hunsden's reserve as fire thaws a congealed viper. I use this not
very flattering comparison because he vividly reminded me of a snake wak-
ing from torpor, as he erected his tall form, reared his head, before a little
declined, and putting back his hair from his broad Saxon forehead, showed
unshaded the gleam of almost savage satire which his interlocutor's tone of
eagerness and look of ardour had sufficed at once to kindle in his soul and
elicit from his eyes: he was himself; as Frances was herself, and in none but
his own language would he now address her.
"You understand English?" was the prefatory question.
"A little."
"Well, then, you shall have plenty of it; and first, I see you've not much
more sense than some others of my acquaintance" (indicating me with his
thumb), "or else you'd never turn rabid about that dirty little country called
England; for rabid, I see you are; I read Anglophobia in your looks, and
hear it in your words. Why, mademoiselle, is it possible that anybody with a
grain of rationality should feel enthusiasm about a mere name, and that
name England? I thought you were a lady-abbess five minutes ago, and re-
spected you accordingly; and now I see you are a sort of Swiss sibyl, with
high Tory and high Church principles!"
"England is your country?" asked Frances.
"Yes."
"And you don't like it?"
"I'd be sorry to like it! A little corrupt, venal, lord-and-king-cursed na-
tion, full of mucky pride (as they say in——shire), and helpless pauperism;
rotten with abuses, worm-eaten with prejudices!"
"You might say so of almost every state; there are abuses and prejudices
everywhere, and I thought fewer in England than in other countries."
"Come to England and see. Come to Birmingham and Manchester; come
to St. Giles' in London, and get a practical notion of how our system works.
Examine the footprints of our august aristocracy; see how they walk in
blood, crushing hearts as they go. Just put your head in at English cottage
doors; get a glimpse of Famine crouched torpid on black hearthstones; of
Disease lying bare on beds without coverlets, of Infamy wantoning vicious-
ly with Ignorance, though indeed Luxury is her favourite paramour, and
princely halls are dearer to her than thatched hovels——"
"I was not thinking of the wretchedness and vice in England; I was think-
ing of the good side—of what is elevated in your character as a nation."
"There is no good side—none at least of which you can have any knowl-
edge; for you cannot appreciate the efforts of industry, the achievements of
enterprise, or the discoveries of science: narrowness of education and ob-
scurity of position quite incapacitate you from understanding these points;
and as to historical and poetical associations, I will not insult you, made-
moiselle, by supposing that you alluded to such humbug."
"But I did partly."
Hunsden laughed—his laugh of unmitigated scorn.
"I did, Mr. Hunsden. Are you of the number of those to whom such asso-
ciations give no pleasure?"
"Mademoiselle, what is an association? I never saw one. What is its
length, breadth, weight, value—ay, VALUE? What price will it bring in the
market?"
"Your portrait, to any one who loved you, would, for the sake of associa-
tion, be without price."
That inscrutable Hunsden heard this remark and felt it rather acutely, too,
somewhere; for he coloured—a thing not unusual with him, when hit un-
awares on a tender point. A sort of trouble momentarily darkened his eye,
and I believe he filled up the transient pause succeeding his antagonist's
home-thrust, by a wish that some one did love him as he would like to be
loved—some one whose love he could unreservedly return.
The lady pursued her temporary advantage.
"If your world is a world without associations, Mr. Hunsden, I no longer
wonder that you hate England so. I don't clearly know what Paradise is, and
what angels are; yet taking it to be the most glorious region I can conceive,
and angels the most elevated existences—if one of them—if Abdiel the
Faithful himself" (she was thinking of Milton) "were suddenly stripped of
the faculty of association, I think he would soon rush forth from 'the ever-
during gates,' leave heaven, and seek what he had lost in hell. Yes, in the
very hell from which he turned 'with retorted scorn.'"
Frances' tone in saying this was as marked as her language, and it was
when the word "hell" twanged off from her lips, with a somewhat startling
emphasis, that Hunsden deigned to bestow one slight glance of admiration.
He liked something strong, whether in man or woman; he liked whatever
dared to clear conventional limits. He had never before heard a lady say
"hell" with that uncompromising sort of accent, and the sound pleased him
from a lady's lips; he would fain have had Frances to strike the string again,
but it was not in her way. The display of eccentric vigour never gave her
pleasure, and it only sounded in her voice or flashed in her countenance
when extraordinary circumstances—and those generally painful—forced it
out of the depths where it burned latent. To me, once or twice, she had in
intimate conversation, uttered venturous thoughts in nervous language; but
when the hour of such manifestation was past, I could not recall it; it came
of itself and of itself departed. Hunsden's excitations she put by soon with a
smile, and recurring to the theme of disputation, said—
"Since England is nothing, why do the continental nations respect her
so?"
"I should have thought no child would have asked that question," replied
Hunsden, who never at any time gave information without reproving for
stupidity those who asked it of him. "If you had been my pupil, as I suppose
you once had the misfortune to be that of a deplorable character not a hun-
dred miles off, I would have put you in the corner for such a confession of
ignorance. Why, mademoiselle, can't you see that it is our GOLD which
buys us French politeness, German good-will, and Swiss servility?" And he
sneered diabolically.
"Swiss?" said Frances, catching the word "servility." "Do you call my
countrymen servile?" and she started up. I could not suppress a low laugh;
there was ire in her glance and defiance in her attitude. "Do you abuse
Switzerland to me, Mr. Hunsden? Do you think I have no associations? Do
you calculate that I am prepared to dwell only on what vice and degradation
may be found in Alpine villages, and to leave quite out of my heart the so-
cial greatness of my countrymen, and our blood-earned freedom, and the
natural glories of our mountains? You're mistaken—you're mistaken."
"Social greatness? Call it what you will, your countrymen are sensible
fellows; they make a marketable article of what to you is an abstract idea;
they have, ere this, sold their social greatness and also their blood-earned
freedom to be the servants of foreign kings."
"You never were in Switzerland?"
"Yes—I have been there twice."
"You know nothing of it."
"I do."
"And you say the Swiss are mercenary, as a parrot says 'Poor Poll,' or as
the Belgians here say the English are not brave, or as the French accuse
them of being perfidious: there is no justice in your dictums."
"There is truth."
"I tell you, Mr. Hunsden, you are a more unpractical man than I am an
unpractical woman, for you don't acknowledge what really exists; you want
to annihilate individual patriotism and national greatness as an atheist
would annihilate God and his own soul, by denying their existence."
"Where are you flying to? You are off at a tangent—I thought we were
talking about the mercenary nature of the Swiss."
"We were—and if you proved to me that the Swiss are mercenary to-
morrow (which you cannot do) I should love Switzerland still."
"You would be mad, then—mad as a March hare—to indulge in a passion
for millions of shiploads of soil, timber, snow, and ice."
"Not so mad as you who love nothing."
"There's a method in my madness; there's none in yours."
"Your method is to squeeze the sap out of creation and make manure of
the refuse, by way of turning it to what you call use."
"You cannot reason at all," said Hunsden; "there is no logic in you."
"Better to be without logic than without feeling," retorted Frances, who
was now passing backwards and forwards from her cupboard to the table,
intent, if not on hospitable thoughts, at least on hospitable deeds, for she
was laying the cloth, and putting plates, knives and forks thereon.
"Is that a hit at me, mademoiselle? Do you suppose I am without
feeling?"
"I suppose you are always interfering with your own feelings, and those
of other people, and dogmatizing about the irrationality of this, that, and the
other sentiment, and then ordering it to be suppressed because you imagine
it to be inconsistent with logic."
"I do right."
 Frances had stepped out of sight into a sort of little pantry; she soon
reappeared.
"You do right? Indeed, no! You are much mistaken if you think so. Just
be so good as to let me get to the fire, Mr. Hunsden; I have something to
cook." (An interval occupied in settling a casserole on the fire; then, while
she stirred its contents:) "Right! as if it were right to crush any pleasurable
sentiment that God has given to man, especially any sentiment that, like pa-
triotism, spreads man's selfishness in wider circles" (fire stirred, dish put
down before it).
"Were you born in Switzerland?"
"I should think so, or else why should I call it my country?"
"And where did you get your English features and figure?"
"I am English, too; half the blood in my veins is English; thus I have a
right to a double power of patriotism, possessing an interest in two noble,
free, and fortunate countries."
"You had an English mother?"
"Yes, yes; and you, I suppose, had a mother from the moon or from
Utopia, since not a nation in Europe has a claim on your interest?"
"On the contrary, I'm a universal patriot, if you could understand me
rightly: my country is the world."
"Sympathies so widely diffused must be very shallow: will you have the
goodness to come to table. Monsieur" (to me who appeared to be now ab-
sorbed in reading by moonlight)—"Monsieur, supper is served."
This was said in quite a different voice to that in which she had been
bandying phrases with Mr. Hunsden—not so short, graver and softer.
"Frances, what do you mean by preparing, supper? we had no intention
of staying."
"Ah, monsieur, but you have stayed, and supper is prepared; you have
only the alternative of eating it."
The meal was a foreign one, of course; it consisted in two small but tasty
dishes of meat prepared with skill and served with nicety; a salad and "fro-
mage francais," completed it. The business of eating interposed a brief truce
between the belligerents, but no sooner was supper disposed of than they
were at it again. The fresh subject of dispute ran on the spirit of religious
intolerance which Mr. Hunsden affirmed to exist strongly in Switzerland,
notwithstanding the professed attachment of the Swiss to freedom. Here
Frances had greatly the worst of it, not only because she was unskilled to
argue, but because her own real opinions on the point in question happened
to coincide pretty nearly with Mr. Hunsden's, and she only contradicted him
out of opposition. At last she gave in, confessing that she thought as he
thought, but bidding him take notice that she did not consider herself
beaten.
"No more did the French at Waterloo," said Hunsden.
"There is no comparison between the cases," rejoined Frances; "mine was
a sham fight."
"Sham or real, it's up with you."
"No; though I have neither logic nor wealth of words, yet in a case where
my opinion really differed from yours, I would adhere to it when I had not
another word to say in its defence; you should be baffled by dumb determi-
nation. You speak of Waterloo; your Wellington ought to have been con-
quered there, according to Napoleon; but he persevered in spite of the laws
of war, and was victorious in defiance of military tactics. I would do as he
did."
"I'll be bound for it you would; probably you have some of the same sort
of stubborn stuff in you.
"I should be sorry if I had not; he and Tell were brothers, and I'd scorn
the Swiss, man or woman, who had none of the much-enduring nature of
our heroic William in his soul."
"If Tell was like Wellington, he was an ass."
"Does not ASS mean BAUDET?" asked Frances, turning to me.
"No, no," replied I, "it means an ESPRIT-FORT; and now," I continued,
as I saw that fresh occasion of strife was brewing between these two, "it is
high time to go."
Hunsden rose. "Good bye," said he to Frances; "I shall be off for this glo-
rious England to-morrow, and it may be twelve months or more before I
come to Brussels again; whenever I do come I'll seek you out, and you shall
see if I don't find means to make you fiercer than a dragon. You've done
pretty well this evening, but next interview you shall challenge me outright.
Meantime you're doomed to become Mrs. William Crimsworth, I suppose;
poor young lady? but you have a spark of spirit; cherish it, and give the Pro-
fessor the full benefit thereof."
"Are you married. Mr. Hunsden?" asked Frances, suddenly.
"No. I should have thought you might have guessed I was a Benedict by
my look."
 "Well, whenever you marry don't take a wife out of Switzerland; for if
you begin blaspheming Helvetia, and cursing the cantons—above all, if you
mention the word ASS in the same breath with the name Tell (for ass IS
baudet, I know; though Monsieur is pleased to translate it ESPRIT-FORT)
your mountain maid will some night smother her Breton-bretonnant, even
as your own Shakspeare's Othello smothered Desdemona."
"I am warned," said Hunsden; "and so are you, lad," (nodding to me). "I
hope yet to hear of a travesty of the Moor and his gentle lady, in which the
parts shall be reversed according to the plan just sketched—you, however,
being in my nightcap. Farewell, mademoiselle!" He bowed on her hand, ab-
solutely like Sir Charles Grandison on that of Harriet Byron; adding
—"Death from such fingers would not be without charms."
"Mon Dieu!" murmured Frances, opening her large eyes and lifting her
distinctly arched brows; "c'est qu'il fait des compliments! je ne m'y suis pas
attendu." She smiled, half in ire, half in mirth, curtsied with foreign grace,
and so they parted.
No sooner had we got into the street than Hunsden collared me.
"And that is your lace-mender?" said he; "and you reckon you have done
a fine, magnanimous thing in offering to marry her? You, a scion of Sea-
combe, have proved your disdain of social distinctions by taking up with an
ouvriere! And I pitied the fellow, thinking his feelings had misled him, and
that he had hurt himself by contracting a low match!"
"Just let go my collar, Hunsden."
"On the contrary, he swayed me to and fro; so I grappled him round the
waist. It was dark; the street lonely and lampless. We had then a tug for it;
and after we had both rolled on the pavement, and with difficulty picked
ourselves up, we agreed to walk on more soberly.
"Yes, that's my lace-mender," said I; "and she is to be mine for life—God
willing."
"God is not willing—you can't suppose it; what business have you to be
suited so well with a partner? And she treats you with a sort of respect, too,
and says, 'Monsieur' and modulates her tone in addressing you, actually, as
if you were something superior! She could not evince more deference to
such a one as I, were she favoured by fortune to the supreme extent of being
my choice instead of yours."
"Hunsden, you're a puppy. But you've only seen the title-page of my hap-
piness; you don't know the tale that follows; you cannot conceive the inter-
est and sweet variety and thrilling excitement of the narrative."
Hunsden—speaking low and deep, for we had now entered a busier street
—desired me to hold my peace, threatening to do something dreadful if I
stimulated his wrath further by boasting. I laughed till my sides ached. We
soon reached his hotel; before he entered it, he said—
"Don't be vainglorious. Your lace-mender is too good for you, but not
good enough for me; neither physically nor morally does she come up to
my ideal of a woman. No; I dream of something far beyond that pale-faced,
excitable little Helvetian (by-the-by she has infinitely more of the nervous,
mobile Parisienne in her than of the the robust 'jungfrau'). Your Mdlle. Hen-
ri is in person "chetive", in mind "sans caractere", compared with the queen
of my visions. You, indeed, may put up with that "minois chiffone"; but
when I marry I must have straighter and more harmonious features, to say
nothing of a nobler and better developed shape than that perverse, ill-thriv-
en child can boast."
"Bribe a seraph to fetch you a coal of fire from heaven, if you will," said
I, "and with it kindle life in the tallest, fattest, most boneless, fullest-blood-
ed of Ruben's painted women—leave me only my Alpine peri, and I'll not
envy you."
With a simultaneous movement, each turned his back on the other. Nei-
ther said "God bless you;" yet on the morrow the sea was to roll between us.
 CHAPTER 25

IN two months more Frances had fulfilled the time of mourning for her
aunt. One January morning—the first of the new year holidays—I went in a
fiacre, accompanied only by M. Vandenhuten, to the Rue Notre Dame aux
Neiges, and having alighted alone and walked upstairs, I found Frances ap-
parently waiting for me, dressed in a style scarcely appropriate to that cold,
bright, frosty day. Never till now had I seen her attired in any other than
black or sad-coloured stuff; and there she stood by the window, clad all in
white, and white of a most diaphanous texture; her array was very simple,
to be sure, but it looked imposing and festal because it was so clear, full,
and floating; a veil shadowed her head, and hung below her knee; a little
wreath of pink flowers fastened it to her thickly tressed Grecian plait, and
thence it fell softly on each side of her face. Singular to state, she was, or
had been crying; when I asked her if she were ready, she said "Yes, mon-
sieur," with something very like a checked sob; and when I took a shawl,
which lay on the table, and folded it round her, not only did tear after tear
course unbidden down her cheek, but she shook to my ministration like a
reed. I said I was sorry to see her in such low spirits, and requested to be
allowed an insight into the origin thereof. She only said, "It was impossible
to help it," and then voluntarily, though hurriedly, putting her hand into
mine, accompanied me out of the room, and ran downstairs with a quick,
uncertain step, like one who was eager to get some formidable piece of
business over. I put her into the fiacre. M. Vandenhuten received her, and
seated her beside himself; we drove all together to the Protestant chapel,
went through a certain service in the Common Prayer Book, and she and I
came out married. M. Vandenhuten had given the bride away.
 We took no bridal trip; our modesty, screened by the peaceful obscurity
of our station, and the pleasant isolation of our circumstances, did not exact
that additional precaution. We repaired at once to a small house I had taken
in the faubourg nearest to that part of the city where the scene of our avoca-
tions lay.
Three or four hours after the wedding ceremony, Frances, divested of her
bridal snow, and attired in a pretty lilac gown of warmer materials, a pi-
quant black silk apron, and a lace collar with some finishing decoration of
lilac ribbon, was kneeling on the carpet of a neatly furnished though not
spacious parlour, arranging on the shelves of a chiffoniere some books,
which I handed to her from the table. It was snowing fast out of doors; the
afternoon had turned out wild and cold; the leaden sky seemed full of drifts,
and the street was already ankle-deep in the white downfall. Our fire burned
bright, our new habitation looked brilliantly clean and fresh, the furniture
was all arranged, and there were but some articles of glass, china, books,
&c., to put in order. Frances found in this business occupation till tea-time,
and then, after I had distinctly instructed her how to make a cup of tea in
rational English style, and after she had got over the dismay occasioned by
seeing such an extravagant amount of material put into the pot, she adminis-
tered to me a proper British repast, at which there wanted neither candies
nor urn, fire-light nor comfort.
Our week's holiday glided by, and we readdressed ourselves to labour.
Both my wife and I began in good earnest with the notion that we were
working people, destined to earn our bread by exertion, and that of the most
assiduous kind. Our days were thoroughly occupied; we used to part every
morning at eight o'clock, and not meet again till five P.M.; but into what
sweet rest did the turmoil of each busy day decline! Looking down the
vista, of memory, I see the evenings passed in that little parlour like a long
string of rubies circling the dusk brow of the past. Unvaried were they as
each cut gem, and like each gem brilliant and burning.
A year and a half passed. One morning (it was a FETE, and we had the
day to ourselves) Frances said to me, with a suddenness peculiar to her
when she had been thinking long on a subject, and at last, having come to a
conclusion, wished to test its soundness by the touchstone of my judgment:
—
"I don't work enough."
 "What now?" demanded I, looking up from my coffee, which I had been
deliberately stirring while enjoying, in anticipation, a walk I proposed to
take with Frances, that fine summer day (it was June), to a certain farm-
house in the country, where we were to dine. "What now?" and I saw at
once, in the serious ardour of her face, a project of vital importance.
"I am not satisfied" returned she: "you are now earning eight thousand
francs a year" (it was true; my efforts, punctuality, the fame of my pupils'
progress, the publicity of my station, had so far helped me on), "while I am
still at my miserable twelve hundred francs. I CAN do better, and I WILL."
"You work as long and as diligently as I do, Frances."
"Yes, monsieur, but I am not working in the right way, and I am con-
vinced of it."
"You wish to change—you have a plan for progress in your mind; go and
put on your bonnet; and, while we take our walk, you shall tell me of it."
"Yes, monsieur."
She went—as docile as a well-trained child; she was a curious mixture of
tractability and firmness: I sat thinking about her, and wondering what her
plan could be, when she re-entered.
"Monsieur, I have given Minnie" (our bonne) "leave to go out too, as it is
so very fine; so will you be kind enough to lock the door, and take the key
with you?"
"Kiss me, Mrs. Crimsworth," was my not very apposite reply; but she
looked so engaging in her light summer dress and little cottage bonnet, and
her manner in speaking to me was then, as always, so unaffectedly and
suavely respectful, that my heart expanded at the sight of her, and a kiss
seemed necessary to content its importunity.
"There, monsieur."
"Why do you always call me 'Monsieur?' Say, 'William.'"
"I cannot pronounce your W; besides, 'Monsieur' belongs to you; I like it
best."
Minnie having departed in clean cap and smart shawl, we, too, set out,
leaving the house solitary and silent—silent, at least, but for the ticking of
the clock. We were soon clear of Brussels; the fields received us, and then
the lanes, remote from carriage-resounding CHAUSSEES. Ere long we
came upon a nook, so rural, green, and secluded, it might have been a spot
in some pastoral English province; a bank of short and mossy grass, under a
hawthorn, offered a seat too tempting to be declined; we took it, and when
we had admired and examined some English-looking wild-flowers growing
at our feet, I recalled Frances' attention and my own to the topic touched on
at breakfast.
"What was her plan?" A natural one—the next step to be mounted by us,
or, at least, by her, if she wanted to rise in her profession. She proposed to
begin a school. We already had the means for commencing on a careful
scale, having lived greatly within our income. We possessed, too, by this
time, an extensive and eligible connection, in the sense advantageous to our
business; for, though our circle of visiting acquaintance continued as limit-
ed as ever, we were now widely known in schools and families as teachers.
When Frances had developed her plan, she intimated, in some closing sen-
tences, her hopes for the future. If we only had good health and tolerable
success, me might, she was sure, in time realize an independency; and that,
perhaps, before we were too old to enjoy it; then both she and I would rest;
and what was to hinder us from going to live in England? England was still
her Promised Land.
I put no obstacle in her way; raised no objection; I knew she was not one
who could live quiescent and inactive, or even comparatively inactive. Du-
ties she must have to fulfil, and important duties; work to do—and exciting,
absorbing, profitable work; strong faculties stirred in her frame, and they
demanded full nourishment, free exercise: mine was not the hand ever to
starve or cramp them; no, I delighted in offering them sustenance, and in
clearing them wider space for action.
"You have conceived a plan, Frances," said I, "and a good plan; execute
it; you have my free consent, and wherever and whenever my assistance is
wanted, ask and you shall have."
Frances' eyes thanked me almost with tears; just a sparkle or two, soon
brushed away; she possessed herself of my hand too, and held it for some
time very close clasped in both her own, but she said no more than "Thank
you, monsieur."
We passed a divine day, and came home late, lighted by a full summer
moon.
Ten years rushed now upon me with dusty, vibrating, unresting wings;
years of bustle, action, unslacked endeavour; years in which I and my wife,
having launched ourselves in the full career of progress, as progress whirls
on in European capitals, scarcely knew repose, were strangers to amuse-
ment, never thought of indulgence, and yet, as our course ran side by side,
as we marched hand in hand, we neither murmured, repented, nor faltered.
Hope indeed cheered us; health kept us up; harmony of thought and deed
smoothed many difficulties, and finally, success bestowed every now and
then encouraging reward on diligence. Our school became one of the most
popular in Brussels, and as by degrees we raised our terms and elevated our
system of education, our choice of pupils grew more select, and at length
included the children of the best families in Belgium. We had too an excel-
lent connection in England, first opened by the unsolicited recommendation
of Mr. Hunsden, who having been over, and having abused me for my pros-
perity in set terms, went back, and soon after sent a leash of young ——
shire heiresses—his cousins; as he said "to be polished off by Mrs.
Crimsworth."
As to this same Mrs. Crimsworth, in one sense she was become another
woman, though in another she remained unchanged. So different was she
under different circumstances. I seemed to possess two wives. The faculties
of her nature, already disclosed when I married her, remained fresh and fair;
but other faculties shot up strong, branched out broad, and quite altered the
external character of the plant. Firmness, activity, and enterprise, covered
with grave foliage, poetic feeling and fervour; but these flowers were still
there, preserved pure and dewy under the umbrage of later growth and
hardier nature: perhaps I only in the world knew the secret of their exis-
tence, but to me they were ever ready to yield an exquisite fragrance and
present a beauty as chaste as radiant.
In the daytime my house and establishment were conducted by Madame
the directress, a stately and elegant woman, bearing much anxious thought
on her large brow; much calculated dignity in her serious mien: immediate-
ly after breakfast I used to part with this lady; I went to my college, she to
her schoolroom; returning for an hour in the course of the day, I found her
always in class, intently occupied; silence, industry, observance, attending
on her presence. When not actually teaching, she was overlooking and guid-
ing by eye and gesture; she then appeared vigilant and solicitous. When
communicating instruction, her aspect was more animated; she seemed to
feel a certain enjoyment in the occupation. The language in which she ad-
dressed her pupils, though simple and unpretending, was never trite or dry;
she did not speak from routine formulas—she made her own phrases as she
went on, and very nervous and impressive phrases they frequently were; of-
ten, when elucidating favourite points of history, or geography, she would
wax genuinely eloquent in her earnestness. Her pupils, or at least the elder
and more intelligent amongst them, recognized well the language of a supe-
rior mind; they felt too, and some of them received the impression of ele-
vated sentiments; there was little fondling between mistress and girls, but
some of Frances' pupils in time learnt to love her sincerely, all of them be-
held her with respect; her general demeanour towards them was serious;
sometimes benignant when they pleased her with their progress and atten-
tion, always scrupulously refined and considerate. In cases where reproof or
punishment was called for she was usually forbearing enough; but if any
took advantage of that forbearance, which sometimes happened, a sharp,
sudden and lightning-like severity taught the culprit the extent of the mis-
take committed. Sometimes a gleam of tenderness softened her eyes and
manner, but this was rare; only when a pupil was sick, or when it pined after
home, or in the case of some little motherless child, or of one much poorer
than its companions, whose scanty wardrobe and mean appointments
brought on it the contempt of the jewelled young countesses and silk-clad
misses. Over such feeble fledglings the directress spread a wing of kindliest
protection: it was to their bedside she came at night to tuck them warmly in;
it was after them she looked in winter to see that they always had a comfort-
able seat by the stove; it was they who by turns were summoned to the sa-
lon to receive some little dole of cake or fruit—to sit on a footstool at the
fireside—to enjoy home comforts, and almost home liberty, for an evening
together—to be spoken to gently and softly, comforted, encouraged, cher-
ished—and when bedtime came, dismissed with a kiss of true tenderness.
As to Julia and Georgiana G——, daughters of an English baronet, as to
Mdlle. Mathilde de ——, heiress of a Belgian count, and sundry other chil-
dren of patrician race, the directress was careful of them as of the others,
anxious for their progress, as for that of the rest—but it never seemed to en-
ter her head to distinguish them by a mark of preference; one girl of noble
blood she loved dearly—a young Irish baroness—lady Catherine ——; but
it was for her enthusiastic heart and clever head, for her generosity and her
genius, the title and rank went for nothing.
My afternoons were spent also in college, with the exception of an hour
that my wife daily exacted of me for her establishment, and with which she
would not dispense. She said that I must spend that time amongst her pupils
to learn their characters, to be AU COURANT with everything that was
passing in the house, to become interested in what interested her, to be able
to give her my opinion on knotty points when she required it, and this she
did constantly, never allowing my interest in the pupils to fall asleep, and
never making any change of importance without my cognizance and con-
sent. She delighted to sit by me when I gave my lessons (lessons in litera-
ture), her hands folded on her knee, the most fixedly attentive of any
present. She rarely addressed me in class; when she did it was with an air of
marked deference; it was her pleasure, her joy to make me still the master in
all things.
At six o'clock P.M. my daily labours ceased. I then came home, for my
home was my heaven; ever at that hour, as I entered our private sitting-
room, the lady-directress vanished from before my eyes, and Frances Henri,
my own little lace-mender, was magically restored to my arms; much disap-
pointed she would have been if her master had not been as constant to the
tryste as herself, and if his truthfull kiss had not been prompt to answer her
soft, "Bon soir, monsieur."
Talk French to me she would, and many a punishment she has had for her
wilfulness. I fear the choice of chastisement must have been injudicious, for
instead of correcting the fault, it seemed to encourage its renewal. Our
evenings were our own; that recreation was necessary to refresh our
strength for the due discharge of our duties; sometimes we spent them all in
conversation, and my young Genevese, now that she was thoroughly accus-
tomed to her English professor, now that she loved him too absolutely to
fear him much, reposed in him a confidence so unlimited that topics of con-
versation could no more be wanting with him than subjects for communion
with her own heart. In those moments, happy as a bird with its mate, she
would show me what she had of vivacity, of mirth, of originality in her
well-dowered nature. She would show, too, some stores of raillery, of "mal-
ice," and would vex, tease, pique me sometimes about what she called my
"bizarreries anglaises," my "caprices insulaires," with a wild and witty
wickedness that made a perfect white demon of her while it lasted. This was
rare, however, and the elfish freak was always short: sometimes when dri-
ven a little hard in the war of words—for her tongue did ample justice to the
pith, the point, the delicacy of her native French, in which language she al-
ways attacked me—I used to turn upon her with my old decision, and arrest
bodily the sprite that teased me. Vain idea! no sooner had I grasped hand or
arm than the elf was gone; the provocative smile quenched in the expressive
brown eyes, and a ray of gentle homage shone under the lids in its place. I
had seized a mere vexing fairy, and found a submissive and supplicating lit-
tle mortal woman in my arms. Then I made her get a book, and read English
to me for an hour by way of penance. I frequently dosed her with
Wordsworth in this way, and Wordsworth steadied her soon; she had a diffi-
culty in comprehending his deep, serene, and sober mind; his language, too,
was not facile to her; she had to ask questions, to sue for explanations, to be
like a child and a novice, and to acknowledge me as her senior and director.
Her instinct instantly penetrated and possessed the meaning of more ardent
and imaginative writers. Byron excited her; Scott she loved; Wordsworth
only she puzzled at, wondered over, and hesitated to pronounce an opinion
upon.
But whether she read to me, or talked with me; whether she teased me in
French, or entreated me in English; whether she jested with wit, or inquired
with deference; narrated with interest, or listened with attention; whether
she smiled at me or on me, always at nine o'clock I was left abandoned. She
would extricate herself from my arms, quit my side, take her lamp, and be
gone. Her mission was upstairs; I have followed her sometimes and
watched her. First she opened the door of the dortoir (the pupils' chamber),
noiselessly she glided up the long room between the two rows of white
beds, surveyed all the sleepers; if any were wakeful, especially if any were
sad, spoke to them and soothed them; stood some minutes to ascertain that
all was safe and tranquil; trimmed the watch-light which burned in the
apartment all night, then withdrew, closing the door behind her without
sound. Thence she glided to our own chamber; it had a little cabinet within;
this she sought; there, too, appeared a bed, but one, and that a very small
one; her face (the night I followed and observed her) changed as she ap-
proached this tiny couch; from grave it warmed to earnest; she shaded with
one hand the lamp she held in the other; she bent above the pillow and hung
over a child asleep; its slumber (that evening at least, and usually, I believe)
was sound and calm; no tear wet its dark eyelashes; no fever heated its
round cheek; no ill dream discomposed its budding features. Frances gazed,
she did not smile, and yet the deepest delight filled, flushed her face; feeling
pleasurable, powerful, worked in her whole frame, which still was motion-
less. I saw, indeed, her heart heave, her lips were a little apart, her breathing
grew somewhat hurried; the child smiled; then at last the mother smiled too,
and said in low soliloquy, "God bless my little son!" She stooped closer
over him, breathed the softest of kisses on his brow, covered his minute
hand with hers, and at last started up and came away. I regained the parlour
before her. Entering it two minutes later she said quietly as she put down
her extinguished lamp—
"Victor rests well: he smiled in his sleep; he has your smile, monsieur."
The said Victor was of course her own boy, born in the third year of our
marriage: his Christian name had been given him in honour of M. Vanden-
huten, who continued always our trusty and well-beloved friend.
Frances was then a good and dear wife to me, because I was to her a
good, just, and faithful husband. What she would have been had she mar-
ried a harsh, envious, careless man—a profligate, a prodigal, a drunkard, or
a tyrant—is another question, and one which I once propounded to her. Her
answer, given after some reflection, was—
"I should have tried to endure the evil or cure it for awhile; and when I
found it intolerable and incurable, I should have left my torturer suddenly
and silently."
"And if law or might had forced you back again?"
"What, to a drunkard, a profligate, a selfish spendthrift, an unjust fool?"
"Yes."
"I would have gone back; again assured myself whether or not his vice
and my misery were capable of remedy; and if not, have left him again."
"And if again forced to return, and compelled to abide?"
"I don't know," she said, hastily. "Why do you ask me, monsieur?"
I would have an answer, because I saw a strange kind of spirit in her eye,
whose voice I determined to waken.
"Monsieur, if a wife's nature loathes that of the man she is wedded to,
marriage must be slavery. Against slavery all right thinkers revolt, and
though torture be the price of resistance, torture must be dared: though the
only road to freedom lie through the gates of death, those gates must be
passed; for freedom is indispensable. Then, monsieur, I would resist as far
as my strength permitted; when that strength failed I should be sure of a
refuge. Death would certainly screen me both from bad laws and their
consequences."
"Voluntary death, Frances?"
"No, monsieur. I'd have courage to live out every throe of anguish fate
assigned me, and principle to contend for justice and liberty to the last."
"I see you would have made no patient Grizzle. And now, supposing fate
had merely assigned you the lot of an old maid, what then? How would you
have liked celibacy?"
"Not much, certainly. An old maid's life must doubtless be void and va-
pid—her heart strained and empty. Had I been an old maid I should have
spent existence in efforts to fill the void and ease the aching. I should have
probably failed, and died weary and disappointed, despised and of no ac-
count, like other single women. But I'm not an old maid," she added quick-
ly. "I should have been, though, but for my master. I should never have suit-
ed any man but Professor Crimsworth—no other gentleman, French, Eng-
lish, or Belgian, would have thought me amiable or handsome; and I doubt
whether I should have cared for the approbation of many others, if I could
have obtained it. Now, I have been Professor Crimsworth's wife eight years,
and what is he in my eyes? Is he honourable, beloved ——?" She stopped,
her voice was cut off, her eyes suddenly suffused. She and I were standing
side by side; she threw her arms round me, and strained me to her heart
with passionate earnestness: the energy of her whole being glowed in her
dark and then dilated eye, and crimsoned her animated cheek; her look and
movement were like inspiration; in one there was such a flash, in the other
such a power. Half an hour afterwards, when she had become calm, I asked
where all that wild vigour was gone which had transformed her ere-while
and made her glance so thrilling and ardent—her action so rapid and strong.
She looked down, smiling softly and passively:—
"I cannot tell where it is gone, monsieur," said she, "but I know that,
whenever it is wanted, it will come back again."
Behold us now at the close of the ten years, and we have realized an in-
dependency. The rapidity with which we attained this end had its origin in
three reasons:— Firstly, we worked so hard for it; secondly, we had no in-
cumbrances to delay success; thirdly, as soon as we had capital to invest,
two well-skilled counsellors, one in Belgium, one in England, viz. Vanden-
huten and Hunsden, gave us each a word of advice as to the sort of invest-
ment to be chosen. The suggestion made was judicious; and, being prompt-
ly acted on, the result proved gainful—I need not say how gainful; I com-
municated details to Messrs. Vandenhuten and Hunsden; nobody else can be
interested in hearing them.
Accounts being wound up, and our professional connection disposed of,
we both agreed that, as mammon was not our master, nor his service that in
which we desired to spend our lives; as our desires were temperate, and our
habits unostentatious, we had now abundance to live on—abundance to
leave our boy; and should besides always have a balance on hand, which,
properly managed by right sympathy and unselfish activity, might help phil-
anthropy in her enterprises, and put solace into the hand of charity.
To England we now resolved to take wing; we arrived there safely;
Frances realized the dream of her lifetime. We spent a whole summer and
autumn in travelling from end to end of the British islands, and afterwards
passed a winter in London. Then we thought it high time to fix our resi-
dence. My heart yearned towards my native county of ——shire; and it is in
——shire I now live; it is in the library of my own home I am now writing.
That home lies amid a sequestered and rather hilly region, thirty miles re-
moved from X——; a region whose verdure the smoke of mills has not yet
sullied, whose waters still run pure, whose swells of moorland preserve in
some ferny glens that lie between them the very primal wildness of nature,
her moss, her bracken, her blue-bells, her scents of reed and heather, her
free and fresh breezes. My house is a picturesque and not too spacious
dwelling, with low and long windows, a trellised and leaf-veiled porch over
the front door, just now, on this summer evening, looking like an arch of
roses and ivy. The garden is chiefly laid out in lawn, formed of the sod of
the hills, with herbage short and soft as moss, full of its own peculiar flow-
ers, tiny and starlike, imbedded in the minute embroidery of their fine fo-
liage. At the bottom of the sloping garden there is a wicket, which opens
upon a lane as green as the lawn, very long, shady, and little frequented; on
the turf of this lane generally appear the first daisies of spring—whence its
name—Daisy Lane; serving also as a distinction to the house.
It terminates (the lane I mean) in a valley full of wood; which wood—
chiefly oak and beech—spreads shadowy about the vicinage of a very old
mansion, one of the Elizabethan structures, much larger, as well as more an-
tique than Daisy Lane, the property and residence of an individual familiar
both to me and to the reader. Yes, in Hunsden Wood—for so are those
glades and that grey building, with many gables and more chimneys, named
—abides Yorke Hunsden, still unmarried; never, I suppose, having yet
found his ideal, though I know at least a score of young ladies within a cir-
cuit of forty miles, who would be willing to assist him in the search.
The estate fell to him by the death of his father, five years since; he has
given up trade, after having made by it sufficient to pay off some incum-
brances by which the family heritage was burdened. I say he abides here,
but I do not think he is resident above five months out of the twelve; he
wanders from land to land, and spends some part of each winter in town: he
frequently brings visitors with him when he comes to ——shire, and these
visitors are often foreigners; sometimes he has a German metaphysician,
sometimes a French savant; he had once a dissatisfied and savage-looking
Italian, who neither sang nor played, and of whom Frances affirmed that he
had "tout l'air d'un conspirateur."
What English guests Hunsden invites, are all either men of Birmingham
or Manchester—hard men, seemingly knit up in one thought, whose talk is
of free trade. The foreign visitors, too, are politicians; they take a wider
theme—European progress—the spread of liberal sentiments over the Con-
tinent; on their mental tablets, the names of Russia, Austria, and the Pope,
are inscribed in red ink. I have heard some of them talk vigorous sense—
yea, I have been present at polyglot discussions in the old, oak-lined dining-
room at Hunsden Wood, where a singular insight was given of the senti-
ments entertained by resolute minds respecting old northern despotisms,
and old southern superstitions: also, I have heard much twaddle, enounced
chiefly in French and Deutsch, but let that pass. Hunsden himself tolerated
the drivelling theorists; with the practical men he seemed leagued hand and
heart.
When Hunsden is staying alone at the Wood (which seldom happens) he
generally finds his way two or three times a week to Daisy Lane. He has a
philanthropic motive for coming to smoke his cigar in our porch on summer
evenings; he says he does it to kill the earwigs amongst the roses, with
which insects, but for his benevolent fumigations, he intimates we should
certainly be overrun. On wet days, too, we are almost sure to see him; ac-
cording to him, it gets on time to work me into lunacy by treading on my
mental corns, or to force from Mrs. Crimsworth revelations of the dragon
within her, by insulting the memory of Hofer and Tell.
We also go frequently to Hunsden Wood, and both I and Frances relish a
visit there highly. If there are other guests, their characters are an interesting
study; their conversation is exciting and strange; the absence of all local
narrowness both in the host and his chosen society gives a metropolitan, al-
most a cosmopolitan freedom and largeness to the talk. Hunsden himself is
a polite man in his own house: he has, when he chooses to employ it, an in-
exhaustible power of entertaining guests; his very mansion too is interest-
ing, the rooms look storied, the passages legendary, the low-ceiled cham-
bers, with their long rows of diamond-paned lattices, have an old-world,
haunted air: in his travels he has collected stores of articles of VERTU,
which are well and tastefully disposed in his panelled or tapestried rooms: I
have seen there one or two pictures, and one or two pieces of statuary which
many an aristocratic connoisseur might have envied.
When I and Frances have dined and spent an evening with Hunsden, he
often walks home with us. His wood is large, and some of the timber is old
and of huge growth. There are winding ways in it which, pursued through
glade and brake, make the walk back to Daisy Lane a somewhat long one.
Many a time, when we have had the benefit of a full moon, and when the
night has been mild and balmy, when, moreover, a certain nightingale has
been singing, and a certain stream, hid in alders, has lent the song a soft ac-
companiment, the remote church-bell of the one hamlet in a district of ten
miles, has tolled midnight ere the lord of the wood left us at our porch.
Free-flowing was his talk at such hours, and far more quiet and gentle than
in the day-time and before numbers. He would then forget politics and dis-
cussion, and would dwell on the past times of his house, on his family his-
tory, on himself and his own feelings—subjects each and all invested with a
peculiar zest, for they were each and all unique. One glorious night in June,
after I had been taunting him about his ideal bride and asking him when she
would come and graft her foreign beauty on the old Hunsden oak, he an-
swered suddenly—
"You call her ideal; but see, here is her shadow; and there cannot be a
shadow without a substance."
He had led us from the depth of the "winding way" into a glade from
whence the beeches withdrew, leaving it open to the sky; an unclouded
moon poured her light into this glade, and Hunsden held out under her
beam an ivory miniature.
Frances, with eagerness, examined it first; then she gave it to me—still,
however, pushing her little face close to mine, and seeking in my eyes what
I thought of the portrait. I thought it represented a very handsome and very
individual-looking female face, with, as he had once said, "straight and har-
monious features." It was dark; the hair, raven-black, swept not only from
the brow, but from the temples—seemed thrust away carelessly, as if such
beauty dispensed with, nay, despised arrangement. The Italian eye looked
straight into you, and an independent, determined eye it was; the mouth was
as firm as fine; the chin ditto. On the back of the miniature was gilded
"Lucia."
 "That is a real head," was my conclusion.
Hunsden smiled.
"I think so," he replied. "All was real in Lucia."
"And she was somebody you would have liked to marry—but could
not?"
"I should certainly have liked to marry her, and that I HAVE not done so
is a proof that I COULD not."
He repossessed himself of the miniature, now again in Frances' hand, and
put it away.
"What do YOU think of it?" he asked of my wife, as he buttoned his coat
over it.
"I am sure Lucia once wore chains and broke them," was the strange an-
swer. "I do not mean matrimonial chains," she added, correcting herself, as
if she feared mis-interpretation, "but social chains of some sort. The face is
that of one who has made an effort, and a successful and triumphant effort,
to wrest some vigorous and valued faculty from insupportable constraint;
and when Lucia's faculty got free, I am certain it spread wide pinions and
carried her higher than—" she hesitated.
"Than what?" demanded Hunsden.
"Than 'les convenances' permitted you to follow."
"I think you grow spiteful—impertinent."
"Lucia has trodden the stage," continued Frances. "You never seriously
thought of marrying her; you admired her originality, her fearlessness, her
energy of body and mind; you delighted in her talent, whatever that was,
whether song, dance, or dramatic representation; you worshipped her beau-
ty, which was of the sort after your own heart: but I am sure she filled a
sphere from whence you would never have thought of taking a wife."
"Ingenious," remarked Hunsden; "whether true or not is another question.
Meantime, don't you feel your little lamp of a spirit wax very pale, beside
such a girandole as Lucia's?"
"Yes."
"Candid, at least; and the Professor will soon be dissatisfied with the dim
light you give?"
"Will you, monsieur?"
"My sight was always too weak to endure a blaze, Frances," and we had
now reached the wicket.
 I said, a few pages back, that this is a sweet summer evening; it is—there
has been a series of lovely days, and this is the loveliest; the hay is just car-
ried from my fields, its perfume still lingers in the air. Frances proposed to
me, an hour or two since, to take tea out on the lawn; I see the round table,
loaded with china, placed under a certain beech; Hunsden is expected—nay,
I hear he is come—there is his voice, laying down the law on some point
with authority; that of Frances replies; she opposes him of course. They are
disputing about Victor, of whom Hunsden affirms that his mother is making
a milksop. Mrs. Crimsworth retaliates:—
"Better a thousand times he should be a milksop than what he, Hunsden,
calls 'a fine lad;' and moreover she says that if Hunsden were to become a
fixture in the neighbourhood, and were not a mere comet, coming and go-
ing, no one knows how, when, where, or why, she should be quite uneasy
till she had got Victor away to a school at least a hundred miles off; for that
with his mutinous maxims and unpractical dogmas, he would ruin a score of
children."
I have a word to say of Victor ere I shut this manuscript in my desk—but
it must be a brief one, for I hear the tinkle of silver on porcelain.
Victor is as little of a pretty child as I am of a handsome man, or his
mother of a fine woman; he is pale and spare, with large eyes, as dark as
those of Frances, and as deeply set as mine. His shape is symmetrical
enough, but slight; his health is good. I never saw a child smile less than he
does, nor one who knits such a formidable brow when sitting over a book
that interests him, or while listening to tales of adventure, peril, or wonder,
narrated by his mother, Hunsden, or myself. But though still, he is not un-
happy—though serious, not morose; he has a susceptibility to pleasurable
sensations almost too keen, for it amounts to enthusiasm. He learned to read
in the old-fashioned way out of a spelling-book at his mother's knee, and as
he got on without driving by that method, she thought it unnecessary to buy
him ivory letters, or to try any of the other inducements to learning now
deemed indispensable. When he could read, he became a glutton of books,
and is so still. His toys have been few, and he has never wanted more. For
those he possesses, he seems to have contracted a partiality amounting to
affection; this feeling, directed towards one or two living animals of the
house, strengthens almost to a passion.
Mr. Hunsden gave him a mastiff cub, which he called Yorke, after the
donor; it grew to a superb dog, whose fierceness, however, was much modi-
fied by the companionship and caresses of its young master. He would go
nowhere, do nothing without Yorke; Yorke lay at his feet while he learned
his lessons, played with him in the garden, walked with him in the lane and
wood, sat near his chair at meals, was fed always by his own hand, was the
first thing he sought in the morning, the last he left at night. Yorke accom-
panied Mr. Hunsden one day to X——, and was bitten in the street by a dog
in a rabid state. As soon as Hunsden had brought him home, and had in-
formed me of the circumstance, I went into the yard and shot him where he
lay licking his wound: he was dead in an instant; he had not seen me level
the gun; I stood behind him. I had scarcely been ten minutes in the house,
when my ear was struck with sounds of anguish: I repaired to the yard once
more, for they proceeded thence. Victor was kneeling beside his dead mas-
tiff, bent over it, embracing its bull-like neck, and lost in a passion of the
wildest woe: he saw me.
"Oh, papa, I'll never forgive you! I'll never forgive you!" was his excla-
mation. "You shot Yorke—I saw it from the window. I never believed you
could be so cruel—I can love you no more!"
I had much ado to explain to him, with a steady voice, the stern necessity
of the deed; he still, with that inconsolable and bitter accent which I cannot
render, but which pierced my heart, repeated—
"He might have been cured—you should have tried—you should have
burnt the wound with a hot iron, or covered it with caustic. You gave no
time; and now it is too late—he is dead!"
He sank fairly down on the senseless carcase; I waited patiently a long
while, till his grief had somewhat exhausted him; and then I lifted him in
my arms and carried him to his mother, sure that she would comfort him
best. She had witnessed the whole scene from a window; she would not
come out for fear of increasing my difficulties by her emotion, but she was
ready now to receive him. She took him to her kind heart, and on to her
gentle lap; consoled him but with her lips, her eyes, her soft embrace, for
some time; and then, when his sobs diminished, told him that Yorke had felt
no pain in dying, and that if he had been left to expire naturally, his end
would have been most horrible; above all, she told him that I was not cruel
(for that idea seemed to give exquisite pain to poor Victor), that it was my
affection for Yorke and him which had made me act so, and that I was now
almost heart-broken to see him weep thus bitterly.
 Victor would have been no true son of his father, had these considera-
tions, these reasons, breathed in so low, so sweet a tone—married to caress-
es so benign, so tender—to looks so inspired with pitying sympathy—pro-
duced no effect on him. They did produce an effect: he grew calmer, rested
his face on her shoulder, and lay still in her arms. Looking up, shortly, he
asked his mother to tell him over again what she had said about Yorke hav-
ing suffered no pain, and my not being cruel; the balmy words being repeat-
ed, he again pillowed his cheek on her breast, and was again tranquil.
Some hours after, he came to me in my library, asked if I forgave him,
and desired to be reconciled. I drew the lad to my side, and there I kept him
a good while, and had much talk with him, in the course of which he dis-
closed many points of feeling and thought I approved of in my son. I found,
it is true, few elements of the "good fellow" or the "fine fellow" in him;
scant sparkles of the spirit which loves to flash over the wine cup, or which
kindles the passions to a destroying fire; but I saw in the soil of his heart
healthy and swelling germs of compassion, affection, fidelity. I discovered
in the garden of his intellect a rich growth of wholesome principles—rea-
son, justice, moral courage, promised, if not blighted, a fertile bearing. So I
bestowed on his large forehead, and on his cheek—still pale with tears—a
proud and contented kiss, and sent him away comforted. Yet I saw him the
next day laid on the mound under which Yorke had been buried, his face
covered with his hands; he was melancholy for some weeks, and more than
a year elapsed before he would listen to any proposal of having another
dog.
Victor learns fast. He must soon go to Eton, where, I suspect, his first
year or two will be utter wretchedness: to leave me, his mother, and his
home, will give his heart an agonized wrench; then, the fagging will not suit
him—but emulation, thirst after knowledge, the glory of success, will stir
and reward him in time. Meantime, I feel in myself a strong repugnance to
fix the hour which will uproot my sole olive branch, and transplant it far
from me; and, when I speak to Frances on the subject, I am heard with a
kind of patient pain, as though I alluded to some fearful operation, at which
her nature shudders, but from which her fortitude will not permit her to re-
coil. The step must, however, be taken, and it shall be; for, though Frances
will not make a milksop of her son, she will accustom him to a style of
treatment, a forbearance, a congenial tenderness, he will meet with from
none else. She sees, as I also see, a something in Victor's temper—a kind of
electrical ardour and power—which emits, now and then, ominous sparks;
Hunsden calls it his spirit, and says it should not be curbed. I call it the
leaven of the offending Adam, and consider that it should be, if not
WHIPPED out of him, at least soundly disciplined; and that he will be
cheap of any amount of either bodily or mental suffering which will ground
him radically in the art of self-control. Frances gives this something in her
son's marked character no name; but when it appears in the grinding of his
teeth, in the glittering of his eye, in the fierce revolt of feeling against disap-
pointment, mischance, sudden sorrow, or supposed injustice, she folds him
to her breast, or takes him to walk with her alone in the wood; then she rea-
sons with him like any philosopher, and to reason Victor is ever accessible;
then she looks at him with eyes of love, and by love Victor can be infallibly
subjugated; but will reason or love be the weapons with which in future the
world will meet his violence? Oh, no! for that flash in his black eye—for
that cloud on his bony brow—for that compression of his statuesque lips,
the lad will some day get blows instead of blandishments—kicks instead of
kisses; then for the fit of mute fury which will sicken his body and madden
his soul; then for the ordeal of merited and salutary suffering, out of which
he will come (I trust) a wiser and a better man.
I see him now; he stands by Hunsden, who is seated on the lawn under
the beech; Hunsden's hand rests on the boy's collar, and he is instilling God
knows what principles into his ear. Victor looks well just now, for he listens
with a sort of smiling interest; he never looks so like his mother as when he
smiles—pity the sunshine breaks out so rarely! Victor has a preference for
Hunsden, full as strong as I deem desirable, being considerably more potent
decided, and indiscriminating, than any I ever entertained for that personage
myself. Frances, too, regards it with a sort of unexpressed anxiety; while
her son leans on Hunsden's knee, or rests against his shoulder, she roves
with restless movement round, like a dove guarding its young from a hover-
ing hawk; she says she wishes Hunsden had children of his own, for then he
would better know the danger of inciting their pride end indulging their
foibles.
Frances approaches my library window; puts aside the honeysuckle
which half covers it, and tells me tea is ready; seeing that I continue busy
she enters the room, comes near me quietly, and puts her hand on my
shoulder.
"Monsieur est trop applique."
 "I shall soon have done."
She draws a chair near, and sits down to wait till I have finished; her
presence is as pleasant to my mind as the perfume of the fresh hay and
spicy flowers, as the glow of the westering sun, as the repose of the mid-
summer eve are to my senses.
But Hunsden comes; I hear his step, and there he is, bending through the
lattice, from which he has thrust away the woodbine with unsparing hand,
disturbing two bees and a butterfly.
"Crimsworth! I say, Crimsworth! take that pen out of his hand, mistress,
and make him lift up his head.
"Well, Hunsden? I hear you—"
"I was at X—— yesterday! your brother Ned is getting richer than Croe-
sus by railway speculations; they call him in the Piece Hall a stag of ten;
and I have heard from Brown. M. and Madame Vandenhuten and Jean Bap-
tiste talk of coming to see you next month. He mentions the Pelets too; he
says their domestic harmony is not the finest in the world, but in business
they are doing 'on ne peut mieux,' which circumstance he concludes will be
a sufficient consolation to both for any little crosses in the affections. Why
don't you invite the Pelets to ——shire, Crimsworth? I should so like to see
your first flame, Zoraide. Mistress, don't be jealous, but he loved that lady
to distraction; I know it for a fact. Brown says she weighs twelve stones
now; you see what you've lost, Mr. Professor. Now, Monsieur and Madame,
if you don't come to tea, Victor and I will begin without you."
"Papa, come!"
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