Basil

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On his return, Mr. Mannion found me looking at his tea-equipage. "I am
afraid, Sir, I must confess myself an epicure and a prodigal in two
things," he said; "an epicure in tea, and a prodigal (at least for a
person in my situation) in books. However, I receive a liberal salary,
and can satisfy my tastes, such as they are, and save money too. What
can I offer you, Sir?"

Seeing the preparations on the table, I asked for tea. While he was
speaking to me, there was one peculiarity about him that I observed.
Almost all men, when they stand on their own hearths, in their own
homes, instinctively alter more or less from their out-of-door manner:
the stiffest people expand, the coldest thaw a little, by their own
firesides. It was not so with Mr. Mannion. He was exactly the same man
at his own house that he was at Mr. Sherwin's.

There was no need for him to have told me that he was an epicure in
tea; the manner in which he made it would have betrayed that to
anybody. He put in nearly treble the quantity which would generally be
considered sufficient for two persons; and almost immediately after he
had filled the tea-pot with boiling water, began to pour from it into
the cups--thus preserving all the aroma and delicacy of flavour in the
herb, without the alloy of any of the coarser part of its strength.
When we had finished our first cups, there was no pouring of dregs
into a basin, or of fresh water on the leaves. A middle-aged female
servant, neat and quiet, came up and took away the tray, bringing it
to us again with the tea-pot and tea-cups clean and empty, to receive
a fresh infusion from fresh leaves. These were trifles to notice; but
I thought of other tradesmen's clerks who were drinking their
gin-and-water jovially, at home or at a tavern, and found Mr. Mannion
a more exasperating mystery to me than ever.

The conversation between us turned at first on trivial subjects, and
was but ill sustained on my part--there were peculiarities in my
present position which made me thoughtful. Once, our talk ceased
altogether; and, just at that moment, the storm began to rise to its
height. Hail mingled with the rain, and rattled heavily against the
window. The thunder, bursting louder and louder with each successive
peal, seemed to shake the house to its foundations. As I listened to
the fearful crashing and roaring that seemed to fill the whole
measureless void of upper air, and then looked round on the calm,
dead-calm face of the man beside me--without one human emotion of any
kind even faintly pictured on it--I felt strange, unutterable
sensations creeping over me; our silence grew oppressive and sinister;
I began to wish, I hardly knew why, for some third person in the
room--for somebody else to look at and to speak to.

He was the first to resume the conversation. I should have imagined it
impossible for any man, in the midst of such thunder as now raged
above our heads, to think or talk of anything but the storm. And yet,
when he spoke, it was merely on a subject connected with his
introduction to me at North Villa. His attention seemed as far from
being attracted or impressed by the mighty elemental tumult without,
as if the tranquillity of the night were uninvaded by the slightest
murmur of sound.

"May I inquire, Sir," he began, "whether I am right in apprehending
that my conduct towards you, since we first met at Mr. Sherwin's
house, may have appeared strange, and even discourteous, in your
eyes?"

"In what respect, Mr. Mannion?" I asked, a little startled by the
abruptness of the question.

"I am perfectly sensible, Sir, that you have kindly set me the
example, on many occasions, in trying to better our acquaintance. When
such advances are made by one in your station to one in mine, they
ought to be immediately and gratefully responded to."

Why did he pause? Was he about to tell me he had discovered that my
advances sprang from curiosity to know more about him than he was
willing to reveal? I waited for him to proceed.

"I have only failed," he continued, "in the courtesy and gratitude you
had a right to expect from me, because, knowing how you were situated
with Mr. Sherwin's daughter, I thought any intrusion on my part, while
you were with the young lady, might not be so acceptable as you, Sir,
in your kindness, were willing to lead me to believe."

"Let me assure you," I answered; relieved to find myself unsuspected,
and really impressed by his delicacy--"let me assure you that I fully
appreciate the consideration you have shown--"

Just as the last words passed my lips, the thunder pealed awfully over
the house. I said no more: the sound silenced me.

"As my explanation has satisfied you, Sir," he went on; his clear and
deliberate utterance rising discordantly audible above the long,
retiring roll of the last burst of thunder--"may I feel justified in
speaking on the subject of your present position in my employer's
house, with some freedom? I mean, if I may say so without offence,
with the freedom of a friend."

I begged he would use all the freedom he wished; feeling really
desirous that he should do so, apart from any purpose of leading him
to talk unreservedly on the chance of hearing him talk of himself. The
profound respect of manner and phrase which he had hitherto
testified--observed by a man of his age, to a man of mine--made me
feel ill at ease. He was most probably my equal in acquirements: he
had the manners and tastes of a gentleman, and might have the birth
too, for aught I knew to the contrary. The difference between us was
only in our worldly positions. I had not enough of my father's pride
of caste to think that this difference alone, made it right that a man
whose years nearly doubled mine, whose knowledge perhaps surpassed
mine, should speak to me as Mr. Mannion had spoken up to this time.

"I may tell you then," he resumed, "that while I am anxious to commit
no untimely intrusion on your hours at North Villa, I am at the same
time desirous of being something more than merely inoffensive towards
you. I should wish to be positively useful, as far as I can. In my
opinion Mr. Sherwin has held you to rather a hard engagement--he is
trying your discretion a little too severely I think, at your years
and in your situation. Feeling thus, it is my sincere wish to render
what connection and influence I have with the family, useful in making
the probation you have still to pass through, as easy as possible. I
have more means of doing this, Sir, than you might at first imagine."

His offer took me a little by surprise. I felt with a sort of shame,
that candour and warmth of feeling were what I had not expected from
him. My attention insensibly wandered away from the storm, to attach
itself more and more closely to him, as he went on:

"I am perfectly sensible," he resumed, "that such a proposition as I
now make to you, proceeding from one little better than a stranger,
may cause surprise and even suspicion, at first. I can only explain
it, by asking you to remember that I have known the young lady since
childhood; and that, having assisted in forming her mind and
developing her character, I feel towards her almost as a second
father, and am therefore naturally interested in the gentleman who has
chosen her for a wife."

Was there a tremor at last in that changeless voice, as he spoke? I
thought so; and looked anxiously to catch the answering gleam of
expression, which might now, for the first time, be softening his iron
features, animating the blank stillness of his countenance. If any
such expression had been visible, I was too late to detect it. Just as
I looked at him he stooped down to poke the fire. When he turned
towards me again, his face was the same impenetrable face, his eye the
same hard, steady, inexpressive eye as before.

"Besides," he continued, "a man must have some object in life for his
sympathies to be employed on. I have neither wife nor child; and no
near relations to think of--I have nothing but my routine of business
in the day, and my books here by my lonely fireside, at night. Our
life is not much; but it was made for a little more than this. My
former pupil at North Villa is my pupil no longer. I can't help
feeling that it would be an object in existence for me to occupy
myself with her happiness and yours; to have two young people, in the
heyday of youth and first love, looking towards me occasionally for
the promotion of some of their pleasures--no matter how trifling. All
this will seem odd and incomprehensible to _you._ If you were of my
age, Sir, and in my position, you would understand it."

Was it possible that he could speak thus, without his voice faltering,
or his eye softening in the slightest degree? Yes: I looked at him and
listened to him intently; but here was not the faintest change in his
face or his tones--there was nothing to show outwardly whether he felt
what he said, or whether he did not. His words had painted such a
picture of forlornness on my mind, that I had mechanically half raised
my hand to take his, while he was addressing me; but the sight of him
when he ceased, checked the impulse almost as soon as it was formed.
He did not appear to have noticed either my involuntary gesture, or
its immediate repression; and went on speaking.

"I have said perhaps more than I ought," he resumed. "If I have not
succeeded in making you understand my explanation as I could wish, we
will change the subject, and not return to it again, until you have
known me for a much longer time."

"On no account change the subject, Mr. Mannion," I said; unwilling to
let it be implied that I would not put trust in him. "I am deeply
sensible of the kindness of your offer, and the interest you take in
Margaret and me. We shall both, I am sure, accept your good offices--"

I stopped. The storm had decreased a little in violence: but my
attention was now struck by the wind, which had risen as the thunder
and rain had partially lulled. How drearily it was moaning down the
street! It seemed, at that moment, to be wailing over _me;_ to be
wailing over _him;_ to be wailing over all mortal things! The strange
sensations I then felt, moved me to listen in silence; but I checked
them, and spoke again.

"If I have not answered you as I should," I continued, "you must
attribute it partly to the storm, which I confess rather discomposes
my ideas; and partly to a little surprise--a very foolish surprise, I
own--that you should still be able to feel so strong a sympathy with
interests which are generally only considered of importance to the
young."

"It is only in their sympathies, that men of my years can, and do,
live their youth over again," he said. "You may be surprised to hear a
tradesman's clerk talk in this manner; but I was not always what I am
now. I have gathered knowledge, and suffered in the gathering. I have
grown old before my time--my forty years are like the fifty of other
men--"

My heart beat quicker--was he, unasked, about to disclose the mystery
which evidently hung over his early life? No: he dropped the subject
at once, when he continued. I longed to ask him to resume it, but
could not. I feared the same repulse which Mr. Sherwin had received:
and remained silent.

"What I was," he proceeded, "matters little; the question is what can
I do for you? Any aid I can give, may be poor enough; but it may be of
some use notwithstanding. For instance, the other day, if I mistake
not, you were a little hurt at Mr. Sherwin's taking his daughter to a
party to which the family had been invited. This was very natural. You
could not be there to watch over her in your real character, without
disclosing a secret which must be kept safe; and you could not know
what young men she might meet, who would imagine her to be Miss
Sherwin still, and would regulate their conduct accordingly. Now, I
think I might be of use here. I have some influence--perhaps in strict
truth I ought to say great influence--with my employer; and, if you
wished it, I would use that influence to back yours, in inducing him
to forego, for the future, any intention of taking his daughter into
society, except when you desire it. Again: I think I am not wrong in
assuming that you infinitely prefer the company of Mrs. Sherwin to
that of Mr. Sherwin, during your interviews with the young lady?"

How he had found that out? At any rate, he was right; and I told him
so candidly.

"The preference is on many accounts a very natural one," he said; "but
if you suffered it to appear to Mr. Sherwin, it might, for obvious
reasons, produce a most unfavourable effect. I might interfere in the
matter, however, without suspicion; I should have many opportunities
of keeping him away from the room, in the evening, which I could use
if you wished it. And more than that, if you wanted longer and more
frequent communication with North Villa than you now enjoy, I might be
able to effect this also. I do not mention what I could do in these,
and in other matters, in any disparagement, Sir, of the influence
which you have with Mr. Sherwin, in your own right; but because I know
that in what concerns your intercourse with his daughter, my employer
_has_ asked, and _will_ ask my advice, from the habit of doing so in
other things. I have hitherto declined giving him this advice in your
affairs; but I will give it, and in your favour and the young lady's,
if you and she choose."

I thanked him--but not in such warm terms as I should have employed,
if I had seen even the faintest smile on his face, or had heard any
change in his steady, deliberate tones, as he spoke. While his words
attracted, his immovable looks repelled me, in spite of myself.

"I must again beg you"--he proceeded--"to remember what I have already
said, in your estimate of the motives of my offer. If I still appear
to be interfering officiously in your affairs, you have only to think
that I have presumed impertinently on the freedom you have allowed me,
and to treat me no longer on the terms of to-night. I shall not
complain of your conduct, and shall try hard not to consider you
unjust to me, if you do."

Such an appeal as this was not to be resisted: I answered him at once
and unreservedly. What right had I to draw bad inferences from a man's
face, voice, and manner, merely because they impressed me, as out of
the common? Did I know how much share the influence of natural
infirmity, or the outward traces of unknown sorrow and suffering,
might have had in producing the external peculiarities which had
struck me? He would have every right to upbraid me as unjust--and that
in the strongest terms--unless I spoke out fairly in reply.

"I am quite incapable, Mr. Mannion," I said, "of viewing your offer
with any other than grateful feelings. You will find I shall prove
this by employing your good offices for Margaret and myself in perfect
faith, and sooner perhaps than you may imagine."

He bowed and said a few cordial words, which I heard but
imperfectly--for, as I addressed him, a blast of wind fiercer than
usual, rushed down the street, shaking the window shutter violently as
it passed, and dying away in a low, melancholy, dirging swell, like a
spirit-cry of lamentation and despair.

When he spoke again, after a momentary silence, it was to make some
change in the conversation. He talked of Margaret--dwelling in terms
of high praise rather on her moral than on her personal qualities. He
spoke of Mr. Sherwin, referring to solid and attractive points in his
character which I had not detected. What he said of Mrs. Sherwin
appeared to be equally dictated by compassion and respect--he even
hinted at her coolness towards himself, considerately attributing it
to the involuntary caprice of settled nervousness and ill-health. His
language, in touching on these subjects, was just as unaffected, just
as devoid of any peculiarities, as I had hitherto found it when
occupied by other topics.

It was growing late. The thunder still rumbled at long intervals, with
a dull, distant sound; and the wind showed no symptoms of subsiding.
But the pattering of the rain against the window ceased to be audible.
There was little excuse for staying longer; and I wished to find none.
I had acquired quite knowledge enough of Mr. Mannion to assure me,
that any attempt on my part at extracting from him, in spite of his
reserve, the secrets which might be connected with his early life,
would prove perfectly fruitless. If I must judge him at all, I must
judge him by the experience of the present, and not by the history of
the past. I had heard good, and good only, of him from the shrewd
master who knew him best, and had tried him longest. He had shown the
greatest delicacy towards my feelings, and the strongest desire to do
me service--it would be a mean return for those acts of courtesy, to
let curiosity tempt me to pry into his private affairs.

I rose to go. He made no effort to detain me; but, after unbarring the
shutter and looking out of the window, simply remarked that the rain
had almost entirely ceased, and that my umbrella would be quite
sufficient protection against all that remained. He followed me into
the passage to light me out. As I turned round upon his door-step to
thank him for his hospitality, and to bid him good night, the thought
came across me, that my manner must have appeared cold and repelling
to him--especially when he was offering his services to my acceptance.
If I had really produced this impression, he was my inferior in
station, and it would be cruel to leave it. I tried to set myself
right at parting.

"Let me assure you again," I said, "that it will not be my fault if
Margaret and I do not thankfully employ your good offices, as the good
offices of a well-wisher and a friend."

The lightning was still in the sky, though it only appeared at long
intervals. Strangely enough, at the moment when I addressed him, a
flash came, and seemed to pass right over his face. It gave such a
hideously livid hue, such a spectral look of ghastliness and
distortion to his features, that he absolutely seemed to be glaring
and grinning on me like a fiend, in the one instant of its duration.
For the moment, it required all my knowledge of the settled calmness
of his countenance, to convince me that my eyes must have been only
dazzled by an optical illusion produced by the lightning.

When the darkness had come again, I bade him good night--first
mechanically repeating what I had just said, almost in the same words.

I walked home thoughtful. That night had given me much matter to think
of.

IV.

About the time of my introduction to Mr. Mannion--or, to speak more
correctly, both before and after that period--certain peculiarities in
Margaret's character and conduct, which came to my knowledge by pure
accident, gave me a little uneasiness and even a little displeasure.
Neither of these feelings lasted very long, it is true; for the
incidents which gave rise to them were of a trifling nature in
themselves. While I now write, however, these domestic occurrences are
all vividly present to my recollection. I will mention two of them as
instances. Subsequent events, yet to be related, will show that they
are not out of place at this part of my narrative.

One lovely autumn morning, I called rather before the appointed time
at North Villa. As the servant opened the front garden-gate, the idea
occurred to me of giving Margaret a surprise, by entering the drawing
room unexpectedly, with a nosegay gathered for her from her own
flower-bed. Telling the servant not to announce me, I went round to
the back garden, by a gate which opened into it at the side of the
house. The progress of my flower-gathering led me on to the lawn under
one of the drawing-room windows, which was left a little open. The
voices of my wife and her mother reached me from the room. It was this
part of their conversation which I unintentionally overheard:--

"I tell you, mamma, I must and will have the dress, whether papa
chooses or not."

This was spoken loudly and resolutely; in such tones as I had never
heard from Margaret before.

"Pray--pray, my dear, don't talk so," answered the weak, faltering
voice of Mrs. Sherwin; "you know you have had more than your year's
allowance of dresses already."

"I won't be allowanced. _His_ sister isn't allowanced: why should I
be?"

"My dear love, surely there is some difference--"

"I'm sure there isn't, now I am his wife. I shall ride some day in my
carriage, just as his sister does. _He_ gives me my way in everything;
and so ought you."

"It isn't _me,_ Margaret: if I could do anything, I'm sure I would;
but I really couldn't ask your papa for another new dress, after his
having given you so many this year, already."

"That's the way it always is with you, mamma--you can't do this, and
you can't do that--you are so excessively tiresome! But I will have
the dress, I'm determined. He says his sister wears light blue crape
of an evening; and I'll have light blue crape, too--see if I don't!
I'll get it somehow from the shop, myself. Papa never takes any
notice, I'm sure, what I have on; and he needn't find out anything
about what's gone out of the shop, until they 'take stock,' or
whatever it is he calls it. And then, if he flies into one of his
passions--"

"My dear! my dear! you really ought not to talk so of your papa--it is
very wrong, Margaret, indeed--what would Mr. Basil say if he heard
you?"

I determined to go in at once, and tell Margaret that I had heard
her--resolving, at the same time, to exert some firmness, and
remonstrate with her, for her own good, on much of what she had said,
which had really surprised and displeased me. On my unexpected
entrance, Mrs. Sherwin started, and looked more timid than ever.
Margaret, however, came forward to meet me with her wonted smile, and
held out her hand with her wonted grace. I said nothing until we had
got into our accustomed corner, and were talking together in whispers
as usual. Then I began my remonstrance--very tenderly, and in the
lowest possible tones. She took precisely the right way to stop me in
full career, in spite of all my resolution. Her beautiful eyes filled
with tears directly--the first I had ever seen in them: caused, too,
by what I had said!--and she murmured a few plaintive words about the
cruelty of being angry with her for only wanting to please me by being
dressed as my sister was, which upset every intention I had formed but
the moment before. I involuntarily devoted myself to soothing her for
the rest of the morning. Need I say how the matter ended? I never
mentioned the subject more; and I made her a present of the new dress.

Some weeks after the little home-breeze which I have just related, had
died away into a perfect calm, I was accidentally witness of another
domestic dilemma in which Margaret bore a principal share. On this
occasion, as I walked up to the house (in the morning again), I found
the front door open. A pail was on the steps--the servant had
evidently been washing them, had been interrupted in her work, and had
forgotten to close the door when she left it. The nature of the
interruption I soon discovered as I entered the hall.

"For God's sake, Miss!" cried the housemaid's voice, from the
dining-room, "for God's sake, put down the poker! Missus will be here
directly; and it's _her_ cat!"

"I'll kill the vile brute! I'll kill the hateful cat! I don't care
whose it is!--my poor dear, dear, dear bird!" The voice was
Margaret's. At first, its tones were tones of fury; they were
afterwards broken by hysterical sobs.

"Poor thing," continued the servant, soothingly, "I'm sorry for it,
and for you too, Miss! But, oh! do please to remember it was you left
the cage on the table, in the cat's reach--"

"Hold your tongue, you wretch! How dare you hold me?--let me go!"

"Oh, you mustn't--you mustn't indeed! It's missus's cat,
recollect--poor missus's, who's always ill, and hasn't got nothing
else to amuse her."

"I don't care! The cat has killed my bird, and the cat shall be killed
for doing it!--it shall!--it shall!!--it shall!!! I'll call in the
first boy from the street to catch it, and hang it! Let me go! I
_will_ go!"

"I'll let the cat go first, Miss, as sure as my name's Susan!"

The next instant, the door was suddenly opened, and puss sprang past
me, out of harm's way, closely followed by the servant, who stared
breathless and aghast at seeing me in the hall. I went into the
dining-room immediately.

On the floor lay a bird-cage, with the poor canary dead inside (it was
the same canary that I had seen my wife playing with, on the evening
of the day when I first met her). The bird's head had been nearly
dragged through the bent wires of the cage, by the murderous claws of
the cat. Near the fire-place, with the poker she had just dropped on
the floor by her side, stood Margaret. Never had I seen her look so
beautiful as she now appeared, in the fury of passion which possessed
her. Her large black eyes were flashing grandly through her tears--the
blood was glowing crimson in her cheeks--her lips were parted as she
gasped for breath. One of her hands was clenched, and rested on the
mantel-piece; the other was pressed tight over her bosom, with the
fingers convulsively clasping her dress. Grieved as I was at the
paroxysm of passion into which she had allowed herself to be betrayed,
I could not repress an involuntary feeling of admiration when my eyes
first rested on her. Even anger itself looked lovely in that lovely
face!

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