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Georg Ebers - "The Story of My Life, Volume 4."

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Basil

W >> Wilkie Collins >> Basil




A year to wait! At first, this seemed a long trial to endure, a trial
that ought not to be imposed on me. But the next moment, the delay
appeared in a different light. Would it not be the dearest of
privileges to be able to see Margaret, perhaps every day, perhaps for
hours at a time? Would it not be happiness enough to observe each
development of her character, to watch her first maiden love for me,
advancing nearer and nearer towards confidence and maturity the
oftener we met? As I thought on this, I answered Mr. Sherwin without
further hesitation.

"It will be some trial," I said, "to my patience, though none to my
constancy, none to the strength of my affection--I will wait the
year."

"Exactly so," rejoined Mr. Sherwin; "such candour and such
reasonableness were to be expected from one who is quite the
gentleman. And now comes my grand difficulty in this business--in
fact, the little stipulation I have to make."

He stopped, and ran his fingers through his hair, in all directions;
his features fidgetting and distorting themselves ominously, while he
looked at me.

"Pray explain yourself, Mr. Sherwin. Your silence gives me some
uneasiness at this particular moment, I assure you."

"Quite so--I understand. Now, you must promise me not to be
huffed--offended, I should say--at what I am going to propose."

"Certainly not."

"Well, then, it may seem odd; but under all the circumstances--that is
to say, as far as the case concerns you personally--I want you and my
dear girl to be married at once, and yet not to be married exactly,
for another year. I don't know whether you understand me?"

"I must confess I do not."

He coughed rather uneasily; turned to the table, and poured out
another glass of sherry--his hand trembling a little as he did so. He
drank off the wine at a draught; cleared his throat three or four
times after it; and then spoke again.

"Well, to be still plainer, this is how the matter stands: If you were
a party in our rank of life, coming to court Margaret with your
father's full approval and permission when once you had consented to
the year's engagement, everything would be done and settled; the
bargain would have been struck on both sides; and there would be an
end of it. But, situated as you are, I can't stop here safely--I mean,
I can't end the agreement exactly in this way."

He evidently felt that he got fluent on wine; and helped himself, at
this juncture, to another glass.

"You will see what I am driving at, my dear Sir, directly," he
continued. "Suppose now, you came courting my daughter for a year, as
we settled; and suppose your father found it out--we should keep it a
profound secret of course: but still, secrets are sometimes found out,
nobody knows how. Suppose, I say, your father got scent of the thing,
and the match was broken off; where do you think Margaret's reputation
would be? If it happened with somebody in her own station, we might
explain it all, and be believed: but happening with somebody in yours,
what would the world say? Would the world believe you had ever
intended to marry her? That's the point--that's the point precisely."

"But the case could not happen--I am astonished you can imagine it
possible. I have told you already, I am of age."

"Properly urged--very properly, indeed. But you also told me, if you
remember, when I first had the pleasure of seeing you, that your
father, if he knew of this match, would stick at nothing to oppose
it--_at nothing_--I recollect you said so. Now, knowing this, my dear
Sir--though I have the most perfect confidence in _your_ honour, and
_your_ resolution to fulfil your engagement--I can't have confidence
in your being prepared beforehand to oppose all your father might do
if he found us out; because you can't tell yourself what he might be
up to, or what influence he might set to work over you. This sort of
mess is not very probable, you will say; but if it's at all
possible--and there's a year for it to be possible in--by George, Sir,
I must guard against accidents, for my daughter's sake--I must
indeed!"

"In Heaven's name, Mr. Sherwin, pass over all these impossible
difficulties of yours! and let me hear what you have finally to
propose."

"Gently, my dear Sir! gently, gently, gently! I propose to begin with:
that you should marry my daughter--privately marry her--in a week's
time. Now, pray compose yourself!" (I was looking at him in speechless
astonishment.) "Take it easy; pray take it easy! Supposing, then, you
marry her in this way, I make one stipulation. I require you to give
me your word of honour to leave her at the church door; and for the
space of one year never to attempt to see her, except in the presence
of a third party. At the end of that time, I will engage to give her
to you, as your wife in fact, as well as in name. There! what do you
say to that--eh?"

I was too astounded, too overwhelmed, to say anything at that moment;
Mr. Sherwin went on:

"This plan of mine, you see, reconciles everything. If any accident
_does_ happen, and we are discovered, why your father can do nothing
to stop the match, because the match will have been already made. And,
at the same time, I secure a year's delay, for the formation of her
constitution, and the finishing of her accomplishments, and so forth.
Besides, what an opportunity this gives of sailing as near the wind.
as you choose, in breaking the thing, bit by bit, to your father,
without fear of consequences, in case he should run rough after all.
Upon my honour, my dear Sir, I think I deserve some credit for hitting
on this plan--it makes everything so right and straight, and suits of
course the wishes of all parties! I need hardly say that you shall
have every facility for seeing Margaret, under the restrictions--under
the restrictions, you understand. People may talk about your visits;
but having got the certificate, and knowing it's all safe and settled,
I shan't care for that. Well, what do you say? take time to think, if
you wish it--only remember that I have the most perfect confidence in
your honour, and that I act from a fatherly feeling for the interests
of my dear girl!" He stopped, out of breath from the extraordinary
volubility of his long harangue.

Some men more experienced in the world, less mastered by love than I
was, would, in my position, have recognised this proposal an unfair
trial of self-restraint--perhaps, something like an unfair humiliation
as well. Others have detected the selfish motives which suggested it:
the mean distrust of my honour, integrity, and firmness of purpose
which it implied; and the equally mean anxiety on Sherwin's part to
clench his profitable bargain at once, for fear it might be repented
of. I discerned nothing of this. As soon as I had recovered from the
natural astonishment of the first few moments, I only saw in the
strange plan proposed to me, a certainty of assuring--no matter with
what sacrifice, what hazard, or what delay--the ultimate triumph of my
love. When Mr. Sherwin had ceased speaking, I replied at once:

"I accept your conditions--I accept them with all my heart."

He was hardly prepared for so complete and so sudden an acquiescence
in his proposal, and looked absolutely startled by it, at first. But
soon resuming his self-possession--his wily, "business-like"
self-possession--he started up, and shook me vehemently by the hand.

"Delighted--most delighted, my dear Sir, to find how soon we
understand each other, and that we pull together so well. We must have
another glass; hang it, we really must! a toast, you know; a toast you
can't help drinking--your wife! Ha! ha!--I had you there!--my dear,
dear Margaret, God bless her!"

"We may consider all difficulties finally settled then," I said,
anxious to close my interview with Mr. Sherwin as speedily as
possible.

"Decidedly so. Done, and double done, I may say. There will be a
little insurance on your life, that I shall ask you to effect for dear
Margaret's sake; and perhaps, a memorandum of agreement, engaging to
settle a certain proportion of any property you may become possessed
of, on her and her children. You see I am looking forward to my
grandfather days already! But this can wait for a future occasion--say
in a day or two."

"Then I presume there will be no objection to my seeing Miss Sherwin
now?"

"None whatever---at once, if you like. This way, my dear Sir; this
way," and he led me across the passage, into the dining-room.

This apartment was furnished with less luxury, but with more bad taste
(if possible) than the room we had just left. Near the window sat
Margaret--it was the same window at which I had seen her, on the
evening when I wandered into the square, after our meeting in the
omnibus. The cage with the canary-bird hung in the same place. I just
noticed--with a momentary surprise--that Mrs. Sherwin was sitting far
away from her daughter, at the other end of the room; and then placed
myself by Margaret's side. She was dressed in pale yellow--a colour
which gave new splendour to her dark complexion and magnificently dark
hair. Once more, all my doubts, all my self-upbraidings vanished, and
gave place to the exquisite sense of happiness, the glow of joy and
hope and love which seemed to rush over my heart, the moment I looked
at her.

After staying in the room about five minutes, Mr. Sherwin whispered to
his wife, and left us. Mrs. Sherwin still kept her place; but she said
nothing, and hardly turned to look round at us more than once or
twice. Perhaps she was occupied by her own thoughts; perhaps, from a
motive of delicacy, she abstained even from an appearance of watching
her daughter or watching me. Whatever feelings influenced her, I cared
not to speculate on them. It was enough that I had the privilege of
speaking to Margaret uninterruptedly; of declaring my love at last,
without hesitation and without reserve.

How much I had to say to her, and how short a time seemed to be left
me that evening to say it in! How short a time to tell her all the
thoughts of the past which she had created in me; all the
self-sacrifice to which I had cheerfully consented for her sake; all
the anticipations of future happiness which were concentrated in her,
which drew their very breath of life, only from the prospect of her
rewarding love! She spoke but little; yet even that little it was a
new delight to hear. She smiled now; she let me take her hand, and
made no attempt to withdraw it. The evening had closed in; the
darkness was stealing fast upon us; the still, dead-still figure of
Mrs. Sherwin, always in the same place and the same attitude, grew
fainter and fainter to the eye, across the distance of the room--but
no thought of time, no thought of home ever once crossed my mind. I
could have sat at the window with Margaret the long night through;
without an idea of numbering the hours as they passed.

Ere long, however, Mr. Sherwin entered the room again, and effectually
roused me by approaching and speaking to us. I saw that I had stayed
long enough, and that we were not to be left together again, that
night. So I rose and took my leave, having first fixed a time for
seeing Margaret on the morrow. Mr. Sherwin accompanied me with great
ceremony to the outer door. Just as I was leaving him, he touched me
on the arm, and said in his most confidential tones:

"Come an hour earlier, to-morrow; and we'll go and get the licence
together. No objection to that--eh? And the marriage, shall we say
this day week? Just as _you_ like, you know--don't let me seem to
dictate. Ah! no objection to that, either, I see, and no objection on
Margaret's side, I'll warrant! With respect to consents, in the
marrying part of the business, there's complete mutuality--isn't
there? Good night: God bless you!"

XII.

That night I went home with none of the reluctance or the apprehension
which I had felt on the last occasion, when I approached our own door.
The assurance of success contained in the events of the afternoon,
gave me a trust in my own self-possession--a confidence in my own
capacity to parry all dangerous questions--which I had not experienced
before. I cared not how soon, or for how long a time, I might find
myself in company with Clara or my father. It was well for the
preservation of my secret that I was in this frame of mind; for, on
opening my study door, I was astonished to see both of them in my
room.

Clara was measuring one of my over-crowded book-shelves, with a piece
of string; and was apparently just about to compare the length of it
with a vacant space on the wall close by, when I came in. Seeing me,
she stopped; and looked round significantly at my father, who was
standing near her, with a file of papers in his hand.

"You may well feel surprised, Basil, at this invasion of your
territory," he said, with peculiar kindness of manner--"you must,
however, apply there, to the prime minister of the household,"
pointing to Clara, "for an explanation. I am only the instrument of a
domestic conspiracy on your sister's part."

Clara seemed doubtful whether she should speak. It was the first time
I had ever seen such an expression in her face, when she looked into
mine.

"We are discovered, papa," she said, after a momentary silence, "and
we must explain: but you know I always leave as many explanations as I
can to you."

"Very well," said my father smiling; "my task in this instance will be
an easy one. I was intercepted, Basil, on my way to my own room by
your sister, and taken in here to advise about a new set of bookcases
for you, when I ought to have been attending to my own money matters.
Clara's idea was to have had these new bookcases made in secret, and
put up as a surprise, some day when you were not at home. However, as
you have caught her in the act of measuring spaces, with all the skill
of an experienced carpenter, and all the impetuosity of an arbitrary
young lady who rules supreme over everybody, further concealment is
out of the question. We must make a virtue of necessity, and confess
everything."

Poor Clara! This was her only return for ten days' utter neglect--and
she had been half afraid to tell me of it herself. I approached and
thanked her; not very gratefully, I am afraid, for I felt too confused
to speak freely. It seemed like a fatality. The more evil I was doing
in secret, evil to family ties and family principles, the more good
was unconsciously returned to me by my family, through my sister's
hands.

"I made no objection, of course, to the bookcase plan," continued my
father. "More room is really wanted for the volumes on volumes that
you have collected about you; but I certainly suggested a little delay
in the execution of the project. The bookcases will, at all events,
not be required here for five months to come. This day week we return
to the country."

I could not repress a start of astonishment and dismay. Here was a
difficulty which I ought to have provided for; but which I had most
unaccountably never once thought of, although it was now the period of
the year at which on all former occasions we had been accustomed to
leave London. This day week too! The very day fixed by Mr. Sherwin for
my marriage!

"I am afraid, Sir, I shall not be able to go with you and Clara so
soon as you propose. It was my wish to remain in London some time
longer." I said this in a low voice, without venturing to look at my
sister. But I could not help hearing her exclamation as I spoke, and
the tone in which she uttered it.

My father moved nearer to me a step or two, and looked in my face
intently, with the firm, penetrating expression which peculiarly
characterized him.

"This seems an extraordinary resolution," he said, his tones and
manner altering ominously while he spoke. "I thought your sudden
absence for the last two days rather odd; but this plan of remaining
in London by yourself is really incomprehensible. What can you have to
do?"

An excuse--no! not an excuse; let me call things by their right names
in these pages--a _lie_ was rising to my lips; but my father checked
the utterance of it. He detected my embarrassment immediately,
anxiously as I strove to conceal it.

"Stop," he said coldly, while the red flush which meant so much when
it rose on _his_ cheek, began to appear there for the first time.
"Stop! If you must make excuses, Basil, I must ask no questions. You
have a secret which you wish to keep from me; and I beg you _will_
keep it. I have never been accustomed to treat my sons as I would not
treat any other gentlemen with whom I may happen to be associated. If
they have private affairs, I cannot interfere with those affairs. My
trust in their honour is my only guarantee against their deceiving me;
but in the intercourse of gentlemen that is guarantee enough. Remain
here as long as you like: we shall be happy to see you in the country,
when you are able to leave town."

He turned to Clara. "I suppose, my love, you want me no longer. While
I settle my own matters of business, you can arrange about the
bookcases with your brother. Whatever you wish, I shall be glad to
do." And he left the room without speaking to me, or looking at me
again. I sank into a chair, feeling disgraced in my own estimation by
the last words he had spoken to me. His trust in my honour was his
only guarantee against my deceiving him. As I thought over that
declaration, every syllable of it seemed to sear my conscience; to
brand Hypocrite on my heart.

I turned towards my sister. She was standing at a little distance from
me, silent and pale, mechanically twisting the measuring-string, which
she still held between her trembling fingers; and fixing her eyes upon
me so lovingly, so mournfully, that my fortitude gave way when I
looked at her. At that instant, I seemed to forget everything that had
passed since the day when I first met Margaret, and to be restored
once more to my old way of life and my old home-sympathies. My head
drooped on my breast, and I felt the hot tears forcing themselves into
my eyes.

Clara stepped quietly to my side; and sitting down by me in silence,
put her arm round my neck.

When I was calmer, she said gently:

"I have been very anxious about you, Basil; and perhaps I have allowed
that anxiety to appear more than I ought. Perhaps I have been
accustomed to exact too much from you--you have been too ready to
please me. But I have been used to it so long; and I have nobody else
that I can speak to as I can to you. Papa is very kind; but he can't
be what you are to me exactly; and Ralph does not live with us now,
and cared little about me, I am afraid, when he did. I have friends,
but friends are not--"

She stopped again; her voice was failing her. For a moment, she
struggled to keep her self-possession--struggled as only women
can--and succeeded in the effort. She pressed her arm closer round my
neck; but her tones were steadier and clearer when she resumed:

"It will not be very easy for me to give up our country rides and
walks together, and the evening talk that we always had at dusk in the
old library at the park. But I think I can resign all this, and go
away alone with papa, for the first time, without making you
melancholy by anything I say or do at parting, if you will only
promise that when you are in any difficulty you will let me be of some
use. I think I could always be of use, because I should always feel an
interest in anything that concerned you. I don't want to intrude on
your secret; but if that secret should ever bring you trouble or
distress (which I hope and pray it may not), I want you to have
confidence in my being able to help you, in some way, through any
mischances. Let me go into the country, Basil, knowing that you can
still put trust in me, even though a time should come when you can put
trust in no one else--let me know this: _do_ let me!"

I gave her the assurance she desired--gave it with my whole heart. She
seemed to have recovered all her old influence over me by the few
simple words she had spoken. The thought crossed my mind, whether I
ought not in common gratitude to confide my secret to her at once,
knowing as I did, that it would be safe in her keeping, however the
disclosure might startle or pain her, I believe I should have told her
all, in another minute, but for a mere accident--the trifling
interruption caused by a knock at the door.

It came from one of the servants. My father desired to see Clara on
some matter connected with their impending departure for the country.
She was unfit enough to obey such a summons at such a time; but with
her usual courage in disciplining her own feelings into subserviency
to the wishes of any one whom she loved, she determined to obey
immediately the message which had been delivered to her. A few moments
of silence; a slight trembling soon repressed; a parting kiss for me;
these few farewell words of encouragement at the door; "Don't grieve
about what papa has said; you have made _me_ feel happy about you,
Basil; I will make _him_ feel happy too," and Clara was gone.

With those few minutes of interruption, the time for the disclosure of
my secret had passed by. As soon as my sister was out of the room, my
former reluctance to trust it to home-keeping returned, and remained
unchanged throughout the whole of the long year's probation which I
had engaged to pass. But this mattered little. As events turned out,
if I had told Clara all, the end would have come in the same way, the
fatality would have been accomplished by the same means.

I went out shortly after my sister had left me. I could give myself to
no occupation at home, for the rest of that night; and I knew that it
would be useless to attempt to sleep just then. As I walked through
the streets, bitter thoughts against my father rose in my mind--bitter
thoughts against his inexorable family pride, which imposed on me the
concealment and secrecy, under the oppression of which I had already
suffered so much--bitter thoughts against those social tyrannies,
which take no account of human sympathy and human love, and which my
father now impersonated, as it were, to my ideas. Gradually these
reflections merged in others that were better. I thought of Clara
again; consoling myself with the belief, that, however my father might
receive the news of my marriage, I might count upon my sister as
certain to love my wife and be kind to her, for my sake. This thought
led my heart back to Margaret--led it gently and happily. I went home,
calmed and reassured again--at least for the rest of the night.

The events of that week, so fraught with importance for the future of
my life, passed with ominous rapidity.

The marriage license was procured; all remaining preliminaries with
Mr. Sherwin were adjusted; I saw Margaret every day, and gave myself
up more and more unreservedly to the charm that she exercised over me,
at each succeeding interview. At home, the bustle of approaching
departure; the farewell visitings; the multitudinous minor
arrangements preceding a journey to the country, seemed to hurry the
hours on faster and faster, as the parting day for Clara, and the
marriage day for me, drew near. Incessant interruptions prevented any
more lengthened or private conversations with my sister; and my father
was hardly ever accessible for more than five minutes together, even
to those who specially wished to speak with him. Nothing arose to
embarrass or alarm me now, out of my intercourse with home.

The day came. I had not slept during the night that preceded it; so I
rose early to look out on the morning.

It is strange how frequently that instinctive belief in omens and
predestinations, which we flippantly term Superstition, asserts its
natural prerogative even over minds trained to repel it, at the moment
of some great event in our lives. I believe this has happened to many
more men than ever confessed it; and it happened to me. At any former
period of my life, I should have laughed at the bare imputation of a
"superstitious" feeling ever having risen in my mind. But now, as I
looked on the sky, and saw the black clouds that overspread the whole
firmament, and the heavy rain that poured down from them, an
irrepressible sinking of the heart came over me. For the last ten days
the sun had shone almost uninterruptedly--with my marriage-day came
the cloud, the mist and the rain. I tried to laugh myself out of the
forebodings which this suggested, and tried in vain.

The departure for the country was to take place at an early hour. We
all breakfasted together; the meal was hurried over comfortlessly and
silently. My father was either writing notes, or examining the
steward's accounts, almost the whole time; and Clara was evidently
incapable of uttering a single word, without risking the loss of her
self-possession. The silence was so complete, while we sat together at
the table, that the fall of the rain outside (which had grown softer
and thicker as the morning advanced), and the quick, quiet tread of
the servants, as they moved about the room, were audible with a
painful distinctness. The oppression of our last family breakfast in
London, for that year, had an influence of wretchedness which I cannot
describe--which I can never forget.

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