บทที่ บทที่ 18 · We Quarrel

WE QUARREL.

During the first days of my stay at the Terrace, Graham never took a

seat near me, or in his frequent pacing of the room approached the

quarter where I sat, or looked pre-occupied, or more grave than usual,

but I thought of Miss Fanshawe and expected her name to leap from his

lips. I kept my ear and mind in perpetual readiness for the tender

theme; my patience was ordered to be permanently under arms, and my

sympathy desired to keep its cornucopia replenished and ready for

outpouring. At last, and after a little inward struggle, which I saw

and respected, he one day launched into the topic. It was introduced

delicately; anonymously as it were.

“Your friend is spending her vacation in travelling, I hear?”

“Friend, forsooth!” thought I to myself: but it would not do to

contradict; he must have his own way; I must own the soft impeachment:

friend let it be. Still, by way of experiment, I could not help asking

whom he meant?

He had taken a seat at my work-table; he now laid hands on a reel of

thread which he proceeded recklessly to unwind.

“Ginevra—Miss Fanshawe, has accompanied the Cholmondeleys on a tour

through the south of France?”

“She has.”

“Do you and she correspond?”

“It will astonish you to hear that I never once thought of making

application for that privilege.”

“You have seen letters of her writing?”

“Yes; several to her uncle.”

“They will not be deficient in wit and _naïveté_; there is so much

sparkle, and so little art in her soul?”

“She writes comprehensively enough when she writes to M. de

Bassompierre: he who runs may read.” (In fact, Ginevra’s epistles to

her wealthy kinsman were commonly business documents, unequivocal

applications for cash.)

“And her handwriting? It must be pretty, light, ladylike, I should

think?”

It was, and I said so.

“I verily believe that all she does is well done,” said Dr. John; and

as I seemed in no hurry to chime in with this remark, he added “You,

who know her, could you name a point in which she is deficient?”

“She does several things very well.” (“Flirtation amongst the rest,”

subjoined I, in thought.)

“When do you suppose she will return to town?” he soon inquired.

“Pardon me, Dr. John, I must explain. You honour me too much in

ascribing to me a degree of intimacy with Miss Fanshawe I have not the

felicity to enjoy. I have never been the depositary of her plans and

secrets. You will find her particular friends in another sphere than

mine: amongst the Cholmondeleys, for instance.”

He actually thought I was stung with a kind of jealous pain similar to

his own!

“Excuse her,” he said; “judge her indulgently; the glitter of fashion

misleads her, but she will soon find out that these people are hollow,

and will return to you with augmented attachment and confirmed trust. I

know something of the Cholmondeleys: superficial, showy, selfish

people; depend on it, at heart Ginevra values you beyond a score of

such.”

“You are very kind,” I said briefly.

A disclaimer of the sentiments attributed to me burned on my lips, but

I extinguished the flame. I submitted to be looked upon as the

humiliated, cast-off, and now pining confidante of the distinguished

Miss Fanshawe: but, reader, it was a hard submission.

“Yet, you see,” continued Graham, “while I comfort _you_, I cannot take

the same consolation to myself; I cannot hope she will do me justice.

De Hamal is most worthless, yet I fear he pleases her: wretched

delusion!”

My patience really gave way, and without notice: all at once. I suppose

illness and weakness had worn it and made it brittle.

“Dr. Bretton,” I broke out, “there is no delusion like your own. On all

points but one you are a man, frank, healthful, right-thinking,

clear-sighted: on this exceptional point you are but a slave. I

declare, where Miss Fanshawe is concerned, you merit no respect; nor

have you mine.”

I got up, and left the room very much excited.

This little scene took place in the morning; I had to meet him again in

the evening, and then I saw I had done mischief. He was not made of

common clay, not put together out of vulgar materials; while the

outlines of his nature had been shaped with breadth and vigour, the

details embraced workmanship of almost feminine delicacy: finer, much

finer, than you could be prepared to meet with; than you could believe

inherent in him, even after years of acquaintance. Indeed, till some

over-sharp contact with his nerves had betrayed, by its effects, their

acute sensibility, this elaborate construction must be ignored; and the

more especially because the sympathetic faculty was not prominent in

him: to feel, and to seize quickly another’s feelings, are separate

properties; a few constructions possess both, some neither. Dr. John

had the one in exquisite perfection; and because I have admitted that

he was not endowed with the other in equal degree, the reader will

considerately refrain from passing to an extreme, and pronouncing him

_un_sympathizing, unfeeling: on the contrary, he was a kind, generous

man. Make your need known, his hand was open. Put your grief into

words, he turned no deaf ear. Expect refinements of perception,

miracles of intuition, and realize disappointment. This night, when Dr.

John entered the room, and met the evening lamp, I saw well and at one

glance his whole mechanism.

To one who had named him “slave,” and, on any point, banned him from

respect, he must now have peculiar feelings. That the epithet was well

applied, and the ban just, might be; he put forth no denial that it was

so: his mind even candidly revolved that unmanning possibility. He

sought in this accusation the cause of that ill-success which had got

so galling a hold on his mental peace: Amid the worry of a

self-condemnatory soliloquy, his demeanour seemed grave, perhaps cold,

both to me and his mother. And yet there was no bad feeling, no malice,

no rancour, no littleness in his countenance, beautiful with a man’s

best beauty, even in its depression. When I placed his chair at the

table, which I hastened to do, anticipating the servant, and when I

handed him his tea, which I did with trembling care, he said: “Thank

you, Lucy,” in as kindly a tone of his full pleasant voice as ever my

ear welcomed.

For my part, there was only one plan to be pursued; I must expiate my

culpable vehemence, or I must not sleep that night. This would not do

at all; I could not stand it: I made no pretence of capacity to wage

war on this footing. School solitude, conventual silence and

stagnation, anything seemed preferable to living embroiled with Dr.

John. As to Ginevra, she might take the silver wings of a dove, or any

other fowl that flies, and mount straight up to the highest place,

among the highest stars, where her lover’s highest flight of fancy

chose to fix the constellation of her charms: never more be it mine to

dispute the arrangement. Long I tried to catch his eye. Again and again

that eye just met mine; but, having nothing to say, it withdrew, and I

was baffled. After tea, he sat, sad and quiet, reading a book. I wished

I could have dared to go and sit near him, but it seemed that if I

ventured to take that step, he would infallibly evince hostility and

indignation. I longed to speak out, and I dared not whisper. His mother

left the room; then, moved by insupportable regret, I just murmured the

words “Dr. Bretton.”

He looked up from his book; his eyes were not cold or malevolent, his

mouth was not cynical; he was ready and willing to hear what I might

have to say: his spirit was of vintage too mellow and generous to sour

in one thunder-clap.

“Dr. Bretton, forgive my hasty words: _do, do_ forgive them.”

He smiled that moment I spoke. “Perhaps I deserved them, Lucy. If you

don’t respect me, I am sure it is because I am not respectable. I fear,

I am an awkward fool: I must manage badly in some way, for where I wish

to please, it seems I don’t please.”

“Of that you cannot be sure; and even if such be the case, is it the

fault of your character, or of another’s perceptions? But now, let me

unsay what I said in anger. In one thing, and in all things, I deeply

respect you. If you think scarcely enough of yourself, and too much of

others, what is that but an excellence?”

“Can I think too much of Ginevra?”

“_I_ believe you may; _you_ believe you can’t. Let us agree to differ.

Let me be pardoned; that is what I ask.”

“Do you think I cherish ill-will for one warm word?”

“I see you do not and cannot; but just say, ‘Lucy, I forgive you!’ Say

that, to ease me of the heart-ache.”

“Put away your heart-ache, as I will put away mine; for you wounded me

a little, Lucy. Now, when the pain is gone, I more than forgive: I feel

grateful, as to a sincere well-wisher.”

“I _am_ your sincere well-wisher: you are right.”

Thus our quarrel ended.

Reader, if in the course of this work, you find that my opinion of Dr.

John undergoes modification, excuse the seeming inconsistency. I give

the feeling as at the time I felt it; I describe the view of character

as it appeared when discovered.

He showed the fineness of his nature by being kinder to me after that

misunderstanding than before. Nay, the very incident which, by my

theory, must in some degree estrange me and him, changed, indeed,

somewhat our relations; but not in the sense I painfully anticipated.

An invisible, but a cold something, very slight, very transparent, but

very chill: a sort of screen of ice had hitherto, all through our two

lives, glazed the medium through which we exchanged intercourse. Those

few warm words, though only warm with anger, breathed on that frail

frost-work of reserve; about this time, it gave note of dissolution. I

think from that day, so long as we continued friends, he never in

discourse stood on topics of ceremony with me. He seemed to know that

if he would but talk about himself, and about that in which he was most

interested, my expectation would always be answered, my wish always

satisfied. It follows, as a matter of course, that I continued to hear

much of “Ginevra.”

“Ginevra!” He thought her so fair, so good; he spoke so lovingly of her

charms, her sweetness, her innocence, that, in spite of my plain prose

knowledge of the reality, a kind of reflected glow began to settle on

her idea, even for me. Still, reader, I am free to confess, that he

often talked nonsense; but I strove to be unfailingly patient with him.

I had had my lesson: I had learned how severe for me was the pain of

crossing, or grieving, or disappointing him. In a strange and new

sense, I grew most selfish, and quite powerless to deny myself the

delight of indulging his mood, and being pliant to his will. He still

seemed to me most absurd when he obstinately doubted, and desponded

about his power to win in the end Miss Fanshawe’s preference. The fancy

became rooted in my own mind more stubbornly than ever, that she was

only coquetting to goad him, and that, at heart, she coveted every one

of his words and looks. Sometimes he harassed me, in spite of my

resolution to bear and hear; in the midst of the indescribable

gall-honey pleasure of thus bearing and hearing, he struck so on the

flint of what firmness I owned, that it emitted fire once and again. I

chanced to assert one day, with a view to stilling his impatience, that

in my own mind, I felt positive Miss Fanshawe _must_ intend eventually

to accept him.

“Positive! It was easy to say so, but had I any grounds for such

assurance?”

“The best grounds.”

“Now, Lucy, _do_ tell me what!”

“You know them as well as I; and, knowing them, Dr. John, it really

amazes me that you should not repose the frankest confidence in her

fidelity. To doubt, under the circumstances, is almost to insult.”

“Now you are beginning to speak fast and to breathe short; but speak a

little faster and breathe a little shorter, till you have given an

explanation—a full explanation: I must have it.”

“You shall, Dr. John. In some cases, you are a lavish, generous man:

you are a worshipper ever ready with the votive offering should Père

Silas ever convert _you_, you will give him abundance of alms for his

poor, you will supply his altar with tapers, and the shrine of your

favourite saint you will do your best to enrich: Ginevra, Dr. John—”

“Hush!” said he, “don’t go on.”

“Hush, I will _not_: and go on I _will_: Ginevra has had her hands

filled from your hands more times than I can count. You have sought for

her the costliest flowers; you have busied your brain in devising gifts

the most delicate: such, one would have thought, as only a woman could

have imagined; and in addition, Miss Fanshawe owns a set of ornaments,

to purchase which your generosity must have verged on extravagance.”

The modesty Ginevra herself had never evinced in this matter, now

flushed all over the face of her admirer.

“Nonsense!” he said, destructively snipping a skein of silk with my

scissors. “I offered them to please myself: I felt she did me a favour

in accepting them.”

“She did more than a favour, Dr. John: she pledged her very honour that

she would make you some return; and if she cannot pay you in affection,

she ought to hand out a business-like equivalent, in the shape of some

rouleaux of gold pieces.”

“But you don’t understand her; she is far too disinterested to care for

my gifts, and too simple-minded to know their value.”

I laughed out: I had heard her adjudge to every jewel its price; and

well I knew money-embarrassment, money-schemes; money’s worth, and

endeavours to realise supplies, had, young as she was, furnished the

most frequent, and the favourite stimulus of her thoughts for years.

He pursued. “You should have seen her whenever I have laid on her lap

some trifle; so cool, so unmoved: no eagerness to take, not even

pleasure in contemplating. Just from amiable reluctance to grieve me,

she would permit the bouquet to lie beside her, and perhaps consent to

bear it away. Or, if I achieved the fastening of a bracelet on her

ivory arm, however pretty the trinket might be (and I always carefully

chose what seemed to _me_ pretty, and what of course was not

valueless), the glitter never dazzled her bright eyes: she would hardly

cast one look on my gift.”

“Then, of course, not valuing it, she would unloose, and return it to

you?”

“No; for such a repulse she was too good-natured. She would consent to

seem to forget what I had done, and retain the offering with lady-like

quiet and easy oblivion. Under such circumstances, how can a man build

on acceptance of his presents as a favourable symptom? For my part,

were I to offer her all I have, and she to take it, such is her

incapacity to be swayed by sordid considerations, I should not venture

to believe the transaction advanced me one step.”

“Dr. John,” I began, “Love is blind;” but just then a blue subtle ray

sped sideways from Dr. John’s eye: it reminded me of old days, it

reminded me of his picture: it half led me to think that part, at

least, of his professed persuasion of Miss Fanshawe’s _naïveté_ was

assumed; it led me dubiously to conjecture that perhaps, in spite of

his passion for her beauty, his appreciation of her foibles might

possibly be less mistaken, more clear-sighted, than from his general

language was presumable. After all it might be only a chance look, or

at best the token of a merely momentary impression. Chance or

intentional real or imaginary, it closed the conversation.

CHAPTER 19.