Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
petite moue
that Esmeralda was accustomed to
make in Victor Hugo's admirable novel
Notre Dame de Paris
.
"But you always take a holiday, my dear," returned
her father with a smile; "and therefore you fancy that others do not
require a temporary relaxation. Gustavus and Lionel want a holiday; and Mr.
Markham cannot be always poring over book, and drawings."
"Well, I wish Mr. Markham to
take trouble to come every morning and give me my drawing lesson," said
the young lady, with a little air of decision and firmness, which was quite
comic in its way; "and if he will not," she added, " then I will
never learn to draw any more - and that is decided."
Mr. Gregory surveyed his daughter with an air of
astonishment.
Probably he half penetrated
the
secret - for her passion could
not be called her secret, because she was totally unconscious of the nature of
her feelings, and sought to conceal nothing.
Had she been aware of the real sentiment which she
experienced, she would have at once revealed it; for she was guileless and
unsuspicious - ignorant of all deceit - devoid of all hypocrisy - and endowed
with as much simplicity and artlessness as a child of six years old.
"Mr. Markham must have a holiday, my dear," said
Mr. Gregory, at length, with a peculiar emphasis; "and I beg that no
further objection may be offered."
Mary-Anne instantly burst into tears, exclaiming, in a voice
almost choked with sobs, "Mr. Markham
may
have his holiday, if he likes;
but I will not learn any thing more of him when the studies begin again."
And she retired in a pet to another apartment.
Markham was himself astonished at this singular behaviour on
the part of his interesting pupil.
He was, however, far from suspecting the real cause, and
took his leave with a promise to return to dinner on the following Sunday,
until which time there was then an interval of five days.
Three days after the one on which the above conversation
took place, Markham was about to issue from his dwelling to proceed into town
for the purpose of calling upon the manager, as he had that morning seen his
drama advertised for early representation, - when Whittingham informed hint
that a young lady desired to speak to him in the drawing- room.
The Idea of Isabella instantly flashed through the mind of
Richard:- but would she call upon him, alone and unattended? No - for Isabella
was modesty and prudence personified.
Then, who could it be?
Markham asked this question of his butler.
"A remarkable sweet creature," said Whittingham;
"and come quite spontaneous like. Beautiful flaxy hair - blue eyes - pale
complexion —"
"Impossible! you do not say
that
, Whittingham?" cried
Markham, on whom a light now broke.
"Do I look like a man that speaks evasiously, Master
Richard?" demanded the butler, shifting his inseparable companion - the
white napkin - from beneath one arm to the other.
Markham repaired to the drawing-room :- his suspicions were
verified ;- the moment he entered the apartment, he beheld Miss Gregory seated
upon the sofa.
"Well, Mr. Markham," she said, extending to him
her hand, and smiling so sweetly with her vermilion lips, which disclosed a set
of teeth not quite even, but as white as ivory, that Richard could not find it
in his heart to be angry with her; "I was resolved not to pass the day
without seeing you; and as you would not come to me, I was compelled to come to
you."
"But, Miss Gregory," said Markham, "are you
not aware that you have taken a most imprudent step, and that the world would
highly censure your conduct?"
"Why?" demanded Mary-Anne, in astonishment.
"Because ladies, no matter whether single or married,
never call upon single gentlemen; and society has laid down certain rules in
this respect, which —"
"My dear Mr. Markham, you are not giving me a lesson
now, remember, in my father's study," interrupted Mary-Anne, laughing
heartily. "I know nothing about the rules of society in this respect, or
that respect, or any other respect. All I know is, that I cried all night long
after you left us the other day; and I have been very miserable until this
morning, when I suddenly recollected that I knew your address, and could come
and call on you."
"If your father were to know that you came
hither," said Richard, "he would never forgive you, nor ever see me
again."
"Well, then, all we have to do is not to tell my father
any thing about the matter," said Mary-An., with considerable
ingenuousness. "But how cross you look; and I - I thought," she
added, ready to cry, "that you would be as pleased to see me as I am to
see you."
"Yes, Miss Gregory - I am pleased to see you - I am
always pleased to see you," answered Markham, by way of soothing the poor
girl; "but you must allow me to assure you that this step is the most
imprudent - the most thoughtless in the world. I really tremble for the
consequences - should your father happen to hear of it."
"I tell you over and over again," persisted Miss
Gregory, "that my papa shall never know any thing at all about the matter.
Now, then, pray don't be cross; but tell me that you are glad to see me. Speak,
Mr. Markham - are you glad to see me?"
"How shall I ever be able to convince this artless
young creature of the impropriety of her conduct?" murmured Richard within
himself. "To argue with her too long and too forcibly upon the subject
would be to instruct her innocent mind in the evils and vices of society, and
to imbue her with ideas which are as yet like a foreign and a strange tongue to
her! Innocence, then, is not a pearl of invaluable price to its possessor, in
this world,- since it can so readily prepare the path which
might
lead to ruin!"
"You do not answer me - you are thoughtful - you will
not speak to me," said Mary Ann, rising from the sofa, with tears in her
eyes, and preparing - or rather affecting an intention to depart.
Markham still gave her no reply.
He was grieved - deeply grieved to wound her feelings; but
he thought that it would be better to allow her to return home at once, with
sentiments of pique and wounded pride which would prevent a repetition of the
same step, than to initiate her into those social mysteries which would only
give an impulse to her lively imagination that would probably prove
morally injurious to her.
But Mary Anne was incapable of harbouring resentment; and
she burst into an agony of grief.
"Oh! how unkind you are, Mr. Markham," she
exclaimed, "after all my endeavours to please you! I thought that you
would have experienced as much joy to see me, as I felt when I saw you enter
the room. Since the day that I lost my dear mother - upwards of nine years ago
- I have never loved any one so much as I love you - no, not even my father;
for I feel that at this moment I could dare even
his
anger, if you were to shelter me!
I have long thought that I had no friend but God, to whom I could communicate
my little secrets; and now I feel as if I could bestow all my confidence upon
you. Since the
death of my mother I have never sought my couch without resigning
my soul into the hands of God, and without demanding of him an insight into
truth and virtue. But now I would rather entrust my safety to you; and I would
rather learn all I should know from your lips than from those of another! You
ought, therefore, to treat me with more kindness and consideration than you
have done up to this moment ;- you should bestow upon me an additional share of
your attention and notice, - because I am anxious to please you - I would do
any thing to save you pain - I would lay down my life to ensure a prolongation
of yours!"
Mary-Anne had never spoken so seriously, nor in so
impassioned a manner, in her life before. She was even astonished herself at
the very ideas which she was now expressing for the first time, and which
seemed to flow from some inward fountain whose springs she could not check.
Markham was astounded.
He suddenly comprehended the true situation of the innocent
and artless girl in respect to himself.
A pang shot through his heart when he considered the
impossibility of her happiness ever being ensured by his means; and he thought
within himself, "Alas! poor child, she does not rightly comprehend the
state of her own mind!"
But, how could this love of hers be stifled? how could that
passion be suppressed?
All the remedies yet essayed to quench and annihilate love,
have changed into poisons ;- even violent and unexpected lessons will not
always make the heart reflect.
The more the slave bends, the heavier becomes the yoke: the
more a man employs an unjust force, the more will injustice become necessary to
his views. No one should attempt to exercise tyranny upon proud souls; for he
will readily learn that it is not easy to triumph over and trample on a noble
love. Error succeeds error - outrage follows upon outrage - and bitterness
increases like a torrent whose embankments have given way. Who can define the
termination of these ravages? Will not the tender and affectionate woman, whose
love man may endeavour to stifle by coldness or neglect, perish in the ruin?
She
will succumb to tears and to devouring cares - even while the
love
which she cherishes still
preserves all its vigour, and loses nothing of its ardour through intense
suffering!
Markham knew not how to reply to that affectionate girl,
whose spirit he dared not break by his unkindness, - whose passion he could not
return, because his heart was devoted to another ,- and whose mind he was
afraid to enlighten with regard to those social duties which originated in
reasons and motives totally unknown to her.
"Mr. Markham," said Mary-Anne, wiping away her
tears, "tell me that you are not angry with me for calling: and, as you
say it is not right, I will never come again."
"Angry with you, Miss Gregory, I cannot be,"
exclaimed Markham. "But I ought to tell you that you must not give way to
that feeling of - of - preference towards me —"
"Oh! I suppose that the rules of society also prevent a
single lady from liking a single gentleman?" interrupted Mary-Anne
pettishly.
"No rules can control volition, Miss Gregory,"
said Richard, cruelly embarrassed how to explain himself to the young lady;
"but if you tell me that you prefer me to your father —"
"And so I do," exclaimed Mary-Anne quickly.
"Then you are wrong," returned Markham.
"Wrong, indeed! and yet you have just told me that no
rules can control volition."
"True; but we must endeavour to conquer those feelings.
You say that you like me? - suppose that we were never to meet again; would you
not then learn to forget that you ever knew such a being?"
"Impossible! never - never!" cried Mary-Anne
enthusiastically. "I am always thinking of you!"
"But the time must come, some day or another - whether
now, or a year, or ten years hence - when we must cease to meet. I may be
married - or you yourself may marry —"
"Married!" ejaculated Mary-Anne: "do you
think of marrying, then, Mr. Markham?"
"I am certainly attached to a young lady," replied
Richard; "but there are circumstances which —"
"You are attached to a young lady? Is she beautiful -
very beautiful ?"
"Very beautiful," answered Richard.
Mary-Anne remained silent for some moments: she appeared to
reflect profoundly.
A sudden glow of animation flushed her cheek:- was it a
light that dawned in upon her soul?
Richard sincerely hoped so.
"Mr. Markham," said Mary-Anne, rising from her
seat, and speaking in a tone so serious that Richard could scarcely believe he
was now listening to the once volatile, sprightly, thoughtless, and playful
creature he had known,- "Mr. Markham, I have to apologise most sincerely
for the trouble I have given you, and the intrusion of which I have been
guilty. A veil has suddenly fallen from my eyes; and I now comprehend the
impropriety of my conduct. Ah! I see what you mean by the laws of society. But
God - and you also, Mr. Markham. well know the innocence of my motives in
calling this morning upon you; and if my friendship for you has betrayed me
into error, I beseech you to forget that such a scene has ever taken
place."
She shook hands with Richard with her usual cordiality and
warmth, and then took her departure - no longer skipping like the young fawn,
but with steady and measured pace.
And still that young girl did not dream that love had
influenced her conduct ;- she continued to believe that the sentiment she
experienced was one of friendship. The idea of Richard's marriage with another
had only enlightened her in respect to those laws which, as social and
sympathetic beings, we have conventionally enacted.
On the ensuing Sunday Markham dined, according to
engagement, with Mr. Gregory.
Mary-Anne was present; and striking was the change which had
taken place in her!
Her manners were no longer gay, joyous, confiding, and full
of animation. As sickness chases from the cheek the flush of hoyden health, so
had a new sentiment banished that sprightliness of disposition and that
liveliness of temperament which so lately had characterised this child of
nature.
Love, then, is omnipotent, if he can effect such changes as
these! Alas! Love can work much for our unhappiness, but little for our
felicity :- he may make the gladsome companion melancholy and serious; but he
seldom covers the countenance of the morose one with smiles!
Mary-Anne endeavoured to seem as reserved as possible with
Richard; and yet, from time to time, when she thought he did not notice her,
she fixed her eyes upon him with an expression of such heart-devoted
tenderness, that it seemed as if she were pouring forth her entire soul to the
divinity whom she worshipped.