Comin' Thro' the Rye (Mathers)/Seed Time/Chapter 20
CHAPTER XX.
"A heat full of coldness; a sweet full of bitters; a pain full of pleasantness which maketh thoughts have eyes and hearts and ears; bred by desire, nursed by delight, weaned by jealousy, killed by dissembling, turned by ingratitude—and this is love."
"I wonder if Paul will come to-night," says Mr. Frere, stirring the fire with a recklessness highly reprehensible in a godly man during these days of greedy coal-merchants and champagne-drinking colliers.
It is rainy October now, and the nights are cold and frosty, and without, mother earth is drawing the flowers, her darlings, down into her brown breast, as Hans Andersen tells us, away from the Frost-King's breath, which strikes chilly against the tender green stalks and late-tarrying fuchsias, myrtles, and magnolias.
"I don't think he's coming back at all!" I say, nodding, "he has been gone such a long, long time, you know—weeks!"
"Paul always keeps his word," says Mr. Frere. "He is sure to come back. Besides, he left all his things here." That is conclusive, for however heartbroken a man may be, he does not usually forget his dressing-case and his little comforts.
"The ground is good for walking just now," says Mr. Frere. "I dare say he has got as far as Devonshire."
Yes, the ground is good for walking, but I think all roads are pretty much alike to him just now. As I sit staring into the fire, I seem to see Mr. Vasher walking swift and fast, trying to escape from his restless thoughts: trying to quench a flame that will not be put out. Pshaw! Probabiy I see a myth and a fallacy, and at this very moment he is dancing a jig or———
"Are you asleep?" asks a cheerful voice behind me.
"You have come back!" I cry, starting up; how glad I am. We were beginning to think you were lost!"
As the firelight falls on his face, I see that it is pale and worn as that of a man who has fought a battle against fierce odds, and though wounded and hard pressed in the conflict—won.
"Where is my uncle?" he says, looking round.
"He was here a minute ago, but Mrs. Pim fetched him to go to Sally Lane, who says she is dying."
"I wonder how long she will be about it?"
"She has been dying for twenty years," I say, laughing, "and she will probably be dying for twenty more! Dying with her means port."
"Does my uncle give her a bottle to soothe her last moments?"
"Always! About once a month, you know; and she is far too careful a body to go off until she has drunk the last drop; then the thought of the next bottle supports her."
Mr. Vasher laughs. "Do you know," he says, "that I have missed you, child, during these past weeks? Over and over again I have wished I had your saucy chatter to listen to. What have you been doing with yourself—anything particular?"
"Something very particular," I say, solemnly, "or at least—almost. It is a miracle you do not find Miss Fleming's pieces and mine laid out in baskets."
"What do you mean?" he asks, sharply. "You have been in danger—and Silvia?"
"It was a thunderbolt," I exclaim; "she and I were only a few yards apart, and it fell between us."
"And you were out in the storm that day, you two?" "I went to look for Silvia, she was out in it." "Did she come in after I left?"
"No!"
"Good heavens," he cries, striking his head with his clenched fist. "What a brute I was! Where is she now?"
"At Homburg."
"I wonder what she is doing!" he says, half to himself.
"Flirting!" I answer, almost before I know what I am saying. I have an unhappy knack of blurting out the thought that is uppermost in my mind.
"What makes you think that, child?" he asks, turning quickly to me.
"I did not mean to say it, Mr. Vasher. I was only thinking."
"And your opinion of her?" he says, looking at me. "I always like to have a very young person's opinion about another—it is always true; what is it?"
"She is young," I say thoughtfully, "and well-born and rich and beautiful, and—I am sorry for her."
"Sorry!" he says, looking at me keenly, "and why are you sorry? What more does she want?"
"She is not happy," I say, turning my head away that he may not see how red my face is. If he only knew that I know the whole story, that I have been an eaves-dropper!
"You have not told me what you think of her," he says; "I want an answer."
"I am not fond of her," I say, slowly. "I would not trust her; she is rather cruel, but she could love well———"
"And never be faithful," says Paul. "Well, you will be a woman some day, little one; shall I give you some advice? But no, you would not take it; you will fall in love like the rest, some day!"
"And why should I not?" I ask; "everybody does"
"Love," he says, "is made up of vanity and vexation, folly and bitterness; it turns to dust between the teeth."
"Your creed is a hard one," I say. "Now, I have seen some lovers (I think of Alice and Charles), who never have any of that; they are fair in each other's eyes, and though they squabble sometimes, they never think of using any of those long words you do; they positively would not understand them."
"Perhaps they are worthy of each other," he says. "When two people trust one another, then their love is a pleasant thing, a jewel. But if a man loves a woman, and she proves unworthy, and he loves her still, cannot you guess something of the battle that is fought in that man's soul—the higher nature crying, Desist! the lower, Yield! The indomitable will and self-respect of the man fighting against the quenchless passionate longing after the beauty of the woman he renounces . . . the integrity of the mind warring against the heart that rises in fierce revolt against such sacrifice . . . the lily of renunciation against the crimson blossom of love . . . and the crowning sin and shame of it all must be that, while he knows her worthlessness, he cannot forget her—her sweet words and ways . . . her veil of rippling hair, her clinging lips . . . in these memories must lie that man's chief tortures . . ."
He passes his hand impatiently over his forehead and starts up. "Forgive me, child," he says; "I have been thinking aloud. Does my psychological study interest you! Poor devil, I hope he may reach the shore, don't you? A past error thoroughly repented of is the best basis for future good conduct! Can I take any message to Silverbridge for you to-morrow, little one?"
"You are going there?" I say, clasping my hands. "Oh! can you not put me in your pocket? Shall you stay long?"
"Only a couple of days. I am going abroad afterwards; and when I come back you will be a grown-up young lady?"
"Worse luck!" I say, dolefully. "I should like to put off 'tails' for another ten years!"
"Tell me," he says, leaning forward and taking my face in his hands, "how old are you?"
"Fourteen!"
"So much? you look about twelve; you have a dear little face, and a sweet——— But I won't say I hope you will be pretty when I come back! If ever you pray heartily for anything, child, pray that you may never grow up beautiful."
"There is not much fear!" I say, ruefully. "I don't think any amount of praying would mend matters!"
"If you are good," he says, "that is all you want, and I think you will be."
"People like one so much better when one is pretty than when one is plain," I say, meditatively. "Plain people get all the leavings. Might not one be good and pretty too?"
"They might, but they very seldom are! No; when I come back, child, I hope I shall find you just as you are now."
"May I not grow, sir?"
"Grow as much as you please, child; but don't grow out of honesty!"