CHAPTER XVII.

LA TERRASSE.

These struggles with the natural character, the strong native bent¹ of the heart, may seem futile² and fruitless, but in the end they do good. They tend, however slightly, to give the actions, the conduct, that turn which Reason approves, and which Feeling, perhaps, too often opposes: they certainly make a difference in the general tenour of a life, and enable it to be better regulated, more equable, quieter on the surface; and it is on the surface only the common gaze will fall. As to what lies below, leave that with God. Man, your equal, weak as you, and not fit to be your judge, may be shut out thence: take it to your Maker—show Him the secrets of the spirit He gave—ask Him how you are to bear the pains He has appointed—kneel in His presence, and pray with faith for light in darkness, for strength in piteous weakness, for patience in extreme need. Certainly, at some hour, though perhaps not your hour, the waiting waters will stir; in some shape, though perhaps not the shape you dreamed, which your heart loved, and for which it bled, the healing herald⁴ will descend⁵, the cripple and the blind, and the dumb, and the possessed⁶ will be led to bathe. Herald, come quickly! Thousands lie round the pool, weeping and despairing, to see it, through slow years, stagnant⁷. Long are the “times” of Heaven: the orbits of angel messengers seem wide to mortal vision; they may enring ages: the cycle of one departure and return may clasp unnumbered generations; and dust, kindling⁹ to brief suffering life, and through pain, passing back to dust, may meanwhile perish out of memory again, and yet again. To how many maimed and mourning millions is the first and sole angel visitant, him easterns call Azrael!

I tried to get up next morning, but while I was dressing¹⁰, and at intervals¹¹ drinking cold water from the carafe¹² on my washstand, with design to brace¹³ up that trembling weakness which made dressing so difficult, in came Mrs. Bretton.

“Here is an absurdity¹⁴!” was her morning accost¹⁵. “Not so,” she added, and dealing¹⁶ with me at once in her own brusque, energetic fashion—that fashion which I used formerly¹⁷ to enjoy seeing applied¹⁸ to her son, and by him vigorously resisted—in two minutes she consigned¹⁹ me captive to the French bed.

“There you lie till afternoon,” said she. “My boy left orders before he went out that such should be the case, and I can assure you my son is master and must be obeyed. Presently you shall have breakfast.”

Presently she brought that meal—brought it with her own active hands—not leaving me to servants. She seated herself on the bed while I ate. Now it is not everybody, even amongst our respected friends and esteemed²⁰ acquaintance, whom we like to have near us, whom we like to watch us, to wait on us, to approach us with the proximity²¹ of a nurse to a patient. It is not every friend whose eye is a light in a sick room, whose presence is there a solace²²: but all this was Mrs. Bretton to me; all this she had ever been. Food or drink never pleased me so well as when it came through her hands. I do not remember the occasion when her entrance into a room had not made that room cheerier. Our natures own predilections²³ and antipathies²⁴ alike strange. There are people from whom we secretly shrink, whom we would personally avoid, though reason confesses that they are good people: there are others with faults of temper, &c., evident enough, beside whom we live content, as if the air about them did us good. My godmother’s lively black eye and clear brunette cheek, her warm, prompt hand, her self-reliant mood, her decided²⁵ bearing, were all beneficial to me as the atmosphere of some salubrious climate. Her son used to call her “the old lady;” it filled me with pleasant wonder to note how the alacrity²⁶ and power of five-and-twenty still breathed from her and around her.

“I would bring my work here,” she said, as she took from me the emptied teacup, “and sit with you the whole day, if that overbearing John Graham had not put his veto upon such a proceeding²⁷. ‘Now, mamma,’ he said, when he went out, ‘take notice, you are not to knock up your god-daughter with gossip,’ and he particularly desired me to keep close to my own quarters, and spare you my fine company. He says, Lucy, he thinks you have had a nervous fever, judging from your look,—is that so?”

I replied that I did not quite know what my ailment²⁸ had been, but that I had certainly suffered a good deal especially in mind. Further, on this subject, I did not consider it advisable to dwell, for the details of what I had undergone belonged to a portion of my existence in which I never expected my godmother to take a share. Into what a new region would such a confidence have led that hale, serene²⁹ nature! The difference between her and me might be figured by that between the stately ship cruising safe on smooth seas, with its full complement³⁰ of crew, a captain gay and brave, and venturous and provident³¹; and the life-boat, which most days of the year lies dry and solitary³² in an old, dark boat-house, only putting to sea when the billows run high in rough weather, when cloud encounters water, when danger and death divide between them the rule of the great deep. No, the “Louisa Bretton” never was out of harbour on such a night, and in such a scene: her crew could not conceive it; so the half-drowned life-boat man keeps his own counsel, and spins no yarns³³.

She left me, and I lay in bed content: it was good of Graham to remember me before he went out.

My day was lonely, but the prospect³⁴ of coming evening abridged³⁵ and cheered it. Then, too, I felt weak, and rest seemed welcome; and after the morning hours were gone by,—those hours which always bring, even to the necessarily unoccupied, a sense of business to be done, of tasks waiting fulfilment, a vague impression of obligation to be employed—when this stirring time was past, and the silent descent of afternoon hushed housemaid steps on the stairs and in the chambers³⁶, I then passed into a dreamy mood, not unpleasant.

My calm little room seemed somehow like a cave in the sea. There was no colour about it, except that white and pale green, suggestive of foam³⁸ and deep water; the blanched³⁹ cornice was adorned⁴⁰ with shell-shaped ornaments⁴¹, and there were white mouldings like dolphins in the ceiling-angles. Even that one touch of colour visible in the red satin pincushion bore affinity⁴² to coral; even that dark, shining glass might have mirrored a mermaid⁴³. When I closed my eyes, I heard a gale⁴⁴, subsiding⁴⁵ at last, bearing upon the house-front like a settling swell⁴⁶ upon a rock-base. I heard it drawn⁴⁷ and withdrawn⁴⁸ far, far off, like a tide retiring from a shore of the upper world—a world so high above that the rush of its largest waves, the dash of its fiercest breakers, could sound down in this submarine home, only like murmurs⁴⁹ and a lullaby.

Amidst these dreams came evening, and then Martha brought a light; with her aid I was quickly dressed, and stronger now than in the morning, I made my way down to the blue saloon unassisted.

Dr. John, it appears, had concluded his round of professional calls earlier than usual; his form was the first object that met my eyes as I entered the parlour; he stood in that window-recess opposite the door, reading the close type of a newspaper by such dull light as closing day yet gave. The fire shone clear, but the lamp stood on the table unlit, and tea was not yet brought up.

As to Mrs. Bretton, my active godmother—who, I afterwards found, had been out in the open air all day—lay half-reclined in her deep-cushioned chair, actually lost in a nap. Her son seeing me, came forward. I noticed that he trod carefully, not to wake the sleeper⁵⁰; he also spoke⁵¹ low: his mellow⁵² voice never had any sharpness in it; modulated⁵³ as at present, it was calculated rather to soothe⁵⁴ than startle slumber⁵⁵.

“This is a quiet little château⁵⁶,” he observed, after inviting⁵⁷ me to sit near the casement⁵⁸. “I don’t know whether you may have noticed it in your walks: though, indeed, from the chaussée it is not visible; just a mile beyond the Porte de Crécy, you turn down a lane which soon becomes an avenue, and that leads you on, through meadow and shade, to the very door of this house. It is not a modern place, but built somewhat in the old style of the Basse-Ville. It is rather a manoir than a château; they call it ‘La Terrasse,’ because its front rises from a broad turfed walk, whence steps lead down a grassy⁵⁹ slope to the avenue. See yonder! The moon rises: she looks well through the tree-boles.”

Where, indeed, does the moon not look well? What is the scene, confined or expansive, which her orb⁸ does not hallow? Rosy⁶⁰ or fiery⁶¹, she mounted now above a not distant bank; even while we watched her flushed ascent⁶², she cleared to gold, and in very brief space, floated up stainless⁶³ into a now calm sky. Did moonlight soften⁶⁴ or sadden Dr. Bretton? Did it touch him with romance? I think it did. Albeit⁶⁵ of no sighing mood, he sighed in watching it: sighed to himself quietly. No need to ponder the cause or the course of that sigh; I knew it was wakened by beauty; I knew it pursued Ginevra. Knowing this, the idea pressed upon me that it was in some sort my duty to speak the name he meditated⁶⁶. Of course he was ready for the subject: I saw in his countenance⁶⁷ a teeming⁶⁸ plenitude of comment, question and interest; a pressure of language and sentiment, only checked, I thought, by sense of embarrassment⁶⁹ how to begin. To spare him this embarrassment was my best, indeed my sole use. I had but to utter the idol⁷⁰’s name, and love’s tender litany would flow out. I had just found a fitting phrase, “You know that Miss Fanshawe is gone on a tour with the Cholmondeleys,” and was opening my lips to speak to it, when he scattered⁷¹ my plans by introducing another theme.

“The first thing this morning,” said he, putting his sentiment in his pocket, turning from the moon, and sitting down, “I went to the Rue⁷² Fossette, and told the cuisinière that you were safe and in good hands. Do you know that I actually found that she had not yet discovered your absence from the house: she thought you safe in the great dormitory. With what care you must have been waited on!”

“Oh! all that is very conceivable,” said I. “Goton could do nothing for me but bring me a little tisane and a crust of bread, and I had rejected both so often during the past week, that the good woman got tired of useless journeys from the dwelling-house kitchen to the school-dormitory, and only came once a day at noon to make my bed. I believe, however, that she is a good-natured creature, and would have been delighted to cook me côtelettes de mouton, if I could have eaten them.”

“What did Madame Beck mean by leaving you alone?”

“Madame Beck could not foresee that I should fall ill.”

“Your nervous system bore a good share of the suffering?”

“I am not quite sure what my nervous system is, but I was dreadfully low-spirited.”

“Which disables me from helping⁷⁴ you by pill or potion. Medicine can give nobody good spirits. My art halts at the threshold of Hypochondria: she just looks in and sees a chamber³⁷ of torture, but can neither say nor do much. Cheerful society would be of use; you should be as little alone as possible; you should take plenty of exercise.”

Acquiescence⁷⁵ and a pause followed these remarks. They sounded all right, I thought, and bore the safe sanction of custom, and the well-worn stamp of use.

“Miss Snowe,” recommenced Dr. John—my health, nervous system included, being now, somewhat to my relief, discussed and done with—“is it permitted me to ask what your religion is? Are you a Catholic?”

I looked up in some surprise—“A Catholic? No! Why suggest such an idea?”

“The manner in which you were consigned to me last night made me doubt.”

“I consigned to you? But, indeed, I forget. It yet remains⁷⁶ for me to learn how I fell into your hands.”

“Why, under circumstances that puzzled me. I had been in attendance all day yesterday on a case of singularly interesting and critical character; the disease being rare, and its treatment doubtful: I saw a similar and still finer case in a hospital in Paris; but that will not interest you. At last a mitigation of the patient’s most urgent symptoms (acute pain is one of its accompaniments) liberated⁷⁷ me, and I set out homeward. My shortest way lay through the Basse-Ville, and as the night was excessively dark, wild, and wet, I took it. In riding past an old church belonging to a community of Béguines, I saw by a lamp burning over the porch or deep arch of the entrance, a priest lifting some object in his arms. The lamp was bright enough to reveal the priest’s features clearly, and I recognised him; he was a man I have often met by the sick beds of both rich and poor: and chiefly the latter. He is, I think, a good old man, far better than most of his class in this country; superior, indeed, in every way, better informed, as well as more devoted⁷⁸ to duty. Our eyes met; he called on me to stop: what he supported was a woman, fainting or dying. I alighted.

“‘This person is one of your countrywomen,’ he said: ‘save her, if she is not dead.’

“My countrywoman, on examination, turned out to be the English teacher at Madame Beck’s pensionnat. She was perfectly⁷⁹ unconscious, perfectly bloodless, and nearly cold.

“‘What does it all mean?’ was my inquiry⁸⁰.

“He communicated a curious account; that you had been to him that evening at confessional; that your exhausted⁸² and suffering appearance, coupled with some things you had said—”

“Things I had said? I wonder what things!”

“Awful crimes, no doubt; but he did not tell me what: there, you know, the seal of the confessional checked his garrulity⁸³, and my curiosity. Your confidences, however, had not made an enemy of the good father; it seems he was so struck, and felt so sorry that you should be out on such a night alone, that he had esteemed it a Christian⁸⁴ duty to watch you when you quitted the church, and so to manage as not to lose sight of you, till you should have reached home. Perhaps the worthy⁸⁵ man might, half unconsciously, have blent in this proceeding some little of the subtlety⁸⁶ of his class: it might have been his resolve to learn the locality of your home—did you impart that in your confession⁸¹?”

“I did not: on the contrary, I carefully avoided the shadow of any indication: and as to my confession, Dr. John, I suppose you will think me mad for taking such a step, but I could not help it: I suppose it was all the fault of what you call my ‘nervous system.’ I cannot put the case into words, but my days and nights were grown intolerable: a cruel sense of desolation pained my mind: a feeling that would make its way, rush out, or kill me—like (and this you will understand, Dr. John) the current which passes through the heart, and which, if aneurism or any other morbid⁸⁷ cause obstructs⁸⁸ its natural channels, seeks abnormal outlet⁸⁹. I wanted companionship, I wanted friendship, I wanted counsel. I could find none of these in closet or chamber, so I went and sought them in church and confessional. As to what I said, it was no confidence, no narrative⁹⁰. I have done nothing wrong: my life has not been active enough for any dark deed, either of romance or reality: all I poured out was a dreary⁹¹, desperate complaint.”

“Lucy, you ought to travel for about six months: why, your calm nature is growing quite excitable! Confound Madame Beck! Has the little buxom⁹² widow no bowels⁹³, to condemn⁹⁴ her best teacher to solitary confinement⁹⁵?”

“It was not Madame Beck’s fault,” said I; “it is no living being’s fault, and I won’t hear any one blamed.”

“Who is in the wrong, then, Lucy?”

“Me—Dr. John—me; and a great abstraction on whose wide shoulders I like to lay the mountains of blame they were sculptured to bear: me and Fate.”

“‘Me’ must take better care in future,” said Dr. John—smiling, I suppose, at my bad grammar.

“Change of air—change of scene; those are my prescriptions,” pursued the practical young doctor. “But to return to our muttons, Lucy. As yet, Père Silas, with all his tact⁹⁶ (they say he is a Jesuit), is no wiser than you choose him to be; for, instead of returning to the Rue Fossette, your fevered wanderings—there must have been high fever—”

“No, Dr. John: the fever took its turn that night—now, don’t make out that I was delirious⁹⁷, for I know differently.”

“Good! you were as collected as myself at this moment, no doubt. Your wanderings had taken an opposite direction to the pensionnat. Near the Béguinage, amidst the stress of flood and gust⁹⁸, and in the perplexity of darkness, you had swooned and fallen. The priest came to your succour, and the physician, as we have seen, supervened. Between us we procured⁹⁹ a fiacre and brought you here. Père Silas, old as he is, would carry you up-stairs, and lay you on that couch himself. He would certainly have remained with you till suspended animation¹⁰⁰ had been restored: and so should I, but, at that juncture¹⁰¹, a hurried messenger arrived from the dying patient I had scarcely left—the last duties were called for—the physician’s last visit and the priest’s last rite⁷³; extreme unction could not be deferred¹⁰². Père Silas and myself departed together, my mother was spending the evening abroad; we gave you in charge to Martha, leaving directions, which it seems she followed successfully. Now, are you a Catholic?”

“Not yet,” said I, with a smile. “And never let Père Silas know where I live, or he will try to convert me; but give him my best and truest thanks when you see him, and if ever I get rich I will send him money for his charities. See, Dr. John, your mother wakes; you ought to ring for tea.”

Which he did; and, as Mrs. Bretton sat up—astonished and indignant at herself for the indulgence to which she had succumbed¹⁰³, and fully prepared to deny that she had slept at all—her son came gaily¹⁰⁴ to the attack.

“Hushaby, mamma! Sleep again. You look the picture of innocence¹⁰⁵ in your slumbers¹⁰⁶.”

“My slumbers, John Graham! What are you talking about? You know I never do sleep by day: it was the slightest doze¹⁰⁷ possible.”

“Exactly! a seraph’s gentle lapse—a fairy’s dream. Mamma, under such circumstances, you always remind me of Titania.”

“That is because you, yourself, are so like Bottom.”

“Miss Snowe—did you ever hear anything like mamma’s wit? She is a most sprightly¹⁰⁸ woman of her size and age.”

“Keep your compliments to yourself, sir, and do not neglect your own size: which seems to me a good deal on the increase. Lucy, has he not rather the air of an incipient¹⁰⁹ John Bull? He used to be slender as an eel³, and now I fancy in him a sort of heavy dragoon bent—a beef-eater tendency. Graham, take notice! If you grow fat I disown you.”

“As if you could not sooner disown your own personality! I am indispensable to the old lady’s happiness, Lucy. She would pine away in green and yellow melancholy¹¹⁰ if she had not my six feet of iniquity¹¹¹ to scold. It keeps her lively—it maintains the wholesome¹¹² ferment¹¹³ of her spirits.”

The two were now standing¹¹⁴ opposite to each other, one on each side the fire-place; their words were not very fond, but their mutual¹¹⁵ looks atoned¹¹⁶ for verbal deficiencies. At least, the best treasure of Mrs. Bretton’s life was certainly casketed in her son’s bosom¹¹⁷; her dearest pulse throbbed¹¹⁸ in his heart. As to him, of course another love shared his feelings with filial love, and, no doubt, as the new passion was the latest born, so he assigned it in his emotions Benjamin’s portion. Ginevra! Ginevra! Did Mrs. Bretton yet know at whose feet her own young idol had laid his homage¹¹⁹? Would she approve that choice? I could not tell; but I could well guess that if she knew Miss Fanshawe’s conduct towards Graham: her alternations between coldness and coaxing¹²⁰, and repulse¹²¹ and allurement¹²²; if she could at all suspect the pain with which she had tried him; if she could have seen, as I had seen, his fine spirits subdued¹²³ and harassed¹²⁴, his inferior preferred before him, his subordinate made the instrument of his humiliation—then Mrs. Bretton would have pronounced Ginevra imbecile, or perverted¹²⁵, or both. Well—I thought so too.

That second evening passed as sweetly as the first—more sweetly indeed: we enjoyed a smoother interchange of thought; old troubles were not reverted¹²⁶ to, acquaintance was better cemented; I felt happier, easier, more at home. That night—instead of crying myself asleep—I went down to dreamland by a pathway bordered with pleasant thoughts.