CHAPTER XVIII.

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 permanently¹ under arms, and my sympathy desired to keep its cornucopia² replenished³ 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; anonymously⁴ 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 impeachment⁵: 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 deficient⁶ 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 kinsman⁷ 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 intimacy⁸ 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 augmented⁹ attachment¹⁰ 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 briefly¹¹.

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 humiliated¹², cast-off, and now pining confidante of the distinguished¹³ Miss Fanshawe: but, reader, it was a hard submission¹⁴.

“Yet, you see,” continued Graham, “while I comfort you, I cannot take the same consolation¹⁵ to myself; I cannot hope she will do me justice. De Hamal is most worthless, yet I fear he pleases her: wretched delusion¹⁶!”

My patience really gave way, and without notice: all at once. I suppose illness and weakness had worn it and made it brittle¹⁷.

“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 mischief¹⁸. 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 vigour¹⁹, the details embraced workmanship of almost feminine delicacy²⁰: 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 faculty²¹ 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 exquisite²² 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 refinements²³ 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 mechanism²⁴.

To one who had named him “slave,” and, on any point, banned him from respect, he must now have peculiar²⁵ feelings. That the epithet²⁶ was well applied²⁷, and the ban just, might be; he put forth²⁸ no denial that it was so: his mind even candidly²⁹ revolved³⁰ that unmanning possibility. He sought in this accusation³¹ the cause of that ill-success which had got so galling³² 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 malice³³, no rancour, no littleness in his countenance³⁴, 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 kindly³⁵ 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 expiate³⁶ my culpable³⁷ vehemence³⁸, or I must not sleep that night. This would not do at all; I could not stand it: I made no pretence³⁹ of capacity to wage war on this footing. School solitude⁴⁰, conventual silence and stagnation⁴¹, anything seemed preferable to living embroiled⁴² with Dr. John. As to Ginevra, she might take the silver wings of a dove, or any other fowl⁴³ 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 constellation⁴⁴ 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 hostility⁴⁵ 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 malevolent⁴⁶, his mouth was not cynical⁴⁷; he was ready and willing to hear what I might have to say: his spirit was of vintage too mellow⁴⁸ and generous to sour in one thunder-clap.

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

He smiled that moment I spoke⁴⁹. “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 excellence⁵⁰?”

“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 modification⁵¹, 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. Nay⁵², the very incident which, by my theory, must in some degree estrange⁵³ 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 transparent⁵⁴, but very chill: a sort of screen of ice had hitherto, all through our two lives, glazed⁵⁵ the medium through which we exchanged intercourse⁵⁶. Those few warm words, though only warm with anger, breathed on that frail⁵⁷ 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 discourse⁵⁸ 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 innocence⁵⁹, 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 pliant⁶⁰ to his will. He still seemed to me most absurd when he obstinately⁶¹ 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 goad⁶² him, and that, at heart, she coveted⁶³ every one of his words and looks. Sometimes he harassed⁶⁴ 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 impatience⁶⁵, 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 repose⁶⁶ the frankest confidence in her fidelity⁶⁷. 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 lavish⁶⁸, 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 tapers⁶⁹, and the shrine⁷⁰ of your favourite saint you will do your best to enrich: Ginevra, Dr. John—”

“Hush⁷¹!” 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 costliest⁷² 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 ornaments⁷³, to purchase which your generosity⁷⁴ must have verged⁷⁵ on extravagance.”

The modesty⁷⁶ Ginevra herself had never evinced in this matter, now flushed all over the face of her admirer.

“Nonsense!” he said, destructively snipping⁷⁷ 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 disinterested⁷⁸ 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 stimulus⁷⁹ 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 contemplating⁸⁰. Just from amiable⁸¹ reluctance⁸² to grieve me, she would permit the bouquet⁸³ to lie beside her, and perhaps consent to bear it away. Or, if I achieved the fastening of a bracelet⁸⁴ 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 repulse⁸⁵ 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 favourable⁸⁶ 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 sordid⁸⁷ 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 professed⁸⁸ persuasion⁸⁹ of Miss Fanshawe’s naïveté was assumed; it led me dubiously⁹⁰ to conjecture⁹¹ that perhaps, in spite of his passion for her beauty, his appreciation⁹² 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 momentary⁹³ impression. Chance or intentional⁹⁴ real or imaginary, it closed the conversation.