 | CHAPTER XXI. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
I now set about carrying my plan of life into effect.
I began with ardent zeal and un wearied diligence the
career of medical study. I bespoke the counsels and
instructions of my friend; attended him on his professional
visits, and acted, in all practicable cases, as his
substitute. I found this application of time more
pleasurable than I had imagined. My mind gladly expanded
itself, as it were, for the reception of new ideas.
My curiosity grew more eager, in proportion as it was
supplied with food, and every day added strength to the
assurance that I was no insignificant and worthless being;
that I was destined to be something in this scene
of existence, and might sometime lay claim to the gratitude
and homage of my fellow-men.
I was far from being, however, monopolized by
these pursuits. I was formed on purpose for the gratification
of social intercourse. To love and to be
loved; to exchange hearts, and mingle sentiments
with all the virtuous and amiable, whom my good fortune
had placed within the circuit of my knowledge,
I always esteemed my highest enjoyment and my chief
duty.
Carlton and his sister, Mrs. Wentworth and Achsa
Fielding, were my most valuable associates beyond
was frequent and unreserved, but chiefly with the lattar.
This lady had dignity and independence, a generous
and enlightened spirit beyond what her education
had taught me to expect. She was circumspect and cautious
in her deportment, and was not prompt to make advances
or accept them. She withheld her esteem and
confidence until she had full proof of their being deserved.
I am not sure that her treatment of me was fully conformable
to her rules. My manners, indeed, as she once
told me, she had never met with in another. Ordinary
rules were so totally overlooked in my behaviour, that
it seemed impossible for any one who knew me to adhere
to them. No option was left but to admit my
claims to friendship and confidence, instantly, or to reject
them altogether.
I was not conscious of this singularity. The internal
and undiscovered character of another, weighed nothing
with me in the question, whether they should be
treated with frankness or reserve. I felt no scruple on
any occasion, to disclose every feeling and every event.
Any one who could listen, found me willing to talk.
Every talker found me willing to listen. Every one had
my sympathy and kindness, without claiming it, but I
claimed the kindness and sympathy of every one.
Achsa Fielding's countenance bespoke, I thought, a
mind worthy to be known and to be loved. The first
moment I engaged her attention, I told her so. I related
the little story of my family, spread out before her
all my reasonings and determinations, my notions of
right and wrong, my fears and wishes. All this was
done with sincerity and fervor, with gestures, actions
and looks, in which I felt as if my whole soul was visible.
Her superior age, sedateness and prudence, gave my deportment
a filial freedom and affection, and I was fond
of calling her “mamma.”
I particularly dwelt upon the history of my dear
country girl; painted her form and countenance; recounted
our dialogues, and related all my schemes for
my friend would listen to me with the mutest attention.
I shewed her the letters I received, and offered
her for her perusal, those which I wrote in answer, before
they were sealed and sent.
On these occasions she would look by turns on my
face and away from me. A varying hue would play
upon her cheek, and her eyes were fuller than was common
of meaning.
Such and such, I once said, are my notions; now
what do you think?
Think! emphatically, and turning somewhat aside,
she answered, that you are the most—strange of human
creatures.
But tell me, I resumed, following and searching her
averted eyes, am I right; would you do thus? Can you
help me to improve my girl? I wish you knew the bewitching
little creature. How would that heart overflow
with affection and with gratitude towards you.
She should be your daughter. No—you are too nearly
of an age for that. A sister: her elder sister you
should be. That, when there is no other relation,
includes them all. Fond sisters you would be, and I the
fond brother of you both.
My eyes glistened as I spoke. In truth, I am in that
respect, a mere woman. My friend was more powerfully
moved. After a momentary struggle, she burst
into tears.
Good Heaven! said I, what ails you? Are you not
well?
Her looks betrayed an unaccountable confusion, from
which she quickly recovered—it was folly to be thus
affected. Something ailed me I believe, but it is past—
But come; you want some lines of finishing the description
of the Boa in La Cepide.
True. And I have twenty minutes to spare. Poor
Franks is very ill indeed, but he cannot be seen till
nine. We'll read till then.
Thus on the wings of pleasure and improvement past
my time; not without some hues, occasionally of a
sighing. This occurred when my thoughts glanced at
the poor Eliza, and measured, as it were, the interval
between us. We are too—too far apart, thought I.
The best solace on these occasions was the company
of Mrs. Fielding; her music, her discourse, or some
book which she set me to rehearsing to her. One evening,
when preparing to pay her a visit, I received the
following letter from my Bess.
Curling's, May 6, 1794.
Where does this letter you promised me, stay all
this while? Indeed, Arthur, you torment me more
than I deserve, and more than I could ever find it in
my heart to do you. You treat me cruelly. I must
say so, though I offend you. I must write, though
you do not deserve that I should, and though I fear
I am in a humor not very fit for writing. I had better
go to my chamber and weep: weep at your—unkindness,
I was going to say; but, perhaps, it is only
forgetfulness: and yet what can be more unkind than
forgetfulness? I am sure I have never forgotten you.
Sleep itself, which wraps all other images in forgetfulness,
only brings you nearer, and makes me see you
more distinctly.
But where can this letter stay?—O! that—hush!
foolish girl! If a word of that kind escape thy lips,
Arthur will be angry with thee; and then, indeed,
thou mightst weep in earnest. Then thou wouldst
have some cause for thy tears. More than once already
has he almost broken thy heart with his reproaches.
Sore and weak as it now is, any new reproaches would
assuredly break it quite.
I will be content. I will be as good an housewife
and dairy-woman, stir about as briskly, and sing as
merrily as Peggy Curling. Why not? I am as
young, as innocent, and enjoy as good health.—
Alas! she has reason to be merry. She has father,
mother, brothers; but I have none.—And he that was
all these, and more than all these, to me, has—forgotten
me.
But, perhaps, it is some accident that hinders. Perhaps
Oliver left the market earlier than he used to do;
or you mistook the house; or, perhaps, some poor
creature was sick, was taken suddenly ill, and you were
busy in chafing his clay-cold limbs; it fell to you to
wipe the clammy drops from his brow. Such things often
happen; don't they, Arthur, to people of your
trade, and some such thing has happened now; and
that was the reason you did not write.
And if so, shall I repine at your silence? O no! At
such a time the poor Bess might easily be, and ought to
be forgotten. She would not deserve your love, if she
could repine at a silence brought about this way.
And O! May it be so! May there be nothing worse
than this. If the sick man—see, Arthur, how my
hand trembles. Can you read this scrawl? What is
always bad, my fears make worse than ever.
I must not think that. And yet, if it be so, if my
friend himself be sick, what will become of me? Of me,
that ought to cherish you and comfort you; that ought
to be your nurse. Endure for you your sickness, when
she cannot remove it.
O! that—I will speak out—O! that this strange
scruple had never possessed you. Why should I not be
with you? Who can love you and serve you as well as
I? In sickness and health, I will console and assist you.
Why will you deprive yourself of such a comforter,
and such an aid as I would be to you?
Dear Arthur, think better of it. Let me leave this
dreary spot, where, indeed, as long as I am thus alone,
I can enjoy no comfort. Let me come to you. I will
put up with any thing for the sake of seeing you, tho
lane or darkest alley, will be good enough for me.
I will think it a palace, so that I can but see you now
and then.
Do not refuse—do not argue with me, so fond you
always are of arguing! My heart is set upon your compliance.
And yet, dearly as I prize your company, I
would not ask it, if I thought there was any thing improper.
You say there is, and you talk about it in a
way that I do not understand. For my sake, you tell me,
you refuse, but let me entreat you to comply for my sake.
Your pen cannot teach me like your tongue. You
write me long letters, and tell me a great deal in them,
but my soul droops when I call to mind your voice and
your looks, and think how long a time must pass before
I see you and hear you again. I have no spirit to think
upon the words and paper before me. My eye and
my thought wander far away.
I bethink me how many questions I might ask you;
how many doubts you might clear up if you were but
within hearing. If you were but close to me; but I
cannot ask them here. I am too poor a creature at
the pen, and, some how or another, it always happens,
I can only write about myself or about you. By the
time I have said all this, I have tired my fingers, and
when I set about telling you how this poem and that
story have affected me, I am at a loss for words; I am
bewildered and bemazed as it were.
It is not so when we talk to one another. With your
arm about me, and your sweet face close to mine, I can
prattle forever. Then my heart overflows at my lips.
After hours thus spent, it seems as if there were a
thousand things still to be said. Then I can tell you
what the book has told me. I can repeat scores of verses
by heart, though I heard them only once read, but
it is because you have read them to me.
Then there is nobody here to answer my questions.
They never look into books. They hate books. They
think it waste of time to read. Even Peggy, who you
say has naturally a strong mind, wonders what I can
she is always teazing me to lay it aside.
I do not mind her, for I like to read; but if I did not
like it before, I could not help doing so ever since you
told me that nobody could gain your love who was not
fond of books. And yet, though I like it on that account,
more than I did, I don't read somehow so earnestly,
and understand so well as I use to do, when my
mind was all at ease; always frolicksome, and ever
upon tiptoe, as I may say.
How strangely, (have you not observed it?) I am altered
of late; I that was ever light of heart, the very
soul of gaiety, brim full of glee—am now, demure as
our old tabby—and not half as wise. Tabby had wit
enough to keep her paws out of the coals, whereas poor
I have—but no matter what. It will never come to
pass, I see that. So many reasons for every thing!
Such looking forward! Arthur, are not men sometimes
too wise to be happy?
I am now so grave. Not one smile can Peggy sometimes
get from me, though she tries for it the whole day.
But I know how it comes. Strange, indeed, if losing
father and sister, and thrown upon the wide world, pennyless
and friendless too, now that you forget me; I
should continue to smile. No. I never shall smile again.
At least while I stay here, I never shall, I believe.
If a certain somebody suffer me to live with him—
near him, I mean: perhaps the sight of him as he enters
the door, perhaps the sound of his voice, asking—
“where is my Bess?”—might produce a smile. Such
a one as the very thought produces now—yet not, I
hope, so transient, and so quickly followed by a tear.
Women are born, they say, to trouble, and tears are
given them for their relief. 'Tis all very true.
Let it be as I wish, will you? If Oliver bring not
back good tidings, if he bring not a letter from thee,
or thy letter still refuses my request—I don't know
what may happen. Consent, if you love your poor
girl.
| CHAPTER XXI. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 | |