University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

“My father's account of the matter, then, was
right throughout. But what was I to do? I had
never thought of marrying Miss Howard; but
could I not bring myself to reciprocate her preference?
The state of my father's affairs and of his
health, certainly made the match eminently advantageous
in a pecuniary light. But I had heard my
father account for his supineness in regard to my
grandfather's will, by protesting indignantly that
he had not married for money. Did he then
expect me to do so? Certainly not; but why
might I not love Miss Howard? This brought
the thought of Ann. But Ann was to marry
Howard. What then was she to me? She was
my cousin; the companion of my childhood; the
friend of my youth; and should I not rejoice at

the prospect of her escape from dependance and
poverty, to affluence and splendour? Reason said
yes; but there was something in my heart that
said no; and that something I rebuked as selfish,
envious, and base. But it would not stand rebuked.
What, then, should I do? Address Miss
Howard? My father's plan admitted of delay.
Should I increase my attentions to her? I certainly
felt no inclination to do so; but my father's
wishes were entitled to respect, and some little
feeling of pique came in aid of a sense of duty.
The upshot was, that I threw myself down the
stream of events, and, without precisely intending
to do so, left the result to the chapter of accidents.

“In the evening we walked out; my arm by
some chance fell to Miss Howard, and her brother's
to Ann. How did this happen? I could
not tell. I had then no suspicion that everybody
about us was in a league. If, as there is too much
reason to believe, one half of the misery and crime
in the world springs from unsorted marriages,
what have matchmakers to answer for?”

“All women,” said Balcombe, “are matchmakers.
Marriage is their vocation. Woman is
a marrying animal. Some men live by the law;
some by physic; some by divinity; some by the
labour of their hands. All women live by marriage.
It is their only calling, and they are always
ready to further it. The article might perish on
hand, if the market was not sometimes forced.

Anything is better than stagnation in trade. A
bad bargain is better than none. A dead stock
must be got rid of on any terms, that the channels
of commerce may run free.”

“You are satirical,” said I. “You forget that
for every marriage there is a lover less in market.”

“Yes; but there is a rival out of the way, and
the fashion of marriage is kept up. Suppose the
next generation of men did not marry until thirty.
Who would marry the women who were growing
old at the same time? They would come under
the denomination of old shopkeepers; and the
fear of this makes them anxious to keep up a brisk
business. The sexes don't deal on equal terms.
It is like buying fish. If I do not buy to-day, my
money will keep till to-morrow. But if the fisherman
do not sell to-day, what becomes of his fish?
A man is none the worse for wear until forty.
What he loses in personal appearance he makes
up in intelligence, wealth, and reputation; to say
nothing of his increased knowledge of the road to
woman's heart. As to her, her personal charms
are ephemeral, and they fix the value of all her
other qualities. While she is young and beautiful,
she may be modest, intelligent, and pious; but
when the roses fade from her cheek, she is a prudish,
pedantic bluestocking. Ah! William,

and we must not too severely blame her, if, in
weaving the web of her own destiny, she involves
others in its meshes. But go on—go on.”

“I hardly know how to do so,” said I; “the
whole affair is like a dream to me. A puzzle to
decide between things equally palpable, which is
real, which illusive. Scenes such as I described
were repeated day after day, until, I suppose, the
aggregate of my unavoidable attentions to Miss
Howard was no inconsiderable sum, the whole of
which was set down to the account of voluntary
assiduity. I was of course registered in the chronicles
of neighbourhood gossip as a regular suitor,
as it seemed, favoured, and perhaps accepted. At
the same time Howard's attentions to Ann were
unremitted, and apparently received with gratitude,
if not with pleasure. She was perhaps less
cheerful, paler, and thinner than usual, but from
that I could infer nothing. I had never spoken of
love to her but as to a sister. I had known no
difference, but that I loved her better than the rest.
But this seemed quite natural, for I was brought up
with her, and not with them. I had been happy in
her society, but I never analyzed the elements of
my happiness, nor asked myself which of them I
could least spare. The idea of losing her first
taught me how essential she was to it. The idea
of her union to another explained to me the whole
secret of my heart. Had she discovered a like
secret in her own bosom? I knew not: I had no
means of knowing. I had no right to ask; for
what right had I to prefer the suit which such an

inquiry would imply? Should I ask her to share
with me, a beggar, the scanty pittance, saved from
the wreck of her father's property, which was
barely enough for her? You perceive the delicacy
and difficulty of my situation?”

“I do,” said Balcombe, “and respect the principles
which restrained you. But did not the pro
verbial ingenuity of love suggest some means of
prying into her feelings?”

“I would have given the world,” said I, “to
know how she stood affected towards Howard;
but I could not probe her heart. Could I wound
her by an indelicate approach to such a subject?
Could I subdue my voice and countenance to the
air of playful raillery necessary to any allusion to
it? I could ask, and did ask, whenever her manner
was particularly constrained or cold, whether
had in anything offended her; and, when I did,
her answers were so kind, so affectionate, and
uttered in such a tone of gushing tenderness, that
I felt that I was as dear to her as ever. But how
dear was that? Not so much, it seemed, as to
make me necessary to her happiness as she was
to mine; for of late I formed no part of it. Yet
she was happy.

“In the mean time, the necessity for my attentions
to Miss Howard seemed every day more and
more inevitable, and they became every day more
and more irksome to myself. But what could I
do? It always seemed that unless I attended to

her she was to be unattended. If we walked or
rode, she alone had no escort. If she wished to
make a visit without a female companion, no one
else was ever ready to wait on her. If I entered
a room, and there was but one vacant seat, it was
sure to be near her. In short, everybody gave
way when I approached her; everybody drew off
when we were engaged in conversation, and I was
frequently left alone with her. She is a gay,
sprightly, witty girl, and he must be very dull indeed
who cannot keep up a lively chitchat with
her. It was easy, therefore, for careless observers
to suppose that I took pleasure in her society;
and, at times when self-love is busiest in finding
favourable explanations of Ann's conduct, I have
supposed that she might have thought me attached
to Miss Howard.”

“No doubt she did,” said Balcombe; “and so
you will find, if things have not already gone too
far, in consequence of this mistake.”

“I am afraid they have,” said I; “but I find
comfort in your remark; for I have somehow
learned to place so much confidence in your sagacity,
that I look to you to help me to unriddle this
enigma.”

“It is easily read,” said he. “You have no
doubt that Ann loved you once better than any
one else on earth?”

“None whatever. My doubt is of the quality
of that affection in her young unpractised mind.”

“Look into your own heart, and you will find
it there. A woman's love for the man she loves
best is always the exact reflection of his love for
her.

“This supposes affection of some sort on both
sides, and no previous entanglement. Either or
both may be deceived, but if either loves, both
love. This is that union of the heart which God
effects, and of which he has said, `let no man
sever it.”'

“That thought,” said I, “never occurred to me
before. I hope there is something in it. It sounds
like truth, and is too consoling to be rejected,
though I should be at a loss to establish it by fact
or argument.”

“There is no need,” said he. “Great truths
rarely require the aid of argument. Stated
strongly and plainly, they often vindicate themselves.
The empire of truth would be precarious,
indeed, if she were obliged to display her pedigree
and vindicate her title to the learned and
the unlearned. It is enough to show herself incedit
regina, and the homage of all the faithful is
hers at once.”

“I wish to God,” said I, catching the infection
of his confidence in his own views of every subject,
“that you were there!”

“And will I not be?” said he. “Do not you
see, that unless we are totally baffled in our
attempts to unearth this fox, this Montague, my

presence will be indispensable? And do you
think I will permit your happiness and Ann's to
suffer shipwreck for want of some one to pilot you?
But let us have the rest of your story.”

“It is soon told,” said I. “The crisis could not
long be delayed. Howard's suit, after a due
course of delicate but assiduous attention, was distinctly
preferred. Ann pleaded youth, inexperience,
ignorance of her own heart, and asked for
time, which was frankly allowed. Then came
my father's sudden death, and mourning weeds, and
gloom, and distress, and unmasked ruin, and hideous
desolation. Amid such scenes Howard could not
show himself, nor intrude even by letter. He had
returned with his sister to their accustomed residence,
and the state of my affairs made it nothing
strange that I did not follow the lady. Indeed,
would not have been without precedent, if the utter
ruin of my family had determined Howard to discontinue
his suit, and rendered a visit from me
anything but desirable. But he is an honourable
and disinterested young fellow, and deeply enamoured.
Accordingly, not long before my departure
from Virginia, I received a letter from him
addressed to me, as the head of the family, announcing
his intention to be at Oakwood on a certain
day, and expressing a hope that the renewal
of his visits at our house might not be unwelcome.
He begged that he might find an answer at Oakwood
on his arrival there.”