 | CHAPTER XXXII. Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold |  |
32. CHAPTER XXXII.
Some eighteen months after Paul's arrival in London, he
sat one morning among his pencils. He was not very
well disposed for work, but it was at least a lesser evil, for
he shrank from being left alone with his own thoughts.
The copy that he was making of his former portrait of
Mrs. Tetherly, was to be one in the collection of his drawings
which was to grace the boudoir of the bride—his
friend Colonel Paleford's daughter Sybil, having been married,
a month before, to Mr. Arthur Ashly, and this preparatory
addition to her new home in England having
been among her wishes expressed when first affianced.
The copy was nearly finished; but, to give an improving
touch to it, Paul had requested a sitting from his friend,
the original, her face having very much softened and
genialized with the union which had proved to her so
happy. The artist's continued and close intimacy with the
Tetherlys, had enabled him to watch well the development
in the country, they were often in London, and never without
passing a part of every day with him who had brought
them together. Arriving in town the previous evening,
after an unusually long absence, Mrs. Tetherly had sent
word that she would be early at the studio, for the renewed
sitting which Paul had written to request; and he now
waited her coming.
But, pencils were reluctant, with the heart far away;
and, leaving his copy, Paul went to his desk—remembering
a still unread letter of some interest, which had been
given to him for his perusal, and, in the press of other matter
forgotten. An American family, on their first foreign
tour, had recently come to him with a note of introduction
from his friend Bosh; and, by the eldest daughter, Miss
Katherine Kumletts, he had been indulged with a sight of
her friend 'Phia Firkin's correspondence while abroad—
this last unread letter being at the time mislaid, but afterwards
found and handed to Paul, while he was showing his
new friends the wonders of the Zoölogical Gardens. It
was written by the present Mrs. Blivins, shortly after her
marriage, and dated at Paris where the ceremony took
place:—
I date once more from Paris, though, in your last, you say
I should have signed myself, “your affectionate snail,” so slow am
however, as I am, at present, a bivalve, and, of course, with new
laws of motion—flattened into this new character (I liked to have
forgot to tell you) on the first of May, by the Rev. Mr. Sprinkle,
of the English chapel—my beloved Wabash being the other shell,
and connubial bliss, of course, the mutual oyster between us.
Yes, Kitty, I am married—I believe. It is hard to realize, particularly
with only the same sized pen in one's quite unaltered
fingers. Things look very little different, my dear! I don't open
my eyes any wider, that I know of. Just as much salt and pepper
to make things taste nice, and no less sugar in my tea, I give you
my honor! But the servants say, “Madam” to me, and mamma
has stopped keeping such a bright look-out. So I suppose I am
either more or better than I used to be. Though Kitty (by the
way), what is the arithmetic of thinking more of yourself for
becoming a half? Your faithful 'Phia was a “whole souled girl,” I
believe you always said, yet, as papa would express it, I am only
the “fifty per cent.” of my devoted Bosh, since I am married to
him. Just cipher me that little sum, dear!
There is not much to tell you about the ceremony. I knew very
well what it was to be, but, somehow one can't help expecting the
astonishing minute—a sort of dropping away of some platform
from under one, as it were, when the fatal knot is fastened. I had
my handkerchief already to cry, and could only blow my nose
with the poor disappointed thing! I really think there should be
a bit of ice dropped down one's back, or a shower-bath, or a pin
stuck into one, by the bridesmaid, or something to bring the
nerves to a climax. It looks hard-hearted to take it quite so easy
—now, don't it?
The groomsman, I should have mentioned to you, was Mr.
Blivins's wedding. He looked paler than I had ever seen him;
and as my Wabash looked considerably redder, the contrast was
even more striking than usual. In fact, the glow of happiness is
the least becoming complexion to a man, I have generally observed.
And Mr. Fane did everything so beautifully! Ah, Kitty! there
are men one has no idea of marrying, who are still very pleasing to
contemplate!
Now, I know very well what you are saying! I might have had
the pale cheek to kiss, instead of the red one, you think—or, as
brother 'Phus, with his tandem, would express himself, I might
have put the wheel-horse on the lead. You are mistaken, my dear!
for, in the first place, I couldn't, and, in the next place, I wouldn't
if I could. For me to have set my cap for Mr. Fane (as I once
wrote to you I had some thought of doing)—la! Kitty! it would
be like a clam's having a passion for a bull-frog. We should never
sing the same tune, and then he would be jumping out of my reach
every minute. You should have put your two sharp eyes upon Mr.
Fane to understand it, for it is not because he is a bit grander than
other people. I think, indeed, that my Wabash (with the present
addition to his daily bread, at least) feels “some punkins” above
him. Then he is so quiet and deferential that you feel quite as
tall, if not taller, when he is done looking at you. But, still, after
talking with him a little, I always have a strange consciousness
that he has come out of some inner world to speak to me—a feeling,
somehow, as if he was to return to his unseen parlor friends,
when he has done talking with me in the entry. Very pleasant,
for a change, to see such a man, my dear, but who could tie her
nightcap quite at ease in his wonderful company?
No, no, Kitty!—never give all your money for half the article!
the top of his head look like the lid of the old coffee-pot at school,
down to his great toe, that I could dress up and make a baby of,
if I wanted a plaything, this very minute. He believes in me too,
with all there is of him, and it is a comfort to know that one's
worshipper has no spare faith in want of another altar. I expect
to settle down into a very plain case of happiness, when I get
home, and I want a husband (as they say when they advertise for
a doctor's horse) “warranted to stand without hitching.”
I know a little more of Mr. Fane than what I have just told you,
however. Blivins gets very eloquent (and it is the greatest pleasure
to me, in matrimony, thus far, that the dear fellow lies awake
at night and tells me all his secrets)—very eloquent, indeed, in
talking of a certain romantic attachment of his friend Paul's. He
(Blivins, you understand) quite frightens me—the way he sits up in
bed and bangs his hand down on the counterpane, declaring they
will yet be married! But I have an opinion of my own, for I
overheard a conversation between Mary Evenden (the girl he
refers to) and “Signor Valerio” (the lady in disguise, who took
my bust), on this very subject. They were both so occupied in
copying those perfections of mine which have no ears, that they
forgot I could hear also, I suppose; but, at any rate, they talked
as freely as if I and the two clay models of me were deaf and blind
alike. And what do you think this pretty Miss Mary insisted
upon? Why, that she loved Mr. Fane's genius, but wished some
one else to have the rest of him! This double idea of the same
gentleman explained to me the feeling I had, as to his belonging
to some other world—but how funny, if she has him in that world,
she shouldn't want him in this one, too! The fact is, I suppose,
that he and his genius amount to two individuals, and the innocent
the risk of such a dreadful crime at all, I should at least take the
live man, in his visible shoes and stockings, to begin with. If his
invisible genius chose to mouse round, to be loved a little, now
and then (say it was Blivins), I don't believe the two Blivinses
need interfere, and I'll warrant I could find what extra affection
would be necessary, without robbing anybody. What says your
instinct on that subject, my dear Kitty?
One little query, by the way, before I bite my lips to stop thinking
of Mr. Fane: Might I not have woke up, some morning (supposing
I had married the visible Paul No. 1), and found myself
grown intellectual enough to belong to his other world, so as to
feel quite at home with the invisible Paul No. 2? And might not
Miss Evenden, in the same way, marry No. 2, and wake up some
morning and find herself just as much at home with No. 1? I give
you the subject to write a composition upon, my dear! “Please
mind your stops, and write it legibly!”
We turn our faces homeward next week. I shall be glad to
smell republican air once more. This is not the side of the water
where a woman is thought much of, “free gratis for nothing;”
and, in fact, unless you want his particular love made to you, a man
over here has no very remarkable pleasure in your society. Give
me the American beaux, who value the women they have “taken
no stock in” as high as they do their own investments. I think I
shall be content with a one-horse life and Blivins—though I have
been a whole team, you may say, ever since we left school. I
begin to feel less universally inclined, my dear! Prairie-loving is
all very well for awhile, but one's heart aches, after all, for something
with a fence round it. And Blivins, as somebody in Shakspeare
says of his very plain dog, is “a poor thing but mine own.”
Good-bye, dear Kitty, and with my husband's second-best love
to you,
Paul had scarce finished reading the letter of the
“hoosier” belle and bride, when the pull-up of a carriage
at the door of his lodgings announced the arrival of Mrs.
Tetherly; and in the cordial greeting of his unceremonious
and genial friend, and in the work for which his pencils
were all in readiness, the rather suggestive theories of Mrs.
Blivins were soon forgotten.
“My dear Fane!” said Mrs. Tetherly, at last, with an
appealing smile, after a few minutes of complete silence,
during which he had given his best touch to the new
shade of expression in her face, “I have your forgiveness
and something else, to ask of you.”
“Granted, before asking,” replied Paul, half absently.
“Not so fast,” she resumed; “I am not sure even of my
pardon for what I have done; and, much less, of your
assent to what I propose to do.”
“How can so worthless and stray a waif as I am, at this
present hour,” sadly and slowly uttered Paul, with a return
to the weight that had all day pressed upon his heart, “be
otherwise than willing to be floated anywhere, by any
chance tide that should undertake his destiny?”
Mrs. Tetherly made a playful gesture of relief.
“You have described my venturesome service so well,”
it to you a little more fully. I have `undertaken your
destiny,' my dear friend—simply making love for you, that
is to say, and without asking your permission!”
Paul dropped his pencils, and listened, in puzzled silence
and surprise.
“I will make a short story of it,” she went on to say,
“and I will not hear your answer till you have had time to
think of it—half a day, at least—for we dine at six, and
the afternoon is before you. I once ventured, if you
remember, to write something to you about Mildred.
You gave me no answer, and we never talked of it;
but I have, nevertheless, cherished my little project of
bringing you together—the favor you have made with
her, since, by your conduct in some critical matters, very
much brightening the probabilities. Well—a day or two
ago, we were gossiping rather more confidentially than
usual, Mildred and I. Tetherly had once told me something
of a secret interest in her, which you had treasured
from the time of first meeting her in America. It is true,
he said it was less a tender passion than the resentment
for an imaginary slight—showing itself in a desire to make
a different impression upon her, for pride's sake—but the
ambition to please her was enough for my argument. I
assumed the point, or rather left it to her inference, that
there was a hidden passion under it all.”
“My dear Mrs. Tetherly!” exclaimed her astonished
listener.
“Yes—and you shall hear the result, substantially and
fairly. Our confab was long, and very confidential; and
she confessed to me something like this: that she had
not thought of loving you—that she never was aware
of feeling a tender passion for any man—but, that chance
had given her rare opportunities of testing your more
hidden qualities of character (tests without which she
would be willing to trust her happiness in no man's
hands), and, of all the men she had ever known, you
certainly seemed to her, at present, the most worthy to be
loved.”
Paul rose to his feet, unable to speak, but the pressure
of a cold finger of iron—hopeless and pitiless—seemed
taken from the life-nerve at his heart. He paced the room
hurriedly, while his companion went on:
“Pardon me—a woman and a relative, and knowing
Mildred better than you possibly can—if I prescribe to
you the light in which you should look upon this confession.
It is not in her nature to make a warmer one.
It says everything for her—enough, at least, to assure
you that it would be the foundation of a love that would
last a lifetime. Besides, my dear Fane, it reveals the fact
that you might win her—and how worthy Mildred is, of
any man's winning, I need not tell you, after the portrayal
Do not reply! I will not hear you till we are alone
together again. But one request more.”
Paul was too busy with conflicting thoughts to utter a
word. He stood, with knit fingers and closely-pressed lips,
to listen.
“We are going to-morrow to Raven-Park, for a couple
of days—ten miles from London, you know, and the residence
of a bachelor-cousin of our family. Tetherly has
an invitation for you, and we will take you down with us.
Mildred is there already. It will, at least, be an opportunity
for you to meet. No refusal, now! I will not listen
to it. Make your arrangements to go, and so adieu till
six! God bless you, my dear Fane!”
And in another moment, and without word or sign from
Paul, except only a mechanical return of the pressure of
her hand, Mrs. Tetherly was gone.
| CHAPTER XXXII. Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold | |