Chapter VII

There are some people upon whom advice is thrown away, and who, holding themselves to be wiser than their councillors, rush “_in medias res_” where

----“Angels fear to tread.”

Mr. Brag, who did not want for that sort of intellectual quality called cunning, was nevertheless, as has been already made tolerably evident, favoured by nature with an overbalancing share of conceit, and when he had ascertained the tone of the widow’s feelings towards him, and satisfied himself that his case was reduced to something very like “ask and have,” he resolved upon taking the step against which his friend Lord Tom had so strenuously advised him, and which, as a matter of assurance, was rendered “trebly hazardous” by his having previously adopted it with regard to her sister.

The Irish gentleman’s definition of a bottle of soda water we will not stop to repeat, but it would have applied with tolerable accuracy to the character of our hero. Although he had extracted from Mrs. Dallington what he believed to be quite sufficient to justify his best hopes, he felt in the solitude of his “little place in Surrey” a consciousness of inability to conduct the storm personally, or carry her heart by a _coup de main_--unless, indeed, a letter might be so considered--and therefore, spite of the advice of his experienced Mentor, he proceeded to address the fair widow in an epistle, a repetition of which it is not necessary to inflict upon the reader, but which contained a distinct declaration and a formal proposal.

Mr. Brag had now shot his bolt, and nothing remained but to see its effect. It must be admitted that even _he_ was in some sort nervous and fidgety; but that happy self-satisfaction, which when he was not required to make an effort never forsook him, kept his spirits on the “credit side of the account.” The letter, however, was gone--past recal--and therefore the next wisest thing to not sending it in the first instance, was to live upon the hopes of its success.

Upon the popular “wheel within wheel” system, the widow had acted so as to induce the declaration which it contained, satisfied that by “playing” her baronet upon the occasion, she might “land” him,--but certainly not prepared to find that Blanche was placed in a similar position. As things turned out, the effect it produced was striking.

Blanche had just returned from her two days’ visit to the country. The moment she entered the house, she hastened to her sister’s boudoir, where she found her in the very act of reading, with evident marks of amazement and exultation, the avowal of Mr. Brag’s affections.

“My dear Blanche,” exclaimed Mrs. Dallington, “you are arrived at the very moment to congratulate me on a conquest. I have received a proposal”--

“What!” said Blanche, “from Sir Charles?”

“No,” replied her sister, in a tone which certainly conveyed the idea that she wished she had:--“I think you will guess without much difficulty, knowing the man.”

“The Fates are propitious,” said Blanche; “I too have been so fortunate as to merit the decided approbation of a lover, who declares the happiness of his life, and the value of his existence, depend upon my answer.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Dallington:--“why, _my_ worshipper uses the very same expression. Yes--here it is:--‘The happiness of my life, and the value of my existence, depend upon your answer.’”

“That _is_ curious,” said Blanche; “may I ask who the tender swain is?”

“Guess,” said Mrs. Dallington.

“I cannot,” replied her sister.

“What! not our exquisite little friend Brag!” said Mrs. Dallington. “I was always sure how our acquaintance would end: I wonder it did not strike _you_.”

“Why,” said Blanche, “the reason my suspicions did not lead that way is rather a good one--he has made me a proposal.”

“When did you receive it?” said the widow.

“Yesterday,” replied Blanche, “it was forwarded to me from town.”

“I suppose it is a circular,” said the widow.

“No, no,” said Blanche, “mine is the original, yours is the copy.”

“What _can_ the man mean?” said Mrs. Dallington. “Does he really suppose himself so fascinating, that, like the rattlesnake, he has nothing to do but look at us to induce us to drop into his mouth? Now if he had confined his attentions to _me_”--

“Ah!” interrupted Miss Englefield, “that is exactly the case; if he had confined his attentions to _me_, the affair would have been different: as it is”--

“No, no,” said the widow, “don’t misunderstand me, my dear Blanche. I do assure you I am neither envious nor jealous. You should be welcome to all his attentions and all his affections--only please to observe that _I_ intended him to take the step he has taken, and availed myself of your absence to lead him on to a declaration.”

“For what earthly purpose?” said Blanche.

“Man,” said the widow, “is an imitative animal, and everybody knows the force of example.”

“But do you want anybody for whom you have a regard to imitate Mr. Brag?” asked Blanche.

“In the one particular of which we are now speaking,” replied the widow, “I do. It seems to me, Blanche, that the lives we are both leading are full of worry and vexation: yours, because you will not encourage your avowed lover; mine, because the man whose claim upon my affections I admit, will not avow himself. It strikes me that this most marvellous display of assurance on the part of our little friend may serve us both incalculably, by bringing both our gentlemen to a proper sense of their duty;--to excite poor dear Sir Charles into a determination, and to soothe Rushton into a reasonable state of mind.”

“I confess,” said Blanche, “I do not exactly understand the course of proceeding by which this desirable end is to be attained.”

“Let us both accept the little man,” said the widow. “The natural awkwardness of his position must produce a disclosure of his schemes; and what appears to me infinitely better fun, his vanity and conceit. That, which must happen, is, however, only a secondary object with me;--the discovery of the affair will show our capricious lovers that there _are_ men who, instead of hesitating to propose to one woman, are prepared to make offers to two; and moreover, my dear Blanche, the very notion that we are exposed to such temptations will urge our strange friends to some decided step. You must accept Mr. Brag.”

“Me!” exclaimed Blanche: “I accept him--an antidote to everything like affection of any kind!”

“Why, my dear,” said Mrs. Dallington, “I am sure he is very genteel; he curls his hair, wears rings and chains, smokes cigars, rides races, and lives with Lord Tom Towzle. What would you have?--accept him you must.”

“Never!” cried Blanche.

“You must, my dear girl,” replied Mrs. Dallington, “and so will I:--yes, both of us--he is too charming to be monopolized by one. You must write to him.”

“A billet-doux?” enquired Blanche.

“Exactly so,” said Mrs. Dallington. “Let us both be desperately in love with Lord Tom’s tiger: you will see how odiously jealous Rushton will be in a day, and Sir Charles.--Oh! never mind; write--write--write, and I will dictate.”

“Write what, my dear sister?” asked Miss Englefield.

“A civil acceptance of his offer,” said Mrs. Dallington, “couched in terms becoming the gratitude of a young lady of small pretensions.”

“I am infinitely obliged to you, my dear sister,” said Blanche, “but really”--

“Really,” interrupted Mrs. Dallington, “you must allow _me_ to be the best judge of what is best suited to my juniors; so sit you down and write, and I will dictate.”

“But what will the world say?” asked Blanche.

“What world, my dear?” said Mrs. Dallington--“Mr. Brag’s world--or the world at large? What the one chooses to say will signify nothing to us; and what we may choose to do will signify as little to the other. Trust in _me_; be assured that I will not mislead you, whatever may be my intentions with respect to your scarecrow of a lover.”

“_My_ lover!” cried Blanche, colouring crimson at the imputation--“your lover too!”

“Both,” said the widow. “Now sit down; rely upon it, it is a kindness sometimes to be cruel:--so write.”

Blanche, almost unresistingly, seated herself at the very identical table at which Jack had found Mrs. Dallington established the day before; and mechanically arranging the writing materials, looked at her sister with an expression of unconsciousness of what she was to say, and of enquiry as to the words she was to set down.

“Are you ready to begin?” said the widow.

“Yes,” said Blanche--“to obey your instructions most dutifully.”

“Now, then,” said Mrs. Dallington, “write:--‘I scarcely know how to reply to your flattering letter.’”

“I am sure I shall do it all wrong,” said Blanche writing.--

“‘I have struggled for some time--’”

“Some time,” repeated Blanche--“struggled with what?”

“Go on,” said Mrs. Dallington:--“‘for some time with my feelings,--but the manner in which Mr. Rushton, whom you have often seen here, conducts himself towards me is’”--

“What would you have me say, sister?” said Blanche, hesitating. “_You_ know, if nobody else does, that I love him, and”--

“Never mind that,” said the widow, “go on:--‘conducts himself towards me is such, that I can endure his treatment no longer.’”

“My dear sister,” said Blanche, “you are laughing at me:--you wish me to expose myself.”

“Why do you think so, my dear?” said Mrs. Dallington. “You have told me a hundred times that he torments you to death.”

“Yes,” said Blanche, “but what I say to _you_, and what I write to this man”--

“Well,” said the widow, “then put--‘vexes me,’ instead of ‘tormenting me.’”

“That is better,” said Blanche, continuing to write.

“‘That any man upon earth would be preferable in my eyes,’” said Mrs. Dallington.

“No,” said Blanche, tossing up her head with unusual animation, and throwing down the pen, “_that_ I never _will_ write!”

“What innocence!” said Mrs. Dallington. “My dear sister, we are only setting a simpleton-trap, and”--

“It does not signify,” said Blanche, “I”--

“No, it does _not_ signify, so write,” said the widow. “There now--go on--it will be _my_ turn next. Tell him you shall expect him to call--this evening. I will write him an equally tender answer, and make a similar appointment. What can it signify what one says to such a man under such circumstances?”

“But, my dear creature,” said Blanche, “what an opinion he must form of us if he thinks we are both in love with him!”

“It is quite clear that he _does_ think so now,” said Mrs. Dallington; “so this will not make it one bit the worse. Here--make room--let me write mine: all you have to do is to watch the results of our invitation, and be as cold as ice to Rushton when you next see him. Rely upon it, my dear innocent, we shall have fun, and, if I mistake not, husbands, out of this scheme, which, moderate as my pretensions are, I must say I think admirable, inasmuch as it mystifies three men at once,--and all--all for their own eventual good.”

“I believe you take a pleasure in tormenting,” said Blanche, who was busy sealing her note, while her sister was rapidly writing her’s in that elegant and unintelligible hand which is the universal medium of lady-like correspondence, when, to their surprise and confusion, the door of the boudoir was thrown open, and Sir Charles Lydiard and Mr. Rushton were announced.

“Hide your letter!” said Blanche.

“Me!” said Mrs. Dallington, loud enough to be heard by Sir Charles; “trust to my fidelity.”

“By Jove!” whispered Rushton to Lydiard, “they are writing--writing notes and hiding them!”

“So I perceive,” said Sir Charles, coldly.

“Well, ladies,” said Rushton, advancing towards Blanche, “we have found you busy.”

Blanche bowed diffidently, and finished sealing her note.

“What is the matter with you, Sir Charles?” said Mrs. Dallington; “you look out of sorts and out of spirits.”

“No, madam,” said Lydiard, “I am neither; only I did not know whether I might venture to break in upon your literary avocations.”

“Quite right, Sir Charles,” said Mrs. Dallington. “People who make up their minds not to pry into the business of their neighbours, are most likely not to be disturbed in their serenity.”

“Miss Englefield,” said Rushton, “appears to be of a similar opinion. I confess I am not of a temper to bear with such things. I hate three-cornered notes, if they are not addressed to myself.”

“You are equally right with Sir Charles,” said the widow. “I _am_ writing a billet-doux, but I have just finished.”

“Upon my word,” said Lydiard, “it must be a most interesting affair. I think I never saw you more animated than you seem to be while despatching this note: all I am afraid of is, that I have been the cause of its abrupt termination.”

During this dialogue, Rushton endeavoured to draw Blanche into a conversation with regard to the note _she_ was writing, but she avoided answering his questions; and supported in the course she had adopted by her sister’s conduct towards Sir Charles, so completely damped the ardent spirits of her mercurial lover, that he crossed to the other side of the room, and threw himself upon the sofa.

Mrs. Dallington having sealed her note, rang the bell, and directed the servant to send it immediately.

“Now,” said Sir Charles, “I have found it out--you are merely trying me: the note, after all, is destined for me.”

“As you doubt me, Sir Charles,” said Mrs. Dallington, “I shall leave you to discover the truth.”

“I am certain,” said the baronet, with much more animation than he usually exhibited, “it can be to no one else. I shall return to my hotel to receive it.”

“Do,” said the widow, “and justify me from your suspicions.” Saying which, the lady, with an air of being particularly piqued, left the room by one door, while Sir Charles, convinced that she had taken some deciding step with regard to himself, retired by the other, leaving the other pair of lovers _tête-à-tête_.

The moment her sister left the room, Blanche rose to follow her.

“Stay, Blanche,” said Rushton, “one moment.”

“No, Mr. Rushton,” said Miss Englefield, “I am too angry with you to stay.”

“Surely,” said Rushton, “you cannot be angry with my jealousy--a jealousy that springs only from excess of affection.”

“No man,” said Blanche, “can possess real affection for any one of whose sincerity he has a constant doubt. I have forgiven these mad fits twenty times, always hoping and expecting that time would show you your error; but no,--our very last quarrel occurred ten minutes after our last reconciliation.”

“Recollect, Blanche,” said Rushton, “the events of that day--the day before you left town:--there you were--the sought and admired of the party--speaking kindly and looking kindly to everybody except me, of whom, as I felt, you took no notice.”

“Well, sir,” said Blanche, “and if I were cold, and even cross, you need not have been so greatly surprised, if you had recollected how you called me to account for sitting next Mr. Brag the last time he was here, and entering into a common conversation with him about some of his feats and enterprizes.”

“By Heavens!” exclaimed Rushton, “how I hate that fellow--his easy assurance, his self-conceit: but the fault is all your’s and your sister’s. That very night there he was whispering his infernal nonsense in your ear, to your evident amusement and satisfaction, while I, distressed and disturbed by your conduct, was losing my money at écarté with Lady Begbrook, and you sat laughing at my folly and agitation.”

“I _did_ laugh,” said Blanche, “but I did not laugh alone.”

“No, no, that’s true,” said Rushton. “I dare say there are minds and tempers that can bear these irritations--I confess mine cannot. Possibly I expect too much; probably I am romantic; but, I _do_ say, and _will_ say, that however charming I may wish my wife to be, I do not exactly desire that she should be anxious to make herself universally agreeable, nor equally delightful, to everybody.”

“Really, Mr. Rushton,” said Blanche, “these fancies of yours are unjustifiable and unbearable. I confess that it would cost me serious pain to terminate our acquaintance, in which I have, when you are rational, great happiness; but such conduct surely deserves to lose my esteem. I can neither smile nor sigh, walk nor sit down, talk nor be silent, go out nor come in, but you attribute some motive to my actions. They bring me a letter--of course it is from a rival; I dance with somebody--you are either angry or in despair. I am civil to Mr. Brag, my sister’s visiter, and the next moment I see you wholly unconscious of what you are doing, crushing my fan to atoms in revenge. Oh! Mr. Rushton, Mr. Rushton, such conduct in a lover is but the anticipation of tyranny in a husband.”

“Tyranny, Blanche!” said Rushton, suddenly softened into subjection; “what an idea!”

“I am afraid,” said Blanche, “that our hearts are not formed to be united: we had better agree upon one point--to part.”

“There it is!” exclaimed Rushton; “the truth is out. You have now declared yourself; you hate me--you cast me off. I knew there was some new attachment formed. Yes, yes--we _will_ part, Miss Englefield. There is a woman in the world, thank Heaven! who has a better opinion of me than you have: from _her_ gentle heart my wounded spirit may find relief.”

“Oh!” said Blanche, “I am quite aware of that lady’s name. Go, sir--leave me: let this be our last interview.”

Blanche spoke these words with so much firmness, that she began to be afraid Rushton would take her at her word; nor did Rushton’s answer much relieve her apprehensions.

“So be it!” said he. “I will conquer this feeling--I _will_ love where my love can be returned. But, madam, I insist upon one thing--tell me, who is the man who has supplanted me in your affections.”

“Why,” said Blanche smiling--“should I do that?”

“Why?” exclaimed Rushton--“because he shall at least set his life upon the hazard. Name him to me, I desire: tell me where he is to be found, and if----”

“Mr. Rushton,” said Blanche, “I wish you a good morning. Whenever you are reasonable, and can conduct yourself temperately, I will explain my conduct to you. In your present state of excitement, I must leave you.”

Saying which, the fair creature quitted the room, leaving the infuriated victim of love and jealousy in an agony of despair.

The moment she was gone, he stared wildly round. In the crowd of conflicting passions which now assailed him, anger was in the ascendant; and, snatching his hat from the table, he rushed down stairs and quitted the house, swearing, almost audibly, that he never would enter it again.

It was clear that the project of the ladies had been so far successful as to set the whole mass of affections and feelings of the two gentlemen into a state of fermentation; because, while this scene was acting at the widow’s, Sir Charles Lydiard had been to his hotel, where he found no note from the lady, and whence, after waiting a much longer time than would have been occupied in its transmission by her servant, he proceeded to take his ride, with a distracted brain, having come to a determination that the next day should conclude his acquaintance with the avowed and self-convicted coquette, who had now proved what he had long suspected, that she was merely playing a game with him for her own diversion. In this critical juncture we must for the present leave them, in order to introduce the reader to some new arrivals, as well as to give him some information of the convalescent mother, her dutiful daughter, and the philanthropic physician.

The amiable person last named continued his attentions to the widow Brown and her daughter: his visits became diurnally regular; and the satisfaction he derived from the recovering health of the one, and the improving spirits of the other, assumed a character which became evident to both. The anxiety he expressed for their comfort, the assiduous attention with which he contrived little surprises in the way of excursions in the neighbourhood of their present residence, which he represented as conducive to the re-establishment of his patient, were marks of a feeling not to be concealed or disguised; nor, to say truth, did Mead appear at all desirous of practising any delusion upon either of his new friends. It was perfectly clear that he had formed an attachment, which from its nature and principle promised to be permanent.

Mead had watched the conduct of Anne during the illness of her mother, had attentively regarded the workings of her mind, and had satisfied himself that she possessed every attribute desirable in a wife. Their acquaintance had commenced, and his acquaintance with her mother had been renewed, under circumstances which gave a deep interest in his mind to her fate and fortunes. Mead was one of those modest, unassuming men, who once in an age attain to eminence without having forced their way by impudent assurance, or having been pushed forward by favouritism or connexion. Success had not spoiled him; and while rising to the first rank in his profession, he was the same gentle, unassuming, affectionate being that he was, while toiling up the “steep ascent to fame.”

It was not that Dr. Mead entertained the unfavourable opinions of the higher classes, which it is the continual effort of the lower orders to inculcate; but he felt the absolute necessity of something like parity of rank between the contracting parties to secure happiness in marriage. The daughter of a merchant, even though unfortunate, was neither so much inferior nor superior to the son of a country clergyman as to make the inequality of station seriously objectionable; and in Anne, Dr. Mead persuaded himself he perceived qualities and feelings calculated to sweeten the draught of life, and which would worthily adorn the partner of his future days. In his conduct in this affair there was nothing of romance or violence of passion. Indeed his love was what a romantic girl would consider extremely unsatisfactory--it was rational esteem founded upon conviction; and their intercourse was so unmixed with any of those flights in which such persons as Miss Englefield and Mr. Rushton were perpetually engaged, that, when the doctor made his declaration, it seemed as if it were the inevitable consequence of their constant association; and Anne’s acceptance of his offer, under the sanction of her delighted mother, was as calm and collected as if it were not the great deciding event of her life, and one which could only be looked upon as the happiest that had ever yet occurred in it.

It may be that this calmness, and her apparent unconsciousness of the wonderful importance of the match in a worldly point of view, might have arisen in some degree from the recollection which never fades from woman’s mind, of her first love. Unworthy as he had proved himself, and changed so much from his former self, he still perhaps retained some hold on the heart he had betrayed, and would with callous indifference have broken:--these recollections might have had their share in producing the effects which, although Mead appeared perfectly satisfied with the gentleness of Anne’s conduct, were by no means agreeable to her mother, whose gratitude to Providence for what had occurred was unbounded.

There was another point which was necessarily to be brought under discussion, to which Anne felt a diffidence and difficulty in alluding--the position of her brother George in society, and his close connexion with the doctor’s heartless rival. These matters, interwoven as they were with the probable renewal of her acquaintance with Brag when his sister should return to England, and the consciousness that she had committed herself by an acknowledgment of her attachment to him, preyed upon her spirits, and the brightness of her present prospects was marred by clouds, which, like the few existing professors of Nauscopy, she could behold in the far distance before they were visible to ordinary eyes. To the suspense in which the heart and mind are constantly kept by a protracted anticipation of coming evils, which, however remote, are sure to come, poor Anne, it must be owned, was a victim, and her efforts to rally from it were altogether unavailing.

We have all felt that the most serious ills, or the most painful discussions, which have occurred to us, or in which we have been engaged, have, when they actually arrived, turned out not half so serious or so painful as we have expected; and upon this principle Anne devoutly prayed that the _denouement_, which she regarded with so much anxiety and dread, should arrive speedily. Her mother, to whom she imparted so much of her uneasiness as related to the announcement to her future husband of her brother’s rank in the army, assured her that nothing was to be apprehended on that score; that a man who had selected as a wife, the daughter of a distressed and needy woman, would not shrink from the fulfilment of his pledge to her, because her brother had been compelled to enter an honourable service even in its lowest grade.

Mrs. Brown was a woman of good sense, but whatever Mead’s character and disposition might be, there is, in point of fact, as far as worldly matters go, a wide difference in the feelings of a man towards the female and male connexions of a family: a pretty milliner, or a smart actress, is a most agreeable _pro tempore_ companion; and there is not a man who would object to take either, to any of the _guinguettes_ round town, in the bright blaze of sunshine to participate in the enjoyments of a Richmond stroll, or a Greenwich fish-dinner; but it would be rather a difficult matter to induce the same person to drive Jack Twigg, the brother of the one--or row Bill Bott, the father of the other--to either of those cockney Elysiums. The doctor was everything that could be amiable and generous, but the fact that the real nature of George’s service had never been imparted to him, but, on the contrary, the discussion had been carefully avoided, might of itself add to the objections which he might feel to having, by way of brother-in-law, a hard-fisted sergeant of a marching regiment.

How he eventually was made acquainted with the facts, and what was the result of his knowledge of them as affecting his subsequent proceedings, the reader is soon destined to know: but as they are rather prominent features of our little history, it is right they should have a chapter to themselves.