Chapter VII: Crumbs of Comfort

Time jogged, after a somewhat dreary fashion, through the rooms and up and down the staircases of number 12, Belerma Square, for about the space of two calendar months from the conclusion of my last chapter; he brought no commission to Malcolm Frazer, no money to his sister, no greatly improved health to that young lady’s mother, nor cheerful expression to John Merapie’s face. Excepting, perhaps, that Mina had learned a little experience, had just sipped of the cup of disappointment, and acquired a vague disagreeable idea of its taste, had made the acquaintance in a very slight degree of that “hope deferred,” which the wise man assures us “maketh the heart sick,”—excepting these very trivial changes, things had remained _in statu quo_ (to use for once a very hacknied, very much imposed upon, very pedantic sounding Latin phrase, which happens to express my meaning better than any English one ready to my pen at present), for the period above-mentioned, when one evening some slight variety was afforded by the most unexpected advent of Mr. Ernest Ivraine, who “having come to London to discharge a series of Indian commissions, could not resist the temptation of calling, at a rather unseasonable hour, to see Mr. Merapie.”

John Merapie had been, for a considerable number of months previously, in that state of mind which, though it induces most other mortals to desire solitude and to detest company, makes the Londoners hail the society of any one as a perfect God-send; add to this the fact of his liking Ernest, both for himself and his position, and you have, surely, reasons enough to account for his grasping the young man’s hand in cordial friendship, and inviting him not merely to stay and dine in Belerma Square, but also to make number 12 his abiding place during the remainder of his sojourn in London.

But Ernest Ivraine could not, or would not, avail himself of the last clause in Mr. Merapie’s hospitable speech; he remained to dinner, however, and called once or twice afterwards, and accepted a second invitation to come and take John Merapie “as he was,” such being the worthy merchant’s favourite style of expression; and everybody in the house was glad to see him, for his manners were mild, quiet, and gentlemanlike; and the whole household was so bored to death with its own society, that, though the baronet’s son was by no means the most cheerful guest in the world, he was still a vast deal better than many, and infinitely preferable to none.

Mina never forgot that evening; it was the last landmark she beheld before plunging into a boiling, bubbling ocean, blackened by poverty, clouded with sorrow, beset with danger: she stood, or fancied she stood, then on firm ground, and before she well knew what had occurred, she found herself battling, struggling, suffocating in a perfect sea of doubts, difficulties, and calamities.

What a cheerful pleasant circle they formed round the fire, talking about foreign lands and books of travel and strange adventures,—of the topics which, though now forgotten, were then the engrossing “news of the day.” How the hours sped by, how loath Ernest was to rise and depart, feeling, as he did so, he was leaving much he cared for behind him; how gladly he availed himself of John Merapie’s invitation to come and breakfast there the next morning before setting out on his long journey home; how pretty Mina looked, he thought, as he bade her good night; how pale and abstracted his host seemed at times,—he remembered afterwards: time brought that evening and took it away again. “That pleasure is past for ever,” thought Ernest, as he silently wended his way back to his hotel, murmuring sundry discontented observations concerning the old enemy’s various rates of progress in London and at Paradise.

Paradise! how, as fancy recalled the memory of the bright blaze he had left, and of the faces—one especially—on which it shone, he sickened at the name of that place, and loathed the galling chain which drew him back to it! And as slumber with him was the rarity, wakefulness the rule, he lay through weary hours, counting the chimes as they solemnly pealed forth their warning sound in the deaf-adder-like ears of millions,—counting the chimes and thinking of himself and his home, and of her and her home.

“What a happy home it must be,” he reflected, a haven of rest, a heaven upon earth, a luxurious palace in comparison with the place where he resided. “Oh! that I could shape my destiny and hers as I would,” he exclaimed, half aloud, “that I had never seen her, or else died ere I learned to know I loved her.”

And thus care kept guard beside his pillow; but at length sleep laid a gentle hand on his eyes, and brought, with that touch, oblivion, peace, repose; and though care never left its post, but stood there, alert and watchful, ready to pounce upon its victim the instant he awoke, still, during that temporary respite, sorrow and pain vanished; and in the dreams of night Ernest Ivraine was at liberty to fancy himself free and unfettered, able to grasp happiness, competent to feel pleasure, to defy grief; to forget, for a brief period, that the curse of gold was upon him, that he had wasted the best years of existence in almost total inaction, waiting and sinfully longing for the death of a man who, though a miser, was still his father, and who, after his waiting and watching and bearing, could, at any moment, cast him off or leave him a beggar.

Sleep brought, as it occasionally does, forgetfulness of his actual position to the wearied spirit of the baronet’s first-born; but with morning’s dawn recollection awoke also: what a bitter thing that waking, morning after morning, to the consciousness of disappointment, the necessity of endurance, the need for patience, the repentance of errors, the perception of follies, the importance of exertion, always proves! Oh! who that might sleep on, after he has once eaten of the tree of knowledge, and learned a little of life’s weary teachings, would, if the choice were given to him, desire to open his eyes on earth’s vanities again? Who, having the option granted of quitting the trouble and the care and the vexation and the turmoil, would voluntarily plunge for the second time into the dangerous whirlpool, the maddening vortex, the uncertain strife? Who would not thankfully choose to be at rest, to slumber peacefully for ever?

So, at least, thought Ernest Ivraine; but then he was not peculiarly well adapted to decide on the question, seeing that he had started in life on a wrong principle; that he might have made a better use of it—turned it to a far more profitable end; that he was living for himself alone; that he had refused to go forth and work and labour like a responsible being; that he would not employ whatever talents had been given to him to shape out some happier destiny for himself, to benefit others, to make a more endurable thing of existence: he was no fair judge, nor is any one who permits his faculties to sleep, though his body is awake; he had decided wrongly years before, and he was now commencing to pay the full penalty of that great desire for wealth, to be won by no merits or exertion of his own, which had prevented his leaving Paradise years previously, which compelled him to return to it even then.

Even then! yes, he meant to go home again that very day, after he had breakfasted, according to invitation, in Belerma Square, and said good-bye to the friends who dwelt there.

Mrs. Frazer, Malcolm, and Mina welcomed him when he entered the dining-room; he had never seen the latter look so bright and happy before; new life seemed to have been infused into her; there was a flush in her cheek and an elasticity in her step and a change in her usually quiet manner that puzzled him not a little: but if he had heard a brief dialogue which passed between her and Mr. Merapie on the preceding night, he would have understood all perfectly.

“Mina,” said that gentleman to her immediately after Ernest’s departure, “I want to speak to you;” and, accordingly, Mrs. Frazer having gone off yawning to bed, and Malcolm having ascended to a special sanctum of his in the third floor, where he retired to smoke cigars when his uncle—who detested the “lazy practice,” as he termed a habit which involves Certainly more exertion than not smoking at all—chanced to be at home,—Mina sat quietly down in the drawing-room to hear what her uncle had to say in peace and quietness.

“You are no longer a child,” began Mr. Merapie, in a blank straightforward manner, which defied contradiction, as did also the fact stated. “I do not know that I ever thought about the matter till the other day, when Mr. Westwood pointed it out to me.”

He paused, as if a little embarrassed; but Mina resolutely maintained silence: she knew what was coming, but she thought her uncle might explain it himself without her assistance.

“You know, Mina,” he began again at last, “I can never make long speeches, and I am not much accustomed to talk or think about such matters, only I promised to speak to you on the subject; to cut all short, he—Mr. Westwood—wants to marry you.”

“Yes, sir,” said she, looking very steadily at the fire.

“Well,” resumed John Merapie, wonderfully fortified by this most unsentimental comment on his information; “well, what I want to know now is, do you want to marry him?”

“No, I don’t,” she replied, most emphatically.

“Oh!” exclaimed John Merapie, and he cogitated over her answer for a few minutes; then, remembering he had promised Mr. Westwood to use his influence, he continued,

“It might be well for you to think about this offer, Mina, notwithstanding; you see, a love match is a very foolish thing, never ends well; it is a sort of taking for the look, not for the reality; it always disappoints. Now, I know most girls have a great many absurd ideas on the subject of matrimony, but I fancy you have not; and, though Alfred Westwood is a little too old, yet still he would be very fond of you, and he is a good sort of fellow, uncommonly clever, with a clear head for business, and he is tolerably well off, and indeed, Mina, the more I reflect about it, the more sure I feel you could not do better.”

“Well, but uncle, I do not want to do any better, or to marry any one. I am quite content as I am; quite satisfied with my present home; far fonder of you than I could ever be of fifty Mr. Westwood’s. I am so well, I do not wish to be better; I do not see why I should think of marrying at all.”

“Faith, neither do I,” exclaimed Mr. Merapie, “and that’s just what I told him.”

“Did you?” said Mina; “oh! thank you for it.”

“The truth is,” returned Mr. Merapie, “I never did entertain a very high opinion of this eternal marrying and giving in marriage which is going on in the world: matrimony never seemed to me so extraordinarily desirable a consummation as it is deemed by most people. I always considered it a great risk to undertake running in harness with a comparative stranger for life—till death,” added the merchant, in a strange tone; “and so I told Westwood, that, though I had no objection to the match, and should, in fact, rather like it than otherwise, still that I would leave you to decide as you chose, unbiassed by any expressed wishes of mine.”

“I am sure,” suggested Mina very softly, “you would never compel me to marry——”

“Compel!” echoed Mr. Merapie, “God forbid; I have always considered that the greatest sin a parent or guardian can commit; and, as you say, I do not see why you should think of wedding at all. If girls are left penniless and orphans and so forth, I suppose it is better for them to marry than turn governesses and one thing or another of that kind: I don’t know, but I suppose it is. When they are certain, however, always of a competence, the case is entirely different, and I will take care you are amply provided for, I will never leave you dependent, my dear good little girl, rely upon that.”

There was something so earnest and tender in the tone of his voice, so sorrowful an expression stole over his face as he spoke, that Mina, feeling she had never half appreciated the solid goodness of his character, never been sufficiently grateful for all the kindness he had shown her since childhood, arose from the seat she occupied and, taking possession of a low stool at his feet, placed her small soft hand lovingly in his, and answered,

“You have been so nearly a father to me ever since I lost my own, you have made this place so much like home, that I should be a monster to wish to leave either it or you. There was indeed a time—I may well blush to own it—when, spite of all your kindness, your generosity, your ready compliance with every wish, I did so long for the land of my birth, that nothing here completely satisfied me; but I see things so differently now: I have learnt so much latterly, that I am twice as happy now as ever I was, and doubly grateful to you for having provided such a home for us when an unexpected misfortune deprived us of our own. I cannot say all I feel and have felt for a good while past,” she added, with a sort of tremor in her voice; “but though I cannot talk much of all we owe you, I can think a great deal and remember it always.”

It was the first time in his life John Merapie ever recollected hearing such a sentence addressed to him by true faltering lips, and it melted the worthy merchant so much, that, moved by some strong impulse, he bent suddenly down and kissed his niece, who flung her arms round his neck and began to weep, as was her absurd fashion when her heart was either touched with joy or moved by kindness.

“What a foolish child you are,” said John Merapie at last; “I have done nothing for you but what was my imperative duty, not so much as I ought; I might have made this home a little gayer for you, if I had thought of it,—yes, and I will do it.”

“I do not wish it to be different,” sobbed Mina; “I am quite happy, quite: I have not a single wish on earth,” she paused, and then added, somewhat reluctantly, “but one.”

“And what may that be?” demanded her uncle, but she remained silent. “Will money gratify it?” he asked.

“It might,” she said: “I’ll tell you what it is, uncle, if you won’t be angry.”

“Angry! no, indeed; go on.”

“I wish so much, then, poor dear Malcolm had a commission; he has set his heart on being an officer, and indeed, indeed, I know, if you gave him a chance now, he would be very, very steady; he has told me he would, often: he knows he did wrong before; but he was quite young, uncle, and he felt so ashamed of himself and was so sorry about all the money he spent, that he could not ask you to get him into the army. I hope you will not be displeased. That is the only wish I have, uncle.”

Her uncle had fixed his eyes very moodily on the fire when she commenced this speech, and, at its conclusion, he said, rising,

“Malcolm has disappointed me grievously, Mina, and I do not think he is at all improved, or likely to improve; I cannot tell what I ought to do with him, but still I will think about it and see: meanwhile, with regard to yourself, you do not wish to marry Mr. Westwood?”

“No, indeed, uncle, I do not.”

“Well, then, you shall not,” he answered, and rose to retire for the night.

Before he had quite reached the door, however, he turned back a step, and, taking Mina’s hand—she wondered at the time what made him do it, and she remembered the action long, long afterwards—he squeezed it very tight in his, then said,

“God bless you!” twice over, in a strange, troubled, yet still earnest sort of way, after which he went hurriedly out of the room, looking very pale and haggard.

And Mina sat down by the dying embers and cried very much; why, she scarcely knew, excepting that she had been greatly flurried and agitated, and was now immensely relieved and rejoiced. But when she arose next morning, not a tear dimmed her eyes or a trace of one was visible on her cheek, for she felt sure Malcolm would now have another chance given him; and she was delighted to think she had “done with” Mr. Westwood for ever. Her uncle had removed a load from her heart: Miss Caldera was quite astray—Malcolm and she would always be provided for. There was nothing wrong with the business, no reason to fear any reverse: they would always be independent; Mr. Merapie had said so: and thus it was only natural that she should trip down stairs with a much lighter step than usual and greet Mr. Ernest Ivraine in such a remarkable cheerful manner, that the miser’s son found himself marvelling what extraordinary piece of good fortune had befallen his host’s niece, which caused her to seem so altogether changed a being from what he had ever fancied her before.