CHAPTER XX.

UNCLE BRYAN CONCLUDES HIS STORY.

I became a frequent visitor at Mr. Glaive's house. Three or four times every week I spent my evenings there, and I was always welcomed with smiles and good words. Mr. Glaive and his daughter had never mingled in the gaieties of the city; neither had I. One night we were speaking of a concert that was to be given at the largest public hall in the city; a royal prince had promised his patronage, and Frances Glaive was eager to see him.

'I should like to go so much,' she said; 'I think I would give anything to go.'

'I would take you with pleasure,' said her father; 'but there are two obstacles. One is the expense--that could be got over, I daresay; but the other is insurmountable. The excitement would be too much for my heart.'

His heart was a favourite theme with him; he was not to be troubled or irritated or excited because of it; he was to be petted and humoured because of it. It enabled him to live the life he loved best--a life of perfect indolence.

The next time I visited them, I presented Frances Glaive with tickets for the concert. It required courage on my part, for it was the first step in a new direction.

'What am I to do with them?' she asked. 'You are very good, but I have no one to take me.'

'I was going to ask Mr. Glaive,' I said, 'if he would intrust you to my care.'

Mr. Glaive replied in his heartiest manner, and his daughter was wild with delight. If anything had been needed to complete the spell, Frances Glaive's appearance on that night would have supplied it. For beauty, for grace, for freshness, there was not a lady in the hall who could compare with her. I experienced a new feeling of happiness as I witnessed the admiring glances of the assembly, and Frances Glaive herself was no less happy in the admiration she excited. From that night we drifted into the gaieties of the city, and I became her constant companion--necessarily, because I supplied the means.

I must mention here that her cousin Ralph was also a constant visitor at the house; but although he was on terms of affectionate intimacy with Frances--which I set down, not without jealous feeling, to their cousinship and to their having been much together during their childhood--Mr. Glaive did not seem to care for his presence at that time. I heard Ralph say to Frances at one time, when she spoke of an entertainment to which we were going,

'I would take you if I had money.'

'Get rich, then,' she replied, 'like Mr. Carey; but you are too idle to work.'

I believed this to be pretty near the truth, although he chose to put another construction upon his indolence by saying that it was his misfortune to have been born a gentleman. He was barely twenty-two years of age at the time, but he had learnt that fine lesson perfectly. I came upon them then, and Frances Glaive said that she had just told her cousin that he was too idle to work, and that he had pleaded as an excuse that he had been born a gentleman. How I loved her for her frankness and truthfulness! Ralph turned very red, and said that he would work if he could obtain anything suitable. A little while after this conversation, at the intercession of his cousin, I obtained a situation for him, but he did not keep it many weeks. He was altogether too fine for work. As I have said, I had a jealous feeling towards him with reference to Frances Glaive; his youth, his comeliness, his gayer manners made me uneasy sometimes, and my intense love often magnified this feeling until it became torture. Was not this pearl of womanhood too precious for me to hope to win? On one side there was light; on the other, darkness. There was no medium. Without her love, it was blackest night; with her love, it was brightest day. I determined to know my fate, and soon; but before I had mustered sufficient courage to speak, Mr. Glaive anticipated me. My attentions to his daughter, he said, were becoming conspicuous; as her only protector--a poor and helpless one, he added, with his heart-complaint, which prevented his guarding her and watching over her as he should--he was naturally anxious as to her future. I took advantage of a pause to ask nervously if my attentions were displeasing to him. Not at all, he answered eagerly; but as a father he was bound to ask the precise meaning that was to be attached to them. If ever I had a child of my own, I should be able to understand his anxiety. He put his handkerchief to his eyes, and waited for me to speak. A thrill of unspeakable happiness set my pulses quivering with sweet music. A child of my own--of hers! If such a solemn charge were given into my hands, how sacredly, how tenderly would I guard it! I replied to Mr. Glaive, that my attentions could have but one meaning, and that it was my dearest hope to make Frances Glaive my wife. Then ensued a business conversation as to my means, as to how he himself was to live, and other details. My answers must have satisfied him, for he told me that the day on which I became his son-in-law would be the happiest day in his life.

'Take an early opportunity,' he said, 'of seeing Frances, and speak for yourself.'

'I would have spoken to her at once; but he told me that she was not at home, and that he had designed this interview while she was out lest we should be disturbed, or lest he had misunderstood the attention I had paid to her. I appreciated the delicacy of his design, and I waited until the following day. I was not destined to be disappointed; Frances Glaive accepted me for her husband. I scarcely dared to ask her if she loved me, but when she placed her hand in mine, was it not sufficient? I bought the house which pleased her best, and left her to furnish it according to her taste. It delighted me to humour her in all her whims; nothing that she did, nothing that she said, could be wrong. I changed my mode of life to please her; I dressed to please her. What was right in her eyes was right in mine. There was no questioning on my part. I had found my teacher, and I was supremely satisfied to be led by her who had brought sunshine into my life. She furnished the house with, exquisite taste; it cost three times the money I had anticipated, but she said,

'What does it matter? You are rich.'

What _did_ it matter? What consideration of money could influence me when I would have given her my heart's blood had she asked for it?

Well, we were married. On the wedding-day I gave Mr. Glaive a full release of what he owed me.

'My father-in-law must not be my creditor,' I said.

For a time I was very, very happy, and Frances herself seemed to be so. If indulgence in every whim, in every desire, can produce happiness, she must have been in possession of it, for I grudged her nothing. It was very sweet to be led, and I did not count the cost. Ralph, her cousin, lived almost entirely at our house. I found it difficult to enter thoroughly into my wife's enjoyments, although I strove honestly to do so. She was fond of society, fond of dress, fond of being admired; if, now and then, a thought intruded itself that there was frivolousness in her fancies, I crushed it down. What right had I to judge? My life had been until now a life of misery, because of my belief in my own convictions, because I had judged everything by hard stern rules; and now, when happiness was in my possession, and I had discovered the folly and the error of my ways, I would not allow myself to relapse into my old beliefs. We were living at a rate that outstripped my means, but it did not trouble me much. Money would make no difference in our feelings: if we grew poor, it would be a good test for our affection. I happened to mention casually to Mr. Glaive that we were living at a high rate.

'You surely do not mean to retrench!' he exclaimed.

'I certainly have no such intention,' I replied, smiling, 'unless Frances wishes it. She knows my position, and I am entirely satisfied to be led by her.'

'Quite right,' said my father-in-law, regarding me somewhat thoughtfully I fancied; 'women know best about these matters--though Frances after all is a mere girl, twenty years your junior at least, eh?'

'That is so,' I said, angry with myself for feeling uneasy at the remark.

'Yes, yes,' he continued; 'it would break her heart to give up any of her little whims--she is like a child. The dear girl _must_ enjoy life--now is her only time. By and by, when she becomes a mother, perhaps--'

I turned from him; it was my dearest hope, but it was fated not to be gratified.

'I tell you what it is, Bryan,' he said, 'you do not make a proper use of your opportunities; were I in your position, I would treble my income.'

'By what means?' I asked.

'By speculating, my dear Bryan; by speculating judiciously, as with your abilities you would be sure to do. Think of the additional pleasures you could offer my dear girl, and of the thousand ways in which you could add to her enjoyment of life.'

Money had never presented itself to me in this light before; Mr. Glaive was right; it was a thing to be desired for what it would purchase. I took heed of his counsels, and became a speculator. The words he had spoken to me bore other fruit besides--bitter fruit, from the distress they caused me. I was twenty-five--not twenty--years older than Frances, and gray hairs were multiplying fast on my head. The thought that in a very few years my hair might be quite white, while Frances would be still a girl, gave me unutterable pain; but I strove to banish it from my mind. We had been married nearly six months, and with the exception of my own self-torturings, no cloud had appeared to darken our lives, when a circumstance occurred. As I was going home one evening, a woman stopped me--a poor ragged creature--and addressing me by name, begged me to assist her. During those few months I never paused to inquire into the merits of an appeal for charity--my own happiness pleaded for the applicants, and I gave without question. I gave this woman a shilling, and she accepted it thankfully enough, but with the mournful remark that it would be gone to-morrow. That, and the circumstance of her addressing me by name--I having no knowledge of her--interested me, and I questioned her. She was a stranger, she said, and had but newly arrived, having walked many weary miles. Where did she come from? I asked; and she mentioned the town where I had first tarried and suffered after leaving my home. She told me that she saw my name over my place of business, and had recognised it as belonging to one who had been most kind to a young friend she knew years and years ago, and then she mentioned the name of the girl who had died in my arms.

'What were you?' I asked. 'I have no remembrance of you.'

'Don't ask me what I was or what I am,' she faltered; 'but if you can assist me to lead an honest life, do so for pity's sake.'

In memory of the poor girl whom she had known, I determined to assist this unfortunate creature--at this time a middle-aged woman--and I obtained a respectable lodging for her at once. I told her that we would never refer to the past, but that she should commence a new and better life at once. And she did; and honestly fulfilled its duties.

Everything seemed to be going on well and happily at home, and I was in the full enjoyment of my fool's paradise, when I received a shock which almost turned the current of my blood. It took place on a day when I had been occasioned much annoyance by the circumstance of my father-in-law drawing upon me, without my permission, for a sum of money which was of consequence to me. It was not the first time he had done this, and I had paid his drafts with but slight reluctance, for they were for small amounts. But the amount of the present bill was serious, and it came at an inconvenient time. I was so much annoyed that, knowing Mr. Glaive to be at my house spending the evening, I determined not to go home until late, for fear that angry words might pass between us in the presence of Frances. So I sent a note to my wife, saying that business detained me at the office; and I idled away the time until ten o'clock, when I walked slowly home. My wife was not in the usual room in which we sat of an evening, and I went to a little room of which she was very fond, and which she called her sanctuary. I heard voices there, hers and her cousin Ralph's, and the words that he was addressing to her arrested my steps. I was guilty then of the first mean action in my life--I listened. What I heard I cannot here repeat, but I heard enough to know that I had been cheated and cajoled. I did not wait for the end, but I stole away with a desolate heart. My dream was over, and I was awake again, with a desolate heart, and with all my old opinions and old convictions at work within me in stronger force than ever.

I said nothing; certain as I was of the ugly bitter truth, I resolved to be still more certain of it, not from my own impressions, but from outward evidence. I discovered to my astonishment that my wife's vanity, her fondness for display, her love of the admiration of men, her frivolity, her flirtations with her cousin Ralph, and my own ridiculous infatuation and blindness were matters of common conversation. Fool that I was to believe in goodness! I cast aside all weakness, and resolved never to be deceived again. My heart was like a withered leaf; and all the foolish tenderness of my nature died an unredeemable death. Towards one person, and one alone, did I entertain any feeling of kindness; that was the woman who had solicited my help, and who had known the poor lost girl-friend of my younger days. I was sick almost to death of my home; the sight of my wife's fair face was unutterably painful to me; I was sick of the place in which I had been worldly prosperous. I yearned to fly from it, and to find myself again among strangers. The events that brought about the accomplishment of this desire came quickly. Some of the speculations I had entered into turned out badly; I could have saved myself from loss had I exercised my usual forethought; but I was reckless and despairing, and it was almost with a feeling of joy that I found, upon a careful examination of my affairs, that I had barely enough to settle with my creditors. I called them together secretly, letting neither my wife nor Mr. Glaive know of my position. I enjoined secrecy upon those to whom I was indebted, and made over to them everything I possessed in the world. Upon that very day Mr. Glaive took me to task for my treatment of his daughter, for my neglect of her. I listened to him calmly, and told him I had good and sufficient reasons for my conduct. It was an angry interview, and I ended it abruptly upon his saying that his daughter's happiness would have been more assured if he had given her to one who was more suitable to her. That same night a meeting of another description took place between Ralph and myself. He was talking of his pretty cousin in public, and of me in offensive terms. I have always regretted that I took notice of him on that occasion, for he was in liquor; but I was not master of myself. I left him after hot words had passed between us, and went to my office. He sought me there, and continued the quarrel, and boasted to my face that my wife loved him, and would have married him but for my stepping between them.

'You fool,' he said scornfully; you bought her!'

It was a bitter truth. Had I been a poor man, Frances Glaive would never have become my wife. But when he said that it was a bargain between me and her father, I thrust him from the office, and shut the door in his face. Everything was clear to me now, and I looked with shame and mortification upon my childish folly; but I was justly punished for it. I made my arrangements for departure, for I resolved never to live with my wife again, never even to see her, for fear that her fair false face should turn my senses again. The news of my failure must soon become known, and I did not intend to remain a day after its announcement. I wrote a letter to my wife, telling her that I had discovered all, and that I could no longer live with her. I told her that I was ruined, and that I was going to London to bury myself in a locality where there was the least possibility of my becoming known, and that it was useless her seeking me or sending to me, after the shame and disgrace she had brought upon me. 'If,' I concluded, 'I could make you a free woman, so that you might marry the man you love, I would willingly lay down my life; but it cannot be done. The only and best reparation I can offer is to promise, as I do now most faithfully, to wipe you out of my heart, so that you may be free from me for ever.' I had some small store of money by me, half of which I enclosed in the letter. I knew that she was in no fear of want, and that she would find a home if she wanted it in her father's house. Before I left the town I went to see the woman I had befriended, and to bid her farewell; she was earning her living by needlework. I gave her some of the money I had left, and I might have been tempted to believe, if I could have believed in anything good, that she at least was grateful to me for the assistance I had rendered her. When I came out of the house in which she lived, I saw Mr. Glaive and Ralph, arm-in-arm, on the opposite side of the way. I avoided them, and the next morning I shook the dust from my feet, and started for London. I never saw them again. I came to this part of London, where there was the least chance of my being discovered; shortly afterwards I learnt that this business was for sale, and I found I had just sufficient money to purchase it. You know now, thus far, the leading incidents of my life, and that its crowning sorrow and bitterness arose from my senseless worship of a vain, frivolous, and beautiful woman. I have only a few words to add, and they refer to Jessie.

I had no knowledge whatever of her, but on the first night of her arrival something in her face, something in her ways, reminded me of my wife. On the following morning she gave me a letter. It was from my wife, and was dated six years ago. How she discovered my address I cannot tell. It was to the effect that I should read it when she was dead, and it asked me simply to give a home to the friendless child who presented it. You can understand the effect it had upon me; questioning Jessie privately, I learned from her that she was indeed friendless and an orphan. I ascertained the place she came from, and was relieved to know that it was not the town in which I had been married. She had been stopping at an ordinary lodging-house, and I wrote to the address she gave me, but received no answer. In the mean time I feared that the quiet routine of the life I had led, and which suited me, was likely to be interrupted by the introduction into the house of another inmate. I resolved to take Jessie back to the friends she had been stopping with before she came here, and to arrange for her residence with them, undertaking to pay the expenses of her living, although, as you are aware, I could ill afford it. On the morning I took Jessie away, I gave her to understand that she would not return; but when I reached the place I found that her friends had left; I was told they had emigrated, and I made sure of the fact. It does not come within the scope of what I intended to relate to you to state why I was absent from home longer than I anticipated, nor what consideration influenced me in bringing Jessie back with me. But it is pertinent to say that I see in her the same qualities, the same frivolities and vanities which I know existed in my wife, and which entailed upon me the most bitter sorrow it has ever fallen to the lot of man to suffer. She is here, however, for good or for ill; if it turn out for good, it will be due to but one influence.

I have nothing more to add except to exact from you the condition that not one word of what I have said shall ever be told to Jessie.