Chapter 2

All those family details which had made it inexpedient to apply either to old Hatto or to Herbert’s father before the end of the year need not be specially explained. Old Hatto, who had by far the greater share in the business, was a tyrant somewhat feared both by his brother and sister-in-law; and the elder Onslow, as was known to them all, was a man straitened in circumstances. But soon after New Year’s Day the proposition was made in the Schrannen Platz, and the letter was written. On this occasion Madame Heine went down to the bank, and together with her husband, was closeted for an hour with old Hatto. Uncle Hatto’s verdict was not favourable. As to the young people’s marriage, that was his brother’s affair, not his. But as to the partnership, that was a serious matter. Who ever heard of a partnership being given away merely because a man wanted to marry? He would keep to his promise, and if the stipulated moneys were forthcoming, Herbert Onslow should become a partner,—in four years. Nor was the reply from England more favourable. The alliance was regarded by all the Onslows very favourably. Nothing could be nicer than such a marriage! They already knew dear Isa so well by description! But as for the money,—that could not in any way be forthcoming till the end of the stipulated period.

“And what shall we do?” said Herbert to Papa Heine.

“You must wait,” said he.

“For four years?” asked Herbert.

“You must wait,—as I did,” said Papa Heine. “I was forty before I could marry.” Papa Heine, however, should not have forgotten to say that his bride was only twenty, and that if he had waited, she had not.

“Isa,” Herbert said to her, when all this had been fully explained to her, “what do you say now?”

“Of course it is all over,” said she, very calmly.

“Oh, Isa, is that your love?”

“No, Herbert, that is not my love; that is my discretion;” and she even laughed with her mild low laughter, as she answered him. “You know you are too impatient to wait four years, and what else therefore can I say?”

“I wonder whether you love me?” said Herbert, with a grand look of injured sentiment.

“Well; in your sense of the word I do not think I do. I do not love you so that I need make every one around us unhappy because circumstances forbid me to marry you. That sort of love would be baneful.”

“Ah no, you do not know what love means!”

“Not your boisterous, heartbreaking English love, Herbert. And, Herbert, sometimes I think you had better go home and look for a bride there. Though you fancy that you love me, in your heart you hardly approve of me.”

“Fancy that I love you! Do you think, Isa, that a man can carry his heart round to one customer after another as the huckster carries his wares?”

“Yes; I think he can. I know that men do. What did your hero Waverley do with his heart in that grand English novel which you gave me to read? I am not Flora Mac Ivor, but you may find a Rose Bradwardine.”

“And you really wish me to do so?”

“Look here, Herbert. It is bad to boast, but I will make this boast. I am so little selfish, that I desire above all that you should do that which may make you most happy and contented. I will be quite frank with you. I love you well enough to wait these four years with the hope of becoming your wife when they are over. But you will think but little of my love when I tell you that this waiting would not make me unhappy. I should go on as I do now, and be contented.”

“Oh heavens!” sighed Herbert.

“But as I know that this would not suit you,—as I feel sure that such delay would gall you every day, as I doubt whether it would not make you sick of me long before the four years be over,—my advice is, that we should let this matter drop.”

He now walked up to her and took her hand, and as he did so there was something in his gait and look and tone of voice that stirred her heart more sharply than it had yet been stirred. “And even that would not make you unhappy,” he said.

She paused before she replied, leaving her hand in his, for he was contented to hold it without peculiar pressure. “I will not say so,” she replied. “But, Herbert, I think that you press me too hard. Is it not enough that I leave you to be the arbiter of my destiny?”

“I would learn the very truth of your heart,” he replied.

“I cannot tell you that truth more plainly. Methinks I have told it too plainly already. If you wish it, I will hold myself as engaged to you,—to be married to you when those four years are past. But, remember, I do not advise it. If you wish it, you shall have back your troth. And that I think will be the wiser course.”

But neither alternative contented Herbert Onslow, and at the time he did not resolve on either. He had some little present income from home, some fifty pounds a year or so, and he would be satisfied to marry on that and on his salary as a clerk; but to this papa and mamma Heine would not consent;—neither would Isa.

“You are not a saving, close man,” she said to him when he boasted of his economies. “No Englishmen are. You could not live comfortably in two small rooms, and with bad dinners.”

“I do not care a straw about my dinners.”

“Not now that you are a lover, but you would do when you were a husband. And you change your linen almost every day.”

“Bah!”

“Yes; bah, if you please. But I know what these things cost. You had better go to England and fetch a rich wife. Then you will become a partner at once, and Uncle Hatto won’t snub you. And you will be a grand man, and have a horse to ride on.” Whereupon Herbert went away in disgust. Nothing in all this made him so unhappy as the feeling that Isa, under all their joint privations, would not be unhappy herself. As far as he could see, all this made no difference in Isa.

But, in truth, he had not yet read Isa’s character very thoroughly. She had spoken truly in saying that she knew nothing of that boisterous love which was now tormenting him and making him gloomy; but nevertheless she loved him. She, in her short life, had learnt many lessons of self-denial; and now with reference to this half-promised husband she would again have practised such a lesson. Had he agreed at once to go from her, she would have balanced her own account within her own breast, and have kept to herself all her sufferings. There would have been no outward show of baffled love,—none even in the colour of her cheeks; for such was the nature of her temperament. But she did suffer for him. Day by day she began to think that his love, though boisterous as she had at first called it, was more deep-seated than she had believed. He made no slightest sign that he would accept any of those proffers which she had made him of release. Though he said so loudly that this waiting for four years was an impossibility, he spoke of no course that would be more possible,—except that evidently impossible course of an early marriage. And thus, while he with redoubled vehemence charged her with coolness and want of love, her love waxed warmer and warmer, and his happiness became the chief object of her thoughts. What could she do that he might no longer suffer?

And then he took a step which was very strange to them all. He banished himself altogether from the house, going away again into lodgings. “No,” he said, on the morning of his departure, “I do not release you. I will never release you. You are mine, and I have a right so to call you. If you choose to release yourself, I cannot help it; but in doing so you will be forsworn.”

“Nay, but, Herbert, I have sworn to nothing,” said she, meaning that she had not been formally betrothed to him.

“You can do as you please; it is a matter of conscience; but I tell you what are my feelings. Here I cannot stay, for I should go mad; but I shall see you occasionally;—perhaps on Sundays.”

“Oh, Herbert!”

“Well, what would you have? If you really cared to see me it would not be thus. All I ask of you now is this, that if you decide,—absolutely decide on throwing me over, you will tell me at once. Then I shall leave Munich.”

“Herbert, I will never throw you over.” So they parted, and Onslow went forth to his new lodgings.

Her promise that she would never throw him over was the warmest word of love that she had ever spoken, but even that was said in her own quiet, unimpassioned way. There was in it but very little show of love, though there might be an assurance of constancy. But her constancy he did not, in truth, much doubt. Four years,—fourteen,—or twenty-four, would be the same to her, he said, as he seated himself in the dull, cold room which he had chosen. While living in the Ludwigs Strasse he did not know how much had been daily done for his comfort by that hand which he had been so seldom allowed to press; but he knew that he was now cold and comfortless, and he wished himself back in the Ludwigs Strasse.

“Mamma,” said Isa, when they were alone. “Is not Uncle Hatto rather hard on us? Papa said that he would ask this as a favour from his brother.”

“So he did, my dear; and offered to give up more of his own time. But your Uncle Hatto is hard.”

“He is rich, is he not?”

“Well; your father says not. Your father says that he spends all his income. Though he is hard and obstinate, he is not selfish. He is very good to the poor, but I believe he thinks that early marriages are very foolish.”

“Mamma,” said Isa again, when they had sat for some minutes in silence over their work.

“Well, my love?”

“Have you spoken to Uncle Hatto about this?”

“No, dear; not since that day when your papa and I first went to him. To tell the truth, I am almost afraid to speak to him; but, if you wish it, I will do so.”

“I do wish it, mamma. But you must not think that I am discontented or impatient. I do not know that I have any right to ask my uncle for his money;—for it comes to that.”

“I suppose it does, my dear.”

“And as for myself, I am happy here with you and papa. I do not think so much of these four years.”

“You would still be young, Isa;—quite young enough.”

“And what if I were not young? What does it matter? But, mamma, there has been that between Herbert and me which makes me feel myself bound to think of him. As you and papa have sanctioned it, you are bound to think of him also. I know that he is unhappy, living there all alone.”

“But why did he go, dear?”

“I think he was right to go. I could understand his doing that. He is not like us, and would have been fretful here, wanting that which I could not give him. He became worse from day to day, and was silent and morose. I am glad he went. But, mamma, for his sake I wish that this could be shortened.”

Madame Heine told her daughter that she would, if Isa wished it, herself go to the Schrannen Platz, and see what could be done by talking to Uncle Hatto. “But,” she added, “I fear that no good will come of it.”

“Can harm come, mamma?”

“No, I do not think harm can come.”

“I’ll tell you what, mamma, I will go to Uncle Hatto myself, if you will let me. He is cross I know; but I shall not be afraid of him. I feel that I ought to do something.” And so the matter was settled, Madame Heine being by no means averse to escape a further personal visit to the Head of the banking establishment.

Madame Heine well understood what her daughter meant, when she said she ought to do something, though Isa feared that she had imperfectly expressed her meaning. When he, Herbert, was willing to do so much to prove his love,—when he was ready to sacrifice all the little comforts of comparative wealth to which he had been accustomed, in order that she might be his companion and wife,—did it not behove her to give some proof of her love also? She could not be demonstrative as he was. Such exhibition of feeling would be quite contrary to her ideas of female delicacy, and to her very nature. But if called on to work for him, that she could do as long as strength remained to her. But there was no sacrifice which would be of service, nor any work which would avail. Therefore she was driven to think what she might do on his behalf, and at last she resolved to make her personal appeal to Uncle Hatto.

“Shall I tell papa?” Isa asked of her mother.

“I will do so,” said Madame Heine. And then the younger member of the firm was informed as to the step which was to be taken; and he, though he said nothing to forbid the attempt, held out no hope that it would be successful.

Uncle Hatto was a little snuffy man, now full seventy years of age, who passed seven hours of every week-day of his life in the dark back chamber behind the banking-room of the firm, and he had so passed every week-day of his life for more years than any of the family could now remember. He had made the house what it was, and had taken his brother into partnership when that brother married. All the family were somewhat afraid of him, including even his partner. He rarely came to the apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse, as he himself lived in one of the older and shabbier suburbs on the other side of the town. Thither he always walked, starting punctually from the bank at four o’clock, and from thence he always walked in the morning, reaching the bank punctually at nine. His two nieces knew him well; for on certain stated days they were wont to attend on him at his lodgings, where they would be regaled with cakes, and afterwards go with him to some old-fashioned beer-garden in his neighbourhood. But these festivities were of a sombre kind; and if, on any occasion, circumstances prevented the fulfilment of the ceremony, neither of the girls would be loud in their lamentations.

In London, a visit paid by a niece to her uncle would, in all probability, be made at the uncle’s private residence; but at Munich private and public matters were not so effectually divided. Isa therefore, having put on her hat and shawl, walked off by herself to the Schrannen Platz.

“Is Uncle Hatto inside?” she asked; and the answer was given to her by her own lover. Yes, he was within; but the old clerk was with him. Isa, however, signified her wish to see her uncle alone, and in a few minutes the ancient grey-haired servant of the house came out into the larger room.

“You can go in now, Miss Isa,” he said. And Isa found herself in the presence of her uncle before she had been two minutes under the roof. In the mean time Ernest Heine, her father, had said not a word, and Herbert knew that something very special must be about to occur.

“Well, my bonny bird,” said Uncle Hatto, “and what do you want at the bank?” Cheery words, such as these, were by no means uncommon with Uncle Hatto; but Isa knew very well that no presage could be drawn from them of any special good nature or temporary weakness on his part.

“Uncle Hatto,” she began, rushing at once into the middle of her affair, “you know, I believe, that I am engaged to marry Herbert Onslow?”

“I know no such thing,” said he. “I thought I understood your father specially to say that there had been no betrothal.”

“No, Uncle Hatto, there has been no betrothal; that certainly is true; but, nevertheless, we are engaged to each other.”

“Well,” said Uncle Hatto, very sourly; and now there was no longer any cheery tone, or any calling of pretty names.

“Perhaps you may think all this very foolish,” said Isa, who, spite of her resolves to do so, was hardly able to look up gallantly into her uncle’s face as she thus talked of her own love affairs.

“Yes, I do,” said Uncle Hatto. “I do think it foolish for young people to hold themselves betrothed before they have got anything to live on, and so I have told your father. He answered me by saying that you were not betrothed.”

“Nor are we. Papa is quite right in that.”

“Then, my dear, I would advise you to tell the young man that, as neither of you have means of your own, the thing must be at an end. It is the only step for you to take. If you agreed to wait, one of you might die, or his money might never be forth coming, or you might see somebody else that you liked better.”

“I don’t think I shall do that.”

“You can’t tell. And if you don’t, the chances are ten to one that he will.”

This little blow, which was intended to be severe, did not hit Isa at all hard. That plan of a Rose Bradwardine she herself had proposed in good faith, thinking that she could endure such a termination to the affair without flinching. She was probably wrong in this estimate of her power; but, nevertheless, her present object was his release from unhappiness and doubt, not her own.

“It might be so,” she said.

“Take my word for it, it would. Look all around. There was Adelaide Schropner,—but that was before your time, and you would not remember.” Considering that Adelaide Schropner had been for many years a grandmother, it was probable that Isa would not remember.

“But, Uncle Hatto, you have not heard me. I want to say something to you, if it will not take too much of your time.” In answer to which, Uncle Hatto muttered something which was unheeded, to signify that Isa might speak.

“I also think that a long engagement is a foolish thing, and so does Herbert.”

“But he wants to marry at once.”

“Yes, he wants to marry—perhaps not at once, but soon.”

“And I suppose you have come to say that you want the same thing.”

Isa blushed ever so faintly as she commenced her answer. “Yes, uncle, I do wish the same thing. What he wishes, I wish.”

“Very likely,—very likely.”

“Don’t be scornful to me, uncle. When two people love each other, it is natural that each should wish that which the other earnestly desires.”

“Oh, very natural, my dear, that you should wish to get married!”

“Uncle Hatto, I did not think that you would be unkind to me, though I knew that you would be stern.”

“Well, go on. What have you to say? I am not stern; but I have no doubt you will think me unkind. People are always unkind who do not do what they are asked.”

“Papa says that Herbert Onslow is some day to become a partner in the bank.”

“That depends on certain circumstances. Neither I nor your papa can say whether he will or no.”

But Isa went on as though she had not heard the last reply. “I have come to ask you to admit him as a partner at once.”

“Ah, I supposed so;—just as you might ask me to give you a new ribbon.”

“But, uncle, I never did ask you to give me a new ribbon. I never asked you to give me anything for myself; nor do I ask this for myself.”

“Do you think that if I could do it,—which of course I can’t,—I would not sooner do it for you, who are my own flesh and blood, than for him, who is a stranger?”

“Nay; he is no stranger. He has sat at your desk and obeyed your orders for nearly four years. Papa says that he has done well in the bank.”

“Humph! If every clerk that does well,—pretty well, that is,—wanted a partnership, where should we be, my dear? No, my dear, go home and tell him when you see him in the evening that all this must be at an end. Men’s places in the world are not given away so easily as that. They must either be earned or purchased. Herbert Onslow has as yet done neither, and therefore he is not entitled to take a wife. I should have been glad to have had a wife at his age,—at least I suppose I should, but at any rate I could not afford it.”

But Isa had by no means as yet done. So far the interview had progressed exactly as she had anticipated. She had never supposed it possible that her uncle would grant her so important a request as soon as she opened her mouth to ask it. She had not for a moment expected that things would go so easily with her. Indeed she had never expected that any success would attend her efforts; but, if any success were possible, the work which must achieve that success must now commence. It was necessary that she should first state her request plainly before she began to urge it with such eloquence as she had at her command.

“I can understand what you say, Uncle Hatto.”

“I am glad of that, at any rate.”

“And I know that I have no right to ask you for anything.”

“I do not say that. Anything in reason, that a girl like you should ask of her old uncle, I would give you.”

“I have no such reasonable request to make, uncle. I have never wanted new ribbons from you or gay toys. Even from my own mother I have not wanted them;—not wanted them faster than they seemed to come without any asking.”

“No, no; you have been a good girl.”

“I have been a happy girl; and quite happy with those I loved, and with what Providence had given me. I had nothing to ask for. But now I am no longer happy, nor can I be unless you do for me this which I ask of you. I have wanted nothing till now, and now in my need I come to you.”

“And now you want a husband with a fortune!”

“No!” and that single word she spoke, not loudly, for her voice was low and soft, but with an accent which carried it sharply to his ear and to his brain. And then she rose from her seat as she went on. “Your scorn, uncle, is unjust,—unjust and untrue. I have ever acted maidenly, as has become my mother’s daughter.”

“Yes, yes, yes;—I believe that.”

“And I can say more than that for myself. My thoughts have been the same, nor have my wishes even, ever gone beyond them. And when this young man came to me, telling me of his feelings, I gave him no answer till I had consulted my mother.”

“She should have bade you not to think of him.”

“Ah, you are not a mother, and cannot know. Why should I not think of him when he was good and kind, honest and hardworking? And then he had thought of me first. Why should I not think of him? Did not mamma listen to my father when he came to her?”

“But your father was forty years old, and had a business.”

“You gave it him, Uncle Hatto. I have heard him say.”

“And therefore I am to do as much for you. And then next year Agnes will come to me; and so before I die I shall see you all in want, with large families. No, Isa; I will not scorn you, but this thing I cannot do.”

“But I have not told you all yet. You say that I want a husband.”

“Well, well; I did not mean to say it harshly.”

“I do want—to be married.” And here her courage failed her a little, and for a moment her eye fell to the ground. “It is true, uncle. He has asked me whether I could love him, and I have told him I could. He has asked me whether I would be his wife, and I have given him a promise. After that, must not his happiness be my happiness, and his misery my misery? Am I not his wife already before God?”

“No, no,” said Uncle Hatto, loudly.

“Ah, but I am. None feel the strength of the bonds but those who are themselves bound. I know my duty to my father and mother, and with God’s help I will do it, but I am not the less bound to him. Without their approval I will not stand with him at the altar; but not the less is my lot joined to his for this world. Nothing could release me from that but his wish.”

“And he will wish it in a month or two.”

“Excuse me, Uncle Hatto, but in that I can only judge for myself as best I may. He has loved me now for two years—”

“Psha!”

“And whether it be wise or foolish, I have sanctioned it. I cannot now go back with honour, even if my own heart would let me. His welfare must be my welfare, and his sorrow my sorrow. Therefore I am bound to do for him anything that a girl may do for the man she loves; and, as I knew of no other resource, I come to you to help me.”

“And he, sitting out there, knows what you are saying.”

“Most certainly not. He knows no more than that he has seen me enter this room.”

“I am glad of that, because I would not wish that he should be disappointed. In this matter, my dear, I cannot do anything for you.”

“And that is your last answer, uncle?”

“Yes, indeed. When you come to think over this some twenty years hence, you will know then that I am right, and that your request was unreasonable.