Eugene Aram — Complete

“Humph.”

“Hold jaw! When I’m gone, Jacobina will have no one to feed her. She’ll feed herself—will go to every larder, every house in the place—your’s best larder, best house;—will come to you oftenest. If your wife attempts to drive her away, scratch her eyes out; if you disturb her, serve you worse than Joe Webster’s little boy:—wanted to prevent this—won’t now, d—d if I do!”

“But, Corporal, how would it mend the matter to take the devil in-doors?”

“Devil! Don’t call names. Did not I tell you, only one Jacobina does not hurt is her master?—make you her master: now d’ye see?”

“It is very hard,” said Peter grumblingly, “that the only way I can defend myself from this villainous creature is to take her into my house.”

“Villainous! You ought to be proud of her affection. She returns good for evil—she always loved you; see how she rubs herself against you—and that’s the reason why I selected you from the whole village, to take care of her; but you at once injure yourself and refuse to do your friend a service. Howsomever, you know I shall be with young Squire, and he’ll be master here one of these days, and I shall have an influence over him—you’ll see—you’ll see. Look that there’s not another ‘Spotted Dog’ set up—augh!—bother!”

“But what would my wife say, if I took the cat? she can’t abide its name.”

“Let me alone to talk to your wife. What would she say if I bring her from Lunnun Town a fine silk gown, or a neat shawl, with a blue border—blue becomes her; or a tay-chest—that will do for you both, and would set off the little back parlour. Mahogany tay-chest—inlaid at top—initials in silver—J. B. to D. and P. D.—two boxes for tay, and a bowl for sugar in the middle.—Ah! ah! Love me, love my cat! When was Jacob Bunting ungrateful?—augh!”

“Well, well! will you talk to Dorothy about it?”

“I shall have your consent, then? Thanks, my dear, dear Peter; ‘pon my soul you’re a fine fellow! you see, you’re great man of the parish. If you protect her, none dare injure; if you scout her, all set upon her. For as you said, or rather sung, t’other Sunday—capital voice you were in too—

“The mighty tyrants without cause Conspire her blood to shed!”

“I did not think you had so good a memory, Corporal,” said Peter smiling;—the cat was now curling itself up in his lap: “after all, Jacobina—what a deuce of a name—seems gentle enough.”

“Gentle as a lamb—soft as butter—kind as cream—and such a mouser!”

“But I don’t think Dorothy—”

“I’ll settle Dorothy.”

“Well, when will you look up?”

“Come and take a dish of tay with you in half an hour;—you want a new tay-chest; something new and genteel.”

“I think we do,” said Peter, rising and gently depositing the cat on the ground.

“Aha! we’ll see to it!—we’ll see! Good b’ye for the present—in half an hour be with you!”

The Corporal left alone with Jacobina, eyed her intently, and burst into the following pathetic address.

“Well, Jacobina! you little know the pains I takes to serve you—the lies I tells for you—endangered my precious soul for your sake, you jade! Ah! may well rub your sides against me. Jacobina! Jacobina! you be the only thing in the world that cares a button for me. I have neither kith nor kin. You are daughter—friend—wife to me: if any thing happened to you, I should not have the heart to love any thing else. Any body o’ me, but you be as kind as any mistress, and much more tractable than any wife; but the world gives you a bad name, Jacobina. Why? Is it that you do worse than the world do? You has no morality in you, Jacobina; well, but has the world?—no! But it has humbug—you have no humbug, Jacobina. On the faith of a man, Jacobina, you be better than the world!—baugh! You takes care of your own interest, but you takes care of your master’s too!—You loves me as well as yourself. Few cats can say the same, Jacobina! and no gossip that flings a stone at your pretty brindled skin, can say half as much. We must not forget your kittens, Jacobina;—you have four left—they must be provided for. Why not a cat’s children as well as a courtier’s? I have got you a comfortable home, Jacobina—take care of yourself, and don’t fall in love with every Tomcat in the place. Be sober, and lead a single life till my return. Come, Jacobina, we will lock up the house, and go and see the quarters I have provided for you.—Heigho!”

As he finished his harangue, the Corporal locked the door of his cottage, and Jacobina trotting by his side, he stalked with his usual stateliness to the Spotted Dog.

Dame Dorothy Dealtry received him with a clouded brow, but the man of the world knew whom he had to deal with. On Wednesday morning Jacobina was inducted into the comforts of the hearth of mine host;—and her four little kittens mewed hard by, from the sinecure of a basket lined with flannel.

Reader. Here is wisdom in this chapter: it is not every man who knows how to dispose of his cat!

CHAPTER XII.

A STRANGE HABIT.—WALTER’S INTERVIEW WITH MADELINE.—HER

GENEROUS AND CONFIDING DISPOSITION.—WALTER’S ANGER.—THE

PARTING MEAL.—CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE UNCLE AND NEPHEW.—

WALTER ALONE.—SLEEP THE BLESSING OF THE YOUNG

Fall. Out, out, unworthy to speak where he breatheth....

Punt. Well now, my whole venture is forth, I will resolve
to depart.

               —Ben Jonson.—Every Man out of his Humour.

It was now the eve before Walter’s departure, and on returning home from a farewell walk among his favourite haunts, he found Aram, whose visit had been made during Walter’s absence, now standing on the threshold of the door, and taking leave of Madeline and her father. Aram and Walter had only met twice before since the interview we recorded, and each time Walter had taken care that the meeting should be but of short duration. In these brief encounters, Aram’s manner had been even more gentle than heretofore; that of Walter’s, more cold and distant. And now, as they thus unexpectedly met at the door, Aram, looking at him earnestly, said:

“Farewell, Sir! You are to leave us for some time, I hear. Heaven speed you!” Then he added in a lower tone, “Will you take my hand, now, in parting?”

As he said, he put forth his hand,—it was the left.

“Let it be the right hand,” observed the elder Lester, smiling: “it is a luckier omen.”

“I think not,” said Aram, drily. And Walter noted that he had never remembered him to give his right hand to any one, even to Madeline; the peculiarity of this habit might, however, arise from an awkward early habit, it was certainly scarce worth observing, and Walter had already coldly touched the hand extended to him: when Lester carelessly renewed the subject.

“Is there any superstition,” said he gaily, “that makes you think, as some of the ancients did, the left hand luckier than the right?”

“Yes,” replied Aram; “a superstition. Adieu.”

The Student departed; Madeline slowly walked up one of the garden alleys, and thither Walter, after whispering to his uncle, followed her.

There is something in those bitter feelings, which are the offspring of disappointed love; something in the intolerable anguish of well-founded jealousy, that when the first shock is over, often hardens, and perhaps elevates the character. The sterner powers that we arouse within us to combat a passion that can no longer be worthily indulged, are never afterwards wholly allayed. Like the allies which a nation summons to its bosom to defend it from its foes, they expel the enemy only to find a settlement for themselves. The mind of every man who conquers an unfortunate attachment, becomes stronger than before; it may be for evil, it may be for good, but the capacities for either are more vigorous and collected.

The last few weeks had done more for Walter’s character than years of ordinary, even of happy emotion, might have effected. He had passed from youth to manhood, and with the sadness, had acquired also something of the dignity, of experience. Not that we would say that he had subdued his love, but he had made the first step towards it; he had resolved that at all hazards it should be subdued.

As he now joined Madeline, and she perceived him by her side, her embarrassment was more evident than his. She feared some avowal, and from his temper, perhaps some violence on his part. However, she was the first to speak: women, in such cases, always are.

“It is a beautiful evening,” said she, “and the sun set in promise of a fine day for your journey to-morrow.”

Walter walked on silently; his heart was full. “Madeline,” he said at length, “dear Madeline, give me your hand. Nay, do not fear me; I know what you think, and you are right; I loved—I still love you! but I know well that I can have no hope in making this confession; and when I ask you for your hand, Madeline, it is only to convince you that I have no suit to press; had I, I would not dare to touch that hand.”

Madeline, wondering and embarrassed, gave him her hand; he held it for a moment with a trembling clasp, pressed it to his lips, and then resigned it.

“Yes, Madeline, my cousin, my sweet cousin; I have loved you deeply, but silently, long before my heart could unravel the mystery of the feelings with which it glowed. But this—all this—it were now idle to repeat. I know that I have no hope of return; that the heart whose possession would have made my whole life a dream, a transport, is given to another. I have not sought you now, Madeline, to repine at this, or to vex you by the tale of any suffering I may endure: I am come only to give you the parting wishes, the parting blessing, of one, who, wherever he goes, or whatever befall him, will always think of you as the brightest and loveliest of human beings. May you be happy, yes even with another!”

“Oh, Walter!” said Madeline, affected to tears, “if I ever encouraged—if I ever led you to hope for more than the warm, the sisterly affection I bear you, how bitterly I should reproach myself!”

“You never did, dear Madeline; I asked for no inducement to love you,—I never dreamed of seeking a motive, or inquiring if I had cause to hope. But as I am now about to quit you, and as you confess you feel for me a sister’s affection, will you give me leave to speak to you as a brother might?”