Ernest Maltravers — Complete

“Because I shall never see him on earth, and they do not marry in heaven, sir.”

The banker was moved, for he was not worse than his neighbours, though trying to make them believe he was so much better.

“Well, time enough to talk of that; but in the meanwhile you would support yourself?”

“Yes, sir. His child ought to be a burden to none—nor I either. I once wished to die, but then who would love my little one? Now I wish to live.”

“But what mode of livelihood would you prefer? Would you go into a family, in some capacity?—not that of a servant—you are too delicate for that.”

“Oh, no—no!”

“But, again, why?” asked the banker, soothingly, yet surprised.

“Because,” said Alice, almost solemnly, “there are some hours when I feel I must be alone. I sometimes think I am not all right here,” and she touched her forehead. “They called me an idiot before I knew him!—No, I could not live with others, for I can only cry when nobody but my child is with me.”

This was said with such unconscious, and therefore with such pathetic, simplicity, that the banker was sensibly affected. He rose, stirred the fire, resettled himself, and, after a pause, said emphatically: “Alice, I will be your friend. Let me believe you will deserve it.”

Alice bent her graceful head, and seeing that he had sunk into an abstracted silence, she thought it time for her to withdraw.

“She is, indeed, beautiful,” said the banker, almost aloud, when he was alone; “and the old lady is right—she is as innocent as if she had not fallen. I wonder—” Here he stopped short, and walked to the glass over the mantelpiece, where he was still gazing on his own features, when Mrs. Leslie returned.

“Well, sir,” said she, a little surprised at this seeming vanity in so pious a man.

The banker started. “Madam, I honour your penetration as much as your charity; I think that there is so much to be feared in letting all the world know this young female’s past error, that, though I dare not advise, I cannot blame, your concealment of it.”

“But, sir, your words have sunk deep into my thoughts; you said every deviation from truth was a forfeiture of duty.”

“Certainly; but there are some exceptions. The world is a bad world, we are born in sin; and the children of wrath. We do not tell infants all the truth, when they ask us questions, the proper answers of which would mislead, not enlighten them. In some things the whole world are infants. The very science of government is the science of concealing truth—so is the system of trade. We could not blame the tradesman for not telling the public that if all his debts were called in he would be a bankrupt.”

“And he may marry her after all—this Mr. Butler.”

“Heaven forbid—the villain!—Well, madam, I will see to this poor young thing—she shall not want a guide.”

“Heaven reward you! How wicked some people are to call you severe!”

“I can bear that blame with a meek temper, madam. Good day.”

“Good day. You will remember how strictly confidential has been our conversation.”

“Not a breath shall transpire. I will send you some tracts to-morrow—so comforting. Heaven bless you!”

This difficulty smoothed, Mrs. Leslie, to her astonishment, found that she had another to contend with in Alice herself. For, first, Alice conceived that to change her name and keep her secret was to confess that she ought to be ashamed, rather than proud, of her love to Ernest, and she thought that so ungrateful to him!—and, secondly, to take his name, to pass for his wife—what presumption—he would certainly have a right to be offended! At these scruples Mrs. Leslie well-nigh lost all patience; and the banker, to his own surprise, was again called in. We have said that he was an experienced and skilful adviser, which implies the faculty of persuasion. He soon saw the handle by which Alice’s obstinacy might always be moved—her little girl’s welfare. He put this so forcibly before her eyes; he represented the child’s future fate as resting so much, not only on her own good conduct, but on her outward respectability, that he prevailed upon her at last; and, perhaps, one argument that he incidentally used, had as much effect on her as the rest. “This Mr. Butler, if yet in England, may pass through our town—may visit amongst us—may hear you spoken of by a name similar to his own, and curiosity would thus induce him to seek you. Take his name, and you will always bear an honourable index to your mutual discovery and recognition. Besides, when you are respectable, honoured, and earning an independence, he may not be too proud to marry you. But take your own name, avow your own history, and not only will your child be an outcast, yourself a beggar, or, at best, a menial dependant, but you lose every hope of recovering the object of your too-devoted attachment.”

Thus Alice was convinced. From that time she became close and reserved in her communications. Mrs. Leslie had wisely selected a town sufficiently remote from her own abode to preclude any revelations of her domestics; and, as Mrs. Butler, Alice attracted universal sympathy and respect from the exercise of her talents, the modest sweetness of her manners, the unblemished propriety of her conduct. Somehow or other, no sooner did she learn the philosophy of concealment than she made a great leap in knowledge of the world. And, though flattered and courted by the young loungers of C———, she steered her course with so much address that she was never persecuted. For there are few men in the world who make advances where there is no encouragement.

The banker observed her conduct with silent vigilance. He met her often, he visited her often. He was intimate at houses where she attended to teach or perform. He lent her good books—he advised her—he preached to her. Alice began to look up to him—to like him—to consider him as a village girl in Catholic countries may consider a benevolent and kindly priest. And he—what was his object?—at that time it is impossible to guess:—he became thoughtful and abstracted.

One day an old maid and an old clergyman met in the High Street of C———.

“And how do you do, ma’am?” said the clergyman; “how is the rheumatism?”

“Better, thank you, sir. Any news?”

The clergyman smiled, and something hovered on his lips, which he suppressed.

“Were you,” the old maid resumed, “at Mrs. Macnab’s last night? Charming music?”

“Charming! How pretty that Mrs. Butler is! and how humble! Knows her station—so unlike professional people.”

“Yes, indeed!—What attention a certain banker paid her!”

“He! he! he! yes; he is very fatherly—very!”

“Perhaps he will marry again; he is always talking of the holy state of matrimony—a holy state it may be—but Heaven knows, his wife, poor woman, did not make it a pleasant one.”

“There may be more causes for that than we guess of,” said the clergyman, mysteriously. “I would not be uncharitable, but—”

“But what?”

“Oh, when he was young, our great man was not so correct, I fancy, as he is now.”

“So I have heard it whispered; but nothing against him was ever known.”

“Hem—it is very odd!”

“What’s very odd?”

“Why, but it’s a secret—I dare say it’s all very right.”

“Oh, I sha’n’t say a word. Are you going to the cathedral?—don’t let me keep you standing. Now, pray proceed!”

“Well, then, yesterday I was doing duty in a village more than twenty miles hence, and I loitered in the village to take an early dinner; and, afterwards, while my horse was feeding, I strolled down the green.”

“Well—well?”

“And I saw a gentleman muffled carefully up, with his hat slouched over his face, at the door of a cottage, with a little child in his arms, and he kissed it more fondly than, be we ever so good, we generally kiss other people’s children; and then he gave it to a peasant woman standing near him, and mounted his horse, which was tied to the gate, and trotted past me; and who do you think this was?”

“Patience me—I can’t guess!”

“Why, our saintly banker. I bowed to him, and I assure you he turned as red, ma’am, as your waistband.”

“My!”

“I just turned into the cottage when he was out of sight, for I was thirsty, and asked for a glass of water, and I saw the child. I declare I would not be uncharitable, but I thought it monstrous like—you know whom!”

“Gracious! you don’t say—”

“I asked the woman ‘if it was hers?’ and she said ‘No,’ but was very short.”