One Of Them

“Yes,” resumed she, as if reflecting aloud, “love is the one sole dissipation of these student men, and, so to say, it runs through the dull-colored woof of their whole after-life, like a single gold thread glittering here and there at long intervals, and it gives them those dreamy fits of imaginative bliss which their quiet helpmates trustfully ascribe to some intellectual triumph. And it is in these the poor curate forgets his sermon, and the village doctor his patient, thinking of some moss-rose he had plucked long ago!”

“Do you believe that, Loo?” asked the girl, eagerly.

“I know it, dear; and what’s more, it is these very men are the best of husbands, the kindest and the tenderest. The perfume of an early love keeps the heart pure for many a long year after. Let us take Layton, for instance.”

“But why Mr. Layton? What do we know about him?”

“Not much, certainly; but enough to illustrate our meaning. It is quite clear he is desperately in love.”

“With whom, pray?” Asked May. And her face became crimson as she spoke.

“With a young lady who cannot speak of him without blushing,” said Mrs. Morris, calmly; and continued: “At first sight it does seem a very cruel thing to inspire such a man with a hopeless passion, yet, on second thought, we see what a stream of sunlight this early memory will throw over the whole bleak landscape of his after-life. You are his torture now, but you will be his benefactor in many a dark hour of the dreary pilgrimage before him. There will be touches of tenderness in that ode he ‘ll send to the magazine; there will be little spots of sweet melancholy in that village story; men will never know whence they found their way into the curate’s heart. How little aware are they that there’s a corner there for old memories, embalmed amongst holier thoughts, – a withered rose-leaf between the pages of a prayer-book!”

May again sighed, and with a tremor in the cadence that was almost a sob.

“So that,” resumed the other, in a more flippant voice, “you can forgive yourself for your present cruelty, by thinking of all the benefits you are to bestow hereafter, and all this without robbing your rightful lord of one affection, one solitary emotion, he has just claim to. And that, my sweet May, is more than you can do with your worldly wealth, for, against every check you send your banker, the cashier’s book will retain the record.”

“You only confuse me with all this,” said May, pettishly. “I came for counsel.”

“And I have given you more, – I have given you consolation. I wish any one would be as generous with me!”

“Oh, you are not angry with me!” cried the girl, earnestly.

“Angry! no, dearest, a passing moment of selfish regret is not anger, but it is of you, not of me, I would speak; tell me everything. Has Charles spoken to you?”

“Not a word. It may be indifference, or it may be that, in a sense of security about the future, he does not care to trouble himself.”

“Nay, scarcely that,” said the other, thoughtfully.

“Whatever the cause, you will own it is not very flattering to me,” said she, flushing deeply.

“And Mr. Layton, – is he possessed of the same calm philosophy? Has he the same trustful reliance on destiny?” said Mrs. Morris, who, apparently examining the lace border of her handkerchief, yet stole a passing glance at the other’s face.

“How can you ask such a question? What is he to me, or I to him? If he ever thought of me, besides, he must have remembered that the difference of station between us presents an insurmountable objection.”

“As if Love asked for anything better,” cried Mrs. Morris, laughingly. “Why, dearest, the passion thrives on insurmountable objections, just the way certain fish swallow stones, not for nutriment, but to aid digestion by a difficulty. If he be the man I take him for, he must hug an obstacle to his heart as a Heaven-sent gift. Be frank with me, May,” said she, passing her arm affectionately round her waist; “confess honestly that he told you as much.”

“No; he never said that,” muttered she, half reluctantly. “What he said was that if disparity of condition was the only barrier between us, – if he were sure, or if he could even hope, that worldly success could open an avenue to my heart – ”

“That he ‘d go and be Prime Minister of England next session.

‘If doughty deeds
My lady please!’

That was his tone, was it? Oh dear! and I fancied the man had something new or original about him. Truth is, dearest, it is in love as in war, – there are nothing but the same old weapons to fight with, and we are lost or won just as our great-great-grandmothers were before us.”

“I wish you would be serious, Lucy,” said the girl, half rebukefully.

“Don’t you know me well enough by this time to perceive that I am never more thoughtful than in what seems my levity? and this on principle, too, for in the difficulties of life Fancy will occasionally suggest a remedy Reason had never hit upon, just as sportsmen will tell you that a wild, untrained spaniel will often flush a bird a more trained dog had never ‘marked.’ And now, to be most serious, you want to choose between the eligible man who is sure of you, and the most unequal suitor who despairs of his success. Is not that your case?”

May shook her head dissentingly.

“Well, it is sufficiently near the issue for our purpose. Not so? Come, then, I ‘ll put it differently. You are balancing whether to refuse your fortune to Charles Heathcote or yourself to Alfred Layton; and my advice is, do both.”

May grew very pale, and, after an effort to say something, was silent.

“Yes, dearest, between the man who never pledges to pay and him who offers a bad promissory note, there is scant choice, and I ‘d say, take neither.”

“I know how it will wound my dear old guardian, who loves me like a daughter,” began May. But the other broke in, —

“Oh! there are scores of things one can do in life to oblige one’s friends, but marriage is not one of them. And then, bethink you, May, how little you have seen of the world; and surely there is a wider choice before you than between a wearied lounger on half-pay and a poor tutor.”

“Yes; a poor tutor if you will, but of a name and family the equal of my own,” said May, hastily, and with a dash of temper in the words.

“Who says so? Who has told you that?”

“He himself. He told me that though there were some painful circumstances in his family history he would rather not enter upon, that, in point of station, he yielded to none in the rank of untitled gentry. He spoke of his father as a man of the very highest powers.”

“Did he tell you what station he occupied at this moment?”

“No. And do you know it?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morris, gravely.

“Will you not tell me, Lucy?” asked May, eagerly.

“No; there is not any reason that I should. You have just said, ‘What is Mr. Layton to me, or I to him?’ and in the face of such a confession why should I disparage him?”

“So, then, the confession would disparage him?”

“It might.”

“This reserve is not very generous towards me, I must say,” said the girl, passionately.

“It is from generosity to you that I maintain it,” said the other, coldly.

“But if I were to tell you that the knowledge interests me deeply; that by it I may possibly be guided in a most eventful decision?”

“Oh, if you mean to say, ‘Alfred Layton has asked me to marry him, and my reply depends upon what I may learn about his family and their station ‘ – ”

“No, no; I have not said that,” burst in May.

“Not said, only implied it. Still, if it be what you desire me to entertain, I will have no concealments from you.”

“I cannot buy your secret by a false pretence, Loo; there is no such compact as this between Layton and myself. Alfred asked me – ”

“Alfred!” said Mrs. Morris, repeating the name after her, and with such a significance as sent all the color to the girl’s cheek and forehead, – “Alfred! And what did Alfred ask you?”