IN two months more Frances had fulfilled the time of mourning forher aunt. One January morning--the first of the new yearholidays--I went in a fiacre, accompanied only by M. Vandenhuten,to the Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges, and having alighted alone andwalked upstairs, I found Frances apparently waiting for me,dressed in a style scarcely appropriate to that cold, bright,frosty day. Never till now had I seen her attired in any otherthan black or sad-coloured stuff; and there she stood by thewindow, clad all in white, and white of a most diaphanoustexture; her array was very simple, to be sure, but it lookedimposing and festal because it was so clear, full, and floating;a veil shadowed her head, and hung below her knee; a littlewreath of pink flowers fastened it to her thickly tressed Grecianplait, and thence it fell softly on each side of her face.Singular to state, she was, or had been crying; when I asked herif she were ready, she said "Yes, monsieur," with something verylike a checked sob; and when I took a shawl, which lay on thetable, and folded it round her, not only did tear after tearcourse unbidden down her cheek, but she shook to my ministrationlike a reed. I said I was sorry to see her in such low spirits,and requested to be allowed an insight into the origin thereof.She only said, "It was impossible to help it," and thenvoluntarily, though hurriedly, putting her hand into mine,accompanied me out of the room, and ran downstairs with a quick,uncertain step, like one who was eager to get some formidablepiece of business over. I put her into the fiacre. M.Vandenhuten received her, and seated her beside himself; we droveall together to the Protestant chapel, went through a certainservice in the Common Prayer Book, and she and I came outmarried. M. Vandenhuten had given the bride away.

We took no bridal trip; our modesty, screened by the peacefulobscurity of our station, and the pleasant isolation of ourcircumstances, did not exact that additional precaution. Werepaired at once to a small house I had taken in the faubourgnearest to that part of the city where the scene of ouravocations lay.

Three or four hours after the wedding ceremony, Frances, divestedof her bridal snow, and attired in a pretty lilac gown of warmermaterials, a piquant black silk apron, and a lace collar withsome finishing decoration of lilac ribbon, was kneeling on thecarpet of a neatly furnished though not spacious parlour,arranging on the shelves of a chiffoniere some books, which Ihanded to her from the table. It was snowing fast out of doors;the afternoon had turned out wild and cold; the leaden sky seemedfull of drifts, and the street was already ankle-deep in thewhite downfall. Our fire burned bright, our new habitationlooked brilliantly clean and fresh, the furniture was allarranged, and there were but some articles of glass, china,books, &c., to put in order. Frances found in this businessoccupation till tea-time, and then, after I had distinctlyinstructed her how to make a cup of tea in rational Englishstyle, and after she had got over the dismay occasioned by seeingsuch an extravagant amount of material put into the pot, sheadministered to me a proper British repast, at which there wantedneither candies nor urn, fire-light nor comfort.

Our week's holiday glided by, and we readdressed ourselves tolabour. Both my wife and I began in good earnest with the notionthat we were working people, destined to earn our bread byexertion, and that of the most assiduous kind. Our days werethoroughly occupied; me used to part every morning at eighto'clock, and not meet again till five P.M.; but into what sweetrest did the turmoil of each busy day decline! Looking down thevista, of memory, I see the evenings passed in that littleparlour like a long string of rubies circling the dusk brow ofthe past. Unvaried were they as each cut gem, and like each gembrilliant and burning.

A year and a half passed. One morning (it was a FETE, and we hadthe day to ourselves) Frances said to me, with a suddennesspeculiar to her when she had been thinking long on a subject, andat last, having come to a conclusion, wished to test itssoundness by the touchstone of my judgment:--

"I don't work enough."

"What now ?" demanded I, looking up from my coffee, which I hadbeen deliberately stirring while enjoying, in anticipation, awalk I proposed to take with Frances, that fine summer day (itwas June), to a certain farmhouse in the country, where we wereto dine. "What now?" and I saw at once, in the serious ardour ofher face, a project of vital importance.

"I am not satisfied" returned she: "you are now earning eightthousand francs a year" (it was true; my efforts, punctuality,the fame of my pupils' progress, the publicity of my station, hadso far helped me on), "while I am still at my miserable twelvehundred francs. I CAN do better, and I WILL."

"You work as long and as diligently as I do, Frances."

"Yes, monsieur, but I am not working in the right way, and I amconvinced of it."

"You wish to change--you have a plan for progress in your mind;go and put on your bonnet; and, while we take our walk, you shalltell me of it."

"Yes, monsieur."

She went--as docile as a well-trained child; she was a curiousmixture of tractability and firmness: I sat thinking about her,and wondering what her plan could be, when she re-entered.

"Monsieur, I have given Minnie" (our bonne) "leave to go out too,as it is so very fine; so will you be kind enough to lock thedoor, and take the key with you?"

"Kiss me, Mrs. Crimsworth," was my not very apposite reply; butshe looked so engaging in her light summer dress and littlecottage bonnet, and her manner in speaking to me was then, asalways, so unaffectedly and suavely respectful, that my heartexpanded at the sight of her, and a kiss seemed necessary tocontent its importunity.

"There, monsieur."

"Why do you always call me 'Monsieur?' Say, 'William.'"

"I cannot pronounce your W; besides, 'Monsieur' belongs to you; Ilike it best."

Minnie having departed in clean cap and smart shawl, we, too, setout, leaving the house solitary and silent--silent, at least, butfor the ticking of the clock. We were soon clear of Brussels;the fields received us, and then the lanes, remote from carriage-resounding CHAUSSEES. Ere long we came upon a nook, so rural,green, and secluded, it might have been a spot in some pastoralEnglish province; a bank of short and mossy grass, under ahawthorn, offered a seat too tempting to be declined; we took it,and when we had admired and examined some English-lookingwild-flowers growing at our feet, I recalled Frances' attentionand my own to the topic touched on at breakfast.

"What was her plan?" A natural one--the next step to be mountedby us, or, at least, by her, if she wanted to rise in herprofession. She proposed to begin a school. We already had themeans for commencing on a careful scale, having lived greatlywithin our income. We possessed, too, by this time, an extensiveand eligible connection, in the sense advantageous to ourbusiness; for, though our circle of visiting acquaintancecontinued as limited as ever, we were now widely known in schoolsand families as teachers. When Frances had developed her plan,she intimated, in some closing sentences, her hopes for thefuture. If we only had good health and tolerable success, memight, she was sure, in time realize an independency; and that,perhaps, before we were too old to enjoy it; then both she and Iwould rest; and what was to hinder us from going to live inEngland? England was still her Promised Land.

I put no obstacle in her way; raised no objection; I knew she wasnot one who could live quiescent and inactive, or evencomparatively inactive. Duties she must have to fulfil, andimportant duties; work to do--and exciting, absorbing, profitablework; strong faculties stirred in her frame, and they demandedfull nourishment, free exercise: mine was not the hand ever tostarve or cramp them; no, I delighted in offering themsustenance, and in clearing them wider space for action.

"You have conceived a plan, Frances," said I, "and a good plan;execute it; you have my free consent, and wherever and whenevermy assistance is wanted, ask and you shall have."

Frances' eyes thanked me almost with tears; just a sparkle ortwo, soon brushed away; she possessed herself of my hand too, andheld it for some time very close clasped in both her own, but shesaid no more than "Thank you, monsieur."

We passed a divine day, and came home late, lighted by a fullsummer moon.

Ten years rushed now upon me with dusty, vibrating, unrestingwings; years of bustle, action, unslacked endeavour; years inwhich I and my wife, having launched ourselves in the full careerof progress, as progress whirls on in European capitals, scarcelyknew repose, were strangers to amusement, never thought ofindulgence, and yet, as our course ran side by side, as wemarched hand in hand, we neither murmured, repented, norfaltered. Hope indeed cheered us; health kept us up; harmony ofthought and deed smoothed many difficulties, and finally, successbestowed every now and then encouraging reward on diligence. Ourschool became one of the most popular in Brussels, and as bydegrees we raised our terms and elevated our system of education,our choice of pupils grew more select, and at length included thechildren of the best families in Belgium. We had too anexcellent connection in England, first opened by the unsolicitedrecommendation of Mr. Hunsden, who having been over, and havingabused me for my prosperity in set terms, went back, and soonafter sent a leash of young ---shire heiresses--his cousins; ashe said "to be polished off by Mrs. Crimsworth."

As to this same Mrs. Crimsworth, in one sense she was becomeanother woman, though in another she remained unchanged. Sodifferent was she under different circumstances. I seemed topossess two wives. The faculties of her nature, alreadydisclosed when I married her, remained fresh and fair; but otherfaculties shot up strong, branched out broad, and quite alteredthe external character of the plant. Firmness, activity, andenterprise, covered with grave foliage, poetic feeling andfervour; but these flowers were still there, preserved pure anddewy under the umbrage of later growth and hardier nature:perhaps I only in the world knew the secret of their existence,but to me they were ever ready to yield an exquisite fragranceand present a beauty as chaste as radiant.

In the daytime my house and establishment were conducted byMadame the directress, a stately and elegant woman, bearing muchanxious thought on her large brow; much calculated dignity in herserious mien: immediately after breakfast I used to part withthis lady; I went to my college, she to her schoolroom; returningfor an hour in the course of the day, I found her always inclass, intently occupied; silence, industry, observance,attending on her presence. When not actually teaching, she wasoverlooking and guiding by eye and gesture; she then appearedvigilant and solicitous. When communicating instruction, heraspect was more animated; she seemed to feel a certain enjoymentin the occupation. The language in which she addressed herpupils, though simple and unpretending, was never trite or dry;she did not speak from routine formulas--she made her own phrasesas she went on, and very nervous and impressive phrases theyfrequently were; often, when elucidating favourite points ofhistory, or geography, she would wax genuinely eloquent in herearnestness. Her pupils, or at least the elder and moreintelligent amongst them, recognized well the language of asuperior mind; they felt too, and some of them received theimpression of elevated sentiments; there was little fondlingbetween mistress and girls, but some of Frances' pupils in timelearnt to love her sincerely, all of them beheld her withrespect; her general demeanour towards them was serious;sometimes benignant when they pleased her with their progress andattention, always scrupulously refined and considerate. In caseswhere reproof or punishment was called for she was usuallyforbearing enough; but if any took advantage of that forbearance,which sometimes happened, a sharp, sudden and lightning-likeseverity taught the culprit the extent of the mistake committed.Sometimes a gleam of tenderness softened her eyes and manner, butthis was rare; only when a pupil was sick, or when it pined afterhome, or in the case of some little motherless child, or of onemuch poorer than its companions, whose scanty wardrobe and meanappointments brought on it the contempt of the jewelled youngcountesses and silk-clad misses. Over such feeble fledglings thedirectress spread a wing of kindliest protection: it was totheir bedside she came at night to tuck them warmly in; it wasafter them she looked in winter to see that they always had acomfortable seat by the stove; it was they who by turns weresummoned to the salon to receive some little dole of cake orfruit--to sit on a footstool at the fireside--to enjoy homecomforts, and almost home liberty, for an evening together--to bespoken to gently and softly, comforted, encouraged, cherished--and when bedtime came, dismissed with a kiss of truetenderness. As to Julia and Georgiana G ---, daughters of anEnglish baronet, as to Mdlle. Mathilde de ----, heiress of aBelgian count, and sundry other children of patrician race, thedirectress was careful of them as of the others, anxious fortheir progress, as for that of the rest--but it never seemed toenter her head to distinguish then by a mark of preference; onegirl of noble blood she loved dearly--a young Irish baroness--lady Catherine ---; but it was for her enthusiastic heart andclever head, for her generosity and her genius, the title andrank went for nothing.

My afternoons were spent also in college, with the exception ofan hour that my wife daily exacted of me for her establishment,and with which she would not dispense. She said that I must spendthat time amongst her pupils to learn their characters, to be AUCOURANT with everything that was passing in the house, to becomeinterested in what interested her, to be able to give her myopinion on knotty points when she required it, and this she didconstantly, never allowing my interest in the pupils to fallasleep, and never making any change of importance without mycognizance and consent. She delighted to sit by me when I gavemy lessons (lessons in literature), her hands folded on her knee,the most fixedly attentive of any present. She rarely addressedme in class; when she did it was with an air of marked deference;it was her pleasure, her joy to make me still the master in allthings.

At six o'clock P.M. my daily labours ceased. I then came home,for my home was my heaven; ever at that hour, as I entered ourprivate sitting-room, the lady-directress vanished from before myeyes, and Frances Henri, my own little lace-mender, was magicallyrestored to my arms; much disappointed she would have been if hermaster had not been as constant to the tryste as herself, and ifhis truthfull kiss had not been prompt to answer her soft, "Bonsoir, monsieur."

Talk French to me she would, and many a punishment she has hadfor her wilfulness. I fear the choice of chastisement must havebeen injudicious, for instead of correcting the fault, it seemedto encourage its renewal. Our evenings were our own; thatrecreation was necessary to refresh our strength for the duedischarge of our duties; sometimes we spent them all inconversation, and my young Genevese, now that she was thoroughlyaccustomed to her English professor, now that she loved him tooabsolutely to fear him much, reposed in him a confidence sounlimited that topics of conversation could no more be wantingwith him than subjects for communion with her own heart. Inthose moments, happy as a bird with its mate, she would show mewhat she had of vivacity, of mirth, of originality in herwell-dowered nature. She would show, too, some stores ofraillery, of "malice," and would vex, tease, pique me sometimesabout what she called my "bizarreries anglaises," my "capricesinsulaires," with a wild and witty wickedness that made a perfectwhite demon of her while it lasted. This was rare, however, andthe elfish freak was always short: sometimes when driven alittle hard in the war of words--for her tongue did ample justiceto the pith, the point, the delicacy of her native French, inwhich language she always attacked me--I used to turn upon herwith my old decision, and arrest bodily the sprite that teasedme. Vain idea! no sooner had I grasped hand or arm than the elfwas gone; the provocative smile quenched in the expressive browneyes, and a ray of gentle homage shone under the lids in itsplace. I had seized a mere vexing fairy, and found a submissiveand supplicating little mortal woman in my arms. Then I made herget a book, and read English to me for an hour by way of penance.I frequently dosed her with Wordsworth in this way, andWordsworth steadied her soon; she had a difficulty incomprehending his deep, serene, and sober mind; his language,too, was not facile to her; she had to ask questions, to sue forexplanations, to be like a child and a novice, and to acknowledgeme as her senior and director. Her instinct instantly penetratedand possessed the meaning of more ardent and imaginative writers.Byron excited her; Scott she loved; Wordsworth only she puzzledat, wondered over, and hesitated to pronounce an opinion upon.

But whether she read to me, or talked with me; whether she teasedme in French, or entreated me in English; whether she jested withwit, or inquired with deference; narrated with interest, orlistened with attention; whether she smiled at me or on me,always at nine o'clock I was left abandoned. She would extricateherself from my arms, quit my side, take her lamp, and be gone.Her mission was upstairs; I have followed her sometimes andwatched her. First she opened the door of the dortoir (thepupils' chamber), noiselessly she glided up the long room betweenthe two rows of white beds, surveyed all the sleepers; if anywere wakeful, especially if any were sad, spoke to them andsoothed them; stood some minutes to ascertain that all was safeand tranquil; trimmed the watch-light which burned in theapartment all night, then withdrew, closing the door behind herwithout sound. Thence she glided to our own chamber; it had alittle cabinet within; this she sought; there, too, appeared abed, but one, and that a very small one; her face (the night Ifollowed and observed her) changed as she approached this tinycouch; from grave it warmed to earnest; she shaded with one handthe lamp she held in the other; she bent above the pillow andhung over a child asleep; its slumber (that evening at least, andusually, I believe) was sound and calm; no tear wet its darkeyelashes; no fever heated its round cheek; no ill dreamdiscomposed its budding features. Frances gazed, she did notsmile, and yet the deepest delight filled, flushed her face;feeling pleasurable, powerful, worked in her whole frame, whichstill was motionless. I saw, indeed, her heart heave, her lipswere a little apart, her breathing grew somewhat hurried; thechild smiled; then at last the mother smiled too, and said in lowsoliloquy, "God bless my little son!" She stooped closer overhim, breathed the softest of kisses on his brow, covered hisminute hand with hers, and at last started up and came away. Iregained the parlour before her. Entering it two minutes latershe said quietly as she put down her extinguished lamp--

"Victor rests well: he smiled in his sleep; he has your smile,monsieur."

The said Victor was of course her own boy, born in the third yearof our marriage: his Christian name had been given him in honourof M. Vandenhuten, who continued always our trusty andwell-beloved friend.

Frances was then a good and dear wife to me, because I was to hera good, just, and faithful husband. What she would have been hadshe married a harsh, envious, careless man--a profligate, aprodigal, a drunkard, or a tyrant--is another question, and onewhich I once propounded to her. Her answer, given after somereflection, was--

"I should have tried to endure the evil or cure it for awhile;and when I found it intolerable and incurable, I should have leftmy torturer suddenly and silently."

"And if law or might had forced you back again?"

"What, to a drunkard, a profligate, a selfish spendthrift, anunjust fool?"

"Yes."

"I would have gone back; again assured myself whether or not hisvice and my misery were capable of remedy; and if not, have lefthim again."

"And if again forced to return, and compelled to abide?"

"I don't know," she said, hastily. "Why do you ask me,monsieur?"

I would have an answer, because I saw a strange kind of spirit inher eye, whose voice I determined to waken.

"Monsieur, if a wife's nature loathes that of the man she iswedded to, marriage must be slavery. Against slavery all rightthinkers revolt, and though torture be the price of resistance,torture must be dared: though the only road to freedom liethrough the gates of death, those gates must be passed; forfreedom is indispensable. Then, monsieur, I would resist as faras my strength permitted; when that strength failed I should besure of a refuge. Death would certainly screen me both from badlaws and their consequences."

"Voluntary death, Frances?"

"No, monsieur. I'd have courage to live out every throe ofanguish fate assigned me, and principle to contend for justiceand liberty to the last."

"I see you would have made no patient Grizzle. And now,supposing fate had merely assigned you the lot of an old maid,what then? How would you have liked celibacy?"

"Not much, certainly. An old maid's life must doubtless be voidand vapid--her heart strained and empty. Had I been an old maid Ishould have spent existence in efforts to fill the void and easethe aching. I should have probably failed, and died weary anddisappointed, despised and of no account, like other singlewomen. But I'm not an old maid," she added quickly. "I shouldhave been, though, but for my master. I should never have suitedany man but Professor Crimsworth--no other gentleman, French,English, or Belgian, would have thought me amiable or handsome;and I doubt whether I should have cared for the approbation ofmany others, if I could have obtained it. Now, I have beenProfessor Crimsworth's wife eight years, and what is he in myeyes? Is he honourable, beloved---?" She stopped, her voice wascut off, her eyes suddenly suffused. She and I were standingside by side; she threw her arms round me, and strained me to herheart with passionate earnestness: the energy of her whole beingglowed in her dark and then dilated eye, and crimsoned heranimated cheek; her look and movement were like inspiration; inone there was such a flash, in the other such a power. Half anhour afterwards, when she had become calm, I asked where all thatwild vigour was gone which had transformed her ere-while and madeher glance so thrilling and ardent--her action so rapid andstrong. She looked down, smiling softly and passively:--

"I cannot tell where it is gone, monsieur," said she, "but I knowthat, whenever it is wanted, it will come back again."

Behold us now at the close of the ten years, and we have realizedan independency. The rapidity with which we attained this endhad its origin in three reasons:-- Firstly, we worked so hard forit; secondly, we had no incumbrances to delay success; thirdly,as soon as we had capital to invest, two well-skilledcounsellors, one in Belgium, one in England, viz. Vandenhutenand Hunsden, gave us each a word of advice as to the sort ofinvestment to be chosen. The suggestion made was judicious; and,being promptly acted on, the result proved gainful--I need notsay how gainful; I communicated details to Messrs. Vandenhutenand Hunsden; nobody else can be interested in hearing them.

Accounts being wound up, and our professional connection disposedof, we both agreed that, as mammon was not our master, nor hisservice that in which we desired to spend our lives; as ourdesires were temperate, and our habits unostentatious, we had nowabundance to live on--abundance to leave our boy; and shouldbesides always have a balance on hand, which, properly managed byright sympathy and unselfish activity, might help philanthropy inher enterprises, and put solace into the hand of charity.

To England we now resolved to take wing; we arrived there safely;Frances realized the dream of her lifetime. me spent a wholesummer and autumn in travelling from end to end of the Britishislands, and afterwards passed a winter in London. Then wethought it high time to fix our residence. My heart yearnedtowards my native county of ----shire; and it is in ----shire Inow live; it is in the library of my own home I am now writing.That home lies amid a sequestered and rather hilly region, thirtymiles removed from X----; a region whose verdure the smoke ofmills has not yet sullied, whose waters still run pure, whoseswells of moorland preserve in some ferny glens that lie betweenthem the very primal wildness of nature, her moss, her bracken,her blue-bells, her scents of reed and heather, her free andfresh breezes. My house is a picturesque and not too spaciousdwelling, with low and long windows, a trellised and leaf-veiledporch over the front door, just now, on this summer evening,looking like an arch of roses and ivy. The garden is chieflylaid out in lawn, formed of the sod of the hills, with herbageshort and soft as moss, full of its own peculiar flowers, tinyand starlike, imbedded in the minute embroidery of their finefoliage. At the bottom of the sloping garden there is a wicket,which opens upon a lane as green as the lawn, very long, shady,and little frequented; on the turf of this lane generally appearthe first daisies of spring--whence its name--Daisy Lane; servingalso as a distinction to the house.

It terminates (the lane I mean) in a valley full of wood; whichwood--chiefly oak and beech--spreads shadowy about the vicinageof a very old mansion, one of the Elizabethan structures, muchlarger, as well as more antique than Daisy Lane, the property andresidence of an individual familiar both to me and to the reader.Yes, in Hunsden Wood--for so are those glades and that greybuilding, with many gables and more chimneys, named--abides YorkeHunsden, still unmarried; never, I suppose, having yet found hisideal, though I know at least a score of young ladies within acircuit of forty miles, who would be willing to assist him in thesearch.

The estate fell to him by the death of his father, five yearssince; he has given up trade, after having made by it sufficientto pay off some incumbrances by which the family heritage wasburdened. I say he abides here, but I do not think he isresident above five months out of the twelve; he wanders fromland to land, and spends some part of each winter in town: hefrequently brings visitors with him when he comes to ---shire,and these visitors are often foreigners; sometimes he has aGerman metaphysician, sometimes a French savant; he had once adissatisfied and savage-looking Italian, who neither sang norplayed, and of whom Frances affirmed that he had "tout l'air d'unconspirateur."

What English guests Hunsden invites, are all either men ofBirmingham or Manchester--hard men, seemingly knit up in onethought, whose talk is of free trade. The foreign visitors, too,are politicians; they take a wider theme--European progress--thespread of liberal sentiments over the Continent; on their mentaltablets, the names of Russia, Austria, and the Pope, areinscribed in red ink. I have heard some of them talk vigoroussense--yea, I have been present at polyglot discussions in theold, oak-lined dining-room at Hunsden Wood, where a singularinsight was given of the sentiments entertained by resolute mindsrespecting old northern despotisms, and old southernsuperstitions: also, I have heard much twaddle, enounced chieflyin French and Deutsch, but let that pass. Hunsden himselftolerated the drivelling theorists; with the practical men heseemed leagued hand and heart.

When Hunsden is staying alone at the Wood (which seldom happens)he generally finds his way two or three times a week to DaisyLane. He has a philanthropic motive for coming to smoke hiscigar in our porch on summer evenings; he says he does it to killthe earwigs amongst the roses, with which insects, but for hisbenevolent fumigations, he intimates we should certainly beoverrun. On wet days, too, we are almost sure to see him;according to him, it gets on time to work me into lunacy bytreading on my mental corns, or to force from Mrs. Crimsworthrevelations of the dragon within her, by insulting the memory ofHofer and Tell.

We also go frequently to Hunsden Wood, and both I and Francesrelish a visit there highly. If there are other guests, theircharacters are an interesting study; their conversation isexciting and strange; the absence of all local narrowness both inthe host and his chosen society gives a metropolitan, almost acosmopolitan freedom and largeness to the talk. Hunsden himselfis a polite man in his own house: he has, when he chooses toemploy it, an inexhaustible power of entertaining guests; hisvery mansion too is interesting, the rooms look storied, thepassages legendary, the low-ceiled chambers, with their long rowsof diamond-paned lattices, have an old-world, haunted air: inhis travels he hall collected stores of articles of VERTU, whichare well and tastefully disposed in his panelled or tapestriedrooms: I have seen there one or two pictures, and one or twopieces of statuary which many an aristocratic connoisseur mighthave envied.

When I and Frances have dined and spent an evening with Hunsden,he often walks home with us. His wood is large, and some of thetimber is old and of huge growth. There are winding ways in itwhich, pursued through glade and brake, make the walk back toDaisy Lane a somewhat long one. Many a time, when we have hadthe benefit of a full moon, and when the night has been mild andbalmy, when, moreover, a certain nightingale has been singing,and a certain stream, hid in alders, has lent the song a softaccompaniment, the remote church-bell of the one hamlet in adistrict of ten miles, has tolled midnight ere the lord of thewood left us at our porch. Free-flowing was his talk at suchhours, and far more quiet and gentle than in the day-time andbefore numbers. He would then forget politics and discussion,and would dwell on the past times of his house, on his familyhistory, on himself and his own feelings--subjects each and allinvested with a peculiar zest, for they were each and all unique.One glorious night in June, after I had been taunting him abouthis ideal bride and asking him when she would come and graft herforeign beauty on the old Hunsden oak, he answered suddenly--

"You call her ideal; but see, here is her shadow; and therecannot be a shadow without a substance."

He had led us from the depth of the "winding way" into a gladefrom whence the beeches withdrew, leaving it open to the sky; anunclouded moon poured her light into this glade, and Hunsden heldout under her beam an ivory miniature.

Frances, with eagerness, examined it first; then she gave it tome--still, however, pushing her little face close to mine, andseeking in my eyes what I thought of the portrait. I thought itrepresented a very handsome and very individual-looking femaleface, with, as he had once said, "straight and harmoniousfeatures." It was dark; the hair, raven-black, swept not onlyfrom the brow, but from the temples--seemed thrust awaycarelessly, as if such beauty dispensed with, nay, despisedarrangement. The Italian eye looked straight into you, and anindependent, determined eye it was; the mouth was as firm asfine; the chin ditto. On the back of the miniature was gilded"Lucia."

"That is a real head," was my conclusion.

Hunsden smiled.

"I think so," he replied. "All was real in Lucia."

"And she was somebody you would have liked to marry--but couldnot?"

"I should certainly have liked to marry her, and that I HAVE notdone so is a proof that I COULD not."

He repossessed himself of the miniature, now again in Frances'hand, and put it away.

"What do YOU think of it?" he asked of my wife, as he buttonedhis coat over it.

"I am sure Lucia once wore chains and broke them," was thestrange answer. "I do not mean matrimonial chains," she added,correcting herself, as if she feared mis-interpretation, "butsocial chains of some sort. The face is that of one who has madean effort, and a successful and triumphant effort, to wrest somevigorous and valued faculty from insupportable constraint; andwhen Lucia's faculty got free, I am certain it spread widepinions and carried her higher than--" she hesitated.

"Than what?" demanded Hunsden.

"Than 'les convenances' permitted you to follow."

"I think you grow spiteful--impertinent."

"Lucia has trodden the stage," continued Frances. "You neverseriously thought of marrying her; you admired her originality,her fearlessness, her energy of body and mind; you delighted inher talent, whatever that was, whether song, dance, or dramaticrepresentation; you worshipped her beauty, which was of the sortafter your own heart: but I am sure she filled a sphere fromwhence you would never have thought of taking a wife."

"Ingenious," remarked Hunsden; "whether true or not is anotherquestion. Meantime, don't you feel your little lamp of a spiritwax very pale, beside such a girandole as Lucia's?"

"Yes."

"Candid, at least; and the Professor will soon be dissatisfiedwith the dim light you give?"

"Will you, monsieur?"

"My sight was always too weak to endure a blaze, Frances," and wehad now reached the wicket.

I said, a few pages back, that this is a sweet summer evening; itis--there has been a series of lovely days, and this is theloveliest; the hay is just carried from my fields, its perfumestill lingers in the air. Frances proposed to me, an hour or twosince, to take tea out on the lawn; I see the round table, loadedwith china, placed under a certain beech; Hunsden is expected--nay, I hear he is come--there is his voice, laying down the lawon some point with authority; that of Frances replies; sheopposes him of course. They are disputing about Victor, of whomHunsden affirms that his mother is making a milksop. Mrs.Crimsworth retaliates:--

"Better a thousand times he should be a milksop than what he,Hunsden, calls 'a fine lad;' and moreover she says that ifHunsden were to become a fixture in the neighbourhood, and werenot a mere comet, coming and going, no one knows how, when,where, or why, she should be quite uneasy till she had got Victoraway to a school at least a hundred miles off; for that with hismutinous maxims and unpractical dogmas, he would ruin a score ofchildren."

I have a word to say of Victor ere I shut this manuscript in mydesk--but it must be a brief one, for I hear the tinkle of silveron porcelain.

Victor is as little of a pretty child as I am of a handsome man,or his mother of a fine woman; he is pale and spare, with largeeyes, as dark as those of Frances, and as deeply set as mine.His shape is symmetrical enough, but slight; his health is good.I never saw a child smile less than he does, nor one who knitssuch a formidable brow when sitting over a book that interestshim, or while listening to tales of adventure, peril, or wonder,narrated by his mother, Hunsden, or myself. But though still, heis not unhappy--though serious, not morose; he has asusceptibility to pleasurable sensations almost too keen, for itamounts to enthusiasm. He learned to read in the old-fashionedway out of a spelling-book at his mother's knee, and as he got onwithout driving by that method, she thought it unnecessary to buyhim ivory letters, or to try any of the other inducements tolearning now deemed indispensable. When he could read, he becamea glutton of books, and is so still. His toys have been few, andhe has never wanted more. For those he possesses, he seems tohave contracted a partiality amounting to affection; thisfeeling, directed towards one or two living animals of the house,strengthens almost to a passion.

Mr. Hunsden gave him a mastiff cub, which he called Yorke, afterthe donor; it grew to a superb dog, whose fierceness, however,was much modified by the companionship and caresses of its youngmaster. He would go nowhere, do nothing without Yorke; Yorkelay at his feet while he learned his lessons, played with him inthe garden, walked with him in the lane and wood, sat near hischair at meals, was fed always by his own hand, was the firstthing he sought in the morning, the last he left at night. Yorkeaccompanied Mr. Hunsden one day to X----, and was bitten in thestreet by a dog in a rabid state. As soon as Hunsden had broughthim home, and had informed me of the circumstance, I went intothe yard and shot him where he lay licking his wound: he wasdead in an instant; he had not seen me level the gun; I stoodbehind him. I had scarcely been ten minutes in the house, whenmy ear was struck with sounds of anguish: I repaired to the yardonce more, for they proceeded thence. Victor was kneeling besidehis dead mastiff, bent over it, embracing its bull-like neck, andlost in a passion of the wildest woe: he saw me.

"Oh, papa, I'll never forgive you! I'll never forgive you!" washis exclamation. "You shot Yorke--I saw it from the window. Inever believed you could be so cruel--I can love you no more!"

I had much ado to explain to him, with a steady voice, the sternnecessity of the deed; he still, with that inconsolable andbitter accent which I cannot render, but which pierced my heart,repeated--

"He might have been cured--you should have tried--you should haveburnt the wound with a hot iron, or covered it with caustic. Yougave no time; and now it is too late--he is dead!"

He sank fairly down on the senseless carcase; I waited patientlya long while, till his grief had somewhat exhausted him; and thenI lifted him in my arms and carried him to his mother, sure thatshe would comfort him best. She had witnessed the whole scenefrom a window; she would not come out for fear of increasing mydifficulties by her emotion, but she was ready now to receivehim. She took him to her kind heart, and on to her gentle lap;consoled him but with her lips, her eyes, her soft embrace, forsome time; and then, when his sobs diminished, told him thatYorke had felt no pain in dying, and that if he had been left toexpire naturally, his end would have been most horrible; aboveall, she told him that I was not cruel (for that idea seemed togive exquisite pain to poor Victor), that it was my affection forYorke and him which had made me act so, and that I was now almostheart-broken to see him weep thus bitterly.

Victor would have been no true son of his father, had theseconsiderations, these reasons, breathed in so low, so sweet atone--married to caresses so benign, so tender--to looks soinspired with pitying sympathy--produced no effect on him. Theydid produce an effect: he grew calmer, rested his face on hershoulder, and lay still in her arms. Looking up, shortly, heasked his mother to tell him over again what she had said aboutYorke having suffered no pain, and my not being cruel; the balmywords being repeated, he again pillowed his cheek on her breast,and was again tranquil.

Some hours after, he came to me in my library, asked if I forgavehim, and desired to be reconciled. I drew the lad to my side,and there I kept him a good while, and had much talk with him,in the course of which he disclosed many points of feeling andthought I appoved of in my son. I found, it is true, fewelements of the "good fellow" or the "fine fellow" in him; scantsparkles of the spirit which loves to flash over the wine cup, orwhich kindles the passions to a destroying fire; but I saw in thesoil of his heart healthy and swelling germs of compassion,affection, fidelity. I discovered in the garden of his intellecta rich growth of wholesome principles--reason, justice, moralcourage, promised, if not blighted, a fertile bearing. So Ibestowed on his large forehead, and on his cheek--still pale withtears--a proud and contented kiss, and sent him away comforted.Yet I saw him the next day laid on the mound under which Yorkehad been buried, his face covered with his hands; he wasmelancholy for some weeks, and more than a year elapsed before hewould listen to any proposal of having another dog.

Victor learns fast. He must soon go to Eton, where, I suspect,his first year or two will be utter wretchedness: to leave me,his mother, and his home, will give his heart an agonized wrench;then, the fagging will not suit him--but emulation, thirst afterknowledge, the glory of success, will stir and reward him intime. Meantime, I feel in myself a strong repugnance to fix thehour which will uproot my sole olive branch, and transplant itfar from me; and, when I speak to Frances on the subject, I amheard with a kind of patient pain, as though I alluded to somefearful operation, at which her nature shudders, but from whichher fortitude will not permit her to recoil. The step must,however, be taken, and it shall be; for, though Frances will notmake a milksop of her son, she will accustom him to a style oftreatment, a forbearance, a congenial tenderness, he will meetwith from none else. She sees, as I also see, a something inVictor's temper--a kind of electrical ardour and power--whichemits, now and then, ominous sparks; Hunsden calls it his spirit,and says it should not be curbed. I call it the leaven of theoffending Adam, and consider that it should be, if not WHIPPEDout of him, at least soundly disciplined; and that he will becheap of any amount of either bodily or mental suffering whichwill ground him radically in the art of self-control. Francesgives this something in her son's marked character no name; butwhen it appears in the grinding of his teeth, in the glitteringof his eye, in the fierce revolt of feeling againstdisappointment, mischance, sudden sorrow, or supposed injustice,she folds him to her breast, or takes him to walk with her alonein the wood; then she reasons with him like any philosopher, andto reason Victor is ever accessible; then she looks at him witheyes of love, and by love Victor can be infallibly subjugated;but will reason or love be the weapons with which in future theworld will meet his violence? Oh, no! for that flash in hisblack eye--for that cloud on his bony brow--for that compressionof his statuesque lips, the lad will some day get blows insteadof blandishments--kicks instead of kisses; then for the fit ofmute fury which will sicken his body and madden his soul; thenfor the ordeal of merited and salutary suffering, out of which hewill come (I trust) a wiser and a better man.

I see him now; he stands by Hunsden, who is seated on the lawnunder the beech; Hunsden's hand rests on the boy's collar, and heis instilling God knows what principles into his ear. Victorlooks well just now, for he listens with a sort of smilinginterest; he never looks so like his mother as when he smiles--pity the sunshine breaks out so rarely! Victor has apreference for Hunsden, full as strong as I deem desirable, beingconsiderably more potent decided, and indiscriminating, than anyI ever entertained for that personage myself. Frances, too,regards it with a sort of unexpressed anxiety; while her sonleans on Hunsden's knee, or rests against his shoulder, she roveswith restless movement round, like a dove guarding its young froma hovering hawk; she says she wishes Hunsden had children of hisown, for then he would better know the danger of inciting theirpride end indulging their foibles.

Frances approaches my library window; puts aside the honeysucklewhich half covers it, and tells me tea is ready; seeing that Icontinue busy she enters the room, comes near me quietly, andputs her hand on my shoulder.

"Monsieur est trop applique."

"I shall soon have done."

She draws a chair near, and sits down to wait till I havefinished; her presence is as pleasant to my mind as the perfumeof the fresh hay and spicy flowers, as the glow of the westeringsun, as the repose of the midsummer eve are to my senses.

But Hunsden comes; I hear his step, and there he is, bendingthrough the lattice, from which he has thrust away the woodbinewith unsparing hand, disturbing two bees and a butterfly.

"Crimsworth! I say, Crimsworth! take that pen out of his hand,mistress, and make him lift up his head.

"Well, Hunsden ? I hear you--"

"I was at X---- yesterday! your brother Ned is getting richerthan Croesus by railway speculations; they call him in the PieceHall a stag of ten; and I have heard from Brown. M. and MadameVandenhuten and Jean Baptiste talk of coming to see you nextmonth. He mentions the Pelets too; he says their domesticharmony is not the finest in the world, but in business they aredoing 'on ne peut mieux,' which circumstance he concludes will bea sufficient consolation to both for any little crosses in theaffections. Why don't you invite the Pelets to ----shire,Crimsworth? I should so like to see your first flame, Zoraide.Mistress, don't be jealous, but he loved that lady todistraction; I know it for a fact. Brown says she weighs twelvestones now; you see what you've lost, Mr. Professor. Now,Monsieur and Madame, if you don't come to tea, Victor and I willbegin without you."

"Papa, come!"

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Professor, by Charlotte Bronte