"Nay; since you have said so much, Vivian, let me coax you to say on. Is not your father living?"
"Is not the Monument standing?"
"I suppose so; what of that?"
"Why, it matters very little to either of us; and my question answers yours."
I could not get on after this, and I never did get on a step further. I must own that if Vivian did not impart his confidence liberally, neither did he seek confidence inquisitively from me. He listened with interest if I spoke of Trevanion (for I told him frankly of my connection with that personage, though you may be sure that I said nothing of f.a.n.n.y), and of the brilliant world that my residence with one so distinguished opened to me. But if ever, in the fulness of my heart, I began to speak of my parents, of my home, he evinced either so impertinent an ennui or a.s.sumed so chilling a sneer that I usually hurried away from him, as well as the subject, in indignant disgust. Once especially, when I asked him to let me introduce him to my father,--a point on which I was really anxious, for I thought it impossible but that the devil within him would be softened by that contact,--he said, with his low, scornful laugh,--
"My dear Caxton, when I was a child I was so bored with "Telemachus"
that, in order to endure it, I turned it into travesty."
"Well?"
"Are you not afraid that the same wicked disposition might make a caricature of your Ulysses?"
I did not see Mr. Vivian for three days after that speech; and I should not have seen him then, only we met, by accident, under the Colonnade of the Opera-House. Vivian was leaning against one of the columns, and watching the long procession which swept to the only temple in vogue that Art has retained in the English Babel. Coaches and chariots blazoned with arms and coronets, cabriolets (the brougham had not then replaced them) of sober hue but exquisite appointment, with gigantic horses and pigmy "tigers," dashed on, and rolled off before him. Fair women and gay dresses, stars and ribbons, the rank and the beauty of the patrician world,--pa.s.sed him by. And I could not resist the compa.s.sion with which this lonely, friendless, eager, discontented spirit inspired me, gazing on that gorgeous existence in which it fancied itself formed to shine, with the ardor of desire and the despair of exclusion. By one glimpse of that dark countenance, I read what was pa.s.sing within the yet darker heart. The emotion might not be amiable, nor the thoughts wise, yet were they unnatural? I had experienced something of them,--not at the sight of gay-dressed people, of wealth and idleness, pleasure and fashion, but when, at the doors of Parliament, men who have won n.o.ble names, and whose word had weight on the destinies of glorious England, brushed heedlessly by to their grand arena; or when, amidst the holiday crowd of ign.o.ble pomp, I had heard the murmur of fame buzz and gather round some lordly laborer in art or letters: that contrast between glory so near and yet so far, and one"s own obscurity, of course I had felt it,--who has not? Alas! many a youth not fated to be a Themistocles will yet feel that the trophies of a Miltiades will not suffer him to sleep!
So I went up to Vivian and laid my hand on his shoulder.
"Ah!" said he, more gently than usual, "I am glad to see you, and to apologize,--I offended you the other day. But you would not get very gracious answers from souls in purgatory if you talked to them of the happiness of heaven. Never speak to me about homes and fathers! Enough!
I see you forgive me. Why are you not going to the opera? You can."
"And you too, if you so please. A ticket is shamefully dear, to be sure; still, if you are fond of music, it is a luxury you can afford."
"Oh! you flatter me if you fancy the prudence of saving withholds me. I did go the other night, but I shall not go again. Music!--when you go to the opera, is it for the music?"
"Only partially, I own; the lights, the scene, the pageant, attract me quite as much. But I do not think the opera a very profitable pleasure for either of us. For rich idle people, I dare say, it may be as innocent an amus.e.m.e.nt as any other, but I find it a sad enervator."
"And I just the reverse,--a horrible stimulant! Caxton, do you know that, ungracious as it will sound to you, I am growing impatient of this "honorable independence"? What does it lead to? Board, clothes, and lodging,--can it ever bring me anything more?"
"At first, Vivian, you limited your aspirations to kid gloves and a cabriolet: it has brought the kid gloves already; by and by it will bring the cabriolet!"
"Our wishes grow by what they feed on. You live in the great world, you can have excitement if you please it; I want excitement, I want the world, I want room for my mind, man! Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly, and sympathize with you, my poor Vivian; but it will all come. Patience! as I preached to you while dawn rose so comfortless over the streets of London. You are not losing time. Fill your mind; read, study, fit yourself for ambition. Why wish to fly till you have got your wings? Live in books now; after all, they are splendid palaces, and open to us all, rich and poor."
"Books, books! Ah! you are the son of a book-man. It is not by books that men get on in the world, and enjoy life in the mean while."
"I don"t know that; but, my good fellow, you want to do both,--get on in the world as fast as labor can, and enjoy life as pleasantly as indolence may. You want to live like the b.u.t.terfly, and yet have all the honey of the bee; and, what is the very deuce of the whole, even as the b.u.t.terfly, you ask every flower to grow up in a moment; and, as a bee, the whole hive must be stored in a quarter of an hour! Patience, patience, patience!"
Vivian sighed a fierce sigh. "I suppose," said he, after an unquiet pause, "that the vagrant and the outlaw are strong in me, for I long to run back to my old existence, which was all action, and therefore allowed no thought."
While he thus said, we had wandered round the Colonnade, and were in that narrow pa.s.sage in which is situated the more private entrance to the opera: close by the doors of that entrance, two or three young men were lounging. As Vivian ceased, the voice of one of these loungers came laughingly to our ears.
"Oh!" it said, apparently in answer to some question, "I have a much quicker way to fortune than that: I mean to marry an heiress!"
Vivian started, and looked at the speaker. He was a very good-looking fellow. Vivian continued to look at him, and deliberately, from head to foot; he then turned away with a satisfied and thoughtful smile.
"Certainly," said I, gravely (construing the smile), "you are right there: you are even better--looking than that heiress-hunter!"
Vivian colored; but before he could answer, one of the loungers, as the group recovered from the gay laugh which their companion"s easy c.o.xcombry had excited, said,--
"Then, by the way, if you want an heiress, here comes one of the greatest in England; but instead of being a younger son, with three good lives between you and an Irish peerage, one ought to be an earl at least to aspire to f.a.n.n.y Trevanion!"
The name thrilled through me, I felt myself tremble; and looking up, I saw Lady Ellinor and Miss Trevanion, as they hurried from their carriage towards the entrance of the opera. They both recognized me, and f.a.n.n.y cried,--
"You here! How fortunate! You must see us into the box, even if you run away the moment after."
"But I am not dressed for the opera," said I, embarra.s.sed.
"And why not?" asked Miss Trevanion; then, dropping her voice, she added, "why do you desert us so wilfully?" and, leaning her hand on my arm, I was drawn irresistibly into the lobby. The young loungers at the door made way for us, and eyed me, no doubt, with envy.
"Nay!" said I, affecting to laugh, as I saw Miss Trevanion waited for my reply. "You forget how little time I have for such amus.e.m.e.nts now, and my uncle--"
"Oh, but mamma and I have been to see your uncle to-day, and he is nearly well,--is he not, mamma? I cannot tell you how I like and admire him. He is just what I fancy a Douglas of the old day. But mamma is impatient. Well, you must dine with us to-morrow, promise! Not adieu, but au revoir," and f.a.n.n.y glided to her mother"s arm. Lady Ellinor, always kind and courteous to me, had good-naturedly lingered till this dialogue, or rather monologue, was over.
On returning to the pa.s.sage, I found Vivian walking to and fro; he had lighted his cigar, and was smoking energetically. "So this great heiress," said he, smiling, "who, as far as I could see,--under her hood,--seems no less fair than rich, is the daughter, I presume, of the Mr. Trevanion, whose effusions you so kindly submit to me. He is very rich, then! You never said so, yet I ought to have known it; but you see I know nothing of your beau monde,--not even that Miss Trevanion is one of the greatest heiresses in England."
"Yes, Mr. Trevanion is rich," said I, repressing a sigh, "--very rich."
"And you are his secretary! My dear friend, you may well offer me patience, for a large stock of yours will, I hope, be superfluous to you."
"I don"t understand you."
"Yet you heard that young gentleman, as well as myself and you are in the same house as the heiress."
"Vivian!"
"Well, what have I said so monstrous?"
"Pooh! since you refer to that young gentleman, you heard, too, what his companion told him, "one ought to be an earl, at least, to aspire to f.a.n.n.y Trevanion!""
"Tut! as well say that one ought to be a millionnaire to aspire to a million! Yet I believe those who make millions generally begin with pence."
"That belief should be a comfort and encouragement to you, Vivian. And now, good-night; I have much to do."
"Good-night, then," said Vivian, and we parted.
I made my way to Mr. Trevanion"s house and to the study. There was a formidable arrear of business waiting for me, and I sat down to it at first resolutely; but by degrees I found my thoughts wandering from the eternal blue-books, and the pen slipped from my hand in the midst of an extract from a Report on Sierra Leone. My pulse beat loud and quick; I was in that state of nervous fever which only emotion can occasion. The sweet voice of f.a.n.n.y rang in my ears; her eyes, as I had last met them, unusually gentle, almost beseeching, gazed upon me wherever I turned; and then, as in mockery, I heard again those words,--"One ought to be an earl at least to aspire to-" Oh! did I aspire? Was I vain fool so frantic, household traitor so consummate? No, no! Then what did I under the same roof? Why stay to imbibe this sweet poison that was corroding the very springs of my life? At that self-question, which, had I been but a year or two older, I should have asked long before, a mortal terror seized me; the blood rushed from my heart and left me cold, icy cold. To leave the house, leave f.a.n.n.y! Never again to see those eyes, never to hear that voice! Better die of the sweet poison than of the desolate exile! I rose, I opened the windows; I walked to and fro the room; I could decide nothing, think of nothing; all my mind was in an uproar. With a violent effort at self-mastery, I approached the table again. I resolved to force myself to my task, if it were only to re-collect my faculties and enable them to bear my own torture. I turned over the books impatiently, when lo! buried amongst them, what met my eye? Archly, yet reproachfully,--the face of f.a.n.n.y herself! Her miniature was there. It had been, I knew, taken a few days before by a young artist whom Trevanion patronized. I suppose he had carried it into his study to examine it, and so left it there carelessly. The painter had seized her peculiar expression, her ineffable smile,--so charming, so malicious; even her favorite posture,--the small head turned over the rounded Hebe-like shoulder; the eye glancing up from under the hair. I know not what change in my madness came over me; but I sank on my knees, and, kissing the miniature again and again, burst into tears. Such tears! I did not hear the door open, I did not see the shadow steal ever the floor; a light hand rested on my shoulder, trembling as it rested--I started. f.a.n.n.y herself was bending over me!
"What is the matter?" she asked tenderly. "What has happened? Your uncle--your family--all well? Why are you weeping?"
I could not answer; but I kept my hands clasped over the miniature, that she might not see what they contained.
"Will you not answer? Am I not your friend,--almost your sister? Come, shall I call mamma?"
"Yes--yes; go--go."
"No, I will not go yet. What have you there? What are you hiding?"