The Monikins. Джеймс Фенимор Купер
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once assured of its weak point, rather than expend his efforts on the outworks of the place. That night the attorney arrived from town with the title-deeds all properly executed (they had been some time in preparation for Lord Pledge), and the following morning early the tenants were served with the usual notices, with a handsomely expressed sentiment on my part in favor of “a stake in society.” About noon Lord Pledge walked over the course, as it is expressed at Newmarket and Doncaster. After dinner we separated, my noble friend returning to town, while I pursued my way to the rectory.
Anna never appeared more fresh, more serene, more elevated above mortality, than when we met, a week after I had quitted Householder, in the breakfast-parlor of her father's abode.
“You are beginning to look like yourself again, Jack,” she said, extending her hand with the simple cordiality of an Englishwoman; “and I hope we shall find you more rational.”
“Ah, Anna, if I could only presume to throw myself at your feet, and tell you how much and what I feel, I should be the happiest fellow in all England.”
“As it is you are the most miserable!” the laughing girl answered as, crimsoned to the temples, she drew away the hand I was foolishly pressing against my heart. “Let us go to breakfast, Mr. Goldencalf—my father has ridden across the country to visit Dr. Liturgy.”
“Anna,” I said, after seating myself and taking a cup of tea from fingers that were rosy as the morn, “I fear you are the greatest enemy that I have on earth.”
“John Goldencalf!” exclaimed the startled girl, turning pale and then flushing violently. “Pray explain yourself.”
“I love you to my heart's core—could marry you, and then, I fear, worship you, as man never before worshipped woman.”
Anna laughed faintly.
“And you feel in danger of the sin of idolatry?” she at length succeeded in saying.
“No, I am in danger of narrowing my sympathies—of losing a broad and safe hold of life—of losing my proper stake in society—of—in short, of becoming as useless to my fellows as my poor, poor father, and of making an end as miserable. Oh! Anna, could you have witnessed the hopelessness of that death-bed, you could never wish me a fate like his!”
My pen is unequal to convey an adequate idea of the expression with which Anna regarded me. Wonder, doubt, apprehension, affection, and anguish were all beaming in her eyes; but the unnatural brightness of these conflicting sentiments was tempered by a softness that resembled the pearly lustre of an Italian sky.
“If I yield to my fondness, Anna, in what will my condition differ from that of my miserable father's? He concentrated his feelings in the love of money, and I—yes, I feel it here, I know it is here—I should love you so intensely as to shut out every generous sentiment in favor of others. I have a fearful responsibility on my shoulders—wealth, gold; gold beyond limits; and to save my very soul I must extend not narrow my interest in my fellow-creatures. Were there a hundred such Annas I might press you all to my heart—but, one!—no—no—'twould be misery—'twould be perdition! The very excess of such a passion would render me a heartless miser, unworthy of the confidence of my fellow-men!”
The radiant and yet serene eyes of Anna seemed to read my soul; and when I had done speaking she arose, stole timidly to my side of the table, as woman approaches when she feels most, placed her velvet-like hand on my burning forehead, pressed its throbbing pulses gently to her heart, burst into tears, and fled.
We dined alone, nor did we meet again until the dinner hour. The manner of Anna was soothing, gentle, even affectionate; but she carefully avoided the subject of the morning. As for myself, I was constantly brooding over the danger of concentrating interests, and of the excellence of the social-stake system. “Your spirits will be better, Jack, in a day or two,” said Anna, when we had taken wine after the soup. “Country air and old friends will restore your freshness and color.”
“If there were a thousand Annas I could be happy as man was never happy before! But I must not, dare not, lessen my hold on society.”
“All of which proves my insufficiency to render you happy. But here comes Francis with yesterday morning's paper—let us see what society is about in London.”
After a few moments of intense occupation with the journal, an exclamation of pleasure and surprise escaped the sweet girl. On raising my eyes I saw her gazing (as I fancied) fondly at myself.
“Read what you have that seems to give you so much pleasure.”
She complied, reading with an eager and tremulous voice the following paragraph:
“His majesty has been most graciously pleased to raise John Goldencalf of Householder Hall, in the county of Dorset, and of Cheapside, Esquire, to the dignity of a baronet of the united kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland.”
“Sir John Goldencalf, I have the honor to drink to your health and happiness!” cried the delighted girl, brightening like the dawn, and wetting her pouting lip with liquor less ruby than itself. “Here, Francis, fill a bumper and drink to the new baronet.”
The gray-headed butler did as ordered with a very good grace, and then hurried into the servants' hall to communicate the news.
“Here at least, Jack, is a new hold that society has on you, whatever hold you may have on society.”
I was pleased because she was pleased, and because it showed that Lord Pledge had some sense of gratitude (although he afterward took occasion to intimate that I owed the favor chiefly to HOPE), and I believe my eyes never expressed more fondness.
“Lady Goldencalf would not have an awkward sound after all, dearest Anna.”
“As applied to one, Sir John, it might possibly do; but not as applied to a hundred.” Anna laughed, blushed, burst into tears once more, and again fled.
What right have I to trifle with the feelings of this single-hearted and excellent girl, said I to myself; it is evident that the subject distresses her—she is unequal to its discussion, and it is unmanly and improper in me to treat it in this manner. I must be true to my character as a gentleman and a man—aye, and, under present circumstances, as a baronet; and—I will never speak of it again as long as I live.
The following day I took leave of Dr. Etherington and his daughter, with the avowed intention of travelling for a year or two. The good rector gave me much friendly advice, flattered me with expressions of confidence in my discretion, and, squeezing me warmly by the hand, begged me to recollect that I had always a home at the rectory. When I had made my adieus to the father, I went, with a sorrowful heart, in quest of the daughter. She was still in the little breakfast-parlor—that parlor so loved! I found her pale, timid, sensitive, bland, but serene. Little could ever disturb that heavenly quality in the dear girl; if she laughed, it was with a restrained and moderated joy; if she wept, it was like rain falling from a sky that still shone with the lustre of the sun. It was only when feeling and nature were unutterably big within her, that some irresistible impulse of her sex betrayed her into emotions like those I had twice witnessed so lately.
“You are about to leave us, Jack,” she said, holding out her hand kindly and without the affectation of an indifference she did not feel; “you will see many strange faces, but you will see none who—”
I waited for the completion of the sentence, but, although she struggled hard for self-possession, it was never finished.
“At my age, Anna, and with my means, it would be unbecoming to remain at home, when, if I may so express it, 'human nature is abroad.' I go to quicken my sympathies, to open my heart to my kind, and to avoid the cruel regrets that tortured the death-bed of my father.”
“Well—well,” interrupted the sobbing girl, “we will talk of it no more. It is best that you should travel; and so adieu, with a thousand—nay, millions of good wishes for your happiness and safe return. You will come back to us, Jack, when tired of other scenes.”
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