“You surely do not intend acting such a fool’s part, Dudley, as that our little world assigns you?” was the address of one friend to another, as they drew their chairs more cosily together, in the little sanctum to which they had retreated, after a tête-à-tête dinner.
“And what may that be, my good fellow?”
“Why, throw away yourself and your comfortable property on a person little likely to value either one or the other, and certainly worthy of neither—Clara Stanley.”
Granville Dudley coloured highly. “Oblige me, at least, by speaking of that young lady with respect,” he said; “however you and your companions may mistake my intentions concerning her.”
“Mistake, my good fellow; your face and tone are confirmation strong. I am sorry for it though, for I would rather see you happy than any man I know.”
“I believe you, Charles; but what is there so terribly opposed to my happiness in an union with Miss Stanley, granting for the moment that I desire it?” Charles Heyward sat silent, and stirred the fire. “Because she is not rich? nay, I believe, rather the contrary.”
“I did not think you worldly, Granville.”
“Thank you, for doing me but justice. I am perfectly indifferent as to wealth or poverty in a woman. But what is your objection then? She is not superlatively beautiful nor seemingly first-rate in accomplishment; but what then? She is pleasing, unaffected, full of feeling, very domestic, for I seldom meet her out.”
Again were the poker and the blazing coals at variance, and more noisily than before.
“My good friend, you have roused that fire and my curiosity to a most unbearable state of heat. Do speak out. What is the matter with Miss Stanley, that when I mention the words ‘feeling’ and ‘domestic,’ you look unbelieving as a heretic? Can you say ‘Nay’ to any one thing I have said?”
“Nay, to them all, Granville Dudley,” exclaimed Heyward, with vehemence. “It is because you need a most domestic woman for your happiness, I tell you do not marry Clara Stanley; she is a determined blue—light, dark, every imaginable shade—a poet, a philosopher, a preacher—writes for every periodical—lays down the law on all subjects of literature, from a fairy tale to a philosophical treatise or ministerial sermon. For heaven’s sake, have nothing to do with her. A literary woman is the very antipodes to domestic happiness. Fly, before your peace is seriously at stake.”
Granville Dudley looked, and evidently felt disturbed. At first, startled and incredulous, he compelled his friend to reiterate his charge and its proofs. Nothing loath, Charles Heyward brought forward so many particulars, so many facts, concerning the lady in question, which, from his near relationship to the family with whom she lived, he had been enabled easily to collect, that Granville, unable to disapprove or even contradict one of them, sank back on his chair, almost with a groan.
“Why, my dear sober-minded, philosophic friend, you cannot surely have permitted your heart to escape your wise keeping so effectually in so short a space of time, that you cannot call it back again with a word? Cheer up, and be a man. Thank the fates that such a melancholy truth was discovered before it was too late. I have heard you forswear literary women so often that I could not stand calmly by, and see you run your head blindfold into such a noose; she is a nice girl enough, and if she were not so confoundedly clever, might be very bearable.”
“But how is it I never discovered that she is so clever? If it be displayed so broadly, how can she hide it so completely before strangers?”
“She does not display it, Granville. No one would imagine she was a whit cleverer than other people; she has no pretension, nor airs of superiority; but she writes, she writes, ‘there’s the rub,’ and she loves it too—which is worse still—and a public literary character cannot be a domestic wife; one who is ever pining for and receiving fame can never be content with the praise of one; and one who is always creating imaginary feelings can have none for realities. To speak more plainly, those who love a thousand times in idea can never love once in reality; and so I say, Clara Stanley cannot value you sufficiently ever to possess the rich honour of being chosen as your wife. Do not be angry with my bluntness, Granville; I only speak because I love you.”
Granville Dudley was not angry; perhaps it had been better for his happiness if he had been, as then he would not have been so easily convinced by the specious reasoning of his friend. The conversation lasted all that evening, and when Dudley retired to rest, it was with a firm determination to watch Clara Stanley a few weeks longer, and if it really were as Heyward stated, to dismiss her from his thoughts at once, and even quit England for a time, rather than permit a momentary fancy to make him miserable for life.
Now, though Charles Heyward had spoken in the language of the world, he was not by any means a worldly man; nor Granville Dudley, though he had listened and been convinced, unjust or capricious. Unfortunately for Miss Stanley’s happiness, Granville’s mother had been one of those shallow pretenders of literature which throw such odium upon all its female professors. From his earliest childhood Dudley had been accustomed to regard literature and authorship as synonymous with domestic discord, conjugal disputes, and a complete neglect of all duties, social or domestic. As he grew older, the excessive weakness of his mother’s character, her want of judgment and common sense, and—it appeared to his ardent disposition—even of common feelings, struck him more and more; her descriptions of conjugal and maternal love were voted by her set of admirers as perfect; but he could never remember that the practice was equal to the theory. Nay, it did reach his ears, though he banished the thought with horror, that his father’s early death might have been averted, had he received more judicious care and tender watchfulness from his literary wife.
Mrs. Dudley, however, died before her son’s strong affections had been entirely blunted through her apparent indifference; and he therefore only permitted himself to remember her faults as being the necessary consequence of literature and genius encouraged in a woman. He was neither old nor experienced enough, at the time of her death, to distinguish between real genius and true literary aspirings, and their shallow representatives, superficial knowledge and overbearing conceit.
As this was the case, it was not in the least surprising that he should be so easily convinced of the truth and plausibility of Heyward’s reasoning, or that Charles Heyward, aware of all which Dudley’s youth had endured from literature and authorship in a mother, should be so very eager to save him from their repetition in the closer relationship of wife.
But Clara Stanley was no mere pretender to genius; the wise and judicious training of affectionate parents had saved her from all the irregularities of temper, indecision of purpose, and inconstancy of pursuit which, because they have characterised some wayward ones, are regarded as peculiar to genius. Her earliest childhood had displayed more than common intellect, and its constant companions, keen sensibility and thoughtfulness; a vivid imagination, an intuitive perception of the beautiful, the holy, and the good; an extraordinary memory, and rapid comprehension of every variety of literature, alike prose and poetry, unfolded with her youth, combined with most persevering efforts after improvement in every study which could assist her natural gifts. It was impossible for her parents not to regard her with pride, but it was pride mingled with trembling; for they knew, though she did not, that even as she was set apart in the capability of mind from her fellows, so she was in the capability of suffering. Knowing this, their every wish, their every effort, was directed to providing her with a haven of refuge, where that ever-throbbing heart might find its only perfect rest. Taught to regard mental powers, however varied, as subordinate to her duties as a woman, and an English and religious woman, modesty, gentleness, and love marked every word and every action. Few there were, except her own immediate circle and friends, who knew the extent of her mental powers, or the real energy and strength of her character; but countless was the number of those that loved her.
It was not, however, till after her father’s death she saw and felt the necessity of making her talents a source of usefulness as well as of pleasure. She was then little more than seventeen, but under the fostering care of an influential literary friend, she was introduced to the periodicals of the day, her productions accepted, and more requested from the same hand.
Though a few years after Mr. Stanley’s death, however, their pecuniary affairs were so advantageously settled that Clara had no longer any necessity to make literature a profession. Their income was moderate, but it rendered them happily independent.
“Now, now,” was Clara’s ardent exclamation, as she clasped her arms about her mother’s neck, “I may concentrate my energies to a better and holier purpose than the mere literature of the day; now I may indulge the dream of effecting good, more than the mere amusement of the hour; now I am no longer bound. Oh, who in this world is happier or more blessed than I am?”
And as long as she resided under her mother’s roof, in the pretty little village which had so long been her home, she was truly happy. Encouraged by the popularity which, through her literary friend, she learned that she had acquired; satisfied that he thought her capable of the work she had attempted, and blessed with a mother for whose sake alone Clara valued fame; for she knew how sweet to maternal affection were the praises of a child.
But this might not last. Before she was one-and-twenty Clara was an orphan, and long, long it was ere she could resume the employments she had so loved, or look forward to anything but loneliness and misery. Every thought, every task was associated with the departed, and could filial love have preserved the vital spark the mother had yet been spared; and had Granville Dudley known Clara in that sad time, he would have been compelled to abjure his belief in the incompatibility of literature with woman’s duties and affections.
But of such a trial both Granville and Heyward knew nothing; nor, when the latter said that she loved her profession, did he imagine the struggle it had been for her to resume it—how completely at first it had been the voice of duty, not of love. Fame had never been to her either incentive or further reward than the mere gratification of the moment, and as a source of pleasure to her mother; and how vain and hollow did fame seem now! But hers was not a spirit to be conquered by............