An Incident in a Life
Originally published in St. James's Magazine (W. Kent) vol.3 #9 (Dec 1861).
Mary Fleming I first knew many years ago—it may be twelve or fifteen. At all events, I was very little more than a boy, and she was a girl, joyous, and wayward when not indulged in her own fancies. She was not pretty, except for the character in her face and the occasional shadows that chased themselves across her expressive brow. She was not tall for her age, though lithe in figure, and somewhat awkward in her movements. But it was easy to see that a few years would make a great change in one so capable of development, and as yet so undeveloped. At this time she was in the very diablerie of girlhood—a wild, active, impetuous nature, always falling into mischief, and never so happy as when engaged in some adventure or frolic. Reckless myself, and fond of the display of any piquancy which suited my own impatience of restraint, I was charmed by her ready and lively precocity. I could see that in a few years, when her girlhood had deepened into womanhood, her life would be unquiet.
A little after she had first attracted my attention she was sent to a boarding-school in the neighbourhood of London. I strove to talk with her on the few occasions on which I met her, but her quick raillery threw me aside. The mere act of living was deep enjoyment to her, and into it she threw herself heart and soul. Some years passed away before Mary returned from school to her home. I, who had not forgotten her, was naturally anxious to see how she had grown up. I found her fair and graceful—a perfect maiden in mien and bearing. She was self-composed, without being stiff; sparkling and agreeable, without any obtrusiveness. Her auburn hair floated freely over her broad brow, and in her full grey eyes there lay a light of tenderness and passion, which received additional strength from the sensitive curl of her finely-formed mouth. Much of her unconsciousness had passed away; and yet, when with any one with whom she sympathized, her fresh and natural feeling welled up to overflowing. She was gifted with a large fund of humour, and we spent many an hour in satirizing all who came across our path—joking, and unveiling to one another, in badinage, the salient points of our respective characters—all in fun! I sought her society ardently, but was unsuccessful in seeing her as often as I wished. This increased the desire to be with her. Oh, mothers! How little you know that the young man whom you are so careful your daughter should not meet is the very one—because of the prohibition, partly—they are most anxious of all others to see! Difficulties were thrown in our way, but I ingratiated myself with the whole family after a little; and, though I could not see Mary every day in the week, yet we frequently came together at one another's houses, in places of public resort, and sometimes I joined her as she rode on her black mare through the country. Before we had time to reflect, it was plain that, in following out the instinctive leadings of our hearts, Mary became more thoroughly acquainted with me, and I with her, than any deliberate attempt could possibly have made us. Through some hidden sympathy or affinity of temperament, we had advanced so far that my affections became seriously involved. I loved Mary deeply, and I perceived that, for my future happiness, it was essential she should be mine. At first sight this was easy enough, for I was her equal in birth and position; but we were both very young—foolishly young, as it might have been thought. I was, also, a third son, and my income would depend in a great measure on my success in my professional life. Such being my position, I felt it impossible to make to Mary those honourable offers which, under other circumstances, I should not have hesitated to have put forward. In my youthful imagination she appeared to me to be so high and splendid, that the comparative intimacy which I enjoyed with her seemed almost overwhelming in its condescension. I determined to marry her at the right time, and to content myself, for the present, with improving the acquaintance so happily begun. We had many pleasant rides and country walks—for Driffield was a pretty, rural spot, in the centre of England. Many happy evenings passed together—many glad meetings, and sad partings till we met again. Mary's voice was thoroughly charming. She had been taught by an eminent master, and it was her great delight to sing an Irish or Scotch ballad, accompanied by her sisters and brother. Her voice was a soprano, relieved from being too shrill by a lingering tone of exquisite tenderness. I could have listened for ever as she sang her favourite airs from Donizetti; for she entered most vividly into the spirit of Italian music, and touched the keys with a passionate gesture. At times there came a light into her eyes, and her whole countenance glowed with rapture.
How often have I lingered over those notes in the happy days gone by! and how little she knew how manageable and weak I became beneath the spell of her voice! She soon became acquainted with my favourite pieces, and she sang them with a shade more of the power and richness which entered into everything she touched. But the sojourn of the Flemings at Driffield was limited. They were about to be scattered. Mary was to go on the Continent with her parents and younger brother; and Ronald Fleming, the eldest son, was starting for Edinburgh, to join his regiment, quartered in that city; for the Flemings were a Scotch family, but Mrs. Fleming was an Irishwoman. They had taken up their abode at Driffield in order to be near certain relatives of Mr. Fleming's who lived in the neighbourhood. Though I longed to secure so rich a prize as Mary before her departure, and though I had sufficient experience that she was adapted to fulfil all that my nature required—all of help, and sweetness, and comfort—yet I still continued firm to my original resolution of asking no promise from her. To gain her love, and to render myself worthy of it, seemed to me most properly to be the object towards which I should strive, and one which would sink in value were it obtained at the cost of a slender struggle and sacrifice. The thought of winning her hung like a bright star over my future. It was the morning star of hope, which was to shed a mellowed radiance on the evening of my days. Life was dark or bright according as that star shone fair or clouded. It was a desperate risk to suffer her to leave Driffield, and not to speak those words of love which clamoured for utterance. Had I done so I should have been rejected—for Mary was very young. She did not love me yet. She was anxious to see other countries; and to settle down as a wife and a mother at so early an age, when life was just opening upon her with all its marvels and its new-found excitements, would have been an arrangement to which she would have denied her consent. The whole weight, too, of Mary's family would have been against me. They were naturally proud of her, and thought she was destined to be the bride of some rich or distinguished man. Of one thing, however, I felt sure—that we were born for one another; and though at this time she did not reciprocate the feeling I had for her in all its depth, yet she regarded me with respect, confidence, and affection, which time and opportunity might have intensified and exalted. I might mention many circumstances to show that such was the case: they come crowding on the memory, and though trivial, most of them, yet they are sufficiently strong witnesses to the truth of that which requires little testimony beyond mere feeling.
I well remember the day on which I bade Mary good-bye. I found her in the orchard behind her house—a favourite resort of mine. She was sitting at the foot of a tree, and reading in "Childe Harold" the wondrous descriptions of what she was so soon to see. The sweet sunshine was falling graciously around her in bright patches, and the boughs above were rustling to the gentle music of the autumn air, as I stood at a little distance, and, unheeded, watched the form and features I loved so well. For the last time I watched that play of countenance which was always so charming and attractive—those delicate pencilings of the finely-chiselled mouth and arched eyebrows. Mary spoke with great delight of going abroad, and I was happy in the thought that she would enjoy herself. She hoped that she would see me soon again. She did not know how she would get on without me to talk to, to advise her, and to explain to her all that she was so soon to see; and I as little knew how I was to live without meeting her. How I wished that I could have accompanied her! What deep gratification to travel in her society—to learn from her all that she could teach me, and to give to her of my fullness which did not weary her! That interview I would have prolonged for ever. It had all the preciousness of last words. It occurred to me casually, at the moment, that I should take advantage of the opportunity, and risk my fortune on a single throw of the dice; but such a thought had no permanence—my sanguine nature leaped lightly forward to the return of the Flemings to Driffield, and closed with all the reality of renewed intimacy and love. At parting I took her gentle hand, and, holding it quietly, I said, "Mary, you won't forget me, will you?" "Never, never!" she answered—and a turn in the shrubbery-walk hid her from my view.
Driffield was a lonely place to me after the Flemings had left. I took a sad pleasure in dwelling on the well-remembered words of her who, to me, was all the world. I missed that perfect comprehension which never misinterpreted me, and which is the highest pleasure we can hope to reach. I no longer enjoyed that complete "accord" of mind which was ours whenever my eyes met Mary's: she saw my thought at a glance, and at her look my spirit comprehended hers. We understood each other perfectly.
Many months glided on, and I heard nothing of Mary except now and then a stray word, when one morning I received intelligence through a friend which smote me to the earth, and withered the pleasant gourd of my hopes and anxieties—Mary was fiancée to another! It would be impossible now to tell the anguish which these tidings caused me. Life seemed to give way before them, and the first quick sense of desolation was succeeded by an exceeding bitterness, which had no language but a cry of dreariness and loss. The world to me was deprived of its chiefest joy, and every bright and pleasant object wore a sickly, hateful aspect. My ideal Future lay shattered on the ground. It was a foolish joy to busy myself in collecting the scattered fragments in a vain endeavour to rebuild its fair palaces. or a time I became nervous, irritable, living carelessly, without any keen interest in active duties—all my once buoyant nature weeping over the shipwreck of my love. I hung about the spots we used to frequent; I vowed that I would never care for any one else, and thought my lot the hardest in existence. I blamed myself cruelly for not having been more energetic while my opportunity lasted, but her I did not blame. I could not do that. Dispassionately considered, if that were possible, she had no reason to act otherwise than she did. My folly consisted in imagining that she would remember me as I remembered her; that, as I would admit no other image into my heart, it was possible she would be faithful to mine. I could fancy no one else; and though Mary had her faults, yet they were few, and belonged to her immaturity, with which they died. Her absence, and the fact that I had so long dwelt on the idea of possessing her as my own, gave the subject, perhaps, an exaggerated importance. It had taken root as an idea in my mind, and had become part of myself; and, when harassed or gloomy, it was my delight to draw forth from the répertoire of the mind that vision of future years, when the sunshine of her presence would break over my heart desolated with the rains and storms of youth. And it was a happy anticipation—one that kept my ambition high and my aims pure—one that made life real, and kept the future bright without a cloud. How slowly the hours sped their way to the one blessed consummation, to the dawning of the day of perfect earthly rest! Too soon that day, so fervently wished for, was succeeded by a sudden night. It had shone brightly from a distance through storm and calm. Its light had illumined many dark thoughts and many hours of anxiety, when suddenly it went out, and left me alone with grief and loss.
Slowly I recovered from this stunning and tremendous blow. Time accomplished for me what care and anxiety could not do. Silently and unconsciously, as it were, it deadened the overmastering sense of darkness and loneliness. I commenced to regain something of my wonted gaiety and glad buoyancy. To be happy ceased to be a profanity,—my interest in others began to return. I endeavoured to think of Mary as of one dead—one whom I must forget. I did not wish to hear of her. I shrank from the mention of her name. Matters continued in this state for some time. I continued to regain mental strength, and to improve daily. Just then my father fell into delicate health. He was advised to try the Clifton baths, and I was selected to accompany him there. We had been there a few weeks, when one Sunday, in church, judge of my astonishment to see Mary enter the building with her parents and brother. My first thought after the surprise, which I could scarcely think a pleasant, and yet was not an unpleasant one, was, she is Mary Fleming still! Though wishing to do so, I did not escape her notice. I felt hurt to think that I was passed by for another, and my first determination was never to see, nor to visit or associate with the Flemings, and I hurried home from church agitated by conflicting feelings. But the very next day such a resolution was sorely shaken. I met Mr. Fleming walking on the Downs. His manner was cordial and free, and he warmly invited me to visit them, and make myself at home with them. We were both strangers in the place, he said, and he was glad to meet an old friend.
I saw at once that a fresh trial was at hand. Had it been possible for me to have left Clifton, I would have done so. It was plain that we must meet, and perhaps often. To have avoided them would have been to exhibit ill-feeling—to betray my own pique, and vanity. My first visit was a painful moment for me; for all the past came rushing through my memory. I could not but feel that the circumstances under which I met Mary were strange and trying. I was glad to see her—hear her voice again. I was not insensible to a certain curiosity about one who had created in me so extraordinary an interest; and yet it was sure to be a temporary pleasure, which I would afterwards pay dearly for. I found her quite unchanged—more so than I ever expected. All her old freshness and ease of manner remained, and that native grace which threw such a charm around her, and drew me towards her magnetically. There was a smile always ready to break over her classical features, which otherwise were sad, even through her smile. At times a whole wealth of tristesse lay in her expression, which I never could account for, and about which I was delicate to inquire. In her society I soon felt at ease; and notwithstanding her position, she was not insensible to a certain pleasure which she experienced with me. I amused her—helped her to pass the time till Mr. Caird's return, who had gone on a diplomatic mission to South America; or the memory of former days gave me acceptance with her.
We soon met frequently—perhaps too frequently for her pleasure, but not for mine. Old days were revived--the old, happy days—save for the sense that she belonged to another. Sometimes this sense was forgotten; but in calm moments it returned with vividness, and soured the pleasure which I drew from her society. Mary had a true and instinctive insight into all that was honourable and noble in human nature. She abhorred meanness and falsehood, and often lamented the paucity of true and high-principled men who preferred the rugged paths of duty to self-interest. And though she was lazy in her observation, yet she was keen to detect the bad as well as the attractive side of the characters of those with whom she was brought into contact. As I have said, we met often and talked much together. At times a deep and dark temptation assailed me to disclose to Mary ail I felt concerning her. It cost a severe struggle on one or two occasions not to do so. It would have been an unspeakable gratification to me to have told her all that lay hidden so long, and festered within for want of sympathy. The old trust which she still reposed in me gave me peculiar facilities for doing so, which it would have been brutal to have availed myself of. No good result could have attended such a course; for though Mary respected, liked, and was, in a measure, interested by me, yet I was her friend—nothing more. Her heart was tenanted by another. I dared not act the selfish part of gratifying a morbid fancy while I caused her pain and trouble. Had I unclosed my deep fountains of grief, the current of our glad intercourse would have run in poisoned waters. She would have been miserable in my company, and I would have been miserable were I not making her miserable with it. It was nobler to repress the fires which consumed while they irradiated, than to suffer them to break forth desolatingly. I resolved that, come what would, I would not do so—that I would suffer, and spare her. The possibility, however, that she would know more of my true position towards her before she left Clifton haunted my mind. It relieved me from despair; but I was determined that the knowledge of it should not come to her through me, directly or indirectly. My sanguine temperament told me at times of hope that all would be well; that instrumentalities would arise in some way or other to resettle our lots, without any violent disturbance, or breach of duty. My business was to act as Mary thought of me—as a friend. To appear as a lover would have violated every article of friendship, and would have degraded me in her pure eyes. It would have been a stab in the dark to one who was absent, and a gross insult to her high and noble nature.
Beneath a chill and dignified exterior, Mary, in heart, overflowed with natural feeling and genuine warmth. Her girlish glee, her womanly enthusiasm, her quaintness, drew me towards her. She was my ideal. Based on an affectionate and really noble disposition, she had a keen taste for mirth and amusement; but, like all happy natures, she was not without her seasons of deepest depression. Reverses with her took the place of fatalities, and after battling bravely with them to a certain point, she gave up quietly, and endured. When the blow was past, her recovery to her former cheerfulness, if slow, was sure.
The state of my father's health being much improved, our sojourn at Clifton drew to a close, and I became more than ever anxious to be with Mary constantly. Day succeeded to day, and week to week; but not till the train was bearing me away could I feel that Mary never would be mine. I had gained the victory over my selfish wish to spread ointment over my remorse by inflicting pain upon her. I do not say that few would have done the same—I trust that many would, and many do, daily. I know, however, that the means at my disposal were ample and varied; that had I informed her of my trouble during our last walk on that fatal Clifton Hill, no one would ever have known of it but herself. No stranger would have intermeddled with the bitterness which such an avowal would have cost her. I could not do it. She did not hear my story, and I escaped the additional remorse of wounding her who had ever regarded me kindly, truly, affectionately. I had nothing to accuse myself of. There was no sting in the happy memory of those happy days; for though it may have been done faintly and falteringly, yet I acted the high and honourable part—crushing my own feelings "like a vice upon the threshold of the brain." There is left to me the sweet memory of the past—an imperishable fragrance! The trivial incidents—the unimportant words—the looks—the voices of bygone times, have vanished from the recollection. Time, which mars our best and dearest, has laid its cold finger on them too, but it can never touch what has been incorporated in the life and character. Our greatest sorrows may be blessings in disguise, for sorrow makes us wise; and when the clouds have discharged their fury, and the storm has swept by, there comes the sunshine after rain, the calm ambrosial air which finds us on the mountain side of life, gentler, firmer, more exalted. To have learnt a sorrow's power for good is no valueless experience—to know the sweetness of chastened resignation—to have been able to say, even in the night and cold, "Father, Thy will be done!" compensates—more than compensates—for the pains of despair, and crowns the brow with a radiance won from suffering and endurance.
Two lines express all that lies in the heart:—
"'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all."