Kitabı oku: «The Wayfarers», sayfa 10
Therefore I stumbled into concealment behind the screen, and drunk as I was, I was sufficiently sober to follow and to keenly appreciate the whimsical scene that was enacted before my eyes. Sir Thomas being hopelessly surrendered to Morpheus, Mr. Fielding profanely assumed his character. But at least the mad rogue played it with a far finer spirit and abandon than the justice could have done. When my poor little Cynthia was ushered in, for she it was undoubtedly, he rose, gout and all, to greet her, and bowed very low.
"Pray take a seat, madam, pray take a seat," says he, with an inimitable gesture of politeness. "And if there is any small service that you would have me render you you have only to put a name to it, and you may consider it rendered."
My poor little one, who was very pale and trembled with apprehension, peered out of the hood of her cloak with the tears still in her eyes. Despite Mr. Fielding's obvious gallantry she gazed at him with a dim distrust, and then cast a look of downright fearfulness in the direction of the heavy-slumbering Sir Thomas. It was the first time I had been in a situation to observe these feminine timidities in her, and methought they enhanced her a hundredfold.
"I would not have you regard that fuddle-witted fellow, madam," says Mr. Fielding, mad wag as he was. "He is but a common hackney writer of a man, Henry Fielding by name, who hath come out of Grub Street to take the country air. And the country air hath proved too strong for him, do you see. Do not regard that fellow, madam: believe me he is quite unworthy of your attention."
The excess of chivalry with which this was uttered did something to compose poor Cynthia; though why such flummery should have imposed upon her I cannot tell. Even a parcel of lies, if it is made up into the semblance of a delicate attention, can do a great work with that sex, apparently. Anyhow, Cynthia sufficiently overcame her trepidation to find the courage to ask:
"Are you Sir Thomas Wheatley, sir?"
"You can call me that, madam," says Mr. Fielding.
"Then do you know anything of my – my husband?" says Cynthia.
"Your husband, madam," says he. "I did not know that you had a husband. Since when have you had a husband, madam?"
At this point Cynthia blushed divinely. All her proverbial pertness was fled. The situation was too great for the foibles she had acquired. She stood forth in her strange predicament just a simple rustic maid, who longed to express her misery in tears, but was too proud to do so. Thus, with an ingenuousness that I had never observed in her before, she faltered:
"Since – since this morning, sir."
"Since this morning, madam," says Fielding, "and you have lost him already. Is it credible? He did not leave you at the church door, I hope."
"He did not leave me at all, sir," says Cynthia.
"Then if he did not leave you at all, madam, why is he not with you now?" says Mr. Fielding.
Little by little, with numberless hesitations and small attempts at concealment on her part, and many sly quips and verbal quibbles on his own, the roguish fellow drew out of her a fair account of the state of the case. Cynthia's anxiety to conceal her husband's name and how he came to be placed in such an unhappy pass, afforded Mr. Fielding a great deal of pleasure. He was continually springing awkward questions upon her with a wonderful appearance of judicial innocence; and to observe the unfortunate chit wriggle and contort herself out of many an awkward corner was as good as a play. It was a cruel sport, perhaps, and I half thought it so at the time; but I am sure Fielding did not hold it to be such, for I do not think it was in him wittingly to give pain to anyone. This whimsical by-play was really directed against me, for when he had got her into a more than usually tight corner he would look at me, as I frowned at him from my hiding-place, with a face that dared me to intervene.
"I am afraid, madam," says Fielding, "you are not dealing with me quite fairly. I must really assure you that this repeated and noticeable concealment – I can use no less explicit term – of your husband's name is most embarrassing. With the best will in the world to serve your interests, and to aid you to the extent of my poor ability, how can I give you any information about your husband if you will not take me far enough into your confidence to vouchsafe me his name? Even though I am a justice of the peace, I do not pretend to any supernatural knowledge. I am no mystery-reader, nor a worker of miracles."
Poor Cynthia's dilemma was desperate. She did not know how to act. I shook my fist at the wicked wag, and began to wish heartily that I had not added to my other weaknesses by shirking the consequences of them. I longed to come to her aid. But I had less desire than ever to expose myself now; and after all here was a very pretty comedy.
"Come, come, madam," says Mr. Fielding. "I would not have you trifle with justice in this manner. What is your husband's name?"
"His name is Smith," says she at last, taking the name we had been married in.
The pseudo-justice expressed his disappointment. He grieved to say that to the best of his knowledge no person of that name had called upon him that evening.
"But he was among the gypsies that were brought to your house this evening," Cynthia persisted. "What is become of them?"
"Is your husband a gypsy, madam?" says he. "I should have thought it not at all likely, to judge by the appearance of his wife?"
"No, he is not," says she.
"Then why is he concerned with gypsies in such a scandalous charge?"
At every turn the mischievous fellow contrived some new means of embarrassing her story; and at the same time he embarrassed my patience also, as he very well knew. But it was quite in vain for me to publish my threats from behind the screen. Both of us were delivered into his hands.
"I am disappointed that he was among the gypsies, madam," says he, "since they were discharged and sent away several hours ago."
"Oh," says Cynthia eagerly, "how glad I am to hear that!" But then her face fell. "How may I find him?" she says, very anxiously.
"Nay, madam," says Fielding, "that is more than I can tell. But I am disappointed to hear that his name is Smith. You are sure his name is Smith, madam?"
Cynthia hesitated between hope and fear. Could it be possible that my true name had been discovered, and that concealment was no longer desirable or necessary?
"It is most strange, madam," says her relentless persecutor, "that you should not be certain of the name of your own husband. I suppose you could not by any chance have made a mistake in regard to the name of him?"
"I might have done," poor Cynthia faltered; whilst I felt such an overpowering desire to execute a prompt vengeance on the wretch that it was as much as I could do to remain in my seclusion.
"Well, if you might have done," says he, "his name could not by any chance have begun with a 'T.' Could his name be something like 'Tivy,' or 'Tantivy'?"
Poor Mrs. Cynthia had completely lost her bearings by this. She was utterly nonplussed, and looked at the wicked Fielding as helplessly as a child. She was still unable to overcome her scruples about revealing my real name. To do so to a justice of the peace of all people in the world was like to be a most imprudent act. But at the same time she could not rid her mind of the thought that he already knew more than he would tell.
"Tivy or Trivy or Tantivy," says Mr. Fielding; "you are sure his name is nothing of that sort? Now could it by any chance be Tiverton?"
At this mention of my name Cynthia was unable to go further with her imposture. With a face of much confusion and distress she made the confession.
"Well, madam," says Mr. Fielding reproachfully, "why could you not have said so at once without so much beating about the bush? Really the name of Smith was too facile, too obvious. Now as it happens, I am in a position to know where my Lord Tiverton is."
"Oh, sir," says Cynthia, clasping her hands, "I beseech you to tell me of his whereabouts."
"Yes, my dear madam," says Mr. Fielding, "that I will, on one condition."
Mrs. Cynthia eagerly asked it.
"That you give me a kiss," says Mr. Fielding. "I vow and protest, madam, I never saw a creature more divinely handsome."
My breath was almost taken away by the audacity of the villain, as I fear he had intended that it should be. But what could I contribute to the situation beyond a few impotent threats, made in dumb show? I was never had at a greater disadvantage in my life? It was in vain that Cynthia evaded the demand, and besought him by the name of humanity to tell her where I lay. The spirit of mischief in the fellow, inflamed by the quantity of wine he had drunk, caused him to brook no denial.
"Come, my dear madam," says he, "one kiss from those dainty lips is all I seek. Then i'faith shall you know where your husband lies."
"You are no gentleman, sir," says Cynthia, with more spirit than she had yet shown.
"No, only a justice of the peace," says he.
"It is cruel of you," says Cynthia, flaming, "to drive such a bargain in these circumstances. You know it is not in my power to say you nay when so much is at stake."
"To be sure I do," says he, favouring me with a triumphing look. "And as for the cruelty of it, surely the onus of that matter lies with you. Is it not your adorable sex that provokes that which it denies? It is ever a point with me that if I can ever take any little revenge upon you, I take it with an easy conscience, knowing full well that you beauteous ladies have scored up such a heavy tally of cruelties as can never be expunged. Besides, madam, where is this cruelty you speak of? Am I not at least as well favoured as this ugly profligate Lord Tiverton of yours; and is there not the additional advantage of my not being your lawful wedded husband?"
"I would that Lord Tiverton were here to hear you say this," says Cynthia indignantly.
"Bah," says Mr. Fielding, "the water-blooded fellow, I would that he were too, then I with five pints of good claret in me would prove upon his miserable person how mean a figure he doth cut."
It was with the utmost difficulty that I could hold back at this challenge. I might be very drunk, and therefore doubly disposed to resent such wanton insults; but I was also sober enough to be aware that they were not prompted by ill-nature. It was a piece of mischief merely. We were entirely at his mercy, and he proposed to torment us to death. Could a fourth person have witnessed this play, he would have found it a truly diverting affair. First Cynthia was made to writhe, and then I; and then both of us together; yet at the same time each quite unknown to the other; whilst the audacious rogue of a fellow mocked at us both, and defied us to prevent ourselves being made ridiculous. The unfortunate Cynthia was led on by his disparagement of me to take up the cudgels warmly on my behalf. The sly look of satisfaction that shone in him when she did so, was proof enough, if any were needed, that she was still ministering to his diversion.
"I give you the lie there, sir," says she angrily. "How dare you presume to malign such a noble brave gentleman! You utter behind his back that which you dare not utter to his face."
"Good a thousand times," says Mr. Fielding. "This is delightful. Harkee, my noble, brave gentleman, and tell me if I do not utter it to your face!"
I clenched my fists; I vowed to myself I would not suffer this impudent sport another minute. But then there was no gainsaying that I was abominably drunk; that my pretty innocent was but a child; and that it was our wedding-day. Come what may, I must bear with the fellow's mad humour for the present, and requite him in a more seasonable hour.
Cynthia might be angry and I extremely discomposed, but Mr. Fielding still pressed his jest.
"No, madam, I will not be put off with your arrogance," says he. "I demand one token from those charming lips as the price of the satisfaction that you seek."
Covered with a modest confusion, Cynthia was preparing to comply with this demand unwillingly enough, when I was no longer able to contain my just resentment. Whatever the consequences, we should not be flouted so. Therefore as the impudent fellow was in the very act of forcing this concession from her, I threw caution to the winds, and sprang forth from my concealment in a violent rage. I aimed a mighty blow at Mr. Fielding's head; but what with my impetuosity, combined with my drunken condition, I miscalculated the distance sadly, and instead of getting home on that audacious person, missed him entirely, and fell full length at Cynthia's feet.
Between her distressed exclamations and Mr. Fielding's immoderate laughter I was got up again, to find myself a little sobered by the fall. With a joyful recognition of me, and a truly withering glance of contempt for Mr. Fielding, neither of which I can positively depict, Cynthia fell into my arms, and showered upon me those salutes Mr. Fielding had been so importunate to obtain. But I must confess that I received them with a great deal more of shame than pleasure; for Mr. Fielding regarded us with such a degree of boisterousness, that the bitter fact suddenly came upon me that in my guilt I had committed her to the tender mercies of a person even more drunk than I was myself.
CHAPTER XIV
AMANTIUM IRÆ
"Curse my jacket," says the drunken fellow, "if this is not the first time I have kissed a wife in the presence of her husband."
"It shall be the last, sir," I hiccoughed furiously.
"What words are these to use before a lady?" says Mr. Fielding, amiably measuring out glasses of wine for the three of us. "If I were not the most easy man in the world, I vow and protest it should be coffee and pistols at five."
"By God, sir, it shall be whatever you are," says I, holding on by the table. "I swear I will pup – punish you for this."
"Well, as you are determined to pup – punish me," says he, "here is another glass of Tommie's claret, another hair of the dog that bit you, to confirm you in that meritorious resolve."
As he laughingly offered me the glass of wine, Cynthia came forward and took it from him. But instead of giving it to me, she flung both the wine and the glass in his face. Whereon he stood with the claret dripping from his features, and the blood too where the broken glass had cut his forehead, so that he made the very picture of his own Parson Adams, when he was assailed in a similar way by the hostess of the inn with the pan of hog's blood.
Poor Cynthia stood white and trembling, but she never once looked at me for counsel or countenance. The tears were in her eyes too, but she never uttered so much as a word of reproach, although I am sure her misery was very great. I never felt such a mean villain and coward in my life as I did then.
"Come," says she, "let us leave these – these people."
Here she threw such a glance at the sleeping justice that must have pierced him to the marrow had he but been conscious of it. By this, however, Mr. Fielding with the aid of his silk handkerchief had wiped a good deal of the wine and blood from his features, and stood staunching the wound on his forehead. A more truly whimsical expression I never observed in any man before. There was a highly comic look of contrition, humility, and self-abnegation in him, and withal an air of the most perfect good-breeding, that could not possibly have been more contrary to his appearance. Although Cynthia was white and speechless with anger, and she had made what might easily have been construed into a very unprovoked attack on a benefactor, Mr. Fielding behaved, whatever his faults, as only a true gentleman could have done. Cynthia's act had brought him to his senses; he saw that he had pushed the matter too far; but after all he did not apprehend, as I more shrewdly did, that the head and front of his offending lay, not so much in his own conduct, as in that he had been the inspirer of mine.
"I crave a thousand pardons of you, madam," says he, "if I have been so unlucky as to carry a jest farther than a jest should go. Perchance it was not conceived in quite the best taste at the outset; but at least I make you all amends. I am sure I am your duteous humble servant, madam, if you will but permit me to be so."
Only a person with the instincts of a true gentleman could have shown such a punctilious regard for the feelings of another, and such a disregard for his own. For in a sense he had been deeply provoked, and had suffered more indignity on his own part than any that he had inflicted on Mrs. Cynthia. But no, my little madam refused to be mollified by his humble demeanour. She looked steadily past him, as though he had ceased to be there at all. Upon that my own brief spirit of anger cooled down immediately; for certainly I thought, considering his unhappy plight, poor Fielding was playing a very gallant part.
"I think there is enough said, sir," says I, striving to speak as articulately as possible. "I am sure you do very well; and I am equally sure that the apologies should not be all on your side."
Whereon we grasped the hand of one another, and were sworn friends again. Yet although Cynthia would not deign to notice my behaviour one way or the other, on the other hand, greatly to Mr. Fielding's distress, she would not condone the conduct of that honest fellow. Her imperviousness hurt him the more, I think, because he did not apprehend the true reason for it. She could have forgiven his having smoked her so badly, but what she could not forgive was that he had made her husband drunk. I dare say it was that she was acting on the invariable principle that a woman will never own her lord and master in the wrong to a third person. And as she must vent her anger on some one, and she could not very well vent it on me, the true culprit, Mr. Fielding was made to suffer vicariously.
"Come, Jack," says she haughtily, disdaining Mr. Fielding's repeated solicitude; "let us wipe the foulness of this disgraceful place off our feet. If daylight came and caught us in it, I could never respect myself again."
The stress of these events had done a great deal for my sobriety. I was still acutely conscious of my condition, but I had recovered enough of my wits to be able to battle with it successfully. That being the case, I clearly saw that my little one was like to do a great injustice to Mr. Fielding.
"Cynthia," says I, "I conceive you do not know what we owe to the generosity of this gentleman. Had it not been for his friendly offices I should have been still in the hands of the constables."
"I had rather you had," says she cruelly, "than that you should have passed into his."
Not only was I hurt by such arbitrary behaviour; I was angered by it too. It seemed monstrous that so small a fault in a liberal character should be allowed to outweigh the essential goodness of it.
"Cynthia," says I, "I trust you will not refer to our benefactor in these terms. He is far too good a friend of ours to merit your reproaches."
Mrs. Cynthia lifted her chin again, and disdained to reply.
"Come," says I, "I would have you take back the expressions you have used towards him. For I am sure no man merited them less."
"Never," says she.
"The lady is overwrought a little," says Mr. Fielding, coming gallantly if somewhat unwisely to my aid. "Is she not weary and distrest? Sir Thomas, were he not otherwise engaged, would be delighted to place a chamber at madam's disposal for the remainder of this evening. May I have the honour to do so in his name, for I am sure she is in a great need of repose?"
"I thank you, sir," says Cynthia coldly, "but I am surprised that you should presume to propose a service that you must know, after what hath passed, must be highly distasteful to me."
"You do the gentleman a great wrong," says I, with some heat. "And I am sure, madam, when you look at this matter more reasonably, you will be the first to acknowledge it. I thank you, sir, from the bottom of my heart for this kind offer, also for those other services you have rendered to us; and I beg to accept it of you, sir, in the name of my wife, in the spirit in which it is given."
I thought that some such speech was no more than Mr. Fielding's due, but the effect of it was greatly marred by Cynthia's unreasonable conduct. Drawing herself up into all the majesty of her five feet nothing, she bowed to us both in an imperious manner.
"I wish you a good evening, Mr. – , I did not catch your name," says she. "You also, my lord, as you choose to remain."
Before we could reply, or any attempt could be made to detain her, she turned on her heel and swept forth of the room, straight out of the house into the black midnight. There was no other course open to me but to follow her. But ere I did so, I clasped Mr. Fielding warmly by the hand, again thanked him for his generous behaviour, and made some sort of an apology for that of Cynthia. He, good fellow, although evidently perturbed that he should have so distrest her, was yet very warm on his part too, and as I was going out, slipped the only guinea he had in the world into my hand. I protested strongly and refused to take it.
"My dear fellow," says he, "you are ill-advised to refuse it. I know what even that sum must mean to one in your condition, when the hand of every man is against you. To be sure by accepting it you will be a guinea better off than your benefactor. But at least I have a few friends left, however little I may merit them; and although it be ever my fate to have my character judged by those foibles that I am least willing to have it judged by."
Indeed he so insisted on my accepting this highly desirable guinea, that there was no other course than to take it, however reluctantly; for to have refused it might have seemed churlish. And Heaven knows that it is the last thing I would have risked after what had happened.
"Sir," says I, "I can wish no better than that we should meet again, and in happier circumstances. You have been a true friend, and I hope I may live to requite you. And I hope, sir, you will think no more of the humours of my poor little wife; you who have shown such a knowledge of the ways of her adorable sex will be the first to condone them in her. You will not forget, sir, that she hath lately been called on to endure a great deal."
"More than enough of that matter, my dear fellow," says he heartily.
I am sure he must have been hurt, but he was by far too true-bred a gentleman to betray as much. I fear we were both still a little drunk, but I do not think the fervour of our leave-takings owed anything to the heat of our brains. To this day I have always thought of this fine spirit, this great master of the science of human nature, with the same degree of affection. As for him, I do not suppose he ever gave me a second thought, or if he did, I could be nothing more than a whimsical circumstance, a piece of romantical history. But at the time of our parting, his pitiful, generous heart enabled him to feel a very real concern for my welfare, and also for that of my wayward little one who had treated him so harshly.
No sooner had I left Mr. Fielding waving his frank good-bye from the steps of the house, than I set off running in hot pursuit of Cynthia. The gate of the porter's lodge at the end of the long dark avenue of overhanging trees was just closing upon her, when I overtook her. She was in too proud and defiant a mood to pay any attention to the fact that I had done so, and that I was walking greatly out of breath by her side.
I followed her implicitly into the weary darkness. I did not dare to break the dogged silence she maintained, and therefore maintained one too. For I had not walked a mile in the cool night air before I was as sober as any man could be. And perfect sobriety brought a new shame and a fuller measure of repentance. Lord knows, I had been drunk often enough before; more completely and uproariously so; I had committed far greater excesses in that state than any I had been guilty of that evening; and yet now for almost the first time I conceived a disgust for such a folly. Lord knows, I am so little of a pietist that the sense of humiliation which came upon me as I walked by the side of the silent Cynthia was so foreign to my character, that I almost laughed at myself for suffering it. Yet at the same time I was bitterly angry with myself. No man's weaknesses could have led him to play a more unworthy part.
As we walked mile upon mile on the dark, tree-shadowed highway that led to anywhere, everywhere, and nowhere, there never was so moral a person as I outside the moral pages of Mr. Richardson. Self-abasement creaked out of my boots, self-reproach fluttered out of my brains, self-abnegation beat out of my heart. I forget the name of the Moral Muse; indeed, now I come to think of it, there is most probably none such among them, for I fear they are baggages all. But in the name of the righteous lady, whoever she be, was there ever such a hang-dog rogue as I? – such a whipt cur with his tail between his legs?
Hours came and hours went, the steeples of neighbouring village churches chimed two o'clock, three and four, but still we wandered on, while never a word passed from one to the other. At times I feared my poor little one was crying softly to herself, but I had not the courage to attempt to find out if that were so. Instead, my fingers would tighten on Mr. Fielding's guinea, whereon such a poignancy would be added to my sufferings that I was tempted at times to cast his money incontinently to the road, as a heroic but not very intelligible concession to them, in the hope that I might purchase at that price a moment's surcease to my pains.
