“But why did he go, dear?”
“I think he was right to go. I could understand his doing that. He is not like us, and would have been fretful here, wanting that which I could not give him. He became worse from day to day, and was silent and morose1. I am glad he went. But, mamma, for his sake I wish that this could be shortened.”
Madame Heine told her daughter that she would, if Isa wished it, herself go to the Schrannen Platz, and see what could be done by talking to Uncle Hatto. “But,” she added, “I fear that no good will come of it.”
“Can harm come, mamma?”
“No, I do not think harm can come.”
“I’ll tell you what, mamma, I will go to Uncle Hatto myself, if you will let me. He is cross I know; but I shall not be afraid of him. I feel that I ought to do something.” And so the matter was settled, Madame Heine being by no means averse2 to escape a further personal visit to the Head of the banking3 establishment.
Madame Heine well understood what her daughter meant, when she said she ought to do something, though Isa feared that she had imperfectly expressed her meaning. When he, Herbert, was willing to do so much to prove his love,—when he was ready to sacrifice all the little comforts of comparative wealth to which he had been accustomed, in order that she might be his companion and wife,—did it not behove her to give some proof of her love also? She could not be demonstrative as he was. Such exhibition of feeling would be quite contrary to her ideas of female delicacy4, and to her very nature. But if called on to work for him, that she could do as long as strength remained to her. But there was no sacrifice which would be of service, nor any work which would avail. Therefore she was driven to think what she might do on his behalf, and at last she resolved to make her personal appeal to Uncle Hatto.
“Shall I tell papa?” Isa asked of her mother.
“I will do so,” said Madame Heine. And then the younger member of the firm was informed as to the step which was to be taken; and he, though he said nothing to forbid the attempt, held out no hope that it would be successful.
Uncle Hatto was a little snuffy man, now full seventy years of age, who passed seven hours of every week-day of his life in the dark back chamber5 behind the banking-room of the firm, and he had so passed every week-day of his life for more years than any of the family could now remember. He had made the house what it was, and had taken his brother into partnership6 when that brother married. All the family were somewhat afraid of him, including even his partner. He rarely came to the apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse, as he himself lived in one of the older and shabbier suburbs on the other side of the town. Thither7 he always walked, starting punctually from the bank at four o’clock, and from thence he always walked in the morning, reaching the bank punctually at nine. His two nieces knew him well; for on certain stated days they were wont8 to attend on him at his lodgings9, where they would be regaled with cakes, and afterwards go with him to some old-fashioned beer-garden in his neighbourhood. But these festivities were of a sombre kind; and if, on any occasion, circumstances prevented the fulfilment of the ceremony, neither of the girls would be loud in their lamentations.
In London, a visit paid by a niece to her uncle would, in all probability, be made at the uncle’s private residence; but at Munich private and public matters were not so effectually divided. Isa therefore, having put on her hat and shawl, walked off by herself to the Schrannen Platz.
“Is Uncle Hatto inside?” she asked; and the answer was given to her by her own lover. Yes, he was within; but the old clerk was with him. Isa, however, signified her wish to see her uncle alone, and in a few minutes the ancient grey-haired servant of the house came out into the larger room.
“You can go in now, Miss Isa,” he said. And Isa found herself in the presence of her uncle before she had been two minutes under the roof. In the mean time Ernest Heine, her father, had said not a word, and Herbert knew that something very special must be about to occur.
“Well, my bonny bird,” said Uncle Hatto, “and what do you want at the bank?” Cheery words, such as these, were by no means uncommon10 with Uncle Hatto; but Isa knew very well that no presage11 could be drawn12 from them of any special good nature or temporary weakness on his part.
“Uncle Hatto,” she began, rushing at once into the middle of her affair, “you know, I believe, that I am engaged to marry Herbert Onslow?”
“I know no such thing,” said he. “I thought I understood your father specially13 to say that there had been no betrothal14.”
“No, Uncle Hatto, there has been no betrothal; that certainly is true; but, nevertheless, we are engaged to each other.”
“Well,” said Uncle Hatto, very sourly; and now there was no longer any cheery tone, or any calling of pretty names.
“Perhaps you may think all this very foolish,” said Isa, who, spite of her resolves to do so, was hardly able to look up gallantly15 into her uncle’s face as she thus talked of her own love affairs.
“Yes, I do,” said Uncle Hatto. “I do think it foolish for young people to hold themselves betrothed16 before they have got anything to live on, and so I have told your father. He answered me by saying that you were not betrothed.”
“Nor are we. Papa is quite right in that.”
“Then, my dear, I would advise you to tell the young man that, as neither of you have means of your own, the thing must be at an end. It is the only step for you to take. If you agreed to wait, one of you might die, or his money might never be forth17 coming, or you might see somebody else that you liked better.”
“I don’t think I shall do that.”
“You can’t tell. And if you don’t, the chances are ten to one that he will.”
This little blow, which was intended to be severe, did not hit Isa at all hard. That plan of a Rose Bradwardine she herself had proposed in good faith, thinking that she could endure such a termination to the affair without flinching18. She was probably wrong in this estimate of her power; but, nevertheless, her present object was his release from unhappiness and doubt, not her own.
“It might be so,” she said.
“Take my word for it, it would. Look all around. There was Adelaide Schropner,—but that was before your time, and you would not remember.” Considering that Adelaide Schropner had been for many years a grandmother, it was probable that Isa would not remember.
“But, Uncle Hatto, you have not heard me. I want to say something to you, if it will not take too much of your time.” In answer to which, Uncle Hatto muttered something which was unheeded, to signify that Isa might speak.
“I also think that a long engagement is a foolish thing, and so does Herbert.”
“But he wants to marry at once.”
“Yes, he wants to marry—perhaps not at once, but soon.”
“And I suppose you have come to say that you want the same thing.”
Isa blushed ever so faintly as she commenced her answer. “Yes, uncle, I do wish the same thing. What he wishes, I wish.”
“Very likely,—very likely.”
“Don’t be scornful to me, uncle. When two people love each other, it is natural that each should wish that which the other earnestly desires.”
“Oh, very natural, my dear, that you should wish to get married!”
“Uncle Hatto, I did not think that you would be unkind to me, though I knew that you would be stern.”
“Well, go on. What have you to say? I am not stern; but I have no doubt you will think me unkind. People are always unkind who do not do what they are asked.”
“Papa says that Herbert Onslow is some day to become a partner in the bank.”
“That depends on certain circumstances. Neither I nor your papa can say whether he will or no.”
But Isa went on as though she had not heard the last reply. “I have come to ask you to admit him as a partner at once.”
“Ah, I supposed so;—just as you might ask me to give you a new ribbon.”
“But, uncle, I never did ask you to give me a new ribbon. I never asked you to give me anything for myself; nor do I ask this for myself.”
“Do you think that if I could do it,—which of course I can’t,—I would not sooner do it for you, who are my own flesh and blood, than for him, who is a stranger?”
“Nay; he is no stranger. He has sat at your desk and obeyed your orders for nearly four years. Papa says that he has done well in the bank.”
“Humph! If every clerk that does well,—pretty well, that is,—wanted a partnership, where should we be, my dear? No, my dear, go home and tell him when you see him in the evening that all this must be at an end. Men’s places in the world are not given away so easily as that. They must either be earned or purchased. Herbert Onslow has as yet done neither, and therefore he is not entitled to take a wife. I should have been glad to have had a wife at his age,—at least I suppose I should, but at any rate I could not afford it.”
But Isa had by no means as yet done. So far the interview had progressed exactly as she had anticipated. She had never supposed it possible that her uncle would grant her so important a request as soon as she opened her mouth to ask it. She had not for a moment expected that things would go so easily with her. Indeed she had never expected that any success would attend her efforts; but, if any success were possible, the work which must achieve that success must now commence. It was necessary that she should first state her request plainly before she began to urge it with such eloquence19 as she had at her command.
“I can understand what you say, Uncle Hatto.”
“I am glad of that, at any rate.”
“And I know that I have no right to ask you for anything.”
“I do not say that. Anything in reason, that a girl like you should ask of her old uncle, I would give you.”
“I have no such reasonable request to make, uncle. I have never wanted new ribbons from you or gay toys. Even from my own mother I have not wanted them;—not wanted them faster than they seemed to come without any asking.”
“No, no; you have been a good girl.”
“I have been a happy girl; and quite happy with those I loved, and with what Providence20 had given me. I had nothing to ask for. But now I am no longer happy, nor can I be unless you do for me this which I ask of you. I have wanted nothing till now, and now in my need I come to you.”
“And now you want a husband with a fortune!”
“No!” and that single word she spoke21, not loudly, for her voice was low and soft, but with an accent which carried it sharply to his ear and to his brain. And then she rose from her seat as she went on. “Your scorn, uncle, is unjust,—unjust and untrue. I have ever acted maidenly22, as has become my mother’s daughter.”
“Yes, yes, yes;—I believe that.”
“And I can say more than that for myself. My thoughts have been the same, nor have my wishes even, ever gone beyond them. And when this young man came to me, telling me of his feelings, I gave him no answer till I had consulted my mother.”
“She should have bade you not to think of him.”
“Ah, you are not a mother, and cannot know. Why should I not think of him when he was good and kind, honest and hardworking? And then he had thought of me first. Why should I not think of him? Did not mamma listen to my father when he came to her?”
“But your father was forty years old, and had a business.”
“You gave it him, Uncle Hatto. I have heard him say.”
“And therefore I am to do as much for you. And then next year Agnes will come to me; and so before I die I shall see you all in want, with large families. No, Isa; I will not scorn you, but this thing I cannot do.”
“But I have not told you all yet. You say that I want a husband.”
“Well, well; I did not mean to say it harshly.”
“I do want—to be married.” And here her courage failed her a little, and for a moment her eye fell to the ground. “It is true, uncle. He has asked me whether I could love him, and I have told him I could. He has asked me whether I would be his wife, and I have given him a promise. After that, must not his happiness be my happiness, and his misery23 my misery? Am I not his wife already before God?”
“No, no,” said Uncle Hatto, loudly.
“Ah, but I am. None feel the strength of the bonds but those who are themselves bound. I know my duty to my father and mother, and with God’s help I will do it, but I am not the less bound to him. Without their approval I will not stand with him at the altar; but not the less is my lot joined to his for this world. Nothing could release me from that but his wish.”
“And he will wish it in a month or two.”
“Excuse me, Uncle Hatto, but in that I can only judge for myself as best I may. He has loved me now for two years—”
“Psha!”
“And whether it be wise or foolish, I have sanctioned it. I cannot now go back with honour, even if my own heart would let me. His welfare must be my welfare, and his sorrow my sorrow. Therefore I am bound to do for him anything that a girl may do for the man she loves; and, as I knew of no other resource, I come to you to help me.”
“And he, sitting out there, knows what you are saying.”
“Most certainly not. He knows no more than that he has seen me enter this room.”
“I am glad of that, because I would not wish that he should be disappointed. In this matter, my dear, I cannot do anything for you.”
“And that is your last answer, uncle?”
“Yes, indeed. When you come to think over this some twenty years hence, you will know then that I am right, and that your request was unreasonable24.
“It may be so,” she replied, “but I do not think it.”
“It will be so. Such favours as you now ask are not granted in this world for light reasons.”
“Light reasons! Well, uncle, I have had my say, and will not take up your time longer.”
“Good-bye, my dear. I am sorry that I cannot oblige you;—that it is quite out of my power to oblige you.”
Then she went, giving him her hand as she parted from him; and he, as she left the room looked anxiously at her, watching her countenance25 and her gait, and listening to the very fall of her footstep. “Ah,” he said to himself; when he was alone, “the young people have the best of it. The sun shines for them; but why should they have all? Poor as he is, he is a happy dog,—a happy dog. But she is twice too good for him. Why did she not take to one of her own country?”
Isa, as she passed through the bank, smiled sweetly on her father, and then smiled sweetly at her lover, nodding to him with a pleasant kindly26 nod. If he could have heard all that had passed at that interview, how much more he would have known of her than he now knew, and how proud he would have been of her love. No word was spoken as she went out, and then she walked home with even step, as she had walked thither. It can hardly be said that she was disappointed, as she had expected nothing. But people hope who do not expect, and though her step was even and her face calm, yet her heart was sad.
“Mamma,” she said, “there is no hope from Uncle Hatto.”
“So I feared, my dear.”
“But I thought it right to try—for Herbert’s sake.”
“I hope it will not do him an injury in the bank.”
“Oh, mamma, do not put that into my head. If that were added to it all, I should indeed be wretched.”
“No; he is too just for that. Poor young man! Sometimes I almost think it would be better that he should go back to England.”
“Mamma, if he did, I should—break my heart.”
“Isa!”
“Well, mamma! But do not suppose that I mean to complain, whatever happens.”
“But I had been so sure that you had constrained27 your feelings!”
“So I had,—till I knew myself. Mamma, I could wait for years, if he were contented28 to wait by my side. If I could see him happy, I could watch him and love him, and be happy also. I do not want to have him kneeling to me, and making sweet speeches; but it has gone too far now,—and I could not bear to lose him.” And thus to her mother she confessed the truth.
There was nothing more said between Isa and her mother on the subject, and for two days the matter remained as it then stood. Madame Heine had been deeply grieved at hearing those last words which her daughter had spoken. To her also that state of quiescence29 which Isa had so long affected30 seemed to be the proper state at which a maiden’s heart should stand till after her marriage vows31 had been pronounced. She had watched her Isa, and had approved of everything,—of everything till this last avowal32 had been made. But now, though she could not approve, she expressed no disapproval33 in words. She pressed her daughter’s hand and sighed, and then the two said no more upon the matter. In this way, for two days, there was silence in the apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse; for even when the father returned from his work, the whole circle felt that their old family mirth was for the present necessarily laid aside.
On the morning of the third day, about noon, Madame Heine returned home from the market with Isa, and as they reached the landing, Agnes met them with a packet. “Fritz brought it from the bank,” said Agnes. Now Fritz was the boy who ran messages and swept out the office, and Madame Heine put out her hand for the parcel, thinking, not unnaturally34, that it was for her. But Agnes would not give it to her mother, “It is for you, Isa,” she said. Then Isa, looking at the address, recognised the handwriting of her uncle. “Mamma,” she said, “I will come to you directly;” and then she passed quickly away into her own room.
The parcel was soon opened, and contained a note from her uncle, and a stiff, large document, looking as though it had come from the hands of a lawyer. Isa glanced at the document, and read some few of the words on the outer fold, but they did not carry home to her mind any clear perception of their meaning. She was flurried at the moment, and the words, perhaps, were not very plain. Then she took up her note, and that was plain enough. It was very short, and ran as follows:—
“My dear Niece,
You told me on Monday that I was stern, and harsh, and unjust. Perhaps I was. If so, I hope the enclosed will make amends35, and that you will not think me such an old fool as I think myself.
“Your affectionate uncle,
“Hatto Heine.
“I have told nobody yet, and the enclosed will require my brother’s signature; but I suppose he will not object.”
* * * * *
“But he does not know it, mamma,” said Isa. “Who is to tell him? Oh, mamma, you must tell him.”
“Nay, my dear; but it must be your own present to him.”
“I could not give it him. It is Uncle Hatto’s present Mamma, when I left him I thought that his eye was kind to me.”
“His heart, at any rate, has been very kind.” And then again they looked over the document, and talked of the wedding which must now be near at hand. But still they had not as yet decided36 how Herbert should be informed.
At last Isa resolved that she herself would write to him. She did write, and this was her letter:—
“Dear Herbert,
“Mamma and I wish to see you, and beg that you will come up to us this evening. We have tidings for you which I hope you will receive with joy. I may as well tell you at once, as I do not wish to flurry you. Uncle Hatto has sent to us a document which admits you as a partner into the bank. If; therefore, you wish to go on with our engagement, I suppose there is nothing now to cause any very great delay.
“Isa.”
The letter was very simple, and Isa, when she had written it, subsided37 into all her customary quiescence. Indeed, when Herbert came to the Ludwigs Strasse, not in the evening as he was bidden to do, but instantly, leaving his own dinner uneaten, and coming upon the Heines in the midst of their dinner, she was more than usually tranquil38. But his love was, as she had told him, boisterous39. He could not contain himself, and embraced them all, and then scolded Isa because she was so calm.
“Why should I not be calm,” said she, “now that I know you are happy?”
The house in the Schrannen Platz still goes by the name of Heine Brothers, but the mercantile world in Bavaria, and in some cities out of Bavaria, is well aware that the real pith and marrow40 of the business is derived41 from the energy of the young English partner.
The End
The End
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1
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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11
presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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12
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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13
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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14
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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41
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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