Trilby · Part 4 (2/5)

All of which, of course, it is unnecessary to translate; except, perhaps, the word bosse, which stands for noce, which stands for a “jolly good spree.”

In all his innocent little life Little Billee had never dreamed of such humiliation as this⁠—such ignominious depths of shame and misery and remorse! He did not care to live. He had but one longing: that Trilby, dear Trilby, kind Trilby, would come and pillow his head on her beautiful white English bosom, and lay her soft, cool, tender hand on his aching brow, and there let him go to sleep, and sleeping, die!

He slept and slept, with no better rest for his aching brow than the pillow of his bed in the Hôtel Corneille, and failed to die this time. And when, after some forty-eight hours or so, he had quite slept off the fumes of that memorable Christmas debauch, he found that a sad thing had happened to him, and a strange!

It was as though a tarnishing breath had swept over the reminiscent mirror of his mind and left a little film behind it, so that no past thing he wished to see therein was reflected with quite the old pristine clearness. As though the keen, quick, razorlike edge of his power to reach and re-evoke the bygone charm and glamour and essence of things had been blunted and coarsened. As though the bloom of that special joy, the gift he unconsciously had of recalling past emotions and sensations and situations, and making them actual once more by a mere effort of the will, had been brushed away.

And he never recovered the full use of that most precious faculty, the boon of youth and happy childhood, and which he had once possessed, without knowing it, in such singular and exceptional completeness. He was to lose other precious faculties of his over-rich and complex nature⁠—to be pruned and clipped and thinned⁠—that his one supreme faculty of painting might have elbow-room to reach its fullest, or else you would never have seen the wood for the trees (or vice versa⁠—which is it?).

On New-year’s Day Taffy and the Laird were at their work in the studio, when there was a knock at the door, and Monsieur Vinard, cap in hand, respectfully introduced a pair of visitors, an English lady and gentleman.

The gentleman was a clergyman, small, thin, round-shouldered, with a long neck; weak-eyed and dryly polite. The lady was middle-aged, though still young looking; very pretty, with gray hair; very well dressed; very small, full of nervous energy, with tiny hands and feet. It was Little Billee’s mother; and the clergyman, the Rev. Thomas Bagot, was her brother-in-law.

Their faces were full of trouble⁠—so much so that the two painters did not even apologize for the carelessness of their attire, or for the odor of tobacco that filled the room. Little Billee’s mother recognized the two painters at a glance, from the sketches and descriptions of which her son’s letters were always full.

They all sat down.

After a moment’s embarrassed silence, Mrs. Bagot exclaimed, addressing Taffy: “Mr. Wynne, we are in terrible distress of mind. I don’t know if my son has told you, but on Christmas Day he engaged himself to be married!”

“To⁠—be⁠—married!” exclaimed Taffy and the Laird, for whom this was news indeed.

“Yes⁠—to be married to a Miss Trilby O’Ferrall, who, from what he implies, is in quite a different position in life to himself. Do you know the lady, Mr. Wynne?”

“Oh yes! I know her very well indeed; we all know her.”

“Is she English?”

“She’s an English subject, I believe.”

“Is she a Protestant or a Roman Catholic?” inquired the clergyman.

“A⁠—a⁠—upon my word, I really don’t know!”

“You know her very well indeed, and you don’t⁠—know⁠—that, Mr. Wynne!” exclaimed Mr. Bagot.

“Is she a lady, Mr. Wynne?” asked Mrs. Bagot, somewhat impatiently, as if that were a much more important matter.

By this time the Laird had managed to basely desert his friend; had got himself into his bedroom, and from thence, by another door, into the street and away.

“A lady?” said Taffy; “a⁠—it so much depends upon what that word exactly means, you know; things are so⁠—a⁠—so different here. Her father was a gentleman, I believe⁠—a fellow of Trinity, Cambridge⁠—and a clergyman, if that means anything!⁠ ⁠… he was unfortunate and all that⁠—a⁠—intemperate, I fear, and not successful in life. He has been dead six or seven years.”

“And her mother?”

“I really know very little about her mother, except that she was very handsome, I believe, and of inferior social rank to her husband. She’s also dead; she died soon after him.”

“What is the young lady, then? An English governess, or something of that sort?”

“Oh, no, no⁠—a⁠—nothing of that sort,” said Taffy (and inwardly, “You coward⁠—you cad of a Scotch thief of a sneak of a Laird⁠—to leave all this to me!”).

“What? Has she independent means of her own, then?”

“A⁠—not that I know of; I should even say, decidedly not!”

“What is she, then? She’s at least respectable, I hope!”

“At present she’s a⁠—a blanchisseuse de fin⁠—that is considered respectable here.”

“Why, that’s a washerwoman, isn’t it?”

“Well⁠—rather better than that, perhaps⁠—de fin, you know!⁠—things are so different in Paris! I don’t think you’d say she was very much like a washerwoman⁠—to look at!”

“Is she so good-looking, then?”

“Oh yes; extremely so. You may well say that⁠—very beautiful, indeed⁠—about that, at least, there is no doubt whatever!”

“And of unblemished character?”

Taffy, red and perspiring as if he were going through his Indian-club exercise, was silent⁠—and his face expressed a miserable perplexity. But nothing could equal the anxious misery of those two maternal eyes, so wistfully fixed on his.

After some seconds of a most painful stillness, the lady said, “Can’t you⁠—oh, can’t you give me an answer, Mr. Wynne?”

“Oh, Mrs. Bagot, you have placed me in a terrible position! I⁠—I love your son just as if he were my own brother! This engagement is a complete surprise to me⁠—a most painful surprise! I’d thought of many possible things, but never of that! I cannot⁠—I really must not conceal from you that it would be an unfortunate marriage for your son⁠—from a⁠—a worldly point of view, you know⁠—although both I and McAllister have a very deep and warm regard for poor Trilby O’Ferrall⁠—indeed, a great admiration and affection and respect! She was once a model.”

“A model, Mr. Wynne? What sort of a model⁠—there are models and models, of course.”

“Well, a model of every sort, in every possible sense of the word⁠—head, hands, feet, everything!”

“A model for the figure?”

“Well⁠—yes!”

“Oh, my God! my God! my God!” cried Mrs. Bagot⁠—and she got up and walked up and down the studio in a most terrible state of agitation, her brother-in-law following her and begging her to control herself. Her exclamations seemed to shock him, and she didn’t seem to care.

“Oh, Mr. Wynne! Mr. Wynne! If you only knew what my son is to me⁠—to all of us⁠—always has been! He has been with us all his life, till he came to this wicked, accursed city! My poor husband would never hear of his going to any school, for fear of all the harm he might learn there. My son was as innocent and pure-minded as any girl, Mr. Wynne⁠—I could have trusted him anywhere⁠—and that’s why I gave way and allowed him to come here, of all places in the world⁠—all alone. Oh! I should have come with him! Fool⁠—fool⁠—fool that I was!⁠ ⁠…

“Oh, Mr. Wynne, he won’t see either his mother or his uncle! I found a letter from him at the hotel, saying he’d left Paris⁠—and I don’t even know where he’s gone!⁠ ⁠… Can’t you, can’t Mr. McAllister, do anything to avert this miserable disaster? You don’t know how he loves you both⁠—you should see his letters to me and to his sister! they are always full of you!”

“Indeed, Mrs. Bagot⁠—you can count on McAllister and me for doing everything in our power! But it is of no use our trying to influence your son⁠—I feel quite sure of that! It is to her we must make our appeal.”

“Oh, Mr. Wynne! to a washerwoman⁠—a figure model⁠—and Heaven knows what besides! and with such a chance as this!”

“Mrs. Bagot, you don’t know her? She may have been all that. But strange as it may seem to you⁠—and seems to me, for that matter⁠—she’s a⁠—she’s⁠—upon my word of honor, I really think she’s about the best woman I ever met⁠—the most unselfish⁠—the most⁠—”

“Ah! She’s a beautiful woman⁠—I can well see that!”

“She has a beautiful nature, Mrs. Bagot⁠—you may believe me or not, as you like⁠—and it is to that I shall make my appeal, as your son’s friend, who has his interests at heart. And let me tell you that deeply as I grieve for you in your present distress, my grief and concern for her are far greater!”

“What! grief for her if she marries my son!”

“No, indeed⁠—but if she refuses to marry him. She may not do so, of course⁠—but my instinct tells me she will!”

“Oh! Mr. Wynne, is that likely?”

“I will do my best to make it so⁠—with such an utter trust in her unselfish goodness of heart and her passionate affection for your son as⁠—”

“How do you know she has all this passionate affection for him?”

“Oh, McAllister and I have long guessed it⁠—though we never thought this particular thing would come of it. I think, perhaps, that first of all you ought to see her yourself⁠—you would get quite a new idea of what she really is⁠—you would be surprised, I assure you.”

Mrs. Bagot shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and there was silence for a minute or two.

And then, just as in a play, Trilby’s “Milk below!” was sounded at the door, and Trilby came into the little antechamber, and seeing strangers, was about to turn back. She was dressed as a grisette, in her Sunday gown and pretty white cap (for it was New-year’s Day), and looking her very best.

Taffy called out, “Come in, Trilby!”

And Trilby came into the studio.

As soon as she saw Mrs. Bagot’s face she stopped short⁠—erect, her shoulders a little high, her mouth a little open, her eyes wide with fright⁠—and pale to the lips⁠—a pathetic, yet commanding, magnificent, and most distinguished apparition, in spite of her humble attire.

The little lady got up and walked straight to her, and looked up into her face, that seemed to tower so. Trilby breathed hard.

At length Mrs. Bagot said, in her high accents, “You are Miss Trilby O’Ferrall?”

“Oh yes⁠—yes⁠—I am Trilby O’Ferrall, and you are Mrs. Bagot; I can see that!”

A new tone had come into her large, deep, soft voice, so tragic, so touching, so strangely in accord with the whole aspect just then⁠—so strangely in accord with the whole situation⁠—that Taffy felt his cheeks and lips turn cold, and his big spine thrill and tickle all down his back.

“Oh yes; you are very, very beautiful⁠—there’s no doubt about that! You wish to marry my son?”

“I’ve refused to marry him nineteen times for his own sake; he will tell you so himself. I am not the right person for him to marry. I know that. On Christmas night he asked me for the twentieth time; he swore he would leave Paris next day forever if I refused him. I hadn’t the courage. I was weak, you see! It was a dreadful mistake.”

“Are you so fond of him?”

“Fond of him? Aren’t you?”

“I’m his mother, my good girl!”

To this Trilby seemed to have nothing to say.

“You have just said yourself you are not a fit wife for him. If you are so fond of him, will you ruin him by marrying him; drag him down; prevent him from getting on in life; separate him from his sister, his family, his friends?”

Trilby turned her miserable eyes to Taffy’s miserable face, and said, “Will it really be all that, Taffy?”

“Oh, Trilby, things have got all wrong, and can’t be righted! I’m afraid it might be so. Dear Trilby⁠—I can’t tell you what I feel⁠—but I can’t tell you lies, you know!”

“Oh no⁠—Taffy⁠—you don’t tell lies!”

Then Trilby began to tremble very much, and Taffy tried to make her sit down, but she wouldn’t. Mrs. Bagot looked up into her face, herself breathless with keen suspense and cruel anxiety⁠—almost imploring.

Trilby looked down at Mrs. Bagot very kindly, put out her shaking hand, and said; “Goodbye, Mrs. Bagot. I will not marry your son. I promise you. I will never see him again.”

Mrs. Bagot caught and clasped her hand and tried to kiss it, and said: “Don’t go yet, my dear good girl. I want to talk to you. I want to tell you how deeply I⁠—”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Bagot,” said Trilby, once more; and, disengaging her hand, she walked swiftly out of the room.

Mrs. Bagot seemed stupefied, and only half content with her quick triumph.

“She will not marry your son, Mrs. Bagot. I only wish to God she’d marry me!”

“Oh, Mr. Wynne!” said Mrs. Bagot, and burst into tears.

“Ah!” exclaimed the clergyman, with a feebly satirical smile and a little cough and sniff that were not sympathetic, “now if that could be arranged⁠—and I’ve no doubt there wouldn’t be much opposition on the part of the lady” (here he made a little complimentary bow), “it would be a very desirable thing all round!”

“It’s tremendously good of you, I’m sure⁠—to interest yourself in my humble affairs,” said Taffy. “Look here, sir⁠—I’m not a great genius like your nephew⁠—and it doesn’t much matter to anyone but myself what I make of my life⁠—but I can assure you that if Trilby’s heart were set on me as it is on him, I would gladly cast in my lot with hers for life. She’s one in a thousand. She’s the one sinner that repenteth, you know!”

“Ah, yes⁠—to be sure!⁠—to be sure! I know all about that; still, facts are facts, and the world is the world, and we’ve got to live in it,” said Mr. Bagot, whose satirical smile had died away under the gleam of Taffy’s choleric blue eye.

Then said the good Taffy, frowning down on the parson (who looked mean and foolish, as people can sometimes do even with right on their side): “And now, Mr. Bagot⁠—I can’t tell you how very keenly I have suffered during this⁠—a⁠—this most painful interview⁠—on account of my very deep regard for Trilby O’Ferrall. I congratulate you and your sister-in-law on its complete success. I also feel very deeply for your nephew. I’m not sure that he has not lost more than he will gain by⁠—a⁠—by the⁠—a⁠—the success of this⁠—a⁠—this interview, in short!”

Taffy’s eloquence was exhausted, and his quick temper was getting the better of him.

Then Mrs. Bagot, drying her eyes, came and took his hand in a very charming and simple manner, and said: “Mr. Wynne, I think I know what you are feeling just now. You must try and make some allowance for us. You will, I am sure, when we are gone, and you have had time to think a little. As for that noble and beautiful girl, I only wish that she were such that my son could marry her⁠—in her past life, I mean. It is not her humble rank that would frighten me; pray believe that I am quite sincere in this⁠—and don’t think too hardly of your friend’s mother. Think of all I shall have to go through with my poor son⁠—who is deeply in love⁠—and no wonder! and who has won the love of such a woman as that! and who cannot see at present how fatal to him such a marriage would be. I can see all the charm and believe in all the goodness, in spite of all. And, oh, how beautiful she is, and what a voice! All that counts for so much, doesn’t it? I cannot tell you how I grieve for her. I can make no amends⁠—who could, for such a thing? There are no amends, and I shall not even try. I will only write and tell her all I think and feel. You will forgive us, won’t you?”

And in the quick, impulsive warmth and grace and sincerity of her manner as she said all this, Mrs. Bagot was so absurdly like Little Billee that it touched big Taffy’s heart, and he would have forgiven anything, and there was nothing to forgive.