The Professor (33 page)

With a simultaneous movement, each turned his back on the other.
Neither said " God bless you;" yet on the morrow the sea was to
roll between us.

IN two months more Frances had fulfilled the time of mourning for
her aunt. One January morning—the first of the new year
holidays—I went in a fiacre, accompanied only by M. Vandenhuten,
to the Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges, and having alighted alone and
walked upstairs, I found Frances apparently waiting for me,
dressed in a style scarcely appropriate to that cold, bright,
frosty day. Never till now had I seen her attired in any other
than black or sad-coloured stuff; and there she stood by the
window, clad all in white, and white of a most diaphanous
texture; her array was very simple, to be sure, but it looked
imposing and festal because it was so clear, full, and floating;
a veil shadowed her head, and hung below her knee; a little
wreath of pink flowers fastened it to her thickly tressed Grecian
plait, and thence it fell softly on each side of her face.
Singular to state, she was, or had been crying; when I asked her
if she were ready, she said "Yes, monsieur," with something very
like a checked sob; and when I took a shawl, which lay on the
table, and folded it round her, not only did tear after tear
course unbidden down her cheek, but she shook to my ministration
like a reed. I said I was sorry to see her in such low spirits,
and requested to be allowed an insight into the origin thereof.
She only said, "It was impossible to help it," and then
voluntarily, though hurriedly, putting her hand into mine,
accompanied me out of the room, and ran downstairs with a quick,
uncertain step, like one who was eager to get some formidable
piece of business over. I put her into the fiacre. M.
Vandenhuten received her, and seated her beside himself; we drove
all together to the Protestant chapel, went through a certain
service in the Common Prayer Book, and she and I came out
married. M. Vandenhuten had given the bride away.

We took no bridal trip; our modesty, screened by the peaceful
obscurity of our station, and the pleasant isolation of our
circumstances, did not exact that additional precaution. We
repaired at once to a small house I had taken in the faubourg
nearest to that part of the city where the scene of our
avocations lay.

Three or four hours after the wedding ceremony, Frances, divested
of her bridal snow, and attired in a pretty lilac gown of warmer
materials, a piquant black silk apron, and a lace collar with
some finishing decoration of lilac ribbon, was kneeling on the
carpet of a neatly furnished though not spacious parlour,
arranging on the shelves of a chiffoniere some books, which I
handed to her from the table. It was snowing fast out of doors;
the afternoon had turned out wild and cold; the leaden sky seemed
full of drifts, and the street was already ankle-deep in the
white downfall. Our fire burned bright, our new habitation
looked brilliantly clean and fresh, the furniture was all
arranged, and there were but some articles of glass, china,
books, &c., to put in order. Frances found in this business
occupation till tea-time, and then, after I had distinctly
instructed her how to make a cup of tea in rational English
style, and after she had got over the dismay occasioned by seeing
such an extravagant amount of material put into the pot, she
administered to me a proper British repast, at which there wanted
neither candies nor urn, fire-light nor comfort.

Our week's holiday glided by, and we readdressed ourselves to
labour. Both my wife and I began in good earnest with the notion
that we were working people, destined to earn our bread by
exertion, and that of the most assiduous kind. Our days were
thoroughly occupied; me used to part every morning at eight
o'clock, and not meet again till five P.M.; but into what sweet
rest did the turmoil of each busy day decline! Looking down the
vista, of memory, I see the evenings passed in that little
parlour like a long string of rubies circling the dusk brow of
the past. Unvaried were they as each cut gem, and like each gem
brilliant and burning.

A year and a half passed. One morning (it was a FETE, and we had
the day to ourselves) Frances said to me, with a suddenness
peculiar to her when she had been thinking long on a subject, and
at last, having come to a conclusion, wished to test its
soundness by the touchstone of my judgment:—

"I don't work enough."

"What now? " demanded I, looking up from my coffee, which I had
been deliberately stirring while enjoying, in anticipation, a
walk I proposed to take with Frances, that fine summer day (it
was June), to a certain farmhouse in the country, where we were
to dine. "What now?" and I saw at once, in the serious ardour of
her face, a project of vital importance.

"I am not satisfied" returned she: "you are now earning eight
thousand francs a year" (it was true; my efforts, punctuality,
the fame of my pupils' progress, the publicity of my station, had
so far helped me on), "while I am still at my miserable twelve
hundred francs. I CAN do better, and I WILL."

"You work as long and as diligently as I do, Frances."

"Yes, monsieur, but I am not working in the right way, and I am
convinced of it."

"You wish to change—you have a plan for progress in your mind;
go and put on your bonnet; and, while we take our walk, you shall
tell me of it."

"Yes, monsieur."

She went—as docile as a well-trained child; she was a curious
mixture of tractability and firmness: I sat thinking about her,
and wondering what her plan could be, when she re-entered.

"Monsieur, I have given Minnie" (our bonne) "leave to go out too,
as it is so very fine; so will you be kind enough to lock the
door, and take the key with you?"

"Kiss me, Mrs. Crimsworth," was my not very apposite reply; but
she looked so engaging in her light summer dress and little
cottage bonnet, and her manner in speaking to me was then, as
always, so unaffectedly and suavely respectful, that my heart
expanded at the sight of her, and a kiss seemed necessary to
content its importunity.

"There, monsieur."

"Why do you always call me 'Monsieur?' Say, 'William.'"

"I cannot pronounce your W; besides, 'Monsieur' belongs to you; I
like it best."

Minnie having departed in clean cap and smart shawl, we, too, set
out, leaving the house solitary and silent—silent, at least, but
for the ticking of the clock. We were soon clear of Brussels;
the fields received us, and then the lanes, remote from carriage-
resounding CHAUSSEES. Ere long we came upon a nook, so rural,
green, and secluded, it might have been a spot in some pastoral
English province; a bank of short and mossy grass, under a
hawthorn, offered a seat too tempting to be declined; we took it,
and when we had admired and examined some English-looking
wild-flowers growing at our feet, I recalled Frances' attention
and my own to the topic touched on at breakfast.

"What was her plan?" A natural one—the next step to be mounted
by us, or, at least, by her, if she wanted to rise in her
profession. She proposed to begin a school. We already had the
means for commencing on a careful scale, having lived greatly
within our income. We possessed, too, by this time, an extensive
and eligible connection, in the sense advantageous to our
business; for, though our circle of visiting acquaintance
continued as limited as ever, we were now widely known in schools
and families as teachers. When Frances had developed her plan,
she intimated, in some closing sentences, her hopes for the
future. If we only had good health and tolerable success, me
might, she was sure, in time realize an independency; and that,
perhaps, before we were too old to enjoy it; then both she and I
would rest; and what was to hinder us from going to live in
England? England was still her Promised Land.

I put no obstacle in her way; raised no objection; I knew she was
not one who could live quiescent and inactive, or even
comparatively inactive. Duties she must have to fulfil, and
important duties; work to do—and exciting, absorbing, profitable
work; strong faculties stirred in her frame, and they demanded
full nourishment, free exercise: mine was not the hand ever to
starve or cramp them; no, I delighted in offering them
sustenance, and in clearing them wider space for action.

"You have conceived a plan, Frances," said I, "and a good plan;
execute it; you have my free consent, and wherever and whenever
my assistance is wanted, ask and you shall have."

Frances' eyes thanked me almost with tears; just a sparkle or
two, soon brushed away; she possessed herself of my hand too, and
held it for some time very close clasped in both her own, but she
said no more than "Thank you, monsieur."

We passed a divine day, and came home late, lighted by a full
summer moon.

Ten years rushed now upon me with dusty, vibrating, unresting
wings; years of bustle, action, unslacked endeavour; years in
which I and my wife, having launched ourselves in the full career
of progress, as progress whirls on in European capitals, scarcely
knew repose, were strangers to amusement, never thought of
indulgence, and yet, as our course ran side by side, as we
marched hand in hand, we neither murmured, repented, nor
faltered. Hope indeed cheered us; health kept us up; harmony of
thought and deed smoothed many difficulties, and finally, success
bestowed every now and then encouraging reward on diligence. Our
school became one of the most popular in Brussels, and as by
degrees we raised our terms and elevated our system of education,
our choice of pupils grew more select, and at length included the
children of the best families in Belgium. We had too an
excellent connection in England, first opened by the unsolicited
recommendation of Mr. Hunsden, who having been over, and having
abused me for my prosperity in set terms, went back, and soon
after sent a leash of young —shire heiresses—his cousins; as
he said "to be polished off by Mrs. Crimsworth."

As to this same Mrs. Crimsworth, in one sense she was become
another woman, though in another she remained unchanged. So
different was she under different circumstances. I seemed to
possess two wives. The faculties of her nature, already
disclosed when I married her, remained fresh and fair; but other
faculties shot up strong, branched out broad, and quite altered
the external character of the plant. Firmness, activity, and
enterprise, covered with grave foliage, poetic feeling and
fervour; but these flowers were still there, preserved pure and
dewy under the umbrage of later growth and hardier nature:
perhaps I only in the world knew the secret of their existence,
but to me they were ever ready to yield an exquisite fragrance
and present a beauty as chaste as radiant.

In the daytime my house and establishment were conducted by
Madame the directress, a stately and elegant woman, bearing much
anxious thought on her large brow; much calculated dignity in her
serious mien: immediately after breakfast I used to part with
this lady; I went to my college, she to her schoolroom; returning
for an hour in the course of the day, I found her always in
class, intently occupied; silence, industry, observance,
attending on her presence. When not actually teaching, she was
overlooking and guiding by eye and gesture; she then appeared
vigilant and solicitous. When communicating instruction, her
aspect was more animated; she seemed to feel a certain enjoyment
in the occupation. The language in which she addressed her
pupils, though simple and unpretending, was never trite or dry;
she did not speak from routine formulas—she made her own phrases
as she went on, and very nervous and impressive phrases they
frequently were; often, when elucidating favourite points of
history, or geography, she would wax genuinely eloquent in her
earnestness. Her pupils, or at least the elder and more
intelligent amongst them, recognized well the language of a
superior mind; they felt too, and some of them received the
impression of elevated sentiments; there was little fondling
between mistress and girls, but some of Frances' pupils in time
learnt to love her sincerely, all of them beheld her with
respect; her general demeanour towards them was serious;
sometimes benignant when they pleased her with their progress and
attention, always scrupulously refined and considerate. In cases
where reproof or punishment was called for she was usually
forbearing enough; but if any took advantage of that forbearance,
which sometimes happened, a sharp, sudden and lightning-like
severity taught the culprit the extent of the mistake committed.
Sometimes a gleam of tenderness softened her eyes and manner, but
this was rare; only when a pupil was sick, or when it pined after
home, or in the case of some little motherless child, or of one
much poorer than its companions, whose scanty wardrobe and mean
appointments brought on it the contempt of the jewelled young
countesses and silk-clad misses. Over such feeble fledglings the
directress spread a wing of kindliest protection: it was to
their bedside she came at night to tuck them warmly in; it was
after them she looked in winter to see that they always had a
comfortable seat by the stove; it was they who by turns were
summoned to the salon to receive some little dole of cake or
fruit—to sit on a footstool at the fireside—to enjoy home
comforts, and almost home liberty, for an evening together—to be
spoken to gently and softly, comforted, encouraged, cherished
—and when bedtime came, dismissed with a kiss of true
tenderness. As to Julia and Georgiana G —, daughters of an
English baronet, as to Mdlle. Mathilde de —, heiress of a
Belgian count, and sundry other children of patrician race, the
directress was careful of them as of the others, anxious for
their progress, as for that of the rest—but it never seemed to
enter her head to distinguish then by a mark of preference; one
girl of noble blood she loved dearly—a young Irish baroness
—lady Catherine —; but it was for her enthusiastic heart and
clever head, for her generosity and her genius, the title and
rank went for nothing.