Keeping up Appearances CHAPTER 4.
Back to Three Years in a Man-trap
Mr. Burnside was a bachelor rather nearer to fifty than forty, although his attention to dress, and his fondness for society, made him appear some years younger than he really was. Why he had attained so advanced an age without marrying, was not known, although, as in such cases will always occur, there was more than one story told of earlydisappointments in love matters. If not successful in the court of Cupid — he certainly had been in the court of Mammon, for Mr. Burnside was quite as wealthy as he was reputed to be in the mercantile world. For this he was indebted to his father for twenty thousand pounds, and to a long established and profitable business, as well as to his own prudence and sagacity as a merchant — qualities that had come down to him by regular descent from his grandfather.
A love of money was a leading feature in the mind of Mr. Burnside, and this love, working by the various means that his understanding devised, attained its end with a certainty that often surprised his less sagacious competitors in business. This love of money led him not only to seek for the attainment of wealth — but also for its retainment.
The consequence was, that Mr. Burnside was known as a hard creditor, never releasing a man from an obligation into which he had once entered, no matter how great might be the disaster with which he was visited. Others might make a concession for eight, ten, or twelve shillings on the pound — but his rule was never to agree to take less than the whole sum due to him. By pursuing this mode, he frequently got his entire account, while others received only a fair proportion of what the creditor was able to pay; but it also happened that he sometimes lost all, in his efforts to get all. He received, in fact, the full benefit of his system, both in direct and inverse proportion — that is, he lost about as much as he gained, so far as money was concerned. What he lost morally, by this display of his avaricious feeling in cruel and oppressive acts, we shall not take into the account — to arrive at that we have no means of computation.
With all his hardness in dealing, Mr. Burnside had a very agreeable exterior, and was liked well enough by all who were able to pay their obligations at maturity. Some even looked upon him as a benevolent man, in consequence of the liberal manner in which he generally subscribed to public charities.
Mr. Burnside lived with a maiden sister, in a very elegant house, in a very fashionable part of New York; and had lived thus for many years. He had often thought that a young and beautiful wife would add much to the comfort and attractiveness of his establishment, and had frequently hinted the same to Miss Priscilla Burnside, the aforesaid maiden sister. But the lady always seemed worried at such intimations, and generally expressed it as her opinion that he had "better let well enough alone."
But Mr. Burnside, like people who always mean to get religion some day or other, always intended to marry; and the discovery of a number of suddenly appearing grey hairs and crows' feet, admonished him that it was time to begin to look about him for a wife rather more seriously than he had yet done. In this state of mind he met Lucy Hartman, whom he had often met before, at the house of a friend, and forthwith made up his mind that she would suit him exactly. He knew her to be the adopted child of Mr. Hartman, who wasreputed to be quite wealthy, and there was every reason to believe that she would be sole heir of his property when he died. He did not stand in need of money with his wife — but then it was a matter of principle with him, never to make any operation that did not give sure promise of a golden harvest. All doubtful speculations — he left for others. To have made a marriage contract without some reference to what it would yield in money, would have been impossible for him.
Prompt in all his movements, Mr. Burnside, as soon as he had made up his mind to marry Lucy, called upon Mr. Hartman, and announced his views in regard to his niece. How these views were received, has already been seen. The form of an answer from Lucy was to be returned in as short a period as it could be obtained; we say form, for both Mr. Burnside and Mr. Hartman never for a moment dreamed of any objection upon Lucy's part, and considered her decision of the matter as little more than a form.
This application, as the most important business operation of the day, dwelt pleasantly upon the mind of Mr. Burnside, as he sat musing alone in his room that evening. No vision of a rejected suit came up to disturb his placid frame of mind. That result had not been taken into the account. The time had passed thus, in agreeable reverie, until near eight o'clock, when a servant came to the door and informed Mr. Burnside that there was a lady in the parlor who wished to see him.
"A lady, did you say, Peter?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who is she?"
"I do not know, sir."
"What does she want?"
"She says that she wishes to speak a few words with you."
"Humph! someone after charity, I suppose. Go and ask her to send up her name, Peter."
The servant retired. In a few minutes he came back and said:
"The lady wouldn't tell me her name, sir; but she says she wishes to see you for something very particular. I think she's a young lady — but I could not get a look at her face."
"A young lady, ha!"
"Yes, sir, quite young."
"Humph! Tell her I will be down."
"A young lady," said Mr. Burnside half aloud, as soon as the servant had withdrawn, "I wonder who she is, or what she wants with me. The daughter of some poor widow in distress, no doubt. She must be a bold girl to call upon me at this time."
Saying which, Mr. Burnside arose, glanced at himself in the mirror, and then descended to the parlor. A lady, closely veiled, was seated in a part of the room that was thrown into shade. She neither arose nor spoke, as Mr. Burnside entered — but remained as motionless as if cut out of stone. He advanced towards her. When only a few paces distant, she slowly drew aside her veil, and showed a young, beautiful — but very pale face.
"Miss Hartman!" exclaimed Mr. Burnside in astonishment.
As he uttered her name, the veil that had been drawn aside, slowly returned to its former position, and concealed the face of his visitor.
It was some moments before either Mr. Burnside or the young lady again spoke. He stood mute before her, while she sat, with her eyes upon the floor. At length she said, in a low, timid, almost inarticulate voice,
"I have come, Mr. Burnside, to make an appeal to your known generous spirit."
Mr. Burnside cleared his throat with two or three vigorous e-h-h-hems! stepped back for a chair, which he placed directly in front of the young lady, seated himself, and assumed an attitude of attention.
"I received through my uncle, today, your kind proposal, which he is very urgent for me to accept," resumed Lucy, speaking with more steadiness of tone. "I cannot but feel sensibly the preference you have thus shown to me; still, it would be both to you and to myself a grievous wrong, were I to accept your offer. A hand that goes without a heart, Mr. Burnside — I need hardly tell you, is not worth having."
Such an unexpected announcement completely astounded Mr. Burnside. It was some moments before he could collect his thoughts sufficiently to make a reply. When he did so, he said, with a kindness and apparent consideration not at all in correspondence with his real feelings —
"I am sorry, my dear young lady, that you should have felt called upon to make this announcement to me, in person, and under circumstances so painfully embarrassing to yourself. The same communication through your uncle would have at once settled the question. I did not dream of any objection on your part to a union such as I have proposed."
"But my uncle — " Lucy hesitated.
She felt that her position was little, if any, less embarrassing than before she had resolved to throw herself upon the generous feelings of her suitor. The thought of how far she might do her uncle a serious wrong, flitted through her mind, and disturbed still more deeply her troubled bosom.
"What of your uncle?" asked Mr. Bumside. "Does he insist upon your accepting my offer?"
"He does."
"And you have come to ask of me a withdrawal of that offer?"
"I have."
"It is done, young lady. I withdraw it at once, and will so inform your uncle in the morning."
"But Mr. Burnside — " Lucy hesitated again. She had still something more to say — but feared to give it utterance.
"But what, Miss Hartman? Speak out freely."
"Oh, sir! may I confide in you? May I trust your noble generosity?" said Lucy, with something imploring in her voice.
Mr. Burnside was perplexed.
"What can the girl mean?" he said to himself.
"Confide in me — trust in me? Why do you ask these questions, my dear young lady?"
Lucy seemed much agitated, and it was some moments before she ventured to reply. Then she said —
"I owe everything to my uncle, Mr. Burnside. He has loved me and cared for me with the tenderness of a father. In nothing have I ever before opposed his wishes, even in thought; nor would I now do so, were I not satisfied that to obey him would be doing both to you and myself a wrong, that no subsequent act could repair. From him I learn that — "
Lucy again paused, as if not fully satisfied with what she was going to say. Mr. Burnside waited for her to complete the sentence.
"I fear that what I have come purposely to say, I ought not to utter." Lucy spoke partly to herself, and partly aloud.
"Speak freely! Do not hesitate! You have nothing to fear," said Mr. Burnside, whose curiosity was now beginning to be excited.
"Oh, sir! forgive my freedom — my boldness — my presumption. I have not come to ask your generous regard for myself alone — but also for my uncle."
"How for your uncle?" asked Mr. Burnside — but imperfectly concealing the surprise he felt.
The tone in which this question was asked, as well as the change that she saw pass instantly over the face of Mr. Burnside, frightened Lucy. She had an instant perception that she was doing wrong; that she had no right to make the communication that was upon her lips.
"Pardon me, sir," she said, rising. "I fear that I am more than half beside myself. I have already said enough — perhaps more than enough."
As she spoke, she moved towards the door.
"Compose yourself, my dear young lady," Mr. Burnside returned, quickly, "Say all you wish to say. You may fully confide in me!"
But Lucy had taken the alarm. "I dare not say another word," she replied more firmly. "I have already done what I ought not to have done, and said what I ought not to have said. Forget, if you can, that I have been here."
As Lucy uttered the last sentence, she glided from the room, and before Mr. Burnside could gain sufficient presence of mind to follow her, he heard the street door open, and then shut quickly. He did not attempt to go after her — but stood musing in the middle of the floor for a long time.
"There is something wrong — something wrong," he at length said to himself. "Lucky escape! humph! What can she have meant? Generous regard for her uncle? 'From him I learn that — ' That what? In financial trouble? ha! Is that it? Force the girl to marry me — in order to finger my money! Yes, yes! I see it all!"
And Mr. Burnside, with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and his face a little elevated, commenced walking from one end to the other of his long parlors, every now and then repeating some part of the last paragraph, or words of a similar import.
Lucy, on gaining the street door, after leaving, as abruptly as has been seen, the presence of Mr. Burnside — ran at full speed until she reached her home. She entered through the basement, the door of which she had left unfastened on going out, and, gliding noiselessly upstairs, gained her chamber, without any member of the family having been aware of her absence. Dropping into a chair, she sat panting for many minutes, her mind in the most intense agitation. Gradually, as she grew calmer, she was able to review what she had done, and to see that she had committed an error — perhaps a great one. In the innocence of her heart, she had been led to believe that she might not only escape the sacrifice of herself — but gain for her uncle all the aid of which he stood so much in need, if she were to see Mr. Burnside, tell him all, and appeal to his generous feelings. She did not reflect that such a revelation of her uncle's real condition as she was about to give, might be the very means of hastening the dreaded catastrophe, instead of preventing it. Something in the tone of voice and manner of Mr. Burnside had startled her, and caused a suspicion of the error she was committing, to flash across her mind, and this suspicion, strengthening every moment, caused her, as has been seen, abruptly to terminate the interview.
Back to Three Years in a Man-trap