“Love seeketh not itself
to please,
Nor for itself hath any care
But for another gives its ease
And builds a heaven in hell’s despair.
. . . . . . .
Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another’s loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.”
—W. BLAKE:
Songs of Experience
Fred Vincy wanted to arrive at Stone Court when Mary
could not expect him, and when his uncle was not down-stairs
in that case she might be sitting alone in the wainscoted
parlor. He left his horse in the yard to avoid
making a noise on the gravel in front, and entered
the parlor without other notice than the noise of the
door-handle. Mary was in her usual corner, laughing
over Mrs. Piozzi’s recollections of Johnson,
and looked up with the fun still in her face.
It gradually faded as she saw Fred approach her without
speaking, and stand before her with his elbow on the
mantel-piece, looking ill. She too was silent,
only raising her eyes to him inquiringly.
“Mary,” he began, “I am a good-for-nothing
blackguard.”
“I should think one of those epithets would
do at a time,” said Mary, trying to smile, but
feeling alarmed.
“I know you will never think well of me any
more. You will think me a liar. You will
think me dishonest. You will think I didn’t
care for you, or your father and mother. You
always do make the worst of me, I know.”
“I cannot deny that I shall think all that of
you, Fred, if you give me good reasons. But
please to tell me at once what you have done.
I would rather know the painful truth than imagine
it.”
“I owed money—a hundred and sixty
pounds. I asked your father to put his name
to a bill. I thought it would not signify to
him. I made sure of paying the money myself,
and I have tried as hard as I could. And now,
I have been so unlucky—a horse has turned
out badly— I can only pay fifty pounds.
And I can’t ask my father for the money:
he would not give me a farthing. And my uncle
gave me a hundred a little while ago. So what
can I do? And now your father has no ready money
to spare, and your mother will have to pay away her
ninety-two pounds that she has saved, and she says
your savings must go too. You see what a—”
“Oh, poor mother, poor father!” said Mary,
her eyes filling with tears, and a little sob rising
which she tried to repress. She looked straight
before her and took no notice of Fred, all the consequences
at home becoming present to her. He too remained
silent for some moments, feeling more miserable than
ever. “I wouldn’t have hurt you for
the world, Mary,” he said at last. “You
can never forgive me.”
“What does it matter whether I forgive you?”
said Mary, passionately. “Would that make
it any better for my mother to lose the money she
has been earning by lessons for four years, that she
might send Alfred to Mr. Hanmer’s? Should
you think all that pleasant enough if I forgave you?”
