Trivial as it may seem, and does, at this time of writing,
I must record an instance of it, the last I was to
exhibit in England. Never vicious, I may sincerely
say convinced, rather, that women are as far above
our spiritual as they are fatally within our material
reach, it was by my conduct to a woman that I fell
into a way of life which nobody could have anticipated.
In my twentieth year, in a moment of youthful ardour,
I kissed Betty Coy, our dairymaid, over the cheese-press,
and was as immediately and as utterly confounded as
she was. I remember the moment, I remember her,
a buxom, fresh-coloured young woman, rosy red, her
sleeves above her elbows, her “La, Mr. Francis,
what next?”—I remember all, even to
my want of breath, suddenly cooled passion, perplexity
and flight. It is a moot point whether that last
was the act of a coward, but I can never allow it
to be said that in what followed I showed a want of
courage. I devoted a day and night to solitary
meditation; no knight errant of old, watching his arms
under the moon, prayed more earnestly than I; and
when I had fully made up my mind to embrace what honour
demanded of me, I sought out the girl, who was again
in the dairy, and in solemn form, upon my knees, offered
her my hand. Father Danvers, walking the terrace,
was an accidental witness of my declaration, and very
properly told my father. Betty Coy, unfortunate
girl, was dismissed that evening; next day my father
sent for me. [Footnote: I need only say further
of Betty that she, shortly afterwards, married James
Bunce, our second coachman at Upcote, and bore him
a numerous progeny, of whose progress and settlement
in the world I was able to assure the worthy parents.]
It would be idle to rehearse the interview between
an angry father and an obdurate son. The more
I said the angrier he got: the discrepancy between
us made a reasonable conclusion hopeless from the first.
When he cried, Did I mean to disgrace my name? and
I replied, No, but on the contrary I had been wishful
to redeem it—“How, you fool,”
said he, “by marrying a dairymaid?” “Sir,”
I answered, “by showing to the world that when
a gentleman salutes a virtuous female it is not his
intention to insult her.” I was too old
for the rod or I should have had it. As it was,
I received all the disgrace he could put me to—dismissed
from his presence, confined to my room, forbidden
any society but that of Father Danvers and my own
thoughts. My infatuation, however, persisted,
and threatened to take the dangerous form of fraud.
I could not for the life of me see what else I could
do to recover the girl’s fair fame, hopelessly
compromised by me, than exhibit to the world at large
the only conceivable motive of my salute. I knew,
immediately I had done it, that I could not love Betty
Coy, but I believed that I could prove the tender
husband.