Our joys are kin to griefs—in time shall ceaseThe term of soundest health: diseaseDwells in our house, and opes to death a door.Oft amid favouring gales and summer skiesDestruction's breakers madly riseAnd wreck our hopes upon the rocky shore.AGAMEMNON.
If Mr. Haveloc had not been entirely engrossed by his affection for Margaret, it would have been almost impossible to have been thrown so much in the society of Aveline, and under circumstances of such touching interest, without becoming warmly attached to her.
Her understanding was more matured, her fancy brighter, her acquirements larger than those of Margaret. She had not beento a boarding-school; and she had gained from her mother's thoughtful mind, more education than from all her masters. She was less beautiful than Margaret—less graceful, but more elegant; there was more of style about her appearance, and less of simplicity. Therefore she looked older than she was, and Margaret younger. And in the details of domestic life, she was perhaps more formed than Margaret, to interest the fancy and excite the attention.
She was accustomed to make all those little demands upon the sympathy and assistance of those around her, which you see so constantly in French women, and which are generally attractive to men in this country, perhaps from their contrast to the more quiet and independent habits of English women in general.
If she wished to give little Jane a bonnet and cloak, Mr. Haveloc and her mamma were summoned to the table, and were obliged to look over the patterns the servanthad brought from the neighbouring town, and discuss the colour and fashion of the garments. And Mr. Haveloc was desired to walk down to Brand's cottage, and look at the child to see whether red or blue would suit her best; and to inquire after Mrs. Brand's health, and to ask the best of the two Toms, whether he had yet been able to find that specimen of sea-weed that Miss Fitzpatrick wanted to complete her orders of Cryptogamia.
Those persons who spend their lives in wandering from place to place, little know how much of interest they forfeit in not having a settled place of abode. So many little elegant trifles accumulate in a home that can never be packed up and carried from one hired residence to another. Mrs. Fitzpatrick's was just the sort of house where one might lounge away the morning delightfully. Chairs and sofas of all patterns were scattered about the room; drawn to the carved tables, or placed temptingly near the large, open window, from whichyou could step at once into the garden, where the finest flowers filled the air with their perfume, and seemed to overrun the wire baskets in which they were planted. The tables were strewn with books and prints; with cameos, carvings and choice miniatures. Aveline's painting was generally on a reading stand near the sofa, and a little lava tray of modelling tools stood on a slab at the farthest end of the room, covered by a cambric handkerchief with a foreign border of brilliant colours.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was generally to be found seated near the sofa, working at a large frame of embroidery, an employment at once picturesque and dignified for persons of middle age, but which in young people seems to be the resource of an indolent mind. Aveline had as yet but few of the habits of an invalid. She was very careful of her costume, which was generally a richly worked muslin made in a foreign fashion; with a large Cachemere lying somewhere about the room, which wrappedher from head to foot when she became chilly. And though it was out of her power to occupy herself for more than a few minutes at a time, yet it was surprising how little of languor pervaded her manner and conversation. She had always a book by her side to glance into when she was at ease, and when her restless fits came over her, she would wander about the room arranging the flowers, or tuning her harp, or turning over the beautiful articles of virtú, with which the room was decorated. And when wrapped in her bright coloured Cachemere she reclined in an easy chair with her silverbonbonniérein her fingers which she handled as an old courtier might have done a snuff-box, a stranger could not easily have been made to believe that but a few weeks of life remained to her.
It was singular that Mr. Haveloc never suspected her affection for him. She who seemed to receive new life from his presence; who was entirely and exclusivelyoccupied with him—who hardly removed her eyes from him when he came, and who spent her time in expecting him when he was away. He treated it all as a sick person's fancy, and submitted far more implicitly to her demands, than if he had been seeking to ingratiate himself in her heart.
Serious illness generally weakens the mind; and in the case of Aveline, it some-what dimmed her perceptions. She did not attach the exact meaning to Mr. Haveloc's constant visits, that she could not fail to have done in health. She had mourned his absence, she was contented in his society, and it seemed as if she felt no desire to penetrate the future, or to anticipate a time when they must part.
"He is late, mamma," said Aveline one day. "He is certainly later this morning; something has happened. That yacht—you know it was very windy last night."
"My dear child, I can see the yacht from the window; and I do not think he hasbeen on board of her since we went with him. Besides, we must not be so unreasonable as to look for him always at one hour."
Aveline took up her book again. Presently Mr. Haveloc made his appearance at the drawing-room window with a large flower in his hand; a splendid cup-shaped blossom, with white leaves tinged with pink, that shed a delightful perfume all over the room.
"Look, Miss Fitzpatrick," he said coming up to Aveline, "I have waited for some purpose; my water-lilly has flowered this morning. Did you ever see anything so beautiful?"
"And you have brought it me," said Aveline taking the flower, "how good you are. I will put it in water directly. It shall have the Dresden jar all to itself; that with the holly berries."
Mr. Haveloc brought the jar and rang for water.
"And is this a water-lilly?" said she, still admiring the flower."Of that species; it came from South America, and is I believe, the only one in England. I had hoped it was a lotus just to put one in mind of Moore's poetry. And how are you to-day?"
"To-day? Charming. I could do all sorts of things. Walk down to the beach, or up to the village; or play a fantasia on the harp." As she spoke, a string flew. "Hark;" she said, "I have lost a harp-string; a small one I think by the sound. Just look and tell me the extent of the damage, Mr. Haveloc."
"One of the very smallest. Look—up at the top here."
"I must get up and mend it," said Aveline. "The harp-strings are in that drawer, Mr. Haveloc; may I trouble you?"
She rose languidly, and moved to the harp; resting her hand on the table as she went: selected one of the strings Mr. Haveloc brought her, and began to undo the broken one. But, in spite of her boast, itwas not one of her good days. She wavered, and caught the harp for support.
"Why will you not rest;" he said, drawing a chair close to her. "I can put on your string—give me the key."
Aveline sank into the chair and resigned her task to him.
"But who taught you to put on harp-strings?" said she, with a searching look.
"I learned it years ago of a harp player, who was teaching the sister of a friend of mine. He said I should one day find it a useful accomplishment. Do you not agree with him?"
"Perfectly!" said Aveline, looking up to him with a smile.
"And which does this string rhyme to?" he asked, when he had put it on.
"Ah! you are right," said Aveline, "the octaves are the rhymes of music. Look, this is the octave."
"Now, will you go back to the sofa?" he asked.
Aveline shook her head. "I am comfortable here," she said. "I don't mean to move till I grow restless. Will you have the goodness to bring me that tray? I want to look over my tools."
She threw off the handkerchief, and sat playing with her tools and turning them over like a child.
Mr. Haveloc drew a low chair close to hers and began to examine them also.
"Ah!" said Aveline, looking up, "I was just going to advise you to address yourself to sculpture. It is the finest of all the arts."
"Do you place it above poetry?" he asked.
"Sculpture is poetry," said Aveline eagerly, "only it is a universal language. It is the highest art. It is profaned as every thing in these days is profaned, by the language of ridicule and burlesque. But everything in sculpture that is not addressed to the most ideal feelings, becomes disagreeable. The ideal is the atmosphere of sculpture. It does not admitof caricature. Think of Danton's villanous statuettes," and Aveline looked all disgust.
"Ah!" said Mr. Haveloc, "there is one of Liszt, on the drawing-room mantel-piece in my villa—a wonderful likeness."
"And you have not broken it to pieces?" claimed Aveline.
"That would not be in accordance with the Ideal," said Mr. Haveloc. "Justice is a cardinal virtue, and I presume a subject worthy of the chisel; and M. Litzt does not belong to me."
"Don't laugh," said Aveline.
"I did not know," said Mr. Haveloc, "that you were such an enemy to the comic muse. I am sure you must enjoy wit."
"Yes. But the spirit of wit is the very essence of prose, in direct opposition to poetry, which takes all things in a serious light. And in these days everything is mocked and parodied until people are laughed out of the little love they have left for what is noble and beautiful."
"And then there will be a greatreaction," said Mr. Haveloc. "We shall all become as sober as judges a few years hence."
"I hope at least," said Aveline "that we shall learn to laugh in the right place, and that will be, not at great, but at little sentiments and actions."
"Do you know, Miss Fitzpatrick, you will think me guilty of treason after your exordium on sculpture. But you talk of the chisel, and your instruments remind me of nothing so much as the apparatus of a dentist."
"Oh, mamma, do scold him!" cried Aveline. "It is atrocious—a dentist too! A race of people of whom I have as much horror as the Egyptians had of their embalmers."
"Well, really," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, looking up from her work. "All those mysterious slender little instruments, Aveline?"
"It is a calumny!" cried Aveline, gathering up her tools."Do not be angry, Miss Fitzpatrick," said Mr. Haveloc. "I will tell you what I do admire. This handkerchief; the border is superb. You got it abroad. I always know people who have travelled, by their coloured handkerchiefs—they are sure to pick them up at Paris."
"Oh! they are common enough in England, now," said Aveline. "But that is a good border, the pattern is Arabesque. You wear them, don't you? Let me look at yours."
Mr. Haveloc produced his handkerchief with a violet edge.
"How dare you!" said Aveline playfully, "It is much finer than mine. What a coxcomb."
"Change then," said Mr. Haveloc.
Aveline seized his handkerchief with all the eagerness of a child, and threw him hers.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked with rather a grave smile at Aveline; but she laughed and squeezed it behind the cushion at theback of her chair, as if to make sure of her new possession.
"You will repent your bargain, but you shall not have it back," said Aveline.
"Not at all," said he. "I have got the handsome border, and for the fineness I know nothing about it."
"It is just dinner time," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I hope, my dear Aveline, you are ready for it."
"Quite hungry, mamma. Will you run and fetch Hakon Jarl, Mr. Haveloc? I hear Mark coming with his plate of bread."
Mr. Haveloc went off directly, he never hesitated an instant at any of her commands.
As soon as he was gone, she drew out the handkerchief and gazed at it with intense delight.
"Ah!" she said to herself, "I have at last got something of his—I will not again destroy it."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked at her with a sigh, but said nothing."There is no need now, is there, mamma? When I thought I should never see him again, it was unwise to keep anything to put me in mind of him;" said Aveline, folding and unfolding the handkerchief, and quite engrossed by her own thoughts. "But now that we see him every day—"
"Certainly—it is quite different," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, speaking with effort.
"You feel uncertain about my health," said Aveline, not noticing the anguish her words caused her mother, "but you know it may improve."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, unable to control her voice, rose and hurried out of the room. This was a most unusual instance of emotion with her, and had Aveline been in health, such a circumstance would have agitated her beyond measure.
"Poor mamma," said she, looking after her mother, "I do believe she worries herself sadly about my health, and no wonder; for at times, I almost despair of myself. I am better now, however."Mr. Haveloc led the pony up to the window, and Aveline fed him with one slice of bread after another.
"Do you think he knows me, Mr. Haveloc?" she asked.
"He ought," said Mr. Haveloc, "but take care, Miss Fitzpatrick, he will include your fingers in his bill of fare some fine day."
"I am sure he would not do it on purpose," said Aveline.
"Ah! here is Mr. Lindsay. I am really glad to see you this morning; mamma is very low about me. Go and cheer her—tell her I am better."
"No—but are you?" asked Mr. Lindsay.
"What has that to do with it? I don't want you to blind me, Mr. Lindsay, but mamma. But seriously, I am no worse than when you last saw me."
"So I find; you are much the same," said Mr. Lindsay, removing his fingers from her pulse.
"And it is more important that youshould give me a good word," said Aveline, "because I meditate doing something very imprudent to morrow."
"Ay—what is that?" said Mr. Lindsay.
"Going to church, doctor," replied Aveline.
"You could not do better," said the doctor drily. "It will be a glorious hot day; and the little walk up that steep hill will just put you into condition for sitting two hours on an uneasy straight bench;—go by all means."
"I thought you would be perverse, doctor," said Aveline. "I expected it. And let me tell you, in the first place, I am not going to walk. I mean to ride Hakon Jarl. Take him back, Mr. Haveloc, I have no more bread to give him."
"And why, in the name of all that's good, cannot you stop and say your prayers at home?" asked the doctor.
"Because I don't choose it, doctor. I like to go to church."
"Ah! a good many people think there is something mysterious in the air of a church," said Mr. Lindsay. "However take your own course; there is something truly pious in a bad cold caught in a damp pew—it sends people now and then to Heaven before their time, I grant you."
"Ah, doctor, if people did not know you, they would not think you so good as you are. Now mind what you are about to mamma."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was now quite composed, even cheerful. She shook hands with Mr. Lindsay; "begged him to take some luncheon at their early dinner," and summoned Mr. Haveloc from the garden.
"Aveline is your charge you know," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I do not even venture to carve for her."
"What shall it be, Miss Fitzpatrick?" said Mr. Haveloc, drawing his chair to the table.
"Sweetbread, I think," said Aveline, looking round, "and mushrooms.""No mushrooms;" said Mr. Lindsay.
"I will!" said Aveline.
Mr. Haveloc put them on her plate.
"What do you always shake your head for, doctor, when you look at him?" asked Aveline, laughing; "has he so much the appearance of a bad subject?"
"I shook my head at the mushrooms," said Mr. Lindsay.
"You see, doctor, her spirits are very good," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, in a low voice.
"I see," he replied, with a nod. But it was evident he saw no comfort in it.
Every one knows the stillness that seems to settle over town and country on the Sunday in England. Even in the most retired spot, everything is more silent and quiet than before. No sound of waggons in the neighbouring lanes; no rural noise of labourers going forth to their daily toil. And when the scenery chances to be beautiful, the day warmand fine, and this delicious quiet diffused around, only broken by the distant and uncertain sound of the church bells; there are few persons who would be tempted to exchange this refreshing pause from labour; this purifying rest to the mind, for the gaudy revelry of a continental Sabbath day.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick pointed out this stillness to Mr. Haveloc, when he met her in front of her cottage the next morning.
"It always brings to my mind those words of the Psalmist," she said, "'Be still, and know that I am God!' As if this complete and solemn repose were necessary to the mind, before contemplating the majesty of the Divine nature."
"Does Miss Fitzpatrick still hold to her intention?" he asked.
"She does; unless you can persuade her out of it."
"I feel very uneasy at the idea of her going. I saw plainly that Mr. Lindsay did not like it."
"Good morning, Mr. Haveloc," said Aveline. She was standing at the open window, ready for church. Her white dress and splendid shawl, fastened by two large gold pins, gave something of amplitude to her figure; but her face looked more wasted in her bonnet, and the bright colour on her cheeks seemed to assort but ill with their shrunken outline. She seemed more than usually grave and quiet; not exactly in low spirits, but a kind of settled melancholy; she sat down, and gave her hand to Mr. Haveloc; then occupied herself quietly in putting on her gloves. They were a new pair of her usual size, but now much too large. She fastened them, and looked at them for a minute without speaking.
"Are you sure you are quite equal to going, my dearest?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, struck and chilled by Aveline's manner.
"Quite, mamma," said she, steadily.
"You will not be prudent, and let me read prayers to you at home?" said Mr. Haveloc, who was leaning over her chair."Not to day; but if I live, Mr. Haveloc, I shall call upon you another Sunday in that capacity," returned Aveline, in a low voice.
"The poney is ready," he said, taking up her prayer-book.
"You think me very wilful, I am afraid," said she, as he arranged her cloak, around her.
"Sick people have a right, you know, to be wilful," he replied.
Aveline sighed; and spoke no more during the ride. Mr. Haveloc led the poney, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick walked by her daughter's side.
At the gate of the church-yard she dismounted, and Mark, who had followed at a distance, led the poney away to the Vicarage till the service was over.
Aveline bore the fatigue remarkably well. She remained seated and abstracted, repeating solemnly the responses with the people. Sometimes she seemed to shiver, as if something awful occurred to her mind.But at the Belief, she rose up suddenly, and remained standing with her face turned to the altar, repeating the words after the clergyman in a distinct voice. And it seemed to be quite involuntary on her part, for she sat down again with the same abstracted air, and remained during the service apparently unconscious, or forgetful of the presence of any one.
"I thought I got through it very well," said Aveline, as she was going home.
"Much better, my love, than I expected," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
"Don't hurry the pony, Mr. Haveloc; this road is so beautiful. I am not at all impatient to get home," said Aveline.
It was a narrow, steep lane, with high banks, partly composed of broad ledges of rock, with all their fine variety of colours, showing through fern and creepers, and stunted bushes of oak and maple.
Mr. Haveloc led the poney as slowly as he liked to go, stopping from time to time to gather wild flowers for Aveline.All at once the sun went in; the air became chilly—then the wind rose. Dark masses of ragged vapour came hurrying over the landscape, floating and drifting over the hills; now parting like a curtain, now collecting and settling in a dense mass that almost concealed the outline of the country.
"It is the sea-fog. It is coming towards us!" cried Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "What are we to do with Aveline?"
She looked really bewildered.
"Oh, my dear mamma, don't mind me," said Aveline; "Mrs. Grant's cottage is at the end of the lane; I will go in there till the fog is past."
"Let us make haste then, Mr. Haveloc," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, mending her pace; "the fog travels fast. She will be wet. What will become of us?"
"Can you go faster?" asked Mr. Haveloc, who was urging the pony as fast as he could walk.
"No; my head swims," said Aveline.She could not bear anything like agitation or hurry.
Mrs. Grant, who had just arrived from church by a path across the fields, was all astonishment when she saw the party coming briskly towards the cottage door. She stepped out of the little garden gate to meet them.
"Why, Miss Aveline, my dear young lady, what brings you out so far from home?" she asked.
Aveline was too flurried to speak.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick began her explanations, but they were interrupted in the midst, for Aveline, after a vain attempt to get off the poney, sank into Mr. Haveloc's arms, and fainted away.
Mrs. Grant was terribly frightened. She thought at first that Aveline was dead. Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as usual, calm and prompt.
"Don't go away," were her first words when she recovered, turning her eyes in search of Mr. Haveloc."Tell me when you are quite restored, that I may have the pleasure of scolding you," he said, coming up to her chair. "I do not know what business you have to frighten us in this way."
"I will tell you what, dear Mrs. Grant," said Aveline, "we will send for our dinner to add to yours, and we will all dine together. It will be something like a pic-nic."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick agreed. Aveline could not move at present, and she must not be kept waiting for her dinner.
Mr. Haveloc offered to walk home, and give what orders Mrs. Fitzpatrick pleased.
"And be sure to come back and dine with us," said Aveline, eagerly.
"Have a little mercy on him, Aveline," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, smiling; "he may not be quite so fond of pic-nics as you are."
But Aveline insisted; and Mr. Haveloc readily promised that he would come back to dine.
"Is not it nice, Mr. Haveloc?" saidAveline, when they were all seated round the little table in Mrs. Grant's kitchen. Aveline being in the old lady's easy chair, supported with pillows.
If anybody had told Mr. Haveloc at any period of his life, that he would be dining in a cottage with an old nurse, he would have thought he might safely deny the charge; but as he was there, he quite won Mrs. Grant's heart by his politeness to her; and so overcame her by his care for Aveline, that although not much given to hyperbole, she frankly owned that she thought him an angel, the first moment she was alone with Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
The sea-fog passed off, and the afternoon was brilliant.
Mark led home the pony, and bespoke a carriage from the inn, to take Aveline home after tea.
She laid down on the nurse's bed till tea-time; and then rose refreshed and better.
The nurse remained with her, and, at herparticular desire, Mr. Haveloc and her mamma went to church a second time.
"And, my darling, whatever you do, don't go to church again until Mr. Lindsay gives you leave," said Mrs. Grant, as she helped Aveline into the carriage.
"Ah, Mrs. Grant!" said Aveline, "if I had not felt that this would be the last time, do you think I should have been so earnest to go?"
Ant.Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life;Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife;Give me thy hand.COMEDY OF ERRORS.
There was, perhaps, nothing on earth for which Elizabeth Gage would have felt more unmixed contempt, than for an unrequited attachment;—no fate under Heaven from which she would have considered herself more utterly exempt; and yet, to her dismay, she began to suspect that she felt too warm an interest for her father's guest. The fact was, that she had felt this interest and admiration so very long before they met, that it was not now a very easy task to undo these feelings. She merely copied strictly the silence and reserve thatdistinguished his manner; talked no more than politeness demanded; and at once wished and dreaded the termination of his visit.
He suited Captain Gage admirably, though no two characters could be more opposite. He was less like a sailor than a courtier of Elizabeth's reign. His gravity, his classical tastes, his habits of study, his proficiency in the dead languages, together with that cast of countenance seldom seen but in the age to which it belongs, seemed to stamp him as the companion of Raleigh and Southampton. But he still retained a plainness of speech and directness of purpose that is supposed to be generally indicative of the profession to which he belonged.
He had regained his health in great measure. He did as other people; he joined Elizabeth and her father in their rides and walks; he knew all Captain Gage's tenants; he had been with Elizabeth to the alms-houses; he even carried her basket for her, but always in silence. He had observedher at the head of her father's table, in their large dinner parties; he had gone out with them in return; he had watched the four or five young gentlemen who were pretending timidly to Miss Gage's favour, and the two middle aged men who alternately made her an offer once a quarter.
One sunny morning in August, Elizabeth came into the breakfast-room, where her father was standing by the open glass doors, and having embraced him and taken her place before the urn, she saw Sir Philip at a little distance on the lawn, talking to one of the gardeners.
"My dear father," said she, "have the charity to tell him breakfast is ready, for I am no Beatrice that I should summon him to table."
Captain Gage laughed and made a sign to his friend.
"Have you much of a garden at Sherleigh?" he asked, when they were seated at the table.
"I dare say not," replied Sir Philip,"I have not been there for years, and people seldom attend much to a garden unless there is a lady to overlook them."
"Bessy never does anything to my flowers, except gather them," said Captain Gage.
"What!" said Elizabeth, laughing, "did you find out that I took the red passion-flower yesterday?"
"Yes, I saw it," said her father, "will you write those letters for me after breakfast?"
Elizabeth always wrote her father's business letters. She seated herself at a table and selected pens and paper.
"Papa! I must complain of you," she said, "you take my best envelopes for everybody. Suppose I were to want to send out invitations; I should have nothing but coarse paper left."
"Which? The envelopes with the crest? Oh! I will be careful in future; you are very stingy of your best paper."
"Well, I am to write to Palmer aboutthe meadows, and to Brown about the lease. Anything else?"
"Why I don't know what to do about the bees; if you could send a line to Harding—"
"My dear father, we are fated never to keep bees, but if you have any fancy for the hives—"
"You are a saucy girl; have you written to Palmer?"
"Yes, there it is."
"Excellent. Oh! what does George mean to do about his brown horse?"
"Calypso? He left him here for me to ride during the summer."
"You—ride Calypso—my good child, you will break your neck."
"If you are going to the farm to-day, my dear father, I will prove to you that Calypso can be ridden without such a catastrophe."
"Look here," said her father, taking a letter from a servant, "here are cards for Mrs. Hollingsworth's ball."This was a lady of large fortune in the neighbourhood, whose eldest son was a very persevering admirer of Miss Gage's.
Sir Philip was reading the paper in the window.
"My dear father, I will not go," said Elizabeth in a low but decided tone.
"Why, Bessy, how is that?" said her father, looking much amused, "Mrs. Hollingsworth's balls are excellent, and there is Charles Hollingsworth for your partner."
"My dear father, I will not subject myself to the annoyance of being in his company," said Elizabeth in the same low tone, "I consider myself very much aggrieved by that person."
"Why, my dear, he would make you an offer to-morrow, if you would give him any hope."
"But do you not see," said Elizabeth, "that he owes it to me to give me the power to put a stop to his attentions, if they are unpleasing to me. There is something of cowardice in subjecting one, withoutceasing, to civilities which must end in nothing, but which, in the meantime, cause a great deal of gossip, and which a woman has no power to arrest except by a refusal. I consider myself," said she, half laughing, "very unjustly treated by Mr. Hollingsworth."
"And Mrs. Hollingsworth has the match so much at heart," said Captain Gage, taking up the note which accompanied the cards; "here you see she begs us to dine and dress at her house. Offers beds: but you are made of flint."
"She does not offer to send Mr. Charles out of the way," said Elizabeth, "do not go, my dear father, for my sake."
"And here is a card for Sir Philip," continued Captain Gage, "what say you d'Eyncourt, have you any fancy to go to this ball?"
"If Miss Gage had intended to go," said Sir Philip, looking up from the paper with his usual gravity, "I should have liked to see her dance; but as she declinesI shall be obliged to you to include me in your refusal."
"No one has seen me dance within the memory of man, Sir Philip," said Elizabeth, smiling, "I walk through one quadrille always for form's sake."
"Well then, Bessy, write a civil refusal, full of regrets," said Captain Gage, laying the note before her, "I must go and speak to Meadows about the carriage horses."
She took up a pen. Sir Philip drew his chair nearer to hers.
"How shall you decline?" he asked.
Elizabeth thought him rather curious, but as he was partly interested in the matter, she replied at once:
"I shall be able to tell her fortunately, that we are expecting some friends to stay with us the week after next."
"And if she should invite the friends?"
"Nay, that would be very malicious," said Elizabeth, laughing."But supposing such a case," said Sir Philip.
"Still fortune favours me," said Elizabeth, "for the friends we expect are an elderly couple, who certainly would not go to a ball."
"If the lady has a great interest in your coming, I think she would hardly give you up so easily," remarked Sir Philip.
"Ah! Sir Philip," said Elizabeth turning to him with a smile and a blush, "you chanced to hear what my father and I were talking about. Happily there is no one whom I should so little regret overhearing us."
"And why so?"
"Because, in the first place, it is a subject which will not interest you sufficiently to dwell on your memory; and secondly, anything of that nature I am confident would be as safe with you as with ourselves."
"Miss Gage," said Sir Philip, lookingearnestly at her, "I am a great many years older than you."
"That you must be," said Elizabeth, "for I remember you grown up when I was a child; yet you see how little difference there is now. You were alluding to the ball, were you not? You have outlived your taste for dancing, and I always felt too old for it."
"Permit me," said Sir Philip, surveying her still more earnestly, "to ask if you are disengaged."
"Perfectly; as soon as I have sealed this note," said Elizabeth, lighting the taper. "Do you think of going to S—— this morning? You can see the Cathedral, but you will be too late for service; you had better defer it till to-morrow."
But while she was speaking, she turned her head away to avoid his grave regard, a drop of wax fell on her finger.
"There!" said Sir Philip, taking her hand and examining it attentively, "youhave burnt your finger. How very careless; you were not looking at what you were doing."
"True," said Elizabeth, smiling at the blunt way in which he showed his interest; "it is a trick I have of burning my fingers when I seal letters; and to-day is Friday, I must tell, papa. He is very superstitious about Fridays."
"Tell him also that I love you sincerely," said Sir Philip, "that I demand of him this hand; that I do not know how to recommend myself to you, and that he must therefore be my friend."
"You, Sir Philip, I cannot express to you my astonishment."
"I wonder who could remain for three weeks in a house with you," said Sir Philip, with a blunt admiration in his look and voice, "without coming to the same pass. You are not angry."
"No, Sir Philip," she replied.
"You are all candour, I know you would speak the truth at once. I am more happythan I dared to hope," said her companion.
Elizabeth smiled and looked down.
"Well, now," said Sir Philip, taking both her hands, "will you have the goodness to fix a day for our marriage? You see I am ordered abroad for my health, and naturally I wish to take you with me."
"Really, Sir Philip," said Elizabeth, "you are too hasty; consider how short a time we have known each other."
"I have known Captain Gage a long time," said Sir Philip, "I was his first lieutenant when he was on the West India station; that is the same thing. How many times I have said to myself, 'I will marry Gage's daughter; if she will not have me, it is easy for me to remain single.'"
Elizabeth started. How often had she, in rejecting her lovers, said in her turn, "until I meet with some one like Sir Philip d'Eyncourt, I will never marry."
"And yet you did not recollect me, that evening," said she.
"I expressed myself badly," he replied, "I meant that I could not trace any resemblance between what you were, and what I now find you. You were a very nice little girl: you are, a beautiful woman."
"And you have learned to flatter," said Elizabeth blushing.
"No, it is just my opinion, now I am going to find your father. It seems quite singular to ask Gage to accept me as a son-in-law. He is not a dozen years older than I am."
A few weeks after this conversation, Captain Gage had the satisfaction of bestowing his daughter's hand upon Sir Philip d'Eyncourt: and a few days afterwards, Margaret who had officiated as one of the bridesmaids, accompanied her uncle to the sea-side; for he had at last consented to listen to his physician, and to consider his illness of importance.
And now that hope and joy are seen to fade,Like stars dim gliding till they mix with shade;Now that thy cheek has sorrow's canker provedWhen thus by sickness changed, ah! more beloved.ELTON.
"Aveline, my love, it is impossible that you can ride the pony to-day. Pray give up the idea. Do you not agree with me, Mr. Haveloc?"
Mr. Haveloc was always appealed to, for Aveline had become irritable; a phase of her complaint upon which her sweet temper and habitual self-command had no influence.
"No, you cannot ride to-day," said Mr. Haveloc, approaching the easy chair inwhich she was sitting, propped up with pillows; "you frightened us all too much yesterday. You are hardly out of your fainting-fit, and you wish to bring on another. Consider our nerves!"
Aveline looked up at him and smiled, even her mother had not the control over her that he had.
"But look," she said, "what beautiful weather; it is hard that I should remain in the house all day. You know I cannot walk. What am I to do?"
"Shall I row you," he said, "you can have as many pillows as you like; and you may lie as quietly as you would on the sofa."
"No," said Aveline, "I am afraid that my head would not bear the motion of the boat."
"And yet you thought of riding," said Mr. Haveloc, with a smile.
This was an imprudent remark, sick people require managing.
"Riding is quite different!" said Avelineangrily; "you do not know how to distinguish!"
Fortunately with all his impatience of temper, she never roused it. He pitied her too deeply; and without feeling the slightest attachment to her in the ordinary sense of the term, he had become very fond of her; he was won by the reliance she had placed in him for every thing.
He met Mrs. Fitzpatrick's eyes turned gratefully upon him, and smiled.
"No; I know nothing about it," he said, leaning over Aveline's chair, "I have no experience in illness. I cannot measure your strength."
"Then," said Aveline with a slight want of consistency, "what should you advise me to do?"
"Let us wheel you in this chair upon the grass; there you can enjoy the sea breeze, and you will be in the shade."
Aveline agreed to this, and she was soon established under the trees, with alittle table at her elbow on which stood a glass of water, a plate of hot-house grapes, and a splendid cluster of flowers.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick with her work on one side of the chair, Mr. Haveloc on the grass with a book.
"What are you reading, Mr. Haveloc, that makes you smile?"
"Boiardo, there is something so dry in his manner."
"Do not read to yourself, it fidgets me," said Aveline.
Mr. Haveloc closed his book, and began throwing pebbles on the beach below them.
"Have you much of this pink clematis, Mr. Haveloc," asked Aveline, examining her bouquet.
"There is one plant of it."
"Have you them in any other colour?"
"Yes; in white. But I brought you the pink because it is the greatest novelty."
"Bring me both kinds to-morrow."
"I will."
"And some of the heaths you were talking about."
"Yes; you shall have a splendid bouquet to-morrow."
"Your gardens will be quite devastated, Mr. Haveloc," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
"That will be of no consequence," he said.
"I wish, Mr. Haveloc," said Aveline, "that you would shoot me a partridge, I should like it for my dinner."
It was the first of September. Now if she had asked him to shoot her a golden eagle, it would have been just as much in his power. He was too near-sighted to shoot; and moreover he had not applied for permission to shoot any where that year. He looked to Mrs. Fitzpatrick for assistance.
"You know, my love," said her mother, "it could not be in time for your dinner to-day."
"Yes; I would wait for it," said Aveline."The truth is," said Mr. Haveloc, "I am no marksman, my sight is so bad that I could not distinguish a partridge on that walk."
"You say that only to teaze me;" said Aveline, "you can always see mamma when she comes out of the avenue."
"But then your mamma is something larger than a partridge," said Mr. Haveloc.
"Then I am to go without it, I suppose," said Aveline.
"No, for I will go to the next town and bring you one."
"And what shall I do without you all that while;" asked Aveline impatiently.
At this moment, Mr. Lindsay appeared at the drawing-room window, and joined the party on the lawn.
"What are you all caballing about," he asked.
"Aveline has a fancy for a partridge, Mr. Lindsay," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick; "how shall I get one?"
"I have brought one with me," said Mr. Lindsay, "I left it with your cook."
"I am glad you did not depend on me," said Mr. Haveloc, "I should have blundered over the turnip fields all day, and brought you nothing."
"Well, do not you find it very warm," said Mr. Lindsay, "beautiful grapes you have! Where do they come from?"
"Taste them, doctor," said Aveline, "Mr. Haveloc brought them."
The doctor looked at Mr. Haveloc, gave a slight shake of the head, and tasted the grapes. He believed him under the illusion of an attachment to Aveline; for middle-aged people are apt to consider the affections as illusions. But he pitied him, as he would have done any one suffering under a nervous complaint, for he knew that while they last, nervous complaints are as definite as the loss of a limb.
But soon these fits of irritation disappeared altogether; she became placid, grateful, tender; her strength was ebbing away.
Mr. Haveloc came in the morning, onlyto depart at night. His attention was unremitting; and Aveline seemed only to live in his presence. To wait for his coming; to kindle into life at his footstep; to rest for hours content to look at him; to talk to him on religious subjects, in which he became the learner, and she unconsciously, the teacher. These privileges as she considered them, soothed her later hours, and softened her pilgrimage to the grave. It was not the "Valley of the Shadow" to her. She possessed the sacred support, the healing consolation of a profound religious conviction, which she had not delayed till that hour to seek and to enjoy; and her sickness had purchased for her what she never could have obtained in the days of her beauty and health—the companionship of the person she loved. And, always in extremes, he devoted himself to her comfort with a zeal that astonished Mrs. Fitzpatrick. He seemed to know intuitively how to arrange her flowers—to move her pillows, how to amuse her whenshe was calm, and to be silent when she was weary. He knew how to draw her attention from her mother on those rare occasions when Mrs. Fitzpatrick gave way to a burst of sorrow. He was her confidant in those trifling arrangements for the future with which she was unwilling to disturb her mother's feelings.
And to her subdued and serious state of mind, her attachment to him took the quiet colour of her other thoughts. She knew that she had done with life; and her affection for him was such as she might carry beyond the tomb.
And thus subdued by illness, yet sustained by the brightest hopes, she tranquilly awaited the moment when her Angel should summon her from the earth.
Soph.You powers, that take into your care the guardOf innocence, aid me! for I am a creatureSo forfeited to despair, hope cannot fancyA ransom to redeem me ... ...... ... Was't for this he left meAnd, on a feigned pretence—THE PICTURE.
It would be too adventurous an incident to introduce if this tale were an invention instead of a narrative of facts, that Mr. Grey was ordered by his physician to a part of the coast very near to that where Mrs. Fitzpatrick's cottage was situate. Not a mile of rough hilly ground divided their dwellings from each other. This choice of alocalewas very easily accounted for.Mr. Warde was acquainted with Mr. Fletcher, the clergyman of the parish, and wrote to beg him to select a house for his friend. Mr. Fletcher did his best, but houses were not plentiful in that district. It was a pretty cottage, but really deserving of no other name. Mr. Grey did not enjoy it at all; he missed the luxuries of his own house. The casements did not shut, the chimnies smoked. There was no piano for Margaret, and Land's room was so small as to be a daily source of disquiet to his master. He was more annoyed for others than for himself. Little did Margaret think when she went down to the sea-side every morning, and sat patiently by her uncle's chair with her book and her work, that the person who most occupied her mind, was within so short a distance, engaged in the same sort of pursuit, in watching over the declining health of a friend.
But her uncle grew weaker and more restless; he determined to return to Ashdale;and having once fixed the day, he seemed more comfortable in his mind.
"Do you like the idea of it, my child?" said he to Margaret, "shall you not be glad to get back to Ashdale?"
"Very glad, Sir," returned Margaret.
"It must be dull, indeed, for you," said Mr. Grey in a pitying tone, "not a single soul here that we know. We might, to be sure, know the clergyman; but he gets a holiday exactly at the wrong time, and the man who does his duty for him does not live in the place. Not a shop to be seen, nor anything for the child to read but the paper; and that she does not care about, poor little thing."
"Oh, uncle! if you were well I should not find it dull," said Margaret, "I should enjoy the sea and the beautiful rocks above everything. But when there is anything the matter, one always feels safer at home."
Mr. Grey smiled, and said something as he went away about wishing to see Casementagain, in which desire Margaret could not join.
As it was his habit to rest in his own room during the afternoon, Margaret took her work into the porch, and sat enjoying the sea breeze, and watching the picturesque road that wound beneath the cottage along the shore. She had found out that when the mind is anxious and distressed, the best thing she could do was to work. Her thoughts could not be compelled to study, and her needle passed the time a little more calmly and quickly than when she was doing nothing. And now a labourer might be seen driving a cart drawn by a yoke of oxen along the rugged way; and then a couple of children carrying between them a basket which they had been sent to fill at the neighbouring village; and but for such rare passengers, the road was quiet all day long. While she sat, thinking of the one subject that filled her mind when she could divert it for a moment from her uncle's illness;thinking over all that Mr. Haveloc had ever said and done at Ashdale, she saw, advancing up the path a figure that made her start and colour, it was—she felt sure of it—Hubert Gage.
He was walking very fast, opened the rustic gate himself, and hastened up to her.
Her first thought was a fear about Elizabeth.
"Bessy is well, I hope?" said she eagerly.
"Quite well. At last I see you again! How difficult you have made this to me! How impossible it was at Ashdale to gain speech of you even for a moment!"
"Have you long returned from Ireland?" said Margaret, feeling greatly embarrassed by the tone of her companion.
"Long? This instant! As soon as I learned where you were, I followed you."
"And Bessy is really well?"
"Bessy? Yes," said he in a tone of impatience. "Let me speak about yourself. Margaret, you have done me a greatinjustice, and you have not given me the means of defending myself. You have thought me incapable of loving you as you deserved."
Margaret held up her hand as if to stop him, he seized it, and pressed it to his lips.
"I tell you what, Mr. Hubert Gage, this will not do," said Margaret gravely, regaining possession of her hand; "there is a great want of consideration in your conduct. I am sure you pay very little regard to my tranquillity in coming here. My uncle is very ill, and all my time and thoughts are occupied in attending upon him. I have no time, and I must say no patience for these scenes."
Land came down at this moment with Mr. Grey's compliments, and "hearing Mr. Hubert was below, hoped he would stop to dinner."
He accepted the invitation, then turning to Margaret, as Land disappeared, said:"I will retract. I will go back instantly if you will make me one promise—I have a right to claim it; a right from all you have made me suffer. Give me the means of seeing you. I have not had fair play—you have not allowed me to address you—to seek to gain your confidence, your love. Cruel! to make your refusal so absolute; to leave me no hope; but I will not be so repulsed: you know nothing of me as yet. Why deny me—"
"Mr. Hubert, you will not listen to me," said Margaret, anxious to bring the dialogue to a conclusion.
"You are so charming! You look a thousand-fold more beautiful than when I saw you last. But what of your beauty? Nothing to that angelic disposition which animates all you do. You thought me so trifling that I could not comprehend your heart. Margaret, it was that which made me seek you."
"I am very sorry that I wronged you so far," said Margaret. "I did not think itwas your nature to care much—to love much,—I mean to be much in earnest about anything. If, indeed," said she, marking the distressed expression of his countenance, "your happiness is disturbed, I am still more sorry; but I can do nothing. I cannot tell you falsely that I shall ever change."
"You will not! See what you do! You have made my whole life wretched—worse than that, useless. I can settle to nothing. I cannot leave the country where you are. But I will not despair. You shall see more of me—you shall love me yet."
"There is one thing," said Margaret with a little air of triumph, "we leave this place on Thursday."
"So much the better," said Hubert, "for I shall be very near you at Chirke Weston."
Margaret looked vexed and undecided. She thought there was but one way to put a stop to his assiduities; and althoughwith great reluctance, she resolved to adopt it.
"You compel me to be very plain with you, Mr. Hubert," she said; "but I cannot see any other means of convincing you that we can be no more than friends to one another. I am engaged to another person."
"Engaged! How is it possible? How can I believe it? You so young—and living so retired. May I ask if Mr. Grey is aware of this engagement?"
"He is," said Margaret.
"Why then it is Claude Haveloc!" said Hubert, leaning against the side of the porch.
Margaret was silent. He remained standing, apparently much disturbed.
"And you are engaged to Claude Haveloc?" said he, throwing himself on the seat beside her.
Her colour mounted; but she made a gesture of assent.He remained for some moments apparently undecided as to what he should say or do; and then looking up suddenly, took her hand.
"Forget me if you will," he said; "but never give a thought to him again."
"Mr. Hubert!" said Margaret, colouring with anger.
"He is entirely unworthy of you; it is the talk of the village beyond you there; he is paying his addresses to a young lady who is dying of a consumption. But his attentions for weeks have been too marked to admit of a doubt. He is pitied and praised by every one. He is daily and all day at the house."
"Well that can be explained. I will ask him," said Margaret, trying to speak calmly.
"You can do better than ask him. You can see and judge for yourself. Walk past the house at any hour, and find him, as I saw him, at the feet of your rival."
A thought for one moment crossed themind of Margaret: she would revenge herself for this neglect—she would accept the hand of Hubert Gage. But she felt at once the unworthiness of such an idea, and remained trembling and silent, looking on the ground.
"Where is this house?" said she after a short pause.
"I can show it to you better than I could describe it," he replied. "It was in searching for you that I lighted upon this history."
"I am much indebted to you," said she with a strange smile.
Her manner, usually so soft, seemed suddenly to change. There was something cold and bitter in her voice.
"And what will you do?" he asked.
"After dinner, when my uncle sleeps, I walk out," said Margaret; "you can then show me this house."
Her seeming calmness quite deceived him; he thought that she was not suffering much. That once convinced her loverhad wronged her, she might be wooed and won again.
"I am going to my uncle now," said she. "I shall see you at dinner;" and taking up her work-basket she left him.
Hubert did not see her again until dinner was announced; she was then standing by her uncle's chair, and seemed to take no notice of his presence. Mr. Grey welcomed him very kindly; he thought Hubert's visit so amiable, so well-meant. It showed that he did not resent what had happened.
He asked a number of questions about Captain Gage, and the d'Eyncourt's, about his own plans and proceedings; and about their neighbours at Ashdale. Hubert with his eyes fixed on Margaret answered at cross purposes.
Margaret was perfectly silent. She helped the dishes before her with the mechanical accuracy of a person in a dream. She ate nothing herself, and seemed hardly to know that any one was at table. As soon as thecloth was removed, she rose. Hubert who had watched in vain for some word or sign which might tell him that she held to her intention of the morning, followed her to the door.
She turned as she left the room, and, in a whisper almost inaudible, uttered the word "wait." Mr. Grey soon afterwards apologised for leaving his guest; he was obliged to retire early. Margaret would be in the drawing-room; he hoped Hubert would stay and drink tea.
Hubert took leave of Mr. Grey, and waited until the twilight came, and was succeeded by the broad moonlight, and still Margaret did not appear. At last, when he thought of going into the house to seek her, for he was sauntering up and down the small garden, he saw her standing in the doorway, wrapped in a large shawl.
"Am I too late?" she said, as he approached her.
"Are you ready?" he returned.
"I am," said she, shivering, and hurrying into the garden, "my unclesleeps. Heaven knows whether I shall ever sleep again! There have been treasures paid for knowledge that might have bought a world of peace twice told. You know that some knowledge brings death in its train. Lead me on; if you dare."
Her eyes flashed, even through the twilight; she drew herself up and assumed an air of defiance that he could not have believed possible to her soft and exquisite beauty. He had yet to learn what it was to rouse a gentle nature.
Hubert paused beneath the shrubs in the small garden.
"Choose;" he said, "I do not say that knowledge is not pain; and ignorance, the grossest ignorance, content. You have not now to learn that I love you. You can give what faith you please to my accusation."
"I cannot doubt you," said Margaret, "let us make haste; I shall never go if I do not go soon. I am sick—sick."
They passed down the shady lane, wherethe moonlight traced a fair trellis-work of boughs and leaves upon the rocky path; and at every step, as the road grew more uneven, and as Hubert supported her over the rugged stones, she cried to him to make haste. She went like one who walked in her sleep, still struggling for swiftness, and more and more unable to stir as her wish to move grew more pressing. Hubert almost carried her the few last steps of the way; and there stood the cottage by the side of the hill, where it broke gently away down to the sea shore. The waves rippled and sank down upon the beach to a low sweet music that seemed almost charged with words, so clear and measured was the sound in that still night.
Margaret stopped for breath, and hung heavily upon his arm. Then the thought crossed her mind that if Mr. Haveloc was innocent, and came there by chance, finding her walking alone with Hubert Gage, what would he think?
"Oh, Heaven!" she said, clasping herhands in agony, "forget that you love me—speak to me as a sister. Is this true?"
"I never pressed you to believe me," answered her companion.
"Oh, true, true!" said Margaret, hastening on.
She had hardly gone three paces when she stopped again.
"Coward that I am," said she, "to pry upon his actions; to seek these miserable means of learning his pursuits. He trusts me wholly. I will ask him what he does there visiting so often; and if—if he loves her better, let him go. I would set free an Emperor, if he was willing to be released. I'll not go on. I'll learn nothing this way."
She was gasping for breath. Hubert Gage turned without another word, and held out his hand to conduct her back again, but she repulsed him, and stood clasping her temples with a force that seemed designed to hold in her reason.
"If you think," said she very slowly, for she was collecting her ideas, "that Ishall like you better when I have learned to hate him, know, once for all, that you will be more intolerable in my eyes than Claude himself."
He looked distressed, but made no answer.
She paused a moment, and then said in a more quiet tone. "Be sure you say nothing of all this to my uncle; it would so vex him. He is not well enough—"
He gave her this promise; and having reached the garden fence, he said he would wait for her while she went down the terrace walk. She made him a sign of silence, and stole gently forward till she came under the verandah. The drawing-room windows were unclosed, and she heard and saw all that passed within. A sofa was drawn close to the window, on which reclined a girl of seventeen, who still retained much of the graceful beauty that had distinguished her. Tall and slight, the full muslin wrapper in part concealed the wasting influence of that disease whichhad so nearly fulfilled its task. Her eyes, with their long black fringes, seemed to take a disproportioned share in her face, and her profuse dark hair, which had been wound in large folds at the back of her head, had fallen in long tresses like broad ribbons over the cushions that she lay upon. She was reclining, half supported in a sitting posture by Mr. Haveloc. Her head leaned on his shoulder, and her splendid eyes rested on his face as if she knew there was a very little time for her to impress every feature on her memory. He sat quite silent for some minutes, and Aveline's wasted hand lay passively in his. At last she said with a soft smile, still gazing at him as though she feared to lose a moment of his sight,—
"The moon will change soon, will it not, Mr. Haveloc?"
"To-morrow, I think," said he, kindly, not tenderly, for his was not a nature that could feign, though Margaret was too dizzy to mark the difference.They were silent for a few moments, and then on some restless movement of Aveline's, he employed himself in altering the cushions.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had been leaning her head against the mantel-piece as she sat, looked up at the slight noise which they made, and then dropped her head again, with that mute expression of anguish which the attitude can so eloquently convey.
"I hope you will not go away so early to-night, Mr. Haveloc," said Aveline, as soon as her pillows were properly arranged, "You went so very early yesterday, and it is of no use, for I do not sleep the sooner for it."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick raised her head, and cast a look at Mr. Haveloc as though she would have said, "humour her," but she sank into her former position without speaking.