"I am sure, as long as you are not tired," he said, "I will stay until Mrs. Fitzpatrick thinks proper to turn me out of doors."
"Is mamma asleep?" said Aveline, who was listening for her mother's voice.
"Asleep, my love!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, in a tone that thrilled through Margaret, there was in it so much despair.
"We are all half asleep," said Mr. Haveloc. "Shall I ring for candles?"
"Do," said Aveline; "stay! do you see a figure—a shadow—there, in the verandah?"
Margaret heard no more. She turned, rushed from the terrace down the steps to the beach on the sands until the foam of the waves broke over her feet.
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Hubert Gage, who had hastened after her. "What is it you intend? What are you going to do?"
"What should I do but go home?" said Margaret, turning quietly round. "I have seen what I came to see."
And turning away again, she began to walk rapidly.
"Speak to me," said he, after he hadfollowed her in silence for some time. "Tell me—am I to blame?"
Margaret shook her head.
"I cannot bear this silence," he said, after another pause. "Say something to me."
"What should I say?" asked Margaret, still walking on.
"Do you detest me?"
"You!—No."
They arrived before the gate of the cottage.
Margaret held out her hand to him.
"Good night," said she, in a calm voice. "Let me see you to-morrow."
Steig' empor, o Morgenroth, und rôtheMit purpurnem Küsse Hain und Feld!Säus'le nieder, Abendroth und FlöteSanft in Schlummer die erstorb'ne Welt;Morgen—ach! Du röthestEine Todtensflor,Ach! und du, o Abendroth! umflötestMeinen langen Schlummer nur.SCHILLER.
"There is no one in the verandah," said Mr. Haveloc, coming back to the side of Aveline. "It was your fancy. You have not yet forgotten the gipsy."
Aveline smiled, and signed to him to take a chair close to the sofa.
"I am easy now," she said. "I will not move again."He looked anxiously at her, and thought there was something strange in the expression of her features. It seemed as if she had lost her control over them, and that her smile was involuntary.
"Mamma!" said she suddenly, in a quick, sharp tone.
Her mother hastened to her side.
"Keep close to me, mamma," she said.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, seated on the side of the sofa, held her daughter's hand.
"Do you feel worse, my love?" she whispered.
"No; better," returned Aveline, in a clear voice.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick trembled excessively, but controlled all other sign of emotion. She looked anxiously at Mr. Haveloc, as she often did, to read his opinion. His eyes were fixed on the ground.
"Mr. Haveloc," said Aveline, in a voice perfectly free from emotion, "you will recollect to tell Mr. Fletcher that Mr. Lucas was very kind, and gave me much comfort."
"He returns to-morrow. I hope youwill be well enough to see him yourself," said Mr. Haveloc.
Aveline looked at him, and marked the unquiet expression of his face.
"See how few wishes I have," said she; "how everything has been anticipated by your kindness," turning her eyes upon her mother. "I have nothing left to say at this hour."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as white as marble, pressed her daughter's hand to her lips.
Mr. Haveloc, struck with awe at the presentiment which seemed to fall upon them all, did not venture to speak.
"Mamma—little Jane," said Aveline, after a pause.
"Yes, my love; you know we arranged that matter the other day," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, with wonderful calmness.
"Yes—yes," said Aveline.
"I think," said Mr. Haveloc, looking at Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I had better ring for Mrs. Grant."
"Who's that?" asked Aveline quickly."It was I who spoke," said Mr. Haveloc. "I wished to send for your nurse, for I do not like you to be up at this hour."
"No—no; do not move me," said Aveline.
"It shall be as you like; but I know you will not sleep here," said Mr. Haveloc.
"No more sleep," said Aveline, as if to herself.
She remained with her eyes fixed on the ceiling, where, owing to some reflection of the lights, there was a broad luminous spot.
There was a long, deep silence. Mrs. Fitzpatrick was praying inwardly. Aveline still remained with her eyes uplifted, breathing short and quick.
All at once the stillness was broken by her voice repeating, in a distinct tone—
"'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff comfort me.'"
Those who have watched by a sickperson only can tell with what touching solemnity the words of Scripture will appear invested when coming suddenly from their lips in the stillness of night.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick's firmness gave way; she burst into tears. Aveline made no remark. She did not seem to notice her companions.
At last she said, in allusion to their conversation sometime ago.
"But nurse may come."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick rang the bell. Mrs. Grant entered; but Aveline was again abstracted.
The good old woman sat down behind the sofa, making a sign to them to be silent. She had seen for some days better than any one that the end was approaching.
"Is the tide down, Mr. Haveloc?" asked Aveline, with difficulty.
Mrs. Grant shuddered. The superstition, respecting the influence of the tides over the dying is well known. Sheprofoundly believed that her young lady would be released when the tide changed.
Mr. Haveloc walked to the window, and looked out. The long range of low green rocks, was not yet quite uncovered by the ebbing waves. The moon gleamed over their slippery surface, and the water rose and fell bubbling among their crevices.
"Not quite yet," said he coming back to the couch.
"Not quite yet," she repeated. Then with a stronger effort, she said, "I wished to thank you both."
"My dearest!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick bending over her.
"You are not crying!" said Aveline, trying to draw her hand in a caressing manner over her mother's face; "not for me!"
"No, not for you, my child," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
"Mamma, it is coming," said Aveline, almost inaudibly."What, is coming, my love?" asked her mother.
Aveline made no answer—all her senses seemed to have failed her at once.
"God be praised!" said Mrs. Grant, rising with the dignity, that true emotion always gives: "God be praised! she is now an angel in Heaven!"
And some will die, these are the gentle hearted,Shook down like flowers by early frost: and someWill grow in scorn and bitterness of heart,As giving unto others, the full measureOf that which hath been meted unto them.Some look to Heaven, and garner up their heartsWhere disappointment cannot touch them more;And these few are the wise; but there be many,Whose life is stronger than their agony,And one outlasts the other.—Pity them.ANON.
As soon as it was possible the next morning, Hubert Gage, paid the visit that Margaret had almost demanded of him the evening before. The most favoured suitor might have felt gratified by the eagerness with which she evidently awaited his approach; for she was standing half way down the pathway of the garden, watchinghim as he neared the cottage. His embarrassment was far greater than her own, he hardly dared raise his eyes to her face, and when he did so, he was as much startled by its steady and fixed expression, as by the icy paleness that overspread her features.
"I desired to see you again," she said, when he reached her, "I was very foolish and unreasonable, yesterday; and I was anxious that no friend of mine should go away with such an impression of me. I wished to meet you when I was calm again. You see, Mr. Hubert, that I consider you as a friend."
"A friend!" he exclaimed; "if the devotion of my whole life could supply—"
"Stop!" cried Margaret, in a tone of suffering, so much at variance with the even calmness of her first address, that he felt appalled by it. "If all you have ever professed for me has not been a mockery and an insult, you will spare me this. You will feel as securely as if the future werethe past, that I can never love again. You will not offend me, if you value the friendship and regard I have yet to give, by imagining that I can at any period listen to such language."
"Then, there is nothing but misery an store for both of us," said Hubert Gage.
"I do not look forward with so much despondency as you do, Mr. Hubert," said Margaret, "even now in the first anguish of discovery and despair; in all the shame and the agony of having been duped and trifled with—a suffering that you can never fully comprehend; I look forward more courageously than you do. Let me first speak of myself. I have often heard of a dream of entire happiness—a state of being, too brilliant to last; dispelled by accident, or misfortune, or death. My dream has been dispelled. All is over with me but life and its duties; but I have no suspense and I sometimes think that suspense is the only torture under which we cannot be still. Any thing else, believe me, Mr. Hubert, is endurable. I wake to a deeper sense of theduties of life; the great lesson which we should ever learn by the loss of its pleasures. Let me urge the same thing upon you. You have, forgive me, in seeking a happiness that has been denied you, lost sight of all that is better than happiness. As I have been some-what the cause of this, let me, if I can, atone it. Let me, if you esteem me—I hope you do—urge you to retrieve this great mistake. Let me entreat you to resume your profession—to direct your mind to subjects worthy of your energy and your talent. You know how you would delight your father by this determination; and let it be your great consolation, as it is mine, that when happiness is denied to ourselves, we have still the power of conferring it upon others; and while we keep in mind that there is a Heaven above us, let us not concern ourselves too deeply with the thorns beneath our feet."
As Margaret spoke with an earnestness of feeling that forced the tears from hereyes, the soft but strong west wind brought distinctly to the porch where they sat, the sound of a passing bell.
The tones were so appropriate; they seemed so completely the echo of her sentiments, that both remained perfectly silent for some time. Margaret thought that her companion was moved by her words, for he remained with his face hidden in his hands; and still at intervals, the dull sound struck upon their ears.
"There," he said looking up at length, "that is the knell of the poor girl you saw yesterday."
"Is it?" said Margaret, "I envy her," and she dried her eyes once or twice; but she scarcely had power left to weep. She had passed half the night in tears, and she was now feeling the exhaustion which follows strong emotion. "But I am surprised;" she said, "I should never have imagined that she was as near her end. It is a very treacherous complaint. Is it not?"
"I believe so," he returned absently."The poor mother!" said Margaret, her voice trembling, "what sad distress there is all around us in this world, and others are suffering too, Mr. Hubert; there is no sorrow like the death of those we love."
"You are thinking of Haveloc," said her companion, "it galls me to hear you speak of him with compassion."
"And yet I think, Mr. Hubert," said Margaret, "that you would forgive your greatest enemy under such affliction, and even speak kindly of him; indeed, I am sure you would."
"I must go away," he exclaimed, "I cannot stand this. Every instant you make yourself more dear to me. I cannot resolve to abandon the hope of one day winning your regard."
"Shall I try and argue you out of it?" said Margaret, "shall I convince you that, like most quiet people my feelings are very tenacious; and that when I say I have done with love. I do not make use of the expression common to disappointed women, butthat I speak a determination that can never undergo any change. And yet I assure you, Mr. Hubert, that my friendship is worth having. For instance, I give you very good advice."
Margaret tried to speak cheerfully, but the smile would not come.
"I will follow it to the letter," said he; "you shall never see me again until I can say proudly that I have proved myself worthy of your interest. If all women would so use their influence"—He paused, unable, from emotion, to complete his sentence.
Margaret changed the subject.
"My uncle is better to-day than he has been for some time," she said, "I think the prospect of going home has wrought this change, and I hope that when he is once settled comfortably again at Ashdale, his improvement will be rapid."
"I hope so," said Hubert, "but my present anxiety is about yourself; how am I ever to hear of you?"
"If you are kindly anxious to learn how I am, I dare say Bessy will tell you as much in her letters," said Margaret; "but I expect my life to be so monotonous henceforth, that I shall furnish nothing but a bulletin."
"I must live upon that, then," he said. "Well and Single.That will be something for me to hear. And if I could not catch some of your fortitude," he added, looking admiringly at her calm face, "I should be unworthy of the name of a man. But you do not know how hard it is for me to leave you while you are looking so ill. You did not sleep last night."
"Sleep, no!" said Margaret, withnaivetè.
"And I am afraid," said Hubert, "that you will not take proper care of yourself without some one to overlook your proceedings."
"There is one great cure for my ailments. Time," said Margaret, tranquilly; "and I think his wings, or wheels will moveas well in your absence as in your presence, Mr. Hubert."
"That is true, I cannot hasten the movements of your physician," said Hubert, with a smile.
"That is right," said Margaret, rising, "let us part now, cheerfully."
"Well, but give me your commands," he replied, "you cannot tell the charm of following implicitly the direction of a person one loves."
"You know them, I think," said Margaret smiling, "you are to go to sea; and you are to remember the days, when every English gentleman was a scholar, as well as a soldier. And as you are a sailor, you will find no difficulty in following the examples of Elizabeth's reign. In fact, when I see you again, I shall find you very like your father. You must come in, and say good bye to my uncle, for perhaps when you return again to England, you may regret that you had not taken leave of so old a friend."
She passed into the house: her uncle wasin his arm chair, drawn close to the fire, he was as chilly as ever in that summer weather.
"Mr. Hubert Gage is come to take leave of you, uncle," said Margaret leaning over his chair.
"Oh! these leave-takings," said Mr. Grey turning and offering his hand to Hubert; "they are the worst part of life. And where are you going, my dear friend?"
"To sea, if I can get afloat," said Hubert.
"The very best thing in the world," said Mr. Grey. "Your father is delighted, is he not?"
"I do not think he knows of my resolution; it was rather sudden," said Hubert with some confusion of manner.
"Ah, indeed!" said Mr. Grey "and I am going home, Hubert."
There was a slight accent on the word "home" that quite unnerved poor Margaret.
"That poor child is not well," said Mr. Grey; "she distresses herself about my health; and sickness is almost the onlysuffering that we cannot spare our friends. Well, good bye, and may God bless you!"
The tone was so much more solemn than was common with Mr. Grey, that it seemed like a last farewell.
Hubert Gage wrung his hand in silence, and left him.
The next day they set out on their return home. Mr. Grey was perfectly happy at the idea of seeing Ashdale again. Margaret was glad of change and motion. To her uncle's anxious inquiries, she always replied that she was pretty well, and he imagined that she looked so pale from her close attendance upon himself.
As they drew near Ashdale, he greeted each familiar object with as much satisfaction as if he had been absent for years instead of weeks. Every cottage, every brook, every turn in the road, aroused his attention.
Margaret shivered as the carriage drew up before the house; she dreaded the recollections which those familiar rooms would bring to her mind.The fire was burning brightly in the drawing-room. Mr. Casement was standing on the hearth-rug. This circumstance completed Mr. Grey's satisfaction. It was really like home, with Mr. Casement at the fire-side.
Margaret trembling and shivering, and hardly able to restrain her tears, now crouched over the fire, which was as welcome to her as to her uncle.
"Holloa, little woman! you are the invalid now, it seems," said Mr. Casement, marking her altered looks.
"The child is tired; don't talk to her, Casement," said Mr. Grey.
"Oh! have you heard the news of Master Claude?" asked Mr. Casement. "He has been courting again; that's all. I never knew such a fellow."
"Nonsense; I never listen to such reports," said Mr. Grey. "I don't believe one word of it!"
"Very well—ask old Warde; that's all. It was he who told me," said Mr. Casement,persisting in his news because he saw it annoyed his old friend.
"I will never believe it; I know him better," said Mr. Grey.
"Well, well! I did not accuse him of any crime: did I, little woman?"
"Not at all, Sir," said Margaret steadily.
Mr. Grey looked at Margaret with a smile. He was re-assured by her calm voice, she no more believed the report than he did; so he turned the subject, and thought no more about it.
But his return home, to which he had looked forward with so much pleasure, did not produce the good effect he had wished and expected. He grew daily weaker, more unfit for exertion, either of mind or body. At last, when it became too great an exertion to leave his room, and when he was unable to sit up for more than a few hours in a day, he said to Margaret one evening that he had felt more languid than usual, "My child, I think you must write to Claude Haveloc. Tell him that I desire to see him without delay."
Oh! sir, I did love youWith such a fixed heart, that in that minuteWherein you slighted or betrayed me rather;I took a vow to obey your last decree,And never more look up to any hope,Should bring me comfort that way.Your suit to me,Henceforth be ever silenced.BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was gifted with a mind of unusual strength; but for some days all the fortitude that she possessed, seemed to abandon her. She found, like many others, that often as she had pictured to herself what must come, all her imaginings fell far short of the desolation, and the anguish of the reality.Mr. Haveloc took upon himself all those arrangements which are so painful to the survivors. She did not see him, but she occasionally sent him a few words in pencil expressive of her wishes. She had very few relations, and those few resided far in the north of Ireland; and the only connexion of her husband whom he had ever heard her name was Lord Raymond, whose estate of Wardenscourt lay within a few miles of his own. He wrote to this nobleman, giving him notice of Aveline's death, in common with the other relations; and greatly to his surprise, Lord Raymond answered his letter in person as soon as it was possible.
He was a very well-meaning man, and he thought that it would be a mark of attention to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and to the memory of her husband, if he were to attend the funeral of their child; for they had so few connections left, that but for him she would have been followed to the grave by strangers.
He became Mr. Haveloc's guest for a week, and managed to pass the timetolerably well considering that he was away from all his horses. In that retired spot, he did not feel obliged to confine himself to the house; he took to shooting sea-gulls, and obtained some little skill with the rifle. He watched over the Norwegian pony, and endeavoured to feel some interest in his proceedings; he helped Mr. Haveloc to feed him from the window with bread, and tried to bear in mind that he was a horse, and therefore an object of respect and importance. He wandered about the gardens and ate the fruit, and went out in a boat to visit the yacht; and expressed a wish to buy her, and gave up the idea, because he was not sure whether Lucy cared about cruising; and whenever his host appeared dejected, he endeavoured to condole with him, and very fortunately, was never able to do so, on account of his stammering.
And during the week that he stayed, he was known to write a letter; but literaturewas not his forte, and nobody ever saw him take up a book.
Whenever Mr. Haveloc went to the cottage to inquire after Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he desired that his compliments and inquiries might be added to his own; and he usually inquired, at the same time, if Mrs. Fitzpatrick was not a very fine woman, adding that such was his recollection of her some years ago.
The day of the funeral arrived. Lord Raymond and Mr. Haveloc were the only persons who attended it.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick had desired to do so, but she had been peremptorily forbidden by her friend, Mr. Lindsay, and she acquiesced. Her spirit was too broken to attempt opposition, even in a thing of trifling importance.
She sent a few lines to Lord Raymond, thanking him for his kindness, but she declined the visit which he volunteered to pay her. She entertained a very reasonable estimate of the condolences of a stranger.
Two or three weeks elapsed before shecould nerve herself sufficiently to admit Mr. Haveloc; but, at last, fearing that he might leave the neighbourhood without her seeing him, she appointed him to come.
Mr. Lindsay was with her in the drawing-room; she looked dreadfully ill, and her hand was as cold as ice. Mr. Haveloc took a chair beside her, and in vain tried to speak. There was something so absolute in her bereavement, that he was dumb before her; he felt the influence, for the first time, of that grief that "makes its owner great."
It fell to Mr. Lindsay to sustain the conversation.
"So you have not parted with your yacht yet, Mr. Haveloc," he said, "we shall lose a pretty object when she leaves this part of the coast."
"No; I had nearly an opportunity of getting rid of her lately," said Mr. Haveloc, "I thought Lord Raymond would have—"
And he stopped suddenly, remembering that Lord Raymond had come to him expressly to attend Aveline's funeral."Ay—you find, like many other people, that it is much easier to purchase a toy than to part with it."
"Exactly."
"So many people want to sell, and so few care to buy," continued Mr. Lindsay.
"That is just the case."
"Do you know," said Mr. Lindsay, turning to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as if it was a subject in which she must take a deep interest; "I feel sure we shall have a very fine autumn!"
"You think so! You are such an excellent judge of the weather," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick in a languid voice.
"I shall see the Pyrenees to advantage a month hence," said Mr. Haveloc.
"Ah! you are a traveller. It is singular that nobody stays at home now-a-days," said Mr. Lindsay. "I should like to know where you would see a finer country than your own?"
"I do not expect anything but novelty in my tour," said Mr. Haveloc."True. For you it is the best thing that could happen," said the doctor, with a look of commiseration. "Change of scene. Young people, my dear Mrs. Fitzpatrick, can run away from thought. You and I are obliged to trust to time alone."
It struck Mr. Haveloc that both the doctor, and Lord Raymond seemed to take for granted that he must have been attached to Aveline, for which, with his usual impatience, he set them down as idiots, and thought no more about it.
At last the doctor took his leave, and then Mrs. Fitzpatrick, turning to Mr. Haveloc, said to him with a steady voice, "I should like you, Mr. Haveloc, to take me to see Aveline's grave. I do not know where it is, and I could not ask any one else to point it out to me."
Mr. Haveloc consented directly. Mrs. Grant, who was still in the house, and came in with her mistress's walking-dress, was very reluctant that she should go. Shefounded her objections upon the wet grass, and the quantity of rain that had fallen.
"My good, Mrs. Grant," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as she fastened her shawl, "I wish a little damp grass could hurt me;" and turning to Mr. Haveloc, she repeated with a half smile. "When the mind's free, the body's delicate."
It was a soft fine evening. They walked slowly, and in silence towards the church-yard. Half hidden among the hills you descended the narrow shady lane, and came suddenly upon the quiet burying-ground, and small village church. The long shadows lay upon the graves; the rooks were wheeling and settling among the surrounding trees, and the rain had called out the mingled scent of flowers and shrubs from every thicket.
"It is very wet," said Mr. Haveloc, as they stepped on the long saturated grass.
"It does not matter," replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Do you know," she added,"that on the night of her funeral, I looked from my window, and was quite relieved to see the turf whitened by the broad moonlight. If the rain had beat on her grave that first night—but this is very weak."
"I cannot think so," said Mr. Haveloc. "I cannot believe that any of the natural feelings which we cherish for the remains of those who are dear to us, serve to be classed as weaknesses to be derided or overcome. I detest the philosophy which can analyse and reject the most sacred of our affections—that can strip death of the awe and the mystery which should protect and surround the breathless effigy destined to be immortal. A philosophy so blind that it sees but a heap of clay in the ashes that wait for the breath of God to summon them to Heaven!"
"You always feel strongly, you know," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick with a faint smile.
They had crossed the church-yard by this time, and stopped before a recentgrave. It was covered with white stone, and a cross of the same material carved in the early English fashion, bore the simple inscription of her name and age.
"Already!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I am surprised. I had no idea that it could have been done so soon."
"It was placed here two days after the funeral," said Mr. Haveloc. "I did not choose that the spot should remain unmarked."
At another time, Mrs. Fitzpatrick would have smiled at the self-will which her companion was apt to display even in trifles; and have wondered how much it would avail him in the serious business of life. But now she leaned upon the cross absorbed in her own painful thoughts; her mind wandered involuntarily from scene to scene of her daughter's illness and death. Every tone, every change of countenance presented itself in turn to her memory.
All was perfectly still. It was very rare for a footstep, except on Sundays, to crossthat lovely spot. One benefit arising from a thinly scattered population, is the decent repose afforded to the dead. Here, the graves were not crowded, and there was no need to disturb them for the new inmates. The old mounds sank level with the soil, and the grey crumbling stones fell in every variety of position over the ground. The old unclipped yew trees, feathered down to the earth, and sheltered the north side of the ground from the cold winds.
It was not infested, as in populous places, with the rude children of the lower classes, filling the place with discordant sounds and hideous gestures, and spurning with their coarse feet the earth that had been consecrated to so solemn a purpose.
At last, Mr. Haveloc interrupted the reverie of his companion.
"It is late," he said, "and you are quite wet, I fear. Let me advise you to return home."
"Home!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick mournfully."To what do I return? I am less solitary here, than I am in my own house."
"You must be persuaded," said he, leading her from the tomb. "Mrs. Grant will, I am sure, be wretched until she sees you again."
"It is true," said she, "I ought not to indulge in such feelings. How silent! How ineffably still! I feel so deeply the fitness and the luxury of this calm that surrounds the dead, now that I also have a treasure buried here."
They walked homewards. Their foot-steps rustled in the long grass; and the latch of the wicket fell with a sharp sound, so deep was the quiet of the place.
At the gate of the cottage they met the postman; always late, and often very irregular in that village. He knew Mr. Haveloc by sight; and, glad to escape a walk to his residence, he touched his hat, and presented him with a letter.The handwriting was Margaret's. He had often seen it, and admired its beauty, although she had never before written to him.
Knowing the conditions upon which Mr. Grey had agreed that she should write to him, he hesitated to open it. He knew it must contain bad news of his friend's health.
"But read it, Mr. Haveloc," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had stood glancing over one or two indifferent letters, while he was hesitating. "You would not stand on ceremony with me."
He tore it open with trembling hands, and read the following lines:—
"I am desired by Mr. Grey to summon you to Ashdale. He is very ill; and I tell you now, because it is easier to write than to speak it; that we must meet and part as strangers."
"I am desired by Mr. Grey to summon you to Ashdale. He is very ill; and I tell you now, because it is easier to write than to speak it; that we must meet and part as strangers."
Que es la vida? Un frenesi;Que es la vida? Una ilusion,Una sombra, una ficcion,Y el mayor bien es pequeño.Que toda la vida es sueño,Y los sueños, sueño son.LA VIDA ES SUEÑO, JORN. 2.
Nothing could exceed his astonishment and distress as he read this short and decided missive. He stood speechless—rooted to the ground—for a few moments unable to believe his eye-sight. He would have staked more than his life upon Margaret's constancy; and at such a time to break with him—now, when her uncle lay, perhaps, dying. There was a refinement inher cruelty. He could not comprehend a word; and stood staring in bewilderment on the paper in his hand.
"I fear you have received some bad news, Mr. Haveloc?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, looking anxiously at him.
"I have—very bad," he said. "My friend, Mr. Grey, is very ill; dangerously, I am sure. I must not lose a moment: he has summoned me. I must set out instantly."
They exchanged a hurried farewell; and in another hour he was flying along the road as fast as four horses, and postilions, bribed to the utmost, could whirl his carriage.
He still held in his hand the letter which had summoned him to Ashdale. He read it again and again.
What could have occasioned this sudden change? He was lost in conjecture and dismay.
At one moment he thought it possible that some news might have reached her ofhis attendance upon Aveline; and that she misinterpreted his visits into a devotion that had never swerved from herself. But he at once rejected this supposition as impossible.
Had she mistaken his conduct in that particular, she would have demanded an explanation. Nothing need have deterred her from doing so. She had heard from some officious friend of his attentions to Mrs. Maxwell Dorset, whose memory he frequently cursed, but never with such fervour as now. And her delicacy prevented her alluding to the cause of her resentment.
Anger succeeded here to distress. If she could cast him off for an affair which took place before he had become acquainted with her, she certainly was not worth the regret which he could not, however, entirely stifle. If her love could be snapped like a thread the moment she entertained any cause of displeasure against him, it was not worth preserving.It was the most singular, certainly, the most unjustifiable step he had ever heard of. However, he had nothing to do but to acquiesce. It was not his part to overcome her unreasonable scruples. No! he thanked Heaven, he could take the matter as coolly as she appeared to do. Her commands were certainly expressed with the utmost brevity—he supposed she did not consider him worth the waste of many words. Some ladies could dismiss a lover with more ease than a lap-dog. He commended her decision, and there was an end of the matter.
Having come to these reflections, he threw himself with great dignity into a corner of the carriage, and attempted to go to sleep.
Not succeeding in this attempt, the next best thing was to discover that he was going at a snail's pace, and to fly in a passion with the post-boys; and to work himself up into a fever of excitement that increased every mile of the way.Suddenly he recollected the Will that he had induced Mr. Grey to make—a Will that deprived Margaret of what would have undoubtedly been her inheritance.
How little had he ever thought that any circumstance could occur which would lead him to regret such an arrangement. Now it must be cancelled without delay—a new Will made.
Good Heaven, if he should be too late! And he let down the front glasses, and bestowed another exordium on the postillions.
At last he reached Ashdale. It was one o'clock in the morning; the doors were opened as soon as the horses' feet were heard, a plain proof that he had been anxiously expected. He threw himself from the carriage and hurried up to the servant in the hall.
"Mr. Grey—"
"He is very ill, Sir; not expected to live till morning."
"Not till morning—good Heaven! and that Will—" he muttered to himself as herushed upstairs. He thought more of Margaret than of Mr. Grey even then. Margaret was seated at the bed-side close to her uncle's pillow; as still and as white as a figure moulded in wax. Her eyes were fixed upon his face; one hand rested in his; the other hung listless by her side. Mr. Casement stood leaning against the foot of the bed, looking, to do him justice, very disconsolate. Margaret lifted up her heavy eyes, and gave one look at Mr. Haveloc. He was in mourning; a token of respect he had thought proper to pay Aveline; the sight sent a thrill to her heart.
She leaned over her uncle, and kissed his forehead.
"My dear uncle, Mr. Haveloc," she whispered.
Mr. Haveloc stepped close to the bed, and took Mr. Grey's hand, which Margaret resigned to him.
"Ah, Claude!" said Mr. Grey with a faint smile.
They were the last words he spoke.Almost directly afterwards he fell into a kind of doze; his eyes half closed.
Mr. Haveloc turned abruptly round, seized Mr. Casement by the arm and led him to the window. He had never addressed Mr. Casement in his life before, and that gentleman might be pardoned for looking extremely surprised on the occasion.
"Tell me—how is he?" said Mr. Haveloc.
"Anybody might see that with half an eye, I should think," muttered Mr. Casement more gruffly than usual, for he had a great mind to cry.
"Good Heaven, can nothing be done!" exclaimed Mr. Haveloc clasping his hands.
"Nothing at all," returned Mr. Casement. "The doctor left at eight o'clock, and Mr. Warde at ten. When the doctor and parson both go, I take it, there is an end of everything."
"Good Heaven! and I have something of the last importance to communicate to him!" exclaimed Mr. Haveloc."Ah, youngster! clever of you to leave it to the last," said Mr. Casement.
"Good Heaven! when I was away—when I did not know it before. It concerns his niece—"
"Oh! some rigmarole about Miss Peggy you may tell it to me. I am appointed one of her guardians."
Mr. Haveloc turned abruptly away, and stood by the bed-side, watching Mr. Grey with eager interest. At length, he thought it just possible that Margaret might have arranged everything with her uncle before writing to him.
"Did your uncle know of the resolution you announced to me in your letter of yesterday?" he asked coldly.
"Hush! no. Don't speak to him;" said Margaret shrinking back with an appearance of terror.
He sighed, and moved to a little distance from her chair. Mr. Casement came close to the bed, and he saw that all would soon be over.Margaret sat paralysed with fear, watching the peculiar and earnest expression of the countenance which marks that when the senses are sealed, the soul is still awake, and waiting to be released. And it is at once awful and sublime when no pause or cessation of consciousness takes place, and the spirit steps from one existence to the other without an interval of slumber.
"Come little woman—come away;" said Mr. Casement taking her hand and raising her from her chair, "you can do nothing more. He will never see, or know any one again."
She had no power to resist; she would have opposed nothing. She suffered him to lead her in silence from the room; and so was spared the last appalling moment when the spirit vanishes from its human abode.
Is there no more but parting left, of allThe love we bore each other? Is it easySo to break trust and faith? Are all the talesOf constancy, that make the heart beat high,Mere fables?—Then, indeed, farewell!—'tis time.ANON.
The next morning Mr. Warde came early to Ashdale, and finding that all was over, he took Margaret home with him to the Vicarage.
She had sat up all night, and what with fasting and want of sleep, she was perfectly exhausted.
Mrs. Somerton and Blanche were at the Vicarage, and they were both very kind to Margaret. Indeed, many women not verydeserving of respect in their general conduct, are ready to show kindness to others under actual suffering.
Mrs. Somerton insisted on Margaret going to bed at once, and Blanche brought some tea to her bed-side as soon she was undressed. She kept her bed for some days. All that she had lately endured, unnerved her completely; and when, at length, she made the effort to rise, her limbs trembled so much, that it was with the utmost difficulty that she could get down stairs; and there seated in an arm-chair, she remained for some hours every day, unable to undergo the fatigue of speaking, or even of listening to what was passing.
When Mr. Grey's Will was read, it was found that he bequeathed his estate to his cousin, Mr. Trevor of the East India Company's service; an annuity to one or two servants; and a legacy of ten thousand pounds to his niece Margaret Capel. Margaret was very much affected when Mr. Warde told her this piece of news; sherepeated over and over again how very kind it was of her uncle to have left her this money; a trait which pleased Mr. Warde very much, for he was afraid she would have been very greatly disappointed that her uncle had not left her the bulk of his property. However, a great many people kindly undertook to be disappointed for her; and to say that it was a shame in Mr. Grey, after having her to live with him, to treat her in that manner, and cut her off with ten thousand pounds; and that old people never knew how to leave their money so as to give satisfaction to their relations; which is true enough.
Nobody knew that it was Margaret's own fault; that she was in the secret, and that a word from her, after her rupture with Mr. Haveloc, would have caused her uncle to alter his Will, and settle all his property upon her; but her one aim was to spare him the knowledge of an event which would give him pain; she never thought about securing his fortune. Mr. Wardetold her that he and Mr. Casement were named as her guardians until she married or became of age; and that he thought her best plan would be to reside with some lady who might be able to offer her a comfortable home, and desirous to profit by the arrangement; that such a person would be easily found, but that he trusted for the present she would remain at the Vicarage; so that they might look about at their leisure, and select the residence that should present the most advantages. Margaret thanked him very much for his kindness; for the future she felt a sort of vague indifference. She acceded, at once, to his plans, and hardly gave another thought to her prospects.
Blanche Somerton who had been excessively kind, even delicate in her attentions, until after the funeral of Mr. Grey, now began to think that Margaret's languid sorrow was a little out of place. She was one of the many who think that all regrets are quite useless and nonsensical as soonas the dead are buried. Her own emotions were stormy and brief; and she felt good-naturedly that it was high time to begin to cheer up Margaret's spirits.
"I declare, I envy you of all things;" said she one morning, "with twenty thousand pounds you can surely make a very good match. But it all depends upon where Uncle Warde places you; take my advice and don't go to a Methodist. I would get some dowager at Bath, or Cheltenham to take me out, if I were you. You might meet with something very advantageous at Bath; better I think than in London. There is so much competition; though you are certainly very pretty—not that I like you in mourning."
Here Margaret who was reclining languidly in an arm-chair, began to cry, by stealth as it were, wiping her eyes quietly with her handkerchief.
"Oh! my dear, your spirits are wretched," cried Blanche. "You have no idea how it distresses me to see you. You really oughtto go out and amuse yourself; we have all our troubles, I assure you. I sometimes find it very difficult to bear up."
"Yes; I should be selfish, indeed, if I thought myself the only person afflicted," said Margaret. "I am very sorry to hear that you have any immediate cause of distress."
Here Mr. Warde appeared at the doorway; he made a sign to Blanche, and after a few whispered words, that young lady nodded, and went up stairs. Mr. Warde then came up to Margaret, and took a chair by her side.
"My dear," he said, "Mr. Haveloc wishes to see you."
Margaret's heart beat so wildly that she could hardly breathe.
"I thought, as he was an intimate friend of your uncle, I had better prepare you for his visit," said Mr. Warde. "I feared you would be agitated if he came in without being announced."
"Must I see him?" asked Margaret, as soon as she could utter a word.
"Certainly not, if you feel the effort would be too great," said Mr. Warde. "He seemed very anxious to pay his respects to you, before leaving the place. I understand it is his intention to go abroad for some years: and I suppose having met you frequently at your uncle's, he did not wish to quit the country without taking leave of you. But do not, on any account, exert yourself. I will take him a message, if you feel in the least degree unequal to seeing him."
Margaret laid her hand on Mr. Warde's arm as if to detain him. Everything seemed whirling round; she could not hear distinctly his last words; there was a noise and giddiness in her brain. Going abroad! So then all was over; he was as determined as herself to cancel their engagement. She should have liked a little reluctance, a little hesitation; perhaps a little entreaty. Butthis was well. She could be proud now—no weakness.
"Is he here?" she asked Mr. Warde.
"Yes, waiting in my study."
"Then let him come directly," said she, "directly; because I am not in a mood for tears now; and because I could not answer for myself half an hour hence."
Mr. Warde pressed her hand, and went out in search of Mr. Haveloc.
Margaret heard his step with a sickening at the heart that she could not control: he came in—bowed, took a seat at some distance; then started up, brought his chair closer, and sat down beside her.
They were both silent, Margaret struggling with her tears. Mr. Haveloc looking on the ground, perfectly uncertain how to begin.
But after a short pause, during which she clasped more tightly the arm of her chair, Margaret forced back her tears, and said in a low tone:"We have both lost so much, and so lately, Mr. Haveloc, that we do not find it easy to allude to it."
She had never seen him look so pale, or so wretched, and she felt that she forgave him everything, though she struggled very hard against the feeling. Unconsciously her voice took a softer tone, and her countenance depicted the compassion she felt. But her companion, quite as much offended as grieved, by her rejection, had not the skill to read these signs of a softened resolution.
"I did not intrude upon you with that intention," he said. "I had something to explain to you which is a source of great distress to me, but for which I can find no remedy."
Margaret bent forward with much anxiety, Mr. Haveloc proceeded with increased coldness.
"When I had reason to suppose that you intended to honour me with your hand, I requested Mr. Grey to settle his estate upon his next heir, as I imagined I had morethan enough for all our wishes; and I confess, that it pleased my pride to fancy that through my means, alone, the woman whom I loved, should be surrounded by all the luxuries and refinements of life."
"I know," said Margaret. "He told me what had been done. I was glad of it. I cannot think why that should annoy you."
"It pains me to consider myself as the means of having deprived you of a noble fortune," said Mr. Haveloc, "a fortune which I once vainly thought I should have been able to compensate to you. But I was not aware that you knew this, and I feared you should think your uncle fickle or unkind, instead of ascribing the act to my ill-judged reliance—upon the future."
"You acted quite rightly, Mr. Haveloc," said Margaret. "I wished it then, and I am not more disposed to reject it now. Mr. Trevor is a worthy man, with a young family. He will value his inheritance; and I trust only that he will cherish my uncle's memory as warmly as I ever shall."She found it difficult to keep her voice quite steady, just at the close; but she made a little pause and succeeded.
"As you have not deigned to give me any explanation of your change of purpose," said Mr. Haveloc. "I am at a loss to defend myself; or to plead for what, in truth, is very near my heart. There is, indeed, one passage in my life to which it is possible your motives may refer; in that case, I should, I avow it, be left defenceless. I cannot undo the past!"
"I know it," said Margaret hurriedly; "I should be sorry if—I mean that I wish to forget entirely—all that—I mean, that we were ever on other terms than—"
"I have no doubt that you will succeed perfectly," said Mr. Haveloc, rising from his chair as he spoke.
There was a touch of irony in the remark which stung her to the quick. When all she had undergone, and had yet to endure, was before her, to be told that she would find it easy to forget the past, was unbearable.Her heart swelled, but there is a great deal of endurance in a woman; as many people know, for they put it to a pretty good trial.
All the pride in her nature was aroused.
"You have nothing more to say, I believe," said she, drawing herself up.
"I could say a thousand things," he exclaimed, with a passionate change of manner; "if I thought you had the patience to hear me. But you care nothing for my thoughts; and, perhaps, I merit but little consideration. Still from you—but these storms always come from the quarter on which we are least prepared. You scarcely know what you do in casting me off. But I hope I am not so much the slave of circumstances as to be made reckless by misfortune. And you, Margaret, is it—in all the chances of the future—is it likely that any man will love you as I have done?"
"Mr. Haveloc!" said Margaret, still more offended.
"And that unhappy Will!" he continued,"I suffer more from that subject than you would be willing to believe if I were to describe it: one day you will lay that to my other offences—if, indeed, you then can recall my name."
"You do me great injustice in thought," said Margaret. "If it will be any relief to you, let me assure you again that there is nothing in the whole chapter of accidents which could give me so little concern. I am not called upon to bear poverty, recollect."
"Then," said Mr. Haveloc, "we have but to part. How difficult it is to me, no words could speak—but those things which are inevitable, had best be quickly done. So—farewell."
Without another word, or look, or gesture, he rushed out of the room and from the house.
Margaret sat for some time trying to recollect every thing he had said. He had not asked her to forgive him—had simplysaid he could not undo the past; he had not begged, as he might have done, that she would give him time and opportunity to retrieve it. It had seemed that he was willing—even anxious, to be set free—he had made arrangements before seeing her, that proved he had decided this to be their last meeting. She was dead—and therefore he might have endeavoured to return to Margaret, if he had desired a reconciliation. But no—she had offended him, and he was too proud to wish it. Margaret tried to think it was best for both; but a sense of agony, amounting almost to suffocation, would not let it be. If she could have wept—but no tears came—so she lay helplessly in her chair, watching the ebony cabinet that stood opposite first receding farther and farther, then seemed to float before her eyes, until sense and memory went out together, and she fell into a deep swoon.
It was some time before Blanche, who came down as soon as Mr. Haveloc left thehouse, could restore Margaret to consciousness. When she succeeded, she was full of condolence.
"What a bore it was, my dear creature," said she, "that you should have had to receive that horrid man. Had it been any one else, it might have done you all the good in the world; for you might have had a nice little flirtation to raise your spirits. But as for him—I hate him; his manners are so abrupt. Of course he began talking of poor dear Mr. Grey. So mal-á-propos."
"He did speak of my uncle," said Margaret.
"I knew it!" exclaimed Blanche. "That was it. I wish there was a nice little dance you could go to; or a concert—but this place is a perfect hermitage; and your mourning too would be a drawback. How beautifully you were dressed at Bessy Gage's wedding. You had a cluster of pink daisies at the side of your bonnet. That was anexcellent match! I would have almost married old Sir Philip, myself, for the sake of Sherleigh. I say, did Hubert Gage ever make you an offer?"
Margaret blushed, but astonishment kept her silent.
"Every body says he did," continued Blanche, "and I do not wonder that you refused him. I hate younger sons. Mamma wished me to marry him at one time, but I declined. I almost wish now that I had kept him on, just to pique somebody else. Do you like military men?"
"No." said Margaret.
"Well, I wonder at that," said Blanche. "I think I could make you change your mind. Did you happen to notice me walking with a young man, in the garden, yesterday before dinner?"
"No, I was up stairs," said Margaret, faintly.
"Well—if you can manage to walk out to-morrow—do you think you could?"
"No, I am sure I could not."
"That is a pity, because I often meet him on the S—— road. You would be so much amused with him. He has such spirits, and I should not be jealous, no—Watkins is all my own."
At another time Margaret would have laughed at this declaration; now, she sighed heavily and sank back in her chair.
"You are quite fatigued with that wretch Mr. Haveloc; it was just like my uncle to admit him. However, thank goodness he is going to Russia directly, and will not bore you again. But here comes my uncle; not a word about Watkins, I entreat. We keep it a secret from him, but I will take care that you are in the way the next time he comes to the house."
"I will go up stairs and lie down, if you please," said Margaret, trying to rise. "I am not very well."
Blanche helped Margaret up stairs, and she had another attack of illness, which again confined her to her bed for some days.