CHAPTER VIII.
Any one who has tried to speak with another for five minutes in private, without the pomp and circumstance of demanding an interview, will know that it is almost impossible to find the opportunity, unless the person be one's own wife. There is always something comes in the way just at the very moment--something unforeseen and unlikely,--especially if one be very anxious upon the subject. If the matter be of no importance, the opportunity presents itself at every turn; but if one be very, very desirous to unburden a full heart, or tell a tale of love, or give a valuable hint, or plead the cause of one's self, or any one else, without the freezing influence of a formal conference, one may wait hours and days--nay, weeks and months, sometimes--without finding five minutes open in the whole day.
As soon as breakfast was over, Edward de Vaux followed Marian into the music-room; and when Marian left him, he came to tell his friend and Isadore that they proposed making a riding party to see something in the neighbourhood. Manners went up in his room to prepare; and, as he found himself on the stairs alone with De Vaux, he had his hand in his pocket to produce the letter, when Miss Falkland's step sounded close by them, and her voice invited her cousin to come with her, and see a little present she had bought for Marian's birthday. As soon as Manners was equipped for riding, he went to De Vaux's room, calculating--as he usually dressed in half the time that his friend expended on such exertions--that he would find him there: but no one was in the apartment but a servant, who told him that Mr. De Vaux had gone down. As he passed along one of the corridors, he saw De Vaux sauntering across the lawn towards the gates of the stable-yard; but ere he could catch him, his friend was surrounded by grooms and servants, receiving his orders concerning the horses; and as they turned again towards the house. Marian and Miss Falkland were standing in their riding dresses on the steps.
"Well, I must wait," thought Manners, reflecting sagely on the difficulties of executing punctually even so simple a commission as that which he had undertaken. "Well, I must wait till we go to dress for dinner; then I am sure to find my opportunity."
He was not destined, however, to remain burdened with his secret so long. The ride was pleasant, but did not extend far; and on the return of the party, while Manners and De Vaux stood looking at their boots in the hall, Miss Falkland and her cousin retired to change their dress, and the opportunity was not lost.
"Now we are alone," said Manners, "let me execute a commission with which I am charged towards you, De Vaux, and which has teased me all the morning."
"Not a challenge, I hope," replied the other; "for it seems a solemn embassy."
"No, no, nothing of the kind," answered his friend; "but the fact is--"
"Please, sir," said Colonel Manners' servant, opening the glass doors, "I believe the young mare is throwing out a splint; and I did not like to--"
"Well, well," said Manners, somewhat impatiently, "I will come and see her myself, presently--I am engaged just now." The man withdrew; and resuming his discourse at the precise point where he had left off, Manners continued, "The fact is, that gipsy, of whom I was speaking this morning, charged me with a letter to you, which I promised to deliver in private, and when you were likely to be able to read it without interruption."
"A gipsy!" said De Vaux, knitting his brows; "the circle of my acquaintance has extended itself farther than I thought, and in a class, also, equally beyond my wishes and anticipations: but are you sure there is no mistake? does he really mean me?"
"There is the letter," replied Manners, "with your titles, nomen and cognomen, as clearly superscribed as ever I saw them written:--Captain the Honourable Edward de Vaux, with many et cæteras."
"And in a good hand, and on tolerably clean paper," said De Vaux, taking the letter, and gazing on the back. "Why, this gipsy of yours must be a miracle, Manners."
"He is a very extraordinary person, certainly," answered his companion, "both in his ideas and his deportment, which are equally above his class."
"Nay, he must be a miracle--a complete miracle!" said De Vaux, laughing, "if he can mend kettles and write such an address as that, with the same good right hand. But this must be a begging letter."
"I think not," replied Manners: "it would not surprise me to find that he knows more of you than you imagine; but, at all events, read the letter."
De Vaux turned the letter, looked at the seal, which offered a very good impression, though one with which he was not acquainted, and then, tearing open the paper, read the contents. The very first words made his eye strain eagerly upon the page; a few lines more rendered him deadly pale; and though, as he went on, his agitation did not increase, yet the intensity of his gaze upon the sheet before him was not at all diminished; and when he had concluded it, after staring vacantly in his companion's face for a moment, he again turned to the letter, and read it attentively over once more.
"I am afraid I have brought you evil tidings, De Vaux," said Colonel Manners, who had watched with some anxiety the changes upon the countenance of his friend: "if so, can I serve you? You know Charles Manners; and I need scarcely say how much pleasure it will give me to do any thing for you."
"I must think, Manners--I must think," replied De Vaux: "these are strange tidings indeed, and vouched boldly too; but I doubt whether I have a right to communicate them to any one but the person they affect next to myself. However, I must think ere I act at all. Forgive me for not making you a sharer of them; and excuse me now, for I am much agitated, and hardly well."
"Let me be no restraint upon you, De Vaux," answered his friend. "If I can serve you, tell me; if I can alleviate any thing you suffer by sympathy, let me share in what you feel; but do not suppose for a moment that I even desire to hear any thing that it may be proper to keep to your own bosom. Leave me now, without ceremony: but take care how you act, De Vaux; for I see there is matter of much importance in your mind; and you are, sometimes at least, in military affairs, a little hasty."
"I will be as cool and thoughtful as yourself, my friend," replied De Vaux; "but I am agitated, and the best place for me is my own room."
Thus saying, he left his friend, not a little surprised, indeed, that such a letter from such a person should have had the power to produce on the mind of a man like De Vaux the extreme agitation which he had just witnessed. De Vaux, he well knew, was not one to give credence to any thing lightly, or to yield to any slight feeling which a first impression might produce; but, in the present instance, it was evident that his friend had received a shock from some tidings which had been totally unexpected, but which must have been probable, as well as unpleasant, to produce such an effect. The extraordinary fact, however, that news of such importance should be left to the transmission of such a man as the gipsy--so separated by station, and state, and circumstances, from the person whom they concerned--was of course a matter of much astonishment to Colonel Manners; and surprise divided his bosom with anxiety and sympathy for his friend.
It is a very disagreeable thing to have any two feelings thus making a shuttlecock of our attention; or, when they are very eager, struggling for it with mutual pertinacity; but the only way to act under such circumstances is, to treat them like two quarrelsome boys; and, shutting them up together, leave them to fight it out without interruption. Such was the plan which Colonel Manners now proposed to pursue; and, consequently, quitting the hall where his conversation with De Vaux had taken place, he walked straight to the library, and opened the door.
What happened next was not without its importance; but as the mind may be at this moment more anxious concerning De Vaux than concerning his companion, we will follow him up the staircase as lightly as possible; enter his chamber, lay our hand upon his bosom, draw the curtain, and show the reader the scene within. But it may be as well first to look at that letter upon the table before which he is sitting, with his left hand upon his brow, and his right partly covering the sheet of paper which had so disturbed him. If one can draw it gently out from underneath his fingers, while his eyes are shut and his thoughts are busy, one may read what follows:--
"To Captain Edward de Vaux." Here, be it remarked, that there was a difference between the superscription and the address; the latter having borne, "To Captain the Honourable Edward de Vaux," while in the inside was merely written, "To Captain Edward de Vaux."
The difference may appear insignificant; but, in the present instance, and with the commentary of the epistle itself thereon, it signifies a great deal. However, the letter went on:--
"To Captain Edward de Vaux.
"Sir: I shall make no excuse for addressing you, as I am fully justified therein; and you yourself, however great the pain I may inflict upon you, will eventually admit that I am so. You are about, I understand, to unite your fate to a young lady of rank and fortune; and it is more than possible that mutual affection and mutual good feelings would render your union happy. Nevertheless, believing you to be a man of honour, I feel sure that you would not like to lead any one into such an alliance with expectations which are not alone doubtful, but fallacious. It is therefore necessary that you should know more precisely how you are situated; and I hesitate not to inform you, that on the title and estates held by your father you have no earthly right to calculate; that, should you marry Miss de Vaux, you bring with you nothing but your commission as a captain in the army; and that whatever you expect from your parent will most certainly go to another person. Your first conclusion--as a world in which there are so many villains is naturally suspicious--will be, that this letter is written either by some one who intends to set up some unjust claim to your rightful inheritance, by some disappointed suitor of your bride, or by some malevolent envier of another's happiness. Such, however, is not the fact. The person who writes this owes some gratitude to your family; not so much for what was accomplished, as for what your grandfather sought to accomplish in his favour. You may have heard the story--in which case you will give more credence to the present letter--or you may not have heard the story: but still, the way to satisfy yourself is open before you. Either resolve to question your father boldly concerning the points herein contained; or, if you would have the facts proved so that you cannot doubt them, come alone to the gipsies' tents, in the sand-pit on Morley Down, this evening or early to-morrow morning, and inquire for
"Pharold."
Now, under any ordinary circumstances, the only course which De Vaux would have pursued might have been, to twist up the paper into any strange and fanciful form that the whim of the moment suggested, and put it into the first fire he met with, giving it hardly a second thought. But there were circumstances totally distinct from, and independent of, the letter itself, which gave it a degree of importance far above that which it intrinsically possessed. Edward de Vaux, though he had a slight recollection of a dark-eyed, beautiful creature, whom in his infancy he had called mother, lost all remembrance of her at a particular period of his life, and had never since, that he knew of, heard her name mentioned. He passed, it is true, for Lord Dewry's legitimate son, was received as such in society, and admitted as such by his own family and relations. But, if so, how was it he had never seen a picture of his mother among those of his ancestors, and beside that of his father, which stood in the gallery, and represented him as a man of about thirty-five years of age?--How was it he had never heard his mother's jewels mentioned, though those of the two baronesses who had preceded her were often referred to? How was it that his aunt, Mrs. Falkland, as he inferred from many facts, had never seen his mother? How was it that his father had never spoken her name in his hearing? All this had often struck him as something very extraordinary; and a thousand minor circumstances, which cannot be here recapitulated, had shown him that there was some mystery in regard to his family, which had frequently given him pain. Since his return, however, something more had occurred: two or three words had been spoken by his father, during their dispute concerning Colonel Manners, which had startled him at the time with a suspicion which he had instantly banished, but which now came up again with fearful confirmation of the tidings he had just received. Lord Dewry had declared that he could be deprived of the entailed estates of the barony by a single word. At the time, that expression had but slightly alarmed him; for, well knowing the violence of his father's disposition, and the acts and words of almost insane vehemence to which any opposition would drive him, he had instantly concluded that it was a meaningless threat, spoken to punish him for the spirit of resistance he had displayed. But now it came back in its full force; and he asked himself, what could such words mean, if he were a legitimate child? The estates were entailed on the male heir; he himself was the only male heir in the present line; and if by birth he were the lawful son of Lord Dewry, no earthly power could deprive him of the lands of his forefathers. But his father, who had been educated for the bar before he succeeded to the title, had told him that a word would take them from him. A stranger now repeated the same tale, and pointed more directly to the same conclusion; and all his former recollections changed his bitter doubts into a terrible certainty.
Edward de Vaux bent down his head upon his hands, and covered his eyes, with a feeling of shame and degradation that was hardly supportable. It was not alone one well of bitterness that was opened upon him; but, in whatever direction he turned his thoughts, new gall and wormwood was poured into his cup. If there had been aught on earth of which he had been proud--and, in that instance, his pride, though bridled and restrained by better feelings, had been great;--if there had been any thing on earth of which he had been proud, it had been of his clear descent from thirteen generations of noble ancestors. He had taken a delight, even from boyhood, in tracing the recorded history of each, and in proving that there had not been one, from the founder of the family to his own immediate parent, who had not been well deserving of the rank and station that they held in their native land. He had drawn from his noble birth the moral which noble birth should always afford; and had determined that he, too, would deserve the title that they had received for great deeds; that he, too, would transmit the jewel of hereditary virtue to his children as an heirloom, unimpaired in passing through his hands. He knew that, in the words of a great natural poet,--
"The rank is but the guinea's stamp--
The man's the gold for a' that;"
and he felt that, to bear the name of noble, without being noble in his heart, was but to carry the die of value upon inferior metal, and pass upon society a base and worthless counterfeit. But all such thoughts, such remembrances, and aspirations were now at an end. He could no longer look back to mighty men amid his forefathers, for the world's law cut the link between him and them. He had no longer a proud name to keep up and adorn with noble actions, for he was an illegitimate son, who had unrightfully usurped the name and station which belonged not to him. His best support, his noblest designs, his most generous purposes, were cast down, and his heart was laid prostrate along with them.
But this was not all: he was now a beggar! the estates were entailed, and descended with the title; and though his father lived in somewhat gloomy retirement, yet the state with which he had surrounded his solitude De Vaux well knew could have left little accumulation from the revenues of his property. Here, then, were new evils to be encountered. Accustomed to luxury, and ease, and plenty, without one thought of that sordid ore, the want of which cramps so many a noble spirit, and stifles so many a great design, he had lived free from one of the greatest burdens upon man. He had never been lavish or extravagant, for such was not a part of his nature; but he had been generous and liberal to others, as well as at ease himself; and now he felt that every expense must be measured and gauged by considerations of economy; that every guinea must be weighed and estimated before it was parted with; that he must look upon money in a light that he had never done before; that he must make it a continual object of thought; that his mind, like the traveller in the land of the Lilliputians, must be painfully pinioned down on every side by the irritating ties of petty cares; that his ease must be at an end, and his generosity cease.
There was more, however, far more bitter kept mingling in the draught. Round the idea of one's mother the mind of man clings with fond affection. It is the first sweet, deep thought stamped upon our infant hearts, when yet soft and capable of receiving the most profound impressions, and all the after-feelings of the world are more or less light in comparison. I do not know that even in our old age we do not look back to that feeling as the sweetest we have known through life. Our passions and our wilfulness may lead us far from the object of our filial love; we learn even to pain her heart, to oppose her wishes, to violate her commands; we may become wild, headstrong, and angry at her counsels or her opposition; but when death has stilled her monitory voice, and nothing but calm memory remains to recapitulate her virtues and good deeds, affection, like a flower beaten to the ground by a past storm, raises up her head and smiles among the tears. Round that idea, as we have said, the mind clings with fond affection; and even when the early period of our loss forces memory to be silent, fancy takes the place of remembrance, and twines the image of our dead parent with a garland of graces, and beauties, and virtues, which we doubt not that she possessed. Thus had it been with De Vaux: he could just call to mind a face that had appeared to him very beautiful, and a few kind and tender words from the lips of her he had called mother; but he had fancied her all that was good, and gentle, and virtuous; and now that he was forced to look upon her as a fallen being, as one who had not only forgotten virtue herself, but, in sin, had brought him into the world, to degradation and shame, what could be his feelings towards her?
Horrid! horrid is it to say, that the world should take unto itself that awful power claimed by Almighty Omniscience, of visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children, and of making the guiltless offspring more than share the punishment inflicted on the offending parent! But so De Vaux felt that the world does, and that, in his instance, it was not alone the usual contemptible sneer, or still more contemptible neglect, that he was destined to meet; but that he must expect all the venomous pity and malignant compassion which his fall, more than his situation, would excite, and which the hard and unfeeling beings of the earth affect to experience for those they wish most powerfully to depress.
Such accumulated feelings were all bitter enough; but there was one more bitter still, more filled with agony and degradation. De Vaux, as we have seen, was engaged to a being full of beauty, and grace, and gentleness, by promises which united them to each other, not alone as persons of high rank and fortune, having found a fitting alliance; but as two people who had known each other from infancy, had grown up in affection, and had for many a year looked forward to their marriage as the means of securing to both the utmost degree of human happiness for life; as the binding on of a talisman, that would shut out from their domestic hearth all the evil things of earth. With De Vaux, these feelings, these anticipations, were even stronger. He loved Marian with the fullest, deepest, most passionate attachment. Towards her his heart was all fire and thrilling energy; and, though there were times when he somewhat doubted that her feelings were of as powerful a kind towards him, yet he believed that she loved him as much as she could love; and perhaps even her slight reserve made him love her the more ardently. The day for their marriage was already fixed; the bridal ornaments were all prepared; their future life had, in the conversation of that very day, been laid out before them as on a map, and Edward de Vaux had as much doubted, when he sprang from his horse, that Marian, in all her beauty, was to be his bride within three short weeks, as he doubted of his own existence.
Now, however, what were his feelings?--now that his situation was changed in every particular,--that in fortune, and in station, he had fallen at once from the situation in which she had promised him her hand; and when he felt that he had no right to claim from Marian de Vaux the execution of a promise which she had made under different circumstances, and to which he believed that all her friends would, of course, be opposed, as soon as his real position became known? He felt that he had no right either to ask or to expect it; and the darkest image that presented itself to his mind was, the loss of her he loved, for ever. Nor did this image come before him vague and undefined, as a thing of remote possibility,--though even then the apprehension would have been terrible enough,--but, in his present state of despondency, it appeared as an undoubted and inevitable certainty--as a thing that must and would take place. He felt as if Marian were already lost to him for ever, and the bright bubble of his happiness irreparably broken. He fancied, also,--he could not help imagining, that something like contempt would mingle in the pity that she felt for him. She was herself so pure,--delicacy, modesty, and virtue so characterized her every movement, and her every word,--that he tortured himself with believing that a part of the reprobation and scorn with which she must think of his mother, would fall upon himself. "She will look upon me as the child of vice," he thought; "she will see in me the offspring of guilt and shame, and will easily make up her mind to the separation. She is always so reasonable, and so willing to do what she considers right, at any sacrifice, that her mind will soon be tutored to forget Edward de Vaux. Were she of that warm, ardent, deep-feeling nature that casts fate and happiness upon one die, I might hope that she would still cling to me: but it is in vain thinking of it--I have no reason to hope it. She will follow the dictates of common sense and prudence, and abandon an alliance which all her friends would now oppose."
Poor Marian! thus did her unhappy lover contrive to wring his own heart even with her very virtues. After thinking for at least an hour in gloomy silence, a faint hope crossed his mind, that he might have mistaken the import of the letter--that his apprehensions might have deceived him. Experience, gained from the consequences of our faults, almost always, sooner or later, gives us a vague, unsatisfactory consciousness that such things exist in our bosom; and Edward de Vaux did know that he was given to torment himself needlessly. He therefore read the letter over again, and read it carefully; but, on doing so, his first impression was but the more confirmed.
"Yet it might be false," he thought; "the whole tale might be false, or might refer to something else, and be the mere blunder of some ignorant and presumptuous person." But then the remembrance of his father's words returned, and all that had before seemed strange regarding his mother came up before his mind; and he once more gave himself up to despair.
What was to be done, became the next question. There was just a sufficient portion of doubt mingled with his feelings to hold him tortured in suspense, without being enough to approach the limit of hope. This state, of course, he could have borne no longer under any circumstances; but his situation in regard to Marian rendered it absolutely necessary that he should put an end to all doubt upon the business. And yet it was terrible, most terrible, to feel that it must be his own hand which tore away the veil that concealed the obstacles to his marriage--that it must be his own hand that cast away his happiness for ever. The thought might cross his mind of letting things take their course--of choosing to disbelieve the letter--of treating it with contempt, and of proceeding with Marian to the altar, to secure the blessing of her hand, at least, before the rest was snatched from him. But if it did cross his mind, it was but as the image of a thing that might be with some men, but could never be with him. It occupied not a moment's consideration--it left no trace behind it. To investigate the matter instantly, and to the bottom, became his determination; and, having done so, to make the result known to those interested, and at once place himself fearlessly in the situation which he had alone a right to fill. He did get that there might be circumstances in the story which he was about to hear which might render it necessary to conceal it from the public ear, in consideration for the feelings of his father, or of others. But to Marian, at least, the facts must be told; she was too deeply implicated in it all to be left in ignorance of what touched her whole future happiness; and De Vaux resolved that not only should she be told, but that no lips but his own should tell it, as he well knew how a few explicative words, or a well-turned round of phrases, may pervert a plain tale from its true meaning. "I will trust none," he thought; "and, whatever the truth may be, from my lips alone shall she first hear it."
The course to be pursued in his investigation became the next question. Two were pointed out in the letter itself; but from the first, that of applying to his father, he shrank with irresistible repugnance. It was not alone that De Vaux, as is common--we might almost say universal--among men, possessed more physical than moral courage; that he feared the fierce and angry mood of his father, irritated as he had been by late opposition, and loved not to venture upon a discussion with him, which would rouse every dark and stormy passion into fiery activity; but he feared himself also: he feared that anguish and anger, and the haughty irritation with which he was sure to be encountered, might make him forget himself, and say words that no after-sorrow could recall. There might still be a doubt, too, upon even the very subject of his fears, and he felt that were those fears unfounded, his father might justly look upon it as little better than a gross personal insult, were he asked if he had passed his illegitimate son upon the world as legitimate, and promoted his union with the heiress of a large fortune, under the pretence of his being heir to an honourable name and great possessions.
De Vaux might believe that such conduct was not impossible; he might also think that his father was not actuated in so doing by the mean and sordid views which, at first sight, seem the only motives assignable for such behaviour. Various circumstances might have occurred, in earlier years, to make his father acknowledge an unreal marriage with his mother; considerations for her feelings, or for his own respectability, might be among the rest. Once having said so, and spoken of himself as of a legitimate child, Edward de Vaux knew well that his father's proud and reserved nature might have made him ever after silent upon the subject, till explanation became almost impossible; and the deceit he had practised or permitted might have been rather the result of haughty reserve than of cunning artifice.
De Vaux felt that, however, ere he presumed to insinuate to his father a bare suspicion of his having committed such an act, he must have much better information and clearer proof to justify the charge. When such evidence was once obtained, he might communicate the discovery he had made to Lord Dewry by letter, and thus avoid that painful collision which a personal discussion of the matter must induce; or, if he found that the evidence was faulty or inconclusive; that there was motive for suspicion against the person who tendered it, or that the whole was an interested calumny, he might lay it before his father, as an affair which required him to investigate the assertions, and punish the authors of them.
The determination, therefore, was taken to visit the gipsy himself; and the only consideration that remained was, whether to go alone, or to ask Manners to accompany him. From the latter idea he shrank, as, in that case, he must have exposed to his friend doubts and apprehensions which were bitterly humiliating, and might even compromise the secrets of others, to whom his friend was a stranger, in a manner which he had no right to do. The letter, also, bade him come alone; and, on reading it over once more, everything tended to make him give credence both to the sincerity of the writer and the accuracy of the facts. He had a faint remembrance, too, of having heard the name of Pharold mentioned by his aunt, as connected with the early days of her family; and the fact of the writer having referred him, in the first instance, to his own father, tended to show that there existed no design against himself personally. Besides, De Vaux was not a man to entertain fears of any kind for his own safety; and, as he clearly saw that Manners was totally ignorant of the contents of the letter which he had brought him, he determined to go alone, and investigate the matter thoroughly.
His next question to his own heart was, "and, in the meantime, what shall be my conduct towards Marian? How shall I behave while I expect and believe that a few more hours will alter our situation towards each other for ever, and render that conduct wrong which was perfectly consistent with our engagement towards each other? If I change my manner, she may think my affection cooled, and feel herself unkindly treated. But then," he thought again, bitterly enough, "but then that will but serve to smooth the way to the change which is ultimately to take place; and perhaps it had better be reached by some such intermediate step." The next moment, again, his wavering thoughts turned to the other side, and he demanded whether he had any right to give her one instant's pain more than necessary. The reply was ready:--"No, no! that were cruel and unkind indeed; and should I do so, and my fears prove false, my behaviour would necessarily, from all the circumstances of the case, remain unexplained--a dark blot upon my affection towards her. Yet, hereafter, if she should learn that such tidings have been in my possession,--that such doubts have been justly working in my mind,--will she not think it wrong, and even deceitful, of me to treat her as my promised bride, when I know that she never can be such?"
What was to be done? De Vaux, according to the old scholastic term, had got himself between the horns of a dilemma; and we must pause for one moment, in order to inquire how far he was art and part in putting himself into that situation. It is wonderful, most wonderful, how people deceive themselves in this world, and how they go on arguing with themselves on both sides of the question for an hour together, affecting to be puzzled, and asking themselves what is to be done, when, from the very first, they have determined, in secret counsel, what to do; and all this logic and disquisition has solely been for the purpose of bewildering reason, or duty, or conscience, or any other of those personified qualities of the soul, which the great parliament of man's passions choose to look upon as the public, the spectators.
Now, at that point of De Vaux's cogitations wherein he thought, and rejected the idea, of admitting Manners to his confidence in the matter before him, as is fully displayed three or four pages back, a fancy struck him, which instantly changed into a secret resolution, not to make Manners his confidant in the business, but to open his whole heart to Marian de Vaux; and although it needed scarcely any argument to prove that she, whose fate was the most strictly bound up with his own, whose affection he certainly possessed, and whose good sense he never doubted, was the person, of all others, in whom he ought to confide; yet, some idle cant that he had read in some foolish book, or heard from some foolish people, about the absurdity of trusting a woman; some silly sneer or insignificant jest, magnified into a bugbear through the mist of memory, had power enough to make him hide his own determination from himself; and, in the first instance, go the roundabout path we have traced, in order to prove that he had no other resource but to tell her the whole affair, ere he boldly admitted his resolution even to his own heart, and brought forward the true and upright motives on which it was founded. So weak is human nature!
As soon as this was done, the matter was no longer difficult; all embarrassment in regard to his conduct was removed, and he felt that what was kindest and what was most affectionate, was also the most just and the most reasonable. Whatever was the truth of the assertions contained in the letter he had received, and to whatever facts it alluded, it pointed principally at his union with Marian, and the disparity of fortune and rank which the writer affirmed to exist between them. She, therefore, was a person principally concerned; and on her ultimate decision their fate must rest. De Vaux feared not that any loss of fortune could affect Marian's regard: he could not have loved her had he supposed it would; but he did fear that the stigma, which he believed might rest upon his birth, and which he himself felt as so deeply humiliating, might make a difference in her feelings; and, when backed by the counsel and arguments of some of her maternal relations, might make her resolves unfavourable to his hopes. But still, in telling her all, from the beginning, in concealing nothing, in acting at once affectionately and candidly, he felt that he was establishing the best claim to continued affection and esteem: he felt, too, that, if there had been deceit on any part, such conduct would be the best proof to all that he was as free as day from any participation in it, and that, whatever were the result, his honour and his name would be clear.
His determination, therefore, was backed by every motive, but still it required great delicacy in executing it. It was necessary not to shock or to pain her--he loved too much to do so--and yet to be perfectly explicit. It was requisite to tell her all, and to leave her fully convinced of his unalterable love; yet perfectly free to form her own decision on her future conduct. The hour, too, and the manner, were matters for consideration, and he resolved not to delay, but let the communication be made immediately, and as a matter of importance. It would require time, however; and, as it was already late, he was obliged to make up his mind that the visit to the gipsy must take place on the following morning: he only paused, then, to recover his composure completely, and to think of the best method of telling Marian the whole, in such a manner as to give her the least pain, yet show his confidence and affection the most clearly.
He accordingly sat still, and laid it out like the plan of a battle; but in this he was very wrong; as, by so doing, he naturally presented Marian to his fancy in the light of the enemy. The consequences were, that his own private little demon instantly saw his advantage, and, whispering in De Vaux's ear, made his irritable and irritated spirit believe that Marian would act in a thousand different ways, which he could not blame, yet did not like. The fiend, who well knows how to seize probabilities, took hold of every particular point in Marian's character which could give him any thing to cling to; and De Vaux saw, in the glass of fancy, her beautiful countenance looking upon him as calmly and as reasonably as ever, without a shade of agitation passing over its placid sweetness during the whole time that he, with difficulty, and hesitation, and agony of spirit, and humiliation of heart, was telling her all his anxieties and apprehensions. He saw, in the same magic glass, the very spot of the room where she would stand, and the fine easy line of her figure, all displaying perfect composure and graceful ease; and he heard the soft, sweet modulations of her voice, calm, gentle, but unaltered; and at length he thought, "I know perfectly what she will say when she hears it: she will declare that I am too hasty in my conclusions; that I must see the gipsy, or whatever he may be, and hear the whole of what he has to say; for that the matter is too important to be judged of hastily, and that when we know the whole, and have had time to consider, we can decide: or she will speak of consulting my aunt, or her great uncle Lord Westerham, or any other of those cold, disinterested people who can give proper advice upon the subject: and yet I do my aunt injustice; for though of a decided nature, she is not of a cold-hearted one."
Thus, then, did he torment himself for some minutes, taking as much pains to make himself miserable as if there were not quite enough pain in this world without our seeking it. Nor did he stop here; but went on in the same train till he had almost wrought himself out of the determination of telling Marian at all, though he ultimately came back to his first resolution. It is not to be concealed that all this hesitation, and a great deal of this anguish, proceeded from his having fallen into the common error of giving the reins over to imagination, and believing that he had placed them safely in the hands of reason. Had he acted wisely, he would not have sat down to fancy any thing upon the subject at all, but he would have risen up, on the contrary, as soon as his resolution was taken, and, seeking out her he loved, would have told her all his doubts and fears, without thinking at all previously either of what he would say or what she would say. Nature, left alone to work her own way, in a thousand instances out of a thousand and one does it gracefully; but if one calls in to counsel her all the host of man's passions, prejudices, faults, and foibles--though judgment may be present too--yet, nine times out often, the multitude of counsellors, in this case, produces any thing but safety. Neither is there ever any use of long consideration in circumstances like those we have mentioned. What we will do always requires thought; how we will do it, seldom, if ever. Trust to your own heart, if you have a good one; and if it be bad, the sooner you hurry it through the business the better. It is equally vain thinking what we will say ourselves, for we are sure never to say it; and still more fruitless to fancy what other people will say, for we know nothing about it.
De Vaux, however, was in some respects a curious compound of very different principles. With all his errors and with all his faults, he had a great deal of candour; and, however keen he might be in investigating and lashing the motives of other people, he was not half so strict an inquisitor into their failings as he was into his own. As a consequence of this, though the knowledge often lay dormant, he did know, as we have often before hinted, with extraordinary accuracy, all the turnings and windings, the intricacies and the absurdities of his own nature; and as soon as the rush of passions was over, his conscience--like the power of the law restored after a popular tumult--would mount the tribunal, and sit in judgment on his own heart. Often, too--like the same power exerting itself to repress anarchy--his better judgment would rise up against the crowd of wild images presented by an irritable fancy, and after a short struggle would regain its power.
Thus, in the present instance he felt, after a while, that he was but anticipating more misery when he had already sufficient to endure; and, doing in the end what he ought to have done at first, he started up, and went to seek Marian, in order to give her the opportunity of letting her own conduct speak for itself.
CHAPTER IX.
De Vaux had calmed himself as much as he possibly could; and as he was not blessed with a face possessing that general expression of jocund felicity which is usually denominated a smiling countenance, whatever degree of gravity and care was left in his look at present excited no particular notice in the drawing-room, whither his steps were first directed. The party there assembled now consisted of Mrs. Falkland and her daughter, with Colonel Manners; and the latter alone saw that the agitation which he had beheld the gipsy's letter produce in his friend had ended in permanent distress.
"Where is Marian?" said De Vaux, as he entered, not very much disappointed, perhaps, to find that she was not with the rest of the family; "where is Marian?--do you know, Isadore?"
"I left her drawing in the little saloon at the other end of the house," replied Isadore; "but that was a full hour ago, Edward; and if she expected a gay knight or wandering troubadour to come and sooth her, either with his gaie science or his bien dire, she may have left her solitude by this time in disappointment."
De Vaux smiled somewhat bitterly, as he felt how much more painfully he had been employed than he would have been in the occupations to which Isadore referred; and, again leaving the drawing-room, he sped along the same passages which, with a light and bounding heart, he had often trod in search of her upon some joyous errand whom he now sought with feelings of care, anxiety, and sorrow. Marian was still where her cousin Isadore had left her; and though, perhaps, she did think that De Vaux might have found her out sooner, when he had no ostensible motive for being absent from the side of her he loved, yet, like a wise girl, she received him with as sweet a smile as if no such slight reproach had ever crossed her fancy. The next moment she rejoiced that she had done so; for the expression of anguish in her lover's eyes did not escape her, and she felt at once that, for whatever other occupation De Vaux had yielded the pleasure of her society, it was for no agreeable one.
"Look at this drawing, Edward," she said, as he came in: "do you not think that I have made my hermit look very melancholy sitting on that rock?"
"Not so melancholy as my thoughts, dear Marian," replied De Vaux, gazing over her shoulder, apparently at the drawing, but in truth hardly seeing a line that the paper contained; "not so melancholy as my thoughts."
"And what has occurred to make them so, Edward?" she asked, turning round to read the answer in his face before his lips could reply. "Surely, I have a right to know, if any one has, what it is that makes you unhappy."
"You have, dear Marian, you have," he replied; "and I have sought you out here to make you share in all I feel, though the task be a painful one. But come here, and sit with me on the sofa by the window, and I will tell you all." And, taking her by the hand, he led her on towards one of the windows that looked out over the park; for, however strange it may be, there are undoubtedly particular positions and particular situations in which one can tell a disagreeable story more easily than in others.
Marian was alarmed, and she was agitated, too, within; for she suffered not her agitation to appear upon the surface when she could help it; and, as is very natural, she anxiously strove to arrive at some leading fact as quick as possible. "Something must have occurred very lately, Edward," she said, "for you were very gay and cheerful during our ride this morning. Have you heard any thing from your father to distress you?"
"No, dearest girl," he answered, "I have heard nothing from him; but I have heard from some one else much that distresses me: but I had better show you what I have received, which will explain the matter more briefly than I could do."
So saying, he placed the gipsy's letter in her hand. Marian took it, and read it through; but, as she knew none of the circumstances which tended in the mind of De Vaux to corroborate the doubts insinuated by the letter, she viewed its contents in a different light; and, returning it with a smile, she asked, "And is that all that has made you uneasy, Edward? But it is evidently all nonsense, my dear cousin. If that foolish man, who teased me so much two years ago, were not out of the country, I should think it was a plan of his to annoy you; but depend upon it, that this is the trick of some one who wishes to disturb our happiness. What have we to do with gipsies, Edward? and how could gipsies know any thing about you and me, unless they were instructed by somebody else? And if any person in our own rank had real information, they would of course bring it forward themselves, and not send it through a set of gipsies."
"You argue well, Marian," answered De Vaux, "and I would fain believe that you argue rightly; but I am sorry to tell you that several things have previously occurred, which tend to confirm the assertions contained in this."
Marian turned a little pale from anxiety for him she loved. "Tell me all, Edward," she said, "tell me all; I am sure you will conceal nothing from me."
"Nothing that I know, indeed, Marian," he answered: "I came with the purpose of opening my whole thoughts to you; for you have every right, that either true love or our mutual situation can give you, to know every thing that I know. Well, then, my beloved, the fact which most completely tends to corroborate the assertions in this letter, occurred in a conversation between myself and my father yesterday morning. It was when he was angry in regard to his unfortunate quarrel with Manners and my opposition of the view he had taken: and he said sternly, and bitterly enough, that though the estates were entailed, I could be deprived of them by a word."
"Indeed!" said Marian, thoughtfully, "indeed!" but the next moment she added, "No, no, Edward, it must have been said in a moment of passion, without reason, and without truth. Depend upon it, your father and my uncle would never have spoken about our marriage to me, and to all my mother's family, as he has often done, calling you somewhat particularly the heir of his titles and estates, if you were neither, as that letter says."
"But yet the letter and his words confirm each other," said De Vaux: "they both tell the same tale, dear Marian. Many a true word is spoken in a moment of passion, that a man has concealed for years, and would give worlds afterward to recall. Besides, I think I have heard the name of this Pharold before: have you not heard my aunt speak of some gipsy boy that my grandfather wished to educate?"
"Oh, no, not my aunt," answered Marian. "All that happened when she was very young, quite a child, I believe. It was poor Mrs. Dickinson, the old housekeeper, who used to tell us stories about that gipsy when we were children; and his name was Pharold, I think. She spoke of him as of a fine creature, but very wild."
"You see, dear Marian," said De Vaux, with a gloomy smile, "everything tends to the same result. My father's words confirm the story of the gipsy, and what we know of the gipsy would show that he had some acquaintance with the history of our family."
Marian mused: "It is very strange, Edward," she said at length, "and I suppose there must, indeed, be some foundation for all this. But yet I cannot understand it: if the estates are entailed, what is there on earth that can prevent your inheriting them? If the title goes to the sons, you must have it; and if it had gone to the daughters, I must have had it, you know, which would have been all the same thing. If you do believe this story, as I am afraid you do, tell me how it can be."
Edward de Vaux paused; for he had never calculated upon going further, or being more explicit than he had been. He had thought it would be enough to explain that he was likely to lose the lands and honours of Dewry, and that Marian would naturally draw her own conclusion, and perceive the only cause which could produce such a result. Her question, therefore, embarrassed him, for he would willingly have sealed his lips upon his mother's shame; and, though he had felt himself bound to tell her all he was likely to lose, without concealment, yet he hesitated at revealing the most painful part of his own suspicions, till those suspicions had been rendered certainties.
Marian saw him hesitate, and raising her beautiful eyes to his face, she said, "Edward, you have promised to tell me all, and you must make it all you think, as well as all you know."
It was not to be resisted. "Well, beloved, well!" he said, "I will, though it is very, very terrible to do so; and, in truth, I hardly know how to do it. Marian, did you ever see my mother?"
"No, Edward, never that I know of," she replied: "why do you ask?"
"Did you ever hear my aunt speak of her?" continued De Vaux, without replying to her question.
"Let me think," said Marian. "I believe I have: but no, I cannot remember that I ever did, now I reflect upon it: no, I never did."
"Nor my father either?" asked De Vaux.
"No, never; certainly never," answered Marian.
"Well, then--" said De Vaux, and he paused abruptly, fixing his eyes upon her face. Instantly a colour of the deepest crimson rushed up over the whole countenance of Marian de Vaux, dying cheek, and neck, and forehead with the blush of generous shame--the shame that every pure, virtuous, inexperienced woman feels when the idea of vice in her own sex is suddenly brought before her.
Edward de Vaux turned deadly pale, as he both perceived that Marian had now caught his meaning, and comprehended most painfully the feelings in which that bright blush arose. The shame that Marian felt for the degradation of her sex touched the most agonized spot in De Vaux's heart. All that hatred for vice, and scorn for the vicious, and the pity which comes near contempt, could produce in a woman's bosom, seemed to De Vaux expressed by that blush, and pointed, more or less directly, towards himself; and, as I have said, he turned very pale.
The deep emotion that he felt overpowered him for an instant; but then he made a great exertion, and, rising from the sofa, "Marian," he said, "I have now told you all, even to my innermost thoughts; and I have but one word to add, my dear, dear cousin. Nearly three years ago, you assured me of your love, and promised me your hand; and every member of your family willingly consented to our ultimate union; but then I was the Honourable Edward de Vaux, the heir to one of the most ancient peerages in England, and to twenty thousand per annum. Things have now changed; and, if the assertions in this letter, and my own suspicions be correct, I am now a nameless, illegitimate beggar, without a right to any thing on earth but my sword and my reputation--with shame upon my mother's head--with nothing to claim from my father, and without even a name that I can offer you. Under these circumstances, though I shall love you to the last day of my life, and think of you through every moment in the whole course of time, I give you back your promise, I free you from all engagement, and leave you totally untied to a connection from which your friends will naturally be glad enough to separate you."
He spoke calmly, slowly, and distinctly; but the deadly paleness of his countenance showed how deeply he was moved at heart; and Marian gazed upon him, with her long dark eyelashes raised high, her beautiful eyes full upon his face, and her lip slightly trembling while he went on. As soon as he had ceased, she rose from the sofa, and, with agitation and ardour, all unlike her usual calmness, cast herself at once upon his bosom, with her arms circling his neck, her lips pressed upon his cheek, and her tears falling rapidly upon him.--"Edward, Edward!" she cried, "I am yours--all yours! Could you--could you do such injustice to your own Marian? You have given me back my promise, and I here give it you again--so that, whatever comes, I may never hear from any one a single word against our union. Nay, nay, let me speak--it is seldom that I am vehement; but I must speak now--you have my promise, most solemnly, most strictly; and I consider myself as much bound to you as if I were your wife. Not only shall no other person upon earth ever have my hand, but, whatever happens, and whoever opposes it, you shall have it, when and where you choose to ask it."
Need I say how tenderly he pressed her to his heart? Need I say how ardently, how sincerely he thanked her? But still there was some slight hesitation in his mind. He almost doubted that she fully appreciated his situation, and he felt that he could not receive such a promise as she had made till she comprehended all. He bade her think, then, of the whole; and conjured her to remember, that it was not alone the loss of name and station, but that, if his anticipations were correct, every thing like wealth, or even competence, would also be lost to him.
But all Marian's reserve was now gone, and the long-restrained feelings of her heart flowed forth all together. "Nay, nay, Edward," she said, again seating herself on the sofa, without, however, withdrawing the small soft hand he held in his; "nay, nay, Edward, have I not enough for us both? enough to give us every comfort? Nay, every luxury that we ought to have we shall still possess; and why need we wish for more? Do you think that the coach-and-six, and the golden-coated coachman, and the three lackeys on the footboard ever entered into my calculations of happiness?"
"No; but, dearest Marian," he replied, "it is only painful to me to think that I bring nothing to unite to your property. Your large fortune renders it only the more necessary that I should have one too--"
"Hush, hush, hush!" cried Marian, eagerly: but still he went on: "I have to owe you every thing, Marian; love, and happiness, and rank, and station, and fortune too."
"And will you, Edward, you talk so proudly to Marian de Vaux?" she exclaimed. "Will you be too haughty to enjoy all the blessings that we possess, because it is Marian that gives them? Is not that which is mine yours? Has it not been so since we were children? Do not distress me, Edward, by one thought of such a kind. Indeed, I shall think you do not love me--that you are going to refuse my offered hand."
"Oh, Marian, Marian!" he cried, kissing it a thousand times, while something very bright, and not unlike a tear, glittered in his eye. "I would not lose it for a thousand worlds! Distress you! dearest girl! I grieve to have distressed you for a moment; but I felt myself bound to tell you all."
"Oh, that does not distress me at all," replied Marian; "the only thing that could distress me would be to see you grieve, or to think that you should make a difference, even in thought, between what is yours and what is mine. I declare, Edward, I never knew what it was to feel glad of a large fortune before; but now I am thankful, not only for what my mother left me, but for every shilling that my good old granduncle and guardian has scraped together for me, by his economy thereof. Three thousand a year, Edward--consider, we shall be as rich as princes; and if it had not been for that, this misfortune might have obliged us to wait on for many a year, till you had made a fortune in India, and very likely have lost your health, which no fortune could have compensated."
Marian de Vaux spoke in a manner totally different from that which her cousin had seen her display for many a year. Her beautiful eyes were full of light and feeling; a smile, half-tender, half-playful, hovered over her lip, and her voice was full of eager kindness and thrilling affection. He had remembered her thus as a girl; but, as she had grown up towards womanhood, either the feelings which had animated her bosom with such a warm and enthusiastic glow had passed away, or the expression of them had been gradually suppressed. Now, again, she was all that he remembered her, and to see her so, plunged him into a sweet vision of the past--connected, though by some fine golden threads, with the present. He had seated himself on the sofa beside her, and, still holding her right hand in his, he had glided his left arm round her waist, and then, with his eyes fixed on a distant spot of the floor, he remained in silence for two or three moments after she had done speaking. Unless man were a cold unfeeling piece of ticking mechanism, like a watch, our measures of time would always be by our sensations: and as Marian had at that moment given way to all the eagerness of her heart, the two moments that Edward de Vaux remained in thought seemed to her an age. "What is the matter, Edward?" she said. "Are you still unhappy?"
"No, my beloved," he answered, looking up in her face with a glance that fully confirmed his words,--"no, my beloved; I am most happy! so happy, indeed, that, were I placed as I was before, I would almost again undergo the pain which this discovery first caused me, to enjoy the delight which my Marian's conduct has bestowed."
"And did you doubt what that conduct would be, Edward?" she demanded, half-reproachfully. Edward de Vaux coloured, and might have hesitated; for conscience, that bitter smiter, who always finds his time to apply the lash, now struck him severely for all those images which an irritable fancy had suggested concerning Marian's conduct. But she saved him the pain of a reply, which must either have been mortifying or insincere. "And did you doubt what my conduct would be?" she asked; and in the next moment she added, "But never mind, dear Edward; you see what it is, and do never doubt it again."
"I will never doubt, as long as I live, my own beloved girl," he answered, ardently; "I will never doubt, as long as I live, that it will on every occasion be all that is good, and noble, and generous: but it was not that alone, my Marian, that made me so happy--so very, very happy."
"What was it, then, dear Edward," she asked, in some surprise; for Marian, with all the quickness of a woman's perception, had noticed the passing colour that came into De Vaux's cheek; and knowing him, and all the little intricacies of his heart, better than he thought--better, perhaps, than she thought herself--she had instantly set down the blush to its right cause, and said, in her own heart, "Edward has been tormenting himself with fancies." Now, however, his words puzzled her, though a latent consciousness of having--in the urgency of the moment, and in the desire to sooth and render Edward patient under his misfortune--a latent consciousness of having given free course to feelings and enthusiasms which she had long held close prisoners in her bosom, made her now feel embarrassed in turn; and a bright warm blush, partly from curiosity, partly from that consciousness, mantled for a moment in her cheek.
Edward de Vaux gazed upon her as she put her question with a smile, full of deep fond affection--with a sort of triumphant happiness, too, in his look that made her inclined, she knew not why, to hide her eyes upon his bosom, as she had done long ago, when first she had acknowledged to him the love that he had won, and witnessed the joy that it called up in his countenance. "I will tell you what it is, dearest," he answered, "that makes me now so happy, that I should have considered anything but yourself a light sacrifice to obtain such joy. It is, that the misfortune which has befallen me has called forth my beloved Marian's true and natural character, and shown her to me fully, as the same dear, excellent, feeling, enthusiastic girl that I have always pictured her to my own imagination--such as her feelings as a child gave promise that she would be--such as I remember her appearing constantly, not many years ago."
Marian blushed, and looked down; and there was a swimming moisture in her eyes, which a little more might have caused to overflow in tears: but they would not have been unhappy ones. She felt--
But it is difficult to say what she felt. It was not that she felt detected, for that word would imply a shade of culpability which she did not feel; but she felt that she had betrayed herself--that a veil which she had cast over the true features of her mind, from many a deep and complicated motive, had been raised--had been snatched away, and could never be dropped effectually again. The effect which the raising of that veil had produced was all glad and gratifying, it is true; but still there was that fluttering emotion at her heart, which the disclosure of long-hidden feelings must always produce: she felt as if she had told her love for the first time over again; and she knew, too, that she might be called upon to assign motives, and give reasons, which would be difficult to explain, but which she determined not to withhold, for many a good and sufficient cause. But all this agitated her. She blushed, she almost trembled; and Edward de Vaux was but the more convinced, from the agitation which he beheld, that the concealment of her real character, and the repression of her finest feelings, had been a conscious and voluntary act on the part of her he loved.
He became curious, as well he might be, to learn more; and, as Marian still sat silently beside him, he tried the tacit persuasion of a gentle kiss upon the blushing cheek, that almost touched his shoulder. She turned round towards him with a thoughtful smile; but, as she did not speak, he asked more boldly, "Why, Marian, why, dearest, after having given me your love, and promised me your hand, have you let that dear little heart play at hide and seek with me, till I have sometimes almost doubted whether it was my own?"
"You should not have doubted that, De Vaux," Marian answered; "but if you really wish to know why I have somewhat changed my conduct since I was a girl, and why I have, in some degree, repressed feelings that I have not experienced the less warmly, I will let you into some of the secrets of a woman's heart; but you must promise me, Edward, never to abuse the trust," she added, smiling more gaily; "and you must promise, too, not to be angry with any thing I shall say."
"Angry! angry with you, Marian!" said De Vaux; "do not believe such a thing possible."
Marian smiled again, for there is often a sort of prophetic presentiment in the breast of woman, which teaches her that, however much she may rule and command the lover, the husband will not receive the power in vain; and, perhaps, it is this knowledge of the shortness of their reign which sometimes makes women abuse it a little while it lasts. Marian smiled again at De Vaux's words, and then replied, "Well, then, Edward, keep your part of the compact, and I will tell you all. You say I have changed very much since I was a girl; and that is but natural, Edward; for, depend upon it, every woman does change, if she feels and thinks at all deeply. As a girl, her words and her actions are all of but little importance in the eyes of those around her, or in her own, unless she be nourished in conceit and affectation from her cradle; and, during the first fifteen or sixteen years of her life, though she may be taught to act like a lady, yet she sees no reason for concealing anything she feels, or anything she thinks, if it be not likely to hurt the feelings of others. As she goes on towards womanhood, however, the world changes its conduct towards her, and she finds it necessary to change towards it. She learns to look upon trifles in her own conduct, and in the conduct of others towards her, as matters of importance: the world and society assume a different aspect she trembles lest she should say, or do, or feel what is wrong; and very often she expresses too little of what she feels, lest she should express too much. Then, too, Edward," continued Marian, with the colour which had partly left her cheek while she spoke coming richly up again, and spreading over her whole face, "then, too, Edward, if she learns to love, all those fears and apprehensions are a thousand-fold increased. She is terrified at her own sensations, and almost thinks it wrong and sacrilegious to suffer that one being by whom her affections are won to take that station in her heart, above all the rest of the world, which she has hitherto devoted solely to a being beyond the world. Perhaps before that time she may have longed to love and be beloved; but the first moment she feels that it is so--especially if it come upon her suddenly--depend upon it, her feelings are more or less those of terror."
De Vaux smiled, but his hand pressed tenderly upon Marian's as he did so; and she felt it was as much a smile of thanks, as if he had accompanied it with words of ever so much gratitude for the picture of her feelings that she had given him. She paused, however, for she was coming to matter which she feared might not please him so well; and his thoughts turning, too, in the same direction, he said, after waiting for a few moments to see if she would go on, "But, dear Marian, this happens to every woman without producing such a change as I have seen in you; and besides, what I have seen to-day, Marian, has shown me fully that there has been some more distinct and individual motive. Tell it me, Marian, tell it me, my beloved; and, believe me, I will not abuse your confidence."
"Nor be angry?" she said, smiling again. "Remember, that it is a principal part of our agreement. Well, then, I will go on. When first we were engaged to each other, Edward, my chief thought--as, indeed, it ever has been since--was how to make the man I loved most completely happy, as far as my own conduct was concerned; and I was reading at that time a very clever book, which recommended women, on their marriage, to study, not alone the general character of their husband, but all his individual opinions and thoughts, in order to make their own behaviour completely conformable thereto; it asserted, also, that such was the surest way of winning happiness for both. I believed it, and resolved to try to follow the advice even before marriage. I listened to every thing you said, concerning the conduct of other women that we knew, with a determination of trying to acquire the qualities that you praised, and to avoid all that you blamed."
"But, good God! my dearest Marian!" exclaimed Edward, warmly, "surely I did not blame them for suffering the beauties or the excellences of their natural characters to appear, nor praise them for assuming a coldness that was the most opposed to the general warmth of their nature?"
"Not exactly, Edward," replied Marian; "but I will tell you what you did, which came much to the same purpose. Though whatever I did seemed to give you pleasure, yet, when you spoke of any of our acquaintance, you were so severe upon what appeared to me very slight mistakes in their demeanour; you were so rigid in your ideas of what was right in general behaviour; you even once censured so heavily a display, rather too open, of attachment to her husband, on the part of a lady whom we both knew, that I began to find that your opinions on such subjects were very nice indeed: and knowing," added Marian, with a smile, which De Vaux felt fully, "and knowing that my lover, with these nice opinions, was peculiarly sensitive to every thing that he thought could draw the slightest degree of ridicule upon him or his, I determined so to school my own conduct, and to repress the expression of my own feelings, as to ensure his heart against the slightest annoyance, concerning a word, or a movement, or a look of his wife."
Marian paused, and Edward de Vaux, with his eyes bent upon the ground, remained silent for two or three minutes, till she became alarmed. "You promised me, Edward," she said, "not to be angry."
"Not to be angry with you, my beloved girl," he said; "but I did not promise not to be angry with myself; and well, well do I deserve it."
"Nay, nor must you be angry with yourself either, Edward," replied Marian; "if you are, I shall still think some of it lights upon me. If, in seeking the means of rendering you happy, I have made you unhappy, I shall meet with punishment instead of reward."
"Dearest Marian," answered De Vaux, "it were vain to deny it. I have been a fastidious fool hitherto; and, like the other sneerers of this world, have been seeking the mote in my brother's eye, while I have forgot the beam in my own. But henceforth I will take example by you, dearest Marian, and so school my own heart as to get over that feeling of the ridiculous in others, and terror for it in myself, which I now find and believe to be a vice and not a quality."
Marian shook her head with a doubtful smile, as if she would have said, "It is in your nature, Edward."
"I will, indeed, Marian," he continued; "and you shall see what a strong resolution can do even with Edward de Vaux. But you must promise me in return, dearest, to reward my efforts, by casting off the reserve that my foolish fastidiousness has drawn over you. The qualities of my Marian's heart and mind are too beautiful to be hidden beneath such a veil."
Marian smiled again, but looked a little thoughtful, for she felt that the task her lover would impose was no easy one. "I will do my best, Edward," she said; "but it must be by degrees. In the first place, all the world would think me mad, if I were to change suddenly from the quiet still-life demeanour of Marian de Vaux, and take up the gay, lively, enthusiastic character of Isadore Falkland; and, in the next place, it would be impossible, for I have now been training myself to this behaviour so long, that it has become quite habitual to me; and, whatever are the emotions that I feel at heart, my first effort--even before I know I am making one--is to keep those emotions from appearing. Sometimes, indeed," she added, laughing, "they break through all restraint, as they have done today; but that is only on great occasions. However, I will do my best to change back again; and, perhaps, as I have overdone the quiet and composed, I may find the happy medium, in returning to my old thoughtlessness. But, in the mean time, Edward, never you be deceived in regard to what I feel. You have seen the veil, as you call it, cast away; and you know entirely what is beneath it."
"A thousand, thousand thanks, for letting me see it, Marian," he replied: "but I can never thank you enough, my beloved, for all that you have done this day--for showing me your heart, and for giving me a glimpse, too, of my own."
"But I owe you thanks, too, Edward--deep and many thanks," replied Marian, "for the generous candour of your conduct; and for not shrinking, even for a moment, from making me a sharer in your thoughts and feelings, however painful they might be to communicate. And oh, Edward, let me entreat you ever to pursue the same course hereafter. Let me be the sharer of all your thoughts; let me hear every thing painful or to be feared, from your own lips, and the tale will loose half its bitterness; and I promise you that, if I cannot assist you with advice and support, I will not embarrass you by womanly fear, or weak irresolution."
"I will, Marian, I will!" replied De Vaux; "for I can contemplate no case in which what I had to communicate would combine half so many sources of pain and anxiety as that which is just past: and now, dearest, then, give me your advice in regard to the course I ought to pursue in investigating this very painful business."
"Do you not think, Edward," said Marian, "that you had better not investigate it at all? If, by letting it rest, and treating this information with contempt, you were likely to injure any one, of course I should say, sift it to the last grain. But it seems that these people, whoever they are, that send you such disagreeable tidings, hold out our approaching marriage as the only motive for your enquiry farther; and, as you have told me the whole without reserve, and I am perfectly satisfied, I see no reason why you should trouble yourself further about it. If you are to lose the titles and estates of your father on any pretext, let the gipsies send their information to the person who is to benefit by your loss. I would think no more of it."
De Vaux shook his head, for his vivid imagination and excitable nature did not fit him for sitting down quietly under such a load of suspense. "No, no, Marian!" he said; "I could not bear such uncertainty; I should not know an hour's peace, and whenever a letter was put into my hand, whenever a stranger desired to speak with me, I should dread some evil tidings. Investigate thoroughly I must. If I find these insinuations false, my peace will be established on a surer rock than ever; and my disposition may not be the worse for the ordeal I have undergone, and the lessons I have received. If my fears prove just, and these tidings true, I think, dear Marian--I think," and he drew her nearer to his heart--"I think that, with the assurance of such love as yours, I can see all the rest that was bright in my lot pass away from me without a sigh."