Neither our space nor our inclination prompt us to dwell on Forester's illness; enough when we say that his recovery, slow at first, made at length good progress, and within a month after the commencement of the attack, he was once more on the road, bent on reaching the North, and presenting himself before Lady Eleanor and her daughter.
Miss Daly, who had been his kind and watchful nurse for many days and nights ere his wandering faculties could recognize her, contributed more than all else to his restoration. The impatient anxiety under which he suffered was met by her mild but steady counsels; and although she never ventured to bid him hope too sanguinely, she told him that his letter had reached Helen's hand, and that he himself must plead the cause he had opened.
“Your greatest difficulty,” said she, in parting with him in Dublin, “will be in the very circumstance which, in ordinary cases, would be the guarantee of your success. Your own rise in fortune has widened the interval between you. This, to your mind, presents but the natural means of overcoming the obstacles I allude to; but remember there are others whose feelings are to be as intimately consulted,—nay, more so than your own. Think of those who never yet made an alliance without feeling that they were on a footing of perfect equality; and reflect that even if Helen's affections were all your own, Maurice Darcy's daughter can enter into no family, however high and proud it may be, save as the desired and sought-for by its chief members. Build upon anything lower than this, and you fail. More still,” added she, almost sternly, “your failure will meet with no compassion from me. Think not, because I have gone through life a lone, uncared-for thing, that I undervalue the strength and power of deep affection, or that I could counsel you to make it subservient to views of worldliness and advantage. You know me little if you think so. But I would tell you this, that no love deserving of the name ever existed without those high promptings of the heart that made all difficulties easy to encounter,—ay, even those worst of difficulties that spring from false pride and prejudice. It is by no sudden outbreak of temper, no selfish threat of this or that insensate folly, that your lady-mother's consent should be obtained. It is by the manly dignity and consistency of a character that in the highest interests of a higher station give a security for sound judgment and honorable motives. Let it appear from your conduct that you are not swayed by passion or caprice. You have already won men's admiration for the gallantry of your daring. There is something better still than this, the esteem and regard that are never withheld from a course of honorable and independent action. With these on your side, rely upon it, a mother's heart will not be the last in England to acknowledge and glory in your fame. And now, good-bye; you have a better travelling-companion than me,-you have hope with you.”
She returned the cordial pressure of his hand, and was turning away, when, after what had seemed a kind of struggle with her feelings, she added,—
“One word more, even at the hazard of wearying you. Above all and everything, be honest, be candid; not only with others, but with yourself! Examine well your heart, and let no sense of false shame, let no hopes of some chance or accident deceive you, by which your innermost feelings are to be guessed at, and not avowed. This is the blackest of calamities; this can even embitter every hour of a long life.”
Her voice trembled at the last words; and as she concluded, she wrung his hand once more affectionately, and moved hurriedly away. Forester looked after her with a tender interest. For the first time in his life he heard her sob. “Yes,” thought he, as he lay back and covered his eyes with his hand, “she, too, has loved, and loved unhappily.”
There are few sympathies stronger, not even those of illness itself, than connect those whose hearts have struggled under unrequited affection; and so, for many an hour as he travelled, Forester's thoughts recurred to Miss Daly, and the last troubled accents of her parting speech. Perhaps he did not dwell the less on that theme because it carried him away from his own immediate hopes and fears,—emotions that rendered him almost irritable by their intensity.
While on the road, Forester travelled with all the speed he could accomplish. His weakness did not permit of his being many hours in a carriage, and he endeavored to compensate for this by rapid travelling at the time. His impatience to get forward was, however, such that he scarcely arrived at any halting-place without ordering horses to be at once got ready, so that, when able, he resumed the road without losing a moment.
In compliance with this custom, the carriage was standing all ready with its four posters at the door of the inn of Castle Blayney; while Forester, overcome by fatigue and exhaustion, had thrown himself on the bed and fallen asleep. The rattling crash of a mail-coach and its deep-toned horn suddenly awoke him: he started, and looked at his watch. Was it possible? It was nearly midnight; he must have slept more than three hours! Half gratified by the unaccustomed rest, half angry at the lapse of time, he arose to depart. The night was the reverse of inviting; a long-threatened storm had at last burst forth, and the rain was falling in torrents, while the wind, in short and fitful gusts, shook the house to its foundation, and scattered tiles and slates over the dreary street.
So terrible was the hurricane, many doubts were entertained that the mail could proceed further; and when it did at length set forth, gloomy prognostics of danger—dark pictures of precipices, swollen torrents, and broken bridges—were rife in the bar and the landlord's room. These arguments, if they could be so called, were all renewed when Forester called for his bill, as a preparation to depart, and all the perils that ever happened by land or by water recapitulated to deter him.
“The middle arch of the Slaney bridge was tottering when the up-mail passed three hours before. A horse and cart were just fished out of Mooney's pond, but no driver as yet discovered. The forge at the cross roads was blown down, and the rafters were lying across the highway.” These, and a dozen other like calamities, were bandied about, and pitched like shuttlecocks from side to side, as the impatient traveller descended the stairs.
Had Forester cared for the amount of the reckoning, which he did not, he might have entertained grave fears of its total, on the principle well known to travellers, that the speed of its coming is always in the inverse ratio of the sum, and that every second's delay is sure to swell its proportions. Of this he never thought once; but he often reflected on the tardiness of waiters, and the lingering tediousness of the moments of parting.
“It's coming, sir; he 's just adding it up,” said the head waiter, for the sixth time within three minutes, while he moved to and fro, with the official alacrity that counterfeits despatch. “I 'm afraid you 'll have a bad night, sir. I 'm sure the horses won't be able to face the storm over Grange Connel.”
Forester made no reply, but walked up and down the hall in moody silence.
“The gentleman that got off the mail thought so too,” added the waiter; “and now he 's pleasanter at his supper, iu the coffee-room, than sitting out there, next to the guard, wet to the skin, and shivering with cold.”
Less to inspect the stranger thus alluded to than to escape the impertinent loquacity of the waiter, Forester turned the handle of the door, and entered the coffee-room. It was a large, dingy-looking chamber, whose only bright spot seemed within the glow of a blazing turf-fire, where at a little table a gentleman was seated at supper. His back was turned to Forester; but even in the cursory glance the latter gave, he could perceive that he was an elderly personage, and one who had not abandoned the almost bygone custom of a queue.
The stranger, dividing his time between his meal and a newspaper,—which he devoured more eagerly than the viands before him,—paid no attention to Forester's entrance; nor did he once look round. As the waiter approached, he asked hastily, “What chance there was of getting forward?”
“Indeed, sir, to tell the truth,” drawled out the man, “the storm seems getting worse, instead of better. Miles Finerty's new house, at the end of the street, is just blown down.”
“Never mind Miles Finerty, my good friend, for the present,” rejoined the old gentleman, mildly, “but just tell me, are horses to be had?”
“Faith! and to tell your honor no lie, I 'm afraid of it.” Here he dropped to a whisper. “The sick-looking gentleman, yonder, has four waiting for him, since nine o'clock; and we 've only a lame mare and a pony in the stable.”
“Am I never to get this bill?” cried out Forester, in a tone that illness had rendered peculiarly querulous. “I have asked, begged for it, for above an hour, and here I am still.”
“He's bringing it now, sir,” cried the waiter, stepping hastily out of the room, to avoid further questioning. Forester, whose impatience had now been carried beyond endurance, paced the room with hurried strides, muttering, between his teeth, every possible malediction on the whole race of innkeepers, barmaids, waiters,—even down to Boots himself. These imprecating expressions had gradually assumed a louder and more vehement tone, of which he was by no means aware, till the old gentleman, at the pause of a somewhat wordy denunciation, gravely added,—
“Insert a clause upon postboys, sir, and I 'll second the measure.”
Forester wheeled abruptly round. He belonged to a class, a section of society, whose cherished prestige is neither to address nor be addressed by an unintroduced stranger; and had the speaker been younger, or of any age more nearly his own, it is more than likely a very vague stare of cool astonishment would have been his only acknowledgment of the speech. The advanced age, and something in the very accent of the stranger, were, however, guarantees against this conventional rudeness, and he remarked, with a smile, “I have no objection to extend the provisions of my bill in the way you propose, for perhaps half an hour's experience may teach me how much they deserve it.”
“You are fortunate, however, to have secured horses. I perceive that the stables are empty.”
“If you are pressed for time, sir,” said Forester, on whom the quiet, well-bred manners of the stranger produced a strong impression, “it would be a very churlish thing of me to travel with four horses while I can spare a pair of them.”
“I am really very grateful,” said the old gentleman, rising, and bowing courteously; “if this be not a great inconvenience—”
“By no means; and if it were,” rejoined Forester, “I have a debt to acquit to my own heart on this subject. I remember once, when travelling down to the west of Ireland, I reached a little miserable country town at nightfall, and, just as here, save that then there was no storm—” The entrance of the long-expected landlord, with his bill, here interrupted Forester's story. As he took it, and thus afforded time for the stranger to fix his eyes steadfastly upon him, unobserved, Forester quickly resumed: “I was remarking that, just as here, there were only four post-horses to be had, and that they had just been secured by another traveller a few moments before my arrival. I forget the name of the place—”
“Perhaps I can assist you,” said the other, calmly. “It was Kilbeggan.”
Had a miracle been performed before his eyes, Forester could not have been more stunned; and stunned he really was, and unable to speak for some seconds. At length, his surprise yielding to a vague glimmering of belief, he called out, “Great heavens! it cannot be—it surely is not—”
“Maurice Darcy, you would say, sir,” said the Knight, advancing with an offered hand. “As surely as I believe you to be my son Lionel's brother officer and friend, Captain Forester.”
“Oh, Colonel Darcy! this is, indeed, happiness,” exclaimed the young man, as he grasped the Knight's hand in both of his, and shook it affectionately.
“What a strange rencontre,” said the Knight, laughing; “quite the incident of a comedy! One would scarcely look for such meetings twice,—so like in every respect. Our parts are changed, however; it is your turn to be generous, if the generosity trench not too closely on your convenience.”
Forester could but stammer out assurances of delight and pleasure, and so on, for his heart was too full to speak calmly or collectedly.
“And Lionel, sir, how is he,-when have you heard from him?” said the young man, anxious, by even the most remote path, to speak of the Knight's family.
“In excellent health. The boy has had the good fortune to be employed in a healthy station, and, from a letter which I found awaiting me at my army agent's, is as happy as can be. But to recur to our theme: will you forgive my selfishness if I say that you will add indescribably to the favor if you permit me to take these horses at once? I have not seen my family for some time back, and my impatience is too strong to yield to ceremony.”
“Of course,—certainly; my carriage is, however, all ready, and at the door. Take it as it is, you 'll travel faster and safer.”
“But you yourself,” said Darcy, laughing,—“you were about to move forward when we met.”
“It's no matter; I was merely travelling for the sake of change,” said Forester, confusedly.
“I could not think of such a thing,” said Darcy. “If our way led together, and you would accept of me as a travelling companion, I should be but too happy; but to take the long-boat, and leave you on the desolate rock, is not to be thought of.” The Knight stopped; and although he made an effort to continue, the words faltered on his lips, and he was silent. At last, and with an exertion that brought a deep blush to his cheek, he said: “I am really ashamed, Captain Forester, to acknowledge a weakness which is as new to me as it is unmanly. The best amends I can make for feeling is to confess it. Since we met that same night, circumstances of fortune have considerably changed with me. I am not, as you then knew me, the owner of a good house and a good estate. Now, I really would wish to have been able to ask you to come and see me; but, in good truth, I cannot tell where or how I should lodge you if you said 'yes.' I believe my wife has a cabin on this northern shore, but, however it may accommodate us, I need not say I could not ask a friend to put up with it. There is my confession; and now that it is told, I am only ashamed that I should hesitate about it.”
Forester once more endeavored, in broken, disjointed phrases, to express his acknowledgment, and was in the very midst of a mass of contradictory explanations, hopes, and wishes, when Linwood entered with, “The carriage is ready, my Lord.”
The Knight heard the words with surprise, and as quickly remarked that the young man was dressed in deep mourning. “I have been unwittingly addressing you as Captain Forester,” said he, gravely; “I believe I should have said—”
“Lord Wallincourt,” answered Forester, with a slight tremor in his voice; “the death of my brother—” Here he hesitated, and at length was silent.
The Knight, who read in his nervous manner and sickly appearance the signs of broken health and spirits, resolved at once to sacrifice mere personal feeling in a cause of kindness, and said: “I see, my Lord, you are scarcely as strong as when I had the pleasure to meet you first, and I doubt not that you require a little repose and quietness. Come along with me then; and if even this cabin of ours be inhospitable enough not to afford you a room, we 'll find something near us on the coast, and I have no doubt we 'll set you on your legs again.”
“It is a favor I would have asked, if I dared,” said Forester, feebly. He then added: “Indeed, sir, I will confess it, my journey had no other object than to present myself to Lady Eleanor Darcy. Through the kindness of my relative, Lord Castlereagh, I was enabled to send her some tidings of yourself, of which my illness prevented my being the bearer, and I was desirous of adding my own testimony, so far as it could go.” Here again he faltered.
“Pray continue,” said the Knight, warmly; “I am never happier than when grateful, and I see that I have reason for the feeling here.”
“I perceive, sir, you do not recognize me,” said the young man, thoughtfully, while he fixed his deep, full eyes upon the Knight's countenance.
Darcy stared at him in turn, and, passing his hand across his brow, looked again. “There is some mystification here,” said he, quickly, “but I cannot see through it.”
“Come, Colonel Darcy,” said Forester, with more animation than before. “I see that you forget me-, but perhaps you remember this.” So saying, he walked over to a table where a number of cloaks and travelling-gear were lying, and taking up a pistol, placed it in Darcy's hand. “This you certainly recognize?”
“It is my own!” exclaimed the Knight; “the fellow of it is yonder. I had it with me the day we landed at Aboukir.”
“And gave it to me when a French dragoon had his sabre at my throat,” continued Forester.
“And is it to your gallantry that I owe my life, my brave boy?” cried the old man, as he threw his arm around him.
“Not one half so much as I owe my recovery to your kindness,” said Forester. “Remember the wounded Volunteer you came to see on the march. The surgeon you employed never left me till the very day I quitted the camp; although I have had a struggle for life twice since then, I never could have lived through the first attack but for his aid.”
“Is this all a dream,” said the Knight, as he leaned his head upon his band, “or are these events real? Then you were the officer whose exchange was managed, and of which I heard soon after the battle?”
“Yes, I was exchanged under a cartel, and sailed for England the day after. And you, sir,—tell me of your fate.”
“A slight wound and a somewhat tiresome imprisonment tells the whole story,—the latter a good deal enlivened by seeing that our troops were beating the French day after day, and the calculation that my durance could scarcely last till winter. I proved right, for last month came the capitulation, and here I am. But all these are topics for long evenings to chat over. Come with me; you can't refuse me any longer. Lady Eleanor has the right to speak her gratitude to you; I see you won't listen to mine.”
The Knight seized the young man's arm, and led him along as he spoke. “Nay,” said he, “there is another reason for it. If you suffered me to go off alone, nothing would make me believe that what I have now heard was not some strange trick of fancy. Here, with you beside me, feeling your arm within my own, and hearing your voice, it is all that I can do to believe it. Come, let me be convinced again. Where did you join us?”
Forester now went over the whole story of his late adventures, omitting nothing from the moment he had joined the frigate at Portsmouth to the last evening, when as a prisoner, he had sent for Darcy to speak to him before he died. “I thought then,” said he, “I could scarcely have more than an hour or two to live; but when you came and stood beside me, I was not able to utter a word, I believe, at the time. It was rather a relief to me than otherwise that you did not know me.”
“How strange is this all!” said the Knight, musing. “You have told me a most singular story; only one point remains yet unelucidated. How came you to volunteer,—you were in the Guards?”
“Yes,” said Forester, blushing and faltering; “I had quitted the Guards, intending to leave the army, some short time previous; but—but—”
“The thought of active service brought you back again. Out with it, and never be ashamed. I remember now having heard from an old friend of mine, Miss Daly, how you had left the service; and, to say truth, I was sorry for it,—sorry for your sake, but sorrier because it always grieves me when men of gentle blood are not to be found where hard knocks are going. None ever distinguish themselves with more honor, and it is a pity that they should lose the occasion to show the world that birth and blood inherit higher privileges than stars and titles.”
While the miles rolled over, they thus conversed; and as each became more intimately acquainted and more nearly interested in the other, they drew towards the journey's end. It was late on the following night when they reached Port Ballintray; and as the darkness threatened more than once to mislead them, the postilion halted at the door of a little cabin to procure a light for his lamps.
While the travellers sat patiently awaiting the necessary preparation, a voice from within the cottage struck Darcy's ear; he threw open the door as he heard it, and sprang out, and rushing forward, the moment afterwards pressed his wife and daughter in his arms.
Forester, who in a moment comprehended the discovery, hastened to withdraw from a scene where his presence could only prove a constraint, and leaving a message to say that he had gone to the little inn and would wait on the Knight next morning, he hurried from the spot, his heart bursting with many a conflicting emotion.
Perhaps in the course of a long and, till its very latter years, a most prosperous life, the Knight of Gwynne had never known more real unbroken happiness than now that he had laid his head beneath the lowly thatch of a fisherman's cottage, and found a home beside the humble hearth where daily toil had used to repose. It was not that he either felt, or assumed to feel, indifferent to the great reverse of his fortune, and to the loss of that station to which all his habits of life and thought had been conformed. Nor had he the innate sense that his misfortunes had been incurred without the culpability of, at least, neglect on his own part. No; he neither deceived nor exonerated himself. His present happiness sprang from discovering in those far dearer to him than himself powers of patient submission, traits of affectionate forbearance, signs of a hopeful, trusting spirit, that their trials were not sent without an aim and object,—all gifts of heart and mind, higher, nobler, and better than the palmiest days of prosperity had brought forth.
It was that short and fleeting season, the late autumn, a time in which the climate of Northern Ireland makes a brief but brilliant amende for the long dreary months of the year. The sea, at last calm and tranquil, rolled its long waves upon the shore in measured sweep, waking the echoes in a thousand caves, and resounding with hollow voice beneath the very cliffs. The wild and fanciful outlines of the Skerry Islands were marked, sharp and distinct, against the dark blue sky, and reflected not less so in the unruffled water at their base. The White Rocks, as they are called, shone with a lustre like dulled silver; and above them the ruined towers of old Dunluce hung balanced over the sea, and even in decay seemed to defy dissolution.
The most striking feature of the picture was, however, the myriad of small boats, amounting in some instances to several hundreds, which filled the little bay at sunset. These were the fishermen from Innisshowen, coming to gather the seaweed on the western shore their eastern aspect denied them,—a hardy and a daring race, who braved the terrible storms of that fearful coast without a thought of fear. Here were they now, their little skiffs crowded with every sail they could carry,—for it was a trial of speed who should be first up after the turn of the ebb-tide,—their taper masts bending and springing like whips, the white water curling at the bows and rustling over the gunwales; while the fishermen themselves, with long harpoon spears, contested for the prizes,—large masses of floating weed, which not unfrequently were seized upon by three or four rival parties at the same moment.
A more animated scene cannot be conceived than the bay thus presented: the boats tacking and beating in every direction, crossing each other so closely as to threaten collision,—sometimes, indeed, carrying off a bowsprit or a rudder; while, from the restless motion of those on board, the frail skiffs were at each instant endangered,—accidents that occurred continually, but whose peril may be judged by the hearty cheers and roars of laughter they excited. Here might be seen a wide-spreading surface of tangled seaweed, vigorously towed in two different directions by contending crews, whose exertions to secure it were accompanied by the wildest shouts and cries. There a party were hauling in the prey, while their comrades, with spars and spears, kept the enemy aloof; and here, on the upturned keel of a capsized boat, were a dripping group, whose heaviest penalty was the ridicule of their fellows.
Seated in front of the little cottage, the Darcys and Forester watched this strange scene with all the interest its moving, stirring life could excite; and while the ladies could enjoy the varying picture only for itself, to the Knight and the youth it brought back the memory of a more brilliant and a grander display, one to which heroism and danger had lent the most exciting of all interests.
“I see,” said Darcy, as he watched his companion's countenance,—“I see whither your thoughts are wandering. They are off to the old castle of Aboukir, and the tall cliffs at Marmorica.” Forester slightly nodded an assent, but never spoke, while the Knight resumed: “I told you it would never do to give up the service. The very glance of your eye at yonder picture tells me how the great original is before your miud. Come, a few weeks more of rest and quiet, you will be yourself again. Then must you present yourself before the gallant Duke, and ask for a restitution to your old grade. There will be sharp work erelong. Buonaparte is not the man to forgive Alexandria and Cairo. If I read you aright, you prefer such a career to all the ambition of a political life.”
Forester was still silent; but his changing color told that the Knight's words had affected him deeply, but whether as they were intended, it was not so plain to see. The Knight went on: “I am not disposed to vain regrets; but if I were to give way to such, it would be that I am not young enough to enter upon the career I now see opening to our arms. Our insular position seems to have moulded our destiny in great part; but, rely on it, we are as much a nation of soldiers as of sailors.” Warming with this theme, Darcy continued, while sketching out the possible turn of events, to depict the noble path open to a young man who to natural talents and acquirements added the high advantages of fortune, rank, and family influence.
“I told you,” said he, smiling, “that I blamed you once unjustly, as it happened, because, as a Guardsman, you did not seize the occasion to exchange guard-mounting for the field; but now I shall be sorely grieved if you suffer yourself to be withdrawn from a path that has already opened so brightly, by any of the seductions of your station, or the fascinations of mere fashion.”
“Are you certain,” said Lady Eleanor, speaking in a voice shaken by agitation,—“are you certain, my dear, that these same counsels of yours would be in strict accordance with the wishes of Lord Wallincourt's friends, or is it not possible that their ambitions may point very differently for his future?”
“I can but give the advice I would offer to Lionel,” said Darcy, “if my son were placed in similarly fortunate circumstances. A year or two, at least, of such training will be no bad discipline to a young man's mind, and help to fit him to discuss those terms which, if I see aright, will be rife in our assemblies for some years to come—” Darcy was about to continue, when Tate advanced with a letter, whose address bespoke Bicknell's hand. It was a long-expected communication, and, anxious to peruse it carefully, the Knight arose, and making his excuses, re-entered the cottage.
The party sat for some time in silence. Lady Eleanor's mind was in a state of unusual conflict, since, for the first time in her life, had she practised any concealment with her husband, having forborne to tell him of Forester's former addresses to Helen. To this course she had been impelled by various reasons, the most pressing among which were the evident change in the young man's demeanor since he last appeared amongst them, and, consequently, the possibility that he had outlived the passion he then professed; and secondly, by observing that nothing in Helen betrayed the slightest desire to encourage any renewal of those professions, or any chagrin at the change in his conduct. As a mother and as a woman, she hesitated to avow what should seem to represent her daughter as being deserted, while she argued that if Helen were as indifferent as she really seemed, there was no occasion whatever for the disclosure. Now, however, that the Knight had spoken his counsels so strongly, the thought occurred to her, that Forester might receive the advice in the light of a rejection of his former proposal, and suppose that these suggestions were only another mode of refusing his suit. Hence a struggle of doubt and uncertainty arose within her, whether she should at once make everything known to Darcy, or still keep silence, and leave events to their own development. The former course seemed the most fitting; and entirely forgetful of all else, she hastily arose, and followed her husband into the cabin.
Forester was now alone with Helen, and for the first time since that well-remembered night when he had offered his heart and been rejected. The game of dissimulating feelings is almost easiest before a numerous audience; it is rarely possible in a tête-à-tête. So Forester soon felt; and although he made several efforts to induce a conversation, they were all abrupt and disjointed, as were Helen's own replies to them. At length came a pause; and what a thing is a pause at such a moment! The long lingering seconds in which a duellist watches his adversary's pistol, wavering over the region of his heart or brain, is less torturing than such suspense. Forester arose twice, and again sat down, his face pale and flushed alternately. At length, with a thick and rapid utterance, he said,—
“I have been thinking over the Knight's counsels,—dare I ask if they have Miss Darcy's concurrence?”
“It would be a great, a very great presumption in me,” said Helen, tremulously, “to offer an opinion on such a theme. I have neither the knowledge to distinguish between the opposite careers, nor have I any feeling for those sentiments which men alone understand in warfare.”
“Nor, perhaps,” added Forester, with a sudden irony, “sufficient interest in the subject to give it a thought.”
Helen was silent; her slightly compressed lips and heightened color showed that she was offended at the speech, but she made no reply.
“I crave your pardon, Miss Darcy,” said he, in a low, submissive accent, that told how heartfelt it was. “I most humbly ask you to forgive my rudeness. The very fact that I had no claim to that interest should have protected you from such a speech. But see what comes of kindness to those who are little used to it; they get soon spoiled, and forget themselves.”
“Lord Wall incourt will have to guard himself well against flattery, if such humble attentions as ours disturb his judgment.”
“I will get out of the region of it,” said he, resolutely; “I will take the Knight's advice. It is but a plunge, and all is over.”
“If I dare to say so, my Lord,” said Helen, archly, “this is scarcely the spirit in which my father hoped his counsels would be accepted. His chivalry on the score of a military life may be overstrained, but it has no touch of that recklessness your Lordship seems to lend it.”
“And why should not this be the spirit in which I join the army?” said he, passionately; “the career has not for me those fascinations which others feel. Danger I like, for its stimulus, as other men like it; but I would rather confront it when and where and how I please, than at the dictate of a colonel and by the ritual of a despatch.”
“Rather be a letter of marque, in fact, than a ship-of-the-line,—more credit to your Lordship's love of danger than discipline.”
Forester smiled, but not without anger, at the quiet persiflage of her manner. It took him some seconds ere he could resume.
“I perceive,” said he, in a tone of deeper feeling, “that whatever my resolves, to discuss them must be an impertinence, when they excite no other emotion than ridicule—”
“Nay, my Lord,” interposed Helen, eagerly; “I beg you to forgive my levity. Nothing was further from my thoughts than to hurt one to whom we owe our deepest debt of gratitude. I can never forget you saved my father's life; pray do not let me seem so base, to my heart, as to undervalue this.”
“Oh, Miss Darcy,” said he, passionately, “it is I who need forgiveness,—I, whose temper, rendered irritable by illness, suspect reproach and sarcasm in every word of those who are kindest to me.”
“You are unjust to yourself,” said Helen, gently,—“unjust, because you expect the same powers of mind and judgment that you enjoyed in health. Think how much better you are than when you came here. Think what a few days more may do. How changed—”
“Has Miss Darcy changed since last I met her?” asked he, in a tone that sank into the very depth of her heart.
Helen tried to smile; but emotions of a sadder shade spread over her pale features, as she said,—
“I hope so, my Lord; I trust that altered fortunes have not lost their teaching. I fervently hope that sorrow and suffering have left something behind them better than unavailing regrets and heart-repinings.”
“Oh, believe me,” cried Forester, passionately, “it is not of this change I would speak. I dared to ask with reference to another feeling.”
“Be it so,” said Helen, trembling, as if nerving herself for a strong and long-looked-for effort,-“be it so, my Lord, and is not my answer wide enough for both? Would not any change, short of a dishonorable one, make the decision I once came to a thousand times more necessary now?”
“Oh, Helen, these are cold and cruel words. Will you tell me that my rank and station are to be like a curse upon my happiness?”
“I spoke of our altered condition, my Lord. I spoke of the impossibility of your Lordship recurring to a theme which the sight of that thatched roof should have stifled. Nay, hear me out. It is not of you or your motives that is here the question; it is of me and my duties. They are there, my Lord,—they are with those whose hearts have been twined round mine from infancy,—mine when the world went well and proudly with us; doubly, trebly mine when affection can replace fortune, and the sympathies' of the humblest home make up for all the flatteries of the world. I have no reason to dwell longer on this to one who knows those of whom I speak, and can value them too.”
“But is there no place in your heart, Helen, for other affections than these; or is that place already occupied?”
“My Lord, you have borne my frankness so well, I must even submit to yours with a good grace. Still, this is a question you have no right to ask, or I to answer. I have told you that whatever doubt there might be as to your road in life, mine offered no alternative. That ought surely to be enough.”
“It shall be,” said Forester, with a low sigh, as, trembling in every limb, he arose from the seat. “And yet, Helen,” said he, in a voice barely above a whisper, “there might come a time when these duties, to which you cling with such attachment, should be rendered less needful by altered fortunes. I have heard that your father's prospects present more of hope than heretofore, have I not? Think that if the Knight should be restored to his own again, that then—”
“Nay,—it is scarcely worthy of your Lordship to exact a pledge which is to hang upon a decision like this. A verdict may give back my father's estate; it surely should not dispose of his daughter's hand?”
“I would exact nothing, Miss Darcy,” said Forester, stung by the tone of this reply. “But I see you cannot feel for the difficulties which beset him who has staked his all upon a cast. I asked, what might your feelings be, were the circumstances which now surround you altered?”
Helen was silent for a second or two; and then, as if having collected all her energy, she said: “I would that you had spared me—had spared yourself—the pain I now must give us both; but to be silent longer would be to encourage deception.” It was not till after another brief interval that she could continue: “Soon after you left this, my Lord, you wrote a letter to Miss Daly. This letter-I stop not now to ask with what propriety towards either of us—she left in my hands. I read it carefully; and if many of the sentiments it contained served to elevate your character in my esteem, I saw enough to show me that your resolves were scarcely less instigated by outraged pride than what you fancied to be a tender feeling. This perhaps might have wounded me, had I felt differently towards you. As it was, I thought it for the best; I deemed it happier that your motives should be divided ones, even though you knew it not. But as I read on, my Lord,—as I perused the account of your interview with Lady Wallincourt,—then a new light broke suddenly upon me; I found what, had I known more of life, should not have surprised, but what in my ignorance did indeed astonish me, that my father's station was regarded as one which could be alleged as a reason against your feeling towards his daughter. Now, my Lord, we have our pride too; and had your influence over me been all that ever you wished it, I tell you freely that I never would permit my affection to be gratified at the price of an insult to my father's house. If I were to say that your sentiments towards me should not have suffered it, would it be too much?”
“But, dearest Helen, remember that I am no longer dependent on my mother's will,—remember that I stand in a position and a rank which only needs you to share with me to make it all that my loftiest ambition ever coveted.”
“These are, forgive me if I tell you, very selfish reasonings, my Lord. They may apply to you; they hardly address themselves to my position. The pride which could not stoop to ally itself with our house in our days of prosperity, should not assuredly be wounded by suing us in our humbler fortunes.”
“Your thoughts dwell on Lady Netherby, Miss Darcy,” said Forester, irritably; “she is scarcely the person most to be considered here.”
“Enough for me, if I think so,” said Helen, haughtily. “The lady your Lordship's condescension would place in the position of a mother should at least be able to regard me with other feelings than those of compassionate endurance. In a word, sir, it cannot be. To discuss the topic longer is but to distress us both. Leave me to my gratitude to you, which is unbounded. Let me dwell upon the many traits of noble heroism I can think of in your character with enthusiasm, ay, and with pride,—pride that one so high and so gifted should have ever thought of one so little worthy of him. But do not weaken my principle by hoping that my affection can be won at the cost of my self-esteem.”
Forester bowed with a deep, respectful reverence; and when he lifted up his head, the sad expression of his features was that of one who had heard an irrevocable doom pronounced upon his dearest, most cherished hopes. Lady Eleanor at the same moment came forward from the door of the cottage, so that he had barely time to utter a hasty good-bye ere she joined her daughter.
“Your father wishes to see Lord Wallincourt, Helen. Has he gone?” But before Helen could reply the Knight came up.
“I hope you have not forgotten to ask him to dinner, Eleanor?” said he. “We did so yesterday, and he never made his appearance the whole evening.”
“Helen, did you?” But Helen was gone while they were speaking; so that Darcy, to repair the omission, hastened after his young friend with all the speed he could command.
“Have I found you?” cried Darcy, as, turning an angle of the rocky shore, he came behind Forester, who, with folded arms and bent-down head, stood like one sorrow-struck. “I just discovered that neither my wife nor my daughter had asked you to stop to dinner; and as you are punctilious, fully as much as they are forgetful, there was nothing for it but to run after you.”
“You are too kind, my dear Knight,—but not to-day; I'm poorly,—a headache.”
“Nay; a headache always means a mere excuse. Come back with me: you shall be as stupid a convive as you wish, only be a good listener, for I have got a great budget from my man of law, Mr. Bicknell, and am dying for somebody to inflict it upon.”
“With the best grace he could muster,—which was still very far from a good one,—Forester suffered himself to be led back to the cottage, endeavoring, as he went, to feel or feign an interest in the intelligence the Knight was full of. It seemed that Bicknell was very anxious not only for the Knight's counsel on many points, but for his actual presence at the trial. He appeared to think that Darcy being there, would be a great check upon the line of conduct he was apprised O'Halloran would adopt. There was already a very strong reaction in the West in favor of the old gentry of the land, and it would be at least an evidence of willingness to confront the enemy, were the Knight to be present.
“He tells me,” continued the Knight, “that Daly regretted deeply not having attended the former trial,—why, he does not exactly explain, but he uses the argument to press me now to do so.”
Forester might, perhaps, have enlightened him on this score, had he so pleased, but he said nothing.
“Of course, I need not say, nothing like intimidation is meant by this advice. The days for such are, thank God, gone by in Ireland; and it was, besides, a game I never could have played at; but yet it might be what many would expect of me, and at all events it can scarcely do harm. What is your opinion?”
“I quite agree with Mr. Bicknell,” said Forester, hastily; “there is a certain license these gentlemen of wig and gown enjoy, that is more protected by the bench than either good morals or good manners warrant.”
“Nay, you are now making the very error I would guard against,” said Darcy, laughing. “This legal sparring is rather good fun, even though they do not always keep the gloves on. Now, will you come with me?”
“Of course; I should have asked your leave to do so, had you not invited me.”
“You 'll hear the great O'Halloran, and I suspect that is as much as I shall gain myself by this action. We have merely some points of law to go upon; but, as I understand, nothing new or material in evidence to adduce. You ask, then, why persist? I 'll own to you I cannot say; but there seems the same punctilio in legal matters as in military; and it is a point of honor to sustain the siege until the garrison have eaten their boots. I am not so far from that contingency now, that I should be impatient; but meanwhile I perceive the savor of something better, and here comes Tate to say it is on the table.”
When the reader is informed that Lady Eleanor had not found a fitting moment to communicate to the Knight respecting Forester, nor had Helen summoned courage to reveal the circumstances of their late interview, it may be imagined that the dinner itself was as awkward a thing as need be. It was, throughout, a game of cross purposes, in which Darcy alone was not a player, and therefore more puzzled than the rest, at the constraint and reserve of his companions, whose efforts at conversation were either mere unmeaning commonplaces, or half-concealed retorts to inferred allusions.
However quick to perceive, Darcy was too well versed in the tactics of society to seem conscious of this, and merely redoubled his efforts to interest and amuse. Never had his entertaining qualities less of success. He could scarcely obtain any acknowledgment from his hearers; and stores of pleasantry, poured out in rich profusion, were listened to with a coldness bordering upon apathy.
He tried to interest them by talking over the necessity of their speedy removal to the capital, where, for the advantage of daily consultation, Bicknell desired the Knight's presence. He spoke of the approaching journey to the West, for the trial itself; he talked of Lionel, of Daly, of their late campaigns; in fact, he touched on everything, hoping by some passing gleam of interest to detect a clew to their secret thoughts. To no avail. They listened with decorous attention, but no signs of eagerness or pleasure marked their features; and when Forester rose to take his leave, it was full an hour and a half before his usual time of going.
“Now for it, Eleanor,” said the Knight, as Helen soon after quitted the room; “what's your secret, for all this mystery must mean something? Nay, don't look so in-penetrable, my dear; you'll never persuade any man who displayed all his agreeability to so little purpose, that his hearers had not a hidden source of preoccupation to account for their indifference. What is it, then?”
“I am really myself in the dark, without my conjectures have reason, and that Lord Wallincourt may have renewed to Helen the proposal he once made her, and with the same fortune.”
“Renewed—proposal!”
“Yes, my dear Darcy, it was a secret I had intended to have told you this very day, and went for the very purpose of doing so, when I found you engaged with Bicknell's letters and advices, and scrupled to break in upon your occupied thoughts. Captain Forester did seek Helen's affections, and was refused; and I now suspect Lord Wallincourt may have had a similar reverse.”
“This last is, however, mere guess,” said Darcy.
“No more. Of the former Helen herself told me; she frankly acknowledged that her affections were disengaged, but that he had not touched them. It would seem that he was deeper in love than she gave him credit for. His whole adventure as a Volunteer sprang out of this rejected suit, and higher fortunes have not changed his purpose.”
“Then Helen did not care for him?”
“That she did not once, I am quite certain; that she does not now, is not so sure. But I know that even if she were to do so, the disparity of condition would be an insurmountable barrier to her assent.”
Darcy walked up and down with a troubled and anxious air, and at length said,—
“Thus is it that the pride we teach our children, as the defence against low motives and mean actions, displays its false and treacherous principles; and all our flimsy philosophy is based less on the affections of the human heart than on certain conventional usages we have invented for our own enslavement. There is but one code of right and wrong, Eleanor, and that one neither recognizes the artificial distinctions of grade, nor makes a virtue of the self-denial; that is a mere offering to worldly pride.”
“You would scarcely have our daughter accept an alliance with a house that disdains our connection?” said Lady Eleanor, proudly.
“Not, certainly, when the consideration had been once brought before her mind. It would then be but a compromise with principle. But why should she have ever learned the lesson? Why need she have been taught to mingle notions of worldly position and aggrandizement with the emotions of her heart? It was enough—it should have been enough—that his rank and position were nearly her own, not to trifle with feelings immeasurably higher and holier than these distinctions suggest.”
“But the world, my dear Darcy; the world would say—”
“The world would say, Eleanor, that her refusal was perfectly right; and if the world's judgments were purer, they might be a source of consolation against the year-long bitterness of a sinking heart. Well, well!” said he, with a sigh, “I would hope that her heart is free: go to her, Eleanor,—learn the truth, and if there be the least germ of affection there, I will speak to Wallincourt to-morrow, and tell him to leave us. These half-kindled embers are the slow poison of many a noble nature, and need but daily intercourse to make them deadly.”
While Lady Eleanor retired to communicate with her daughter, the Knight paced the little chamber in moody reverie. As he passed and repassed before the window, he suddenly perceived the shadow of a man's figure as he stood beside a rock near the beach. Such an apparition was strange enough to excite curiosity in a quiet, remote spot, where the few inhabitants retired to rest at sunset. Darcy therefore opened the window, and moved towards him; but ere he had gone many paces, he was addressed by Forester's voice,—“I was about to pay you a visit, Knight, and only waited till I saw you alone.”
“Let us stroll along the sands, then,” said Darcy; “the night is delicious.” And so saying, he drew his arm within Forester's, and walked along at his side.
“I have been thinking,” said Forester, in a low, sad accent,—“I have been thinking over the advice you lately gave me; and although I own at the time it scarcely chimed in with my own notions, now the more I reflect upon it the more plausible does it seem. I have lived long enough out of fashionable life to make the return to it anything but a pleasure; for politics I have neither talent nor temper; and soldiering, if it does not satisfy every condition of my ambition, offers more to my capacity and my hopes than any other career.”
“I would that you were more enthusiastic in the cause,” said Darcy, who was struck by the deep depression of his manner; “I would that I saw you embrace the career more from a profound seuse of duty and devotion, than as a 'pis aller.'”
“Such it is,” sighed Forester; and his arm trembled within Darcy's as he spoke. “I own it frankly, save in actual conflict itself, I have no military ardor in my nature. I accept the road in life, because one must take some path.”
“Then, if this be so,” said Darcy, “I recall my counsels. I love the service, and you also, too well to wish for such a mésalliance; no, campaigning will never do with a spirit that is merely not averse. Return to London, consult your relative, Lord Castlereagh,—I see you smile at my recommendation of him, but I have learned to read his character very differently from what I once did. I can see now, that however the tortuous course of a difficult policy may have condemned him to stratagems wherein he was an agent,—often an unwilling one,—that his nature is eminently chivalrous and noble. His education and his prejudices have made him less rash than we, in our nationality, like to pardon, but the honor of the empire lies next his heart Political profligacy, like any other, may be leniently dealt with while it is fashionable; but there are minds that never permit themselves to be enslaved by fashion, when once they have gained a consciousness of their own power: such is his. He is already beyond it; and ere many years roll over, he will be equally beyond his competitors too. And now to yourself. Let him be your guide. Once launched in public life, its interests will soon make themselves felt, and you are young enough to be plastic. I know that every man's early years, particularly those who are the most favored by fortune, have their clouds and dark shadows. You must not seek an exemption from the common lot; remember how much you have to be grateful for; think of the advantages for which others strive a life long, and never reach,-all yours, at the very outset; and then, if there be some sore spots, some secret sorrows under all, take my advice and keep them for your own heart. Confessions are admirable things for old ladies, who like the petty martyrdom of small sufferings, but men should be made of sterner stuff. There is a high pride in bearing one's load alone; don't forget that.”
Forester felt that if the Knight had read his inmost feelings, his counsel could not have been more directly addressed to his condition; he had, indeed, a secret sorrow, and one which threw its gloom over all his prosperity. He listened attentively to Darcy's reasonings, and followed him, as in the full sincerity of his nature he opened up the history of his own life, now commenting on the circumstances of good fortune, now adverting to the mischances which had befallen him. Never had the genial kindness of the old man appeared more amiable. The just judgments, the high and honorable sentiments, not shaken by what he had seen of ingratitude and wrong, but hopefully maintained and upheld, the singular modesty of his character, were all charms that won more and more upon Forester; and when, after a tête-à-tête prolonged till late in the night, they parted, Forester's muttered ejaculation was, “Would that I were his son!”
“It is as I guessed,” said Lady Eleanor, when the Knight re-entered the chamber; “Helen has refused him. I could not press her on the reasons, nor ask whether her heart approved all that her head determined. But she seemed calm and tranquil; and if I were to pronounce from appearance, I should say that the rejection has not cost her deeply.”
“How happy you have made me, Eleanor!” exclaimed Darcy, joyfully; “for while, perhaps, there is nothing in this world I should like better than to see such a man my son-in-law, there is no misery I would not prefer to witnessing my child's affections engaged where any sense of duty or pride rendered the engagement hopeless. Now, the case is this: Helen can afford to be frank and sisterly towards the poor fellow, who really did love her, and after a few days he leaves us.”
“I thought he would go to-morrow,” said Lady Eleanor, somewhat anxiously.
“No; I half hinted to him something of the kind, but he seemed bent on accompanying me to the West, and really I did not know how to say nay.”
Lady Eleanor appeared not quite satisfied with an arrangement that promised a continuation of restraint, if not of positive difficulty, but made no remark about it, and turned the conversation on their approaching removal to Dublin.