“I want you to come and spend a week with me, Phœbe,” said the Miss Tallant to the young lady who had abdicated.
They had met near Barton Hall, each on a morning’s ramble in the park, the spring sunshine was so tempting.
“You must really grant this as a favour to me. I want your advice about a hundred things.”
“Mother is not well,” said Phœbe, hesitatingly; “and father is so busy just now in negotiations for a new farm in Lincolnshire.”
At first blush it almost seemed as if there were a little affectation in this careful mention of her new position, and the display of duty, on Phœbe’s part; but it was not so. Phœbe had argued out her duty, had reasoned with herself upon the course which she ought to pursue; she had prayed earnestly, and religiously striven to see aright, and the end was that she determined to act her part as became a dutiful child. It was not for her to judge her mother’s conduct, nor to repine at her change of fortune. If she had lost wealth and station, she had found a mother and father, and she had obtained thereby perfect freedom in the expression of her love for Arthur Phillips.
On the whole, then, Phœbe’s real happiness had rather been enhanced by the discovery that she was not the wealthy Christopher Tallant’s daughter. A certain feeling of regret would make itself manifest to her now and then when she remembered the luxuries of the Hall, the charming books, the pictures, the familiar boudoir, with its dainty furniture; but this feeling was soon followed by a remembrance of the vague sense of loneliness which often afflicted her there, and the consciousness of being neglected by her father. Though there had been scarcely a wish that she could not gratify, so far as money was concerned, her life had not been altogether a happy one; it was calm and peaceful, but there had seemed to be no motive in it.
Now all this was changed. Duty had stepped in between herself and the world. “Honour thy father and thy mother” was a commandment which had a new meaning for her. A certain amount of self-sacrifice seemed to be involved, and she made it cheerfully. And all the time she loved the landscape painter.
Phœbe’s was not the love which Amy had felt for Lionel Hammerton; it was not that mad, passionate, doubting, hopeless, longing love, which often animates the heart that is fixed upon one of high rank and station; it was not the love of the lowly maiden for the prince, whom she feels that she lowers by her very passion; it was not the almost fanatical looking upwards of idol-worship; but the love which feels itself worthy of the thing it loves—the love of equals, the passion which has no worldly fears of rank intervening, the love that dreams not for a moment of condescension on either hand, the love that levels by its intense nobleness and generosity the king with his subject, the noble-born with the peasant, the rich with the poor.
Amy had loved humbly and meekly, but still with a burning passion; she had looked up to Lionel Hammerton as one afar off, and she could have suffered for him in any fashion, and been his slave; he might have commanded her in almost all things. And when he raised her up and whispered in her ear the love he bore her, she had gone home and cried tears of joy and gratitude; but being raised, as it were, to his side, she could not bear indifference, and all her latent pride had come to her aid when the most generous constructions she could put upon Lionel’s conduct only led her to feel that she had been designedly slighted. Her woman’s instinct had begun to interpret his attentions into mere flirtation sometime before he had so suddenly left the country. After that day when he had whispered his admiration so earnestly, and sealed his words with a kiss, he had never called at the Hall or the farm. She had learnt that he had been at home several times prior to his departure, and that he had been at Avonworth, too; but he had made no sign to her. This was not love, she knew. The lover, whose mistress has hung upon his tender words, and told him by a thousand endearing glances how fervently his love is returned, loses no opportunity of enjoying the sweets of courtship. Lionel Hammerton had been near Barton, and Amy had sighed for his presence—had longed to look upon him—had counted the hours and days since she saw him last; yet he came not. And then he left the country, deeming her unworthy of a parting word. Had he sent her some letter which had miscarried? No. Had he left any message for her with his friend, Arthur Phillips? No. On the contrary, he had spoken of her, not as Arthur would like to have had his sister spoken of, before he left on that long journey, which was, no doubt, intended to make a gulf between them that should separate them for ever.
Lionel had flirted with her, and left her with indifference, perhaps with contempt, and the native pride of her mother asserted itself, and revenge had filled up the place which love had occupied.
“Ah, I know you will come, my darling,” said Amy. “I want to talk with you about my marriage.”
“I will come, Amy, with pleasure,” Phœbe replied.
She must have been more than woman if she could have resisted that latter appeal.
“Will you come now?” said Amy, taking Phœbe’s arm.
“Yes,” said Phœbe. “We will first call at the farm, and let mother know,” said Phœbe. “I know she will be pleased for me to go with you, and I can go and see them every day.”
“Oh, yes, child; but how very dutiful you are, to be sure: more so than I was, I fear,” said Amy, just a little impatiently.
The spring sunshine streamed upon them as they walked, like a benediction from heaven. The trees were tipped with brown and green; some shone like frosted silver, and others looked like mere outlines against the sky, as if nature had just sketched them, and left them in outline. The lake shone with a clear bright radiance, and reflected itself full of the adjacent hill, and you could look down into it and see a picture of surpassing beauty, now and then veiled for a moment by passing clouds that made great flitting shadows over the green turf, too, and seemed to chase each other, like the birds that were building their nests.
Phœbe felt all the delightful sensations of the time; she stepped aside when her foot threatened the daisy just peeping forth amongst the tender grass; she felt the warm breath of the genius of the time upon her cheek, the bleating of the lambs awakened gentle sympathetic emotions within her, and she shared in the general hope of creation at the return of the gracious season.
Poor Amy had fixed up an entirely worldly standard for her hopes and fears; a standard that was but little influenced by any feelings such as those which animated her companion. The life-giving spirit of the season only animated Amy with fresh vigour in the prosecution of her plans, and with a more lively animation in carrying out the magnificent scheme of revenge and self-justification.
“What will become me most as a bride?” Amy asked, when they were alone at Barton Hall.
It was a tremendous question, but it was answered at last, by the aid of a multifarious collection of patterns of materials, and the written opinion of a French modiste who was coming down from town to wait upon Earl Verner’s intended wife.
Then questions about bridesmaids were discussed, and the pedigrees of several of the earl’s lady relatives, who were to take part in the ceremony, were hunted up in the Peerage.
“Of course you will be one of them, my dear,” said Amy, “and the prettiest of all, I dare be bound.”
Phœbe hesitated, and looked inquiringly at her friend.
“I shall think you do not love me at all, if you decline; his lordship shall ask you himself if you will not say yes to my request.”
“But you are soaring so far above me,” said Phœbe, in her quiet gentle way. “I shall feel out of place amongst such great people.”
“Nonsense! beauty shall rank with the highest of them that day,” said Amy, proudly. “Nay, do not blush; you know I would not flatter you.”
“You are so changed,” said Phœbe, thoughtfully. “I seem to remember you as one belonging to the past, Amy; and it has often made me feel very sad.”
“Think differently about it,” said Amy, assuming a light, gay tone. “I know I am changed, but changed for the better. I have dropped out of my bundle of feelings a parcel called sensibility, or sensitiveness, or something of that kind, Phœbe, and I am glad of it. I find myself in a world where it is inconvenient to have fine feelings, and I have resolved to take the world as I find it.”
“Suppose,” said Phœbe—“but you will forgive me for being candid with you?”
“Yes, yes,” said Amy, lightly; “say whatever you please, dear; you have the right to do so.”
“Supposing, then, that Mr. Hammerton should return.”
Amy was discomposed for a moment at the suggestion; but she recovered her self-possession very speedily.
“Well, suppose he should?” said Amy, whilst she thought of her reply. “How would that affect me?”
“Yes,” said Phœbe, with an earnest look in her deep blue eyes.
“You are thinking of what I told you in the summer-house, in that past time of which you have spoken.”
“Yes,” said Phœbe.
“I knew you were. Well, Phœbe, that belongs to the past; Lionel Hammerton belongs to the past—to my past; he has no place in my future.”
Amy said this solemnly, and with a fierce kind of firmness in her manner, which told Phœbe how much revengeful feeling there was in the change that had come over the new mistress of Barton Hall.
“But, Amy——”
Amy interrupted her.
“There is no ‘but’ in the case, love; he shall have indifference for indifference, scorn for scorn, and I will trample upon all his worldly hopes as the Countess of Verner, as he trampled upon mine as the Honourable Lionel Hammerton.”
Amy rose from her seat when she said this, and planted her pretty feet upon the ground with calm determination.
“You loved beneath your station, as some would hold, my dear,” said Amy. “I loved above mine: it is the way of the world: the highest may stoop to the lowest, or trifle with the love that is offered. Fate or Providence, as you would say, has wrought a wonderful change in our lots, has reversed our positions, and just at the proper moment. By placing you a little lower, as far as worldly considerations are concerned, Fate has brought you nearer to him you love, and brought hopes of future happiness. My exaltation has given me the power for self-assertion, for blotting out a silly passion, granting me, almost at the moment when I prayed for it, the dearest wish of my heart. That carriage with the coronet in the panel, whirling along through the autumn leaves, was the omen—the sign which Fate flung before me. I accepted it, and I shall not turn back; no, I shall not turn back.”
Phœbe blushed at the mention of her own love, and pitied Amy, knowing how she too had loved in those past days; but she could give Amy no soothing tidings of Lionel; she could not deny that his conduct had been unmanly, and somewhat dishonourable. Yet Arthur Phillips had not told her of those last words of Lionel’s, nor had he shown her a letter since received from him, in which Mr. Hammerton said “that stupid bit of flirtation in Avonworth Valley” he hoped was forgotten by the bailiff’s pretty daughter, “who had played her part so well and very nearly with success.” Phœbe could not help feeling that some misunderstanding, some mistake or other, had come between the loves of these two, and she would fain have pointed this out to Amy.
“Who knows but some dreadful misunderstanding may have——”
“Don’t speak of it, Phœbe, love,—I have thought of that and everything, and have resolved. Beside, my love, it is not fitting we should discuss the question. I am betrothed; in a few short weeks I shall be a wife.”
“It is because you have those few weeks in which you might still change your determination that I venture to ask you, supposing Lionel Hammerton were to return and renew his former attentions, and offer you marriage,” said Phœbe.
“I should not believe in his sincerity,—I would rather be beyond his reach. I could fain hope that he might feel a passion for me, that he might all of a sudden love me; that he might feel some of the pangs I have felt. No, Phœbe, if he were at my feet this moment I might smile and let him sue; but I should not love him,—I should not prefer him to his elder brother with the title;—oh, no! all that romantic sentiment is over!—I should prefer to be a countess in possession rather than in reversion. And now we have said enough about this. I wanted to talk to you and ask you all sorts of questions, and you have literally turned the tables upon me by putting me through a most romantic catechism. I have answered you to the best of my ability and with perfect sincerity; so now, pray, be content, and let us talk of laces, and ribbons, and orange blossoms, and glacé, and poult de soie; of bridesmaids, and Hanover Square, and matrimonial responsibilities.”
And Amy rattled away and laughed at Phœbe’s sober face, and kissed her fair forehead, as joyously as if she were about to marry her first love; but when she was alone in her bedroom, she flung herself down and sobbed aloud.
Why had heaven given her all those warm passions, that deep capacity to love, and set the idol before her, and let all her love go for naught? This was the burden of the burning thoughts which Phœbe’s conversation had aroused.
It is questionable whether Byron really knew in his soul much about the true and pure love of woman, though he has described its dangerous and passionate phases so well. It is a lovely and a dangerous thing, undescribable and unfathomable. “All that has been written in song, or told in story, of love and its effects, falls far short of its reality. Its evils and its blessings, its impotence and its power, its sin and its holiness, its weakness and its strength, will continue the theme of nature and of art, until the great pulse of the universe is stilled.”
O, how she had loved this man! And he knew it! Here was the bitter sting that wounded the poor, stricken woman; that stirred all her woman’s pride, and made her almost hate herself that she had confessed so much—made her hate him, or fancy she hated him, the more for having wiled her secret from her.
Love, jealousy, pride, and woman’s modesty, all seemed to pronounce in her mind against the man whom she had loved so wildly; and Pride inflicted the fiercest pangs of all in the woman’s wounded sense of unrequited Love.