And in my heart, fair angel, chaste and wise,
I love you: start not, speak not, answer not.
I love you......
HEYWOOD.—A Woman killed with Kindness.
It was a lovely night. The full harvest moon shed a soft brilliance over the far-stretching meadow-lands; the sky was dotted with small patches of light fleecy cloud, and a few dim stars. All was hushed in that repose which lends a solemn grandeur to a night-scene, when the sky, the stars, the silence—things suggestive of infinity—become the objects of contemplation.
Cecil was not one to remain indifferent to such a scene: his painter's eye and poet's heart were equally open to its mild splendour. The tall trees standing dark against the sky, and the dim outline of the woody heights around, no more escaped his notice, than the picturesquely grouped cattle, one of which, a dun cow, with large white face and chest, stood motionless amidst her recumbent companions.
Although he could not resist the first burst of admiration, Cecil was in no mood to luxuriate in the poetry of such a scene, as he would have done at any other time; but, striking into the thick and shadowy shrubbery, delicately chequered with interspaces of moonlight, he began to consider the object of this nocturnal ramble.
It would be difficult to explain the motive which impelled him to make this assignation. It was one of the sudden inspirations of passion, which defeat whole months of calculated prudence. Nothing could have been more opposed to his calculations than anything like an express declaration, until he had ascertained the truth of what Captain Heath had asserted. And although he rose from the table with the resolution to be on his guard, and to watch closely the state of affairs, his first act, as we have seen, was one of consummate imprudence—one which inextricably entangled him in the very net from which he was anxious to keep away. Now, upon Captain Heath's view of his character, this was little less than madness—in short, it was unintelligible. But it is intelligible enough upon a more comprehensive view of human character; as every one will acknowledge who has ever stood beside the girl he loves, in a room full of people—the very restraint of the place sharpens desire, and makes the timid bold. Hence one reason why so many more declarations are made in ball-rooms, and at parties, than in tête-à-têtes.
Certain it is that Cecil, standing beside Blanche looking over the same portfolio, their hands occasionally touching, their eyes occasionally meeting, was in no condition to listen to the dictates of reason. A tumult of desire beat at his heart. He was standing within that atmosphere (if I may use the word) which surrounds the beloved, and which, as by a magnetic power, inconceivably stirs the voluptuousness latent in every soul. He was within the halo which encircled her, and was dazzled by its lustre. Irresistibly urged by his passion to call this lovely creature his own, he could not forego bringing things to a crisis; and he made the assignation. Her consent enchanted him. He was in a fever of impatience for her to retire. He cursed the lagging time for its slowness; and, with a thrill of delight, found himself in the open air, about to hear from Blanche's own lips that which her eyes had so frequently expressed.
In a few minutes, all this impatience and delight subsided. He had gained his point. Blanche had consented to meet him; and he had contrived to come to the rendezvous without awakening any suspicion. Now, for the first time, he began to consider seriously the object of that meeting. He was calm now; and grew calmer the more he pondered.
"What an ass I have been!" he thought. "What the devil could induce me to forget myself so far? She will come, expecting to hear me declare myself. But I can't marry her. I can't offer her beggary as a return for her love. If Heath should have told the truth. D—n it, he can't be such an unfeeling egotist as not to make some provision for his children! No, no; I'll not believe that. A few thousands he must in common decency have set aside, or he would never be able to look honest men in the face. Besides, Vyner doesn't appear to be particularly selfish. However, it may be true; and if so——
"Can I invent something of importance to communicate instead of my love? Let me see. That will look so odd—to make an assignation for any other purpose than the one! But she doesn't come. Can she be hesitating? I wish her fears would get the better!
"She won't come. That will release me from the difficulty. It is the best thing that could happen.
"I see a light in her room. What is she doing? Struggling with herself perhaps; or perhaps waiting till the coast is clear. D—n the cigar, out again!"
Upon what slight foundations sometimes hang the most important events!
That is rather a profound remark; not positively new, perhaps, but singularly true. It has escaped from my pen, and as a pencil mark of approbation is sure to be made against it in every copy in every circulating library, why should I hesitate to let it go forth?
A fine essay might be written entitled, "The Philosophy of Life, as collected from the marked passages in modern novels." And I offer the essayist, the remark above, as his opening aphorism.
But I digress.
The situation which suggested the foregoing aphorism was curious enough to warrant my writing it; for had Blanche appeared at the rendezvous at this time, or a few minutes earlier, it is most likely, from the frame of mind in which her lover then was, that he would have made some shuffling excuse or other, and declared anything to her but his love. But she hesitated. With a coyness natural to the sex, she shrunk back from that which she most desired. Nothing would have given her greater pleasure than to hear Cecil swear he loved her, and yet she trembled at the idea of meeting him to hear it said.
She kept him waiting half an hour.
Whoever has been accustomed to analyze his own feelings, will at once foresee that Cecil, after coming to the determination that he had acted with consummate folly in making the assignation, now began to get uneasy at the idea of her not keeping it. Obstacles irritate desires. If "the course of true love" does not "run smooth," so much the deeper will it run. Cecil, willing enough to blame himself for his rashness, now began to feel piqued at her indifference. Ten minutes before, the sight of her coming from the house would have been painful; now he was irritated by her absence. He was several times on the point of sulkily going back to the drawing-room; but the thought "if she should come" arrested him.
She came at last, and his heart leapt as he beheld her.
"Have I kept you long?" she asked.
"Every minute away from you is an hour. But you are with me now," he replied, as he folded her to his breast and kissed her burning lips.
Having expressed what was in their hearts by this long eloquent embrace, he twined his arm around her waist, clasping her hand in his, walked slowly with her to the river-side.
While they are thus lovingly employed, I wish to make one remark on the superiority of actions to words. Here were two lovers morally certain of each other's affection, but wanting the confirmation of an oath. They met for the express purpose of saying, in good set terms, that which only wanted the ratification of words; and instead of saying anything on the subject they allowed a kiss—and very eloquent such kisses are—to settle the matter. What could they have said which would have so well expressed it?
Although they walked down to the river, and sat upon the trunk of a fallen tree to admire the shimmer of moonlight upon the gently running stream, and the cool, crisp, delightful sound of the water as it dashed over the huge stones that formed a weir, and then fell over in guise of a little waterfall, they made no allusion to the "important communication" which had drawn them both out. They had too much to talk about. They had to confess when it was their love began, and to vow that it would never end. They had the most charming confidences to make respecting what had been done and said by each, and what each had felt thereat; confidences which, though full of "eloquent music" to them, may very well be spared here.
Nor did they much admire the river by moonlight, in spite of its brilliant tracks of light, and dusky patches of shade thrown from the overhanging trees; hand clasped in hand, they looked into each other's eyes, from which no landscape in the world could have seduced them.
Oh, what exquisite bliss was crowded into that brief hour! How their pulses throbbed, and their hearts bounded! How their souls looked from out their eyes as if to plunge into an indissoluble union! A strange fire burnt in their veins, and made them almost faint with pleasure too intense for mortal endurance. He crushed her hand in his with almost savage fury, and she returned the pressure.
Love! divine delirium, exquisite pain! rich as thou art in rapture, potent as thou art o'er the witcheries of moments which reveal to mortal sense some glimpses of immortal bliss, thou hast no such second moment as that which succeeds the first avowal of two passionate natures. Other joys thou hast in store, but no repetition of this one thrilling ecstacy.
Love has its virginity—its bloom—its first, but perishable melody, which sounds but once, and then is heard no more. This melody was now sounding in their hearts, as, seated on that fallen trunk, they heeded the world no more than the moonlit stream which glided at their feet. One hour of intense, suffocating, overwhelming rapture did they pass together; an hour never to be forgotten; an hour worth a life.
How silver sweet sound lovers' tongues by night!
Like softest music to attending ears.
Romeo and Juliet.
Leaving the lovers to their rapture, let us glance in at the warm drawing-room, and at the philosophic whist-table: Captain Heath is standing with his back to the fire; Tom Wincot having "cut in" in his place; Violet and Rose are knitting.
"Blanche, my dear," said Meredith Vyner.
"She has gone to bed, papa," said Rose.
"Oh, very well. Is Mr. Chamberlayne come in? No! Our deal, is it not?"
This little fragment of the conversation suddenly made Captain Heath suspicious. He was before aware that Blanche and Cecil were absent; but he had not before coupled their two exits in his own mind, so as to draw therefrom a conclusion. "Can they have arranged this?" flashed across his brain. He quietly left the room, took his hat, and walked out. Though by no means of a jealous disposition, he could not help commenting in his own mind on a hundred insignificant traits of what appeared to him Blanche's passion for Cecil, and the conclusion he drew from them was, that she not only loved him, but studiously concealed her love. As he said, with him "once to be in doubt was once to be resolved;" his was none of that petty, querulous jealousy, irritated at self-inflicted tortures, and yet too weak to finish them by making doubts certainties. Like a brave man, as he was, he paused not an instant in endeavouring to arrive at certitude in all things. Instead, therefore, of worrying himself with doubts and arguments, with hopes that she might not love Cecil, and fears that she did, he determined to settle the point, and place it beyond a doubt.
He had not gone far when his quick ears detected the indistinct murmur of conversation. He paused for a moment, and leaned against a tree. A cold perspiration stood on his brow; a feeling of sickness, which he could not subdue, arrested him; the first spasm of despair clutched his heart, as the murmur fell upon his ear, and told him that what he had suspected was the truth.
That he might not be mistaken; that he might not act without thorough conviction, he approached still closer to the spot from whence the murmur came, and there he saw the lovers seated under the dark branches of a gigantic larch, which served to make Blanche's white dress more visible.
Little did that happy pair suspect with what heartbroken interest they were contemplated. They pressed each other's hand, and repeated endless variations of that phrase, of all phrases most dulcet to mortal ear, "I love you;" and if they thought at all, thought themselves forgotten by the world they so entirely forgot.
In the midst of their dreamy bliss, a low, half-stifled sob startled them. They sprang up. She clung tremblingly to him. He looked eagerly around, piercing through the shadowy pathways with a glance of terror. He could discover nothing. All was silent. Nothing stirred.
"Did you not hear a groan?" he whispered.
"It seemed like a sob."
"All is silent. I see no one. Listen!"
They listened for some seconds; not a sound was audible.
"It must have been fancy," he said.
"No; I heard it too plainly."
"Perhaps it was a noise made by one of the cows yonder."
"At any rate, let us go in. Do you return by the shrubbery. I will go round by the garden."
I know I love in vain—strive against hope—
Yet in this captious and intenible sieve
I still pour out the waters of my love,
And lack not to love still.
SHAKSPEARE.—All's Well that Ends Well.
When Cecil re-entered the drawing-room, he found it exactly as he had left it, except that Tom Wincot was playing whist in place of Captain Heath, who stood leaning against the mantelpiece, with his left hand caressing the shaggy head of Shot; that favoured animal stood with his fore-paws resting on the fender, and his face raised inquiringly, as if to ascertain the reason of his friend's paleness. Pale, indeed, was the handsome face of that brave, sorrowing man; and the keen sympathy of the hound had read in its rigidity and calmness the signs of suffering, which escaped the notice of every one else. True it is that the captain somewhat shielded his face from observation by, with his left hand, twirling his moustache, a practice too habitual with him to call forth any remark.
Cecil was in such a state of excitement, that the girls remarked it. He joked, laughed joyously at the most trivial observation, sang with prodigious fervour, and declared there was nothing like a moonlight ramble for the cure of the heartburn.
"It seems to have been the heart-ache," said Rose, "by the exuberance of your spirits after the cure."
Cecil looked up, and seeing her saucy smile, and her eyes swimming in laughter, knew that she was not serious, so he asked what should make his heart ache?
"Ay, ay," said Vyner, "what, indeed? quo beatus vulnere? If you have discovered, let us hear it."
"Yes, yes, tell us his secwet by all means," said Wincot, throwing down his last card; "two by honours, thwee by twicks—game—that makes a single, a tweble, and the wub: six points!"
"No, no," said Rose, shaking her head, "I shall not say it now."
"Pray, don't spare me," said Cecil. "I am quite sure it was something satirical."
"It was; but I don't choose to say it now."
Captain Heath continued to pat Shot's head; but he neither looked up, nor joined in the conversation. Cecil, who had several times endeavoured in vain to make him talk, left him at last to his reflections, whispering to Rose,—
"He is too grave for our frivolities."
Cecil's excitement continued all the evening. He slept well that night, cradled in enchanting dreams.
What Blanche felt as she stole up to her own room, rapidly undressed herself, and crept into bed, I leave to my young and pretty readers to conjecture.
The next evening, though they had several brief snatches of tête-à-tête during the day, our lovers were again to indulge in a moonlight ramble, hoping no doubt for a repetition of the first. Blanche early pleaded fatigue, and declared her intention of soon retiring for the night.
"Don't go to bed, as you did last night," said Captain Heath; "if you are weary, take a turn with me in the shrubbery: there is a lovely moon."
Blanche coloured deeply, and kept her eyes fixed upon her work. Cecil looked at him, as if to read the hidden meaning of those words.
It was a moment of suspense. The entrance of tea enabled them to hide their emotions; and, by occasioning a change of seats, brought the captain close to Blanche.
"How imprudent you are!" he whispered. "Accept my offer of a walk, and he shall accompany us; when we are out of sight, I will leave you; but by all three going out together, no suspicion will be raised."
Blanche trembled and blushed, but made no answer. The discovery of her last night's interview was implied in what he said; and with that was implied this other fact, which then for the first time flashed across her mind: Captain Heath loved her. It was his sob which had startled them.
If, amidst her compassion for his unhappy love, there was mixed some secret gratification at having excited that passion, no one will speak harshly of her; it would be too much to expect human nature should be insensible to the flattery of affection. But flattered as she was by the discovery, she was also sensible of the noble delicacy of his conduct in the matter; and when she raised her humid eyes to look her thanks, it was with a severe pang that she noticed the alteration in his appearance. One night had added ten years to his age.
"Miss Blanche and I are going to stroll out and enjoy the harvest moon," said Captain Heath about half an hour afterwards to Cecil, "will you join us?"
Cecil looked amazed, and felt inclined to throw him out of the window for his proposition, but Blanche made a sign to him to accept, and he accepted.
"And I suppose I am not to come?" said Rose.
"Certainly—if you like," replied the captain.
"No, you may go without me. Three is company, and two is none," she said, parodying the popular phrase, "and if I came, we should be two and two."
The captain did not press the matter, but offering Blanche his arm led her out, followed by Cecil, somewhat sulky, and not at all comprehending the affair.
"There, now I surrender her to your charge," said the captain, when they were within hearing of the waterfall, "having saved your meeting from suspicion. Continue your walk, I am here as sentinel."
He seated himself upon a gate with all the quietness of the most ordinary transaction. Cecil, who was a good deal annoyed at this interference of a third party, made no reply; he was not even grateful for the service rendered.
Blanche, who knew what it must have cost the captain thus to sacrifice his own feelings, and think only of her safety, took his hand in hers, and kissed it silently. A tear fell on it as he withdrew it.
"Make the most of your time," he said.
In another instant he was alone.
The intense gratification he felt in making this sacrifice, will be appreciated by those who know what it is to forego their own claims in favour of another—to trample on their own egotisms, and act as their conscience approves. The mixture of pain only added to the intensity of the delight; as perhaps no enjoyment is ever perfect, physical or moral, without the keen sense of pain thrown in as a zest.
His greatest hope in life was gone, and yet he sat there not torn by miserable jealousy, but warmed with the glow of self-sacrifice. And this is the meaning of virtue being its own reward: had he acted with only ordinary meanness, had he done what hundreds and hundreds would have done in his place, he would have suffered tortures all the more horrible, because unavailing. Instead of that, he looked courageously into the grim countenance of misfortune, saw that he was not loved, that another had received the heart he coveted, and having seen that, he determined to stifle the mighty hunger of his heart, to give up all futile hope, and to devote himself to her happiness in such ways as he could forward it.
The lovers, with the selfishness of lovers, had speedily forgotten him and every one else. But although they sat upon the self-same tree; although they clasped each other by the hand, and looked into each other's eyes, their interview was cold compared with that of the night before.
One reason might be, that on that night they talked of love; on this, they talked of marriage. Cecil explained to her the state of his affairs, and asked her if she could leave her present luxurious home to share his humbler one.
This question is always asked under those circumstances; though the questioner knows very well that it is pre-eminently superfluous, and that there is but one possible answer, conveyed in a look and a kiss. The answer, however, is agreeable enough to warrant the question; is it not?
Lovers are singularly insincere with each other, and play at doubts—and sometimes very offensive doubts—with an air of earnestness which would imply considerable duplicity, were it not one of the instincts of passion. The truth is, Love loves to hear the assurance of love; and to hear this assurance, of which it is already sure, it pretends to have doubts, merely to have them removed.
Let us forgive Cecil his insincerity in asking Blanche that question; and let us pass over in silence all the others which he asked, and to which he got the same sweet answer. They remained there a long while; at least it seemed so to their sentinel; to them it seemed too brief. But they rose at a signal he gave; and when they came up with him, he said, gravely, "Mr. Chamberlayne, I trust you will take what I am about to say with the same candour as I say it. I am anxious to serve you, not to lecture you. Although, therefore, I know nothing of the reasons which you may have for keeping your mutual attachment secret, I am strongly of opinion that the best and wisest thing you can do is to make it public at once. Ask her father's consent, but do not be discovered in clandestine meetings. If you desire it, I will break the matter to Mr. Vyner, and plead your cause to the best of my ability."
This was received in complete silence. Cecil was alarmed; Blanche kept her eyes fixed on him.
"Reflect upon it," added the captain, as he led the way to the house.
Some inexplicable foreboding damped Cecil's spirits at the idea of declaring to her father his affection for Blanche; and this foreboding was realized in the course of the evening by Vyner casually mentioning, in his hearing, that which Captain Heath had already informed him of, respecting the portionless state of the girls.
"So I tell my girls," he added, "they must keep strict guard over their hearts, to be sure they give them to no beggar. The more so" (here he looked at Cecil) "because, if they felt inclined to make fools of themselves, I certainly should not allow them to do so."
The thought occurred to Cecil, "Can Heath have betrayed me? and is that speech levelled at me?"
He looked at the captain to read the treachery on his brow; but that calm, honest face triumphantly withstood the scrutiny; and Cecil no longer accused him.
The truth is, Vyner did suspect that Cecil was paying too great attention to Blanche, and had levelled his speech at him, imagining that the hint would be taken. Since that morning when the most splendid discovery on the Horatian metres ever made, had been so ill appreciated, Vyner ceased to regard him with the same pleasure as before; and in criticizing his actions, observed his attentions to Blanche.
"You see how fatal your counsel would be," whispered Cecil to the captain, as he took his candle and retired for the night.
Cecil reached his own room with savage sullenness. He had asked Blanche if she would share his poverty, and was delighted with her answer; but—strange paradox—he had never seriously thought of sharing it with her; and now his perplexity was how to escape from his present dilemma. To marry upon his means was impossible; impossible also to think of giving her up. To trust for one moment to Vyner's liberality, he felt was futile; the mere avowal of his attachment would be sufficient to close the doors against him for ever.
Angrily he paced up and down his room, striving in vain to detect some means of extricating himself. A fierce and contemptible struggle between passion and interest agitated him: sometimes love prevailed, and sometimes prudence.
In the midst of this self-struggle Captain Heath came in.
"I have come to speak with you," he said, "and trust you will regard me as Blanche's elder brother, anxious to befriend you, but still more anxious to protect her. Will you treat with me on those terms?"
"Certainly. You have already discovered our secret—how, I know not—and there can be no impropriety in consulting with you; I have perfect confidence in you."
"Your confidence is deserved. Now, tell me; you have yourself heard from Vyner what I told you in the billiard-room. I told it you, because I saw in what direction you turned your eyes, and wished you to have a clear comprehension of the family affairs. Had only your fancy been touched, my warning would have been in time; as it was, your heart was engaged, and my warning came too late. I do not repent it, however, the more so as it served to show me the strength of your love. Pardon me for having misjudged you," holding out his hand, "but I imagined that what I said respecting Blanche's poverty would at once put a stop to your attentions. You have shown me how ill I judged you. Will this confession, while it convinces you of my sincerity, also purchase my forgiveness?"
Cecil coloured with shame, and pressed the outstretched hand in silence.
"Now to your affairs. You wish to keep your attachment a secret. For what purpose? How can it avail you? It must be discovered, and then you will have lost all the advantages of openness."
"But what am I to do? Vyner will never give his consent. I am too poor."
"If I may ask without indiscretion—what is your income? What are your prospects?"
"My income is the interest of four thousand pounds; my prospects are vague enough. I have some talent. Painting and literature are open to me; but I should prefer diplomacy."
"You cannot marry on such prospects."
"No, indeed! But what am I to do?"
"I have but one suggestion to make. My brother is chairman to a railway now in course of formation. The secretaryship is worth four hundred a year. If you will accept of it, I think, by exerting myself, I could secure it for you."
"I am much obliged to you," replied Cecil, coldly; "but that is not at all in my way."
"You refuse?" said the astonished captain. "Refuse four hundred a year?"
"Remember I am a gentleman's son," he said, haughtily, "and you will appreciate my refusal."
"Upon my word, I do appreciate it, and at its real value! Here, I offer you what certainly I should never have thought of offering you, had it not been for her sake, a situation which thousands of gentlemen's sons would be delighted to accept, a situation which, with your own small property, will enable you to live in decent comfort, and you refuse it?"
"Really, your officious indignation," said Cecil, getting angry in his turn, "is somewhat out of place. You meant kindly, I dare say; but once for all allow me to observe, that I neither am, nor ever will be, a quill-driver."
"Not even for her sake?"
"No; for no one will I degrade myself in my own eyes. If I must work, it shall be in some gentlemanly department. I will either paint or write for my livelihood, when I am condemned to gain it."
"And you pretend to love her?"
"I do; but I am sure she would be the first to dissuade me from such a degradation as you propose. She has given her heart to a gentleman, and not to a clerk."
"Bah! you talk in the language of a century ago. The pride which was then, perhaps, excusable, becomes simply ridiculous now-a-days."
"And you, captain, are using language which, if it continues, I shall demand an explanation——"
"You threaten?"
"I have no wish to do so; but the tone you adopt is such as I can no longer permit."
"Well, I did not come to quarrel with you, so will abstain from criticism. Only, let me ask you what you propose to do?"
"I propose nothing, I am totally at a loss."
"You positively refuse my offer?"
"Positively."
"You do not think of marrying upon your present means?"
"Decidedly not."
"Then you have but one course: to relinquish your claim."
"I have thought of that."
As this confession escaped him, a sudden light shone in the captain's eyes, a sparkle of unexpected triumph which did not escape his rival.
It was a double betrayal. Cecil betrayed his selfishness—the captain his love.
"I have thought of it," he repeated, "but I cannot make the sacrifice. I love her too much. It may be selfish, but I feel it impossible to give her up."
He watched the captain's countenance with malicious joy as he spoke this, conscious that every phrase was an arrow to pierce his rival's heart.
"But you must decide either to marry her, or——"
"Or," interrupted Cecil, with a sneer, "relinquish my claim in your favour, eh?"
Captain Heath shook slightly, and then fixing his full gaze upon Cecil, said quietly,—
"How little you know the man whom you so wantonly insult!"
He left the room.
"He loves her," said Cecil to himself, bewildered at the discovery. "Loves her! What, then, is the meaning of his conduct? He acts as sentinel during our interview—takes upon himself to break the matter to her father, if I wish it—offers me a situation to enable me to marry. Oh! it is preposterous! I should be a fool indeed to believe it! Loves her! loves her and assists a rival! There is some cunning scheme in all this. I cannot divine what it is, but I am certain that it is.
"He loves her. Let me see: first, he endeavours to frighten me away by explaining the state of Vyner's affairs. That is intelligible enough: he wanted me to take the alarm and decamp. Failing in that, he suddenly changes tactics, and officiously thrusts himself between us as a patron and protector. The scoundrel!"
Yes, scoundrel! for doing that which, in its simple heroism, so distances all ordinary actions, that it looks like a meanness. Thus are men judged. If a man perform some act of ostentatious grandeur, the town will ring with loud applause; but unless the act is striking, and the motive clearly intelligible, he is sure to be maligned. Men only credit in others the kind of virtue they feel capable of themselves; as Sallust says of the readers of history,—"ubi de magnâ virtute et gloriâ bonorum memores quæ sibi quisque facilia factu putat, æquo animo accipit; supra ea veluti ficta pro falsis ducit."
Captain Heath's self-sacrifice was one demanding the greatest moral fortitude, precisely because it had no adventitious aid from the anticipation of applause; it required an immense effort, and could have no éclat. It was a victory to be gained after a fierce combat, and to be followed by no flourish of trumpets. Strength of mind gained the victory; and the pleasure derived from all exercise of strength was the reward.
Although I uphold such actions as heroic, as springing from true moral greatness, and worthy of our deepest reverence, yet it must not be supposed that there is anything marvellous in this self-abnegation. The followers of De la Rochefoucauld might find out egotism even here, if they used their cold scalpel aright. They might say Captain Heath was convinced that Blanche loved another, and all his efforts to prevent that would be useless. Finding himself thus completely excluded from all hope of obtaining her, he made up his mind to the defeat, and instead of allowing himself to be made miserable by idle regrets and idler jealousy, he gave himself the delight of assisting her.
To Cecil, however, who was certainly so incapable of such conduct as to be incapable of believing it, the captain was evidently a scoundrel, whom he would first outwit and then challenge.
To outwit him, he determined to carry Blanche off.
Cecil, vacillating between his passion and his prudence, between his love for Blanche and his horror at poverty, suddenly lost all hesitation, the instant he was aware of a rival. The selfishness which had made him unwilling to encounter poverty, to rush into the great battle of life, there to gain a footing for the sake of Blanche, now made him ready to run all risks for the sake of triumphing over a rival. No suggestions assailed him now respecting the imprudence of marriage; no horrors at bringing a family into the world without the means of properly providing for them; no thought of what she would suffer now disturbed him, as it had before. And why? because it then was only a mask under which he hid the face of his own selfishness from himself. The one-absorbing thought was how to quickly call her his; how to irrevocably bind her to him.
"He thinks to dupe me, does he? He shall find out his mistake. I will this instant go to her, and arrange our flight."
Words that weep, and tears that speak.
COWLEY.
Blanche's bed-room formed the angle of the right wing at the back of the Hall. Her window looked upon the terrace. Between the right wing and the offices ran an arcade, as a sort of a connecting link. The top of this arcade formed an open gallery with heavy balustrades, and paved with dark iron-grey tiles. A small side-door opened on to it from the bed-room; and frequently, in summer, did Blanche sit out in this gallery to enjoy the cool night-air, or, leaning against the balustrade, gazed at the heavy curtain of clouds,—
"While the rare stars rush'd thro' them dim and fast."
At the end of the interior of the arcade was a niche, in which were generally kept some of the girl's gardening tools, and a slight ladder which they used.
Blanche was still dressed, as the light in her bed-room told Cecil, who had stolen out in pursuance of the resolution recorded in the last chapter. She was seated on the side of her bed in an attitude of delicious reverie, her head slightly drooping, her hands carelessly fallen on her lap, when the sound of a pebble striking against the window-pane startled her. Again that sound—and again! She rose and went to the window. The sky was overcast, and the night was dark, but after a few seconds she recognised Cecil, and opened the window.
"Are you dressed, dearest?"
"Yes."
"Then come out into the gallery. I want to speak to you. I can get up by the ladder."
"Very well, but be careful."
She closed the window, and stepped out. He placed the top of the ladder against the pediment of the arcade and quickly ascended.
They rushed into each other's arms of course. Lovers always do that directly they are together, no matter what important business brings them there.
"Blanche, my beloved, are you willing to share my fate, whatever that may be?"
"Have you run all this risk to ask me that?" she said, reproachfully.
"No; but I must ask it you—and in saddest seriousness—before I speak further."
Her lips sought his, and pressed them ardently.
"Our secret is discovered—your father even suspects it—we must fly—will you be mine?—Hush! what is that?—hush!—I heard a door shut.—Hark! yes, a footstep—do you not hear it?—a hurried step.—It comes this way—good God! what shall we do?"
Blanche trembled with fright as the heavy sounds of an approaching step smote upon her ears; but, with a sudden inspiration, she dragged Cecil into her room, and opening her window leaned out as if star-gazing, though the sky was starless. At length the sharp ring of the footsteps upon the stone terrace was heard, and a male figure was dimly visible. It came right opposite the window.
"Blanche! not yet in bed?" said Captain Heath; "and breathing the autumnal night-air too?"
She shook slightly, but answered, "Yes. The night-air cools me."
Cecil was greatly agitated, but held his breath and listened. Nothing more was said for some seconds; at last Blanche asked him what brought him out so late.
"Inability to remain in doors. I have just had an interview with him, which has greatly agitated me. He shewed himself selfish, foolish, and contemptible."
Cecil was on the point of starting up, but restrained himself on remembering where he was. Blanche was hurt, and replied, "Silence on that subject. Remember you are speaking of one who is to be my husband."
"God forbid!" he exclaimed.
She closed the discussion by shutting her window.
He moved away; but had not taken four steps when the ladder caught his eye. The position of the ladder, coupled with Blanche at the open window, still dressed, at that hour of the night, at once convinced him that an elopement was meditated. A sick faintness overcame him for a moment; but it was only for a moment. He rallied immediately, and taking the ladder on his shoulder, carried it off.
Willing as he was to assist his rival in every honourable way, he could not, after that evening's conversation with him, think of allowing an elopement, which must not only deprive them of any chance of assistance from her father, but also, by an unseemly precipitation, plunge them both into a difficulty it was his care, as Blanche's protector, to save them from. Having carried away their ladder, he then proceeded to the lodge-gates to see if a post-chaise was in waiting.
Meanwhile, the lovers had recovered from their agitation, and were arranging their plans of escape for the following night. The first tremor of modesty Blanche felt, on becoming aware that she had introduced Cecil into her bed-room, was completely set aside—the more so as, with a delicacy which often distinguished this weak, selfish, but still in many respects, admirable man, Cecil kept himself at a distance from her, and though holding her hand, did not even raise it to his lips. By that mute language which is more eloquent than words, he had assured her that the situation only increased his respect, and that nothing should make him take a base advantage of her momentary forgetfulness.
There was something deeply interesting and even touching in the situation of these two lovers. Shut up in a bed-room with him at midnight, she was as sacred in his eyes as she would have been in broad daylight, and surrounded by friends. She felt her security; and this gave a frankness and tenderness to her manner, which plainly spoke her thanks.
He felt also the charm of the situation, but with the charm, the danger, and therefore dared not keep his eyes from her, dared not look upon the bed or toilet-table, and strove by looking only at her to forget the place.
Modest and respectful as his attitude was, there was an exquisite feeling engendered by that situation which he had never felt before, and which those will comprehend who have trembled with secret pleasure at the delicious nothings—an accidental touch of the hand—the contact of a ringlet against the cheek—nothings which love invests with an incomparable charm. It is like a coy lingering at the gates of paradise, whose splendour the soul anticipates with delicious awe.
But the time fled rapidly, and the first cold streaks of dawn, struggling with the faint starlight, warned him that he must depart, ere it seemed to him that he had said all there was to say. Repeating every detail of their plan once more, they arose. He timidly offered her his lips, as begging but not demanding a kiss, and she threw herself into his arms. There was gratitude in her embrace, though she knew not for what. Her innocence concealed from her the perilous situation she had gone through; but her instinct told her confusedly that she had been spared. He pressed her closer to him, and felt a thousand-fold repaid.
She opened the door, and they stepped out into the gallery. Horror stiffened their features as they missed the ladder. "Gone! gone!" he hoarsely whispered. "Then, we are lost. It's that meddler, Heath! ... He knew I was in your room, and he took that method of ... But I'll be revenged. The scoundrel!"
Blanche was too terrified to weep; she did nothing but wring her hands piteously.
What was to be done? The arcade was too high to allow him to drop; and yet there seemed to be no other mode of escape possible.
It was a moment of horrible suspense.
"Heath loves you, Blanche," he said presently, with a certain fierceness in his tone.
"I know it," she said, sadly.
There was a pause. She watched his countenance with anxiety: angry passions seemed drifting over his soul like the clouds over a stormy sky; and she, not understanding the tortures of jealousy, of hate, of revenge, of fierce resolutions as quickly chased away as formed, which then agitated him, looked with trembling at his distorted face.
"By God!" he suddenly exclaimed, "I will triumph yet."
Then seizing her by the waist, he carried her back again into the room.
"Cecil, Cecil," she said, "let me go. What do you mean? Cecil, you alarm me—set me down."
He tried to stop her mouth, but she struggled in his grasp, from which she at length freed herself.
"Blanche," he said, "we are betrayed. We shall be separated for ever—for ever! There is but one way to prevent it, but one way to defy them."
He approached her, but she eluded his grasp, and said: "Oh! dearest, dearest Cecil! do not ... do not outrage the memory of this night, hitherto so sacred ... do not lower me in your eyes, and my own."
"It must ... it shall be..."
"No, no; do not say it!"
"It is our only hope," he said, as he again clasped her in his arms.
"Cecil, Cecil, I am yours ... yours only will I be ... can you doubt it? ... but, oh! leave me now! leave me! leave me!"
She sank at his feet, raising her hands imploringly, and wept.
He was touched. The sight of this lovely girl, thus passionate in her sorrow, kneeling at his feet and imploring his pity, was more than he could withstand. All the wild passion and gross instincts which had been roused, were now calmed again with the rapidity which is usual in such moments of delirious excitement, when the soul seems not only susceptible of every influence bad or good, but also susceptible of the most violent and rapid changes.
He threw himself upon a chair, and bade her rise.
"God bless you! God bless you for that word!" she sobbed. "There spoke my own Cecil."
He was silent and humiliated. The flaring light of the candles just expiring in the socket, told her that they would soon be in darkness; and she shuddered at the thought, though not daring to disturb the sullen meditation in which he was indulging, by any prayer to him to depart. Each time the wayward light in its capricious action seemed on the point of being extinguished, a thrill of horror ran over her. The returning brightness brought returning courage.
Silent he sat,
Still as any stone,
His eyes fixed on the floor, a prey to a sort of remorseful stupid anger, not only at having been foiled, but at finding himself helpless in the dilemma.
One of the candles went out. Only a feeble vacillating glimmer was shed by the other; but it was enough to show him that Blanche had fainted. The emotions of the night had so enfeebled her, that the terror of approaching darkness made her senseless.
"I have killed her!" was the horrible thought that presented itself to his mind. He sprang forwards, raised her in his arms, and looked eagerly into her ashy-pale countenance.
The second candle went out, and left them in obscurity, which the delicate tints of early morning peering through the window-curtains scarcely lessened.
He dragged her out into the gallery, where in a few minutes the keen air of morning revived her. On coming to herself, she saw the cold grey sky above, and Cecil's anxious face bending down to catch the first glimpse of returning life. A sweet sigh burst from her, as she closed her eyes again, and leaned her head upon his shoulder. It was like awaking from a nightmare!
In a few minutes, she was sufficiently revived to be able to stand. Not a word passed; but her eyes were most eloquent, as in mute thankfulness she fixed them on his agitated face.
Perhaps in all the emotions of that eventful night, there had been none which rivalled in peculiar and indescribable delight their present sense of subsided agitation and terror. A heavenly calmness had descended upon their spirits. It was like the hushed stillness which succeeds a storm, when the only sound is that of the gentle dripping of rain-drops from the leaves. Their feelings were in harmony with the scene. The twittering of a few early birds made them sensible of the deep repose and quiet of the hour; and the pale streaks of golden light, mixed with the heavy clouds which during the night had lowered from the sky, not inaptly represented the streaks of light which in their own souls drove away the clouds of darkness and tempest.
While in the mute enjoyment of this scene, they were suddenly alarmed by the appearance of a man emerging from the wood. Another glance assured them it was Captain Heath; and to avoid being seen they returned to the bed-room.
"Heath is still prowling about," said Cecil to her. "No doubt on the watch; so if any means could be devised of my descending on to the terrace, he would be certain to see me. I must make a bold venture, and go through the house. At this early hour, no one can be awake. I will take off my boots, and creep noiselessly along."
Captain Heath was returning, trying to persuade himself that the ladder placed against the arcade was purely accidental. No traces of a post-chaise were to be seen; and, after all, was not an elopement most improbable, when his interview with Cecil was kept in mind?
It may seem strange, that one capable of assisting his rival should feel so hurt at the thought of an elopement. Yet the shock had almost unmanned him. He roamed about, like a criminal in a condemned cell, endeavouring to persuade himself that his doom cannot be executed—that a reprieve must come. The truth is—and let it not impeach his heroism, but rather enhance it, by showing how great was his sacrifice—he had not fortitude enough to bear the blow when it fell. He had made up his mind to see his beloved the wife of another; but he had not made up his mind to see it so suddenly. Resigned to his fate, he had not imagined his doom so near its execution. Perhaps, in the secret recesses of his soul, there were vague, unexpressed hopes that something might occur to prevent the marriage—that Vyner would refuse—that Cecil would repent. In short, the vicissitudes of life opened to him a hope; and faint as that hope might be, we know at what reeds the sinking man will snatch.
Rather than believe in an elopement, he made up his mind to the position of the ladder being an accident; and resolved at length to seek his couch in sleep to forget the troubles of his soul.
His bedroom was situated at the corner of a corridor, at the end of which was Blanche's room. His hand was upon the lock, and the door ajar, when, emerging from the corridor, Cecil turned the corner and came full upon his rival.
What a look was that darted from each startled and indignant face at this encounter! Both were speechless—both deadly pale; the muscles frightfully rigid; the eyes—oh! who shall describe the lightnings of their terrible eyes, glaring at each other like famished jaguars!
It was but a look, and they separated.
In that look of horror, of rage, of triumph, and despair, Cecil concentrated all the hate and jealousy he felt, as well as all the triumph in the pain he was inflicting—and Captain Heath all the anguish at the discovery of his rival having passed the night in Blanche's room, and despair at the irremediable destruction of all his hopes.
Throughout the varied scenes of after life, that look was never altogether forgotten; from time to time it would rise in the memory, recalling with it all the poignant sensations which the emotions of years could not efface.
Not a word passed between them. The captain went into his room, and closed the door. Cecil crept to his room, and threw himself undressed upon his bed; there, worn out with the excitement of the last few hours, he sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Watching the flood of light gradually spreading over the sky; watching, to use Browning's fine expression,
Day, like a mighty river, flowing in,
Captain Heath sat forlorn at his window; sleepless, motionless, hopeless. Measuring, with cruel calmness, the wreck of all his hopes; and, with stoic bitterness, the extent of his suffering. Learning to look his misery in the face; learning to stifle every vain regret; learning to bear with manly courage that which no unmanly wailing could alleviate.
Before he rose, he felt with the poet, that
Meeting what must be
Is half commanding it.
The next day, Blanche kept to her room, pleading illness. Nothing passed between Cecil and the captain; not even a look. They studiously avoided each other.
By mere accident, the captain overheard one of the grooms tell another that he had seen Mr. Chamberlayne at the Crown Inn, that day. It was a flash of light to him. The visit to the Crown could only have been for the purpose of securing a post-chaise. He resolved to watch.
During the evening, Cecil was as gay as usual, if not gayer; but he was closely watched by the captain, and, when he retired for the night, he made so many arrangements with Violet and Tom Wincot for the morrow, that the captain's suspicions were confirmed:—
"They are to elope to-night," he said; and quietly stole out of the house.
About two hundred yards from the lodge gates, beneath the shade of a magnificent horse-chestnut, he espied, as he had anticipated, a post-chaise in waiting. He went up to the post-boy, and, holding up a crown, he said,—
"Will you answer a question, if paid for it?"
"Why, sir, that depends upon the sort of question."
"You are employed by Mr. Chamberlayne ... I want to know whether you are going towards London or Bristol. Will you tell me?—five shillings for you, if you tell me truly; broken bones on your return, if you deceive me."
"Hm! you're not going to spoil my job?"
"Not I; I wish simply to know the fact."
"Well, then, hand here the money ... it's to London."
The captain trembled:—
"To London! I thought so."
This information seemed to lend him an energy he had not felt for some time—the energy necessary for a struggle. Had Cecil been going to Gretna Green, the captain would have suffered him to depart in peace. But certain suspicions of foul play had tormented him ever since his meeting with Cecil at his bed-room door.
"The villain!" he said to himself. "He has accomplished her ruin, and now does not even intend to marry her. But she has a protector, thank God! ... I will shoot the reprobate this very night."
He moved away; and, retiring behind the hedge, carefully examined his pistols, which he had brought with him, anticipating some use for them.
Meanwhile, Cecil was placing the ladder for Blanche to descend.
"Hark ye!" said Captain Heath, again approaching the postilion. "As London is your route, I propose accompanying you. There is a crown, to ensure your blindness. I shall get up behind. When you arrive at the first stage, you will promise to pass the word on to the postilion who succeeds you; he shall have half-a-crown for his silence; and so on, till we reach London. Is it a bargain?"
"Ay, surely, sir."
"Well, I will walk on. When you get beyond the village, and reach the clump of fir trees that skirt the road to the right of Mrs. St. John's—you know it?"
"Yes, sir."
"There some part of the harness must get out of order, and you must dismount to set it right. While doing so, I will get up behind, and then you may drive on as fast as you please. D'ye hear?"
"Yes, sir; all right."
"Let me add, by way of precaution, that, in case you should ride past, or attempt to betray me, I am very capable of sending a bullet through your head."
He drew out from his pocket one of his pistols, much to the postilion's horror, and then replacing it said,—
"Now we understand each other."
He strode rapidly on, as he finished this speech, and was soon out of sight.
The night is cold, and the postilion gets impatient; the more so as the recent little conversation has not helped to raise his spirits. To earn a crown by a facile blindness is tempting enough; but he has an uneasy apprehension of something unpleasant; he dislikes the company of one who carries pistols, and seems so determined to use them on slight provocation.
But why tarry the lovers? It is long past the appointed time.
Can they have been detected?—Is the elopement frustrated?
Captain Heath anxiously asks himself these questions; and perhaps the reader shares his impatience. He has a readier means of satisfying his curiosity, however, than the captain had; for he has only to turn to the next volume.
END OF VOL. I.
London: Printed by STEWART and MURRAY, Old Bailey.