“I will tell her nothing, except that you love me, and that, with her consent, I am going to be your wife;” and with this determination Christabel had made her confession to her aunt.
The ice once broken, everybody reconciled herself or himself to the new aspect of affairs at Mount Royal. In less than a week it seemed the most natural thing in life that Angus and Christabel should be engaged. There was no marked change in their mode of life. They rambled upon the hills, and went boating on fine mornings, exploring that wonderful coast where the sea-birds congregate, on rocky isles and fortresses rising sheer out of the sea — in mighty caves, the very tradition whereof sounds terrible — caves that seem to have no ending, but to burrow into unknown, unexplored regions, towards the earth’s centre.
With Major Bree for their skipper, and a brace of sturdy boatmen, Angus, Christabel, and Jessie Bridgeman spent several mild October mornings on the sea — now towards Cambeak, anon towards Trebarwith. Tintagel from the beach was infinitely grander than Tintagel in its landward aspect. “Here,” as Norden says, was “that rocky and winding way up the steep sea-cliff, under which the sea-waves wallow, and so assail the foundation of the isle, as may astonish an unstable brain to consider the peril, for the least slip of the foot leads the whole body into the devouring sea.”
To climb these perilous paths, to spring from rock to rock upon the slippery beach, landing on some long green slimy slab over which the sea washes, was Christabel’s delight — and Mr. Hamleigh showed no lack of agility or daring. His health had improved marvellously in that invigorating air. Christabel, noteful of every change of hue in the beloved face, saw how much more healthy a tinge cheek and brow had taken since Mr. Hamleigh came to Mount Royal. He had no longer the exhausted look or the languid air of a man who had untimely squandered his stock of life and health. His eye had brightened — with no hectic light, but with the clear sunshine of a mind at ease. He was altered in every way for the better.
And now the autumn evenings were putting on a wintry air — the lights were twinkling early in the Alpine street of Boscastle. The little harbour was dark at five o’clock. Mr. Hamleigh had been nearly two months at Mount Royal, and he told himself that it was time for leave-taking. Fain would he have stayed on — stayed until that blissful morning when Christabel and he might kneel, side by side, before the altar in Minster Church, and be made one for ever — one in life and death — in a union as perfect as that which was symbolized by the plant that grew out of Tristan’s tomb and went down into the grave of his mistress.
Unhappily, Mrs. Tregonell had made up her mind that her niece should not be married until she was twenty years of age — and Christabel’s twentieth birthday would not arrive till the following Midsummer. To a lover’s impatience so long an interval seemed an eternity; but Mrs. Tregonell had been very gracious in her consent to his betrothal, so he could not disobey her.
“Christabel has seen so little of the world,” said the dowager. “I should like to give her one season in London before she marries — just to rub off a little of the rusticity.”
“She is perfect — I would not have her changed for worlds,” protested Angus.
“Nor I. But she ought to know a little more of society before she has to enter it as your wife. I don’t think a London season will spoil her — and it will please me to chaperon her — though I have no doubt I shall seem rather an old-fashioned chaperon.”
“That is just possible,” said Angus, smiling, as he thought how closely his divinity was guarded. “The chaperons of the present day are very easy-going people — or, perhaps I ought to say, that the young ladies of the present day have a certain Yankee go-a-headishness which very much lightens the chaperon’s responsibility. In point of fact, the London chaperon has dwindled into a formula, and no doubt she will soon be improved off the face of society.”
“So much the worse for society,” answered the lady of the old school. And then she continued, with a friendly air, —
“I dare say you know that I have a house in Bolton Row. I have not lived in it since my husband’s death — but it is mine, and I can have it made comfortable between this and the early spring. I have been thinking that it would be better for you and Christabel to be married in London. The law business would be easier settled — and you may have relations and friends who would like to be at your wedding, yet who would hardly care to come to Boscastle.”
“It is a long way,” admitted Angus. “And people are so inconsistent. They think nothing of going to the Engadine, yet grumble consumedly at a journey of a dozen hours in their native land — as if England were not worth the exertion.”
“Then I think we are agreed that London is the best place for the wedding,” said Mrs. Tregonell.
“I am perfectly content. But if you suggested Timbuctoo I should be just as happy.”
This being settled, Mrs. Tregonell wrote at once to her agent, with instructions to set the old house in Bolton Row in order for the season immediately after Easter, and Christabel and her lover had to reconcile their minds to the idea of a long dreary winter of severance.
Miss Courtenay had grown curiously grave and thoughtful since her engagement — a change which Jessie, who watched her closely, observed with some surprise. It seemed as if she had passed from girlhood into womanhood in the hour in which she pledged herself to Angus Hamleigh. She had for ever done with the thoughtless gaiety of youth that knows not care. She had taken upon herself the burden of an anxious, self-sacrificing love. To no one had she spoken of her lover’s precarious hold upon life; but the thought of by how frail a tenure she held her happiness was ever present with her. “How can I be good enough to him? — how can I do enough to make his life happy?” she thought, “when it may be for so short a time.”
With this ever-present consciousness of a fatal future, went the desire to make her lover forget his doom, and the ardent hope that the sentence might be revoked — that the doom pronounced by human judgment might yet be reversed. Indeed, Angus had himself begun to make light of his malady. Who could tell that the famous physician was not a false prophet, after all? The same dire announcement of untimely death had been made to Leigh Hunt, who contrived somehow — not always in the smoothest waters — to steer his frail bark into the haven of old age. Angus spoke of this, hopefully, to Christabel, as they loitered within the roofless crumbling walls of the ancient oratory above St. Nectan’s Kieve, one sunny November morning, Miss Bridgeman rambling on the crest of the hill, with the black sheep-dog, Randie, under the polite fiction of blackberry hunting, among hedges which had long been shorn of their last berry, though the freshness of the lichens and ferns still lingered in this sheltered nook.
“Yes, I know that cruel doctor was mistaken!” said Christabel, her lips quivering a little, her eyes wide and grave, but tearless, as they gazed at her lover. “I know it, I know it!”
“I know that I am twice as strong and well as I was when he saw me,” answered Angus; “you have worked as great a miracle for me as ever was wrought at the grave of St. Mertheriana in Minster Churchyard. You have made me happy, and what can cure a man better than perfect bliss. But, oh, my darling! what is to become of me when I leave you, when I return to the beaten ways of London life, and, looking back at these delicious days, ask myself if this sweet life with you is not some dream which I have dreamed, and which can never come again?”
“You will not think anything of the kind,” said Christabel, with a pretty little air of authority which charmed him — as all her looks and ways charmed him. “You know that I am sober reality, and that our lives are to be spent together. And you are not going back to London — at least not to stop there. You are going to the South of France.”
“Indeed? this is the first I have heard of any such intention.”
“Did not that doctor say you were to winter in the South?”
“He did. But I thought we had agreed to despise that doctor?”
“We will despise him, yet be warned b
y him. Why should any one, who has liberty and plenty of money, spend his winter in a smoky city, where the fog blinds and stifles him, and the frost pinches him, and the damp makes him miserable, when he can have blue skies, and sunshine and flowers, and ever so much brighter stars, a few hundred miles away? We are bound to obey each other, are we not, Angus? Is not that among our marriage vows?”
“I believe there is something about obedience — on the lady’s side — but I waive that technicality. I am prepared to become an awful example of a henpecked husband. If you say I am to go southward, with the swallows, I will go — yea, verily, to Algeria or Tunis, if you insist: though I would rather be on the Riviera, whence a telegram, with the single word ‘Come’ would bring me to your side in forty-eight hours.”
“Yes, you will go to that lovely land on the shores of the Mediterranean, and there you will be very careful of your health, so that when we meet in London, after Easter, your every look will gainsay that pitiless doctor. Will you do this, for my sake, Angus?” she pleaded, lovingly, nestling at his side, as they stood together on a narrow path that wound down to the entrance of the Kieve. They could hear the rush of the waterfall in the deep green hollow below them, and the faint flutter of loosely hanging leaves, stirred lightly by the light wind, and far away the joyous bark of a sheep-dog. No human voices, save their own, disturbed the autumnal stillness.
“This, and much more, would I do to please you, love. Indeed, if I am not to be here, I might just as well be in the South; nay, much better than in London, or Paris, both of which cities I know by heart. But don’t you think we could make a compromise, and that I might spend the winter at Torquay, running over to Mount Royal for a few days occasionally?”
“No; Torquay will not do, delightful as it would be to have you so near. I have been reading about the climate in the South of France, and I am sure, if you are careful, a winter there will do you worlds of good. Next year — —”
“Next year we can go there together, and you will take care of me. Was that what you were going to say, Belle?”
“Something like that.”
“Yes” he said, slowly, after a thoughtful pause, “I shall be glad to be away from London, and all old associations. My past life is a worthless husk that I have done with for ever.”
CHAPTER VI.
IN SOCIETY.
The Easter recess was over. Society had returned from its brief holiday — its glimpse of budding hedges and primrose-dotted banks, blue skies and blue violets, the snowy bloom of orchards, the tender green of young cornfields. Society had come back again, and was hard at the London treadmill — yawning at old operas, and damning new plays — sniggering at crowded soirées — laying down the law, each man his particular branch thereof, at carefully planned dinner parties — quarrelling and making friends again — eating and drinking — spending and wasting, and pretending to care very little about anything; for society is as salt that has lost its savour if it is not cynical and affected.
But there was one débutante at least that season for whom town pleasures had lost none of their freshness, for whom the old operas were all melody, and the new plays all wit — who admired everything with frankest wonder and enthusiasm, and without a thought of Horace, or Pope, or Creech, or anybody, except the lover who was always at her side, and who shed the rose-coloured light of happiness upon the commonest things. To sit in the Green Park on a mild April morning, to see the guard turn out by St. James’s Palace after breakfast, to loiter away an hour or two at a picture gallery — was to be infinitely happy. Neither opera nor play, dinner nor dance, race-course nor flower-show, was needed to complete the sum of Christabel’s bliss when Angus Hamleigh was with her.
He had returned from Hyères, quietest among the southern towns, wonderfully improved in health and strength. Even Mrs. Tregonell and Miss Bridgeman perceived the change in him.
“I think you must have been very ill when you came to Mount Royal, Mr. Hamleigh,” said Jessie, one day. “You look so much better now.”
“My life was empty then — it is full now,” he answered. “It is hope that keeps a man alive, and I had very little to hope for when I went westward. How strange the road of life is, and how little a man knows what is waiting for him round the corner.”
The house in Bolton Row was charming; just large enough to be convenient, just small enough to be snug. At the back, the windows looked into Lord Somebody’s garden — not quite a tropical paradise — nay, even somewhat flavoured with bricks and mortar — but still a garden, where, by sedulous art, the gardeners kept alive ferns and flowers, and where trees, warranted to resist smoke, put forth young leaves in the springtime, and only languished and sickened in untimely decay when the London season was over, and their function as fashionable trees had been fulfilled.
The house was furnished in a Georgian style, pleasant to modern taste. The drawing-room was of the spindle-legged order — satin-wood card tables; groups of miniatures in oval frames; Japanese folding screen, behind which Belinda might have played Bo-peep; china jars, at whose fall Narcissa might have inly suffered, while outwardly serene. The dining-room was sombre and substantial. The bedrooms had been improved by modern upholstery; for the sleeping apartments of our ancestors leave a good deal to be desired. All the windows were full of flowers — inside and out there was the perfume and colour of many blossoms. The three drawing-rooms, growing smaller to a diminishing point, like a practical lesson in perspective, were altogether charming.
Major Bree had escorted the ladies to London, and was their constant guest, camping out in a bachelor lodging in Jermyn Street, and coming across Piccadilly every day to eat his luncheon in Bolton Row, and to discuss the evening’s engagements.
Long as he had been away from London, he acclimatized himself very quickly — found out everything about everybody — what singers were best worth hearing — what plays best worth seeing — what actors should be praised — which pictures should be looked at and talked about — what horses were likely to win the notable races. He was a walking guide, a living hand-book to fashionable London.
All Mrs. Tregonell’s old friends — all the Cornish people who came to London — called in Bolton Row; and at every house where the lady and her niece visited there were new introductions, whereby the widow’s visiting list widened like a circle in the water — and cards for dances and evening parties, afternoons and dinners were super-abundant. Christabel wanted to see everything. She had quite a country girl’s taste, and cared much more for the theatre and the opera than to be dressed in a new gown, and to be crushed in a crowd of other young women in new gowns — or to sit still and be admired at a stately dinner. Nor was she particularly interested in the leaders of fashion, their ways and manners — the newest professed or professional beauty — the last social scandal. She wanted to see the great city of which she had read in history — the Tower, the Savoy, Westminster Hall, the Abbey, St. Paul’s, the Temple — the London of Elizabeth, the still older London of the Edwards and Henries, the house in which Milton was born, the organ on which he played, the place where Shakespeare’s Theatre once stood, the old Inn whence Chaucer’s Pilgrims started on their journey. Even Dickens’s London — the London of Pickwick and Winkle — the Saracen’s Head at which Mr. Squeers put up — had charms for her.
“Is everything gone?” she asked, piteously, after being told how improvement had effaced the brick and mortar background of English History.
Yet there still remained enough to fill her mind with solemn thoughts of the past. She spent long hours in the Abbey, with Angus and Jessie, looking at the monuments, and recalling the lives and deeds of long vanished heroes and statesmen. The Tower, and the old Inns of Court, were full of interest. Her curiosity about old houses and streets was insatiable.
“No one less than Macaulay could satisfy you,” said Angus, one day, when his memory was at fault. “A man of infinite reading, and infallible memory.”
“But you have read so much, and you
remember a great deal.”
They had been prowling about the Whitehall end of the town in the bright early morning, before Fashion had begun to stir herself faintly among her down pillows. Christabel loved the parks and streets while the freshness of sunrise was still upon them — and these early walks were an institution.
“Where is the Decoy?” she asked Angus, one day, in St. James’s Park; and on being interrogated, it appeared that she meant a certain piece of water, described in “Peveril of the Peak.” All this part of London was peopled with Scott’s heroes and heroines, or with suggestions of Goldsmith. Here Fenella danced before good-natured, loose-living Rowley. Here Nigel stood aside, amidst the crowd, to see Charles, Prince of Wales, and his ill-fated favourite, Buckingham, go by. Here the Citizen of the World met Beau Tibbs and the gentleman in black. For Christabel, the Park was like a scene in a stage play.
Then, after breakfast, there were long drives into fair suburban haunts, where they escaped in some degree from London smoke and London restraints of all kinds, where they could charter a boat, and row up the river to a still fairer scene, and picnic in some rushy creek, out of ken of society, and be almost as recklessly gay as if they had been at Tintagel.
These were the days Angus loved best. The days upon which he and his betrothed turned their backs upon London society, and seemed as far away from the outside world as ever they had been upon the wild western coast. Like most men educated at Eton and Oxford, and brought up in the neighbourhood of the metropolis, Angus loved the Thames with a love that was almost a passion.
“It is my native country,” he said; “I have no other. All the pleasantest associations of my boyhood and youth are interwoven with the river. When I die, my spirit ought to haunt these shores, like that ghost of the ‘Scholar Gipsy,’ which you have read about in Arnold’s poem.”
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 692