“My dear cousin, there are moments when it is far more agreeable to look, and to listen, than to speak.”
“But then, sir, you should look ‘unutterable things.’”
“We may feel them without looking or speaking them—do not go now—there are few delicious moments in life—why not prolong them?”
“You talk limpingly, Jasper, like one who has conned a task, and recites it but half learned; there should be a vraisemblance in compliments.”
“On my honour!”
“Oh, never swear to them; these are like beggars’ oaths, nobody believes them.” Lady Anne was already on the wing. “Bless us,” thought Meredith, “a little dash of coquetry might make her quite charming;” and springing after her, he gave her his arm. When they met his mother at the roadside, his face and air were so changed and so animated, that, in the flush of her hopes, she ventured to whisper to him—
“‘Not Hermia, but Helena I love
Who would not change a raven for a dove!’”
He smiled assentingly, and his mother was perfectly happy.
“Where is Isabella?” and “Where is Miss Linwood?” “I thought she was on your side,” and “I thought she was on yours,” was asked and reiterated, and answered by the person in question appearing. She had left the shore, scrambled through the wood, and come into the road in advance of her party. They rallied her on her preference of solitude, and she them (for she had regained her self-command), on the willing forbearance with which they had permitted her to 356enjoy it. Mrs. Meredith, of course, first entered the carriage; and while the young ladies were getting in, putting on their cloaks, etc., she wrote on a card and gave to her son the following hint from Metastasio:—
“E folle quel nocchièro
Che cerca un’ altra stella,
E non si fida a quella
Che in porto lo guidó.”
“My sage mother is this sure star, by whose directing ‘light I am to pilot my bark,’” thought Meredith, as he read the pencilled words—“well, be it so.”
Mrs. Meredith’s carriage stopped at Mrs. Linwood’s door. Isabella alighted, and Lady Anne was following her, when her aunt interposed.—“My dear child,” she said, “I particularly wish you to go home with me this evening.”
“I would, aunt—but—but I have promised Mr. Linwood—”
“I appeal to your generosity, Miss Linwood; I have not your passion for solitude, and I am quite wretched without Lady Anne.”
Lady Anne’s back was to her aunt; and she turned up her eyes imploringly to Isabella, who consequently resolutely professed herself afraid to encounter her father if she should resign Lady Anne. Lady Anne finished the parley by springing from the carriage, and promising her aunt to be at home an hour earlier than usual. Mrs. Meredith, vexed, puzzled, and disconcerted, drove home.
The young ladies were met at the door by Rose, with a message from Mrs. Archer, requesting Isabella, without a moment’s delay, to come to her house. “Make my excuses to papa,” said Isabella to Lady Anne, “and enact the good daughter till I return.”
357“Yes, that I will,” said Lady Anne; “and the good daughter would I be in reality all my life to him,” she thought; “but Herbert Linwood will not, in his forlorn circumstances, declare his love for me if he feels it; and I, like all the rest of my sex, must keep the secret of my pure love as if it were a crime.” Whether the open-hearted girl’s eyes and cheeks would betray the secret which the austere proprieties of her sex forbade her to tell, and whether on this hint Linwood would be imboldened to speak, was soon put to the proof; for one hour after, arriving on his evening visit, Rose conducted him into the breakfast-room, informing him that he must wait till a person who was with his father on business should be gone. Rose, sagaciously divining her young master’s inclinations, then went to Lady Anne and whispered—“Mr. Herbert is in the breakfast-parlour; and do, miss, happen in there; poor boy, he has enough of his own company in prison.”
Lady Anne did not wait for the request to be repeated. She went, nor did she and Herbert appear in Mr. Linwood’s room till after a repeated, and finally very impatient summons from him; and then they entered, and kneeling together at his feet, asked his blessing on their plighted loves.
He did not speak for half a minute, and then laughing, while the tears gushed from his eyes, “God bless you, my children!” he said—“God bless you!—kiss me, my dear little girl—this has been pretty quickly hatched, though; but I don’t wonder; I loved you the first minute I saw you.”
“And I, like a good son, dutifully followed my father’s example.”
“Vous n’avez fait que votre devoir filial; fort bien, monsieur!” said Lady Anne, archly.
“My dear child!” interposed Mr. Linwood, “now you are going really to be my child, don’t torment me with interlarding your English with French. There’s nothing I detest like cutting up a plain English road with these French ditches. 358It’s a slipshod tongue, good enough for those that are born to parlez-vous and gabble all their lives; but English, my dear, is for men of sense and true-hearted girls like you, that speak what they mean.”
Lady Anne promised to cure herself of a habit into which she had unconsciously fallen; and a pause followed, which gave Mr. Linwood time for a reflection that clouded his brow.
“This won’t do, Herbert,” he said; “I forgot myself entirely, and so have you. What business have you to be making love, and stealing away this dear little generous girl’s heart—you, a proscribed man—holding your life by sufferance—disgraced.”
“Not disgraced, sir!”
“Oh, no! dear Mr. Linwood, not disgraced.”
“Well, well, ’tis a devilish ugly word to bestow on one’s own flesh and blood. But, my dear girl, we must look truth in the face. Your aunt is a woman of the world; she will accuse us; and she may very well suspect us of conniving at this business—you have fortune—we are poor.” The proud old man’s blood mounted to his face—“No, no; it must not be. I take back my consent.”
Herbert’s face expressed the conflict of his love with his sense of rectitude—the last prevailed. “My father is right,” he said; “and I, headlong as usual, have done just what I ought not to do.”
“You’re right now, anyhow, my boy; you show blood—go up to the mark, though a lion—” A glance at poor Lady Anne, leaning on the side of his easy-chair, with tearful eyes, mended his sentence—“I should say, though an angel were in the way.”
“I have been far enough from the mark, sir; I should have remembered in time that I was in the enemy’s talons; and, what is far worse, under the censure of my own general.”
“As to that Herbert, as to that—”
359“Be kind enough to hear me out, sir. I should have remembered that I was penniless; that Lady Anne is very young, careless for herself, and an heiress; but how could I think of any thing,” he added, taking her hand, and pressing it to his heart, “when I heard her generous, bewildering confession, that she loved me—but that I loved her with my whole soul?”
“It’s—it’s—it’s hard; but you must come to it, my children. You must just set to work and undo what has been done; you must forget one another.”
“Forget! dear Mr. Linwood! Herbert may forget; for I think it seems very easy to him to recede—”
“Anne!”
“Forgive me, Herbert; but really you and your father place me in such an awkward position. Give you up, I will not; forget you, I cannot. I cannot extinguish my memory; and there is no thought in it, waking or sleeping, but what concerns you. I know it is very shocking and improper to say this before you, Mr. Linwood, but it is true.”
“I love truth, my child—such truth—God knows I do, too well.”
“Then sir,” she continued, smiling archly through her tears, “let me go on and speak a little more of it.” Her voice faltered. “I wish Isabella were here—any woman would feel for me.”
“God bless me, child, don’t I feel for you—look at Herb
ert, the calf—don’t he feel for you?”
“Herbert says I am so very young. I am sure seventeen and past has years and wisdom enough for not quite two-and-twenty. He says I am careless for myself; if I were as calculating as my aunt Meredith, what could I do better for myself than to supply the cruel deficiencies of my lot? than to provide for myself the kindest and best of fathers and mothers, and a sister that has not her peer in the wide world? Herbert says I am an heiress—I am so; but what is fortune to me, if I 360may not select the object with whom to share it? If I am not two-and-twenty—” she cast an arch glance at Herbert, “I have lived long enough to see that fortune alone is perfectly impotent. It does not create friends, nor inspire goodness, nor secure happiness; but when it comes as an accessory to a happy home, to love, and health, and liberal hearts; ah, then it is indeed a boon from Heaven! Am I not right, Mr. Linwood?”
“Yes, by Jupiter, you are! Your views could not be juster if you were as old as Methuselah, and as wise as Solomon. But, my dear, we must come back to the point—what is very right for you, and noble, would be very wrong for us. The Linwoods have always had a fair name, and now, when every thing else is gone, they must hold fast to that. Oh, Herbert, if you had only stuck to your king, all would be well; but I won’t reproach you now—no, no, poor boy! I never felt so much like forgiving you for that d—d blunder.”
“Then, for Heaven’s sake, sir, say you forgive me—let that account be settled.”
“I will—I do forgive you, my son; but it’s the devil and all to forget!” Herbert grasped the hand his father extended to him. There was a silence of a few moments, broken by Mr. Linwood saying, “It’s tough to come to it, my children; but this must be the last evening you meet.”
“Lady Anne,” said Rose, opening the door, “Mrs. Meredith’s carriage is waiting for you.”
“Let it wait, Rose.”
“But the footman bade me tell you, my lady, that your aunt is ill, and begs you will come home immediately.”
“Then I must go,” said the poor girl, bursting into tears, all her natural buoyancy and courageous cheerfulness forsaking her at the foreboding that this might be a final separation. Mr. Linwood hemmed, wiped his spectacles, put them on, threw them down on the table, stirred the fire, knocked down 361shovel, tongs, and fender, and cursed them all; while Lady Anne retired with Herbert to the farthest part of the room, to exchange words that can never be appreciated rightly but by the parties, and therefore must not be repeated. They verily believed that mortals had never been so happy—never so wretched as they.
Once there was a reaction in Lady Anne’s mind. She started from Herbert, and appealing to his father, said—“Think once more of it, Mr. Linwood; why should you heed what my aunt or any one else may impute to you? We have all felt and acted right, naturally, and honestly. I cannot, for my life I cannot, see why we should sacrifice ourselves to their false judgments.”
Mr. Linwood shook his head. “It cannot be,” said Herbert; “we must cast ourselves upon the future; if,” he added, lowering his voice, “it should please Heaven to permit me to regain my freedom, if—but I am wrong—I must not cherish these hopes. Years may pass away before the war ends; and in the meantime, you may bless another with that love which—”
“Never end that sentence, Herbert Linwood. You may take back your own vows—you cannot give me back mine—I will not receive them. My love will not depend on your freedom, your name with friend or foe: it will not be touched by circumstance, or time, or absence. Farewell, Herbert.”
One fond embrace she permitted—the first—was it the last?
363CHAPTER XXXIII.
“Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,
With feigning voice, verses of feigning love;
And stolen the impression of her fantasy,
With bracelets of thy hair—rings, gawds, conceits,
Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats, messengers
Of strong prevailment in unhardened youth.”
It will be remembered that Isabella, at her aunt’s summons, had gone to her house. She met Mrs. Archer at her street door. Her face spoke of startling intelligence before she uttered it. “My dear Belle,” she said, “I have the strangest news for you. I went to your father’s while you were out; and just as my foot was on your door-step, a man drove up in a wagon with a girl as pale as death—such a face! The moment he stopped she sprang from the wagon. At once I knew her, and exclaimed, ‘Bessie Lee!’”
“Bessie Lee! Gracious Heaven!”
“Yes; she asked eagerly if you were at home. I perceived the inconvenience—the impossibility of your taking care of her in the present state of your family. I felt anxious to do any thing and every thing for the sister of young Lee; I therefore told her you were not at home, but she could see you at my house; and I persuaded her to come home with me.”
“Dear Bessie! can it be possible that she is here?”
“Yes, I have left her in that room. Her attendant told me that she arrived this morning at Kingsbridge, with a decent 364man and woman, who had passports from La Fayette, and a letter from him to the commander of that post, commending the unfortunate person to his humanity, and entreating him to convey her, under a proper escort, to Mr. Linwood’s.”
“Poor Bessie! Heaven has miraculously guided her into the best hands. How does she appear?”
“With scarcely enough of mortality to shield her troubled spirit; fluttering and gentle as a stricken dove—pale, unnaturally, deadly pale—a startling brightness in her deep blue eye—her cheeks sunken; but still her features preserve the exquisite symmetry we used to think so beautiful, when a pensive, quiet little girl, she stole round after you like a shadow. And her voice, oh Belle, you cannot hear it without tears. She is mild and submissive; but restless, and excessively impatient to see you and Jasper Meredith. Twice she has come to the door to go out in search of him. I have ordered the blinds closed, and the candles lighted, to make it appear darker without than it really is. I could only quiet her by the assurance that I would send for him immediately.”
“Have you done so?”
“No; I have waited to consult you.”
The house Mrs. Archer occupied was of the common construction of the best houses of that day, being double, the two front apartments separated by a wide hall, a drawing-room in the rear, and a narrow cross-passage opening into a carriage-way to the yard. A few moments before Isabella arrived, a person had knocked at the door and asked to see Mrs. Archer; and being told that she was particularly engaged, he asked to be shown to a room where he might await her convenience, as he had business of importance with her. He was accordingly shown into an apartment opposite to that occupied at the moment by Mrs. Archer and Bessie.
There he found the blind children, Ned and Lizzy, so absorbed in a game of chess, that although he went near 365them, and overlooked them, they seemed just conscious of his presence, but not in the least disturbed by it. They went on playing and managing their game with almost as much facility as if they had their eyesight, till after a closely-fought battle Lizzy declared a checkmate. Ned (only not superior to all the chess-players we have ever seen) was nettled by his unexpected defeat, and gave vent to his vexation by saying, “Anyhow, Miss Lizzy, you would not have beaten if I had not thought it was my knight, instead of yours, on number four.”
“Oh, Ned!”
“You would not; you know I always get puzzled about the knights—I always said it was the only fault in the chessmen—I always said I wished Captain Lee had made them more different.”
“That fault is easily rectified,” said the looker-on.
“Captain Lee!” exclaimed Ned, whose memory was true to a voice once heard, and who never, in any circumstances, could have forgotten the sound of Eliot’s voice.
“Hush, my dear little fellow, for Heaven’s sake, hush!” cried Eliot, aware of the imprudence he had committed; but it was too late.
Ned’s feelings were as susceptible as his hearing. H
e impetuously sprang forward, and opening the door into the entry, where Mrs. Archer had just uttered the last sentence we reported of her conversation with Isabella, he cried out, “Oh, mamma, Captain Lee is here!”
Eliot involuntarily doffed his fox-skin cap, and advanced to them. Both ladies most cordially gave him their hands at the same moment, while their brows clouded with the thoughts of the sad tidings they had to communicate. Conscious of the precarious position he occupied, he naturally interpreted the concern so evident on their faces as the expression of a benevolent interest in his safety. “Do not be alarmed, ladies,” he said; “I have nothing to fear if my little friends here be quiet; 366and that I am certain they will be, when they know my life depends on my remaining unknown.”
“Oh, what have I done?” exclaimed Ned, bursting into tears; but he was soon soothed by Eliot’s assurances that no harm as yet was done.
Mrs. Archer withdrew the children, while Miss Linwood communicated to Eliot, as briefly as possible, the arrival and condition of his sister; and he, rather relieved than distressed by the information, told her that his deepest interest in coming to the city was the hope of obtaining some tidings of the poor wanderer. They then consulted how and when they had best present themselves before her; and it was decided that Miss Linwood should first go into the apartment, and prepare her to see Eliot.
Eliot retreated, and stood still and breathless to catch the first sound of Bessie’s voice; but he heard nothing but the exclamation, “She is not here!” Eliot sprang forward. The door of the apartment which led into the side passage and the outer door were both open, and Eliot, forgetful of every thing but his sister, was rushing into the street, when Bessie entered the street door with Jasper Meredith! Impelled by her ruling purpose to see Meredith, she had, on her first discovery of the side passage, escaped into the street, where the first person she encountered was he whose image had so long been present to her, that seeing him with her bodily organ seemed to make no new impression, nor even to increase the vividness of the image stamped on her memory. She had thrown on her cloak, but had nothing on her head; and her hair fell in its natural fair curls over her face and neck. Singular as it was for the delicate, timid Bessie to appear in this guise in the public street, or to appear there at all, and much as he was startled by her faded, stricken form, the truth did not at once occur to Meredith. The wildness of her eye was subdued in the dim twilight; she spoke in her accustomed quiet 367manner; and after answering to his first inquiry that she was perfectly well now, she begged him to go into Mrs. Archer’s with her, as she had something there to restore to him. He endeavoured to put her off with a commonplace evasion—“he was engaged now, would come some other time,” &c., but she was not to be eluded; and seeing some acquaintances approaching, whose observation he did not care to encounter, he ascended Mrs. Archer’s steps, and found himself in the presence of those whom he would have wished most to avoid; but there was no retreat.
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