Nor was an answering confidence wanting in those who wearied not of gazing at his bright, expressive features, and his noble form. Fanny thought that he was exactly every thing she would have dreamed he must be, had she ventured to dream that he existed at all. Mary thought that she read capacity which promised power to become all that Edward could wish him to be — and she was not disposed to wish for more — and Edward himself thought and felt that had he power to choose a brother from among all the nations of the earth, and the noblest of them, Michael would have been the one he would have selected.
“And where is my dear, good Tremlett?” said Miss Brotherton. “In the midst of all this rare felicity she must not be left out. She has shared our mourning for your loss, dear Michael, and shame it were she should not share our joy at finding you.”
“Shall I go and call her hither?” cried Fanny, rising.
“No! that you shall not, Fanny,” replied Miss Brotherton. “I will not trust you. It was I who dragged the dear good soul from post to pillar, in order to find you, Michael. — It was I who never let her know rest, night nor day, because you were not, and who but I shall bring her the glad tidings of your restoration?”
But truly delighted as was Mary Brotherton at the idea of the pleasure which she well knew this unlooked-for arrival would cause her old friend, she would not let her taste it without the addition of a little mystification; and accordingly she led her into the room which contained the happy party, with no other preparation than telling her that there was a young Englishman in the saloon, to whom she must come and be introduced, because he was a countryman.
To this the tractable old lady agreed, without testifying any very lively emotion; but when she had got into the midst of the group, and witnessed the general exaltation of spirits which seemed to possess them all, after looking and listening for a little while she could not help whispering to Fanny, “Do you know, may dear, who that young man is? I never saw Miss Brotherton — no! nor Mr. Armstrong either — seem to be so extraordinarily intimate with any one before, just at first sight.”
In reply to this Fanny only hid her face, and laughed, for she dared not trust her voice to give the information required.
“How very odd,” murmured the old lady, drawing her knitting from her bag. —
“It is very odd, Mrs. Tremlett, very odd indeed,” said Mary, “there is no denying it. But the fact is, that Mr. Armstrong has taken such an extraordinary fancy to this young man, that I really think I shall be obliged to ask him to live with us. There will be plenty of room, you know, in my Rhenish castle.”
The old lady said not a word in reply, but she looked puzzled, and vexed, and shook her head, as much as to say that it was not like her young mistress to talk such nonsense as that. So in her own defence Mary was obliged to explain the mystery, and as happy an old woman was nurse Tremlett, as she looked and listened, as ever tasted joy from the contemplation of it in others. —
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A TÊTE-À-TÊTE — A SECOND — A THIRD — A MYSTERIOUS RESULT — CONCLUSION.
DELIGHTFUL as was this state of mind to all that shared it, it could not last. Michael was too much in earnest in his dread of being a burden upon Miss Brotherton to permit many days to pass before he begged her to let him converse with her for a few moments in private; and Mary, who had already seen quite enough to convince her that the affection which Michael and Fanny had conceived for each other, amidst the dreary misery of the Deep Valley Mill, was not likely to be forgotten in the gay happiness of Nice, fully anticipated an humble confession, on the part of Michael, that he could not be happy without her permission to become the acknowledged lover of her charming friend and protégée, and very amiable, frank, and noble-minded, did she consider it in him, thus openly to avow the truth at once. But nothing could be further from the thoughts of Michael than making any such confession as this; which, it may be observed, is by no means saying that his heart was either innocent or unconscious of the presumptuous passion she attributed to it.
Greatly, however, did Miss Brotherton underrate the young man’s character when she conceived that the gracious favour with which she had received him, could generate in his heart a wish to ask for more.
“It is taking a great liberty, madam,” began Michael.
“If you love me, do not call me madam, my dear Michael,” she replied. “Do you not perceive that Edward and Fanny both call me Mary? and till I had taught them to do so I never could feel that they quite understood the true spirit of my attachment towards them, or the mode and manner of existence which I have imagined for myself, and which must have fallen to the ground, if I had found them incapable of being to me, or letting me be to them, all that I wished and desired. You must not, dearest Michael, come and shake this perfect and delightful union, introducing forms and ceremonies foreign to our manners, and our feelings. Pray do not look so grave, dear friend! Promise to offend thus no more, and I will cease to scold you.”
“Dearest Miss Brotherton!” said Michael. But this did not satisfy the exigeante lady, who shook her head, and held up her finger in reproof. “Dearest Mary! then—” he resumed, colouring brightly, and with a smile that made her think she could trace a family likeness to Edward, “the greatest wish I have on earth is to become such as you might approve, and if I shrink from the dear and precious familiarity which must make Edward and Fanny so happy, think not that I am incapable of loving you as perfectly as they do; but remember, dearest lady! that however humble their origin, the very circumstance of their having been your honoured companions for years, is of itself sufficient to raise them to such a tone of thinking and of manners, as may, in some sort, justify their using the privilege you so graciously afford. But, alas! You must know too well that the case is far different with me. The overflowing joy of our first meeting, naturally broke down, as it were, all inequalities, all boundaries, and I certainly felt, and perhaps spoke, as if I too were one of the accomplished little circle that might call this earthly paradise their home. But reflection will come, most generous Mary! if not amidst the happy intoxicating moments of the day, it will make itself a voice in the quiet reasoning meditations of the night, and so loudly has this voice been heard by me, that I cannot — no, in spite of all the happiness that surrounds me, I cannot live on thus, an idle, ignorant dependant on your bounty.”
The heiress was half vexed, but more than half pleased by this trembling address, the deep sincerity of which was testified by the working features of a countenance more than commonly expressive of all that passed within. She had enjoyed so much genuine happiness since the arrival of Michael, and had watched with pleasure so exquisite the happiness of Edward and Fanny, that she almost trembled at the idea of any change; yet she knew the boy was right; she knew that he ought to apply himself immediately and strenuously to such studies as were most necessary for the redeeming the time he had lost, and so well aware was she of this, that, notwithstanding her unwillingness to part with him, she rejoiced heartily to find that she] was wrong as to the subject on which she had suspected he wished to speak. Had she been right in her conjecture, all she could have done would have been to endow the boy and girl with such a portion of her wealth as might have sufficed to make them independent; but under such circumstances, all notion of essential improvement must of course be abandoned for ever, and for many reasons this would have been a source of lasting regret to her. It was therefore with cordial approbation that after the interval of a few moments, she replied, “Michael, you are right. Nature has done so much for you, my dear friend, that our wish to keep you constantly with us might easily, had you shown less courage, have tempted us to fancy that you wanted nothing which you have not got, or which we could not give you. But you are quite right in refusing to consent to this. We will immediately return to Germany where you shall be placed at the same admirable institution that so rapidly made your brother what you now see him. Two years of well-directed devotion to study, my dear Michael, will perhaps make you
feel more at your ease among us, though I doubt, if it can produce any change which will make us love you better.
“Miss Brotherton! dearest Miss Brotherton!” exclaimed Michael — while perhaps the brightest beam of hope that ever yet shot from his eyes, met hers as she affectionately gazed upon him, “that was not what I — what I dared venture to hope and ask for. What you now propose, would be a happiness, the idea of which I think I should have turned from, even in my dreams, from shame at its towering ambition. All I meant to ask was, your kind aid to place me in some business where I might earn a maintenance, that in a year or two might prevent my being a burden to you — and now—”
“And now, Michael, I tell you fairly, that I have not the slightest intention of doing any such thing. Besides my own particular objection to such a mode of proceeding, I have lately heard a little anecdote of you, from your friend Martha, which makes it very doubtful whether you Reserve that species of independence — for she put it in your possession once, you know — and you could not keep it. I shall manage better, Michael, depend upon it. One week more of idleness in this sweet spot — and then we travel back to Germany. You shall not be left to study in a more forsaken condition than was your brother. We shall be within an easy distance of you, my dear Michael. One corner of my castle must hold us, while another is beautified, and it is likely enough the work will go on all the better for our being there.”
“And your visit to Rome given up for my sake?” cried Michael. “Oh! no, no, no!”
“No, no, no, most certainly,” replied Mary, laughing, “I would not give up that journey, Michael, for more than I will say, “All is not lost that is delayed.”
Instead of giving up the plan, I only mean to improve it. Tell me, and tell me honestly, dear Michael, do you not think in your heart that we shall, one and all, enjoy this journey more if you are with us?”
“Mary!” exclaimed the boy, wholly overcome, and seizing and kissing her hand with an emotion that at once and for ever banished all reserve, “Mary! it is your will to be loved, and who can disobey?
But my happiness seems greater than I can bear! Where is Edward? Let me walk, and talk with him! He is used to you, Mary, and all this may not seem to him so very much like a dream as it does to me. If he tells me it is all real, I shall believe it and with these words, and his fine face glowing with all the best and happiest feelings of our nature, Michael bounded from the presence of his benefactress to seek his brother.
“I might have lived a good while in my fine house, at Milford, and received a prodigious number of complimentary visits from my elegant neighbours, before I should have enjoyed half an hour as I have done this,” thought the happy Mary Brotherton, as she strolled out through an open window, that led to a little garden of orange-trees. “How delicious is the air this morning!” But where was the climate, where, at that moment, she would have felt it to be otherwise?
Michael had no difficulty in finding his brother, who in truth was lingering near, on purpose to question him after this interview.
“Come with me, Edward!” cried the agitated boy, seizing his arm; “here are our hats — come with me into that little grove yonder — my heart will burst if I do not instantly tell you what has passed.” And arm-in-arm they crossed the road, and a small enclosure opposite, and there found themselves under the shelter of a little wood, thick enough to exclude the peering eyes of mortals, as well as that of the sun.
Notwithstanding their eagerness for the communication which was to follow, and which was pretty equally strong in both, not a word was uttered by either till they reached this covert, and then, Michael, throwing himself upon a bank, and casting his hat away, clasped his hands, and raising his eyes to heaven, exclaimed, “Edward, she is an angel!”
Edward had not followed his brother’s example, in lying down, but stood before him in act to listen. But there was something in these words that seemed to shake him, for he turned away without answering. —
“Has she ever named to you her plans about me?” resumed Michael.
“Yes!” replied Edward.
“Then you know that it is not her intention to assist me, by enabling me to learn any trade in handicraft?”
“No such idea, Michael, ever entered her head,” said Edward, gravely.
“But, my dear fellow! you seem to take all this so very coolly. Do you know that it is her intention to send me to the same place where your education was completed? — Do you know that she gives up — no — that she postpones her journey to Italy, till I am ready to go with her? — Edward, do you know all this?”
“My dear brother,” replied Edward, “I only know, that from the moment she learnt you were alive, she determined that she would immediately make you perfectly independent, as she has done me. All the rest, I think, depended upon your own inclination — and had she not found you disposed for this scheme, she would not have insisted upon it.”
“Disposed for it, Edward? Oh! what cold, what chilling words! You could not speak so, if you thought there were any hope of my so profiting by it as to become a fit companion for you — for her — for Fanny. But it is too late — you feel that it is too late — is it not so, Edward?”
“No, Michael, no!” returned Edward, with sudden animation. “With your faculties, your eager desire to learn, and the masters you will have to put you in the way of doing so, I KNOW that the result of these two years of study will be all you wish, and all your friends can desire.”
“Then how can you receive this glorious news, my Edward, so composedly?”
“First, dear Michael, because it is no news to me. And secondly, because I am a selfish wretch, and was thinking, perhaps, more of my own interest than of yours. Forgive me for it, my own dear Michael! But I would rather have had it decided that we should have both inarched off, and taken service under the Emperor of Austria. I know that commissions would have been obtained for us.”
Michael, as his brother uttered these words, looked up into his face with an expression of such astonishment and dismay, that the blood rushed to Edward’s face, and he turned away to conceal his confusion.
“Edward! you are a mystery to me,” exclaimed Michael, springing upon his feet, and taking his brother by the arm. “Can it be possible that you are weary of the life you lead? Oh, heaven! and such a life!”’
“Weary? am I weary of it, Michael? weary of rising every day to feel that I am a wretch unworthy to breathe the breath of life any where? And oh! how utterly unworthy to breathe it here!”
It was now poor Michael’s turn to change colour, and he did so pretty violently — for first he became very red, and then exceedingly pale. That Edward, such as he had ever remembered him, such as he found him now, that he should so very solemnly declare himself to be a wretch unworthy of life, was a horror and a misery as terrible as it was unexpected. He had no power to utter any soothing in contradiction to this appalling statement, for, alas! it might be true — and Michael’s heart sunk within him as he remembered how totally ignorant he was of every thing that might enable him to disbelieve it. Silently the brothers walked on for some paces, side by side. They were both of them either unwilling, or unable to speak. At length a sort of shuddering emotion that passed through Michael’s frame, made itself felt by the arm of Edward, which he still held, and then he stopped, and without raising his eyes from the ground, said, “Michael! How is it you understand me? Do you suppose that I have been guilty of some criminal act, such as dooms man to the gallows? If not, why do you shudder thus?”
“Would you not shudder, Edward, if you heard me say, that I was a wretch unworthy to live?”
“Poor Michael! perhaps I might; but still I doubt if I should understand the phrase as you do. It is so difficult, so impossible to express temperately and soberly, my own reprobation of the feelings that destroy me! And yet, dear Michael,” he continued more tranquilly, “I could have fancied that there was something working in your own heart which might have taught you in some degree to gues
s the state of mine — I have no strength, no courage to enter on the guilty subject fully — but — that you may not think me a felon, Michael, I will tell you in one audacious word, I LOVE, and that with a fervour, a vehemence of passion, that often makes me tremble at myself — for did it ever master me so far as to force a confession of it in the presence of its object, I never could look up again, but must and would for ever become an alien from all I love, and a friendless wanderer on the face of the earth.”
Though shocked more deeply than he had any wish or power to express, Michael could not resist the belief, which came with terrible strength upon him, that his unhappy brother had conceived a passion for some married woman, and that his best chance of recovering both his virtue and his tranquillity would be by following the wish he had expressed, and by entering on a new and active career, to give himself a chance of obliterating from his mind the feelings which had so unhappily taken possession of it. Such a destination for Edward must of course destroy some the very brightest of his own beautiful day-dreams: but there was a fund of integrity and real goodness in the heart of Michael that permitted him not at that moment to think of himself. “Edward!” said he solemnly, “if this be so, follow the course that your better feelings have suggested — adopt at once the profession of a soldier. It has ever been accounted a noble one — though, under happier circumstances — but that matters not — if your passions have led you wrong, let your principles bring you back again. Confess the truth to your generous benefactress at once.”
“Michael!” replied Edward, looking in his face with an expression of suffering that almost amounted to agony—” I would rather die first.” These words seemed intended to close the conversation, or at any rate they did so; for the two brothers silently retraced their path to the house, and a fond pressure, expressive of love and pity, which Michael gave to the arm of Edward before he parted from it, was all that passed between them further at that time.
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