Part 101 (1/2)
”I see now that such nuptials are out of the question. But has the world come to such a pa.s.s that one can never at any age have a friend in a lady unless she marry him? Scruple to accompany me--me your cousin--me your nearest surviving relation--in order to take back the young lady you have virtually adopted!--scruple to trust yourself for half an hour to that tumbledown old Fawley! Are you afraid that the gossips will say you, the Marchioness of Montfort, are running after a gloomy old widower, and scheming to be mistress of a mansion more like a ghosttrap than a residence for civilised beings? Or are you afraid that Guy Darrell will be fool and fop enough to think you are come to force on him your hand? Pooh, pooh! Such scruples would be in place if you were a portionless forward girl, or if he were a conceited young puppy, or even a suspicious old roue. But Guy Darrell--a man of his station, his character, his years! And you, cousin Caroline, what are you? Surely, lifted above all such pitiful crotchets by a rank amongst the loftiest gentlewomen of England; ample fortune, a beauty that in itself is rank and wealth; and, above all, a character that has pa.s.sed with such venerated purity through an ordeal in which every eye seeks a spot, every ear invites a scandal. But as you will. All I say is, that Darrell's future may be in your hands; that after to-morrow, the occasion to give at least n.o.ble occupation and lasting renown to a mind that is devouring itself and stifling its genius, may be irrevocably lost; and that I do believe, if you said to-morrow to Guy Daxrell, 'You refused to hear me when I pleaded for what you thought a disgrace to your name, and yet even that you at last conceded to the voice of affection as if of duty--now hear me when I plead by the side of your oldest friend on behalf of your honour, and in the name of your forefathers,'--if You say THAT, he is won to his country. You will have repaired a wrong; and, pray, will you have compromised your dignity?”
Caroline had recoiled into the corner of the carriage, her mantle close down round her breast, her veil lowered; but no sheltering garb or veil could conceal her agitation.
The Colonel pulled the check-string. ”Nothing so natural; you are the widow of the Head of the House of Vipont. You are, or ought to be, deeply interested in its fate. An awful CRISIS, long expected, has occurred. The House trembles. A connection of that House can render it an invaluable service; that connection is the man at whose hearth your childhood was reared; and you go with me--me, who am known to be moving heaven and earth for every vote that the House can secure, to canva.s.s this wavering connection for his support and a.s.sistance. Nothing, I say, so natural; and yet you scruple to serve the House of Vipont--to save your country! You may well be agitated. I leave you to your own reflections. My time runs short; I will get out here. Trust me with these doc.u.ments. I will see to the rest of this long painful subject. I will send a special report to you this evening, and you will reply by a single line to the prayer I have ventured to address to you.”
CHAPTER XII. AND LAST.
IN WHICH THE AUTHOR ENDEAVOURS, TO THE BEST OF HIS ABILITY, TO GIVE A FINAL REPLY TO THE QUESTION, ”WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?”
SCENE--The banks of the lake at Fawley. George is lending his arm to Waife; Mrs. Morley, seated on her camp-stool at the opposite side of the water, is putting the last touch to her sketch of the Manor-house; Sir Isaac, reclined, is gravely contemplating the swans; the doe, bending over him, occasionally nibbles his ear; Fairthorn has uncomfortably edged himself into an angle of the building, between two b.u.t.tresses, and is watching, with malignant eye, two young forms, at a distance, as they moved slowly yonder, side by side, yet apart, now lost, now emerging, through the gaps between melancholy leafless trees. Darrell, having just quitted Waife and George, to whose slow pace he can ill time his impatient steps, wonders why Lionel, whom, on arriving, he had, with brief cordial words, referred to Sophy for his fate, has taken more than an hour to ask a simple question, to which the reply may be pretty well known beforehand. He advances towards those melancholy trees. Suddenly one young form leaves the other--comes with rapid stride through the withered fern. Pale as death, Lionel seizes Guy Darrell's hand with convulsive grasp, and says: ”I must leave you, sir; G.o.d bless you! All is over. I was the blindest fool--she refuses me.”
”Refuses you!--impossible! For what reason?”
”She cannot love me well enough to marry,” answered Lionel with a quivering lip, and an attempt at that irony in which all extreme anguish, at least in our haughty s.e.x, delights to seek refuge or disguise. ”Likes me as a friend, a brother, and so forth, but--nothing more. All a mistake, sir--all, except your marvellous kindness to me--to her--for which Heaven ever bless you.”
”Yes, all a mistake of your own, foolish boy,” said Darrell, tenderly; and, turning sharp, he saw Sophy hastening by, quickly and firmly, with her eyes looking straightward--on into s.p.a.ce. He threw himself in her path.
”Tell this dull kinsman of mine that 'faint heart never won fair lady.'
You do not mean seriously, deliberately to reject a heart that will never be faint with a meaner fear than that of losing you?”
Poor Sophy! She kept her blue eyes still on the cold grey s.p.a.ce, and answered by some scarce audible words--words which in every age girls intending to say No seem to learn as birds learn their song; no one knows who taught them, but they are ever to the same tune. ”Sensible of the honour”--”Grateful”--”Some one more worthy,” &c., &c.
Darrell checked this embarra.s.sed jargon. ”My question, young lady, is solemn; it involves the destiny of two lives. Do you mean to say that you do not love Lionel Haughton well enough to give him your hand, and return the true faith which is pledged with his own?”
”Yes,” said Lionel, who had gained the side of his kinsman, ”yes, that is it. O Sophy--Ay or No?”
”No!” fell from her pale, firm lips--and in a moment more she was at Waife's side, and had drawn him away from George. ”Grandfather, grandfather!--home, home; let us go home at once, or I shall die!”
Darrell has kept his keen sight upon her movements--upon her countenance. He sees her gesture--her look--as she now clings to her grandfather. The blue eyes are not now coldly fixed on level air, but raised upward as for strength from above. The young face is sublime with its woe, and with its resolve.
”n.o.ble child,” muttered Darrell, ”I think I see into her heart. If so, poor Lionel, indeed! My pride has yielded, hers never will!”
Lionel, meanwhile, kept beating his foot on the ground, and checking indignantly the tears that sought to gather to his eyes. Darrell threw his arm round the young man's shoulder, and led him gently, slowly away, by the barbed thorn-tree-on by the moss-grown crags.
Waife, meanwhile, is bending his ear to Sophy's lip. The detestable Fairthorn emerges from between the b.u.t.tresses, and shambles up to George, thirsting to hear his hopes confirmed, and turning his face back to smile congratulation, on the gloomy old house that he thinks he has saved from the lake.
Sophy has at last convinced Waife that his senses do not deceive him, nor hers wander. She has said, ”O grandfather, let us ever henceforth be all in all to each other. You are not ashamed of me--I am so proud of you. But there are others akin to me, grandfather, whom we will not mention; and you would be ashamed of me if I brought disgrace on one who would confide to me his name, his honour; and should I be as proud of you, if you asked me to do it?”
At these word, Waife understands all, and he has not an argument in reply; and he suffers Sophy to lead him towards the house. Yes, they will go hence--yes, there shall be no schemes of marriage! They had nearly reached the door, when the door itself opened violently, and a man rus.h.i.+ng forth caught Sophy in his arms, and kissed her forehead, her cheek, with a heartiness that it is well Lionel did not witness!
Speechless and breathless with resentment, Sophy struggled, and in vain, when Waife, seizing the man by the collar, swung him away with a ”How dare you, sir,” that was echoed back from the hillocks--summoned Sir Isaac at full gallop from the lake--scared Fairthorn back to his b.u.t.tresses--roused Mrs. Morley from her sketch, and, smiting the ears of Lionel and Darrell, hurried them, mechanically as it were, to the very spot from which that thunder-roll had pealed.
”How dare I?” said the man, resettling the flow of his disordered coat--”How dare I kiss my own niece?--my own sister's orphan child?
Venerable Bandit, I have a much better right than you have. Oh, my dear injured Sophy, to think that I was ashamed of your poor cotton print--to think that to your pretty face I have been owing fame and fortune--and you, you wandering over the world--child of the sister of whose beauty I was so proud--of her for whom, alas, in vain! I painted Watteaus and Greuzes upon screens and fans!” Again he clasped her to his breast; and Waife this time stood mute, and Sophy pa.s.sive--for the man's tears were raining upon her face, and washed away every blush of shame as to the kiss they hallowed.
”But where is my old friend William Losely?--where is w.i.l.l.y?” said another voice, as a tall, thin personage stepped out from the hall, and looked poor Waife unconsciously in the face.
”Alban Morley!” faltered Waife, ”you are but little changed!”
The Colonel looked again, and in the elderly, lame, one-eyed, sober-looking man, recognised the wild jovial w.i.l.l.y, who had tamed the most unruly fillies, taken the most frantic leaps, carolled forth the blithest song--madcap, good-fellow, frolicsome, childlike darling of gay and grave, young and old!