CHAPTER XVIII
How slowly do the hours their numbers spend,
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!
SPENSER.
Mathilden's Hertz hat niemand noch ergründet—
Doch, grosse Seelen dulden still.
DON KARLOS.
Mrs. Somerton had kindly offered, as soon as ever she learned the particulars of Margaret's situation, to take the charge of her, and treat her like one of her own daughters.
But Mr. Warde did not seize the proposition with the eagerness that it might seem to merit. Perhaps, he thought, that if Margaret was no better treated than Mrs. Somerton's daughters, her life would not be all sunshine; perhaps he feared that the lady would not scrupulously redeem her pledge; at any rate, he informed his sister decidedly, that it was his intention to place Margaret with some lady who had no children; for he thought it would be difficult, if not impossible, for any other to adjust satisfactorily, the claims of her daughters and her guest. Mrs. Somerton tried to argue the point, but Mr. Warde was firm, and wrote to one or two friends describing the sort of home he desired for Margaret.
Blanche was so much occupied with her military friend, her Watkins, as she called him, that Margaret saw less of her than before. She walked out in every direction in the hope of meeting him, she staid at home all day, if she thought he would call; she took an immense deal of trouble to catch what a good many people would have pronounced to be not worth catching—her Watkins was ignorant, profligate, and silly; and very fortunately for Blanche, he behaved to her like most other officers; that is to say, he walked off one fine morning with his regiment, without so much as bidding adieu to his lady love. Margaret knew nothing of this distressing event when she rejoined the family—she had not seen Blanche for the last day or two, and now she found her reclining on the sofa, suffering, as Mrs. Somerton told her, from a nervous attack. "That is hard upon you, Mrs. Somerton," said Margaret, "to have two invalids on your hands. I must make haste and get well to relieve you of part of your charge."
"I am sure, my dear Miss Capel," said Mrs. Somerton, "no invalid ever gave so little trouble as you. I only wish Blanche would imitate your patience."
Margaret drew a low chair to the sofa, and took her work; "are you suffering in your head?" she asked Blanche, in a gentle voice.
"No, not much; I'm glad you are come down," said she. "It will be somebody to talk to; that is a very pretty pattern for a plain collar. I like the black studs down the front. Do you waltz?" But here the recollection of having waltzed with Lieutenant Watkins overcame her, and she became rather hysterical. Mrs. Somerton scolded her, Blanche got angry, and then order was restored. Mrs. Somerton took Margaret to the window, and whispered to her the state of the case, and then Blanche called out to her, mother and scolded her for having told Margaret when she wanted to tell her all about it herself. Margaret turning her eyes full of wonder from one to the other, could scarcely comprehend that Blanche was suffering from a disappointment; she contrasted the total desolation of her own feelings, with the frivolous annoyance that the other seemed to endure, and could understand nothing of the case.
Quiet was again restored. Mrs. Somerton plied her worsted work. Margaret netted in silence. Blanche, lying on the sofa, was eating French chocolate. Presently Mrs. Somerton began to count aloud the stitches in the bunch of grapes she was working, "thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine."
A burst of crying from Blanche, louder than anything Margaret had heard, except from a baby; Mrs. Somerton had inadvertently named the number of Mr. Watkins's regiment.
The fresh scolding, fresh sobs, and, at last, a glass of sal-volatile, tranquillised her spirits for the present.
It must be admitted that such scenes were rather fatiguing to a young girl in bad health, and suffering deeply from the reality of which this was but the shadow.
She learned, however, to set some value upon her own power of self-command. She could not help feeling that the unrestrained sorrow of Blanche lost in dignity what it gained in publicity.
Mason knew all about it; and frequently alluded to poor Miss Somerton with pity; and to Mr. Watkins with all the violence which a waiting-woman is pretty sure to feel towards a man who has thwarted a young lady in her laudable endeavours to get married.
In two or three days Margaret was happy to find that Blanche could talk of waltzing without a sigh; and her mamma might safely count threads from thirty to forty without awakening any painful reflections.
But their ensued another annoyance to poor Margaret. Whenever she was alone with Blanche, which was the greatest part of the day, Mr. Watkins was the one topic of conversation.
When she had heard all about his boots, and his eyes, and his way of carving a chicken, and his wastefulness in gloves, (a great merit in the eyes of Blanche,) she naturally hoped that they had come to an end of the list; but it is quite surprising the number of little anecdotes which this gentleman furnished. There were all his jokes to repeat; and these were so exceedingly stupid, that they really did make Margaret smile sometimes. And then there were several stories of dishonest actions, which she was expected to laugh at, but which she could not, for very disgust.
Once he had taken in a Jew; this was his chef-d'œuvre; and twice he had cheated a friend in the sale of a horse; and Blanche thought this greatly enhanced his merit, and her loss.
She became rather tearful when she mentioned the last theft; but she presently recovered herself, and turned the conversation upon a satin pelisse she was about to buy. In fact, the future and the past pretty equally divided her mind. The loss of Mr. Watkins, and the arrangement of her dresses for the autumn.
"Do you know, the last time poor Watkins called, he was so intoxicated!" cried Blanche. "I was afraid my uncle would have noticed it; but, fortunately, he only came in for a few minutes; for Watkins staid to luncheon. I never shall forget his trying to carve the cold lamb."
"Then that was the reason," said Margaret, hesitating, "that you broke with him."
"Mercy on me, my dear! where were you brought up;" cried Blanche, laughing. "What! break with a man because he was a little intoxicated? Not I, believe me!"
Margaret found plenty of things to astonish her in Miss Somerton; but she was a little more startled than usual at this remark.
She thought of the disgust she would have felt if she had ever seen Mr. Haveloc intoxicated. She viewed Blanche's attachment as a sort of natural phenomenon.
Mr. Watkins lasted about a fortnight; during that time very few things could be said or done without suggesting to Blanche some little anecdote of this gentleman; and as these tales generally tended to set forth either some deficiency, or some positive vice in that faithless person; sometimes calling in question his spelling, and sometimes his morality, Margaret felt often desirous to turn the subject for very shame; but Blanche informed her that it was a comfort to talk about him, and she could not reasonably refuse her that source of consolation.
At the end of the fortnight, Blanche admitted to Mrs. Somerton, that "Watkins" had a red nose. This had been a point strongly contested between mother and daughter for the last fourteen days previous; for Mrs. Somerton thought it her duty to depreciate a man who had failed to make her daughter an offer; and Blanche warmly defended him from a charge which his decided talent for drinking rendered, at least, probable.
The cause of this change was very soon explained. Blanche had found another officer. She had been introduced to him at a friend's house, and she very soon managed to bring him to the Vicarage.
When he had nothing in the world to do, it was amusing enough to lounge away a morning, flirting with Blanche. This was worse than the other annoyance to Margaret.
It was bad enough to hear incessantly of the absent lover; but now, you had not only to hear of him all day long in his absence, but to bear his presence, at least, three days in the week. And Blanche would insist upon Margaret's keeping her company.
"Don't run away, my dearest creature," said she; "it looks so odd; it really seems as if you thought the man wanted to propose to me."
Margaret had began to enjoy her walks in the pretty garden and quiet meadows of the Vicarage. It was a bright, fresh October. She was always alive to the beauties of the country; but how could she enjoy the mossy walks and tall rustling trees with the constant fear of being joined by that tiresome Mr. Compton. And then, if she sat, Blanche would insist on sitting too. If she said she felt chilly and began to walk again, up started Blanche and her cavalier, and they all three set off walking together.
And this Mr. Compton was afflicted with the most boundless and uncultivated spirits. His laugh was a shriek. He would spring up in the air like a stag; he would fall on the grass, to give vent to his mirth; he talked incessantly, and always the most extravagant nonsense. He would practice dances with Blanche, while poor Margaret played to them; and then, at every mistake, there were fresh fits of laughter, which made him stamp about the room until they subsided.
Margaret at first thought him deranged, and was very much afraid of him; but she afterwards found he was only silly; which is a much milder form of lunacy. Indeed, he was much more silly than his predecessor; for in due time, Blanche managed to receive his hand, and became Mrs. Compton, whether he liked it or not; but this was after Margaret had left them. Perhaps, Margaret would have endured him more cheerfully, had she been able to foresee the finale of his visits. It would have been unkind, indeed, to murmur at the tedious hours which he spent at the Vicarage, which proved a source of such intense delight to Blanche, and such comfortable calculation to her mother.
"Has he not eyes!" exclaimed Blanche, as the door closed upon him after a waltz of two hours.
Margaret (who had officiated as pianiste during that time) admitted that he possessed that feature in the plural number, and knelt down before the fire to warm her hands.
"I have ascertained," said Mrs. Somerton, looking up from her worsted work, "that he is the son of Mr. Compton of Lincolnshire—the second son, it is true, but I understand the mother's property is settled on him; if that is the case, it may do, but I will write to Mrs. Stacey, she knows all about the Comptons. You know he mentioned Mrs. Stacey as having been staying at his father's."
"I know," said Blanche, "and how he did laugh at her blue gauze turban!—I thought he would have died."
So did Margaret; though she did not contemplate that event with the dismay that it might awaken in Blanche's mind.
"Only," continued Mrs. Somerton, "don't go too far till we hear from Mrs. Stacey; he may have nothing."
"I dare say," retorted Blanche, "I shall go as far as I like. I know he has property, and I don't care whether it came from his mother, or from the moon. He was saying, yesterday, what year it was when he came of age. Don't you know, Margaret, how he laughed about his eldest brother coming of age first, and then his coming of age afterwards; and saying that it was not every family where two brothers come of age? Of course nobody comes of age if they have nothing to come into."
"Certainly, there is something in that," said Mrs. Somerton, resuming her worsted work: while Margaret became possessed of the interesting fact, that time suspends his operations in favour of those forlorn gentlemen and ladies only, who have no means of bribing his delay; and truly they should have something to compensate for an empty pocket.
But Mr Compton was of great use to Margaret, little as she might have been disposed to allow it. If he did not come, Blanche was expecting him all the morning; every horseman, every gig, that passed down the high-road, might be the looked for guest. A broad gravel walk, at the end of the garden, commanded a view of the high-road, and thither Blanche would direct her steps, and loiter from breakfast till luncheon. "There! that is Compton—I am certain, my dear, I know him a mile off; besides, his horse, he rides a bay—now does not he?"
"I do not remember. Yes—I think it was a bay when you took me out to see it," said Margaret.
"Well, then, unless he were riding the black—he has a very fine black horse, which he thinks would carry a lady," said Blanche looking sideways at her companion.
"But that is not Mr. Compton—it is the butcher," said Margaret, with a feeling of satisfaction.
"Oh! true—so it is. I am rather near-sighted. By the bye, I think he said he should be on duty to-day. Did he say to-day or to-morrow?"
"I did not hear him," said Margaret.
"I think it was to-day; I am sure I wish he never had any duty!" said Blanche with a sigh. "He has very little, I should think," said Margaret.
"He gets out of every thing he can, you may be sure," said Blanche, "there—who is in that gig. Only Charles Hollingsworth, I do believe! The greatest bore in England; sometimes he pretends to be ill, and goes out hunting."
"Who, Mr. Hollingsworth?" said Margaret, quite at a loss to know why he should take that trouble.
"No—Compton—there he really is; let us go to the gate and meet him."
Then when he came, there was nothing but uproar and confusion for some hours; Blanche's spirits were easily excited, and what with laughing, waltzing, rushing over the garden after his dogs, and pelting the plums from the trees, and racing about and throwing them at each other, she became quite as noisy as her lover. Mrs. Somerton looked on, scolding them both gently and playfully; it was quite a family picture. All this clamour was not very amusing to Margaret, but it drew her thoughts insensibly away from herself, she even became interested in the game. She speculated upon Blanche's chance of success. Her stake was not deep enough to make it a matter of painful anxiety. She would have regretted Mr. Compton, just as much as she had regretted Mr. Watkins; perhaps a few days longer, for he was decidedly the more attractive of the two. He had not a red nose, he did not drink, he was only foolish and extravagant, and very noisy. He treated Margaret with that total disregard to the usual courtesies offered in society to a lady, that may be observed in young men, especially officers, when they are occupied by another woman: but this gave her neither concern nor displeasure. She had long observed that his head was not capable of holding more than one idea at a time, and as Blanche was his idea at present, it was not likely that he should recollect to open the door for Margaret, or to set down her tea-cup.
But she began to look with anxiety towards a more settled home—the society here was not to her taste. She saw very little of Mr. Warde, and she was not allowed to pass her time in his library; she was always wanted to be present with Blanche and Mr. Compton. She longed for quiet, for study; for a life that should replace that which she had lost.
CHAPTER XIX
No more endure to weigh
The shame and anguish of the evil day
Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swell
Sublime of Hope, I seek the cottaged dell
Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray;
COLERIDGE.
Margaret was cheered during this tedious interval by several very kind letters from Lady d'Eyncourt. As soon as she heard of Mr. Grey's death, she wrote to Margaret a letter full of deep feeling and sympathy. She said that when she returned to England, she counted on Margaret's taking up her abode at Sherleigh, unless before that time she was fixed in a home of her own. She was happier than most married women can expect to be, for she was not separated from her father. Captain Gage was now at Paris, with the d'Eyncourts, and he had agreed to travel with them, as long as they remained on the continent. Elizabeth mentioned in one of these letters, that her brother Hubert had sailed for South America, and that her father was very glad to get him out of the country; but it was evident that she did not know who had influenced his decision.
Margaret was cheered by this intelligence. She would have dreaded meeting him again, at least, for some time to come; and she was glad to find that she had been able to do some good by her advice.
One morning, Mr. Warde begged Margaret to come into his library as he wished to speak to her on business. Blanche and Mr. Compton were playing at battledore and shuttlecock, and she was not sorry to escape from their noisy enjoyment for a few minutes. Mr. Warde then told her that he had made several inquiries for such a home as he thought might be agreeable to Margaret; that he had found it rather difficult to meet one in all respects satisfactory. But that he had just received a letter from his friend, Mr. Fletcher, that he thought was worth considering about. Mr. Fletcher, if she remembered, was the clergyman to whom he had applied when her uncle desired to take a house by the sea-side.
Yes; Margaret recollected the name. She breathed short; one of those feelings called presentiments came over her. She knew perfectly what was coming.
"It seems," continued Mr. Warde, glancing at the letter, "that a lady in his neighbourhood has lately lost an only daughter, and she has been strongly urged to receive an inmate into her house; she is much averse to a companion in the usual sense of the term, but upon Mr. Fletcher stating to her the sort of home I was anxious to obtain for you, she seemed willing to receive you. You know the neighbourhood, and you are fond of fine scenery, but I must warn you that this lady lives absolutely without society. She is very well connected, but she has retired from the world."
The world—of which her short experience had been so bitter. That, indeed, was an inducement; and Aveline's mother—there was a sort of strange charm to her in the idea.
"I think I should like it," she faltered.
"This lady is a highly cultivated and intellectual woman," said Mr. Warde, "and I think you will appreciate the advantage of her conversation; no lessons are of such real benefit to a young person, as constant intercourse with a superior mind. And her principles are such as you know how to value and respect."
"Let me go to her," said Margaret.
"Can you make up your mind to solitude?" asked Mr. Warde. "Oh! yes—yes."
"Then I will write to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and conclude the arrangement."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Blanche, when Margaret repeated to her what had been determined upon. "I wonder what my uncle thinks women are intended for; that is to say, pretty women. Of course, ugly women ought to be buried alive. But the idea of sending you into a wilderness like that. Oh! you like it? Don't tell me—I won't believe you; how are you to get married I should like to know?"
"But I have no intention of marrying," said Margaret. "I intend to remain single."
"You don't mean to—oh! I understand," returned Blanche. "A good many girls say so; but I always think it is better not, for fear the men should take you at your word."
"I wish to be taken at my word," said Margaret quietly.
"So it really would seem," said Blanche, "by your suffering my uncle to dispose of you in that way. Oh! I wanted to tell you; my uncle begins to think it odd, that Compton comes here so much. I believe he was afraid that you were his attraction, and it is his business to look sharp after your money, you know."
Margaret could not repress a feeling of disgust, but she tried to look as if Mr. Compton's assiduities would not be very offensive to her. Blanche went on.
"I soon set him right on that point, and then he actually asked mamma, if she was quite assured of Mr. Compton's principles. He said he hoped he had no particular prejudice against the army, but he thought their manner of living was seldom such as to gain them much respect in any neighbourhood where they might be quartered. How I did laugh!"
"But do you not then think principles of any importance?" asked Margaret.
"No, my dear, of course not," returned Blanche. "I think Compton very hand-some, and if he were a Roman Catholic, it would make no difference to me."
Margaret did not think it of any use to explain that a Roman Catholic might possibly have high religious principles, and a Protestant, none at all, so she was silent.
"I told Compton about the principles," continued Blanche, "and you should have heard how he laughed; I thought he would have died."
This must have been a prevalent fear among Mr. Compton's friends whenever he favoured them with a burst of laughter.
"However," said Blanche, "Compton told me to set my uncle's mind at rest as soon as I liked, for that he was 'the same religion that every body else was.'"
The grammatical arrangement of this sentence was, perhaps, its least charm. So profound a knowledge of the various doctrinal shades then agitating the world must have been very cheering to Mr. Warde's feelings.
"And," said Blanche, "even Compton says that it is a great shame you should be banished to that stupid place in –shire. For he says you are exceedingly pretty, only too quiet for his taste. You don't mind, I hope?" added Blanche, fearful that these last words would be too severe a blow.
No. Margaret thought she should manage to survive this expression of Mr. Compton's opinions, in common with several others, with which he had made her acquainted from time to time; and of which, perhaps the most striking was, that "he hated black, and he thought it a shame for women to wear it." And on being reminded that it was sometimes indispensable, he then thought it "a shame for people to die."
Nothing refreshed Margaret so much as a letter from Elizabeth. She seemed to come in contact with another order of mind. Elizabeth never thought or spoke a littleness, and however short, or however general her letter might be, the nobleness of her nature seemed to find its way into the handwriting.
In a letter Margaret received from her at this time, she mentioned that they had been surprised, at Paris, by a flying visit from Mr. Evan Conway. He was on his road to the Pyrenees; and had been disappointed of his travelling companion. Mr. Haveloc had arranged to go with him, and suddenly sent him an excuse, saying that some recent occurrences had rendered him unfit for society. "This tribute to the memory of your uncle, my dear Margaret, I am sure will please you, added Elizabeth. I always thought Mr. Haveloc's character no ordinary one; but this is a depth of feeling which we rarely meet in the present day.
"He has started off alone for St. Petersburg, and has left a good many English mammas to conjecture whether he will bring home a Russian wife."
Elizabeth added that the rest of the Conway family were in Germany, where they seemed likely to remain some time.
Margaret pondered long over the intelligence contained in this letter. Was it solely grief for her uncle's loss that made Mr. Haveloc decline the society of his friend? Did no remorse for his falsehood to herself mingle with his regrets? Did he suffer half what she endured? She knew nothing, she should never know anything of his feelings. They were parted for ever; and, perhaps, as Elizabeth said, he might bring home a Russian wife.
This idea cost her many tears, though she constantly repeated to herself that she had no longer any interest in his future.
Mr. Warde received a favourable answer from Mrs. Fitzpatrick. From his account of Miss Capel, she felt assured of her own satisfaction in the arrangement. She only feared that so young a person would soon be wearied of the monotony of her residence. On this point, Margaret was sanguine. She had much pleasure in telling Mason that the day of her departure was fixed. Mason lifted up her eyes; even Ashdale was better than the place they were going to: "but it did not become her to complain."
Margaret bought the costliest bracelet that the jeweller in S– could furnish as an offering for Blanche before she left.
"Accept it as a wedding present," she said, "I trust it may prove so, if it is for your happiness."
Blanche was in raptures—she dearly loved trinkets, and a bracelet of the newest fashion glittering with precious stones, and costing more guineas than she ever possessed at a time, was almost enough to disturb her brain. She ran from room to room to show it to everybody; she put it on; she took it off and shut it in its morocco case. She embraced Margaret, she laughed, she waltzed, and finally was able to reply to Margaret's remark.
"You dear creature—that is the kindest thing you could say! A wedding present! Yes! I will believe it; he has said nothing, but I understand what he means. Did you ever happen to observe his nose in profile?"
Margaret had merely remarked that there was something elegant in the sharpness of his features that seemed at variance with the excessive ignorance of his mind; but she forbore giving so candid a statement of facts. She merely said she was willing to take for granted that Mr. Compton shone in that position.
It happened, that the evening before she left Ashdale, she was in her own room overlooking Mason, who was putting the finishing touches to her packing, when she saw Mrs. Somerton and Mr. Compton walking together in the avenue that shaded one side of the garden.
Mrs. Somerton seemed very earnest; Mr. Compton greatly embarrassed. Sometimes he relieved himself by trying to bite through his cane; sometimes he caught at the few leaves which hung on the boughs overhead. He looked the picture of awkwardness. But suddenly, Mrs. Somerton stopped short, and shook hands with him fervently, and they walked together towards the house.
Margaret set off too early the next morning to have any opportunity of learning whether Mrs. Somerton had succeeded in bringing Mr. Compton to confession, on that memorable evening; but about two months afterwards, she received a couple of cards bound together with silver twist, and bearing the names of Mr. and Mrs. Compton, which led her to believe that she had chanced to witness the crisis of the affair.
It was a wretched autumn day on which she set out for her new home. All the fine weather seemed to have vanished at once. It was cold and windy, and the rain fell steadily. Margaret was glad of the company of Mason in the carriage. She tried not to think of the past or the future—she tried to forget her first coming to Ashdale, not a year ago; of that solitude she had been led to expect; and of the whole life-time of events she had gone through in those months. Some of these could never occur again, she thought. She could never lose another relative. Mr. Grey was the last she possessed. She could never love again, and therefore could never be again deceived. Come what may, she thought, the future would be more tranquil than the past. Yet she looked forward with great anxiety to her first interview with Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Her shyness came back with more force than ever; she dreaded the termination of her journey; and her heart stood still with affright when the opening of gates, and the barking of dogs warned her that she had arrived at the cottage.
She saw a tall figure in black standing in the doorway, handsome, pale, like Lady Constance before her distraction. It was her hostess, come to welcome her upon the threshold:—that picturesque but obsolete custom.
"I am afraid, my dear, you had a very rough day for your journey," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick as she led her to the drawing-room.
There was nothing in the words, but the voice seemed to dispel her fears in a moment. She looked up with a smile, though her eyes were filled with tears.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick felt it as difficult to be composed as Margaret, but they both had learned the hard task of self-command.
"It was dreary," said Margaret. "The fire is very pleasant."
She sat down, and looked round the drawing-room. The curtains were drawn before the window where she had seen Aveline on the last evening of her life. There was the sofa on which she was lying; she recalled the gesture of Mr. Haveloc, turning from her to raise one of the pillows.
She shuddered.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was seated at the table engaged in making the tea. She was exceedingly pale, and her dark eye-brows gave almost an air of severity to her face, except when she smiled.
"Still cold?" said she turning round with one of those beautiful smiles; "you will not be really warm until you have had some tea. Will you come to the table, or shall I bring it to you?"
Margaret laid aside her bonnet, and drew a chair to the table. Mrs. Fitzpatrick was exceedingly struck by her beauty, and the gracefulness of her action, particularly with that exquisite brightness of complexion, which results not so much from fairness as from a peculiar texture of the skin. It has been likened by a poet to "the dim radiance floating round a pearl."
They parted for the night, greatly pleased with each other. And our first impressions are seldom false to us, if we take care not to reason upon them. Reason and fancy are good separate guides; but I know not how it is, they never work well together. But Margaret did not attempt to philosophise upon the matter. She laid her head upon her pillow with a vague but delightful consciousness, that she had found at last a tranquil home.
END OF VOL. II.