CHAPTER XII
Soph. You powers, that take into your care the guard
Of innocence, aid me! for I am a creature
So forfeited to despair, hope cannot fancy
A ransom to redeem me … ...
… ... Was't for this he left me
And, on a feigned pretence—
THE PICTURE.
It would be too adventurous an incident to introduce if this tale were an invention instead of a narrative of facts, that Mr. Grey was ordered by his physician to a part of the coast very near to that where Mrs. Fitzpatrick's cottage was situate. Not a mile of rough hilly ground divided their dwellings from each other. This choice of a locale was very easily accounted for. Mr. Warde was acquainted with Mr. Fletcher, the clergyman of the parish, and wrote to beg him to select a house for his friend. Mr. Fletcher did his best, but houses were not plentiful in that district. It was a pretty cottage, but really deserving of no other name. Mr. Grey did not enjoy it at all; he missed the luxuries of his own house. The casements did not shut, the chimnies smoked. There was no piano for Margaret, and Land's room was so small as to be a daily source of disquiet to his master. He was more annoyed for others than for himself. Little did Margaret think when she went down to the sea-side every morning, and sat patiently by her uncle's chair with her book and her work, that the person who most occupied her mind, was within so short a distance, engaged in the same sort of pursuit, in watching over the declining health of a friend.
But her uncle grew weaker and more restless; he determined to return to Ashdale; and having once fixed the day, he seemed more comfortable in his mind.
"Do you like the idea of it, my child?" said he to Margaret, "shall you not be glad to get back to Ashdale?"
"Very glad, Sir," returned Margaret.
"It must be dull, indeed, for you," said Mr. Grey in a pitying tone, "not a single soul here that we know. We might, to be sure, know the clergyman; but he gets a holiday exactly at the wrong time, and the man who does his duty for him does not live in the place. Not a shop to be seen, nor anything for the child to read but the paper; and that she does not care about, poor little thing."
"Oh, uncle! if you were well I should not find it dull," said Margaret, "I should enjoy the sea and the beautiful rocks above everything. But when there is anything the matter, one always feels safer at home."
Mr. Grey smiled, and said something as he went away about wishing to see Casement again, in which desire Margaret could not join.
As it was his habit to rest in his own room during the afternoon, Margaret took her work into the porch, and sat enjoying the sea breeze, and watching the picturesque road that wound beneath the cottage along the shore. She had found out that when the mind is anxious and distressed, the best thing she could do was to work. Her thoughts could not be compelled to study, and her needle passed the time a little more calmly and quickly than when she was doing nothing. And now a labourer might be seen driving a cart drawn by a yoke of oxen along the rugged way; and then a couple of children carrying between them a basket which they had been sent to fill at the neighbouring village; and but for such rare passengers, the road was quiet all day long. While she sat, thinking of the one subject that filled her mind when she could divert it for a moment from her uncle's illness; thinking over all that Mr. Haveloc had ever said and done at Ashdale, she saw, advancing up the path a figure that made her start and colour, it was—she felt sure of it—Hubert Gage.
He was walking very fast, opened the rustic gate himself, and hastened up to her.
Her first thought was a fear about Elizabeth.
"Bessy is well, I hope?" said she eagerly.
"Quite well. At last I see you again! How difficult you have made this to me! How impossible it was at Ashdale to gain speech of you even for a moment!"
"Have you long returned from Ireland?" said Margaret, feeling greatly embarrassed by the tone of her companion.
"Long? This instant! As soon as I learned where you were, I followed you."
"And Bessy is really well?"
"Bessy? Yes," said he in a tone of impatience. "Let me speak about yourself. Margaret, you have done me a great injustice, and you have not given me the means of defending myself. You have thought me incapable of loving you as you deserved."
Margaret held up her hand as if to stop him, he seized it, and pressed it to his lips.
"I tell you what, Mr. Hubert Gage, this will not do," said Margaret gravely, regaining possession of her hand; "there is a great want of consideration in your conduct. I am sure you pay very little regard to my tranquillity in coming here. My uncle is very ill, and all my time and thoughts are occupied in attending upon him. I have no time, and I must say no patience for these scenes."
Land came down at this moment with Mr. Grey's compliments, and "hearing Mr. Hubert was below, hoped he would stop to dinner."
He accepted the invitation, then turning to Margaret, as Land disappeared, said: "I will retract. I will go back instantly if you will make me one promise—I have a right to claim it; a right from all you have made me suffer. Give me the means of seeing you. I have not had fair play—you have not allowed me to address you—to seek to gain your confidence, your love. Cruel! to make your refusal so absolute; to leave me no hope; but I will not be so repulsed: you know nothing of me as yet. Why deny me—"
"Mr. Hubert, you will not listen to me," said Margaret, anxious to bring the dialogue to a conclusion.
"You are so charming! You look a thousand-fold more beautiful than when I saw you last. But what of your beauty? Nothing to that angelic disposition which animates all you do. You thought me so trifling that I could not comprehend your heart. Margaret, it was that which made me seek you."
"I am very sorry that I wronged you so far," said Margaret. "I did not think it was your nature to care much—to love much,—I mean to be much in earnest about anything. If, indeed," said she, marking the distressed expression of his countenance, "your happiness is disturbed, I am still more sorry; but I can do nothing. I cannot tell you falsely that I shall ever change."
"You will not! See what you do! You have made my whole life wretched—worse than that, useless. I can settle to nothing. I cannot leave the country where you are. But I will not despair. You shall see more of me—you shall love me yet."
"There is one thing," said Margaret with a little air of triumph, "we leave this place on Thursday."
"So much the better," said Hubert, "for I shall be very near you at Chirke Weston."
Margaret looked vexed and undecided. She thought there was but one way to put a stop to his assiduities; and although with great reluctance, she resolved to adopt it.
"You compel me to be very plain with you, Mr. Hubert," she said; "but I cannot see any other means of convincing you that we can be no more than friends to one another. I am engaged to another person."
"Engaged! How is it possible? How can I believe it? You so young—and living so retired. May I ask if Mr. Grey is aware of this engagement?"
"He is," said Margaret.
"Why then it is Claude Haveloc!" said Hubert, leaning against the side of the porch.
Margaret was silent. He remained standing, apparently much disturbed.
"And you are engaged to Claude Haveloc?" said he, throwing himself on the seat beside her.
Her colour mounted; but she made a gesture of assent. He remained for some moments apparently undecided as to what he should say or do; and then looking up suddenly, took her hand.
"Forget me if you will," he said; "but never give a thought to him again."
"Mr. Hubert!" said Margaret, colouring with anger.
"He is entirely unworthy of you; it is the talk of the village beyond you there; he is paying his addresses to a young lady who is dying of a consumption. But his attentions for weeks have been too marked to admit of a doubt. He is pitied and praised by every one. He is daily and all day at the house."
"Well that can be explained. I will ask him," said Margaret, trying to speak calmly.
"You can do better than ask him. You can see and judge for yourself. Walk past the house at any hour, and find him, as I saw him, at the feet of your rival."
A thought for one moment crossed the mind of Margaret: she would revenge herself for this neglect—she would accept the hand of Hubert Gage. But she felt at once the unworthiness of such an idea, and remained trembling and silent, looking on the ground.
"Where is this house?" said she after a short pause.
"I can show it to you better than I could describe it," he replied. "It was in searching for you that I lighted upon this history."
"I am much indebted to you," said she with a strange smile.
Her manner, usually so soft, seemed suddenly to change. There was something cold and bitter in her voice.
"And what will you do?" he asked.
"After dinner, when my uncle sleeps, I walk out," said Margaret; "you can then show me this house."
Her seeming calmness quite deceived him; he thought that she was not suffering much. That once convinced her lover had wronged her, she might be wooed and won again.
"I am going to my uncle now," said she. "I shall see you at dinner;" and taking up her work-basket she left him.
Hubert did not see her again until dinner was announced; she was then standing by her uncle's chair, and seemed to take no notice of his presence. Mr. Grey welcomed him very kindly; he thought Hubert's visit so amiable, so well-meant. It showed that he did not resent what had happened.
He asked a number of questions about Captain Gage, and the d'Eyncourt's, about his own plans and proceedings; and about their neighbours at Ashdale. Hubert with his eyes fixed on Margaret answered at cross purposes.
Margaret was perfectly silent. She helped the dishes before her with the mechanical accuracy of a person in a dream. She ate nothing herself, and seemed hardly to know that any one was at table. As soon as the cloth was removed, she rose. Hubert who had watched in vain for some word or sign which might tell him that she held to her intention of the morning, followed her to the door.
She turned as she left the room, and, in a whisper almost inaudible, uttered the word "wait." Mr. Grey soon afterwards apologised for leaving his guest; he was obliged to retire early. Margaret would be in the drawing-room; he hoped Hubert would stay and drink tea.
Hubert took leave of Mr. Grey, and waited until the twilight came, and was succeeded by the broad moonlight, and still Margaret did not appear. At last, when he thought of going into the house to seek her, for he was sauntering up and down the small garden, he saw her standing in the doorway, wrapped in a large shawl.
"Am I too late?" she said, as he approached her.
"Are you ready?" he returned.
"I am," said she, shivering, and hurrying into the garden, "my uncle sleeps. Heaven knows whether I shall ever sleep again! There have been treasures paid for knowledge that might have bought a world of peace twice told. You know that some knowledge brings death in its train. Lead me on; if you dare."
Her eyes flashed, even through the twilight; she drew herself up and assumed an air of defiance that he could not have believed possible to her soft and exquisite beauty. He had yet to learn what it was to rouse a gentle nature.
Hubert paused beneath the shrubs in the small garden.
"Choose;" he said, "I do not say that knowledge is not pain; and ignorance, the grossest ignorance, content. You have not now to learn that I love you. You can give what faith you please to my accusation."
"I cannot doubt you," said Margaret, "let us make haste; I shall never go if I do not go soon. I am sick—sick."
They passed down the shady lane, where the moonlight traced a fair trellis-work of boughs and leaves upon the rocky path; and at every step, as the road grew more uneven, and as Hubert supported her over the rugged stones, she cried to him to make haste. She went like one who walked in her sleep, still struggling for swiftness, and more and more unable to stir as her wish to move grew more pressing. Hubert almost carried her the few last steps of the way; and there stood the cottage by the side of the hill, where it broke gently away down to the sea shore. The waves rippled and sank down upon the beach to a low sweet music that seemed almost charged with words, so clear and measured was the sound in that still night.
Margaret stopped for breath, and hung heavily upon his arm. Then the thought crossed her mind that if Mr. Haveloc was innocent, and came there by chance, finding her walking alone with Hubert Gage, what would he think?
"Oh, Heaven!" she said, clasping her hands in agony, "forget that you love me—speak to me as a sister. Is this true?"
"I never pressed you to believe me," answered her companion.
"Oh, true, true!" said Margaret, hastening on.
She had hardly gone three paces when she stopped again.
"Coward that I am," said she, "to pry upon his actions; to seek these miserable means of learning his pursuits. He trusts me wholly. I will ask him what he does there visiting so often; and if—if he loves her better, let him go. I would set free an Emperor, if he was willing to be released. I'll not go on. I'll learn nothing this way."
She was gasping for breath. Hubert Gage turned without another word, and held out his hand to conduct her back again, but she repulsed him, and stood clasping her temples with a force that seemed designed to hold in her reason.
"If you think," said she very slowly, for she was collecting her ideas, "that I shall like you better when I have learned to hate him, know, once for all, that you will be more intolerable in my eyes than Claude himself."
He looked distressed, but made no answer.
She paused a moment, and then said in a more quiet tone. "Be sure you say nothing of all this to my uncle; it would so vex him. He is not well enough—"
He gave her this promise; and having reached the garden fence, he said he would wait for her while she went down the terrace walk. She made him a sign of silence, and stole gently forward till she came under the verandah. The drawing-room windows were unclosed, and she heard and saw all that passed within. A sofa was drawn close to the window, on which reclined a girl of seventeen, who still retained much of the graceful beauty that had distinguished her. Tall and slight, the full muslin wrapper in part concealed the wasting influence of that disease which had so nearly fulfilled its task. Her eyes, with their long black fringes, seemed to take a disproportioned share in her face, and her profuse dark hair, which had been wound in large folds at the back of her head, had fallen in long tresses like broad ribbons over the cushions that she lay upon. She was reclining, half supported in a sitting posture by Mr. Haveloc. Her head leaned on his shoulder, and her splendid eyes rested on his face as if she knew there was a very little time for her to impress every feature on her memory. He sat quite silent for some minutes, and Aveline's wasted hand lay passively in his. At last she said with a soft smile, still gazing at him as though she feared to lose a moment of his sight,—
"The moon will change soon, will it not, Mr. Haveloc?"
"To-morrow, I think," said he, kindly, not tenderly, for his was not a nature that could feign, though Margaret was too dizzy to mark the difference. They were silent for a few moments, and then on some restless movement of Aveline's, he employed himself in altering the cushions.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had been leaning her head against the mantel-piece as she sat, looked up at the slight noise which they made, and then dropped her head again, with that mute expression of anguish which the attitude can so eloquently convey.
"I hope you will not go away so early to-night, Mr. Haveloc," said Aveline, as soon as her pillows were properly arranged, "You went so very early yesterday, and it is of no use, for I do not sleep the sooner for it."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick raised her head, and cast a look at Mr. Haveloc as though she would have said, "humour her," but she sank into her former position without speaking.
"I am sure, as long as you are not tired," he said, "I will stay until Mrs. Fitzpatrick thinks proper to turn me out of doors."
"Is mamma asleep?" said Aveline, who was listening for her mother's voice.
"Asleep, my love!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, in a tone that thrilled through Margaret, there was in it so much despair.
"We are all half asleep," said Mr. Haveloc. "Shall I ring for candles?"
"Do," said Aveline; "stay! do you see a figure—a shadow—there, in the verandah?"
Margaret heard no more. She turned, rushed from the terrace down the steps to the beach on the sands until the foam of the waves broke over her feet.
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Hubert Gage, who had hastened after her. "What is it you intend? What are you going to do?"
"What should I do but go home?" said Margaret, turning quietly round. "I have seen what I came to see."
And turning away again, she began to walk rapidly.
"Speak to me," said he, after he had followed her in silence for some time. "Tell me—am I to blame?"
Margaret shook her head.
"I cannot bear this silence," he said, after another pause. "Say something to me."
"What should I say?" asked Margaret, still walking on.
"Do you detest me?"
"You!—No."
They arrived before the gate of the cottage.
Margaret held out her hand to him.
"Good night," said she, in a calm voice. "Let me see you to-morrow."
CHAPTER XIII
Steig' empor, o Morgenroth, und rôthe
Mit purpurnem Küsse Hain und Feld!
Säus'le nieder, Abendroth und Flöte
Sanft in Schlummer die erstorb'ne Welt;
Morgen—ach! Du röthest
Eine Todtensflor,
Ach! und du, o Abendroth! umflötest
Meinen langen Schlummer nur.
SCHILLER.
"There is no one in the verandah," said Mr. Haveloc, coming back to the side of Aveline. "It was your fancy. You have not yet forgotten the gipsy."
Aveline smiled, and signed to him to take a chair close to the sofa.
"I am easy now," she said. "I will not move again." He looked anxiously at her, and thought there was something strange in the expression of her features. It seemed as if she had lost her control over them, and that her smile was involuntary.
"Mamma!" said she suddenly, in a quick, sharp tone.
Her mother hastened to her side.
"Keep close to me, mamma," she said.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, seated on the side of the sofa, held her daughter's hand.
"Do you feel worse, my love?" she whispered.
"No; better," returned Aveline, in a clear voice.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick trembled excessively, but controlled all other sign of emotion. She looked anxiously at Mr. Haveloc, as she often did, to read his opinion. His eyes were fixed on the ground.
"Mr. Haveloc," said Aveline, in a voice perfectly free from emotion, "you will recollect to tell Mr. Fletcher that Mr. Lucas was very kind, and gave me much comfort."
"He returns to-morrow. I hope you will be well enough to see him yourself," said Mr. Haveloc.
Aveline looked at him, and marked the unquiet expression of his face.
"See how few wishes I have," said she; "how everything has been anticipated by your kindness," turning her eyes upon her mother. "I have nothing left to say at this hour."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as white as marble, pressed her daughter's hand to her lips.
Mr. Haveloc, struck with awe at the presentiment which seemed to fall upon them all, did not venture to speak.
"Mamma—little Jane," said Aveline, after a pause.
"Yes, my love; you know we arranged that matter the other day," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, with wonderful calmness.
"Yes—yes," said Aveline.
"I think," said Mr. Haveloc, looking at Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I had better ring for Mrs. Grant."
"Who's that?" asked Aveline quickly. "It was I who spoke," said Mr. Haveloc. "I wished to send for your nurse, for I do not like you to be up at this hour."
"No—no; do not move me," said Aveline.
"It shall be as you like; but I know you will not sleep here," said Mr. Haveloc.
"No more sleep," said Aveline, as if to herself.
She remained with her eyes fixed on the ceiling, where, owing to some reflection of the lights, there was a broad luminous spot.
There was a long, deep silence. Mrs. Fitzpatrick was praying inwardly. Aveline still remained with her eyes uplifted, breathing short and quick.
All at once the stillness was broken by her voice repeating, in a distinct tone—
"'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff comfort me.'"
Those who have watched by a sick person only can tell with what touching solemnity the words of Scripture will appear invested when coming suddenly from their lips in the stillness of night.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick's firmness gave way; she burst into tears. Aveline made no remark. She did not seem to notice her companions.
At last she said, in allusion to their conversation sometime ago.
"But nurse may come."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick rang the bell. Mrs. Grant entered; but Aveline was again abstracted.
The good old woman sat down behind the sofa, making a sign to them to be silent. She had seen for some days better than any one that the end was approaching.
"Is the tide down, Mr. Haveloc?" asked Aveline, with difficulty.
Mrs. Grant shuddered. The superstition, respecting the influence of the tides over the dying is well known. She profoundly believed that her young lady would be released when the tide changed.
Mr. Haveloc walked to the window, and looked out. The long range of low green rocks, was not yet quite uncovered by the ebbing waves. The moon gleamed over their slippery surface, and the water rose and fell bubbling among their crevices.
"Not quite yet," said he coming back to the couch.
"Not quite yet," she repeated. Then with a stronger effort, she said, "I wished to thank you both."
"My dearest!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick bending over her.
"You are not crying!" said Aveline, trying to draw her hand in a caressing manner over her mother's face; "not for me!"
"No, not for you, my child," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
"Mamma, it is coming," said Aveline, almost inaudibly. "What, is coming, my love?" asked her mother.
Aveline made no answer—all her senses seemed to have failed her at once.
"God be praised!" said Mrs. Grant, rising with the dignity, that true emotion always gives: "God be praised! she is now an angel in Heaven!"