CHAPTER XIV
And some will die, these are the gentle hearted,
Shook down like flowers by early frost: and some
Will grow in scorn and bitterness of heart,
As giving unto others, the full measure
Of that which hath been meted unto them.
Some look to Heaven, and garner up their hearts
Where disappointment cannot touch them more;
And these few are the wise; but there be many,
Whose life is stronger than their agony,
And one outlasts the other.—Pity them.
ANON.
As soon as it was possible the next morning, Hubert Gage, paid the visit that Margaret had almost demanded of him the evening before. The most favoured suitor might have felt gratified by the eagerness with which she evidently awaited his approach; for she was standing half way down the pathway of the garden, watching him as he neared the cottage. His embarrassment was far greater than her own, he hardly dared raise his eyes to her face, and when he did so, he was as much startled by its steady and fixed expression, as by the icy paleness that overspread her features.
"I desired to see you again," she said, when he reached her, "I was very foolish and unreasonable, yesterday; and I was anxious that no friend of mine should go away with such an impression of me. I wished to meet you when I was calm again. You see, Mr. Hubert, that I consider you as a friend."
"A friend!" he exclaimed; "if the devotion of my whole life could supply—"
"Stop!" cried Margaret, in a tone of suffering, so much at variance with the even calmness of her first address, that he felt appalled by it. "If all you have ever professed for me has not been a mockery and an insult, you will spare me this. You will feel as securely as if the future were the past, that I can never love again. You will not offend me, if you value the friendship and regard I have yet to give, by imagining that I can at any period listen to such language."
"Then, there is nothing but misery an store for both of us," said Hubert Gage.
"I do not look forward with so much despondency as you do, Mr. Hubert," said Margaret, "even now in the first anguish of discovery and despair; in all the shame and the agony of having been duped and trifled with—a suffering that you can never fully comprehend; I look forward more courageously than you do. Let me first speak of myself. I have often heard of a dream of entire happiness—a state of being, too brilliant to last; dispelled by accident, or misfortune, or death. My dream has been dispelled. All is over with me but life and its duties; but I have no suspense and I sometimes think that suspense is the only torture under which we cannot be still. Any thing else, believe me, Mr. Hubert, is endurable. I wake to a deeper sense of the duties of life; the great lesson which we should ever learn by the loss of its pleasures. Let me urge the same thing upon you. You have, forgive me, in seeking a happiness that has been denied you, lost sight of all that is better than happiness. As I have been some-what the cause of this, let me, if I can, atone it. Let me, if you esteem me—I hope you do—urge you to retrieve this great mistake. Let me entreat you to resume your profession—to direct your mind to subjects worthy of your energy and your talent. You know how you would delight your father by this determination; and let it be your great consolation, as it is mine, that when happiness is denied to ourselves, we have still the power of conferring it upon others; and while we keep in mind that there is a Heaven above us, let us not concern ourselves too deeply with the thorns beneath our feet."
As Margaret spoke with an earnestness of feeling that forced the tears from her eyes, the soft but strong west wind brought distinctly to the porch where they sat, the sound of a passing bell.
The tones were so appropriate; they seemed so completely the echo of her sentiments, that both remained perfectly silent for some time. Margaret thought that her companion was moved by her words, for he remained with his face hidden in his hands; and still at intervals, the dull sound struck upon their ears.
"There," he said looking up at length, "that is the knell of the poor girl you saw yesterday."
"Is it?" said Margaret, "I envy her," and she dried her eyes once or twice; but she scarcely had power left to weep. She had passed half the night in tears, and she was now feeling the exhaustion which follows strong emotion. "But I am surprised;" she said, "I should never have imagined that she was as near her end. It is a very treacherous complaint. Is it not?"
"I believe so," he returned absently. "The poor mother!" said Margaret, her voice trembling, "what sad distress there is all around us in this world, and others are suffering too, Mr. Hubert; there is no sorrow like the death of those we love."
"You are thinking of Haveloc," said her companion, "it galls me to hear you speak of him with compassion."
"And yet I think, Mr. Hubert," said Margaret, "that you would forgive your greatest enemy under such affliction, and even speak kindly of him; indeed, I am sure you would."
"I must go away," he exclaimed, "I cannot stand this. Every instant you make yourself more dear to me. I cannot resolve to abandon the hope of one day winning your regard."
"Shall I try and argue you out of it?" said Margaret, "shall I convince you that, like most quiet people my feelings are very tenacious; and that when I say I have done with love. I do not make use of the expression common to disappointed women, but that I speak a determination that can never undergo any change. And yet I assure you, Mr. Hubert, that my friendship is worth having. For instance, I give you very good advice."
Margaret tried to speak cheerfully, but the smile would not come.
"I will follow it to the letter," said he; "you shall never see me again until I can say proudly that I have proved myself worthy of your interest. If all women would so use their influence"—He paused, unable, from emotion, to complete his sentence.
Margaret changed the subject.
"My uncle is better to-day than he has been for some time," she said, "I think the prospect of going home has wrought this change, and I hope that when he is once settled comfortably again at Ashdale, his improvement will be rapid."
"I hope so," said Hubert, "but my present anxiety is about yourself; how am I ever to hear of you?"
"If you are kindly anxious to learn how I am, I dare say Bessy will tell you as much in her letters," said Margaret; "but I expect my life to be so monotonous henceforth, that I shall furnish nothing but a bulletin."
"I must live upon that, then," he said. "Well and Single. That will be something for me to hear. And if I could not catch some of your fortitude," he added, looking admiringly at her calm face, "I should be unworthy of the name of a man. But you do not know how hard it is for me to leave you while you are looking so ill. You did not sleep last night."
"Sleep, no!" said Margaret, with naivetè.
"And I am afraid," said Hubert, "that you will not take proper care of yourself without some one to overlook your proceedings."
"There is one great cure for my ailments. Time," said Margaret, tranquilly; "and I think his wings, or wheels will move as well in your absence as in your presence, Mr. Hubert."
"That is true, I cannot hasten the movements of your physician," said Hubert, with a smile.
"That is right," said Margaret, rising, "let us part now, cheerfully."
"Well, but give me your commands," he replied, "you cannot tell the charm of following implicitly the direction of a person one loves."
"You know them, I think," said Margaret smiling, "you are to go to sea; and you are to remember the days, when every English gentleman was a scholar, as well as a soldier. And as you are a sailor, you will find no difficulty in following the examples of Elizabeth's reign. In fact, when I see you again, I shall find you very like your father. You must come in, and say good bye to my uncle, for perhaps when you return again to England, you may regret that you had not taken leave of so old a friend."
She passed into the house: her uncle was in his arm chair, drawn close to the fire, he was as chilly as ever in that summer weather.
"Mr. Hubert Gage is come to take leave of you, uncle," said Margaret leaning over his chair.
"Oh! these leave-takings," said Mr. Grey turning and offering his hand to Hubert; "they are the worst part of life. And where are you going, my dear friend?"
"To sea, if I can get afloat," said Hubert.
"The very best thing in the world," said Mr. Grey. "Your father is delighted, is he not?"
"I do not think he knows of my resolution; it was rather sudden," said Hubert with some confusion of manner.
"Ah, indeed!" said Mr. Grey "and I am going home, Hubert."
There was a slight accent on the word "home" that quite unnerved poor Margaret.
"That poor child is not well," said Mr. Grey; "she distresses herself about my health; and sickness is almost the only suffering that we cannot spare our friends. Well, good bye, and may God bless you!"
The tone was so much more solemn than was common with Mr. Grey, that it seemed like a last farewell.
Hubert Gage wrung his hand in silence, and left him.
The next day they set out on their return home. Mr. Grey was perfectly happy at the idea of seeing Ashdale again. Margaret was glad of change and motion. To her uncle's anxious inquiries, she always replied that she was pretty well, and he imagined that she looked so pale from her close attendance upon himself.
As they drew near Ashdale, he greeted each familiar object with as much satisfaction as if he had been absent for years instead of weeks. Every cottage, every brook, every turn in the road, aroused his attention.
Margaret shivered as the carriage drew up before the house; she dreaded the recollections which those familiar rooms would bring to her mind. The fire was burning brightly in the drawing-room. Mr. Casement was standing on the hearth-rug. This circumstance completed Mr. Grey's satisfaction. It was really like home, with Mr. Casement at the fire-side.
Margaret trembling and shivering, and hardly able to restrain her tears, now crouched over the fire, which was as welcome to her as to her uncle.
"Holloa, little woman! you are the invalid now, it seems," said Mr. Casement, marking her altered looks.
"The child is tired; don't talk to her, Casement," said Mr. Grey.
"Oh! have you heard the news of Master Claude?" asked Mr. Casement. "He has been courting again; that's all. I never knew such a fellow."
"Nonsense; I never listen to such reports," said Mr. Grey. "I don't believe one word of it!"
"Very well—ask old Warde; that's all. It was he who told me," said Mr. Casement, persisting in his news because he saw it annoyed his old friend.
"I will never believe it; I know him better," said Mr. Grey.
"Well, well! I did not accuse him of any crime: did I, little woman?"
"Not at all, Sir," said Margaret steadily.
Mr. Grey looked at Margaret with a smile. He was re-assured by her calm voice, she no more believed the report than he did; so he turned the subject, and thought no more about it.
But his return home, to which he had looked forward with so much pleasure, did not produce the good effect he had wished and expected. He grew daily weaker, more unfit for exertion, either of mind or body. At last, when it became too great an exertion to leave his room, and when he was unable to sit up for more than a few hours in a day, he said to Margaret one evening that he had felt more languid than usual, "My child, I think you must write to Claude Haveloc. Tell him that I desire to see him without delay."
CHAPTER XV
Oh! sir, I did love you
With such a fixed heart, that in that minute
Wherein you slighted or betrayed me rather;
I took a vow to obey your last decree,
And never more look up to any hope,
Should bring me comfort that way.
Your suit to me,
Henceforth be ever silenced.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was gifted with a mind of unusual strength; but for some days all the fortitude that she possessed, seemed to abandon her. She found, like many others, that often as she had pictured to herself what must come, all her imaginings fell far short of the desolation, and the anguish of the reality. Mr. Haveloc took upon himself all those arrangements which are so painful to the survivors. She did not see him, but she occasionally sent him a few words in pencil expressive of her wishes. She had very few relations, and those few resided far in the north of Ireland; and the only connexion of her husband whom he had ever heard her name was Lord Raymond, whose estate of Wardenscourt lay within a few miles of his own. He wrote to this nobleman, giving him notice of Aveline's death, in common with the other relations; and greatly to his surprise, Lord Raymond answered his letter in person as soon as it was possible.
He was a very well-meaning man, and he thought that it would be a mark of attention to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and to the memory of her husband, if he were to attend the funeral of their child; for they had so few connections left, that but for him she would have been followed to the grave by strangers.
He became Mr. Haveloc's guest for a week, and managed to pass the time tolerably well considering that he was away from all his horses. In that retired spot, he did not feel obliged to confine himself to the house; he took to shooting sea-gulls, and obtained some little skill with the rifle. He watched over the Norwegian pony, and endeavoured to feel some interest in his proceedings; he helped Mr. Haveloc to feed him from the window with bread, and tried to bear in mind that he was a horse, and therefore an object of respect and importance. He wandered about the gardens and ate the fruit, and went out in a boat to visit the yacht; and expressed a wish to buy her, and gave up the idea, because he was not sure whether Lucy cared about cruising; and whenever his host appeared dejected, he endeavoured to condole with him, and very fortunately, was never able to do so, on account of his stammering.
And during the week that he stayed, he was known to write a letter; but literature was not his forte, and nobody ever saw him take up a book.
Whenever Mr. Haveloc went to the cottage to inquire after Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he desired that his compliments and inquiries might be added to his own; and he usually inquired, at the same time, if Mrs. Fitzpatrick was not a very fine woman, adding that such was his recollection of her some years ago.
The day of the funeral arrived. Lord Raymond and Mr. Haveloc were the only persons who attended it.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick had desired to do so, but she had been peremptorily forbidden by her friend, Mr. Lindsay, and she acquiesced. Her spirit was too broken to attempt opposition, even in a thing of trifling importance.
She sent a few lines to Lord Raymond, thanking him for his kindness, but she declined the visit which he volunteered to pay her. She entertained a very reasonable estimate of the condolences of a stranger.
Two or three weeks elapsed before she could nerve herself sufficiently to admit Mr. Haveloc; but, at last, fearing that he might leave the neighbourhood without her seeing him, she appointed him to come.
Mr. Lindsay was with her in the drawing-room; she looked dreadfully ill, and her hand was as cold as ice. Mr. Haveloc took a chair beside her, and in vain tried to speak. There was something so absolute in her bereavement, that he was dumb before her; he felt the influence, for the first time, of that grief that "makes its owner great."
It fell to Mr. Lindsay to sustain the conversation.
"So you have not parted with your yacht yet, Mr. Haveloc," he said, "we shall lose a pretty object when she leaves this part of the coast."
"No; I had nearly an opportunity of getting rid of her lately," said Mr. Haveloc, "I thought Lord Raymond would have—"
And he stopped suddenly, remembering that Lord Raymond had come to him expressly to attend Aveline's funeral. "Ay—you find, like many other people, that it is much easier to purchase a toy than to part with it."
"Exactly."
"So many people want to sell, and so few care to buy," continued Mr. Lindsay.
"That is just the case."
"Do you know," said Mr. Lindsay, turning to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as if it was a subject in which she must take a deep interest; "I feel sure we shall have a very fine autumn!"
"You think so! You are such an excellent judge of the weather," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick in a languid voice.
"I shall see the Pyrenees to advantage a month hence," said Mr. Haveloc.
"Ah! you are a traveller. It is singular that nobody stays at home now-a-days," said Mr. Lindsay. "I should like to know where you would see a finer country than your own?"
"I do not expect anything but novelty in my tour," said Mr. Haveloc. "True. For you it is the best thing that could happen," said the doctor, with a look of commiseration. "Change of scene. Young people, my dear Mrs. Fitzpatrick, can run away from thought. You and I are obliged to trust to time alone."
It struck Mr. Haveloc that both the doctor, and Lord Raymond seemed to take for granted that he must have been attached to Aveline, for which, with his usual impatience, he set them down as idiots, and thought no more about it.
At last the doctor took his leave, and then Mrs. Fitzpatrick, turning to Mr. Haveloc, said to him with a steady voice, "I should like you, Mr. Haveloc, to take me to see Aveline's grave. I do not know where it is, and I could not ask any one else to point it out to me."
Mr. Haveloc consented directly. Mrs. Grant, who was still in the house, and came in with her mistress's walking-dress, was very reluctant that she should go. She founded her objections upon the wet grass, and the quantity of rain that had fallen.
"My good, Mrs. Grant," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as she fastened her shawl, "I wish a little damp grass could hurt me;" and turning to Mr. Haveloc, she repeated with a half smile. "When the mind's free, the body's delicate."
It was a soft fine evening. They walked slowly, and in silence towards the church-yard. Half hidden among the hills you descended the narrow shady lane, and came suddenly upon the quiet burying-ground, and small village church. The long shadows lay upon the graves; the rooks were wheeling and settling among the surrounding trees, and the rain had called out the mingled scent of flowers and shrubs from every thicket.
"It is very wet," said Mr. Haveloc, as they stepped on the long saturated grass.
"It does not matter," replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Do you know," she added, "that on the night of her funeral, I looked from my window, and was quite relieved to see the turf whitened by the broad moonlight. If the rain had beat on her grave that first night—but this is very weak."
"I cannot think so," said Mr. Haveloc. "I cannot believe that any of the natural feelings which we cherish for the remains of those who are dear to us, serve to be classed as weaknesses to be derided or overcome. I detest the philosophy which can analyse and reject the most sacred of our affections—that can strip death of the awe and the mystery which should protect and surround the breathless effigy destined to be immortal. A philosophy so blind that it sees but a heap of clay in the ashes that wait for the breath of God to summon them to Heaven!"
"You always feel strongly, you know," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick with a faint smile.
They had crossed the church-yard by this time, and stopped before a recent grave. It was covered with white stone, and a cross of the same material carved in the early English fashion, bore the simple inscription of her name and age.
"Already!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I am surprised. I had no idea that it could have been done so soon."
"It was placed here two days after the funeral," said Mr. Haveloc. "I did not choose that the spot should remain unmarked."
At another time, Mrs. Fitzpatrick would have smiled at the self-will which her companion was apt to display even in trifles; and have wondered how much it would avail him in the serious business of life. But now she leaned upon the cross absorbed in her own painful thoughts; her mind wandered involuntarily from scene to scene of her daughter's illness and death. Every tone, every change of countenance presented itself in turn to her memory.
All was perfectly still. It was very rare for a footstep, except on Sundays, to cross that lovely spot. One benefit arising from a thinly scattered population, is the decent repose afforded to the dead. Here, the graves were not crowded, and there was no need to disturb them for the new inmates. The old mounds sank level with the soil, and the grey crumbling stones fell in every variety of position over the ground. The old unclipped yew trees, feathered down to the earth, and sheltered the north side of the ground from the cold winds.
It was not infested, as in populous places, with the rude children of the lower classes, filling the place with discordant sounds and hideous gestures, and spurning with their coarse feet the earth that had been consecrated to so solemn a purpose.
At last, Mr. Haveloc interrupted the reverie of his companion.
"It is late," he said, "and you are quite wet, I fear. Let me advise you to return home."
"Home!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick mournfully. "To what do I return? I am less solitary here, than I am in my own house."
"You must be persuaded," said he, leading her from the tomb. "Mrs. Grant will, I am sure, be wretched until she sees you again."
"It is true," said she, "I ought not to indulge in such feelings. How silent! How ineffably still! I feel so deeply the fitness and the luxury of this calm that surrounds the dead, now that I also have a treasure buried here."
They walked homewards. Their foot-steps rustled in the long grass; and the latch of the wicket fell with a sharp sound, so deep was the quiet of the place.
At the gate of the cottage they met the postman; always late, and often very irregular in that village. He knew Mr. Haveloc by sight; and, glad to escape a walk to his residence, he touched his hat, and presented him with a letter. The handwriting was Margaret's. He had often seen it, and admired its beauty, although she had never before written to him.
Knowing the conditions upon which Mr. Grey had agreed that she should write to him, he hesitated to open it. He knew it must contain bad news of his friend's health.
"But read it, Mr. Haveloc," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had stood glancing over one or two indifferent letters, while he was hesitating. "You would not stand on ceremony with me."
He tore it open with trembling hands, and read the following lines:—
"I am desired by Mr. Grey to summon you to Ashdale. He is very ill; and I tell you now, because it is easier to write than to speak it; that we must meet and part as strangers."