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CHAPTER III

 
Ansel.     His food—sharp sorrow, ever galling doubt,
Fear, that aye nettles near the core of love—
And long suspense that maketh faint the heart;
Patience it may be, and much jealousy,
And all that fretteth youth to timeless age.
Isa.          And what the recompence?
Ansel.      To sleep awhile;
Dreaming of fairy worlds bestrewn with flowers.
And close companionship of equal hearts;
Warm, faultless, kind, unspotted, human hearts!
Of hope so bright, as never felt a care,
And love, that if care was, would smile it down.
Then wake—like Ariadne on the shore,
To battle with the tempest—but alone!
 

ANON.

Aveline was up the next morning as early as she had threatened; and with the restlessness peculiar to her complaint, she was not content with a walk to the fisher man's cottage to buy prawns, but when she returned, finding that it still wanted some minutes to breakfast time, she wandered out into the garden, and began working at the flower-beds.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was perfectly astonished when she came down to find her daughter weeding and hoeing, in her straw bonnet and garden gloves.

"I really cannot help it, mamma," was Aveline's reply to Mrs. Fitzpatrick's remonstrances; "it is so pleasant to feel better, that I could not resist a little independence of action. I have made your petunias look quite another thing."

"Here are some beautiful strawberries, Aveline," said her mother, "if you go out rambling to-day you must fortify yourself with a good breakfast."

"Yes! not strawberries, mamma. I will try some prawns. Jane's brother caught these. Tom. I don't know if you have ever seen him. There are two Toms. The other one is a cousin, and not nearly so good as the real Tom, Brand's eldest boy. I am afraid the other Tom is rather suspected of smuggling; but then what a temptation. This is just the coast for adventure."

"But all this time, Aveline, you are eating nothing," said her mother, looking anxiously at the trembling hands with which she held her tea-cup.

"Presently, mamma. I always need a little self-encouragement before I begin anything so important as breakfast. No, I think I will not venture on the prawns. I will take some strawberries; they are too fine to be wasted. I am going to have some cream with them—to make quite a feast, as the little children call it. And now, mamma, you must have one half, and I will take the other."

Aveline having divided the strawberries, tasted them, and they shared the same fate with the prawns; then she broke a delicate crust off the little loaf, and having tasted that, declared that she had finished her breakfast, and that as soon as Mark could clear away, she meant to sit down to her drawing for a little while.

"You must not undertake too much, Aveline," said her mother. "Remember that you can only expect to get well by degrees."

Aveline laughed and brought forward her portfolio to select a sketch.

"This is the one I wished to finish, mamma," she said. "Brand's cottage, with all those good masses of rock behind it, and the nets and children at the door. I sketched it before I went abroad."

"Let me rub your colours for you," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, taking a cake from her daughter's unsteady hand.

"Thank you, mamma. I am really very idle to let you do it for me," said Aveline, setting to work hurriedly. "I feel at home with my pencil. I wish I could model a little better. There is something so incomplete in all my busts; but that must be a consideration for the future. When I get strong, I shall delight in improving myself in sculpture."

"My love, that is the last thing I am anxious about," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "You do already much more than most girls, and most grown women. Whatever study you have pursued, you know thoroughly."

"Yes, to a certain point; but how much I have before me. There is such a pleasure in acquiring knowledge."

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was turning over her daughter's portfolio.

"Where is that beautiful drawing, Aveline, which I used to think your best? That part of the coast, near Sorrento, at low water."

"I have not kept it, mamma."

"Did you give it away, my dear?" asked Mrs. Fitzpatrick with a smile. For it was at Sorrento that Mr. Haveloc had been very much with them; and, during the progress of the drawing, as he was very fond of the art, and a pretty good draughts-man himself, he had often interfered, greatly to the benefit of the picture, as Aveline then declared.

"No, mamma," said Aveline, after a pause.

"Have you lost it then?" asked Mrs. Fitzpatrick, thinking it not unlikely that Mr. Haveloc might have stolen it as a remembrance of the hours they had passed together.

"No, mamma," said Aveline speaking very distinctly, but with much effort. "I destroyed it."

"And why, dearest?"

"I thought it wisest, mamma," said Aveline, going rapidly on with her drawing.

"Dear Aveline," said her mother, taking her in her arms. "Now that we are at home, and at rest—are you unhappy?"

"No, no, indeed, mamma!" said Aveline, hiding her face upon her mother's shoulder. "Not unhappy! Nobody can tell but myself how deeply I have longed for home and rest; often, when I have thought I should never rest again."

"But how was that, my Aveline?"

"It was not that I did not despise myself every day and every hour for my folly," said Aveline, plunging at once into the confession that she had often longed to make. "It was no cherished weakness, you will believe that, mamma."

"I do, my dear."

"And it was not because he defended us from the brigands. I know it is common enough for men to be brave. But then he thought so little of it—he always made so light of it; and we should have never known he had been wounded, if his man had not told our courier, when we met at Sorrento."

Mrs. Fitzpatrick pressed her daughter's hand.

"And then seeing him day by day at Sorrento; although he never said any thing that might lead me to think he noticed me more than a sick child. Always so kind—more than attentive; so vigilant that I should not be fatigued. So active in choosing resting places for us on the shore, and finding views for sketching; and I watching every time he spoke for some word that might show I was as much treasured in his secret heart, as he was in mine;—it was almost too hard. Oh! how glad I was when he left Sorrento. And yet it seemed so dreary that I was glad to go too. Then, I had nothing to do but to forget all that was past; and that was hard. There was that drawing—he had helped me with the sky, and most of the distance. I destroyed that, when I found myself always looking at it; and the cornelian amulet, that he used to laugh at me for wearing. I gave it to Mrs. Maxwell Dorset, you remember."

"Mrs. Maxwell Dorset said that he had made her acquaintance at Florence, did she not?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, anxious to lead her daughter to talk of this, as of an indifferent subject.

"Yes," she said, "he was a great pet of hers. He gave her that bracelet of purple enamel with the diamond head. I should be very sorry to be ungrateful mamma, but I thought—"

"What, my dearest?"

"I thought a woman should be very old, to talk as she used to do about Mr. Haveloc and Mr. Leslie. I saw a great deal of her you know, when you were out arranging our journey home with Johannot."

"I should be sorry to see you imitate that, or any other freedom of manner," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "because I consider it very ungraceful; but I am persuaded that with Mrs. Maxwell Dorset, it was only manner. Mr. Leslie you know was a clergyman, and Mrs. Maxwell says she never likes to be without the intimate acquaintance of a clergyman. She considers it so advantageous both for herself; and for her children. Mr. Leslie came twice a week to explain the bible to her girls."

This was true enough; but Aveline remembered that Mrs. Maxwell Dorset's remarks about Mr. Leslie, who was really a most excellent and earnest young man in the discharge of his duty, had been confined to repeated eulogiums upon his teeth, and his hands, and had never touched upon the doctrines which he wished to inculcate.

She said, however, that Mrs. Maxwell Dorset had been most kind to them when they most needed it; and that she should be very sorry to form a harsh judgment of her foibles. And then having talked too long upon subjects of an exciting nature, she brought on a severe fit of coughing, which Mrs. Fitzpatrick attributed to her having bent so much over her drawing.

"It is very odd we cannot get rid of that cough of yours, Aveline," she said. "Here comes Mr. Lindsay, we must consult with him about it."

Aveline was flushed with coughing, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure at the sight of her great favourite, Mr. Lindsay; so that when he dismounted, and came in at the open window, he could hardly be expected to detect through the eagerness of her warm welcome, any strong trace of indisposition.

"Nothing the matter with you, I see!" were his first words to her.

"Indeed, there is, Mr. Lindsay," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "There is still something left for you to do with her. She cannot be quite right with that troublesome cough." And Mrs. Fitzpatrick fixed her black eyes upon Mr. Lindsay's immoveable countenance, with a scrutiny that it was not easy to avoid.

"I wish you would not feel my pulse, doctor," said Aveline, using a term she often playfully applied to Mr. Lindsay. "It always makes me faint."

"There then," said he removing his fingers, "you have not left any of your fancies behind you. I wish you had, or your cough!"

"You despise foreigners almost as much as Mrs. Grant," said Aveline laughing; "but you cannot deny that I have gained a great deal by my absence."

"Gained. Yes; an inch or more. Were you not tall enough before you went?" said Mr. Lindsay, surveying her from head to foot.

"You are as tiresome as ever," said Aveline. "I have gained strength, spirits, and appetite!"

"What did you eat for breakfast?" asked Mr. Lindsay suddenly.

"Oh! breakfast. That is never a good meal with me. I could eat half a chicken for dinner," said Aveline, still laughing.

"Well, I suppose you want me to send you some medicine," said Mr. Lindsay, taking up his hat; "people are never contented without it, whether they need it or not."

"But do I not need it?" asked Aveline.

"No."

"What shall I take for my cough then?"

"Cherries, shrimps, tamarinds, whatever you like."

"And why are you running away?"

"Because I am going to see a woman who really wants me and my physic."

"Anybody I know?"

"A Mrs. Brand. I cannot tell how far your circle of acquaintance may extend."

"To be sure I know her. Brand's wife mamma! She is always sickly. Do you think her worse?"

"Why, yes—rather."

"And will she get well?"

"Perhaps. I am doubtful about it."

"Oh, dear! with all those poor little children."

"She would be much more likely to get well without the poor little children."

"And what could we send her that would be of use?"

"Chicken broth, port wine, brandy, if she could keep it from her husband."

"Oh, yes! he is a very good man. He never drinks."

"Excellent. Good bye to you," and the doctor stepped out upon the terrace. Mrs. Fitzpatrick followed him.

"What do you think of her, Mr. Lindsay?" she asked.

"I hardly know yet. I am not quite satisfied with her pulse; but I must see her when she has recovered the fatigue of her journey."

"And have you no advice to give me in the meantime?"

"Care—care—care. You know my axiom," said the doctor as he mounted his horse. "A better one I warrant, than that of Demosthenes."

"But you are really oracular this morning."

"Keep her mind quiet," said Mr. Lindsay gathering up the bridle, "and if she cries for the moon, let her have it."

And having given utterance to this easy and infallible receipt, galloped off. Yes, it was very pleasant to be told that she must keep her daughter's mind quiet, when she had just learned that Aveline was engaged in one long hopeless struggle against an attachment that had never been declared, or sought, or requited.

It had often crossed her mind at Sorrento, that Mr. Haveloc must admire her daughter; but she had never alluded to the subject, even in jest; because hers was a mind to treat all grave matters gravely; and because she did not think it very conducive to the delicacy of a young girl to jest with her upon the impression she might have made upon a man, particularly while the fact was yet uncertain. And she believed that Aveline never gave him a thought; nor did she herself, farther than she need, take any trouble to keep them out of each other's way, because there would be no reason to object to it, if they should take a fancy to each other.

How deeply she repented of her blindness; how bitterly she recalled the frequent morning walks, the sketching, the sailing parties; from which, indeed, she could hardly have excluded Mr. Haveloc, all things considered; but from which she might have contrived to omit Aveline. She gazed down the rough pathway from which Mr. Lindsay had long vanished, and again repeated to herself, "Keep her mind quiet!"

CHAPTER IV

 
They ben so well thewed and so wise
Whatever that good old man bespake.
 

SPENSER.

 
Might'st thou perceive austerely in his eye
That he did plead in earnest, yea or no?
Look'd he, or red, or pale, or sad, or merrily?
What observation mad'st thou in this case.
 

SHAKESPEARE.

Nothing more endeared Margaret to her uncle, than the manner in which she took Mr. Haveloc's departure.

A little more grave, a little more silent than usual, she seemed only solicitous that Mr. Grey should not miss his companionship more than could be helped. She had not an instant's fear that his affection would undergo any change; her regrets at parting with him were unmixed with doubt for the future; they were simply those of separating for so long from a person whom she loved.

One evening, when she was leaning upon Mr. Grey's arm-chair, placed as usual at the window, with the moonlight streaming over the grounds, much as when she had taken her last walk upon the terrace with Mr. Haveloc, her uncle seemed to think he might touch upon the subject without exciting her feelings too painfully.

"You are thinking of Claude, my love," said he taking her hand which rested on the back of his chair, and drawing it down over his shoulder.

"Yes uncle," said Margaret.

"Very natural," returned Mr. Grey. "I dare say he is thinking of you."

"I think he is," replied Margaret quietly.

"He agreed not to write to you, you know, my dear," said her uncle; "but I promised him one thing which might look like an infringement of our compact. If my health should become materially worse, a letter directed to Tynebrook will be forwarded to him, wherever he may be, and he will come to us immediately; so that if I should be too ill to write, Margaret, you will know what to do. It is right if you are deprived of one protector, that I should procure you another."

"Oh! uncle, if you would not talk—if you would not imagine such things," said Margaret, melting into tears.

"Well, my dear child, I will not say any more about it; we will change the subject. What do you think? The last night Claude was with me, I told him that it was my intention to leave my estate, with some few reservations, to you. Well—but don't cry at that, my child: I never heard that any man died the sooner for making his will. But Claude decidedly opposed my intention; he said, his own fortune was so ample as to make so large an addition to it quite unnecessary; that he disapproved the plan of heaping up those immense properties; that my estate would be the means of making some other relative easy in his circumstances; and that he thought he was speaking your sentiments as well as his own, when he resolutely declined my offer."

"Quite. He understands me," whispered Margaret through her tears.

"So then, Margaret, if he stands the test of time, you may be very happy together," said Mr. Grey.

"If!—oh, uncle! I have not a doubt."

"Do not have," said Mr. Grey. "Trust always, my child; but here comes the urn, and Casement too, I declare."

"Hollo! little woman, where's Master Claude?" was Mr. Casement's first salutation, after he had carefully peeped on each side of the urn, as if in search of the missing gentleman.

"Gone, Sir; several days ago," said Margaret, pursuing her occupation.

"Gone, eh? And where?"

"I don't know, Sir."

"Not in his confidence then, it seems."

"Think of that, Mr. Casement," said Margaret, looking up with an arch laugh.

"How was it?" asked Mr. Casement, dragging his chair as close to hers as possible, "tell me all about it. Did Master Grey cut up rough?"

Margaret looked puzzled, for she did not understand the phrase employed; but she turned to her uncle.

"Did you, Uncle Grey?" she said.

"He does not know what he is talking about, my dear," said Mr. Grey.

"Don't I?" said Mr. Casement. "You thought, little woman, that I did not know any of your proceedings with Master Hubert."

"I did not think about it, Sir," said Margaret, turning away.

"I suppose Elizabeth Gage has quite cut you now?" pursued Mr. Casement.

"No, she has not, Sir; for I dine at Chirke Weston to-morrow."

"Then give my love to her," said Mr. Casement; "and tell her that I have held her engaged to me for the last ten years. I don't know when I shall claim her, but it is as well to remind her occasionally."

When she arrived at Captain Gage's next day, Elizabeth was alone in the drawing-room, dressed with her usual costly simplicity.

She was seated reading in an arm-chair by the open window, and Margaret could not help being newly struck with the grand and statuesque style of her beauty. From her height, the calm regularity of her features, the plain arrangement of her abundant hair, and the dignity of her attitude, she might have served as a model for Minerva.

Elizabeth's welcome was as warm as ever.

"You will find my father in a great bustle," said she, as soon as Margaret was seated. "Sir Philip d'Eyncourt has arrived. You have heard of him?"

"Yes; I have heard his name," said Margaret.

"He has come home in very bad health," said Elizabeth, "and has been obliged to abandon a survey which he considered of great importance, and for which he was peculiarly fitted from his scientific knowledge. My father quite enjoys the idea of having somebody to take care of. He pets me; but I never have anything the matter with me."

Captain Gage now came into the room, shook hands with Margaret, and assured her that she was looking remarkably well; and then told his daughter that Sir Philip would be down presently; that he had insisted on their not delaying dinner: that he was looking very ill, but that Bessy must not judge of him from his present appearance. And then he hurried out again to see how his guest was getting on.

Elizabeth Gage had not seen Sir Philip d'Eyncourt since she was a child. She remembered then that he had taken great notice of her, as young men are apt to do of handsome children. But her impressions of him, dated not from the scanty recollections she entertained of himself, but from the very high opinion that her father always expressed of his talents and character.

Her father never threw away his praise; therefore, Sir Philip must be everything that was admirable.

She wished very much to see him, and become acquainted with him, but she recognised him completely as her father's guest; and though she would gladly have shown her respect for his character, by contributing in any way to his comfort, yet she thought that as an invalid, and, in some respects, a disappointed man, the most agreeable thing for him was to be let alone.

"I am quite anxious to see him after so many years," said Elizabeth, turning slightly towards the door as her father and his guest entered. Sir Philip was tall and dark; with a head like the portraits in Elizabeth's reign. Wide across the brows, and narrow at the chin. He was very grave and quiet in his manner; seemed in wretched health; sat down without speaking, after having bowed to the two ladies, and remained perfectly still and silent in a corner of the sofa.

"You can hardly recollect Bessy, I suppose," said Captain Gage, turning to Sir Philip.

"No; it is so many years since I had the pleasure of seeing Miss Gage," said he, turning his eyes in the direction of Elizabeth, who was showing Margaret some specimens of carved ivory at a table.

She coloured a little; but she reflected that there was nothing to wonder at in his memory being worse than her own. He had seen many pretty children; she had seen but one Sir Philip d'Eyncourt.

"Do you think Bessy like Hubert?" asked Captain Gage, who seemed resolved not to let Sir Philip alone on the subject of his daughter.

Sir Philip did not see the likeness.

"Now that vexes me, Sir Philip," said Elizabeth, looking up with her usual candour. "I am very fond of being considered like Hubert."

Sir Philip smiled, but made no reply.

"You think so, do you not?" asked Captain Gage of Margaret, with a mischievous smile.

This was rather hard upon her; she blushed very deeply, and assented.

Captain Gage enjoyed her confusion. He was as kind to her as ever: he would have liked her to marry Hubert, because his son had set his heart upon it; and he was very well pleased that it had come to nothing, because he thought the boy a great deal too young to think of settling. It would, indeed, have been difficult to disturb his equanimity. In the days of George's extravagance, he paid his bills with a composure that made that gentleman's intimate friends wish that Heaven had provided them with father's exactly on the same pattern; and he took all Hubert's perverseness, after the first irritation, with the greatest forbearance; only begging that he might be informed when it was his pleasure to go to sea again, as he did not wish a second time to exert his influence for nothing.

Dinner was announced; Captain Gage took possession of Margaret, and Elizabeth knowing that Sir Philip must offer her his arm, with a slight colour, a slight embarrassment that became her infinitely, went towards him to save him the exertion of crossing to her side of the room. He met her with a smile that seemed at once to comprehend, and to be grateful for her consideration.

The thing that Captain Gage most ardently desired on earth was the marriage of Elizabeth with Sir Philip; but this wish he very prudently kept to himself. He was very glad to see that she had on her cameos and her white silk, and that her hair was dressed to admiration; for the rest, it might, he thought, be safely left to time.

"I should like you to see Creswick," said Captain Gage, "it is for sale; if you would buy it, we should be sure of a pleasant neighbour. I will drive you over there to-morrow."

"Thank you," said Sir Philip, "it would be an inducement; but I believe I must content myself with Sherleigh."

"Sherleigh, is magnificent I know;" said Captain Gage, "but Creswick would be just the thing for a shooting-box. Are you fond of shooting? Oh! I recollect having many a day's sport with you in Antigua."

"Parrot shooting;" said Sir Philip, "there was no great skill required there. No; I have outlived my taste for field sports."

"You had only to fire into a tree, and they came down like cock-chaffers," said Captain Gage, turning to Margaret. "Why Bessy, what makes you in such a hurry?" Elizabeth rose to leave the room; and when her father joined her in the drawing-room, he brought a civil message from Sir Philip, that he regretted not seeing Miss Gage again, but that his physician had enjoined him to retire early.