“Whenever Captain Forester is quite able to bear the fatigue,
Sullivan,--mind that you say 'quite able,'--it will give me much
pleasure to receive him.”
Such was the answer Lady Eleanor Darcy returned to a polite message from
the young officer, expressing his desire to visit Lady Eleanor and
thank her for the unwearied kindness she had bestowed on him during his
illness.
Lady Eleanor and her daughter were seated in the same chamber in which
they have already been introduced to the reader. It was towards the
close of a dark and gloomy day, the air heavy and overcast towards the
land, while, over the sea, masses of black, misshapen cloud were drifted
along hurriedly, the presage of a coming storm. The pine wood blazed
brightly on the wide hearth, and threw its mellow lustre over the
antique carvings and the porcelain ornaments of the chamber, contrasting
the glow of in-door comfort with the bleak and cheerless look of all
without, where the crashing noise of breaking branches mingled with the
yet sadder sound of the swollen torrent from the mountain.
It may be remarked that persons who have lived much on the seaside,
and near a coast abounding in difficulties or dangers, are far more
susceptible of the influences of weather than those who pass their
lives inland. Storm and shipwreck become, in a measure, inseparably
associated. The loud beating of the waves upon the rocky shore, the
deafening thunder of the swollen breakers, speak with a voice to _their_
hearts, full of most meaning terror. The moaning accents of the spent
wind, and the wailing cry of the petrel, awake thoughts of those who
journey over “the great waters,” amid perils more dreadful than all of
man's devising.
Partly from these causes, partly from influences of a different kind,
both mother and daughter felt unusually sad and depressed, and had
sat for a long interval without speaking, when Forester's message was
delivered, requesting leave to pay his personal respects.
Had the visit been one of mere ceremony, Lady Eleanor would have
declined it at once; her thoughts were wandering far away, engrossed by
topics of dear and painful interest, and she would not have constrained
herself to change their current and direction for an ordinary matter of
conventional intercourse. But this was a different case; it was her son
Lionel's friend, his chosen companion among his brother officers, the
guest, too, who, wounded and almost dying beneath her roof, had been a
charge of intense anxiety to her for weeks past.
“There is something strange, Helen, is there not, in this notion of
acquaintanceship with one we have never seen; but now, after weeks of
watching and inquiry, after nights of anxiety and days of care, I feel
as if I ought to be very intimate with this same friend of Lionel's.”
“It is more for that very reason, Mamma, and simply because he is
Lionel's friend.”
“No, my dear child, not so; it is the tie that binds us to all for whom
we have felt interested, and in whose sorrows we have taken a share.
Lionel has doubtless many friends in his regiment, and yet it is very
unlikely any of them would cause me even a momentary impatience to see
and know what they are like.”
“And do you confess to such in the present case?” said Helen, smiling.
“I own it, I have a strange feeling of half curiosity, and should
be disappointed if the real Captain Forester does not come up to the
standard of the ideal one.”
“Captain Forester, my Lady,” said Sullivan, as he threw open the door of
the apartment, and, with a step which all his efforts could not render
firm, and a frame greatly reduced by suffering, he entered. So little
was he prepared for the appearance of the ladies who now stood to
receive him, that, despite his habitual tact, a slight expression of
surprise marked his features, and a heightened color dyed his cheek as
he saluted them in turn.
With an air which perfectly blended kindliness and grace, Lady Eleanor
held out her hand, and said, “My daughter, Captain Forester;” and then,
pointing to a chair beside her own, begged of him to be seated.
The unaccustomed exertion, the feeling of surprise, and the nervous
irritability of convalescence, all conspired to make Forester ill at
ease, and it was with a low, faint sigh he sank into the chair.
“I had hoped, madam,” said he, in a weak and tremulous accent,--“I had
hoped to be able to speak my gratitude to you,--to express at least
some portion of what I feel for kindness to which I owe my life; but
the greatness of the obligation would seem too much for such strength as
mine. I must leave it to my mother to say how deeply your kindness has
affected us.”
The accents in which these few words were uttered, particularly that
which marked the mention of his mother, seemed to strike a chord in
Lady Eleanor's heart, and her hand trembled as she took from Forester a
sealed letter which he withdrew from another.
“Julia Wallincourt,” said Lady Eleanor, unconsciously reading half aloud
the signature on the envelope of the letter.
“My mother, madam,” said Forester, bowing.
“The Countess of Wallincourt!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, with a heightened
color and a look of excited and even anxious import.
“Yes, madam, the widowed Countess of the Earl of Wallincourt, late
Ambassador at Madrid; am I to have the happiness of hearing that my
mother is known to you?”
“I had, sir, the pleasure,--the honor of meeting Lady Julia D'Esterre;
to have enjoyed that pleasure, even once, is quite enough never to
forget it.” Then, turning to her daughter, she added: “You have often
heard me speak of Lady Julia's beauty, Helen; she was certainly the
most lovely person I ever saw, but the charm of her appearance was even
inferior to the fascination of her manner.”
“She retains it all, madam,” cried Forester, as his eyes sparkled
with enthusiastic delight; “she has lost nothing of that power of
captivating; and as for beauty, I confess I know nothing higher in
that quality than what conveys elevation of sentiment, with purity and
tenderness of heart: this she possesses still.”
“And your elder brother, Captain Forester?” inquired Lady Eleanor, with
a manner intended to express interest, but in reality meant to direct
the conversation into another channel.
“He is in Spain still, madam; he was Secretary of the Embassy when my
father died, and replaced him in the mission.”
There was a pause, a long and chilling silence, after these words, that
each party felt embarrassing, and yet were unable to break; at last
Forester, turning towards Helen, asked “when she had heard from her
brother?”
“Not for some days past,” replied she; “but Lionel is such an irregular
correspondent, we think nothing of his long intervals of silence. You
have heard of his promotion, perhaps?”
“No; pray let me learn the good news.”
“He has got his company. Some very unexpected--I might say, from
Lionel's account, some very inexplicable--piece of good fortune has
aided his advancement, and he now writes himself, greatly to his own
delight, it would appear, Captain Darcy.”
“His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales,” said Lady Eleanor, with a look
of pride, “has been pleased to notice my son, and has appointed him an
extra aide-de-camp.”
“Indeed!” cried Forester; “I am rejoiced at it, with all my heart. I
always thought, if the Prince were to know him, he 'd be charmed with
his agreeability. Lionel has the very qualities that win their way
at Carlton House: buoyant spirit, courtly address, tact equal to any
emergency,--all these are his; and the Prince likes to see handsome
fellows about his Court. I am overjoyed at this piece of intelligence.”
There was a hearty frankness with which he spoke this that captivated
both mother and daughter.
There are few more winning traits of human nature than the unaffected,
heartfelt admiration of one young man for the qualities and endowments
of another, and never are they more likely to meet appreciation than
when exhibited in presence of the mother of the lauded one. And thus the
simple expression of Forester's delight at his friend's advancement went
further to exalt himself in the good graces of Lady Eleanor than the
display of any powers of pleasing, however ingeniously or artfully
exercised.
As through the openings of a dense wood we come unexpectedly upon a view
of a wide tract of country, unfolding features of landscape unthought of
and unlooked for, so occasionally doth it happen that, in conversation,
a chance allusion, a mere word, will develop sources of interest buried
up to that very moment, and display themes of mutual enjoyment which
were unknown before. This was now the case. Lionel's name, which evoked
the mother's pride and the sister's affection, called also into play the
generous warmth of Forester's attachment to him.
Thus pleasantly glided on the hours, and none remarked how time was
passing, or even heeded the howling storm that raged without, while
anecdotes and traits of Lionel were recorded, and comments passed upon
his character and temper such as a friend might utter and a mother love
to hear.
At last Forester rose. More than once during the interview a
consciousness crossed his mind that he was outstaying the ordinary
limits of a visit; but at each moment some observation of Lady Eleanor
or her daughter, or some newly remembered incident in Lionel's career,
would occur, and delay his departure. At last he stood up, and, warned
by the thickening darkness of how time had sped, was endeavoring to
mutter some words of apology, when Lady Eleanor interrupted him with,--
“Pray do not let us suppose you felt the hours too long, Captain
Forester; the theme you selected will always make my daughter and
myself insensible to the lapse of time. If I did not fear we should be
trespassing on both your kindness and health together, I should venture
to request you would dine with us.”
Forester's sparkling eyes and flushed cheek replied to the invitation
before he had words to say how gladly he accepted it.
“I feel more reconciled to making this request, sir,” said Lady Eleanor,
“because in your present state of weakness you cannot enjoy the society
of a pleasanter party, and it is a fortunate thing that you can combine
a prudent action with a kind one.”
Forester appreciated the flattery of the remark, and, with a broken
acknowledgment of its import, moved towards the door.
“No, no,” said Lady Eleanor, “pray don't think of dressing; you have all
the privilege of an invalid, and a--friend also.”
The pause which preceded the word brought a slight blush into her cheek,
but when it was uttered, she seemed to have resumed her self-possession.
“We shall leave you now with the newspapers, which I suppose you are
longing to look at, and join you at the dinner-table.” And as she spoke,
she took her daughter's arm and passed into an adjoining room, leaving
Forester in one of those pleasant reveries which so often break in upon
the hours of returning health, and compensate for all the sufferings of
a sick-bed.
“How strange and how unceasing are the anomalies of Irish life!”
thought he, as he sat alone, ruminating on the past. “Splendor, poverty,
elevation of sentiment, savage ferocity, delicacy the most refined,
barbarism the most revolting, pass before the mind's eye in the quick
succession of the objects in a magic lantern. Here, in these few
weeks, what characters and incidents have been revealed to me! and how
invariably have I found myself wrong in every effort to decipher
them! Nor are the indications of mind and temper in themselves so
very singular, as the fact of meeting them under circumstances and in
situations so unlikely. For instance, who would have expected to see
a Lady Eleanor Darcy here, in this wild region, with all the polished
grace and dignity of manner the best circles alone possess; and her
daughter, haughtier, perhaps, than the mother, more reserved, more timid
it may be, and yet with all the elegance of a Court in every gesture
and every movement. Lionel told me she was handsome,--he might have
said downright beautiful. Where were these, fascinations nurtured and
cultivated? Is it here, on the margin of this lonely bay, amid scenes of
reckless dissipation?”
Of this kind were his musings; nor, amid them all, did one thought
obtrude of the cause which threw him first into such companionship,
nor of that mission, to discharge which was the end and object of his
coming.