Gilbert reminds me that I had arranged my departure hence for to-morrow:
this was some weeks back, and now I have no intention of leaving. I
cling to this “Happy Valley,” as one clings to life. To me it is indeed
such. These days of sunshine and nights of starry brilliancy--this calm,
delicious water--these purpled mountains, glowing with richer tints
as day wears on, till at sunset they are one blaze of gorgeous
splendour,--the very plash of those tiny waves upon the rocky shore are
become to me like friendly sights and sounds, from which I cannot tear
myself. And Lucy, too, she is to me as a sister, so full of kind,
of watchful consideration about me; since her own health is so much
restored, all her anxiety would seem for mine. How puzzling is the
tone assumed by Sir Gordon towards me! It was only yesterday that, in
speaking of his granddaughter, he expressed himself in such terms of
gratitude to me for the improvement manifest in her health, as though I
had really been the main agent in effecting it. I, whose power has never
been greater than a heart-cherished wish that one so fair, so beautiful,
and so good, should live to grace and adorn the world she moves in! What
a strange race, what a hard-fought struggle, has been going on within me
for some time back! Ebbing life contesting with budding affection; the
calm aspect of coming death dashed by feelings and thoughts--ay, even
hopes I had believed long since at rest. I feel less that I love than
that I should love, if life were to be granted to me.
I believe it is the pursuit that in most cases suggests the passion;
that the effort we may make to win exalts the object we wish to
gain. Not so here, however. _If I do love_, it has been without any
consciousness. It is so seldom that one who has never had a sister
learns to know, in real intimacy, the whole heart and nature of a
young and lovely girl, with all its emotions of ever-changing hue, its
thousand caprices, its weakness, and its pride. To me this study--it has
been a study--has given an inexpressible interest to my life here.
And then to watch how gradually, almost imperceptibly to herself, the
discipline of her mind has been accomplished--checking wild flights of
fancy here, restraining rash impulses there, encouraging reflection,
conquering prejudices,--all these done without my bidding, and yet
palpably through my influence; What pleasant flattery!
One distressing thought never leaves me. It is this,--how will a nature
so attuned as hers stand the rude jars and discords of “the world?”
for, do how we will, screen the object of affection how we may from its
shocks and concussions, the stern realities of life will make themselves
felt. Hers is too impassioned a nature to bear such reverses, as the
most even current sustains, without injury. The very consciousness of
being mistaken in our opinions of people is a sore lesson; it is the
beginning of scepticism, to end--who can tell where?
She smiles whenever I lecture her upon any eccentricity of manner,
and evidently deems my formalism, as she calls it, a relic of my early
teaching. So, perhaps, it may be. No class of people are so unforgiving
to any thing like a peculiarity as your _Diplomates_. They know the
value of the impassive bearing that reveals nothing, and they carry
the reserve of office into all the relations of private life. She even
quizzes me about this, and says that I remind her of the old Austrian
envoy at Naples, who never ventured upon any thing more explicit than
the two phrases--_C’est dure_, or _C’est sûre_, ringing the changes of
these upon every piece of news that reached him. How altered am I, if
this judgment be correct! I, that was headstrong even to rashness, led
by every impulse, precipitate in every thing, ready to resign all, and
with one chance my favour to dare nine full against me!
But why wonder if I be so changed? How has life and every living object
changed its aspect to my eyes, rendering distasteful a thousand things
wherein I once took pleasure, and making of others that I deemed flat,
stale, and unprofitable, the greatest charms of my existence? What close
and searching scrutiny of motives creeps on with years! what distrust,
and what suspicion! It is this same sentiment--the fruit of a hundred
self-deceptions and disappointments--makes so many men, as they advance
in life, abjure Liberalism in politics, and lean to the side of Absolute
Rule. The “Practical” exercises the only influence on the mind tempered
by long experience; and the glorious tyranny of St. Peter’s is
infinitely preferable to the miscalled freedom of Popular Government.
The present Pope, however our Radical friends think of it, is no
unworthy successor of Hildebrand; and however plausible be the assumed
reforms in his States, the real thraldom, the great slavery, remains
untouched! “Hands Free, Souls Fettered,” is strange heraldry.
Why have these thoughts crept over me? I would rather dwell on very
different themes; but already, far over the mountains westward, comes
the distant sound of strife. The dark clouds that are hurrying over the
lofty summit of Monte Brisbone are wafted from regions where armed hosts
are gathering, and the cry of battle is heard; and Switzerland, whose
war-trophies have been won from the invader, is about to be torn by
civil strife. Even in my ride to-day towards Lugano, I met parties
of peasants armed, and wearing the cockade of Ticino in their hats,
hastening towards Capo di Lago. The spectacle was a sad one; the field
labours of the year, just begun, are already arrested; the plough is
seen standing in the unfinished furrow, and the team is away to share
the fortunes of its owners in the panoply of battle. These new-made
soldiers, too, with all the loutish indifference of the peasant in
their air, have none of the swaggering effrontery of regular troops,
and consequently present more palpably to the eye the sufferings of a
population given up to conscription and torn from their peaceful homes
to scenes of carnage and bloodshed, and for what?--for an opinion? for
even less than an opinion: for a suspicion--a mere doubt.
Who will be eager in this cause on either side? None, save those
that never are to mingle in the contest. The firebrand Journalist of
Geneva--the dark-intentioned Jesuit of Lucerne; these are they who will
accept of no quarter, nor listen to one cry of mercy: such, at least,
is the present aspect of the struggle. Lukewarmness, if not actual
repugnance, among the soldiery; hatred supplying all the enthusiasm of
those who hound them on.
The Howards are already uneasy at their vicinity to the seat of war,
and speak of proceeding southward; yet they will not hear of my leaving
them. I feel spell-bound, not only to them but to the very place itself;
a presentiment is upon me, that, after this, life will have no pleasure
left for me--that I go hence to solitude, to suffering, and to death!
A restless night, neither waking nor sleeping, but passed in wild,
strange fancies, of reality and fiction commingled; and now, I am
feverish and ill. The struggle against failing health is at last become
torture; for I feel--alas that I must say it!--the longing desire to
live. Towards daybreak I did sleep, and soundly; but I dreamed too--and
how happily! I fancied that I was suddenly restored to health, with all
the light-heartedness and spring of former days, and returning with my
bride to Walcott.
We were driving rapidly up the approach, catching glimpses at times of
the old abbey--now a gable--now some richly traceried pinnacle--some
quaint old chimney--some trellised porch. She was wild with delight, in
ecstasy at the sylvan beauty of the scene: the dark and silent wood--the
brown, clear river, beside the road--the cooing note of the wood-pigeon,
all telling of our own rural England. “Is not this better than ambition,
love?” said I. “Are not leafy groves, these moss-grown paths, more
peaceful than the high-roads of fame?” I felt her hand grasp mine
more closely, and I awoke--awoke to know that I was dreaming--that my
happiness was but a vision--my future a mere mockery.
Why should not Lucy see these scenes? She will return well and in
strength. I would that she would dwell, sometimes, at least, among the
places I have loved so much. I have often thought of making her my heir.
I have none to claim from me--none who need it. There is one clause,
however, she might object to, nay, perhaps, would certainly refuse. My
grand-uncle’s will makes it imperative that the property should always
descend to a Templeton.
What if she rejected the condition? It would fall heavily on me were she
to say “No.”
I will speak to Sir Gordon about this. I must choose my time, however,
and do it gravely and considerately, that he may not treat it as a mere
sick man’s fancy. Of course, I only intend that she should assume the
name and arms; but this branch of the Howards are strong about pedigree,
and call themselves older than the Norfolks.
So there is no time to be lost in execution of my plan. The Favancourts
are expected here to-morrow, on their way to Naples. The very thought of
their coming is misery to me. How I dread the _persiflage_ of the beauty
“_en vogue;_” the heartless raillery that is warmed by no genial trait;
the spiritless levity that smacks neither of wit nor buoyant youth, but
is the mere coinage of the salons! How I dread, too, lest Lucy should
imitate her! she so prone to catch up a trait of manner, or a trick of
gesture! And Lady Blanche can make herself fascinating enough to be a
model. To hear once more the dull recital of that world’s follies that
I have left, its endless round of tiresome vice, would be a heavy
infliction. Alas, that I should have gained no more by my experience
than to despise it! But stay--I see Sir Howard yonder, near the lake.
Now for my project!