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FIRST LOVE.
A NOVEL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET.
1830.
GUNNELL AND SHEARMAN, SALISBURY SQUARE.
FIRST LOVE.
CHAPTER I.
“Then sweetly in seraphic strain returns,
From ev’ry farthest arch, and highest cell.”
During the day, Lord Borrowdale’s attentions to Julia were public and
unremitting, while the infatuated, unhappy Edmund witnessed it all in
growing sorrow of heart. Had he then, he asked himself, already yielded
to a passion so irrational, so dishonourable?—No. He was not quite so
mad—quite so base. Had he not always loved Julia? loved her when she was
a child—when there could be nothing questionable in the nature of his
attachment?—Certainly he had, sincerely, fondly loved her.
Julia, too, in the course of the day, felt a little uncomfortable; she
thought that, notwithstanding the friendly conversation of the morning,
Edmund, some how, did not seem satisfied. He was not cheerful, he was
not frank and obliging as usual; he was not, in short, the least like
himself! Could it be, that he fancied he had been but coolly received on
his return? Frances and herself used always to make such rejoicing when
he came home; but that was when they were children. And yesterday, there
was such a hurry with company—yet, possibly, Edmund might have thought
it proceeded from silly pride, because there were strangers by, or some
such worthless feeling! She longed for an opportunity of speaking to him
kindly on the subject, and doing away with such an idea, if indeed it
existed. But he now rather seemed to avoid her, while Lady Susan always
happened to be speaking to him just when she was intending to do so.
At dinner, Lord Borrowdale handed in Julia; for Lord Morven appeared
to think it necessary to resign in his favour. Not so Henry, who not
only secured the place on the other side of our heroine, but contrived
to engross much of her conversation. This was but poor consolation to
Edmund; it argued indifference to Lord Borrowdale, certainly; but then
Henry, though without title, was at least nearly her equal in birth,
being her own cousin. And it was possible—barely possible, that she might
be attached to him: he had been at home once or twice when it had not
been in Edmund’s power to return. His observations this morning might
have been prompted by jealousy.
After dinner preparations were made for a sail on the lake. Edmund
observed Lord Borrowdale, from the moment they left the house, eagerly
secure to himself the care of Julia. He, however, walked on the other
side. But Lady Susan, passing them as they arrived at the place of
embarkation, ran on the gang-board alone; then, stopping half way in
alarm, and balancing herself with difficulty, yet refusing the aid of the
bargemen, she called on Captain Montgomery for his assistance, declaring
he was the only person who understood boats, and that she should not
consider herself safe in any other hands. The gallant Captain could not
disobey the summons, nor, having obeyed it, avoid continuing his especial
protection to the lady; while Henry coming up at the moment, drew
Julia’s arm over his with all the freedom of cousinship. The boats, after
crossing the lake, coasted along beneath the shade of trees, which hung
from the steep rocks almost into the water, while the bare mountain tops,
towering far above, were canopied by the heavens, and again reflected in
the clear lake, where yet another sky appeared as far beneath.
“This—this is the spot!” exclaimed Mr. Jackson, “to try the effect of the
echoes.” They had arrived, as he spoke, opposite the opening to a little
valley. A chain of stupendous mountains arose on either side, and one of
a conical form, partly shrouded in a white mist which had rolled up from
the lake, terminated the far perspective.
The rowers lay on their oars, and the French-horns commenced an air.
Immediately, a gigantic voice from within the steep side of the nearest
mountain took it up; the next joined in, and the next; but each less
loud, till the receding echoes, in journeying round the lake, reached
rugged Borrowdale: there they seemed broken off for some seconds; but
soon a distant clamour arose, as proceeding from the thousand mountain
tops of that desolate region: the sounds were flung further and nearer,
then succeeded each other more rapidly, then became slower in their
repeats. At length they came forth again, and continued travelling
round the lake on the opposite side; but now, increasing in loudness as
they once more approached the boats, and loudest when they reached the
mountain which formed the second portal to the little valley already
described, and in front of the opening to which the boats still lay. Then
fainter, and fainter notes proceeded up the vale, and, at length, at its
furthest extremity, died away altogether.
After a pause of perfect silence, to ascertain that no return of the
echoes could be expected, Julia was eagerly called upon to sing. She
asked Edmund to join her in the echo duet, and smiled as she spoke to
him. Half his unhappiness vanished in a moment, and the song commenced.
The tones of Edmund’s voice were full and firm. His singing, however,
derived its principal charm from his manner, which had in it so much of
truth and nature, that you could almost fancy him one addressing you with
no object but to persuade by the purport of his words; while the mere
inflexions of the voice, in sympathising with that purport, unconsciously
formed themselves into varied and melodious harmonies.
As for Julia’s voice, it chanced to be one of those wonders, rare as the
blow of the aloe! Cultivation had, of course, not been spared; but it was
its native power and unexampled compass which were so remarkable. Its
variety of capabilities too delighted, for in soft or playful passages,
its tones had, as we have somewhere remarked, an almost infantine
sweetness. On the present occasion, the scenery, the music, the effect
of the echoes, all were inspirations; and the notes which escaped from
her lips, gradually arose, till imagination could fancy them travelling
on above the clouds, and the listeners felt an involuntary impulse to
look upwards, as in pursuit of them. Then, as the air varied, the voice
would suddenly fall full and plump on the truest and richest harmonies
below, while the higher tones were repeated far above by now receding,
now approaching echoes. Soon did the whole wild region round about seem
peopled by invisible beings; wandering voices called from every pointed
crag of every mountain top; while the steep-sided rock, near which the
boat still lay, appeared to contain some dark enchanter, who, all the
time in hurried and mysterious accents, spoke from within. Even every
little tufted island seemed to have its own, one, wild inhabitant; for
each, from some projecting point or hidden bower, sent forth a voice,
however faint in its tone or inarticulate in its utterance. Julia’s
enthusiasm arose so high, that she not only exerted every power of
her extraordinary voice, but, when she had concluded, forgetting how
considerable a part she had borne in the general concert, she cried,
“Beautiful! beautiful!” in absolute extacy at the echoes.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” exclaimed Edmund at the same moment, meaning,
probably, Julia’s singing, but certainly not his own.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” repeated the voice of thunder from within the
adjacent perpendicular rock.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” ran along the invisible orchestra above. Frances
could keep her countenance no longer at the self-gratulations of the
performers, visible and invisible; she laughed out, and a merry peal from
all the echoes followed immediately.
“This is too bad,” cried Mr. Jackson, starting, (to the great endangering
of the boat,) from the attitude of delighted attention in which he had,
since the commencement of the song, remained motionless, “this is too
bad, to break up the delicious spell with such a farce as this!”
The sun was now near setting: a homeward course was therefore proposed;
and the breeze being favourable, a sail was spread, which, not only
greatly assisted the rowers, but added much to the picturesque appearance
of the gay barge in which our party sat, as, quitting its coasting
position, it dipped like a white winged sea-bird into the dark bosom of
the lake, and crossed to the Keswick side.
When they were about to land, Edmund paused a moment to consider whether
he ought not to leave Julia to the care of Lord Borrowdale; but she
happened at the moment, to point out a well remembered landing-place,
beneath an overhanging bower of branches, reminding him how often he had
rowed Frances and herself to the spot, and remarking further, a little
path, sometimes discernible, among the trees in which they used to walk.
Such are the important events which change the resolves of lovers! He
gave up all thoughts of the sacrifice he had meditated; hastened to
assist her out of the boat; and, as she stepped on the beach, drew the
hand he held over his arm, and walked on unconscious of an accident which
followed immediately, and which we shall here describe. The hold of the
boat-hook on the roots of a stump giving way, the boat was sent, for a
few moments, a-drift; and not only was the bargeman, who stood with one
foot on the edge of the boat and the other on a projecting piece of rock,
precipitated into the water, but so also was Lord Borrowdale, who was,
at the instant, in the very act of leaping ashore to join our heroine.
This caused such immoderate laughing among the rest of the gentlemen, and
so much pretty terror among the ladies, that Edmund and Julia were not
missed till they became quite separated from the party. A most inviting
path lay before them, which, after ascending for a time, descended a
steep and wooded slope, to an overarched opening through the trees, just
where a single plank crossed a little stream, at a considerable height
from the water.
Arrived on this rustic bridge they stood, the beauty of the scene
suspending the hand of Edmund, which he had laid on a little paling gate
at its further extremity, with the purpose of opening it, as it formed
the barrier between our wanderers and a fresh cut hay-field.
The sun was so low in the horizon that the little mounds of grass which
every hand was hastily throwing up for the night at the far end of the
meadow, cast their lengthened shadows across half its extent, while the
setting beam was still bronzing their tops, together with the faces,
garments, and implements of the rustic groups employed around them. At
the same moment a full moon, just rising to view on the opposite verge of
the heavens, was glittering through the branches of some dark firs that
terminated the prospect in that direction.
Julia, who had several appropriate speeches ready, had been all day only
waiting for an opportunity to say them; for she had reasoned herself into
a belief that it would be dreadful to let Edmund think himself neglected
for newer or gayer objects; but, some how, all this preparation had made
a thing so simple in itself, as joking Edmund for being affronted, seem
quite awful; and in consequence, her heart was beating so fast, that she
was waiting for it to stop before she could begin to speak.
“Edmund,” she at length contrived to say, turning and offering her
hand; but the foolish fluttering of her heart redoubled, and she
stopped short. Edmund started, caught the offered hand, and, puzzled and
delighted, pressed it to his lips. She laughed, blushed, and drew her
hand away, saying—
“I see, Edmund, you are silly enough to be quite jealous.”
This was rather an unfortunate choice of expression; for Edmund,
colouring to excess, began to stammer out—“I—me—oh—a, I have a—I—”
“I dare say you think,” continued Julia, who had no suspicion of the
kind of jealousy, which on mention of the word, had presented itself to
Edmund’s fancy—“I dare say you think we did not appear as glad to see you
as usual, when you arrived so by surprise yesterday; but you came in in
so hurried a manner—and—among so many strangers—that—that—”
“Indeed, Julia, I—you—” again stammered Edmund.
“I am sure none of us intended to be unkind,” continued Julia, “—or less
glad, I mean, of your safe return.”
“You are too good to be unkind to any one, Julia,” said Edmund, with a
sigh. Julia still fancying his manner seemed strangely dissatisfied,
began to feel offended in her turn, and a rather awkward pause followed.
At length, she compelled herself to make another effort, and said, with a
reasoning tone—
“You cannot suppose, Edmund, that any of your friends at Lodore regard
you less, merely from your having been a few years from home! Indeed, if
you could know how highly, both grandmamma and Mr. Jackson always speak
of you, you would not think so!” He made no reply; for it was neither
grandmamma nor Mr. Jackson that he was thinking of.
“I believe,” she added, trying to laugh, “it really was all I had heard
about ‘Captain Montgomery, the gallant Captain Montgomery!’ which made
me find it so difficult to imagine Edmund, who used to play with Frances
and myself here in these woods, and the said terrible Captain fighting
the French and destroying the Turks on the high seas, one and the same
person!”
“Ungentle employment, it must be confessed!” he replied, with a faint
smile.
“Oh—I don’t mean that,” said Julia, “I—But really, Edmund, I think,”
she added, gravely, “I have made you apologies enough to restore any
reasonable being to good humour.”
“You make me apologies!” he commenced: but Julia, as she turned from
him, with something of indignation at his supposed obstinacy, forgetting
the narrow plank on which she stood, slipped her foot, and would
certainly have fallen into the water had he not caught her in his arms,
and lifted her to sure footing. Julia, partly from alarm, and partly from
the previous exertion of her spirits in saying so much, was a good deal
overcome, and even shed tears. The sight of these threw Edmund off his
guard. “Would to heaven, Julia!” he exclaimed, “that I were indeed your
brother! entitled to the happy privilege of guarding one more precious
than life from every danger! of sheltering one dearer than happiness
itself—from every sorrow!”
Thunderstruck at his own rashness, he ceased. A smile through her tears
was Julia’s reply; for, as she was not expecting, or thinking of a love
speech, she understood from what had been said, only that friendship
and good humour were restored, and Edmund become more like himself. A
long silence, however, followed: when Julia at last said, in rather a
hesitating manner, and at the same time with an effort at playfulness,
“Frances and I have always called you brother, you know, can you not
fancy yourself such, and take as good care of us as if you were really
our brother?”
This was a trying appeal; and the beating of Edmund’s heart, (closer to
which he imperceptibly drew Julia’s arm as she spoke) shewed him that
he must not trust himself with the use of language. Another silence,
therefore, followed, and they walked slowly on. In a little time, Edmund,
as if thinking aloud, gave, perhaps, unconscious utterance to what seemed
to be the result of his meditations, saying: “No, no!—it cannot be
required of me, to root out the permitted affections of childhood from my
heart!—It were too impossible!—too unnatural!”
“And who wishes you to do so?” asked his companion, with a quickness that
shewed how little she understood his feelings.
At this moment, the rest of the party came in sight at some distance;
and Edmund, as if fearful of interruption, turned suddenly round, and,
in hurried and agitated accents, said, “Julia! you permit me to feel for
you the affection of a brother! you permit me, you say, to evince that
feeling by care of your welfare, your safety, your happiness. Should I
ever be so unfortunate as to extend to what may seem presumption on your
goodness, the dear, the sacred privilege—check—but do not, do not utterly
condemn me!”
He paused a moment for breath, then, with effort, recommenced thus:
“Your family is the home of all my affections! Could it be—should it
be otherwise? Yet, in cherishing those affections, so natural, in my
circumstances, so inextinguishable, there may occur moments when I may be
tempted to forget that I myself stand alone, must ever stand alone, an
unconnected, a nameless stranger!”
Here the joining of the party as they came up, laughing and recounting
Lord Borrowdale’s adventure, put an end to this dangerous conference.
Its results, however, coloured the future destinies of both the young
people. If Edmund had previously formed safer resolves, they were now
lost in the belief that Julia was in no danger of discovering in him, or
sharing herself any sentiments, exceeding the bounds of that friendship
which it was, (under the circumstance,) but right and natural should
subsist between them; while any deficiency (he argued with himself) in
the manifestation of brotherly regard on his part, would require the
very explanation it was his duty not to make. He must, therefore, shew
her every silent, unpretending, affectionate attention; every mark of
brotherly regard; while his own imprudent passion must lie for ever
buried in his own bosom!
He must indeed correct its mad and wild intensity! The habit of being in
her society, would, he hoped, assist him to do so! would moderate the
extraordinary effect that society now had upon him! would enable him
to sober down his feelings into those of a truly affectionate brother,
really solicitous for the welfare of a sister he sincerely loves.