“What moves thy spirit thus?”
Julia often happened to walk out before breakfast. Sometimes Frances was
with her, and sometimes not; but Edmund always happened to join her.
One morning the three were walking together; the sisters, with their
usual friendly familiarity, leaning each on an arm of our hero, whom they
always treated as a brother; when Frances began, in a laughing manner, to
ask him how soon his marriage with Lady Susan was to take place. Edmund
tried to smile, but sighed very heavily.
“No! so it is really serious!” cried Frances. Julia too, commenced a sort
of sigh, but, as soon as she was aware that she had done so, she closed
her lips, that the breath might descend without sound. Edmund, on whom,
as we have just observed, she was leaning, felt the slight movement, and
was strangely gratified; not that he presumed to assign any cause to the
sigh.
“You know, Frances,” he said, in reply to the question about Lady Susan,
“that business is completely a jest! I wonder, by the bye, her ladyship
is not offended at being made the subject of a jest. But, were it
otherwise,” he continued, with solemnity, “were she indeed the object of
an overwhelming passion—were she indeed the being whose looks, whose
words, whose smile gave value to each moment of existence—were she in
short the object of a _first love_, which you know they say cannot be
torn up without carrying with it the very fibres of the heart itself,
and leaving it incapable of future energy; (I do not say that I should
attempt to eradicate the sentiment, no, I should cherish its very
miseries as preferable far to the barren waste, the joyless void of a
heart weaned from love;) but such feelings, whatever it might cost me to
suppress them, should never be permitted to pass my lips, while mystery
hung over my birth.”
“But may you not be loved for your own sake, Edmund, whoever you
are?” said Frances, “and for the sake of the high character you have
established for yourself, as Mr. Jackson says? I am sure I could not love
you better, nor grandmamma, nor Julia, nor Mr. Jackson, if you turned
out to be the eldest son of his Majesty, and rightful heir to the throne
of Great Britain!”
Edmund looked round involuntarily towards Julia, but her eyes were on the
ground.
“I hope, Frances,” he said, in a mournful tone, “that I shall always
possess the kind regard of the friends you have named. This hope, indeed,
is and ever must be the only solace of my isolated, and, in all other
respects, hopeless existence!”
“Don’t speak that way, Edmund, you make me quite melancholy!” said
Frances, the tears starting into her eyes, as she held out her hand,
which Edmund snatched and kissed.
“You _hope_!” said Julia, in a tremulous tone, in which was something of
reproach. She looked up for a moment as she spoke, and Edmund saw the
glistening of tears in her eyes also.
“I am sure,” he said, “of every thing that is noble, every thing that
is generous, every thing that is kind.”—“That last word, Edmund,” said
Julia, interrupting him, “is more like the language of the friend you
ought to feel yourself among us.”
“Besides,” said Frances, continuing the former part of the subject,
“grandmamma and Mr. Jackson, you know, think it quite certain that you
are the son of a noble family.”
“Still, all is mystery!” he replied, mournfully, as his thoughts reverted
to the disgraceful possibility which had of late haunted his imagination,
that of his being yet proved the child of criminal, though, perhaps of
titled parents. “In short,” he continued, “a being, such as I am, must
drag out existence, a solitary wanderer, unconnected with any, but by
the ties of charity, of compassion.” After a pause, which neither of the
sisters had voice to interrupt, he re-commenced—
“Duty, Frances, must soon again call me from the too happy dream I have
lately enjoyed. Sometimes, indeed, in an hour of peace, I may, I shall,
return to happy, happy Lodore, the dear paradise of my childhood; and
from the generous friendship there granted me, derive gleams of felicity!
snatches of a joy that will render the rest of life, perhaps, more dark.”
He was silent a few seconds, then added, “Yet so precious will such
moments ever be to me, that I shall hold them cheaply purchased by the
dreary wretchedness that must precede and follow them!” Julia’s tears
flowed silently. Frances’s too, were again starting into her eyes. “Nay,
Edmund,” said the latter, “there is something more than usual in the
matter! this love, this First Love that you speak of so feelingly, I fear
is a serious business after all! for you never were in love before, I
suppose. But, indeed, you need not grieve so much; for I know—that is—at
least—I have no right, perhaps, to betray such a trust—but still—I am
perfectly certain that—that you will not be refused.”
“For heaven’s sake what are you talking of, Frances?” exclaimed Edmund,
colouring excessively, while Julia turned deadly pale.
“I am saying,” replied Frances, “that I am sure, Lady Susan will not
refuse you: she thinks you—so——”
“Lady Susan!” repeated Edmund, in a voice of disappointment. “She
certainly never will, Frances,” he added, “for I shall never have the
folly, or the presumption, to put it in her power to do so. You know
I have just explained to you that I can never marry—at least—But I
may say never; for it would indeed be wildly romantic to hope that I
ever shall be enabled, even to seek to do so, consistently with honour,
and my own—wishes! the word is too inadequate. And were I, by the most
unlooked-for circumstances, placed at liberty—am I to—to have—the vanity
to—But you are leading me on to speak too much of myself, Frances; which
is always, you know, a dangerous, as well as an unbecoming topic.” He
ceased, and all three walked on for a time in silence. At length Julia
said, in a low tone—
“Why should it grieve you so much, Edmund, not to—to marry? I don’t think
there is any occasion for every one to be married! Now, I—for one—never
intend to marry.” Edmund started, and looked round.
“You, Julia!” he said. “Yes,” she continued, dropping her eyelids, “I
am very happy,” and here a sigh contradicted her assertion, “loving
the friends I have loved all my life——” “All your long, long life!”
ejaculated Edmund, with a smile and a sigh. “And I cannot imagine,”
continued Julia, “beginning now to love a stranger; or suppose any thing
so absurd as the possibility of setting up a new image in my heart, to
be worshipped above all that have hitherto inhabited there! Oh no! that,
indeed, can never be.”
“So,” interrupted Frances, laughing, “we are to understand that there
is an old _image_ set up there already! (a first love, I suppose, as
Edmund calls it.) Is it then his lordship? or our amiable and interesting
cousin? It would indeed be a charity to love him, for I am sure no one
else does.”
“Oh! you know Frances, I—don’t mean—I mean, one’s own friends,” said
Julia. “Now ask yourself: could you ever love a stranger, as you love
those you have loved all your life? As you love me for instance?”
“A stranger,” said Frances, considering, “no, certainly, not while the
stranger continued to be a stranger.”
“Well Henry, you know, is no stranger, so one of my guesses may be right,
or perhaps you like Edmund better—I am sure I do.”
Edmund had remained perfectly silent; for a few seconds, he had actually
been stunned by the extacy of an irresistible conviction that Julia was
saying, as plainly as words could express it, that she loved him, and
that she never would or could love any one else! But, on her appeal to
Frances in reply to the interruption of the latter, his short lived
transport faded. “She alludes to the gentle ties of relationship,”
said he to himself, “and having known no feeling but that of calm and
gradually formed affection, she cannot even imagine any other.” A
momentary pang indeed shot across his heart, as Frances alluded to Henry;
for Julia might have loved him all her life, if she loved him at all; but
he was not, as Frances observed, a character very likely to inspire love.
Then her manner, the expression of her eyes, the tones of her voice;
how different, when she addressed himself, from what they were when
addressing her cousin! This was, however, a subject not to be too closely
examined, though it served for the present to banish all painful thoughts
respecting Henry.
“They talk, you know,” said Frances, “of love at first sight!” “Oh!”
replied Julia, “such people must either have no real friends, and
therefore no real affections, or be, themselves, incapable of feeling a
real attachment!”
“What do you call a real attachment?” asked Frances. “Why, one founded
on—on—having all one’s life known, that the—friend—one loves unites every
quality that is noble and estimable, not only in one’s own opinion,”
replied Julia, blushing deeper and deeper at each word, “but in that of
those, whose judgment one respects, with all that is gentle, kind, and
amiable towards oneself!” Edmund felt an almost irresistible desire to
press her hand as she said this, nor could he be quite certain that he
did not do so. “It was Mr. Jackson,” she added, in a hurried manner,
“that was explaining the subject the other day. He said, you know,
Frances, that it was because we are formed to find perfect happiness
hereafter in loving absolute perfection, that we experience so much
delight in attaching ourselves, in this life, to what, on earth, comes
nearest to perfection! And what can we know of the perfections of a
stranger?”
“Why, not till we discover them,” replied Frances, “but then, should they
prove greater than those of our older acquaintances, by your own argument
of loving best what comes nearest to perfection, the stranger must
deserve and obtain our preference.”
“Oh! impossible!” exclaimed Julia.
“What is impossible?” asked Frances. Julia made no answer, and Frances,
after a moment or two of silence, enquired of Edmund, if the Lancer whom
they had observed driving his curricle round the lake yesterday evening,
were the same they had seen at the Regatta. Edmund looked in her face
without meaning or reply. His thoughts had been too differently employed
to be so easily brought to bear on the identity of a Lancer. “You see,”
said Frances, “he is thinking of his First Love. We ought not to tease
him with questions on less interesting subjects. I have been considering
about it, Edmund,” she continued, “and I cannot see what harm it would be
for you to be married to Lady Susan, when it would make you both happy.”
“Lady Susan!” repeated Edmund, “I am not thinking about Lady Susan, I
assure you, Frances!”
“Indeed!” said a soft voice from behind, followed by immoderate laughter
from several persons. Our trio looked round, and beheld Lady Susan
herself, accompanied by Lord Borrowdale, Lord Morven, and Henry. “We
have caught the gallant Captain speaking of your Ladyship at least,”
observed Lord Borrowdale.
“Which, in my opinion, argues thinking,” added Henry.
Edmund, not knowing well how to get out of the scrape, joined the laugh,
and said, he believed he must plead guilty—of what, he left it to the
imagination of his accusers to determine.
Lady Susan seemed to think it was of being in love, and that with
herself; for she smiled, addressed our hero frequently, and was
particularly obliging to him all the morning. Lord Morven, who did not
seem much to relish the scene, asked, without addressing any one in
particular, who that dashing fellow was who drove along the margin of
the lake yesterday evening as they were boating. “The same,” answered
Lord Borrowdale, “who made himself so conspicuous during the regatta,
splashing through the crowd in his curricle.”
“I am aware of that,” rejoined Lord Morven, “but I mean to enquire if any
one knows who the young man is?”
“That no one I believe can make out. The name is Beaumont; but he has
not brought any introductions, and has, I understand, declined the
acquaintance of some persons who, taking it for granted that he was of
the noble family of that name, wished to call on him.”
“He is not then, it would seem, very consistent,” said Henry, “for he
literally scraped an acquaintance the other day with such a fellow as
Lawson, (my aunt’s man of business,) for the express purpose of asking to
be introduced at Lodore House.”
“He shows his good taste,” said Lord Borrowdale, with an appropriate
glance towards the group of ladies.
“He appears,” observed Lord Morven, “to have a tolerable taste in most
things: his horses are beautiful animals, and his dogs the finest I have
seen!”
“Is he not rather pleasing-looking himself too?” asked Frances; “I
thought so, as well as one could see passing. Did not you think so, Lady
Susan?”
“Indeed I did not look at him,” replied her ladyship, glancing at Edmund.
“So,” said Henry, with a sneer, “the fellow drives about to some purpose
it would seem.” “To a most enviable one, certainly!” remarked the
compliment-loving Lord of Borrowdale.
“Pray, can any one tell what brought him into this neighbourhood?”
asked Lord Morven. “They were obliged,” answered Lord Borrowdale, “to
send from Whitehaven to Carlisle for military, to quell a very serious
riot of colliers, headed too, it seems, by one of the fair sex, who, I
understand, leads her party in fashion of an equestrian amazon, and who
had, they say, proceeded in triumph through every street in Whitehaven,
terrified the poor quiet magistrates, overturned the carts of potatoes
going down to the shipping for exportation, and, in short, lorded it over
the whole population till the arrival of the dragoons.”
“How very well he plays the flute!” said Frances.
“Yes,” said Henry, “and what good care he took to keep his boat within
hearing of our party, these several evenings on the lake.”
“I dare say it was quite by accident,” rejoined Frances; “and how
picturesque the effect was,” she continued, turning to Lady Susan, “of
the little skiff with its one white sail, appearing and disappearing
round points of rock; the one reclining figure playing on the flute, the
two dogs seated, one on each side, listening with profound attention,
till at some dying cadence, pointing their noses upward, they would
utter a long and piteous wail! while the rapt musician himself seemed
unconscious not only of their wild accompaniment, and that of all the
echoes far and near, but even of his own performance.”
“He thought himself a perfect hero of romance, I have no doubt,” replied
her ladyship.
“Well!” cried Frances, “I do not think there was any appearance of
affectation about him.”
“Whoever he is,” rejoined Henry, “he had better not wander about these
woods in his long feathers, or I shall be apt to shoot him in mistake
for a pheasant.”
“Henry, you had better take care what you do!” said Frances. “You are
much too fond, let me tell you, of killing of every kind.”
“Talking of shooting, what have you done with that fine setter of yours,
St. Aubin?” asked Lord Morven.
“Shot him!”—“Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“The rascal leaped up on me with his dirty feet, after I was dressed
for dinner, the other day.” “Shame! shame! Henry!” exclaimed both the
sisters, at the same moment. “Too bad, faith,” cried the gentlemen.
Frances began to tell Henry that nobody would ever love him, he was so
wicked. He affected to laugh, and whispered Julia as he passed, loud
enough, however, for Edmund, who was on the other side, to hear. “What
do _you_ say to that, Julia?” At the same time, accompanying his words
with an insidious look of tender, confiding enquiry. She was astonished,
but had not presence of mind to reply: and even Edmund, at the time, only
thought Henry impertinent. The party had now arrived in front of the
house.