“Yes, once did resolution fail.”
As it was still day-light some of the ladies walked to the gardens,
others strolled about near the doors; Lady Susan disappeared without
speaking to any one; Frances went to seek her; Julia flung herself on a
sofa in the great drawing-room, which she found quite deserted. She lay
so much absorbed by her own meditations, as to be unconscious of the
lapse of time. It became quite dark. Every thing was still about her. At
length she heard a very soft step approaching through the ante-room,
and a figure in black appeared within the door, which was half open. It
held in its hand a long white wand tipped with flame: it glided on with
a step, now that it was on the deep Turkey carpet of the drawing-room,
quite noiseless: it touched branches and candelabras with its magic wand,
and left floods of light behind it: it proceeded through the glass doors
of a green-house, at the further end of this spacious apartment, and
continued crowning with radiance lustres that hung, at certain intervals,
over the centre walk, till the whole long perspective became a dazzling
maze of real and reflected illumination. Julia’s eyes admired and,
mechanically, followed what they beheld long before her comprehension was
aroused to any understanding of what was going forward: at length she
smiled as she recollected that such had been her abstraction, that, for
the first few moments after the entrance of the figure, she had viewed it
and its operations with as much of almost superstitious astonishment as
if she had never before seen a decent old butler, who was too well-bred
to wear creaking shoes, light up a drawing-room.
She arose from the sofa, passed the man on his return through the great
room, entered the greenhouse, proceeded along the centre walk between
rows of orange trees, and in a blaze of light, till the white marble
footway, branching off in two directions, led round on both sides towards
a kind of arbour of sweets, which was screened from the entrance and
principal walk by the intervention of an immense circular stand, crowded
from the marble floor to the glazed roof with numberless exotics. Here
she seated herself.
The artificial day that reigned around, the excess of brilliancy
resembling enchantment, the very intensity of light, seemed, if not
literally shelter, at least security from sudden intrusion, by giving
proof at once that none were near, and certainty that none could approach
unseen.
“I wonder,” mentally ejaculated Julia, who by this time had renewed her
meditations, “why she did not look happy!” She paused, and a tear or
two fell. “Is it possible that he can love a stranger better than those
he has loved all his life?” she thought, and a feeling of something
like reproach passed through her mind. Then came a series of kindly
recollections, making it very difficult to believe that this could be
the case. Then she called to mind, how Edmund always used to say, he
never would marry; and how she, too, had determined never to marry. She
reflected on this subject for some time; then asked herself a question,
but very vaguely indeed; for she did not venture to give it the form of
words, even in thought: the purport, however, was as follows:—if Edmund
had ever said, that to be married to her was absolutely necessary to
his happiness—what would have been her reply? A deep blush was all the
answer she gave herself. She sat, unconscious of outward objects, till
she felt her hand softly taken. She started, and looked up: Edmund stood
before her. “Dearest Julia!” he said, “there has so evidently been some
anxiety on your mind, some depression on your spirits, all this day, that
I cannot resist taking, perhaps, an unwarrantable liberty, and entreating
you to tell me what it is that thus distresses you?” She kept her
eyes fixed on the ground, and made no reply. “Did you not promise,” he
continued, “to permit me to call myself your friend, your brother? and is
not confidence the privilege of friendship?” And he seated himself beside
her, still retaining the hand he had taken.
“I don’t wish, Edmund,” she said, her face averted, “to hear you talk
like a stranger about taking the liberty, and all that kind of thing: it
only makes me more unhappy.” “More unhappy!” he repeated.
“But, you know,” she continued, “when you wished so very much for my
friendship, Edmund, it was when you first came home; now—you will
probably—be—everyday—making so many new friends—that—perhaps—” “New
friends!” cried Edmund.—Then, quite thrown off his guard, he added
passionately; “what are all the new friends—nay, all the friends the
world contains—what the whole world itself to me, in comparison of you,
Julia! My earliest, my kindest friend?” he added hastily, fearful he had
gone too far.
The assurance of a _friendship_ so exclusive, so much in unison with
her own ideas on the subject, and still more the tender and agitated
tone in which words so kind were uttered, banished every thought of
Lady Susan, and in one moment restored Julia to perfect happiness. For
reply, she only lifted her eyes to his. Their expression seemed to him,
at the moment, to justify him in pressing her hand to his lips, though
afterwards he thought he had done very wrong. So much accustomed was
Julia, however, to consider the establishment of perfect confidence
between herself and Edmund, as quite necessary and right, that in all
this she saw but the kind reconciliation of _friends_, and never dreamed
of being surprised, as some more experienced ladies might have been, that
no fuller or tenderer declaration followed, neither apology, for having
approached so near to such.
She now felt quite certain that Edmund still loved her better than any
one else in the world; and, therefore, she was happy. He thought his
secret still safe, because he saw he had not given offence: indeed he
saw more! Suspicions, delightful suspicions fluttered at his heart. He
watched the brightening of her features: yes, he could not refuse to
admit the flattering, the intoxicating conviction, that the more his
love betrayed itself, the happier Julia evidently was! Thoughts like
these ought to have filled him with sorrow and repentance; but they did
not—they caused a joy that no words can paint! and this was not a moment
to resist its influence. He was gazing upon the countenance of Julia, she
had just looked up to express kindness and confidence, tears of pleasure
had started into her eyes, and now she was looking down again perhaps to
hide them; but they were stealing into view over cheeks that glowed with
an animating, a beautifying confusion, which could not be termed a mere
blush, for it visibly betrayed conscious happiness as well as bashfulness.
Words that, while possessed of reason, he had determined never to utter,
literally trembled on his lips. But honour, gratitude, principle, flew to
his aid, and rescued him from the eternal remorse, which, in a mind like
his, must have followed an avowal of sentiments, it was so much his duty
to conceal. He was enabled to be silent—but to withdraw his eyes from
the contemplation of the lovely being before him, to close his heart
against the dangerous bliss that contemplation afforded, was impossible!
Music now struck up in the great room; and at the same instant several
persons entered the greenhouse. The next moment they were approaching
along the centre walk, and calling Julia. Our heroine answered and
made her appearance. Edmund, still trembling from the late agitation
of his feelings, followed in silence. But when he saw the gay group
gathering round Julia, he was struck with the sudden apprehension of
her dancing with some one of them; and, at this time, he could not view
such an event, without a degree of horror, very disproportionate to the
importance of the subject. He hastened therefore to her side, offered her
his arm, and whispered something, probably a request to dance with him,
as they immediately accompanied those who had come in search of them,
into the drawing-room, where quadrilles were forming.
Thus was Edmund preserved from further risk of an imprudence, which,
in addition to the endless repentance it would have cost him, might
have taught even the inexperienced Julia the necessity of treating him
with more reserve. Hitherto, her affectionate heart, in its enthusiasm,
had ever been ready to reproach her with estrangement and unkindness,
when she experienced but the natural timidity inseparable from the
feelings which were hourly growing upon her; so that the very parts of
her conduct, which most strongly proved those feelings to be more than
friendship, were by her, not unfrequently, considered as deficiencies in
the frankness and confidence due to a friend, the companion of childhood;
one, too, so delicately situated, who thought himself so much obliged;
who might mistake a reserve, very proper towards strangers, (by whom
Julia meant, all the world, except her grandmamma, Frances, Edmund, and
Mr. Jackson,) for pride, for haughtiness, for a reminding him of his
situation—No! that thought was not to be endured! At the present moment,
however, her heart having been just lightened of an inexpressible load
of sorrow; of the first doubt it had ever known of Edmund’s affection,
she waited not to define its movements, but joined the dance, feeling
as if she moved on air, though in an unusual flutter of spirits. Whilst
he, as he led her to her place among those who stood in all the pride
of rank and title, birth and fortune, felt his heart sink within him;
and, as he gazed upon her thus removed, as it were, to an incalculable
distance, from the nameless dependant on the bounty of her own very
family, he wondered at the mad presumption that, but the moment before,
had possessed him!
Yet as from time to time she smiled and spoke to him, joy stole again
into his bosom, and he experienced an undefined species of happiness
during the remainder of the quadrille. As soon as it was over, however,
and before Julia had taken her partner’s arm to leave the set, Henry
came up to her, and asked her to dance the next with him. She could not
well refuse, and the moment she consented he drew her arm over his,
and led her away to a vacant end of the room, where, as they walked up
and down, he suddenly broke silence, saying, in a rude sort of half
whisper, “You don’t suppose, Julia, that Lord L. will consent to your
marrying this picked up fellow! this Edmund! and I can tell you, the
manner in which you are behaving, will end in his being forbid my aunt’s
house, and indeed the houses of all your friends and relatives.” If ever
Julia’s colour mounted, now it flew to cheek and brow; yet, indignant as
she felt, such was her terror lest Edmund should chance to hear one of
those shocking words, that she caught Henry’s hand, and entreated him
to lower his voice. At the same moment she looked involuntarily towards
Edmund, and saw that he observed her; while Henry, grasping the hand
that she herself had laid on his, carried it to his lips. She dreaded to
provoke him by withdrawing it either as quickly or as angrily as she felt
inclined to do; and he held it fast, with the most malicious satisfaction
in her dilemma, which he perfectly understood; while, as if to mortify
her the more, he kept up, by countenance and manner, a sort of dumb
show of tender solicitude. She, however, forced back her presence of
mind, and, in an under tone of suppressed vexation, trying at the same
time to look dignified and as angry as her youth and natural gentleness
would permit, said, “do not for a moment imagine, Henry, that I dread
your rude, impertinent remarks on my own account, but take care you do
not let one word be heard, which can wound the feelings of Edmund. As
for the motive of my anxiety on this point, if you are not capable of
understanding it, remain in ignorance of it, or judge it what you please!
It is to my father, not to you, sir, that I shall give an account of my
actions.”
“Mighty fine!” he replied; “but, Julia, if my anxiety for you proceeds
from my own attachment, and, I suppose I may presume where Edmund
does, you cannot be surprised that I should not wish to see you throw
yourself away; but I believe,” he added, with a sneer, provoked at the
evident scorn depicted on Julia’s countenance at the mention of his own
attachment, “you are tolerably safe, as the gallant Captain Montgomery
happens not to be at leisure to accept your ladyship’s proffered
affections, being otherwise engaged.”
It is wonderful how many times in the course of the evening Julia
repeated over to herself the two words, “otherwise engaged.”
“The world is come to a pretty pass,” continued Henry, “when two titled
ladies are pulling caps for a fellow without a name!” Julia’s bosom was
swelling with indignation, pride, and anger; she was dying to give them
utterance, but she felt that, now, she dare not trust herself to speak,
while her fingers, in despite of her utmost efforts, being still held,
as in a vice, she could not disengage herself without a publicity she
wished to avoid. Indeed, Henry seemed careless how roughly he treated the
delicate little hand thus imprisoned in his; for now, as at all times,
for reasons best known to himself, he was more intent on persuading
others that he was well with his cousin, than on really making her
believe that he loved her.
At this moment Sir Archibald, who had been standing with his arms folded
at a little distance, came hastily forward, and seized Henry by the
collar, crying out—“Villain! villain! villain! have I found you at last?”
Henry disengaged himself, and turned on his assailant, with a look of
pale rage so horrible that, had time and place agreed, no less than a
mortal struggle seemed likely to ensue.
Julia uttered a scream of terror: all was in a moment confusion and
consternation. Lord Arandale, however, interfered, and finally prevailed
on his nephew to leave the room for the evening; explaining to him in
hasty whispers, as he almost forcibly led him aside, that Sir Archibald,
from the bewildered state of his mind, was evidently unconscious of
the lapse of time, and must in consequence have mistaken him for his
unfortunate father, against whom he had but too just cause of complaint,
and to whose memory a discussion of the subject would be by no means
creditable.
Julia stood trembling, and, for a moment, alone; the next, Edmund was at
her side. He saw that there were tears in her eyes. He offered his arm to
lead her to a seat. She took it with a heavy sigh, but avoided his look
of enquiry. He felt much less happy than he had been. Why had she caught
Henry’s hand? Why had she suffered him to press hers to his lips—and
retain it, too, so long? Why had she looked so deeply interested in what
he said? And what was the cause of her present emotion?
Every one had of course been much alarmed; several of the young ladies
had fled into the greenhouse, whence they now peeped through the glass
door. Lady Morven was near fainting, and Mr. Graham was unable to assist
her.
Some one proposed music as the most likely thing to calm Sir Archibald’s
excited nerves, he was so fond of it. One of the Miss Morvens was
prevailed upon to return to the drawing-room and play an air on the
pianoforte—it had no effect. Lady Arandale requested Julia to sing;
she at first wished much to decline, but Lady Arandale pressed her
request, and Julia felt that it was necessary to consent. Sir Archibald
was still walking up and down with hasty and uneven strides, leaning
on the arm of Lord Arandale; Julia’s song commenced. Sir Archibald’s
violent gesticulations gradually became less frequent; his step, as she
proceeded, became slower, his countenance less furiously agitated. By
insensible degrees he approached, and, at length stood with folded arms,
immediately before our heroine.
Julia exerted, on this occasion, but a small share of the power of voice
which she possessed; yet, every one was delighted with the magical
effect the then state of her own feelings gave to a pathetic air. By
the time the song came to its conclusion, Sir Archibald was standing
almost directly beneath the great centre lustre, just so far removed from
its immediate perpendicular, as to admit of its strong flood of light
streaming full on his face and figure. His attitude was still the fixed
one in which he had hitherto listened, but now he seemed unconscious
of the presence of any one. His perfectly white hair was made more
remarkable by the brightness that shone upon it; his countenance was
calm, every passion being stilled, every effort laid aside, while an
expression of woe, of hopelessness, such as can proceed only from the
utterly broken heart, had settled on every thus relaxed feature, and
large tears, which glittered in the strong light, were silently rolling
over his cheeks.
An absolute stillness reigned throughout the apartment for some moments,
when, supper being announced, it was agreed, almost in whispers, that
they should retire quietly to the eating room without disturbing Sir
Archibald; leaving a servant at the drawing-room door to observe his
movements.