_A meeting, and a parting. Being one of the most agreeable, pathetic,
and loving chapters to be found in this great history._
No long period of observation was required after Colin's arrival at Mr.
Calvert's, to enable him to discover that deep anxiety, and care, and
watchfulness, now reigned throughout that house touching her, his own
beloved, who so lately was as its life-spring and delight. The absence
of joy, if not the positive presence of melancholy, was visible in every
countenance. The voices that spoke, spoke in a lower tone than formerly;
while those of Mr. and Mrs. Calvert were seldom heard at all. The
blinds of the windows seemed to be permanently kept more than usually
low;--unconsciously, perhaps, on the part of the inmates of the place;
but, then, that little circumstance agreed with the general tone of
their feelings, and so it became as it were natural. He also observed,
that though it was that precise time of day when a canary bird that
hung in the sitting-room usually sang so gladly as to make itself heard
nearly over the whole house, the singing bird was now mute. A piece of
white muslin that had been thrown over his cage many hours ago to keep
off the sun, had ever since been forgotten. It kept him silent; yet
strange enough, nobody appeared to miss his singing, nor to think a
moment of the little ruffled and discontented heap of living music that
fretted in gloomy silence beneath.
At length, Jane, who, he had previously been informed, had lately
confined herself almost wholly to her own chamber, was introduced by
her sister; the latter having, with careful consideration, already
cautiously communicated to her the fact of the arrival of her brother
Roger, and of Colin.
“How changed!” thought Colin as his spirit absolutely shrank at the
first sight of her. “How like a creature whose heart is gone,--all whose
ties to the world are rapidly loosening, and who soon must be caught
back to the earth, or the chance will be lost for ever.” In her face
was written, as all might read, that _the past_ was all of a pleasant
existence she should ever look upon.
Yet when she saw him,--though all the family was around,--though all
eyes were upon her,--though the father looked solemn, and the mother
half chidingly; she at once flew towards him with the joy of a lark
upwards. For what was all the world besides,--its thoughts, and sayings,
and opinions,--what were they now to her? Nature was nature in her
bosom,--pure, frank, and virtuous; and her feelings those which Heaven
had planted there for the wisest, the best, and the happiest purposes.
At this affecting sight her mother sobbed aloud; Mr. Calvert turned
away, and pressed the tears back into his eyes in silence. Her sister
seized her hands in hers, and as she pressed them with a loving pressure
entreated her to be composed. Her elder brother sat mute, looking
seriously on the floor; while honest Roger, himself, with the tears
bursting from his eyes, struck his hand upon the table, in a sudden
agony of goodwill, and exclaimed,
“She _shall_ have him, I say!”
The plainness and oddity of this declaration contrasted so comically
with the occasion upon which it was made, that scarcely a single person
present could forbear smiling; while, certain it is, that every one, not
excepting even the most obstinately opposed to that event, felt a sudden
conviction that Roger's words would somehow or other eventually come
true.
But as suddenly as that conviction flashed across the mind, so, with
respect to Mr. and Mrs. Calvert, did it as suddenly again cease. For
though, during some few brief moments of promise which the temporary
excitement of their feelings had produced, they felt half inclined to
relent, and to endeavour to make the best of those circumstances which
it seemed in vain any longer to oppose; yet, as the cause of that sudden
conversion lost its temporary influence, they fell back upon former old
objections with almost increased prejudice; just as in many other cases
people will adopt a new doctrine for awhile, but when the particular
circumstances that caused them to do so are removed, will as surely
return with additional liking to their old and familiar opinions.
Long and curiously did these two afterwards discuss the matter, and
how finally it should be settled; while Colin and Jane, with a far
less expenditure of sage remarks and clever suggestions, were rapidly
settling it in good earnest without any discussion at all. There were no
“pros” and “cons” with them; no question about conventional proprieties;
nor any considerations as to what the world might, or might not think,
in reference to them. Enough for Jane that Colin was, in his own person
and mind, all that a young man should be, to be loveable and deserving
of love; and for Colin, that Jane seemed to merit more than the utmost
of what it was possibly in his power to bestow.
While the last named pair regarded the question as altogether one of the
heart, and into which no other conceivable interest should be allowed to
intrude, the parents of Jane held it as totally a question of the head,
or imagined right or wrong, and of propriety or impropriety, so far as
the maintenance or the sacrifice of their own peculiar opinions might
possibly be involved. But inasmuch as even the worst philosopher may
venture most safely to back the heart against the head in any contention
of the kind here spoken of, the reader will not feel surprised to learn
that Colin and Jane would certainly have triumphed, had it not unluckily
happened that some time before their forces could be brought perfectly
to bear, Mr. Calvert one day sent a message to Colin, requesting his
company in the former gentleman's study, and on his appearance delivered
to him the following very disheartening and painful speech:--
“After what has occurred, Mr. Clink, since your return to town, and
from the scene it was our painful fortune to witness between you and my
daughter on your arrival here, I feel a firm conviction, which every day
serves to strengthen, that the time has arrived when it becomes my duty
as a father to come to some positive and decisive determination in
this matter. Much as I respect Mr. Lupton, for notwithstanding his deep
indiscretions, upon which it is not my duty to pronounce any judgment, I
yet know him to be in many respects most highly deserving of esteem; and
worthy and deserving a young man as I certainly think you yourself to
be, yet there are causes which from the first made me fearful, when I
found your preference for Jane, that a continued acquaintance between
you could not lead to any happiness. I shall not allude to those causes
in any more direct manner, for you probably can judge sufficiently what
I mean, without the necessity for any more explicit statement.”
[Illustration: 232]
Poor Colin here blushed crimson and bowed his head down, as Mr. Calvert
proceeded:--
“But with my habits of thinking, and the principles I have always
cherished from my boyhood, it would be inconsistent with my usual
practice, were I to hold those causes as too light to be regarded as an
obstacle to your ultimate views. To me they are of every importance: I
might more properly call them insurmountable difficulties. And though
I am perfectly aware that such matters are too frequently regarded with
careless, and, as I take it, with criminal indifference, yet I hold them
as so far affecting in themselves the moral principles of society, as so
far contrary to the dictates of religion, and to the obligations due
to the more correct portions of the community, that I feel, painful and
bitter as is the task, I feel compelled thus plainly and distinctly to
declare my sentiments to you in the hope that, after having so done,
nothing more will be required in order to assure you of the course
which it is most necessary for me to wish you at once and immediately to
adopt.”
“Sir!” said Colin, as his heart seemed to swell into his throat and
almost prevent him speaking, “I cannot, sir, but respect your motives,
and feel more deeply how much _I_ shall lose if I am under the necessity
of quitting this house and seeing those who are in it no more. I
know what your objections are,--they are not to be removed, and are
irremediable. I am what I am; and for myself I have no apology to
offer,--no excuse to make.”
He would have spoken more, but at that moment he could not.
“Stay!” observed Mr. Calvert, “do not mistake me. It is your misfortune,
not your crime: and for misfortune which no power of yours could ever
remedy, apology or excuse can never be demanded. It was my hope
some time ago that Jane and yourself might possibly dissolve this
acquaintance yourselves, when my sentiments and those of her mother and
family were made known to you both; and thus render such an explanation
as the present needless. But I have been mistaken: and in permitting
that farther communication which I foolishly hoped would terminate
itself, we have only fastened the bands more tightly, and increased the
probabilities of pain on that after-separation, which, difficult as
the words are to me to speak, I still am compelled to say, _must_ be
effected. We cannot go on thus any longer. Even now it is a question
of every importance to you both. To my poor dear daughter it may soon
become a question of life or death. The possibility of such a result
must be averted. The step must be taken in time. Though the blow be
painful it must be struck. Nevertheless, when you are gone, carry with
you the assurance that I still continue, along with all my family, to
think honourably of you,--to remember your worthiness,--to look with
melancholy pleasure upon the time when we could entertain you personally
under our roof,--and to regret to the last hour of our lives that so
unhappy an ending should have come to the young affection of one whom it
would have been our delight, if possible, to have blessed with the
good creature--for such my Jane is--the good and worthy creature he had
sought.”
So saying, Mr. Calvert pressed Colin's hand energetically during several
minutes.
“Bless you, my friend!” added he, as he gazed upon the heart-broken
youth beside him,--“Bless you!--Even now I cannot part with you without
betraying more than becomes me as a father in such a case.”
And as he falteringly uttered these words, his eyes confirmed them with
nature's purest token of severed friendship.
“Your worthiness,” at length replied Colin, “makes me, sir, lost what
to say. Had you treated me harshly I could have replied; but as it is,
I feel still the more bound by the very efforts made to shake me off. If
you will have it so, sir, I know not how to oppose: though certainly it
is impossible for me ever to comply. Not by that, that I mean to say the
wishes of so worthy a man shall not be carried out as far as Heaven will
give me power to do it: but though _I_ go away never to return more,
believe me, sir, my heart will be left with those I leave,--I shall
do my best to forget where I am,--to inhabit this place still in
imagination, and live out my life at least with the memory of her whom I
am forbidden to know in any other manner.”
“Endeavour to be reconciled,” observed Mr. Calvert; “and remember
that even the most favoured cannot say that this world was made for
happiness.”
“No, indeed!” exclaimed Colin bitterly,--“it is not indeed.”
“I am afraid,” rejoined his worthy friend, “that on neither side shall
we ever cease to feel pain on this subject; but it will be our duty to
bow with humility before those decrees which we cannot escape, and to
endeavour to persuade ourselves that everything may possibly be after
all for the best.”
“It cannot, sir,” replied Colin in the agony of his spirit; “it can
never be for the best that we should be separated for ever! It is
impossible. For however well it may be for others, to us it can be
nothing but inevitable misery.”
“Do not speak thus, my young friend,” answered Mr. Calvert; “I am myself
an old man, and have many times found in the course of a long and not
uneventful life, that out of those circumstances which at the time of
their occurrence promised nothing but unhappiness, the unseen agency of
Providence not unfrequently deduced consequences the most important to
our future welfare. Just as, on the contrary, we often find that the
fairest promise of happiness ends in the least practical result; and at
the bottom of the sweetest cup we find the bitterest dregs.”
Colin was about to reply, but Mr. Calvert waved his hand as significant
that he would add a few more words.
“Who knows,” he asked, “but that under this, to you, most dire of
disappointments may lie hidden the cause of all your future happiness?
Unseen, it doubtless is to you now, and difficult perhaps of being even
imagined. But inasmuch as no man can foresee what is in store for him,
nor predicate from things present of things to come, it is at once the
wisest way and the most in accordance with our faith and dependence upon
Providence, to make ourselves willing to accept as the best possible
good, with reference to our future welfare, those fatalities of life
which no endeavours of ours can possibly avert. Be comforted; and strive
both to forget the past and to believe the present and the future
more rife with satisfaction than, under the influence of your existing
excitement of feeling, they else might appear.
“And now, having, as I hope, settled this matter in the best manner it
will allow of, let me add one more observation, and I have done. Under
every possible view of the case, and considering that no conceivable
good could come of a formal parting, I must beg of you to regard your
interview, this morning, with Jane as _the last_. It is better that you
do not see each other again.”
“Oh no, sir, no!” exclaimed Colin, “you cannot mean that. It is
impossible. When I left her but now to come to you, I had not half told
her what I intended to say, and I promised to be back again as soon as
I had seen you. She begged of me not to be long, because with all her
grief she could not bear to be alone. I must go, sir; if it be only to
say one good-b'ye,--just one,--and no more!”
“Better not,” faltered Mr. Calvert, half between a smile and a tear.
“Yes, sir,--yes,--you will 'not deny us that.”
Mr. Calvert's lips quivered, but he said nothing.
“I am made unhappy for ever, now!” added Colin.
After a pause Mr. Calvert replied, “Then you must see her in my
presence, if at all.”
“Anywhere!” exclaimed our hero gladly; “but let me see her again.”
Jane was now sent for. When she entered the room, Colin could no longer
restrain himself. The sight of her made him burst into tears.
“Jane, my girl,” began the father as he took her hand, and led her
gently beside his own chair; “I hope you will sustain yourself for a
few moments, while I simply explain to you that Mr. Clink and I have had
some conversation upon the same subject as that upon which your mother
has already spoken to you. The matter is now finally settled. But Mr.
Clink wished, before he went, to bid you a good-b'ye for the last time;
as you part friends with him, the same as, from my heart, I can say _I_
do; and not for myself alone, but in the name of all the family.”
Jane could not speak, but her pretty throat swelled like that of a
nightingale that dies, as poor Keates describes it, “_heart-stifled_ in
its dell.”
“Father!” at length she whispered, “it is not--is not--_true!_”
Mr. Calvert remained fixed and mute as a statue.
“It cannot be true!” continued Jane; “you would never--never make me so
miserable! I do not believe it--I cannot!”
At length her father spoke.
“My dear girl,” said he, with a solemnity which he could not help,
and of which he was not himself conscious; “you _must_ endeavour to
be resigned. As you love me, let me beg of you to calm yourself, and
endeavour to seek in prayer to Heaven that comfort which I never thought
to see a child of mine so much in need of. You want peace of mind,
child.”
“I _do_, father!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands; “no poor soul more
than I.”
Another pause ensued here, during which Colin clasped Jane's other hand,
as though when that one grapple was over, the world would be lost, and
he should sink for ever. His eyes were on her face, but he could not
see.
“And now,” added Mr. Calvert, half-chokingly; “do not prolong this
scene. We can do no more. Bid each other a loving good-b'ye, and be that
kiss the last.”
“I cannot!” exclaimed Jane, hysterically; “I _cannot!_ Father! I love
him, and _shall_ love him everlastingly. You will not part us, I know.
He will never leave me--never! Oh no! no, no, no!”
And poor Jane fell into a fearful convulsion, that made all cheeks pale
and eyes wet for mere pity at her trouble.
This event brought others of the family into the room, and amongst them
Colin's best friend, Roger. No sooner did he see what had happened, than
his spirit and his feelings were at once aroused.
“I tell you,” he exclaimed passionately, though without addressing any
one in particular,--“I tell you, you will kill the girl if you go on in
this way with her!”
And then Jane was carried away and placed on her pretty white bed, and
tended carefully by her mother and her sister and her waiting-maids,
until life came reluctantly back again, and she waked once more into the
consciousness of misery.
“Is he gone, mother?” she demanded in the first faint tones that
conscious animation supplied to the tongue; “is he gone?”
“No, my dear, he is not gone; nor is he going yet,” replied Mrs.
Calvert.
“That's right!--that's right!” she exclaimed. And then, as she looked
her parent earnestly in the face, she asked--“Mother! do you remember
how _you_ ever loved my father?”
That little simple appeal was irresistible, as a world of tears soon
testified.
After that Jane grew calmer, and sat up with her mother and sister to
catch the air from an opened window that looked through a nest of vine
leaves into the garden.
Meantime Roger Calvert, his father, and Colin, had further conversation
below stairs, which ended in producing a determination on the part of
Colin and his friend of great interest as well as importance in our
history, but which will be farther explained in another chapter.