Like Alexander, I will reign,
And I will reign alone,
My thoughts shall ever more disdain
A rival near my throne.
But I must rule and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.
--MONTROSE.
One very hot afternoon, shortly after the ball, Captain Morville walked
to Hollywell, accelerating his pace under the influence of anxious
reflections.
He could not determine whether Charles had spoken in jest; but in spite
of Guy’s extreme youth, he feared there was ground for the suspicion
excited by the hint, and was persuaded that such an attachment could
produce nothing but unhappiness to his cousin, considering how little
confidence could be placed in Guy. He perceived that there was much to
inspire affection--attractive qualities, amiable disposition, the talent
for music, and now this recently discovered power of versifying, all
were in Guy’s favour, besides the ancient name and long ancestry, which
conferred a romantic interest, and caused even Philip to look up to him
with a feudal feeling as head of the family. There was also the familiar
intercourse to increase the danger; and Philip, as he reflected on these
things, trembled for Laura, and felt himself her only protector; for his
uncle was nobody, Mrs. Edmonstone was infatuated, and Charles would not
listen to reason. To make everything worse, he had that morning
heard that there was to be a grand inspection of the regiment, and a
presentation of colours; Colonel Deane was very anxious; and it was
plain that in the interval the officers would be allowed little
leisure. The whole affair was to end with a ball, which would lead to a
repetition of what had already disturbed him.
Thus meditating, Philip, heated and dusty, walked into the smooth green
enclosure of Hollywell. Everything, save the dancing clouds of
insect youth which whirled in his face, was drooping in the heat. The
house--every door and window opened--seemed gasping for breath; the
cows sought refuge in the shade; the pony drooped its head drowsily; the
leaves hung wearily; the flowers were faint and thirsty; and Bustle was
stretched on the stone steps, mouth open, tongue out, only his tail now
and then moving, till he put back his ears and crested his head to greet
the arrival. Philip heard the sounds that had caused the motion of the
sympathizing tail--the rich tones of Guy’s voice. Stepping over the dog,
he entered, and heard more clearly--
‘Two loving hearts may sever,
For sorrow fails them never.’
And then another voice--
‘Who knows not love in sorrow’s night,
He knows not love in light.’
In the drawing-room, cool and comfortable in the green shade of the
Venetian blinds of the bay window, stood Laura, leaning on the piano,
close to Guy, who sat on the music-stool, looking thoroughly at home in
his brown shooting-coat, and loosely-tied handkerchief.
Any one but Philip would have been out of temper, but he shook hands
as cordially as usual, and would not even be the first to remark on the
heat.
Laura told him he looked hot and tired, and invited him to come out to
the others, and cool himself on the lawn. She went for her parasol, Guy
ran for her camp stool, and Philip, going to the piano, read what they
had been singing. The lines were in Laura’s writing, corrected, here and
there, in Guy’s hand.
BE STEADFAST.
Two loving hearts may sever,
Yet love shall fail them never.
Love brightest beams in sorrow’s night,
Love is of life the light.
Two loving hearts may sever,
Yet hope shall fail them never.
Hope is a star in sorrow’s night,
Forget-me-not of light.
Two loving hearts may sever,
Yet faith may fail them never.
Trust on through sorrow’s night,
Faith is of love and hope the light.
Two loving hearts may sever,
For sorrow fails them never.
Who knows not love in sorrow’s night,
He knows not love in light.
Philip was by no means pleased. However, it was in anything but a
sentimental manner that Guy, looking over him, said, ‘For sever, read,
be separated, but “a” wouldn’t rhyme.’
‘I translated it into prose, and Guy made it verse,’ said Laura; ‘I hope
you approve of our performance.’
‘It is that thing of Helmine von Chezy, “Beharre”, is it not?’ said
Philip, particularly civil, because he was so much annoyed. ‘You have
rendered the spirit very well’, but you have sacrificed a good deal to
your double rhymes.’
‘Yes; those last lines are not troubled with any equality of feet,’ said
Guy; ‘but the repetition is half the beauty. It put me in mind of those
lines of Burns--
“Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met and never parted,
We had ne’er been broken hearted;”
but there is a trust in these that is more touching than that despair.’
‘Yes; the despair is ready, to wish the love had never been,’ said
Laura. ‘It does not see the star of trust. Why did you use that word
“trust” only once, Guy?’
‘I did not want to lose the three--faith, hope, love,--faith keeping the
other two alive.’
‘My doubt was whether it was right to have that analogy.’
‘Surely,’ said Guy, eagerly, ‘that analogy must be the best part of
earthly love.’
Here Charlotte came to see if Guy and Laura meant to sing all the
afternoon; and they went out. They found the others in the arbour,
and Charlotte’s histories of its construction, gave Philip little
satisfaction. They next proceeded to talk over the ball.
‘Ah!’ said Philip, ‘balls are the fashion just now. What do you say,
Amy, [he was more inclined to patronize her than any one else] to the
gaieties we are going to provide for you?’
‘You! Are you going to have your new colours? Oh! you are not going to
give us a ball?’
‘Well! that is fun!’ cried Guy. ‘What glory Maurice de Courcy must be
in!’
‘He is gone to Allonby,’ said Philip, ‘to announce it; saying, he must
persuade his father to put off their going to Brighton. Do you think he
will succeed?’
‘Hardly,’ said Laura; ‘poor Lady Kilcoran was so knocked up by their
ball, that she is the more in want of sea air. Oh, mamma, Eva must come
and stay here.’
‘That she must,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘that will make it easy. She is
the only one who will care about the ball.’
Philip was obliged to conceal his vexation, and to answer the many eager
questions about the arrangements. He stayed to dinner, and as the others
went in-doors to dress, he lingered near Charlotte, assuming, with some
difficulty, an air of indifference, and said--‘Well, Charlotte, did you
tease Guy into showing you those verses?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Charlotte, with what the French call “un air capable”.’
‘Well, what were they?’
‘That I mustn’t tell. They were very pretty; but I’ve promised.’
‘Promised what?’
‘Never to say anything about them. He made it a condition with me, and I
assure you, I am to be trusted.’
‘Right,’ said Philip; ‘I’ll ask no more.’
‘It would be of no use,’ said Charlotte, shaking her head, as if she
wished he would prove her further.
Philip was in hopes of being able to speak to Laura after dinner,
but his uncle wanted him to come and look over the plans of an estate
adjoining Redclyffe, which there was some idea of purchasing. Such an
employment would in general have been congenial; but on this occasion,
it was only by a strong force that he could chain his attention, for
Guy was pacing the terrace with Laura and Amabel, and as they passed and
repassed the window, he now and then caught sounds of repeating poetry.
In this Guy excelled. He did not read aloud well; he was too rapid, and
eyes and thoughts were apt to travel still faster than the lips, thus
producing a confusion; but no one could recite better when a passage had
taken strong hold of his imagination, and he gave it the full effect
of the modulations of his fine voice, conveying in its inflections the
impressions which stirred him profoundly. He was just now enchanted
with his first reading of ‘Thalaba,’ where he found all manner of deep
meanings, to which the sisters listened with wonder and delight. He
repeated, in a low, awful, thrilling tone, that made Amy shudder, the
lines in the seventh book, ending with--
“Who comes from the bridal chamber!
It is Azrael, angel of death.”’
‘You have not been so taken up with any book since Sintram.’ said Laura.
‘It is like Sintram,’ he replied.
‘Like it?’
‘So it seems to me. A strife with the powers of darkness; the victory,
forgiveness, resignation, death.
“Thou know’st the secret wishes of my heart,
Do with me as thou wilt, thy will is best.”’
‘I wish you would not speak as if you were Thalaba yourself,’ said Amy,
‘you bring the whole Domdaniel round us.’
‘I am afraid he is going to believe himself Thalaba as well as Sintram,’
said Laura. ‘But you know Southey did not see all this himself, and did
not understand it when it was pointed out.’
‘Don’t tell us that,’ said Amy.
‘Nay; I think there is something striking in it,’ said Guy then, with a
sudden transition, ‘but is not this ball famous?’
And their talk was of balls and reviews till nine o’clock, when they
were summoned to tea.
On the whole, Philip returned to Broadstone by no means comforted.
Never had he known so much difficulty in attending with patience to his
duties as in the course of the next fortnight. They became a greater
durance, as he at length looked his feelings full in the face, and
became aware of their true nature.
He perceived that the loss of Laura would darken his whole existence;
yet he thought that, were he only secure of her happiness, he could have
resigned her in silence. Guy was, however, one of the last men in the
world whom he could bear to see in possession of her; and probably
she was allowing herself to be entangled, if not in heart, at least in
manner. If so, she should not be unwarned. He had been her guide from
childhood, and he would not fail her now.
Three days before the review, he succeeded in finding time for a walk to
Hollywell, not fully decided on the part he should act, though resolved
on making some remonstrance. He was crossing a stile, about a mile and a
half from Hollywell, when he saw a lady sitting on the stump of a tree,
sketching, and found that fate had been so propitious as to send Laura
thither alone. The rest had gone to gather mushrooms on a down, and had
left her sketching the view of the spires of Broadstone, in the cleft
between the high green hills. She was very glad to see him, and held up
her purple and olive washes to be criticised; but he did not pay much
attention to them. He was almost confused at the sudden manner in which
the opportunity for speaking had presented itself.
‘It is a long time since I have seen you,’ said he, at last.
‘An unheard-of time.’
‘Still longer since we have had any conversation.’
‘I was just thinking so. Not since that hot hay-making, when Guy came
home. Indeed, we have had so much amusement lately that I have hardly
had time for thought. Guy says we are all growing dissipated.’
‘Ah! your German, and dancing, and music, do not agree with thought.’
‘Poor music!’ said Laura, smiling. ‘But I am ready for a lecture; I have
been feeling more like a butterfly than I like.’
‘I know you think me unjust about music, and I freely confess that I
cannot estimate the pleasure it affords, but I doubt whether it is a
safe pleasure. It forms common ground for persons who would otherwise
have little in common, and leads to intimacies which occasion results
never looked for.’
‘Yes,’ said Laura, receiving it as a general maxim.
‘Laura, you complain of feeling like a butterfly. Is not that a sign
that you were made for better things?’
‘But what can I do? I try to read early and at night, but I can’t
prevent the fun and gaiety; and, indeed, I don’t think I would. It is
innocent, and we never had such a pleasant summer. Charlie is so--so
much more equable, and mamma is more easy about him, and I can’t help
thinking it does them all good, though I do feel idle.’
‘It is innocent, it is right for a little while,’ said Philip; ‘but your
dissatisfaction proves that you are superior to such things. Laura, what
I fear is, that this summer holiday may entangle you, and so fix your
fate as to render your life no holiday. O Laura take care; know what you
are doing!’
‘What am I doing?’ asked Laura, with an alarmed look of ingenuous
surprise.
Never had it been so hard to maintain his composure as now, when her
simplicity forced him to come to plainer terms. ‘I must speak,’ he
continued, ‘because no one else will. Have you reflected whither this
may tend? This music, this versifying, this admitting a stranger so
unreservedly into your pursuits?’
She understood now, and hung her head. He would have given worlds to
judge of the face hidden by her bonnet; but as she did not reply,
he spoke on, his agitation becoming so strong, that the struggle was
perceptible in the forced calmness of his tone. ‘I would not say a word
if he were worthy, but Laura--Laura, I have seen Locksley Hall acted
once; do not let me see it again in a way which--which would give me
infinitely more pain.’
The faltering of his voice, so resolutely subdued, touched, her
extremely, and a thrill of exquisite pleasure glanced through her, on
hearing confirmed what she had long felt, that she had taken Margaret’s
place--nay, as she now learnt, that she was even more precious to him.
She only thought of reassuring him.
‘No, you need never fear _that_. He has no such thought, I am sure.’
She blushed deeply, but looked in his face. ‘He treats us both alike,
besides, he is so young.’
‘The mischief is not done,’ said Philip, trying to resume his usual
tone; ‘I only meant to speak in time. You might let your manner go too
far; you might even allow your affections to be involved without knowing
it, if you were not on your guard.’
‘Never!’ said Laura. ‘Oh, no; I could never dream of that with Guy. I
like Guy very much; I think better of him than you do; but oh no; he
could never be my first and best; I could never care for him in _that_
way. How could you think so, Philip?’
‘Laura, I cannot but look on you with what may seem over-solicitude.
Since I lost Fanny, and worse than lost Margaret, you have been my
home; my first, my most precious interest. O Laura!’ and he did not even
attempt to conceal the trembling and tenderness of his voice, ‘could I
bear to lose you, to see you thrown away or changed--you, dearest, best
of all?’
Laura did not turn away her head this time, but raising her beautiful
face, glowing with such a look as had never beamed there before, while
tears rose to her eyes, she said, ‘Don’t speak of my changing towards
you. I never could; for if there is anything to care for in me, it is
you that have taught it to me.’
If ever face plainly told another that he was her first and best,
Laura’s did so now. Away went misgivings, and he looked at her in
happiness too great for speech, at least, he could not speak till he
had mastered his emotion, but his countenance was sufficient reply. Even
then, in the midst of this flood of ecstasy, came the thought, ‘What
have I done?’
He had gone further than he had ever intended. It was a positive avowal
of love; and what would ensue? Cessation of intercourse with her,
endless vexations, the displeasure of her family, loss of influence,
contempt, and from Mr. Edmonstone, for the pretensions of a penniless
soldier. His joy was too great to be damped, but it was rendered
cautious. ‘Laura, my own!’ (what delight the words gave her,) ‘you have
made me very happy. We know each other now, and trust each other for
ever.’
‘O yes, yes; nothing can alter what has grown up with us.’
‘It is for ever!’ repeated Philip. ‘But, Laura, let us be content with
our own knowledge of what we are to each other. Do not let us call in
others to see our happiness.’
Laura looked surprised, for she always considered any communication
about his private feelings too sacred to be repeated, and wondered he
should think the injunction necessary. ‘I never can bear to talk about
the best kinds of happiness,’ said she; ‘but oh!’ and she sprang up,
‘here they come.’
Poor Mrs. Edmonstone, as she walked back from her mushroom-field, she
little guessed that words had been spoken which would give the colouring
to her daughter’s whole life--she little guessed that her much-loved and
esteemed nephew had betrayed her confidence! As she and the girls came
up, Philip advanced to meet them, that Laura might have a few moments to
recover, while with an effort he kept himself from appearing absent in
the conversation that ensued. It was brief, for having answered some
questions with regard to the doings on the important day, he said, that
since he had met them he would not come on to Hollywell, and bade them
farewell, giving Laura a pressure of the hand which renewed the glow on
her face.
He walked back, trying to look through the dazzling haze of joy so as
to see his situation clearly. It was impossible for him not to perceive
that there had been an absolute declaration of affection, and that he
had established a private understanding with his cousin. It was not,
however, an engagement, nor did he at present desire to make it so.
It was impossible for him as yet to marry, and he was content to wait
without a promise, since that could not add to his entire reliance on
Laura. He could not bear to be rejected by her parents: he knew his
poverty would be the sole ground of objection, and he was not asking her
to share it. He believed sincerely that a long, lingering attachment to
himself would be more for her good than a marriage with one who would
have been a high prize for worldly aims, and was satisfied that by
winning her heart he had taken the only sure means of securing her from
becoming attached to Guy, while secrecy was the only way of preserving
his intercourse with her on the same footing, and exerting his influence
over the family.
It was calmly reflected, for Philip’s love was tranquil, though deep and
steady, and the rather sought to preserve Laura as she was than to
make her anything more; and this very calmness contributed to his
self-deception on this first occasion that he had ever actually swerved
from the path of right.
With an uncomfortable sensation, he met Guy riding home from his tutor,
entirely unsuspicious. He stopped and talked of the preparations at
Broadstone, where he had been over the ground with Maurice de Courcy,
and had heard the band.
‘What did you think of it? said Philip, absently.
‘They _should_ keep better time! Really, Philip, there is one fellow
with a bugle that ought to be flogged every day of his life!’ said Guy,
making a droll, excruciated face.
How a few words can change the whole current of ideas. The band was
connected with Philip, therefore he could not bear to hear it found
fault with, and adduced some one’s opinion that the man in question was
one of the best of their musicians.
Guy could not help shrugging his shoulders, as he laughed, and
said,--‘Then I shall be obliged to take to my heels if I meet the rest.
Good-bye.’
‘How conceited they have made that boy about his fine ear,’ thought
Philip. ‘I wonder he is not ashamed to parade his music, considering
whence it is derived.’