"Maria!" said the Earl of Ashborough, addressing Miss Beauchamp on the
morning after his return from Emberton, "what say you, dear sister, to
a tour on the continent for six months or a year?"
"Why, personally, I should have no objection, Henry," answered Miss
Beauchamp; "but you forget, my dear brother, there are nine very
respectable gentlemen, young and old, expiring for me at this present
moment. Now, what would they do if I were to go abroad?"
"Expire for somebody else, I suppose," replied Beauchamp; "I can not
perceive any other event."
"Henry! Henry!" cried his sister, "you are perfectly insulting. But to
tell you the truth, I think it is the best thing you can do, to travel
to the south; for during the past month you have looked so like a
gambler, or a member of the Lower House, or some of those people that
sit up all night, and come home pale and thin in the morning, that I
am ashamed to be seen with you. But seriously, I will go where you
like, noble brother," she added, leaning her two hands half
affectionately, half maliciously, on Beauchamp's arm, and looking up
in his face; "I will go where you like, and help you to search for
sweet Blanche Delaware, with all my eyes."
Beauchamp smiled, much less annoyed than his sister had expected; but
gliding his arm round her waist he held her tight, while he answered,
"Will you, indeed, Maria? Well, then, as a reward for your
disinterested kindness, I trust you may find William Delaware with his
sister."
Maria Beauchamp turned as red as an infantry regiment, and struggling
away from her brother's grasp, ran into her own room, where, strange
to say, she wept like a child. But Beauchamp, by his retort, had, at
all events, insured that not one teasing word upon the subject of
Blanche Delaware should pass his sister's lips; and as soon as he
could arrange his affairs--which of course kept him three weeks longer
than he had expected--with two carriages, as little baggage, and as
few servants as his sister would suffer him to take, he was once more
rolling away toward Dover.
Following the invariable rule of looking in, instead of looking out,
we shall much prefer giving a sketch of what was passing in the heart
of Henry Beauchamp, Earl of Ashborough, to depicting the beauties of
the Canterbury road, or expatiating on the sublimities of Rochester
and Chatham.
As Dr. Wilton had imagined, Beauchamp certainly was as impatient as
human being could be, to see Blanche Delaware, and to make one more
effort for happiness; but there were many points in Beauchamp's
situation, and many feelings at Beauchamp's heart, which the good
rector had not taken at all into account. Ever since he had parted
with Blanche at the Prior's Fountain, he had been placed in the
painful circumstances of a rejected lover, while just a sufficient
degree of hope had been left to keep love alive, to render the feeling
of disappointment perpetual, and to aggravate its bitterness by doubt.
In seeking her he loved, therefore, he knew not what he was to expect;
but as he was not one to be satisfied with any thing less than love
for love, he determined that he would not suffer his exertions in
favor of William Delaware to be urged as any tie upon Miss Delaware's
affection; but that he would have the clearest assurance that the
heart was his, before he again asked the hand, which, in his eyes,
would be worthless without it. He felt, indeed, that it would be
difficult to press Blanche upon the subject of her former rejection of
his suit, and yet he perversely determined that the rejection ought to
be explained before the suit could be renewed. These thoughts,
however, and the many contending emotions with which they were
connected, both agitated and depressed him; and the hopes which his
short interview with Blanche at the inn, as well as several previous
considerations had excited, waxed weak and faint as he crossed the
channel and found he was approaching nearer to her dwelling.
In Paris, however, he was destined to meet another
disappointment--slight, indeed, but calculated to increase the
impatience that was glowing upon him. He found, on inquiring at Mrs.
Darlington's hotel, that she had left the French metropolis two days
before for Italy; and, as the people of the house had informed him
that her departure had been somewhat sudden, he immediately settled it
in his own mind that she had heard some tidings of the Delawares, and
had proceeded at once to join them. Now, although, when Beauchamp came
to reflect upon this supposition, he found that it did not very well
agree with the indifferent, comfort-loving, bonnet-and-cap sort of
character of Mrs. Darlington, yet it was a favorite fancy, and he did
not chose to give it up. He therefore intimated his wish that his
sister would agree to pursue their way toward Italy without delay; and
Miss Beauchamp--although she was really fatigued with a long journey
over a road that can never have been mended since the days of
_Klovigh_, as Chateaubriand calls the French king--acquiesced at once
without farther question. She did it so sweetly and good humoredly,
too, that it opened her brother's heart at once; and, sitting down
beside her, he told her all his motives, and all his wishes, and all
his hopes, in a way that defied her taking advantage of him even by a
smile. In return, he gained a world of good advice, which, as it came
from a woman, and related to a woman, Beauchamp wisely treasured up
for service.
With scarcely a day's interval, the whole party were once more upon
the road; but as the way or ways from Paris to Geneva are each and all
as well beaten by English travelers as that between London and Dover,
we shall not pause to itinerarize even here. At only one small town on
the road shall we take the liberty of stopping, inasmuch as an
accidental circumstance induced Beauchamp to stay there longer than he
had at first proposed. He had chosen the road by Dijon instead of that
by Macon, and, after sleeping at Dole, set out early in the morning,
in hopes of reaching Geneva that night. The first stage from Dole, if
we remember right, is Mont sous Vaudrey. At all events, if it be not
the first it is the second; and perhaps the reader and the guide-book
will excuse us if we make mistake. Here, however, Beauchamp changed
horses about half-past ten, and then rattled on through that neat
little village, entered a part of the forest of Rahon, and then, after
winding on up and down the wavy hills at the foot of the Jura, reached
the small village of Aumont, at the distance of about five or six
miles from the relay. Without stopping there, however, the postillion
trotted on, and, driving through the Crozanne, paused for a moment to
let his horses pant, while Beauchamp and his sister gazed out upon a
wide and very beautiful scene of hill and valley, lighted up by the
soft sunshine of spring, with an occasional wreath of morning mist
hanging upon the brows of the mountains.
"What town is that?" demanded Beauchamp, speaking out of the window to
the postillion. "There--before you--a little to the left, leaning its
back against the hills, with two or three neat châteaux scattered on
the slope."
"C'est Poligny, monsieur!" replied the postillion; and, adding that
they changed horses there, rode on.
As they approached the little town, the country became richly
cultivated in vines and corn; and the aspect of the whole scene,
backed by mountains and sparkling with a thousand streams, was gay and
engaging.
"What a beautiful spot!" cried Miss Beauchamp. "I really think, Henry,
when you marry, and turn me out of your house to die an old maid, I
will buy yon gray château on the hill--looking something between a
village church and a farm house--and spend the rest of my days at
Poligny."
"See it first on a rainy day, Maria!" replied her brother, whose
increasing anxiety and impatience did not afford the brightest medium
through which to view the world.
"Out, cynic!" cried his sister; "I will never see things on a rainy
day when I can see them on a fine one; and now, tell me, whither are
you going to whirl me at this violent rate? What particular spot of
the earth's surface is the ultimate object of this journey, my lord?
Or are we to go on rolling forever?"
"Why, I think, my dear sister," replied Beauchamp, musing; "I think it
is not unlikely to end in Sicily--I have some reason to imagine--"
"Goodness!" exclaimed Miss Beauchamp, interrupting him, "that must
surely be an English woman in the widow's dress."
"Hai, postillion! Arrettez! Arrettez donc!" was all the young earl's
reply to his sister's observation; and the next moment, much to her
surprise, he was out of the carriage, and speaking kindly to the woman
whom she had noticed, and who had turned round to take a casual glance
of the two gay carriages that came dashing up into the little quiet
town of Poligny.
"Indeed! Is he so ill!" said Beauchamp, gravely, as he listened to
widow Harrison's account of the journey she had lately taken, and her
son's present situation. "I sill really sorry to hear it--but you can
not have good medical advice here. It would be much better to get him
on to Geneva."
"Oh, but indeed we have very good advice, sir!" answered the widow.
"There is good Dr. Arnoux here, who was in England in the time of the
war--an emigrant--and lodged for three years in our house in Emberton,
before our misfortunes. I have just been getting Walter's medicines
while he is asleep."
"Well, Mrs. Harrison," replied Beauchamp, whose natural kindness of
heart was not to be mastered even by impatience. "I will stay here at
the inn to-day; and whenever you think that your son is likely to be
awake, I will come down and see him. But you must point me out the
house."
The poor woman replied that the young sailor was generally more drowsy
in the morning, and seemed much better and more lively in the evening;
and, with many unobtrusive but heartfelt thanks she described to
Beauchamp the way to her dwelling.
"Well, then, I will come down in the evening," answered Beauchamp,
"and we will see whether we can not devise some plan that may improve
his health."
With this promise, he returned to the carriage; and, while it drove on
to the auberge, satisfied his sister's curiosity in regard to the poor
widow. "So now, Maria," he said, "you will have the day's rest you
have been sighing for so long."
"Granted out of compassion to the widow," cried his sister; "but not
out of pity for me, though my whole frame has been aching for the last
three days, and my maid was very nearly expiring at Dole."
Notwithstanding this complaint, Miss Beauchamp, after luncheon, showed
herself quite willing to accompany her brother on an expedition in a
_char-à-banc_ of the country, among the neighboring hills; and as they
descended the stairs of the auberge to enter their little vehicle,
they heard another female tongue asking one of the servants, in
provincial English, who was the owner of the two splendid carriages
that stood before the house? The young earl smiled as he listened to
his title, given with vast pomposity by his courier, remarking to his
sister, that if his new rank was of no great use to himself, it was at
least of some service to his servants. By the time they had reached
the door however, both the inquirer and respondent had made themselves
invisible; and getting into the _char-à-banc_ without any other
attendance than the driver, the earl and his sister proceeded on their
expedition. Of it we shall say nothing, but refer our readers to the
indispensable Mrs. Marianna Starke. On their return, however, they
found their dinner prepared; and after somewhat hastily concluding
that meal, Beauchamp said he would leave his sister, and walk down to
the widow's cottage. But Miss Beauchamp, whose heart was not always as
light as it seemed, declared that she would accompany him, protesting
that men were worth nothing upon a charitable errand.
It was a sweet, bright evening in the end of March, with the sky,
through which the sun was dipping down toward his rest, so rich and
warm, that one might have taken it for the beginning of October, had
it not had been for the almanac, and for the tender green of the
trees, and the flood of untaught melody that came pouring from
every bush. The road led down to where there are two or three
scattered houses of a better class--which they call _les maisons
bourgeois_--built upon the slope of a little dell at the back of the
town, between it and the rise of the mountains. In one of these, with
the face looking through the valley of the Glantine to the open
country beyond, was the house now occupied by the widow. It was easily
found, and Beauchamp and his sister paused ere they entered, to gaze
for a moment on the rich view, lying calm and purple under the evening
sky, while the dark masses of hill on the other hand--rising up from a
base of mingled wood and mature, with the small château that Miss
Beauchamp had so much admired, breaking the line of the trees--towered
up in solemn majesty above the whole.
The door was open, and Beauchamp entering first, proceeded into one of
the rooms, where he heard some one speaking. The widow and her son
were sitting together near the window, and both rose (though the
latter moved with difficulty) to receive their benefactor.
"Here is my sister come to see you, Mrs. Harrison," he said, as he
entered. "Sit down, Walter. I am sorry to hear that the journey has
made you so ill, my poor fellow;" and taking a seat opposite to
him--while Miss Beauchamp beckoned Mrs. Harrison out to the door, in
order to leave her brother's conversation more at liberty--he gazed
upon the sunk but hectic cheek of the young sailor, and the dazzling
brightness of his feverish eye.
"It was not the journey, sir," replied the young man with a shake of
the head, mournful, but not discontented--"it was not the journey;"
and then, looking round to see that his mother was not there, he
added--"I told you sir, it would not last long, and I thank God for
it! for I have never forgiven myself--and every hour that I linger on
is a reproach to my heart. So now that I know mother will be cared
for, and that I have shown my gratitude to you and to the captain, God
bless him!--and that I have learned to think better than I used--I
don't care how soon it comes to an end. But, sir," he continued,
quickly, as if he had forgotten to do so before, "I ought to thank you
deeply for all your kindness; and especially, I am sure, for taking
the trouble to come and see me to-night, when there are so many things
you must have to do and talk about."
The young man's eyes gazed vacantly out upon the prospect as he spoke.
"He wanders!" thought Beauchamp. "I have heard physicians say that it
is the sign of approaching death with consumptive people."
"Oh no!" he added, aloud; "I have but little business of any kind to
do; and, indeed, I should have been here before, but your mother said
you were sleeping."
"I sleep more in the day than at night," replied the young man; "the
cough keeps me awake. But I hope, Mr. Beauchamp," he continued, in the
same abrupt manner--"I hope you will forgive me every thing I ever did
or said amiss to you. Indeed, I am very sorry for every wrong thing
that I have done through life--and hope God will forgive me!"
"Your offenses toward me," answered Beauchamp, "if there have been
any, which I do not know, are easily forgiven; and in the Almighty we
are sure of a more merciful judge than man can be. Mrs. Harrison," he
said, wishing to change the subject, and hearing the door behind him
open, "I should wish much to see this Dr. Arnoux whom you mentioned to
me. Where does he live?"
As Beauchamp spoke, he turned round slowly in his chair, in order to
address the widow; but the words had scarcely passed his lips, when he
started up. Looking in at the door, indeed, was the figure of his
sister, with the poor widow behind her; but between him and them were
two other figures--and darting forward, with all his doubts, and
apprehensions, and restitutions swallowed up in joy, Beauchamp clasped
the hand of Blanche Delaware in his own, while his left was pressed
almost as warmly by Captain Delaware.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "Blanche! William! Is it possible!"
"Yes, yes, indeed!" replied Captain Delaware. "Beauchamp, our friend,
our benefactor, our guardian angel I may call you, we have met again,
at length!"
Blanche Delaware said not a word; and though her eyes sparkled with
joy that would not be kept down, and her cheek glowed like crimson at
the joy her eyes betrayed, she trembled like an aspen in the wind,
and, sinking into a seat, a few sweet, happy tears rolled over her
fair face.
"Well," said Miss Beauchamp, advancing from the door, "I must
acknowledge that this is hardly fair--that I, who drew Mrs. Harrison
out of the way when I heard who was coming, in order that this merry
meeting should have none of its surprise anticipated, can find no one
to welcome _me!_ Blanche Delaware, my dear cousin," she added, taking
Blanche's hand, and kissing her as a sister, "How have you been this
many a day? We have not met since we were no higher than that stool;
but I have learned to love you, nevertheless. Have you quite forgotten
Maria Beauchamp?"
Blanche wept outright.
"What then, Mr. Beauchamp, have you not seen Sir Sidney?" asked the
widow's son, almost at the same moment. "It was very kind indeed of
you to come and see me first."
As he spoke, a violent fit of coughing seized him; and Beauchamp,
seeing that the excitement of all that was passing around was too much
for him, proposed to depart at once, telling him that he would come
early the next day, after having seen the physician. Miss Beauchamp,
holding Blanche's hand kindly in her own, led her toward the door of
the cottage, while their two brothers followed; and perhaps there was
never a congregation of happier faces went forth into the world, than
those which then stood looking over fair France from the borders of
Switzerland.
Maria Beauchamp turned toward the town; but Blanche hesitated, and
looked up to her brother.
William Delaware caught her glance immediately, and, straightforward
as ever, came at once to the point. "The truth is, Beauchamp," he
said, "it might be somewhat painful for us to go up to Poligny with
you; for, this morning, we learned a circumstance from our old
housekeeper, which, in fact, kept us from coming down to widow
Harrison's at an earlier hour--though, indeed, I should personally
care nothing about it."
"But what is it? What has happened now?" demanded Beauchamp, in the
eager and apprehensive tone of one who fears that the cup of happiness
just offered to his lip may be snatched away before he can drink.
"What, in fortune's name, has occurred now?"
"Nothing of any consequence," answered Captain Delaware. "Only we
understand--and you, who know all that has passed, will comprehend our
feelings on the occasion--we understand that the Earl of Ashborough is
here."
"He is, indeed, I am sorry to say," replied Beauchamp, pointing to the
deep mourning that he wore. "But let us forget, I entreat, that any
one who has ever borne the title that I now bear, felt differently
from myself toward the name of Delaware."
Blanche looked up to heaven, and her lips moved; but her cheek glowed
eloquently again as Maria Beauchamp's hand clasped somewhat tighter
upon her own, and she saw a smile, half sad, half playful, shining on
her fair cousin's lip.
Still the whole party paused in silence; for there was so much to be
said that there was nothing said at all. Each heart was full of
feelings that would have taken days to pour forth; and at length
William Delaware proposed the wisest thing for all parties, that they
should part for that time, as night was coming on, and meet again the
next morning.
"You know," he said, "what delight my father will have in seeing you,
Beauchamp; and, indeed, I feel as if we were wronging him in
anticipating any part of all that we have to talk to you about. Yonder
is our residence," he added, pointing to the identical château that
Miss Beauchamp had fixed upon in entering the town; "and I am sure I
need not say that the sooner you come the greater will be the pleasure
to us."
"I shall not be late," answered Beauchamp; "depend upon it, I shall
not be late."
"But, Maria, you will come also," said Blanche, looking up in her
cousin's face.
"Oh, certainly! dear Blanche," replied Miss Beauchamp; "as your
brother can tell you, I am a very early person in my habits. You may
expect to see me at six in the morning."
Captain Delaware smiled, and could have said something in reply; but
as he began to divine that, whatever might be the result, he should
have more than one opportunity of seeing Maria Beauchamp again, he
reserved his rejoinder, and after another lingering pause, they
parted.
"Henry, I admire your taste," said Miss Beauchamp, as they walked back
to the inn; "she is a beautiful, sweet girl, indeed, and will do very
well to make a countess of."
"Hush, hush, Maria!" said her brother. "Spare your raillery yet for a
while. There is much to be got over, before we come to such
conclusions as that. The game is yet to be played, and I will give you
leave to laugh if I win."
"You will be a sad bungler, my dear brother, if you lose such a game
as that," replied Miss Beauchamp; "for you have all the cards in your
own hands; but let us arrange our plans, Harry. At whatsoever hour you
please to-morrow, you take some vile beast of a horse from the inn,
and ride over by yourself. I will come to breakfast at my own time in
the carriage. Nay, I will have my way this time at least; for I do not
choose to have any lover in the carriage with me--except it were one
of my own."
Beauchamp yielded, of course; for there were more cogent arguments in
his own breast in favor of his sister's plans, than any she thought
fit to produce. He had now food enough for thought during the evening;
but he did not forget to send for good Dr. Arnoux, from whom he
received a confirmation of his worst apprehensions in regard to the
widow's son. From that worthy man, also, he learned that it was at his
suggestion that Captain Delaware, and Sir Sidney--who had been an old
friend of his while he lived as an _emigré_ at Emberton--had fixed
their abode at Poligny, the retired situation of which, and its
immediate proximity to both Switzerland and Germany, rendered it
peculiarly advantageous under the circumstances in which they were
placed for the time.
This conference ended, Beauchamp retired to bed, and obtained such
sleep as lovers usually are supposed to gain while their fate is in
suspense.