Sir Edward Digby did not take advantage of the opportunity which Mrs.
Barbara's absence afforded him. This may seem extraordinary conduct in
a good soldier and quick and ready man; but he had his reasons for it.
Not that he was beginning to hesitate, as some men do, when--after
having quite made up their minds--they begin to consider all the
perils of their situation, and retreat, without much regard for their
own consistency, or the feelings of the other persons interested. But,
no--Digby justly remembered that what he had to say might require some
time, and that it might produce some agitation. Moreover, he
recollected that there are few things so disagreeable on earth, as
being interrupted at a time when people's eyes are sparkling or in
tears, when the cheek is flushed or deadly pale; and as he knew not
when Mrs. Barbara might return, and certainly did not anticipate that
she would be long absent, he resolved to wait for another opportunity.
When he found minute after minute slip by, however, he began to repent
of his determination; and certainly, although the word love never
passed his lips, something very like the reality shone out in his
eyes. Perhaps, had Zara been in any of her usual moods, more serious
words might have followed. Had she been gay and jesting, or calm and
thoughtful, a thousand little incidents might have led on naturally to
the unfolding of the heart of each. But, on the contrary, she was
neither the one nor the other. She was evidently anxious,
apprehensive, ill at ease; and though she conversed rationally enough
for a person whose mind was in such a state, yet she frequently turned
her eyes towards the door of the adjoining room, from which the sound
of her father's voice and that of Mr. Radford might still be heard.
Sir Edward Digby endeavoured to gain her attention to himself, as much
with a view to withdraw it from unpleasant subjects as anything else;
and it was very natural that--with one so fair and so excellent, one
possessing so much brightness, in spite of a few little spots--it was
natural that his tone should become tenderer every minute. At length,
however, she stopped him, saying, "I am very anxious just now. I fear
there is some mischief going on there, which we cannot prevent, and
may never know. Edith's absence is certainly very strange; and I fear
they may foil us yet."
In a minute or two after, Mrs. Barbara Croyland returned, but in such
a flutter that she spoilt her embroidery, which she snatched up to
cover her agitation, dropped her finest scissars, and broke the point
off, and finally ran the needle into her finger, which, thereupon,
spotted the silk with blood. She gave no explanation indeed of all
this emotion, but looked several times at Zara with a meaning glance;
and when, at length, Sir Robert Croyland entered the drawing-room, his
whole air and manner did not tend to remove from his daughter's mind
the apprehension which his sister's demeanour had cast over it.
There is a general tone in every landscape which it never entirely
loses; yet how infinite are the varieties which sunshine and cloud and
storm, and morning, evening, and noon, bring upon it; and thus with
the expression and conduct of every man, although they retain certain
distinctive characteristics, yet innumerable are the varieties
produced by the moods, the passions, and the emotions of the mind. Sir
Robert Croyland was no longer irritably thoughtful; but he was stern,
gloomy, melancholy. He strove to converse, indeed; but the effort was
so apparent, the pain it gave him so evident, that Sir Edward Digby
felt, or fancied, that his presence was a restraint. He had too much
tact, however, to show that he imagined such to be the case; and he
only resolved to retire to his own room as soon as he decently could.
He was wrong in his supposition, indeed, that his host might wish to
communicate something privately to Zara, or to Mrs. Barbara. Sir
Robert had nothing to tell; and therefore the presence of Sir Edward
Digby was rather agreeable to him than not, as shielding him from
inquiries, which it might not have suited him to answer. He would have
talked if he could, and would have done his best to make his house
agreeable to his young guest; but his thoughts still turned, with all
the bitterness of smothered anger, to the indignity he had suffered;
and he asked himself, again and again, "Will the time ever come, when
I shall have vengeance for all this?"
The evening passed gloomily, and in consequence slowly; and at length,
when the clock showed that it still wanted a quarter to ten, Digby
rose and bade the little party good night, saying that he was somewhat
tired, and had letters to write.
"I shall go to bed too," said Sir Robert Croyland, ringing for his
candle. But Digby quitted the room first; and Zara could not refrain
from saying, in a low tone, as she took leave of her father for the
night, and went out of the room with him, "There is nothing amiss with
Edith, I trust, my dear father?"
"Oh dear, no!" answered Sir Robert Croyland, with as careless an air
as he could assume. "Nothing at all, but that she does not come home
to-night, and perhaps may not to-morrow."
Still unsatisfied, Zara sought her own room; and when her maid had
half performed her usual functions for the night, she dismissed her,
saying, that she would do the rest herself. When alone, however, Zara
Croyland did not proceed to undress, but remained thinking over all
the events of the day, with her head resting on her hand, and her eyes
cast down. The idea of Edith and her fate mingled with other images.
The words that Digby had spoken, the increasing tenderness of his tone
and manner, came back to memory, and made her heart flutter with
sensations unknown till then. She felt alarmed at her own feelings;
she knew not well what they were; but still she said to herself at
every pause of thought--"It is all nonsense!--He will go away and
forget me; and I shall forget him! These soldiers have always some
tale of love for every woman's ear. It is their habit--almost their
nature." Did she believe her own conclusions? Not entirely; but she
tried to believe them; and that was enough for the present.
Some minutes after, however, when a light knock was heard at the door,
she started almost as if some one had struck her; and Fancy, who is
always drawing upon improbability, made her believe, for an instant,
that it might be Digby. She said, "Come in," however, with tolerable
calmness; and the next instant, the figure of her aunt presented
itself, with eagerness in her looks and importance in her whole air.
"My dear child!" she said, "I did not know whether your maid was gone;
but I am very happy she is, for I have something to tell you of very
great importance indeed. What do you think that rascal Radford has
done?" and as she spoke, she sank, with a dignified air, into a chair.
"I really can't tell, my dear aunt," replied Zara, not a little
surprised to hear the bad epithet which her aunt applied to a
gentleman, towards whom she usually displayed great politeness. "I am
sure he is quite capable of anything that is bad."
"Ah, he is very much afraid of me, and what he calls my sweet meddling
ways," said the old lady; "but, perhaps, if I had meddled before, it
might have been all the better. I am sure I am the very last to
meddle, except when there is an absolute occasion for it, as you well
know, my dear Zara."
The last proposition was put in some degree as a question; but Zara
did not think fit to answer it, merely saying, "What is it, my dear
aunt?--I am all anxiety and fear regarding Edith."
"Well you may be, my love," said Mrs. Barbara; and thereupon she
proceeded to tell Zara, how she had overheard the whole conversation
between Mr. Radford and her brother, through the door of the library,
which opened into the little passage, that ran between it and the
rooms beyond. She did not say that she had put her ear to the keyhole;
but that Zara took for granted, and indeed felt somewhat like an
accomplice, while listening to secrets which had been acquired by such
means.
Thus almost everything that had passed in the library--with a few very
short variations and improvements, but with a good deal of comment,
and a somewhat lengthy detail--was communicated by Mrs. Barbara to her
niece; and when she had done, the old lady added, "There, my dear, now
go to bed and sleep upon it; and we will talk it all over in the
morning, for I am determined that my niece shall not be treated in
such a way by any vagabond smuggler like that. Dear me! one cannot
tell what might happen, with Edith shut up in his house in that way.
Talk of my meddling, indeed! He shall find that I will meddle now to
some purpose! Good night, my dear love--good night!" But Mrs. Barbara
stopped at the door, to explain to Zara that she had not told her
before, "Because, you know," said the good lady, "I could not speak of
such things before a stranger, like Sir Edward Digby; and when he was
gone, I didn't dare say anything to your father. Think of it till
to-morrow, there's a dear girl, and try and devise some plan."
"I will," said Zara--"I will;" but as soon as her aunt had
disappeared, she clasped her hands together, exclaiming, "Good Heaven!
what plan can I form? Edith is lost! They have her now completely in
their power. Oh, that I had known this before Sir Edward Digby went to
sleep. He might have gone over to Leyton to-morrow, early; and they
might have devised something together. Perhaps he has not gone to rest
yet. He told me to throw off all restraint, to have no ceremony in
case of need. Leyton told me so, too--that I might trust in him--that
he is a man of honour. Oh, yes, I am sure he is a man of honour! but
what will he think?--He promised he would think no harm of anything I
might be called upon to do; and I promised I would trust him. I will
go! He can speak to me in the passage. No one sleeps near, to
overhear. But I will knock softly; for though he said he had letters
to write, he may have gone to bed by this time."
Leaving the lights standing where they were, Zara cast on a long
dressing-gown, and crept quietly out into the passage, taking care not
to pull the door quite to. All was silent in the house; not a sound
was heard; and with her heart beating as if it would have burst
through her side, she approached Sir Edward Digby's door;--but there
she paused. Had she not paused, but gone on at once, and knocked, all
would have been well; for, so far from being in bed, he was sitting
calmly reading. But ladies' resolutions, and men's, are made of very
much the same materials. The instant her foot stopped, her whole host
of woman's feelings crowded upon her, and barred the way. First, she
thought of modesty, and propriety, and decency; and then, though she
might have overcome the whole of that squadron for Edith's sake, the
remembrance of many words that Digby had spoken, the look, the tone,
the manner, all rose again upon her memory. She felt that he was a
lover; and putting her hand to her brow, she murmured--"I cannot; no,
I cannot. Had he been only a friend, I would.--I will see him early
to-morrow. I will sit up all night, that I may not sleep, and miss the
opportunity; but I cannot go to-night;" and, returning as quietly to
her own chamber as she had come thence, she shut the door and locked
it. She had never locked it in her life before; and she knew not why
she did it.
Then, drawing the arm-chair to the hearth, Zara Croyland trimmed the
fire, wrapped herself up as warmly as she could; and putting out one
of the candles, that she might not be left in darkness by both being
burnt out together, she took up a book, and began to read. From time
to time, during that long night, her eyes grew heavy, and she fell
asleep; but something always woke her. Either her own thoughts
troubled her in dreams, or else the book fell out of her hand, or the
wind shook the window, or the cold chill that precedes the coming
morning disturbed her; and at length she looked at her watch, and,
finding it past five o'clock, she congratulated herself at having
escaped the power of the drowsy god, and, dressing in haste, undrew
the curtains, and looked out by the light of the dawning day. When she
saw the edge of the sun coming up, she said to herself, "He is often
very early. I will go down." But, bethinking herself that no time was
to be lost, she hurried first to her maid's room, and waking her, told
her to see Sir Edward Digby's servant, as soon as he rose, and to bid
him inform his master that she wanted to speak with him in the
library. "Speak not a word of this to any one else, Eliza," she said;
and then, thinking it necessary to assign some reason for her conduct,
she added, "I am very anxious about my sister; her not coming home
yesterday alarms me, and I want to hear more."
"Oh dear! you needn't frighten yourself, Miss Zara," replied the
maid--"I dare say there's nothing the matter."
"But I cannot help frightening myself," replied Zara; and going down
into the library, she unclosed one of the shutters.
The maid was very willing to gratify her young lady, for Zara was a
favourite with all; but thinking from the look of the sky, that it
would be a long time before the servant rose, and having no such
scruples as her mistress, she went quietly away to his room, and
knocked at his door, saying, "I wish you would get up, Mr. Somers--I
want to speak with you."
Zara remained alone for twenty minutes in the library, or not much
more, and then she heard Digby's step in the passage. There was a good
deal of alarm and surprise in his look when he entered; but his fair
companion's tale was soon told; and that sufficiently explained her
sudden call for his presence. He made no comment at the moment, but
replied, "Wait for me here one instant. I will order my horse, and be
back directly."
He was speedily by her side again; and then, taking her hand in his,
he said, "I wish I had known this, last night.--You need not have been
afraid of disturbing me, for I was up till nearly one."
Zara smiled: "You do not know," she answered, "how near I was to your
door, with the intention of calling you."
"And why did you not?" asked Digby, eagerly. "Nay, you must tell me,
why you should hesitate when so much was at stake."
"I can but answer, because my heart failed me," replied Zara. "You
know women's hearts are weak foolish things."
"Nay," said Digby, "you must explain further.--Why did your heart fail
you? Tell me, Zara. I cannot rest satisfied unless you tell me."
"Indeed, there is no time now for explanation," she replied, feeling
that her admission had drawn her into more than she had anticipated;
"your horse will soon be here--and--and there is not a moment to
lose."
"There is time enough for those who will," answered Digby, in a
serious tone; "you promised me that you would not hesitate, whenever
necessity required you to apply to me for counsel or aid--you have
hesitated, Zara. Could you doubt me--could you be apprehensive--could
you suppose that Edward Digby would, in word, deed, or thought, take
advantage of your generous confidence?"
"No, no--oh, no!" answered Zara, warmly, blushing, and trembling at
the same time, "I did not--I could not, after all you have done--after
all I have seen. No, no; I thought you would think it strange--I
thought----"
"Then you supposed I would wrong you in thought!" he replied, with
some mortification in his manner; "you do not know me yet."
"Oh yes, indeed I do," she answered, feeling that she was getting
further and further into difficulties; and then she added, with one of
her sudden bursts of frankness, "I will tell you how it was--candidly
and truly. Just as I was at your door, and about to knock, the memory
of several things you had said--inadvertently, perhaps--crossed my
mind; and, though I felt that I could go at any hour to consult a
friend in such terrible circumstances, I could not--no, I could not do
so with a--with one--You see what harm you have done by such fine
speeches!"
She thought, that by her last words, she had guarded herself securely
from any immediate consequences of this unreserved confession; but she
was mistaken. She merely hurried on what might yet have rested for a
day or two.
Sir Edward Digby took her other hand also, and held it gently yet
firmly, as if he was afraid she should escape from him. "Zara," he
said, "dear Zara, I have done harm, by speaking too much, or not
enough. I must remedy it by the only means in my power.--Listen to me
for one moment, for I cannot go till all is said. You must cast off
this reserve--you must act perfectly freely with me; I seek to bind
you by no engagement--I will bear my doubt; I will not construe
anything you do, as an acceptance of my suit; but you must know--nay,
you do know, you do feel, that I am your lover. It was doubt of your
own sensations towards me, that made you hesitate--it was fear that
you should commit yourself, to that which you might, on consideration,
be indisposed to ratify.--You thought that I might plead such
confidence as a tacit promise; and that made you pause. But hear me,
as I pledge myself--upon my honour, as a gentleman--that if you act
fearlessly and freely, in the cause in which we are both engaged--if
you confide in me--trust in me, and never hesitate to put yourself, as
you may think, entirely in my power, I will never look upon anything
as plighting you to me in the slightest degree, till I hear you say
the words, 'Digby, I am yours'--if ever that happy day should come. In
the meantime, however, to set you entirely free from all apprehension
of what others may say, I hold myself bound to you by every promise
that man can make; and this very day I will ask your father's
approbation of my suit. But I am well aware, though circumstances have
shown me in a marvellous short time, that your heart and mind is equal
to your beauty, yet it is not to be expected that such a being can be
won in a few short days, and that I must wait in patience--not without
hope, indeed, but with no presumption. By your conduct, at least, I
shall know, whether I have gained your esteem.--Your love, perhaps,
may follow; and now I leave you, to serve your sister and my friend,
to the best of my power."
Thus saying, he raised her hand to his lips, kissed it, and moved
towards the door.
There was a sad struggle in Zara's breast; but as he was laying his
hand upon the lock to open it, she said, "Digby--Digby--Edward!"
He instantly turned, and ran towards her; for her face had become very
pale. She gave him her hand at once, however, "Kind, generous man!"
she said, "you must not go without hearing my answer. Such a pledge
cannot be all on one part. I am yours, Digby, if you wish it; yet know
me better first before you answer--see all my faults, and all my
failings. Even this must show you how strange a being I am--how unlike
other girls--how unlike perhaps, the woman you would wish to call your
wife!----"
"Wish it!" answered Digby, casting his arm round her, "from my
heart--from my very soul, Zara. I know enough, I have seen enough, for
I have seen you in circumstances that bring forth the bosom's inmost
feelings; and though you are unlike others--and I have watched many in
their course--that very dissimilarity is to me the surpassing charm.
They are all art, you are all nature--ay, and nature in its sweetest
and most graceful form; and I can boldly say, I never yet saw woman
whom I should desire to call my wife till I saw you. I will not wait,
dear girl; but, pledged to you as you are pledged to me, will not
press this subject further on you, till your sister's fate is sealed.
I must, indeed, speak with your father at once, that there may be no
mistake, no misapprehension; but till all this sad business is
settled, we are brother and sister, Zara; and then a dearer bond."
"Oh, yes, yes--brother and sister!" cried Zara, clinging to him at a
name which takes fear from woman's heart, "so will we be, Edward; and
now all my doubts and hesitations will be at an end. I shall never
fear more to seek you when it is needful."
"And my suit will be an excuse and a reason to all others, for free
interviews, and solitary rambles, and private conference, and every
dear communion," answered Digby, pleased, and yet almost amazed at the
simplicity with which she lent herself to the magic of a word, when
the heart led her.
But Zara saw he was a little extending the brother's privilege; and
with a warm cheek but smiling lip, she answered, "There, leave me now;
I see you are learned in the art of leading on from step to step. Go
on your way, Edward; and, oh! be kind to me, and do not make me feel
this new situation too deeply at first. There, pray take away your
arm; none but a father's or a sister's has been there before; and it
makes my heart beat, as if it were wrong."
But Digby kept it where it was for a moment or two longer, and gave a
few instants to happiness, in which she shared, though it agitated
her. "Nay, go," she said, at length, in a tone of entreaty, "and I
will lie down and rest for an hour; for I have sat up all night by the
fire, lest I should be too late.--You must go, indeed. There is your
horse upon the terrace; and we must not be selfish, but remember poor
Edith before we think of our own happiness."
There was a sweet and frank confession in her words that pleased Digby
well; and leaving her with a heart at rest on his own account, he
mounted his horse and rode rapidly away towards the quarters of Sir
Henry Leyton.