delight of feeling the long-borne load suddenly removed from the heart!
Janet, after enjoying her newly-found happiness in solitude for
some time, sought her friend Philippa, who kindly congratulated her
on her acquisition, and reminded her how often she had told her that
she greatly exaggerated the neglect and unkindness of the world; but
Philippa would not be persuaded into thinking that a valentine was at
all equivalent to a promise of marriage, or even to a declaration of
love.
"You will know better in a little while, Janet," she said kindly; "but
at present I cannot prevail upon myself to damp your happiness; you are
looking cheerful, and hopeful for the first time in your life."
Happy indeed was that day to Janet; and the ensuing one was no less
so. Heathcote and a few other friends dined with Mr. Chetwode, and
in the evening he entered the drawing-room shortly after Captain
Warrington, who had seated himself between the two young ladies, and
was discoursing to Philippa in a low voice on the subject of valentines
in general, and doubtless one valentine in particular. Heathcote took
a chair by the side of Janet: her heart throbbed violently at his
approach, but Janet's eyes and complexion were not of the sort to
betray sudden emotion, and no alteration was visible in her usually
quiet, and somewhat dull demeanor.
"You will pardon the question I am about to ask, Miss Penson," said
Heathcote, catching a few words of the conversation between Philippa
and her admirer; "but for the first time in my life I have been
endeavoring to perpetrate poetry, and have had the presumption to send
my humble attempt to this house, taking advantage of an occasion when
even the most inexperienced rhymster may anticipate merciful criticism.
May I hope that my offering has not offended?"
Janet felt for a moment unable to reply, but her good sense suggested
to her that none but beauties are privileged to be coquettish and
tormenting; therefore she promptly replied--
"It has not offended."
"Dear Miss Penson," exclaimed Heathcote, fixing on her his dark,
sparkling eyes, full of pleasure and gratitude, "how kind and amiable
it is of you thus speedily to relieve my anxiety; but we shall soon be
interrupted. I see that the piano has just been opened: one word more,
and pardon me if it seems abrupt. I have hitherto visited occasionally
at this house; will it be considered intrusive if my visits become more
frequent?"
"I am sure," said Janet, again exerting herself to speak calmly and
distinctly, "that your visits here will always be welcome to my
guardian--to Philippa;" and after a moment's pause she added, "and to
myself."
Heathcote had only time to thank her, by another of those brief, bright
glances, so precious in her eyes, when she was summoned to the piano
to play the accompaniment to a new ballad, delightfully warbled by
Philippa, and she was gratified to observe that Heathcote followed her,
and kept his post by the instrument during the greater part of the
evening.
Happy was the little party of lovers during the next fortnight. Captain
Warrington and Heathcote were constantly at Mr. Chetwode's house,
constantly accompanying Philippa and Janet in walks, drives, and visits
to morning exhibitions. No young persons ever enjoyed their own way
more than the wards of Mr. Chetwode. He had a decided aversion to the
idea of a _dame de compagnie_ in the house; consequently, although
the wife of one of his friends always chaperoned Philippa and Janet
in society, their mornings were entirely at their own disposal. Mr.
Chetwode spent the greater part of every day comfortably ensconced in
his luxurious easy-chair at the club, wielding a paper-knife in one
hand, and holding a new review, magazine, or pamphlet, in the other;
and if he thought at all about his wards, he concluded them to be
occupied in netting purses, watering geraniums, petting canaries, or
reading "The Queens of England."
At the end of the fortnight, the member of the party whom my readers
will conclude to be the happiest began to feel somewhat anxious,
nervous, and discontented. Poor Janet, although the most humble-minded
of living creatures, felt greatly mortified that her intimacy with
Heathcote did not seem in the slightest manner to progress; he was
still kind, courteous, and considerate to her, as he had ever been,
but nothing more. She had given him every encouragement that he could
expect, but he did not fulfil the promises of his poetry; he never
uttered a word that could even be construed into "talking near" the
subject of love. Janet mentioned this apparent inconsistency to
Philippa.
"Did I not warn you, dear Janet," said her friend, laughingly, "that
you were affixing too much importance to a trifle? You should not
expect an admirer to fulfil all the promises of a valentine; you might
as reasonably expect a member of Parliament to fulfil the promises that
he had made during his canvass."
Janet, however, would not allow her faith in valentines to be weakened;
she put her own construction on the coolness of Heathcote, and a very
painful construction it was. She thought that although for a time his
approbation of her mind and manners had overcome his distaste to
her personal appearance, the latter feeling was gaining ground upon
him, and that he was unable to love her, and ashamed to introduce
her to the world as the object of his choice. "I will give him back
his faith," thought poor Janet, little surmising how she would be
wondered at in society for talking of giving back the faith of a
valentine. Before Janet could give Heathcote back his faith, he was
summoned into Shropshire, to see a married sister who was believed to
be dying; and Janet, instead of pondering over the uncertainty of her
own love-affair, had a different subject for her attention, in watching
the progress of a far more fortunate wooing. Captain Warrington,
by Philippa's permission, had spoken to Mr. Chetwode touching his
affection for his beautiful ward; and Mr. Chetwode, after a slight show
of reluctance, and an ineffectual attempt to induce the young people
to consent to a twelvemonth's engagement, had suffered himself to be
persuaded into a promise that he would give the bride away whenever she
chose to call upon him to do so.
Mr. Chetwode was a very reasonable guardian; he did not insist on
sacrificing his ward to a citizen whose money-bags outweighed his own;
or to a patrician, whose "face, like his family, was wonderfully old."
All went on smoothly and satisfactorily; the lawyers were busy with the
settlements, and Philippa busy with the choice of her wedding-dresses.
But Janet was not without a little gleam of comfort on her own account.
Heathcote had written to Mr. Chetwode. "My sister," he wrote, "I am
most thankful to say, is almost convalescent, and in a little while
I shall venture to tell her of an important step in life that I
contemplate taking. I shall then fly back on the wings of impatience
to London, and need scarcely say that my first visit will be to your
house."
Mr. Chetwode read aloud Heathcote's letter at the breakfast-table,
but made no comment on the sentence in question. Janet placed her own
construction on it; she thought that Heathcote, unlike men in general,
was a much more ardent lover when absent than when present, because he
did justice to the qualities of her mind, but disliked her personal
appearance. Moore says of the heroine of one of his sweet melodies--
"She looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two."
But Janet "looked in the glass" not with any pleasurable sensations;
she came to the conclusion that she grew plainer every day, and she
anticipated Heathcote's return with as much fear as hope. One morning
Janet was sitting alone in the drawing-room, and felt remarkably
nervous and depressed. "Are there such things as presentiments of
evil?" she thought; but her previous anticipations were changed into
joyous realities when Heathcote was announced. She started up to greet
him, but appearing not to notice her outstretched hand, he threw
himself into a chair: she thought him very much out of spirits; an
indifferent person would have thought him very much out of temper.
"Your sister, I trust, is not worse," said Janet, timidly.
"She is almost well again," he replied impatiently; "but, had I been
aware of what has just been told me, I do not think I should have
troubled myself to visit London."
"What has been told you?" gasped the agitated Janet; "you alarm me by
your vehemence."
"I have been told," he said, directing a searching glance at her,
"that I have a favored rival, who not only has taken advantage of my
absence from London to press his suit, but has succeeded in obtaining
a propitious answer to it."
How did Janet's heart beat with rapture! "Heathcote's love for her
could not now be doubted; he had love enough to be jealous; his anxious
misgivings should immediately be removed; he should be told that her
love was for him alone."
"You have been deceived, indeed you have been deceived," she exclaimed;
"no rival is in the case; you cannot love with greater sincerity and
truth than you are loved in return."
"Dear Miss Penson," cried Heathcote, taking her hand, "how can I thank
you sufficiently for having so promptly relieved my mind from its
groundless suspicions? My sister is prepared to welcome and to value
the object of my choice. I begin to fancy myself almost too happy; but
I do not see Philippa, and am quite impatient for an interview."
Again was Janet perplexed by the conduct of her lover. Why should he
speak of her friend as "Philippa," while he addressed herself as "Miss
Penson?" Why should he seem anxious for the entrance of Philippa, while
enjoying what ought to be the perfection of happiness to a lover--a
_tête-à-tête_ with his beloved one?
Even the most humble-minded of women can feel and resent a palpable
slight; and it was with some little dignity that Janet replied, "Miss
Roxby is not at home at present; Captain Warrington has accompanied her
to the jeweller's; the wedding is fixed for this day fortnight, and
she is of course so much engaged that I cannot expect to enjoy a great
deal of her society."
Heathcote seemed quite transfixed by this simple speech. "Philippa's
wedding-day fixed!" he exclaimed angrily; "then you have been cruelly
trifling with my feelings, Miss Penson. Why did you tell me that I had
no rival? Why did you cheat me into a few minutes of happiness only to
give me deeper and more poignant misery?"
"I do not understand you," said Janet. "I feel bewildered and confused;
what power can Philippa's engagement have to affect your tranquillity?
You asked me if I had encouraged a rival in your absence, and I
candidly told you that my heart was all your own."
"You!" exclaimed Heathcote, fixing on her a look of astonished
contempt, as if he thought her a fitting inmate for a lunatic asylum.
"If you are jesting, Miss Penson, you have chosen a very inappropriate
time for it; if you are in earnest, I scarcely know whether to regard
with the more pity or anger the absurd vanity which can have led you to
construe common civilities into individual attachment."
"Your attentions exceeded common civilities," faltered the unhappy
Janet, as she mentally repeated some of the soft passages of the
valentine.
"In your opinion, perhaps they might," said Heathcote, with an
expression of countenance somewhat closely bordering on a sneer; "your
personal drawbacks have doubtless been the cause of obtaining for you
the frequent neglect of the coarse and unfeeling. I certainly, however,
could never have deemed it possible that you could have supposed
yourself likely to inspire passion in my heart, or in that of any other
man, especially by the side of the brilliant and fascinating Philippa
Roxby. I have serious trouble enough in losing her, without this
ridiculous and provoking misunderstanding. I advise you never to expose
yourself to sarcasm by making public to the world your unreasonable
expectations; and, for my part, I am willing to promise to be equally
silent on the subject: let us both endeavor to forget the untoward
conversation of this morning."
Heathcote's injunctions of secrecy and promise to be secret were
rendered unavailing, for Mr. Chetwode, who had entered unperceived, had
been the astonished auditor of his last speech. Heathcote, with the
instinctive dislike that all selfish men feel to the idea of "a scene,"
uttered a few hasty words of apology to Mr. Chetwode, and made a
speedy escape, while the astonished guardian took a seat near Janet in
silence: he felt hurt and annoyed; no one likes to meet with vexations
that they have not anticipated, and certainly Mr. Chetwode had never
dreamed that his poor little ward, Janet, would give him any trouble
about her love affairs.
"My dear Janet," he said at length, "I gather from the few words that
I heard on entering the room, that you have construed some slight
civilities, shown you by Mr. Heathcote, into proofs of a serious
attachment. I am sorry and also surprised that you should have fallen
under such a misapprehension; for it was quite evident to me, and to
many others, that Mr. Heathcote was an admirer of Philippa."
Janet removed her hands from her face, and steadily met the glance of
her guardian. "I assure you," she said, "that I have received more than
slight attentions from Mr. Heathcote; Philippa is aware of it, and
there has never been any feeling of rivalry between us; he declared his
affection for me some weeks ago."
Mr. Chetwode could not avoid giving rather a discourteous start of
amazement; but quickly remembering the proverb, that "there is no
accounting for tastes," he said, in a kinder tone of voice, "And how
did he make this avowal to you, my dear?"
"By letter," replied Janet.
Mr. Chetwode began to feel exceedingly indignant with Heathcote.
To write a declaration of love to a young lady, and then, without
assigning any reason for his conduct, to break faith with her, was, he
justly thought, highly blamable under any circumstances, and peculiarly
mysterious under those of poor Janet, since a lover who could once
forget her personal disadvantages must be very much in love indeed,
and could not have the shadow of an excuse for changing his mind
afterwards, as the qualities of her mind and temper were such as to
improve upon acquaintance. "Have you any objection, Janet," he said,
"to show me this letter?"
"It is not a letter," faltered Janet, "it is a copy of verses."
Mr. Chetwode hastily rose from his chair, and walked up and down the
room as an escape-valve for his irritation. He could not bring himself
to say a harsh word to the suffering girl before him, but he felt
thoroughly provoked with her. Mr. Chetwode was an essentially prosaic,
matter-of-fact man, and had once seriously offended a young poet of
his acquaintance by averring that he considered poetry "as a cramp way
of people saying what they wanted to say!" He controlled, however, his
inclination to be very bitter and caustic on the occasion, and merely
said, "Your inexperience, my poor Janet, has wofully misled you; young
men present copies of verses as they do boxes of _bon-bons_ to several
of their lady friends in succession, and mean no more by the one trifle
than the other; endeavor, my dear, to forget the past, and resolve to
be more wise in future."
Thus saying, Mr. Chetwode left the room, went to his club, and after
remaining there an hour, took a few turns in St. James's-park, where
he was somewhat annoyed to encounter Heathcote. He had, however, no
opportunity of escaping him; for Heathcote, who felt a little ashamed
of his recent behavior, joined him, and made some inquiries respecting
Philippa, lamenting his own ill-fortune in not having been able to make
himself acceptable to her.
"Philippa has chosen for herself," replied Mr. Chetwode, somewhat
coldly, "and I see no reason to object to her choice. I am sorry,
Mr. Heathcote, that you should have considered yourself obliged to
make love to both my wards. I do not attach any importance to such a
trifle as a copy of verses; but poor Janet, who has, as you may easily
conclude, been unused to the slightest attention, actually considered
that you were making an offer of your heart in rhyme, and has sadly
felt the disappointment of her hopes."
"Write verses to Miss Penson!" repeated Heathcote, in a half-derisive,
half-astonished tone; "I never did such a thing, never dreamed of doing
it; whoever told you so, my dear sir, has most grossly deceived you."
"I heard it," replied Mr. Chetwode angrily, "from the lips of one whose
truth has never been doubted--from poor Janet herself."
"I can only repeat my asseveration," said Heathcote, "and am ready to
do it in the presence of Miss Penson, of whose truthfulness I must beg
to entertain a less favorable opinion than you seem to do; perhaps,
however, some one has been sporting with her vanity, by writing verses
to her in my name, in which case she is to be pitied."
"Perhaps so," said Mr. Chetwode, thoughtfully. And he parted from
Heathcote, and pursued his way home.
Janet was in her own chamber, but he sent to desire her presence.
"I am very much inclined, my poor girl," he said kindly, "from some
hints which have been given to me, to surmise that the verses to which
you allude were not sent to you by Heathcote, but by some one who
successfully imitated his hand."
"You are wrong, dear sir," replied Janet; "not only were the verses
unquestionably in the hand-writing of Heathcote, but he alluded to
them the next day in conversation with me, and expressed his hope that
they had not given offence."
"And yet, Janet," said her guardian, fixing his eyes sternly on her,
"it is from Heathcote himself that I have just heard the suggestion
that his hand-writing has been counterfeited; he most strongly and
utterly denies that he has ever written verses to you."
"I am concerned," said Janet, "that Heathcote should show himself
not only deficient in honor and kindness, but in common truth and
honesty. You, however, my dear sir, who have so long known me, will
not, I am sure, feel a moment's hesitation in believing my statement in
preference to his."
Mr. Chetwode did not speak, but he regarded Janet with a look by no
means indicative of the perfect trust which she had anticipated. She
burst into tears.
At this moment Philippa entered, radiant with beauty, health, and
happiness, having just parted from her lover at the door. She stood
astonished at the scene that met her eyes.
"Philippa," said Mr. Chetwode, gravely, "you will be sorry to hear
that you must either think very ill of a favorite friend, or of a
pleasant acquaintance. A circumstance has arisen, trifling in itself,
but involving the veracity either of Janet or of Heathcote; she avers
that a few weeks ago he wrote verses to her, containing a declaration
of love; he denies that he did any such thing."
Philippa turned very pale, and sat down in silence.
"On what occasion were these verses written?" said Mr. Chetwode,
turning to Janet with a predetermined air of disbelief in the reality
of them.
"They were entitled," said Janet, "'A valentine, to be read when the
others are forgotten.'"
"A valentine!" repeated Mr. Chetwode, indignantly; "and is it possible
that the verses of which you speak as containing an avowal of
affection, almost amounting to a promise of marriage, were nothing but
a valentine? and have I been induced, by your misrepresentations, to
reprove and lecture a young man for adding one to the many chartered
blockheads who commit fooleries to paper on Valentine's Day? I no
longer doubt your truth, Janet; but I have serious doubts of your
sanity. You, Philippa, also," he added, turning to her, "have been much
to blame; you know more of the world than Janet; why did you let her
make herself so ridiculous as she has been pleased to do?"
"Do not censure Philippa," said Janet; "my sorrows have been all of
my own making: she repeatedly told me that I affixed far too much
consequence to so trifling a mark of attention as a valentine."
"Dearest Janet, forgive me," cried Philippa, in much agitation; "I will
make now, in the presence of our guardian, a confession that I ought to
have made before. I have been acting as your enemy, when my only wish
was to be your friend. You remember our conversation on Valentine's
Day. When I repaired to my dressing-room after luncheon, I perceived
that one of my valentines was unopened; I broke the seal, the writing
within was in the hand of Heathcote; and without even reading it, I
inclosed it in a blank envelop, directed it to you, and put it into the
post that morning. I wished to give you a few minutes' pleasure, and
to prove to you that you were not quite forgotten. I knew Heathcote to
be a favorite with you, and imagined that you would be gratified by
his attention. When you brought the verses, and read them to me, I was
surprised at their warmth and earnestness, and repented of what I had
done, and I have repented more and more ever since."
"And those verses were never intended for me!" exclaimed the weeping
Janet. "Heathcote never felt a moment's preference for me! Oh,
Philippa! I know you intended kindness to me, but this was cruel
kindness."
And poor Janet now indeed felt the cope-stone placed on her
humiliation; she would have much rather believed Heathcote to be fickle
and inconstant, than have discovered that he had never loved her at
all. She pressed Philippa's hand, however, in token of forgiveness, and
left the room; and the bride elect, for the first time in her life,
was called upon to listen to a lecture from her guardian, beginning
with some strictures on her own officious folly, continuing with a
few allusions to the vanity and blindness of her friend Janet, and
concluding with an earnestly expressed hope that none of his friends
would ever place a young lady under his guardianship again!
Philippa's wedding-day arrived. Janet was present at it, not as a
bridesmaid, for she had refused to spoil the group of beautiful girls
who appeared in that character by joining them--she was plainly and
quietly dressed; none among the brilliant assemblage prayed more
fervently than she did for the happiness of Philippa; but her cheek
grew paler than ever, and her tears fell fast, as she listened to the
solemn ceremony, feeling that similar vows could never be plighted to
herself, and that domestic happiness was as much beyond her reach as
if she had been a being of another sphere. She left London on that day
to return to the village where her mother died, and where she took
up her residence with an old friend, with whom she had previously
communicated by letter.
Almost a year has elapsed since that time: she is calm and composed,
but her spirits have never recovered the severe shock that they have
sustained; she feels that for a short time she was living in an unreal
region, and her violent descent to earth has humbled and bewildered
her. Had she never been led to fancy that she was an object of
tenderness and affection, her good sense would in time have reconciled
her to the disadvantages under which she labored; but the fitful light
thrown across her path only served to make the darkness more unbearable
when it was withdrawn. Mr. Chetwode and Philippa have each requested
her to visit them, but she has resolutely excused herself from again
joining a world for which she feels herself alike unfitted in person
and in spirit.