Passions are likened best to floods and streames;
The shallow murmur, but the deepe are dumb.
RALEIGH.
When, at the proposal of Mistress Katharine, the ladies left the hall,
they proceeded to the Lime Walk: here they separated, Aunt Alice
taking Sophia Lambert aside to show her a late addition to her aviary,
and Katharine leading forward Jane towards the fish-pond, where, upon
a low bench, placed under the broad arm of a noble cedar, they sat
down quietly in the shade.
Under all the disadvantages of a most neglected education, and a
rusticity of manner very near to rudeness, Jane Lambert had some rare
and valuable qualities, which greatly endeared her to those who took
the pains to discover them. This Katharine had done. As for the last
three years she had been thrown much into the society of the
Lamberts, owing to their residence at Bolton Grange, and the frequent,
but yet unavoidable, visits of Sir Charles, she had studied all their
characters thoroughly; and the result of her observation satisfied
her, that in Jane there was at the bottom a fund of sterling worth,
high courage, and genuine affection. Her attainments were few and very
imperfect; but she had a vigorous and a healthy intellect, which
digested well the best and most generous sentiments of the few books
which she was careful to read. Not a tenant or cotter upon the estate
of her brother but had a look of honest love for Mistress Jane; and
the falconers and foresters were proud of a bright lady who knew their
craft so well, and had so true an eye for the slot of a deer or for
the dim-seen quarry. If any poor man had a favour to ask of Sir
Charles, it was through her, as the ready advocate of all who needed
help or implored mercy, that the petition was preferred. Her
admiration and love for Katharine Heywood were unbounded: she looked
up to her as a model of exalted excellence, and with that affection
which partakes of reverence; not that this was of a nature to check
or chill the natural display of fondness in their ordinary
intercourse; but at times the power of the loftier sentiment over her
was so great, that her exuberant and unguarded levity would be in a
moment abashed and driven away by one look from Katharine. Thus it had
been to-day at table; and now, as they sat, she pressed her hand upon
the shoulder of Katharine, and leaned her cheek upon it, and said
feelingly,--
“Dearest cousin Kate, why did you look so very sad and so very grave
to-day? I was only joking; do not be angry with me, my sweet coz: I
shall fret if I think you have been really angry.” Katherine bent her
face and kissed the presented cheek.
“Was I ever angry with you, Jane?” she asked. “You know that I never
was; but it is true that you often make me very anxious for you, and
sometimes quite sad, by your ill-timed and thoughtless gaiety.
Consider a little more the consequences of idle words, and their
effect on strangers.”
“Well, my dear, I will: but there is no harm done, for I do not look
upon Juxon as a stranger; and he is so sensible, and so good-tempered,
that he will never take any speech by the wrong handle, and so honest
and straightforward, that he will never look under it for a hidden
meaning.”
“But yet, Jane, even Juxon will think it odd, that while the victim of
your brother’s passionate frenzy still lies on a couch helpless with
his wound, and while your brother, who has narrowly escaped committing
the heaviest of crimes, has absented himself for very shame, his
sister should sport, as if nothing had happened, and be as playful in
her words as a girl without care.”
“Do you think so? I should be sorry for that: but you know that I do
not love my brother; and Cuthbert is safe from all danger, and out of
all pain; and you are well, cousin, and not the sadder for this
accident, if I know your heart as well as I love your happiness; and
why then should I not appear cheerful, when, in truth, I am so. I
should be vexed, indeed, if Juxon thought the worse of me; for he is
one whose good opinion is worth having; but as for that of the world,
I care not a jot about it.”
“There you are wrong, dear Jane: the opinion of the world may, and
must be, in some things, despised, but the rule of its established
proprieties and gentle observances can never be transgressed, without
bringing some heavy penalty on the offender.”
“I do not love the world so well, dear Katharine, as to care for
either its frowns or its favours; and I looked not for an advocate of
its cold maxims and its deceitful forms in you--let it see me as I
am.”
“There is your error, Jane: it cannot, it will not, it cares not to
take the trouble to see you as you are; it looks only at your
_seeming_; and though to be is better than to seem, and many seem fine
gold that are but base metal, yet no one can despise the judgment of
the world without rashness and without danger. They who place
themselves above the opinion of the world, and the best rules of
society, cast off a useful and an appointed restraint in the
discipline of life.”
“Sweet coz, I love to hear you lecture, but you will never make me
wise: I was born under a common star, and reared with foresters:--look
as I like, and speak as I think.”
“Ah, dear Jane, you will some day learn to govern your bright looks,
and to keep your sweetest thoughts locked closely in your heart.
Wisdom herself, and, perhaps, though God forbid, sorrow will be your
teacher.”
The serene eyes of the majestic Katharine were clouded, for a passing
moment, with such a sadness as a compassionate angel might have worn;
and she pressed Jane tenderly to her breast.
“Promise me,” she said, “dearest cousin, promise me faithfully that
you never again hint even to any human being, the idle fancy that hung
this morning on your lips, or the name you would have connected with
it.”
“The promise has been already made in my own mind: your look was
enough to make me wish the light word unspoken, and the tongue that
uttered it blistered for a month to come. You are the only one at
table who could have understood my allusion. I am certain that the
most distant thought of my meaning could not enter the mind of your
father or your aunt.”
“This, I believe, and it is well it should not: the bare suspicion,
harboured in his mind, would make him miserable for life, and embitter
his last moments with unworthy fears. I know his nature well: much as
he loves me, and confides in me, to pacify his anger, and quiet his
jealous apprehensions, would be, even for me, an impossible
achievement; and yet he knows, or should know, that I am an English
daughter.”
“How is it, Katharine, that you command all hearts? that not a man
approaches you but he is at once, as by some sweet force, compelled to
love you? and yet it is no wonder: there cannot be on earth another
Katharine.”
“Cousin, this is idle and wicked talk; you must not use such vain and
sinful words: would you could see me as I see myself, when, prostrate
in weakness, I implore and find strength where alone it is to be
obtained; but you cannot understand me yet.”
“Nay, Katharine, do not rebuke me so sharply for simple truths: why
Charles himself is so tamed and altered for the day whenever he
returns from Milverton, that I have sometimes been selfish enough to
wish to see you his, in the hope that I might find a brother changed
in nature; but no, dear Kate, I love you too well ever seriously to
dwell on such a desire.”
“Jane, do not, prithee, do not pursue this foolish fancy further.”
“It is not fancy: can I not see? have I not eyes, and the perceptions
and sympathies of woman? I tell you, the poor woe-begone scholar, that
lies lonely on his couch above there, did look upon you as good men
look up to the blue heavens.”
“Cousin, I will not stay another moment with you if your discourse is
not changed to some better tone than these weak and unwomanly
delusions of your idle brain do give it.”
“As you will, blessed coz, I say no more; but one need not be very
deeply read in love-craft to prophesy that one of these fine days the
worthy young rector of Old Beech will tell you that himself which I
may not tell you for him.”
“Jane,” said Katharine, as she slowly rose, and they moved back
towards the Lime Walk, “you are not, my dear girl, serious, I hope, in
this last surmise: you are not in earnest: it would greatly perplex
and trouble me if I thought you were, and had good reason: about
Cuthbert I am sure that you are altogether mistaken.”
“No, Katharine; I am a poor unfashioned creature, with little
knowledge of the world, and little skill in books, or fair
accomplishments: but this one gift I have,--I can read the human
countenance, and see written thereon the thoughts of the heart, the
play of the secret passions, the inclinations of the inner will, in
characters plain to my faithful eye, and plainly I repeat my
conviction that both these men do love you. The one will give you no
trouble: his flame will burn within his melancholy heart, like a lamp
glimmering in a tomb; but the other will make open avowal of what he
is proud to feel, and will surely be courageous enough to confess: now
do not look so pale and grave, but thank me for the timely caution.
Kiss me, sweet coz; my sister is calling for me, and we must go.” The
tall and queen-like Katharine folded her young cousin to her heart;
and Jane felt a tear fall heavy on her cheek as they embraced and
parted.
Katharine had one of those fine and stately forms which the sculptor
of ancient times would have chosen to copy with his happiest skill, as
the incarnation of wisdom. Her features were Roman; her dark hazel
eyes were long and even, and there shone in them a soft, chaste fire;
her mouth was pensive; but though the expression of her countenance
was ever serious, yet was it human, gentle, and she would more fitly
have represented the melancholy vestal, than the calm, passionless
Minerva. She returned leisurely to her favourite cedar, and seated
herself in that sad repose of the mind into which even the strongest
and most virtuous will sometimes allow themselves to sink, as a short
relief from the internal conflict. It was clear to her that Jane had
penetrated that one secret, which she would hardly confess to herself,
and which she could have wished had been altogether confined to her
own bosom, and that one other, from which she felt resolutely and for
ever divided. It was strange that the open-hearted girl had never
mentioned it before; it was well that she had only now hinted it so
vaguely as to leave it impenetrably veiled to others; it was well,
too, that she had thus early arrested the danger of all further
discovery, and obtained from the fond and faithful Jane that promise
of secrecy, on which she could safely rely. Still it was disturbing to
her pure and noble spirit, that even this sweet girl should be privy
to her heart’s great trial. However, Jane would understand her future
silence on the subject, and well knew that those confidences, which
the weaker order of women are ever ready to pour into the ear of the
female friend, would never pass her lips. She held them too sacred,
and she had that dignity of soul which in a sorrow of that peculiar
nature is all-sufficient to itself. Could Cuthbert from his couch of
patient suffering, or George Juxon from his solitary rides and walks,
have looked in upon the heart of Katharine, and seen the image, which
often rose before her mind’s eye, and as often as it did so was felt
to be a cherished one, the former would have striven against his weak
idolatry yet more resolutely than he already did, and the manly Juxon
would have given to the wind his vain hopes, and would have forborne
to distress her with the language of a suitor.
Katharine did not return to the mansion till long after all the guests
had departed.
It was the hour of supper; but she pleaded headache, retired to her
chamber, and seated herself at the window to watch the dying day.
There was a universal calm in nature; every leaf was still: there was
a holy hush around; colours of a blessed hue streaked the far western
sky; they grew faint, they faded, and the grey gloom of a summer’s
night rested upon all things. She was roused from a long reverie of
sweet though solemn fancies by the entrance of her maid with a lamp,
and in a few minutes afterwards she was joined by her aunt Alice.
There was never in any nature more of the milk of human kindness than
in Mistress Alice:--her own disappointments had subdued her vivacity,
without souring her temper, or freezing her manners. Forgetful of
herself, she lived for and in the happiness of others, and her niece
Katharine was to her as a daughter;--not that she exercised any thing
like a mother’s control; Katharine had so ripe an understanding, and
so mature a judgment, that Mistress Alice leaned upon her mind as
though it were that of a sister or a bosom friend, to whose opinion
she was pleased to defer her own.
She loved Sir Oliver with a true affection, but she was not blind to
the faults of his character. She knew him to be impatient of
contradiction, full of strong prejudices, easy and indolent--the being
of habit and of custom--but violent when thwarted, and selfish when
opposed. Nevertheless a kind brother, a fond father, a liberal master,
and a most loyal subject. It always deeply grieved her when she heard
him speak harshly of her nephew Edward Heywood, and his son Francis,
for they were the offspring of an unfortunate brother, to whom she had
been very closely attached from her childhood.
“This has been a trying day to me as well as to you, Katharine,” she
said when they were left together. “I think my poor brother allows
himself to be more troubled about public matters than is good for him;
and I wish that he would avoid the mention of your unhappy cousins in
connection with those subjects--however wrong they may be, they have
cares and troubles enough for pity, rather than hard words and ill
wishes.”
Katharine looked steadily at her aunt when she began to speak, and was
rather startled at her opening words; but as she proceeded, discerning
clearly it was only a sympathy in common with her own that she
invited, replied, quietly, that “it was indeed very painful to see the
good temper of her dear father giving way so early in times like
these, which were only the beginning of troubles; but consider,
dearest aunt, he has passed all his life in pleasure and ease--my
blessed mother made his peace her study; and, though she could never
win him to her own happiest views of the only bliss, her whole life
was a transcript of those gentle and charitable sentiments which were
the secret springs of all her actions. He reposed upon her character,
and found a tranquillity, of which he shared the comfort, but which
lived not within his own breast.”
“Well, Katharine, I am sure you follow in your mother’s path, and as
far as daughter may, you supply her vacant place in his esteem and
reverence. He loves you not as parent loves a child. You are his
daughter, but you are also, in all seemly matters, his cherished
adviser:--I have often noted it, my dear, with joy.”
“Do not humble me so sadly--my mother’s path!--alas! I am far from
it--far out of the way, when I think of her exalted hopes, her
self-denying life, and her settled peace; and when I look within, I am
ashamed, and may well tremble at the comparison:--but yet I cherish
the memory of her bright example; and the words you have just spoken
shall rouse me to do all by my father, which if her sainted spirit
could look down upon us she would herself approve. I know the duty of
a daughter, and I know how much the happiness and the honour of a
father may be promoted by her due performance of it. You have well
shown me the better way. For my father, and to my father, I will
devote my life, and cast self and all softer wishes behind me. When
the first rough steps of difficulty are passed, the noble qualities of
my father will all be seen:--bless you, Aunt Alice, for your sweet
counsel.”
“My dear Katharine, you are not wont to be thus excited: your calmness
and your even dignity have ever been beyond your age: I meant simply
what I said, and designed not, by any hint, to stimulate you to any
course of conduct beyond that which I have always observed you to
pursue:--you are not well--you think too much of what may
happen--troubles are fast travellers, and need not be met half
way--you are not well.”
“I believe you are right--I cannot be well--the day has been
oppressively hot--and my temples throb with pain.”
Mistress Alice taking from the dressing table a curious shaped bottle
of eastern porcelain, which contained elder-flower water, sat down
tenderly by Katharine, and bathed her temples with gentle care. The
noble girl leaned back upon her chair, silent, passive, grateful:--no
sob escaped her; no nervous tears were allowed to fall; but to a
keener eye than that of her benevolent aunt a slight quiver on the
lip, and a heaving of the folds above her bosom, quicker than the
wont, might have told that very deep and painful emotions were
struggling in her full heart.
Mistress Alice would not leave her till she saw her quietly put to
bed, when, giving her the kiss of peace and good night as her pale
cheek lay upon the pillow, she took her lamp, and went softly out of
the chamber.
Restored to solitude and silence, Katharine sent her sweet thoughts
and prayerful wishes to that distant land, where, upon the narrow
clearing of some tall and ancient forest, in their canvass booth or
rude hut, after a day of new and unaccustomed toils, her self-exiled
but heroic cousins reposed: the picture of their labours was to her
mind primitive and sacred--and all the images presented to her fancy
were peaceful.