What man was he talked with you?
_Much Ado about Nothing._
It was not till the crisis of danger was already past that the illness
of Katharine became known at Bolton Grange, or at Old Beech.
Jane Lambert was no sooner apprised of it than she hastened to her
friend, and insisted, with all the devotion and tenderness of a
sister, on being permitted to divide with Mistress Alice the duties of
her present charge.
Katharine loved Jane, and was comforted to have her seated near her,
and was soothed by her affection: it was evident, however, to the
latter, that something weighed heavily upon the spirits of her friend,
and that the feelings of hope and the clear promise of recovery, did
not impart to her all the gratitude and cheerfulness which might be
naturally expected in the pleasant dawn of convalescence.
She had not been many days at Milverton when an incident occurred
which discovered the cause of her anxiety.
As Jane was looking from the window in the afternoon, and remarking to
Katharine on the beautiful effect of the low autumn lights, she
observed the figure of a man with folded arms leaning near a tree in
the beechery, and she playfully exclaimed, “That must certainly be the
musical ghost, which played so sweetly, and brought us all such bad
luck, and frightened every body in Milverton House but your dear self,
and the grave Master Cuthbert:--how I should like to have the
treacherous creature caught.”
“Dear lady,” said Katharine’s maid, “how can you talk so boldly?--why
nobody can catch a spirit. It is only air.”
“I have a notion, good lass,” replied Jane, “that it is very proper
flesh and blood, and if I were a man, and not a maid, would try my
speed with it, and bring it to parley. I should like to hear the
voice of it, or see its face, and tell it of all the mischief it has
done.”
“Well-a-day! what a heart you have, lady! There is not one in the
kitchen but stout Richard would venture that; and though he could not
find any thing the other day when he followed it, he’s obstinate as a
mule, and says it’s no ghost, but a young gallant that’s under hiding
at my mother’s, in Warwick Liberties; but there is nobody thinks with
him at Milverton.”
“Well, then, I am of Richard’s way of thinking, in part:--it is a tall
man; but whether young, and whether under hiding, I know not.”
“Why, there is a gentleman under hiding at my mother’s, sure enough,
and one that knows my lady, as she says, and was quite glad when he
heard that she first began to mend.”
“Ruth,” said Katharine, raising her head from the pillow, “if you will
go and make me some fresh barley water, I think I shall like it better
than this fever drink.” The wish was no sooner expressed than her maid
vanished to do her bidding, and Katharine and her friend Jane were
left by themselves.
“Jane,” said the invalid, “come and sit by me: I have something to
tell you, and I have to ask of you a very strange favour. I desired to
relieve my heart of its burden, but have hitherto delayed it. You
know, Jane, that I love you, and that I have confidence in your
attachment to me; but if it were not for my present helplessness,
which compels me to engage your service as a true friend, whose good
sense and firm principles I can safely trust, the subject which I am
about to speak of would never have passed my lips even to you. The
gentleman of whom they speak is my cousin Francis. He it was who so
perplexed and alarmed the family with his mysterious music, and who
still, I fear, haunts the same spot in silence and anxiety.”
“Your cousin Francis!--why, dear Kate, I thought he was in America!”
“And I myself thought so until the night when he made his return known
to me in tones which I could not mistake, and the meaning of which I
but too well understood.”
“I have been long aware, Katharine, that he loved you.”
“You have, I believe, already discerned it. Alas! it is true--fatally
for his own happiness and for mine;--but, Jane, have you courage for
the task which I would impose upon you?”
“Yes, Kate: you can ask me nothing too hard for me, if I can only feel
that I do what may comfort you.”
“Well, Jane, you must contrive to see my cousin Francis; to deliver to
him a note from me with your own hands, and to urge his immediate
departure from this neighbourhood. Now, love, bring me those small
tablets and paper, and support me while I write the few words which I
would say.”
It was a sight for pity to see that noble damsel, her back propped by
pillows, and the arm of her young friend tenderly supporting her,
trace in silence and with a nervous hand the few lines which were to
banish from the neighbourhood of Milverton her worthy and devoted
lover.
The task was soon done; and with the care as of a mother Jane Lambert
again arranged the pillows for the aching head of Katharine; and the
pale sufferer sunk back exhausted into the recumbent posture, and
heaved a sigh so sad, that the eyes of Jane filled with thick tears.
She averted her head to wipe them away, that they might not distress
her friend, and putting the unsealed billet in her bosom, left the
chamber with a thoughtful step, to do her very delicate and difficult
office. She went to her own room, and taking a dark mantle with a
hood, such as was the common church-going and street costume of women
of the respectable middle classes of that period, she threw it across
her arm, and walked through the Lime Walk, and by the fish ponds, to a
small gate at the farther end of the grounds, by which she could gain
a footpath that led across the fields to Warwick. She had no sooner
passed the gate than she put on her cloak, and passing the hood over
her head, that she might muffle and conceal her features, if she met
any one, she proceeded towards the city. It was about four o’clock in
the afternoon, and the sky was lowering and cloudy. She was anxious
about her strange mission, and settling in her mind what she should do
when she reached the hostelry, whither she was now bending her steps,
and how she should contrive the interview with Francis, when the sound
of steps very closely following suddenly startled her: the very object
of her search had overtaken her, and was already at her side. At
first, however, she was not aware of this, although the circumstance
of this passenger being muffled, as closely as herself, awakened her
suspicions of the truth, and forbade the alarm she would otherwise
have felt at finding herself in a very lonely part of the pathway in
such company. He did not stop when he overtook her, but went a few
steps onward, as if to re-assure her before he ventured to speak. He
crossed a stile and walked some paces without turning his head, till
she had also crossed it; when loitering a little, till she was close
to him, he stepped aside from the path, and gently put a question that
very directly introduced them to each other, and gave Jane the ready
opportunity of delivering her note, and fulfilling the further wishes
of her dear Katharine.
“You are from Milverton House, as I think, damsel?”
“Even so, master,” replied Jane.
“Is the noble young mistress better to-day?”
“I thank God she is; but it will be long ere she be quite well again.”
“She is out of all pain, I hope?”
“Yes, she hath no bodily pain, save that which arises from weakness;
and for such pain of mind as disquiets her it may be, in great part,
removed by yourself, Master Francis.”
Thus saying, she threw back her hood, and Francis, who had before
discovered his own features, recognised those of Jane Lambert. “I bear
you a note from your cousin Katharine,” she added, as he started at
her utterance of his name. She drew it forth from her bosom, and
placed it in his hand. He turned from her that he might read it
without observation; but Jane could see by his action that he kissed
it, and pressed it to his heart. With a glance it was perused, and
then again and again; and with a bent head and staggering step he
moved a few paces from Jane, and spoke in tones of anguish to himself
words which she could not distinguish. At last, collecting himself, he
returned towards the fair messenger of his Katharine, with a manly
composure, and said, “Tell my beloved cousin that I will obey; that
her wish is as a law to me: how could she dream that I would suffer
the words of any one to outweigh her own?--but, she tells me that you
are her devoted and faithful friend, and that to you I may safely
intrust the object of my return, and the news of my father. There is,
indeed, one subject on which she forbids me to speak even to herself;
therefore my answer may be brief enough. My father is well:--all her
kinsfolk in the Plantations are well, and free, and happy. For the
object of my sudden return--it is the love of my country--a love that
will not accept a divided heart; and yet the other love that lay
enshrined beside it, was pure, was noble, was worthy such alliance,
has filled my thoughts by day, has blessed the visions of my lonely
nights. Tell Katharine she hath used me hardly--no, no, do not tell
her that--not hardly--say that she bids me do something I cannot do--I
am not of her order--forget her I never can--she is with me wherever I
go--in all things that I do I think of her--and still must, if I
would have fair and noble thoughts to bear me company.”
“Such things, Master Francis, I may not carry to her ear. There is
about her a reserve so maidenly and grave, she would chide her own
messenger for proving so unfaithful;--but I may tell her that your
father is well; that loyalty hath brought you home; and that you will
quit these parts instantly--for that it is, methinks, she most
earnestly requests of you.”
“Even so: on that she is most urgent--cruel Katharine.”
“Say, rather, wise, dutiful, loyal Katharine.”
“Loyal, loyal!--that is a word of many imports. I, too, am loyal, and
will learn to love the word:--mind you tell her that I am loyal.”
“Can I truly tell her so?”
“Yes, truly:--but enough of this, fair girl,--go back to her who sent
thee--wait, you are her friend--you nurse her--come, let me look into
thine eyes--give me thy hand--on my knees I kiss it--her cheek is
pale--I know it is--it must be--go touch it with thy hand, and offer
there the chaste cold homage of my sorrow. You see that I am sad,
lady--go--bless you--you are weeping:--how is this, girl?--be not so
childish--a friend of Katharine’s should not be weak--I, you see, am
calm and strong--my hand does not tremble--and these eyes are
dry--methinks my heart is frozen--tell her so.”
Jane Lambert stood fixed as a statue while he thus spoke; and as she
watched him walking fast away, she felt, for the first time in her
life, what it must be to have a lover, and to be the supreme object of
such a man’s affection. Her cheek was stained with tears--her face
flushed with agitation--her whole air disordered and absent. She
followed with her eyes the tall figure of Francis, till a turn in the
pathway hid him from her view, and then walked slowly back to
Milverton.
In the very first field she met George Juxon, and it was evident to
her, from his manner, as he stopped and spoke to her, that he must
have witnessed, at least, the close of her interview with Francis.
There was a surprise in his look, and something of embarrassment, as
he shook her by the hand, and asked if she was well; but he did not
seem to expect any particular reply, nor indeed did he offer to return
with her to the house, though she was but too conscious that her
faintness and discomposure might have naturally invited such an
attention. Observing, coldly, that he had some business at a builder’s
yard in Warwick, but that he should return to sup and sleep at
Milverton, he leisurely pursued his path to the city.
Jane’s heart gave way to the multitude of troublous and perplexing
thoughts which now beset her; and leaning near a friendly tree, she
found a momentary relief in a passionate flood of warm tears.
Her trial was strange. The feelings which had been excited were
altogether new to her; and the effect of the interview with
Katharine’s devoted cousin, combined with the cross and perplexing
incident of her meeting with Juxon so immediately after, as to make it
certain that he had seen her part from Francis Heywood, had very
naturally overcome the ordinary courage and the cheerful composure of
her character.
She had witnessed, in the agitated Francis, the emotions of love. The
sentiment, which thus shook him, she had never yet inspired--she had
never felt for any one. Such love had been to her the poet’s fable;
but it would never again be so deemed of by her;--and something that
made her heart throb and ache within her told truly the want of that
heart, and unsealed a fountain of affection ready to overflow upon any
being in whom she might be fortunate enough to find the noble
qualities of a manly heart, and the gentle ways and genuine fervours
of an ardent lover.
It was a cruel thought that she must now be subject to suspicions, if
not of lightness, yet of a secret attachment and stolen interviews
with the object of it. Nor was the oppression of this thought at all
weakened by the reflection that George Juxon, the very man whose good
opinion she most valued, had seen her in a situation, and under
circumstances, which he could not by any possibility interpret truly,
and which her duty to Katharine forbade her to explain, however
deeply her own character or happiness might suffer. In one short hour
she had gathered an experience that filled her with wonder, and had
incurred a suspicion that subjected her to censure and threatened her
with misery. The consciousness of innocence could not restore to her
the respect of Juxon, nor exempt her from the severe penalties with
which the levity and imprudence of the thoughtless of her own sex are
ever silently visited by the other, when some painful discovery of a
woman’s guile chills and revolts them.
However in her case, the judgment of Juxon had not been harsh; but, of
course, when he saw a man upon his knees before her--when he
considered the loneliness of their place of interview--the cloaks
evidently worn for disguise--and the agitated and discomposed
appearance of Jane Lambert--he, at once, decided that she was
betrothed to a lover, whom for fear or for shame she dared not openly
avow.
He had truly liked Jane, for her spirit, her sense, and, above all,
for her devotion to Katharine Heywood; and his liking might soon have
grown to a manly love,--but the flow of his admiration was now
suddenly checked and frozen, and he whistled “Woman’s a Riddle” all
the way to Warwick and back again.