O how full of briars is this working-day world!
_As you Like it._
As soon as the affectionate Jane had entirely recovered her
self-possession, she left her chamber, and repaired to Katharine. It
was the dark evening hour of autumn, and there was no light in the
room of the invalid but that emitted from the glowing embers on the
hearth. Jane seated herself by the bedside, and, taking the hand of
Katharine, gently pressed it, and said,--
“My dear Kate, I have done all that you wished; and I have sped well.”
“You have, then, seen Francis?”
“Yes; I put your note into his own hands. He was much affected; but he
promised obedience to your wishes at once.”
Katharine gave a sigh, and turned her face to the wall. There was a
short pause of silence before Jane proceeded:--
“He bade me tell you that his father and your kinsfolk in America are
well; and that the immediate object of his return is the love of his
country.”
“Ah, Jane! I know what that means. I remember too well all the warm
and bitter words that passed between my father and his on that
subject. Would he had stayed in the peaceful Plantations! The ocean
between us was not a wider separation than the gulf that divides party
from party at home; besides, Jane, he is deluded: they will play upon
his generous nature,--they will make a traitor of him. Rebellion is as
the sin of witchcraft. Would he had stayed abroad!”
“I must not forget, Katharine, to tell you that he strictly charged me
to say that he was loyal. ‘It is a word,’ said he, ‘of many
imports:’--mind you tell her that I am loyal.’--No, dear Katharine,
his is no traitor’s heart: he may be on the wrong side of the
quarrel, but he is the King’s true subject at the bottom.”
“Hush! Jane; whisper not these dangerous words,--there is deceit in
them. The soul’s enemy finds each of us treacherous enough in will,
and crooked enough in judgment, without the weak and indulgent folly
of our friends. Be true to me,--be English, Jane:--I love you passing
well.”
Jane kissed her pale cheek; and there was another pause. At last
Katharine said, in a very low voice,--
“How was Cousin Francis looking? Is he in health?”
“His complexion is more brown, and he has less colour than formerly;
his countenance, too, is very grave--almost sad; yet there is a steady
fire in his eyes; and he is as graceful and as strong as ever. But for
his late care and watching, I should say he was better in health than
when he left Milverton for America.”
“He was not hurt at my note, I hope,--was he, Jane? Speak truly.”
“Not hurt; but disappointed, certainly. However, he is noble and
sensible, and saw that it was right.”
“You think so.”
“I am sure of it, by his manner.”
“Do you think he will go away directly?”
“Yes; perhaps he is already gone. I could see in the firm and resolute
step with which he walked away from me that his decision was taken.”
“Then it was not at the hostelry that you saw him? Where did you meet
him?”
Jane now detailed, in part, the circumstances of their interview, as
already related; suppressing all mention of the passionate words and
gestures of Francis, and any notice of her having been seen in his
company by Juxon. It had been the first intention of Jane to proceed
to the house of Ruth’s mother, on whose protection she could depend,
and to wait there till Francis, who she doubted not was the lodger
spoken of, should return thither; for, before Jane left Milverton
House, Francis had already disappeared from the Beechery. It would be
easy to invent some plausible excuse to Ruth’s mother for her visit
to Warwick; and, having contrived her interview with Francis as if by
accident, to return to Milverton, if belated till dusk, under the old
woman’s escort. But this plan was rendered unnecessary by the
circumstance of Francis overtaking Jane upon her way to the city.
“My dear affectionate girl,” said Katharine to her sweet friend, “how
much, how very much, I thank you:--kiss me, dear, and leave me to
compose myself, if I can, to sleep.”
But sleep was impossible in her frame of mind at that moment:--it was
solitude she needed, that she might meditate and weep alone. However,
there was a high sound principle ever at work in her bosom; so that a
little solitary and prayerful reflection never failed to restore the
calmness of her mind, and the strength of her resolutions.
The spirit of Jane Lambert was of another sort; and, restored to the
privacy of her own chamber, she gave a free vent to the sorrow and
anxiety which she had so courageously suppressed before Katharine.
When she descended to the hall to supper, and all the party were
assembled, she remarked or fancied that George Juxon expressly avoided
seating himself near her; and, after asking her one or two questions
about the progress of Katharine’s recovery, he addressed her no more.
Her pride was a little wounded to observe that he was in high and
careless spirits, and became quite the life of the table. Cuthbert,
too, was, for him, unusually cheerful. Sir Oliver seemed in great good
humour; and the boy Arthur was radiant with delightful and joyous
anticipations of the new world, which an entrance at Oxford would open
before him. Literary and characteristic anecdotes of distinguished and
eccentric scholars of both universities, in times past as well as
present, enlivened the social meal; and though but a very thin
partition separated the subjects of university discipline from those
of church polity and state government, neither were introduced that
evening.
Jane thought that she had never before discerned so clearly the fine
qualities of Juxon;--his sound but charitable judgment, his accurate
memory, the kindliness of his nature, and the playfulness of his
stories, at once charmed and depressed her. She wished to leave the
table; yet still she lingered on, listening and irresolute; and the
proposal to retire was first made by Mistress Alice.
An avowed contempt for the opinion of the many is not inconsistent
with a very earnest and anxious regard for the judgment of the few
whom we chance to admire and esteem. The dear, high-spirited girl, who
thought herself above the censure of the world, and indifferent to its
voice, was now, though clear from the slightest reproach of
conscience, agonised with apprehensions lest she should have forfeited
the respect of George Juxon. When, at a later hour, the household was
assembled for the evening service, and the prayers were reverently
read by Juxon, her heart beat in her bosom so quick and loud as to be
audible to Cuthbert Noble, who kneeled near her. As soon as they rose,
he regarded her with a look of such compassionate inquiry, that Jane,
fearing he was about to question her concerning her health, and not
daring to trust herself with a reply, abruptly left the apartment.
Juxon had himself observed her flushed cheek and her disturbed
manners, and began to entertain very serious alarm for her. How far
his duty as a friend, and, above all, as a Christian minister,
authorised him to seek acquaintance with the nature and extent of
those secret engagements of Jane Lambert, which he could not but fear,
from her evident agitation, were at variance with plain principle and
prudence, it was not easy for him to resolve. He truly liked her
frank, generous, and inartificial character. He knew full well that in
her brother she had neither a kind, a careful, or a wise guardian. It
was surely wrong to stand upon the brink of a whirlpool, and see any
one drawn down to ruin, whom it was in our power, if not to save, at
least to admonish of the danger. His mind instantly reverted to the
noble Katharine as the proper channel through which his manly and
benevolent warnings might be safely conveyed with delicacy and
effect. But many days might yet elapse ere the opportunity of a
conversation with Katharine might occur; for she was confined not only
to her chamber, but to her bed. Should he venture to hint his fears to
herself? Yes: if she was the character he yet hoped to find her, it
would be taken well; if not, it would matter very little in what light
she viewed his disinterested service.
On the following morning, soon after breakfast, he saw Jane Lambert by
herself in the Lime Walk, and he joined her.
She looked surprised and embarrassed; and he was not without a fear
that his presence at that moment was inconvenient and irksome, and
very possibly prevented her going forth to an interview with her lover
in the very same fields where he had met her the evening before.
However, from the very fear he took courage; and, after the common
salutations and usual words about the garden and the weather had
passed, he broke the subject thus:--
“Mistress Jane, you are too little acquainted with the world for your
own happiness, or rather, for your security,--may a friend say this
without offending you?”
“A friend may say any thing to me, Master Juxon, that a damsel may not
blush to hear.”
“I understand you--I must say no more--and yet I meant you well.”
“But good intentions do often tread upon the foot just where it is
most tender.”
“Well, lady, enough: I will spare your maiden blushes; only remember,
of our sex, that he doth always act most openly who is most loyal.”
“Loyal! Master Juxon, what mean you? Did you then so far forget
yourself as to follow and trace out the gentleman whom you last
evening stood watching as he parted from me?--I do not understand
you.”
“Mistress Jane, you should have known me better;--so far from watching
your interview with the strange gentleman with whom I saw you, it was
to avoid intrusion that I waited in the adjoining close till you
parted from him, and would have gone back again altogether, but for
the great circuit and the business which I had in Warwick.”
“You saw us part, then?”
“Yes, to my wonder, and to my sorrow that my eyes had caught an action
meant only for your own. Lady, forgive the word; but at lovers’ oaths
forget not that Cupid laughs:--may Jane Lambert never be won by any
suitor who does not openly woo her!”
“Amen to your kind wish, Master Juxon--so be it:--I know what you
think, and am sorry, but I cannot help it;--however, you are not my
father confessor, nor do I ever wish to have one.”
“True, lady; but though not your confessor, I am your friend, your
true and bold friend, or I should never have dared to utter what I
have done. I can have no object in these hints but your best and
highest interest: that which I have noticed to yourself I shall never
mention to any other, except, perhaps, to Katharine Heywood, from
whose lips whatever falls is wise and noble.”
“O! not to her--name not this idle matter to her. Promise me, Juxon,
that you will not breathe a syllable about it to her. I shall be more
unhappy if you do than I am already.”
“Alas! you are then unhappy, and would shun the best help and
consolation which friendship would provide for you. No, this I cannot
promise; on the contrary, I am only confirmed in the propriety of my
intention.”
“Well, I implore you again, and earnestly, not to speak upon this
subject to Katharine. As you value my peace of mind, be silent upon it
to all: there is a mystery about it I may not unfold. I know that
appearances are against me: I am sorry for your hard thoughts, but I
must bear them. I could wish to explain these cross circumstances to
you, but am not free to do so without violating a sacred duty. Promise
me that you will meet my wish.” Thus saying, she put her hand upon his
arm, and looked into his face with wet and beseeching eyes. “Juxon,
you have always been plain and true, and friendly to me; and though I
and my perplexities ill deserve your interest or care, promise me
that you will not name them to dear Katharine.”
For a moment Juxon was affected by the wild earnestness of her manner;
and he thought he had never seen more heart or feeling in the
expression of a human countenance than in the flushed face of Jane
Lambert.
“Well, Mistress Jane, you are so urgent, that I must promise to obey
your will; but it grieves me to see you thus sadly troubled. May God
help you, and guide you, and guard you, and keep you from evil, that
it may not grieve you! Your secret is safe with me.”
“And shall I lose your friendship?”
“No, lady, never: would only that it may have worth sufficient in your
eyes to be used aright!”
“Believe me, I shall never forget it, and I will never do aught to
forfeit such a treasure;”--so saying, she hurried away, with tears in
her eyes, and left him absorbed in a state of feeling which cannot be
described.
The more he thought of what he had witnessed the evening before, and
the more he considered the conversation which had just passed, the
more satisfied he was that Jane Lambert was secretly betrothed to some
one whom she dared not openly acknowledge as her lover. It was also
plain, that, for some powerful reason, she had not confided the secret
of this attachment even to Katharine, who was her bosom friend. He had
comfort in remembering that nothing could be more respectful than the
action of the stranger, when he kissed her hand at parting; and
combining this with her own honest looks and proud though mysterious
expressions, he was satisfied that, up to the present moment, she had
taken no irrevocable step. There was, moreover, a warm strength in her
last words, that assured him his friendly cautions were not thrown
away, and that his motives were not misinterpreted. Upon the whole, he
was justified, to his own mind, in what he had done; and his thoughts
rested upon the character of Jane with greater interest than it had
ever before excited in him.
“How very generous and devoted would be the love of such a girl,”
said he to himself: “what a proud spirit, what an affectionate heart,
she has; what a fire there is in her fine eyes--I never before saw her
look half so beautiful:--it is clear that they have been lighted up by
love:--well, God grant that the man of her choice may be worthy of
it!”
He now sauntered slowly back to the house; and entering the library,
found Cuthbert Noble sitting alone, and making extracts from an old
folio volume.
“You see,” said the young tutor, “I am making preparations for my
departure from Milverton; but thus I may innocently suck honey from
the hives of Sir Oliver, without robbing him, or those who come after
him, of the smallest portion of such sweets as they contain.”
“And what may be your study?” said Juxon, as he came up to the table,
and looked over him.
“A curious work,” replied Cuthbert, “containing the most remarkable
pieces of John Huss, together with his life--imprinted in the last
century at Augsburg.”
“Friend Cuthbert, you are too constant in these serious and solemn
studies and speculations.”
“Master Juxon,” answered the pale youth, “they are every thing or they
are nothing.”
“Verily, for my part I think divine truth is as clear and glorious as
the sun in the firmament; and to warm ourselves, and to walk in the
light of it, is better wisdom than to read so many commentaries and
discourses upon it.”
“May we not sometimes lie indolently warming ourselves by a fire of
our own, and fancy it as comfortable as basking in the sun? Walking in
the light is no such easy matter; and in my case I find that the
words, and, above all, the examples, of those who have earnestly
contended for the truth, as so many outstretched and helping hands to
assist me in climbing the hill.”
“What hill?”
“The high hill, Master Juxon, where the reformers and martyrs of past
times have left the print of their blessed footsteps.”
“Cuthbert, I see that you are in earnest, that you are sincere; but
you are on a road beset by enemies, to the full as dangerous as those
on any other. Pride may be waiting to assail you,--spiritual pride,
the worst of all enemies: you want to do something; you would unlock
heaven’s gates by some great performance:--remember its arches are so
low that none can enter them who crawl not on their knees:--the little
child’s is the appointed stature for all believers.”
“That, indeed, is true--it is a solemn truth; but there are beasts to
be fought with, Juxon, and the stern combat is at hand. It is upon
this I think by day, on this I dream by night.”
“So much the worse: you are commanded, in many senses, to ‘take no
thought for the morrow;’ and in none is it more your duty to obey the
precept than in waiting the events of the coming day in quietness and
in confidence: you conjure up shadows that you may fight with them.”
“Nay, but you wrong my judgment:--to you they may so seem; but my eye
can see the black and dismal realities beyond, which reflect these
shadows.”
“Well, Cuthbert, it is vain to talk with you on these subjects:--on
all others you are so clear and reasonable, that I shall always
remember our intercourse with pleasure. I hear that there is a new
arrangement, and that you do not wait to accompany Arthur to Oxford;
but that you leave Milverton next week, therefore, very probably, I
shall not see you again till your departure. Farewell, friend: my best
and warmest wishes for your happiness will always accompany you. I
shall ever be happy to hear of or from you, and be delighted to meet
you again.”
With these words he put out his hand to Cuthbert, who grasped it
eagerly, and struggled for a reply in vain.
The parting had taken him totally by surprise:--the thought of all
Juxon’s friendly and kind services, of all his frank and endearing
qualities, came up, with a rush before his fancy, and choked his
utterance. The strong pressure of Cuthbert’s hand, and the slowness
with which he released that of Juxon, told the latter all that he
would have said; and, as the door closed behind his departing friend,
Cuthbert sank back into his seat, and, resting his head with hidden
face upon the table, remained for several minutes silent and
motionless.