"Patrick," exclaimed Agnes, hurrying into Sir Arthur's sitting-room the
morning after her brother's arrival at the Granby, while a brilliant
color lighted up her cheek, and her eyes sparkled with animation, "Lord
Wigton is coming in a few minutes to hear me sing that new song of
Bellini's, therefore pray tell the waiters we are not at home to any
living mortal, and do hold this music till I give a last touch to my
ringlets."
Agnes impatiently held out a large roll of paper, but almost screamed
with astonishment on looking up, to perceive that she had addressed
Captain De Crespigny, evidently that moment arrived from a long
journey.
"Good morning, Miss Dunbar. We are well met!" said he, with rather
satirical emphasis. "I am in a very cut-throat humor to-day, and shall
certainly put an end to little Lord Wigton!"
"You have nearly put an end to me," replied Agnes, unable to steady her
voice; "but I am rather glad to see you! Perhaps you may be allowed to
remain here, though that tiresome man does so teaze me about singing."
"Wigton told me he was coming to see, or rather to hear Marion!" said
Sir Patrick, emerging from a distant window.
"To hear me!" exclaimed Marion, with unfeigned surprise and perplexity,
while thunder and lightning both lowered on the forehead of her sister.
"That must be a mistake! I heard nothing of any appointment, and have
not had a minute's conversation with Lord Wigton since we arrived at
Harrowgate. He heard me only once by accident, and probably never will
again."
"Unless by design!" whispered Agnes, angrily. "Marion, you have
certainly some underhand way of getting on with people, which baffles
my comprehension!"
Marion turned away, and silently resumed her place beside Sir Arthur,
who had been amusing himself by standing at the window, while she told
him what carriages came round to the door, what parties of pleasure
were setting out or returning, and what travelling equipages appeared
in sight, of which seldom fewer than ten or twelve arrived in a day;
and by ascertaining the coat-of-arms or coronets emblazoned on the
panels, she sometimes formed a tolerable accurate guess who might
probably be their occupants. After talking together with great vivacity
for some time, Sir Arthur suddenly felt the arm of Marion on which he
was leaning, give an almost convulsive start, while she seemed with
difficulty to suppress a half-uttered exclamation of delighted
astonishment. She now leaned eagerly out of the window, to examine a
travelling chariot which had driven up to the door, from whence a lady,
apparently in the utmost extreme of weakness, was carefully supported
out by a gentleman, and before another moment could elapse, Marion had
rushed down stairs, and was clasped in the arms of Clara Granville.
"Did you get my letter?" exclaimed her friend, in feeble and agitated
accents, while, after the first rapturous greetings, they had retired
alone into a sitting-room. "No! is that possible? How could the post
have been so long delayed? But perhaps it may be as well, for there was
grief as much as joy in it."
Marion observed now with alarm, that the appearance of Clara, always
interesting, had become almost painfully so. The summer bloom had
entirely vanished from her face, and not only had her form shrunk, but
there was a deep and settled sadness in the expression of her eye, when
she added,
"The doctors have ordered me to go by easy stages abroad, but they
recommended me first to try a few weeks here. The sight of you will do
me more good than any medicine, and I had little difficulty--very
little indeed, Marion--in persuading Richard to take the Granby on our
way to the south of France, where we are to go health-hunting and
scenery-hunting during the approaching winter; but you must see now, as
I do, and as everybody does, except my dear brother himself, that I am
hastening fast to that country where the sun always shines, and the
flowers never fade."
A start of indescribable emotion now shot through the heart of Marion,
for in the pallid, emaciated countenance of Clara, she already read a
sentence of death, and she gazed upon her friend with a growing
conviction, which filled her heart with anguish, that soon, very soon
they must be separated for ever! but Miss Granville, observing her
emotion, affectionately added, "Few have more reason to value their
lives than myself, Marion, and mine I shall do all in my power to
preserve. We ought to be perfectly and cheerfully satisfied with every
event as it comes, and while I have such a brother as Richard, my
existence is precious to me. I know, however, that at all events
another will reward him for his kindness to me, and one whom he values
even more than his sister has happily learned to appreciate him as I
do! Indeed, how could it be otherwise? My home will soon be an eternal
world, and if I might have a choice, the sooner, perhaps, the better.
It grieves me to take my brother now from his duties, without a single
hope of my own restoration. I know that, for I feel it here! Change of
air and scene can do no permanent good, and I wish we had been allowed
to remain stationary, as it matters little where I die, compared with
the importance to many of where Richard lives."
Marion's voice, the faithful index to her feelings, trembled with
emotion when she replied; but a moment afterwards, a smile of pleasure
lighted up her dark speaking eyes, when Mr. Granville hastened into the
room, with a look of animated happiness on again meeting Marion, and
his whole countenance had that look of deep sensibility which becomes
externally visible, when the whole mind and heart have been awakened to
those affections which end with life, and only then. To cover their
confusion, and conceal her own feelings, Clara assumed a tone of
unwonted vivacity, saying, with an affectation of extreme gravity,
"Allow me to introduce my brother,--Miss Dunbar, Mr. Granville! I can
recommend both as desirable acquaintances, and hope you may find each
other out by degrees! My duty is done, and now it is your own fault if
you are not speedily friends!"
Marion became every day more conscious that no one can appreciate the
real joys and the real sorrows of human life but those who live for its
friendships and attachments, while she would have thought wealth or
rank, without affection, like a body without a soul; but Agnes cared
comparatively little by whose means she obtained her title, equipages,
and diamonds, provided they were likely to excite envy and admiration.
In her estimation, the coarsest materials of happiness were the most to
be coveted, and the marriage contract, instead of being anticipated in
the light in which it would have appeared to Marion, as giving her the
privilege of devoting a life-time to the happiness of the person she
loved best on earth, was merely contemplated as entitling her to an
expensive _trousseau_, a large establishment, and a set of family
jewels. In the mind of Agnes, Captain De Crespigny seemed only an
appendage to his future rank and future expectations, while she
rehearsed over her own coming greatness with exulting anticipations;
but Mr. Granville might have lost all that mortal man can lose, even
life itself, and still retained the same place as at first in Marion's
affection. The depth of her feelings was tempered, however, by the
supremacy of yet higher and holier duties and hopes, those of sound and
enlightened devotion, in which it was her greatest happiness to think
that she had at length secured "a guide, philosopher, and friend."
No man knew the world more thoroughly, or had viewed it on both sides
with more careful scrutiny than Captain De Crespigny, who often boasted
that he saw the working of people's minds as if their heads were like a
glass bee-hive, and yet he was completely perplexed, on arriving at
Harrowgate, to account for the extraordinary intimacy which had sprung
up so suddenly between the beautiful Agnes and his whimsical old--, but
certainly not venerable relative, Lord Doncaster. It seemed to him at
first a laughable jest, but before long he became struck by the
increased coldness of his uncle's manner, which was, if possible, more
cynical and repulsive than ever, since the time when Agnes had
inadvertently irritated the vanity of Lord Doncaster by her incautious
jests during their first interview.
Curiosity now induced Captain De Crespigny, in some degree, to resume
that intimacy with Agnes, which he came intending entirely to
discontinue; for he had meant that his attentions should be solely and
exclusively devoted to the captivation of her still more fascinating
sister, whom he was intent upon adding to the list of his conquests;
but Marion continued to receive Captain De Crespigny with careless
civility, resolved apparently to forget all that had hitherto been
unpleasant or pleasant between them, while every moment she could spare
from attending to her uncle was dedicated to the Granvilles. Clara
never left her private sitting-room, partly from bodily weakness, but
chiefly to avoid meeting Sir Patrick, whom she had not expected to find
at Harrowgate,--and his name never passed her lips except once, when in
answer to a remark of Marion's, she said, "I shun another meeting with
your brother, not from indifference,--very far from that. If I were
only more safe from the attachments and delusions of this world, it
would be unnecessary to avoid him as I do; but I am consoled for my own
sorrows, Marion, by thinking of my brother's happiness, and by
believing that you will hereafter value and experience together the
affection of reason and principle, with a sufficient tinge of romance
to give it some flavor."
"In that case," replied Marion, frankly, while a bright color glowed on
her cheek, "I should think myself gifted with the largest share of
happiness that the world can offer, and much more than the whole world
could bestow, if unaccompanied by the hope of that felicity we are
promised beyond it."
"And which I shall share with you at last, though the joy of this world
I cannot remain to see and to partake of, with those who have all my
affection and all my prayers," replied Clara, solemnly, while her lips
trembled with a smile such as floats sometimes on the countenance of a
Christian at last, "when all the mortal dies."