She saw it waxing very pale and dead,
And straight all flush’d; so lisped tenderly,
“Lorenzo!”--here she ceased her timid quest,
But in her tone and look he read the rest.
Oh, Isabella! I can half perceive
That I might speak my grief into thine ear;
If thou did’st ever anything believe.
Believe how I love thee--believe how near
My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve
Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear
Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live
Another night, and not my passion shrive.
Keats.
As soon as Wilton’s lawyers had executed and completed all the
preliminaries necessary to reinstate him in the possession of that
property from which some years back he had been so unceremoniously
expelled, and had transferred the accumulated arrears from the Court
of Chancery to his bankers the old man set out with Flora suddenly
and alone once more to tread those halls--where before he had reigned
supreme--as lord and master.
Wilton had a motive in proceeding to his long lost home thus privately.
His heart was susceptible of emotion. A long course of comparative
poverty had tended greatly to weaken his nervous system, and when last
he left the spot he was now about to visit, a young trembling wife--whom
he had loved passionately and tenderly, and with a devotion which
had never changed under the afflicting trials to which he had been
subjected--clung weeping to his arm. Long waving grass swayed softly to
and fro now above where she lay in her last sleep. He knew that those
tearful eyes, which had looked up at the picturesque old building--had
dwelt upon the valley and the hill-side--the clustering woods and the
distant villages, with lingering, agonized gaze, could never more regard
them--never more bend their earnest, beaming, glad looks of recognition
upon the places where in early and in happy times they had so loved to
rest. He knew he should have a sharp wrestle with his spirit when he
placed again his footstep upon the threshold of his recovered
mansion, and he wished no eye, save that of Heaven or of his child, to
irreverently obtrude upon his sacred emotions.
This will explain why he so suddenly departed from London without
communicating to anyone his intention, and why Flora submitted to his
request not to mention his purpose, even to one person.
It was night when they reached their destination in a carriage which
bore them from the railway station to their new home, and, by the strict
injunctions of Mr. Wilton, the housekeeper and one servant only were at
the entrance of Harleydale Hall to receive them.
Wilton, with an agitated manner, drew Flora’s arm within his own, and
entered the spacious hall. He threw his eyes hurriedly round, and saw at
a glance that everything appeared to be much in the same state as when
he had quitted it.
The housekeeper an elderly matron, advanced, and, in trembling voice,
said--
“Welcome--welcome, sir, home! Welcome to your own! God be praised, you
have won your rights!”
“Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Steadfast,” he replied, huskily. “I am glad
to see you are still here!”
“Yes, sir, thank Heaven! and, madam, your dear lady, I am so proud----”
“My daughter, my daughter, Mrs. Steadfast--a mere child when last you
saw her.”
Flora put aside her veil, that the old servant, who had many a time held
her in her arms, should see her face, and the changes that time had made
in it.
The housekeeper uttered an exclamation, and muttered--“The very
counterpart!” Then she turned to old Wilton, and said--
“But your dear lady, my loved and honoured young mistress, sir; for
young she was when last I saw her.”
Wilton removed his hat, and, gazing upwards, said in a low, impressive
tone, yet tremulous with intense feeling--
“She is in heaven!”
There was a solemn stillness for an instant.
The housekeeper raised her handkerchief to her eyes, and Flora gently
stole her hand into her father’s, and pressed it.
Then the old man, with a burst of anguish, hurried up the staircase,
and, parting in broken sentences with his daughter for the night, sought
the retirement of the room prepared for him, and there battled with his
sorrow alone.
Flora, too, passed a part of the night in tears and prayer--tears for
the loss of the gentle being she had loved so affectionately, and
prayer for an angel-life with her hereafter in the ever-sunny regions
of Paradise. Somehow, the form of Hal Vivian was interwoven with her
thoughts and her prayers. She wept as her vision brought him to her
eyes--she knew not wherefore; and her cheek hushed and burned as in
fancy she saw his quiet, earnest gaze bent upon her face.
The sun was penetrating brightly through the window of her sleeping
chamber as she awoke. She pressed her beautiful eyes with the delicate
tips of her soft fingers, and then, opening them, gazed around her,
surprised and somewhat disappointed to find that she was no longer
dreaming. As, with the assistance, of her maid, she attired herself,
she gazed out of the window upon the lovely landscape spread before her
Upland and woodland, valley and ridge, all clothed in luxuriant verdure,
fair as eye ever rested upon, and her dreams were called up by the
beautiful scene before her.
A rosy blush mantled on her cheek as she remembered that Hal took
part in her dreams, and probably she thought that, as with joy she had
wandered with him in flowery meads and shadowy groves in her dream, the
reality, if it were to occur here, would not be altogether distasteful
to her.
Again her cheek burned, and her gentle bosom heaved, as, in her mental
dreams, she saw his full clear eye turned upon her with thoughtful
fervour. Strange that she should not ask herself what this emotion
meant.
For the first few days she wandered with her father or alone over the
more attractive portions of the property. Memory was busy all the while,
and she sought to retrace spots and places she had in laughing childhood
gambolled over. At the expiration of a week, Colonel Mires made his
appearance.
There was a change in the aspect of his features, his skin was of a
white sallowness; his eye was brighter, and the edges of the eyelids
were red, as if inflamed. His black hair seemed longer and to be
straggling, as if the care originally displayed in its arrangement had
been abandoned. His voice, too, was hoarser in its tone, and his manner
appeared agitated and abrupt.
Wilton did not notice the alteration in him, but Flora observed it,
and attributed it to some event that had happened, and had brought him
sorrow; so she was more kind in her manner to him, and seemed to evince
more interest in his conversation than she had ever before exhibited.
There was no disguise in the joy which he displayed at this, but she
saw in it nothing more than gratefulness for her endeavour to wile away
moments he would otherwise have spent in sad thoughts. His flushed
cheek and his increased excitement were not interpreted as he could have
wished--for that he entertained for her the passion of love, was exactly
the last thing she would have conceived respecting him.
He sought, by all the experience he was master of, to increase and
improve the opportunity afforded him in having the field to himself, of
ingratiating himself in her good graces, and of winning her favour. But
anxious as he was upon the point, he was afraid to declare himself,
for fear of startling her timid nature--all unpractised in the world’s
ways--and thus damage the cause he had at heart. A cause which he
trusted to conduct to success by obtaining an influence over her, the
insidious approaches of which should be so cautiously concealed, that
she would be unable to detect them until she discovered herself in
trammels from which she would be unable to get free.
It is easy to lay plans for the capture of a woman’s heart. Artless,
innocent, gentle, yielding, she may be; but even when those plans,
matured by all that practised skill and experience can suggest, are put
in operation, it is often found, at the moment of anticipated triumph,
that the surrender of the heart depends solely on some condition which
was omitted in the calculations upon which the plans were constructed.
Women have strong instincts as well as large intuitive perceptions, not
reducible to any known laws of reasoning. They dislike a certain man
because they do, and suspect him from no more explainable cause. Now,
this man may be well versed in the weaknesses of the fairer sex, and
well acquainted with all the points upon which they are most susceptible
and accessible, but if he has excited dislike and suspicion, however
fair and clear his conduct may have been, he may just as well lay plans
to capture the moon, in the expectation of being successful, as to
lay siege to the heart of a woman who dislikes or suspects him, in
anticipation of winning it.
The advantage Colonel Mires possessed, in being the sole guest of Mr.
Wilton, he continued for some little time to enjoy, and he observed with
no small gratification, that Flora sat and listened with quiet attention
and evident interest to his strange and wild stories of Indian life.
Romantic adventures in campaigns, in which he had been engaged, he
narrated with graphic power, artfully making himself the hero of the
events, without seeming intentionally to do it. Occasionally, and with
consummate skill, he would interweave with his relations love stories,
mostly to show how a man, like himself, had, daring the stormy period
of his life, raised up an ideal beauty to love and worship. How, on the
long, weary march, in the quiet night in his tent, pitched upon the cold
damp earth, or in the fierce din of warlike strife, he had looked upon
that face as a lodestar cheering him on his march, shining upon him in
the silent night, and leading him on to glory in the roar of battle.
How, in after times, the reality had presented itself to his longing
eyes, and how he had wooed the gentle creature and brought her to love
him for--
“The dangers he had passed.”
How she, believing his ardent vow, that his whole future life should be
devoted to the consummation of her future happiness, had given to him
her hand with her heart in it.
Flora listened to such stories with downcast eyes and thoughtful air. It
was evident they made an impression upon her. It seemed, even, that she
loved to listen to them; it was plain that she did not grow weary of
them, for she never displayed inattention or a desire to be away while
he was deep in such a narration. But whether she interpreted them as he
wished her to do, he was unable to detect.
Yet she was given much to wander alone. She contrived to elude the
endeavours made by the Colonel to accompany her. Soon after dawn she
would be away in the woods, or in the glen, upon the hill-side, or
by the fair brook, that meandered, like a silver thread, through the
valley. Or she would slip away when she perceived that her father had
engaged his guest in conversation of a character not likely to terminate
for some little time.
Many a sequestered spot, shaded by the soft green leaves of graceful
trees, she found in her rambles, and, secure from interruption, enjoyed
its solitary retirement, and its quiet beauties, but always alone. She
shared the pleasure she obtained in visiting these leafy recesses with
no one. It may have been that here she was free to think, without the
possibility of the emotions playing over her expressive features being
seen, and interpreted--without, too, the full play of her thoughts being
impeded.
She would sit for hours in dreamy abstraction--sometimes she would
weep unbidden tears--weep she could not tell why--would feel depressed,
lonely, sad, without, attempting to assign a cause. Often would her
cheek flush, and her bosom heave, while deep sighs burst from her
breast; and she would look distastefully round her, rise, and with
impatient manner, wander to some other spot, only to repeat her emotions
and then return home, perhaps to seek her chamber and there relieve her
surcharged heart by weeping.
Suffering this strange soul-disturbance, she knew not wherefore.
One day it was announced, to the discomfiture of Colonel Mires, that the
Honorable Mr. Lester Vane had arrived, and craved the honour of paying
his respects to Mr. Wilton and his daughter. The old man exhibited
considerable pleasure at this arrival, and warmly welcomed his new
guest. Flora’s reception of him, under the strong injunctions of her
father, had rather too much display to please the Colonel, who could not
help looking upon Vane with jealous misgivings. He met him with a cold
and haughty reserve, which Vane perceived and returned with interest.
At first, Lester Vane declared that he had arrived with the purpose only
of paying a flying visit, but he suffered himself to be persuaded by
Wilton into making a longer stay, and he very quickly gave Colonel
Mires an opportunity of discovering that he was passionately smitten by
Flora’s charms, and that he intended to win her, if he could.
Colonel Mires grew deadly sick at heart, as the conviction--without the
consolation of one poor doubt--forced itself upon him. The Honorable
Lester Vane was a formidable rival. He was many years his junior; he was
tall, well-formed, and possessed a handsome face; he was the son of a
nobleman, and, some day, would be himself a lord. He could thus not only
present a hand some person to the consideration of a young girl who had
been for many years placed in a humble sphere, but could offer to her
the prospect of becoming a titled lady--an inducement almost always of
weight in feminine consideration. The Colonel, therefore, found that he
had much, very much, to do to even maintain the ground he fancied he
had gained, and very much more to oust a rival who had, as he believed,
every advantage in his favour, and superior claims to his own in the
struggle for Flora’s hand.
Lester Vane had conceived a passionate attachment for the person of
Flora--a burning, feverish attachment, with which pure love had little
to do. Her beauty had taken his soul by storm, and absence from her
had inflamed his imagination to an intensity he found it impossible to
endure. Hence, in spite of certain other designs he had formed, and was
determined upon accomplishing, he had felt himself compelled, on finding
Wilton had left London, to follow him down to the country.
He detected the position of Colonel Mires in an instant.
“He is a friend of the family,” he said to himself, with a sneer. “He
is smitten with Miss Wilton’s beauty, and he expects to cunningly worm
himself into her good graces, and so make her his wife. Bah! she would
never willingly sacrifice herself to him--no, no! I don’t like the
fellow; I don’t like the expression of his eyes. They have a dangerous,
snake-like character. _N’importe!_--I can cope with him, I think; but
if I fail by art, it will not be difficult to goad him by insult into a
challenge. Fourteen paces and a firm hand will settle the matter between
us for ever.”
So Flora, immediately after the advent of Lester Vane, found her
society courted, both by him and Colonel Mires, with a solicitude and an
earnestness which quickly became embarrassing to her.
Her father passed a great deal of his time alone in his library;
his restoration to the society of his books was one of the happiest
conditions in his change from poverty to wealth; he hardly knew
how enough to indulge in those treasures of art and science thus
repossessed, and which had been his passion in former times.
Flora was thus left to the--it might almost be said--importunities of
her father’s guests: for though both, as well-bred men, did not exceed
the strict rules of good society, yet they took every occasion to
make her see and to understand, that their attentions were dictated by
something warmer than the impulses of common friendship.
She had one protection in the fact, that the rivalry existing between
these lovers made each take every precaution that the other should not
have the satisfaction and the advantage of a _tête-à-tête_ with the
object of their mutual passion, and this was even extended to her
out-door excursions. Lester Vane, at times, watched and followed her,
but he had scarcely reached her side, when they were joined by Mires,
who would, on no suggestion or hint from Vane, quit the pair until the
house was reached, and Flora had retired to her own apartment.
This occurred several times. Flora began to feel distressed and alarmed.
Not any direct profession of love had fallen from the lips of either,
but it was impossible for her not to comprehend, by the devoted
attentions, the fervent language, and the ardent looks addressed to her
by each, that these professions would be made, and at no distant period.
Thus she began to contract the duration of her stay in the presence of
her father’s guests, and to so contrive her rambles that they
should take place at periods when she was likely to be secure from
interruption.
She grew pale and melancholy, was often abstracted while in the company
of those who sought exclusively to occupy her attention; and, without
being marked in her increasing desire for seclusion, she presented
herself in the drawing-room or dining-room only when she could not well
escape the duties of her position.
It was not difficult for either Colonel Mires or Lester Vane to see that
Flora looked upon the seemingly accidental rencontres with themselves
in their strolls as unfortunate, and that she viewed them with distaste.
Colonel Mires even took the trouble to sound her on the subject, and
succeeded in eliciting from her that she preferred in her morning walks
to be quite alone.
Lester Vane caught at her acknowledgment, and proposed a shooting
excursion for the following morning to Colonel Mires, who promptly
acceded to the proposition. Flora perceived that this was a delicate
attention to her wish, and responded by a grateful look to Vane, who
treasured it up to be that night gloated over as a step gained towards
the goal he looked forward to reach.
“I see my way better from that glance,” he thought, “than I have yet by
any occurrence that has happened. I will rack my brain to lay her under
small obligations; those little thankfulnesses gathered together will
reach to the magnitude of fondness; and if I but make her fond--if I can
only make her fond--the victory is mine.”
That morning early, Lester Vane and Colonel Mires, equipped for the
sport, attended by the gamekeeper and their grooms, set out upon their
expedition. Flora, seeing her father safe in his library, surrounded by
his favourite authors, and bent upon scientific experiments, which were
likely to absorb his devoted attention until dinner-time, took a book
with her, and sauntered away from the house in an opposite direction
to that which she had seen the gentlemen take. She directed her steps
towards a sequestered glen, through which the valley stream flowed,
chanting its bubbling lay, and where wild flowers were profuse. Young
trees, thickly intertwined, shaded the sun from the soft, even, emerald
sward, and the silence was only disturbed by the singing of birds,
striving to rival the musical murmur of the rippling water as it swept
windingly through the secluded place.
Of late she had visited this spot more frequently than any other;
for, in her approach to it, she had not been encountered by either
the Colonel or Vane, nor did she ever within its precincts see living
creatures, save the birds darting from the sunlight into the shadowy
trees, or the fish leaping out of the stream in pursuit of their prey.
She was, therefore, not a little disturbed and surprised, on making her
way to her accustomed seat, to find it occupied by a gentleman, who,
with his head resting upon his hand, was seated, gazing upon the
ever-moving stream in an attitude of abstracted contemplation.
She would have retreated, if possible, without attracting the
observation of the stranger, but the glitter of her flowing garments had
attracted his eyes, and he turned towards her, rising up as he did so.
A faint exclamation burst from her lips as the stranger advanced in her
direction with something of a hesitating manner, but she eagerly held
out both her hands to greet him; her eyes glittered like diamonds, and a
rosy flush suddenly spread itself over neck, face and forehead.
“Mr. Vivian!” she exclaimed, “how strange we should meet here. You
have come down to pay us a visit--have you not. Heaven! how pale you
look--are you ill?”
It was Hal Vivian, certainly, and with a face pale, anxious, and marked
with lines of sorrow.
He took her extended hands; he saw how her face lighted up with pleasure
at meeting him; it was an expression scarcely to be misunderstood or
observed, by him at least, with apathy; he saw, too, the crimson flush
upon her cheek, and perhaps his own became of as deep a hue.
“It _is_ strange that we have met here, Miss Wilton,” he replied, trying
to clear his voice, and to speak with a firm tone. “I did not foresee
that you would visit this retired spot; indeed, I myself found it
out yesterday only, and struck by its quiet beauty, revisited it this
morning.”
“You have then been in the neighbourhood some days at least,” said
Flora, with surprise, and added, in a reproachful tone, “you have not
called to see my father or--or myself. What have we done, Mr. Vivian, to
occasion on your part such singular conduct; have we offended you? You
surely should know we would not lightly do that.”
“No, no--oh, not offended me,” replied Hal, quickly and earnestly. “No,
it is not that.”
“Why should you, Mr. Vivian, if not offended, refrain from paying us
a visit--if even one of mere ceremony?” she returned, with a slightly
pouting lip.
“Because--because--pardon me, Miss Wilton, if I speak with too much
plainness. I would not, for my own happiness, pain or wound you, but I
feel some explanation of my recent and future conduct is due to you, at
least. In offering this explanation I may be inflicting upon you some
disquiet; if I should, I ask in anticipation your pardon, for I may not
swerve from the truth in what I shall reveal, and you will judge that,
whatever may be its effect, it has not been uttered with any intention
to displease you.”
He took Flora by the hand, and led her to the spot where he had been
reclining, and begged her to be seated there while he addressed her.
She went unresistingly and complied with his request. Her heart beat
violently, her ears burned and tingled, and she could see nothing but
the green tremulous grass at her feet.
Yet she heard clearly and distinctly; every tone of his rich, musical
voice seemed to vibrate upon her heart, and to bury itself therein, and
she felt as if she could sit thus and listen to him for ever.
“Miss Wilton,” he said, “I will be brief, for what I have to say should
be so: for your sake and for my own, the sooner it is over the better.
Our acquaintance has been spread over some years, but it has been
limited in its character. The events of the past few months have
thrown us into more intimate relation, and have resulted in creating
an influence over me which time can never efface. I have come to know
this--to know, Miss Wilton, that your gentle nature, no less than your
other perfections, have absorbed all of passion, of love, I may ever
hope to have: and this at a time when it is forced upon me that your
position and birth are far removed above mine. That any hopes I might
entertain, or wishes I might form, would be unjust to you, I feel; and
that they are improbable of realization I cannot deny to myself. I have
probed my heart, my soul, and find that change in my feelings towards
you can never come. I could not, therefore, continue to visit you--to
have you ever in my eyes, and know that you could never, never be mine.
I could not see you often, and look upon your heavenly face, listen to
the music of your words, grow faint beneath the soft gaze of your quiet,
tender eyes, and content myself with that bliss without seeking to
raise in your heart the same love that burned in mine. I tried to induce
myself to do this. I tried to believe that I could remain near you,
watch over you as a guardian spirit, and be happy in the thought that
I could shield you from danger or from sorrow, that I could see calmly
another wear the gem I would give almost existence to possess. But, oh!
Flora, I am but human, miserably, weakly human. My love is selfish, at
least in this. I cannot look upon you in the possession of another. So
I have come to the determination to leave this country for ever, and, in
some distant land, struggle with my hopeless passion as best I may.”
He paused for a moment, and his lip quivered with the strong emotion
which convulsed his frame. He pressed his trembling lip with his teeth,
and then went on--
“I had intended to have spared myself the pang of parting with
you--for--ever--but it was not to be. I came down here to gaze my last
upon the roof that sheltered you; to obtain, if possible, one last look
upon your dear form; to breathe a prayer for your eternal happiness----”
“I cannot bear it!” cried Flora, springing to her feet. She burst into
a passion of tears, and flung herself upon his neck. “You must not go,
Hal!” she cried with intense excitement, “you must not, shall not leave
me; I should break my heart! I should die if you were parted from me!”
He pressed her with passionate ardour to his breast His heart wras too
full to utter a word.
Nothing disturbed the stillness of the quiet air but the gentle warbling
of a lonely bird, the plaintive chant of the running stream, and Flora’s
low sobbing.