YORK AND THE MAITLANDS.
There are difficulties in the way of one who would describe an event
after an immortal poet has given it a setting in lines that a
worshipping world will not willingly let die. A tree, it is said, is
never struck by lightning more than once, and it is safe to suppose
that a subject is never illumined by the rays of heaven-descended
genius without being as thoroughly exhausted. Nevertheless, with our
tame domestic lantern, let us endeavour to throw a little prosaic
light over the details of a scene that has been irradiated by the
imagination of a Byron.
It was one of the events of the season to the social world of that
foreign town, but to us it is one of the events of the century. On an
evening in June, 1815, in the city of Brussels, the Duchess of
Richmond gave a ball on so magnificent a scale that even the gray
heads of society's veteran devotees were a little turned, and the
chestnut and golden pates of their juniors tossed sleeplessly on their
pillows for several nights preceding it. After all, humanity is
perpetually and overpoweringly interested in nothing except humanity.
On the evening appointed there was a vast beautiful throng, moving
through halls as beautiful and more vast; there was the witchery of
soft lights and softer sounds, of odours and colours that enchant the
senses; there were banks of flowers, each of whose tiny blossoms
yielded its dying breath to make the world sweeter for an hour, and
among them, under the starry lights, in warm human veins, flowed a
thousand streams; very blue, not so blue, and even common crimson. But
all flowed faster than usual, perhaps the better to warm the lovely
bare shoulders and arms, or to paint the sweet cheeks above them in
the vivid hues of glad, intense young life. Intermingled with the
costly robes and flashing gems on the ideal figures of fair women,
gleamed the brilliant uniforms of brave men. "A thousand hearts beat
happily"--with one exception. This was in the possession of the second
daughter of a duke. She was even then remarkable for her beauty and
for a certain imperious, condescending grace. The gay throng of which
she was a part was no more to her than so many buttercups and daisies;
and these sumptuous apartments, so far as they concerned her, might
have been a series of green meadows. At last her indifferent glance,
travelling over the room, encountered an object that faintly flushed
her cheek, and brightened the eyes, whose orbit of vision was now
limited to the circle immediately about her. Cold indifference had
changed to throbbing impatience. Ah, why did he not come! With whom
was he lingering? She dared not look up lest her glance, like a swift,
bright messenger, should tell him all her heart, and draw him
magnetically to her side. No, he must come of his own choice, and
quickly, else her mood would change. Soft strains of music arose,
melting, aching, dying upon the air. Her heart melted, ached, and
apparently died also, for it turned cold and hard as she glanced at
her watch, and saw that it was more than a minute, nearly _two_
minutes (two eternities they seemed to her) since she began to be glad
that she had come.
The next instant her long-lashed lids were raised in spite of herself,
and she confronted a singularly tall and attractive-looking gentleman,
whose face, from its pensive sadness, had a certain poetic charm. He
begged the honour of the next dance with her. She regretted that he
was too late. He looked disappointed, but ventured to name the next
one. She was sorry, but it was impossible. Had she room for him
anywhere at all on her list? She shook her head prettily but
inexorably. The handsomest coquette and the plainest school-ma'am have
this in common, that they detest and punish tardiness. The young man
was overpowered by his sense of loss. It was small comfort to stand
and look at the beautiful girl. When the gates of paradise are closed
against one it matters little whether they are made of gold or of
iron. Inwardly he bestowed some very hard names upon himself for
imagining that that peerless creature would be allowed to await a
willing wall-flower his languidly deferred appearance.
Again those heavenly strains rose and throbbed upon the air. It was
maddening. The keenness of his disappointment gave his face an
intensity of ardent expression that certainly did not detract from its
charm in the eyes of the girl who at that instant glanced up into it.
The next moment he was pressed aside--very decorously, very
courteously, even apologetically pushed aside, but still compelled by
an insinuating patrician hand to make room for its owner, a gentleman
whose extremely lofty title had already drawn the homage of a hundred
admiring pairs of eyes upon him, and whose prevailing expression was a
haughty consciousness of accustomed and assumed success. The young
lady whom he now honoured with a request to dance did not think of his
title, nor of his condescension, nor of him. She declined with
characteristic indifference on the plea that she was already engaged,
and turning placed her hand on the arm of Sir Peregrine Maitland,
whose suddenly bewildered and enraptured heart, if it had never before
given its assent to the time-worn proposition that all is fair in love
as well as in war, certainly could not hesitate now. Perhaps the
triumphs of the ball-room are not less thrilling than those of the
battle-field. "Why were you so cruel to me a moment ago?" he murmured,
looking down into eyes that but too clearly reflected the happiness of
his own.
"For the same reason that I am kind to you now," she responded like a
flash.
He did not ask her the reason. Perhaps he was intuitively and
blissfully aware of it. Did ever maiden discover a more demurely
daring way of telling her lover that she loved him?
But now, caressed by little wafts of perfume, and half-dazed by the
blaze of lights and colours around and above them, they were drifting
as on a tide upon soft swelling waves of music. In liquid undulations
of sweet sound they floated insensibly down the windings of the waltz,
nor dreamed of danger till the note of warning came. It was a
prodigious note--nothing less than the boom of a cannon--and the
signal for instant, perhaps life-long, separation.
"Who could guess,
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes?
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise."
But, as we know, two pairs at least of those mutual eyes were destined
to meet again, and meet as gladly and warmly as when their owners
danced together on the evening before the battle of Waterloo. But the
chill atmosphere of a father's disapproval lay between them. It is
reasonable to suppose that the fourth Duke of Richmond and Lennox was
not so susceptible to the charms of pensive and picturesque young
gentlemen as was his wilful daughter. Among the names on a list of
invitations to a party given by the latter appeared that of Sir
Peregrine Maitland, which, coming under the cold parental eye, was
promptly erased. At the same time he inquired of his daughter why she
permitted that undesirable gentleman to hang about her skirts--why she
did not let him go. The response was that after this decided slight he
probably _would_ go; she added with a little sigh that she did not
know where. The duke profanely and contemptuously mentioned a locality
which shall be nameless. The young lady made no reply. She believed in
division of labour, and in former domestic affairs of this sort her
stern parent had invariably said what he pleased, while she contented
herself with merely doing what she pleased.
Proverbially, actions speak louder than words, and the present case
was no exception, for while the echo of her father's speech did not go
beyond the walls of the apartment they were in, her own rash
performance, which was a direct consequence of it, was a few days
later noised abroad through all Paris. This was an evening call at the
lodgings of Sir Peregrine Maitland. She came in unannounced, flushed,
eager, defiant, lovely, letting fall the rich train of her robe, which
she had caught up in a swift flight through the streets, and throwing
off her enveloping cloak, which scattered a shower of sparkling drops
on brow and bosom, and beautiful bare arms, for a light shower had
fallen. "They would not let you come to me, so I have come to you,"
she declared with a daring little laugh. "I have run away from my
guests. There is a houseful of them and they tire me to death.
Everyone tires me to-night except you." The gentleman stood before her
speechless with bewilderment. "I believe," she said with a little
pout, like a spoiled child, "that you are not glad to see me."
"Glad to see you," he repeated, "dearest, yes! But not in this way, at
this time."
She turned aside, but the drops that glittered on her cheek now were
not caused by the rain. Her shimmering silken robes seemed to utter
continuous soft whispers of applause to her nervous yet graceful
movements. Altogether she was an incongruous object in the unhome-like
bareness of a bachelor's apartments. "You are not very cordial,
monsieur," she remarked in a cold tone, as she stood with her back to
him, staring hard at an uninteresting picture above the mantel-shelf;
"it seems to be a pleasure to you to receive an evening caller, but
not exactly a rapture." She smiled her old imperious smile as she
threw herself into a tired-looking chair, while her host, with very
obvious reluctance, sank into one just opposite. For an instant her
beauty smote upon his brain. He leaned forward until his face touched
the lapful of rare old laces that flowed wave-like from waist to knee
on the dress of the girl he loved.
"Darling," he murmured, "it is a rapture"--then he suddenly drew
himself very far back in his chair--"but not exactly a pleasure!"
She rose again and moved restlessly about the room. He stood pale,
speechless, waiting for her to go--a waiting that was almost a
supplication. "How could you have the courage to come to me," he
breathed as she drew near him.
"Because I hadn't the courage to stay away from you. I am brave enough
to do, but not to endure."
"My poor love! if this escapade becomes public you will have enough to
endure."
"I do not care for the world." She stood facing him with the absolute
sincerity and trust of irresistible love. "I care for you," she said.
He took the little jewelled hand and reverently kissed it. "Ah, don't
do that!" she cried, drawing it away with a quick impatient frown. He
drew away, supposing that he had offended her, while she, giving him
the puzzled incredulous look that a woman must give a man when she
discovers, not that his intuitions are duller than her own, but that
he has no intuitions at all, continued her tour about the room.
"Sweetheart," he said, following her, but not venturing to lay a
finger upon her, "you _must_ go." His voice was earnest and very
tender.
"The same idea has occurred to me," she said, "but I dislike to hurry.
There is nothing so vulgar as haste." Her old mocking tone had
returned, and in despair he threw himself back into his seat.
Something in the pathetic grace of his attitude and the beauty of his
sensitive poetic face smote upon the heart that, with all its
perversity, belonged alone to him. She ran to him and knelt at his
side, with her white arms outstretched across his knees, and her
lovely head bowed upon them. The young man realized with sharp
distinctness that the fear of society is not the strongest feeling
that can animate the human frame. He uttered a few passionate words of
endearment, and would have gathered her closely into his breast, but
she, without looking up, sprang suddenly from him and, seizing her
cloak, sped wind-like to her home.
But there were consequences. Madame Grundy, who is chief among those
for whom Satan finds some mischief still, openly declared that there
were some forms of imprudence that could be tolerated and some that
could not, and that this particular indiscretion must, with reluctance,
be relegated to the latter class. The irate father of the erring one
coincided with this view of things, and a speedy marriage was the
result. "Not guilty--but she mustn't do so again!" had evidently been
the verdict of society.
A few months later, in 1818, Sir Peregrine Maitland, his affairs of
love happily settled, was appointed ruler of Upper Canada, where his
attention was turned to affairs of State. But there was one subject in
connection with his courtship-days which had never been satisfactorily
settled, and upon which he did not venture to question his wife until
several years had elapsed. Then, late one afternoon, it recurred to
him in that unaccountable way in which bygone events are accustomed to
rise at odd times and lay claim to the attention.
"Dear," he said, "why did you object to my kissing your hand the
evening you called on me in Paris?"
"You may lay out the corn-coloured silk, Emma," said Lady Sarah to her
maid, who came that moment with an inquiry upon toilette matters. Then
as the girl disappeared she resumed her novel, peeping over the top of
it at her husband.
"As though I wanted you to kiss my _hand_!" she said.
"_Oh_!" A sudden light seemed to dawn upon the dense masculine
understanding. Sir Peregrine was very proud of his beautiful wife. At
the private reception which she gave that evening the corn-coloured
silk gown was the centre of a group of government officials and the
social dignitaries of the time, between herself and whom the ball of
conversation kept lightly moving.
She turned from them to greet an old friend. "Ah, Commodore, so you
are really settled here for the winter. Rose told me that you had some
thoughts of remaining out in the bush through the cold season, in the
cosy but rather too exclusive manner of a family of chipmunks. What
have you been doing all summer?"
"Keeping myself unspotted from the world," replied the gentleman, with
a stately bow to the lady, and a sportive glance at the worthy
representatives of the social world surrounding her.
"How very scriptural! Do Bibles grow on bushes in the backwoods that
quotation of them comes so easily?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. Such searching theological questions are, I
suppose, what a man must expect to confront when he forsakes the
simple and sequestered life of the chipmunks."
"Well, I am disappointed. I supposed from the expression of your eyes
that you were going to say something complimentary."
"My dear Lady Sarah, do compliments grow on street corners in the
metropolis that the expectation of them comes so easily?"
"No, indeed--nor in drawing-rooms either, apparently. It is a novelty
to meet a man who persists in making his conversation impersonal; but
it is really cold-hearted of you to think of remaining so long away
from us."
"How can you say so! Absence, you know, makes the heart grow fonder."
"Does it?" The lady made a feint of moving away. "Now if it were only
possible for me to absent myself," she said, laughingly.
"Impossible! That is for me to do." And the gentleman withdrew with
flattering haste.
In his place appeared a blonde young man, with deep sea-blue eyes and
a bright buoyant expression, on whose arm his hostess laid a soft
detaining hand. "Were you on the point of asking me to walk about a
little?" she inquired. "I am going to accept with alacrity."
The young fellow, who would scarcely have made the suggestion in the
face and eyes of several among the most distinguished of his fellow
citizens immediately surrounding her, was not slow to respond, though
he assumed an expression of alarm.
"I fear this is a deep-laid plot," he remarked. "I saw my father
leaving you in haste a moment ago. Probably he has offended you, and
you are about to visit the iniquities of the parents upon the
children. Pray are you taking me apart in order to spare my sensitive
feelings? So kind of you!"
"Well, it was not my benevolent intention to lecture you at all,
either in public or private, but since you speak of it so feelingly no
doubt the need exists. First tell me what you have been doing all
summer."
"Living out in the wild woods among the wild flowers, wild animals,
wild Indians, and--"
"What a wild young man! I am positively afraid of you."
"Delightful! Please oblige me by remaining so. It is difficult for me
to be appalling for any length of time, yet the emotion of fear must
be cultivated in your mind at all hazards."
"And why?"
"Because you will never dare to lecture the awe-inspiring being of
whom you are in mortal terror."
"Oh! are you sure of that? I met a famous lecturer the other day, and
he assured me that he never stepped before an audience without
suffering from fright; yet he did not spare his hearers on that
account."
"Such is the hardheartedness of man. We expect more from a woman."
"More of a lecture, or more hardheartedness?"
"More of the latter--from you."
"Well I am under the impression that you will receive, before long, a
good deal of the former from a young lady present. Are you aware that
we are observed?"
"I am sure that one of us is the observed of all observers."
"It is kind of you not to add that politeness forbids you to say
which. But what I mean is that since we began to talk I have twice
encountered a glance from the darkest eyes I ever saw."
"They must belong to Mademoiselle DeBerczy."
"They do. That girl's eyes and hair are black enough to cast a gloom
over the liveliest conversation."
"But her smiles are bright enough to illumine the gloom."
"Then it is a shame that she should waste them upon that rather
slow-looking young man in front of her. Will you take me back to my
seat and then go and see if you can release her from bondage?"
The request was immediately acceded to, and not long afterwards Helene
DeBerczy and Edward Macleod were exchanging the light talk, not worth
reporting, that springs so easily from those whose hearts are light.
Meantime where was Rose? To all outward appearance she was demurely
listening to the remarks of a distinguished statesman, whose opinions
were held to be of great weight, and whose form, at any rate, fully
merited this description. He was so delighted to think that one so
young and fair could be so deep. Alas! she _was_ deep in a sense the
gifted gentleman never knew. For, while the sweet head bowed assent,
and the rose-bud lips unclosed to utter such remarks as "Ah, indeed!
You surprise me!" and "Very true!" to statements of profound national
import, her maiden meditations were as free as fancy. Before her
mental vision the brilliant rooms with their gay well-dressed
assemblage melted away, and in their place was a fair green meadow,
wide and waving and deliciously cool under the declining sun of a
summer evening. The last load of the second crop of hay was on its way
to the barn, when a great longing desire took possession of her to
ride on it. She walked out to the field, very slowly and feebly, but
still she actually walked--and the whole cavalcade came to a dead stop
at sight of her, for she had never been able to go any farther than
the gate since her accident. Mr. Dunlop, and Allan, and the hired man,
and even the oxen all stopped, and looked at her as though they
expected to hear that the house was afire, or that the servant girl
had run away with the butcher's boy. But when they found that nothing
was wanted except a ride on a load of hay Mr. Dunlop said, "bless the
child!" and held her up as high as he could reach. Then Allan lifted
her the rest of the way, blushing as he did so. She remembered how
beautifully clean he looked in his white shirt sleeves, and what clear
warm shades of brown there were in the eyes and on the cheeks under
the broad straw hat. She remembered, too, with a little warmth of
feeling--not a _very_ uncomfortable warmth of feeling--how, when the
waggon made a great lurch going over a ditch, she had uttered a little
scream, and laid strenuous hands of appeal upon the white sleeved arm,
and how, when they came to another ditch, a brown palm had held fast
to her trembling hand until the danger was over. Halfway in the barn
door he made the oxen stop, until she had stood on tip toe, and put
her hand among the little swallows in a nest under the eaves. Ah, what
was there in the memory of new-mown hay to fill her with this sharp
sweet pain? She awoke from her dream to a consciousness that the
gentleman beside her was saying that it was sufficiently clear to
every enlightened understanding that unless tum tum tum tum measures
were instantly adopted mum mum mum mum would be the inevitable result.
"Oh, no doubt of it," said Rose, and then there was a readjustment of
the group in her immediate vicinity. Lady Sarah Maitland appeared with
a bewitching smile and begged to introduce the honourable gentleman,
who had been discoursing with so much eloquence to a friend of hers.
The 'friend' hovered in the distance, but even in perspective it was
clear to be seen that he was a man of great powers of endurance.
The honourable gentleman concealed under a flattered smile his
distaste for the proposition, and in a few moments his place was
occupied by Lady Sarah, who took one of the little hands, soft and
pink as a handful of rose-leaves, between her own.
"I wonder if I might venture to ask a favour," she said.
"I'm sure I should never venture to refuse it," returned the young
girl, with all a young girl's appreciation of kindness coming from a
thoroughbred woman of the world.
"Then I wish very much that you would sing one of your favourite
songs. It would be a great pleasure to very many of us."
"I'll not wait to be coaxed," was the reply, after a moment's
hesitation. "It is only really good singers who can afford to do
that."
In spite of her dimpled figure and child-face, Rose Macleod had a very
stately little way with her, and it served to repel one pair of eyes
that for the first time that evening caught sight of her as she moved
towards the instrument. A little queen! That was what he had always
called her in his heart. _His_ little queen! Oh, how had he dared to
enthrone her there? Presumptuous idiot! she was as far from him as the
stars are from the weeds. But the girl at the piano thought of nothing
but the sharp, sweet odour of new-mown hay. Sharp as a sword and sweet
as love, it pierced and thrilled her being. Then, like a fragrant
blossom, a melody sprang from the hidden sources of her pain. The
sympathetic musical expressiveness of her voice, and its pure
penetrating quality filled the room, and riveted the attention of
every one in it. Others came in from adjoining rooms, until, in the
press of the throng, a young man was forced, in spite of himself,
nearer and nearer to the instrument, and found himself close beside
the fair girl-goddess of song, just as the last words left her lips.
Like one awaking from sleep she looked at him, and then the glad light
of recognition swept up to her eyes. Her dream had come true. "Oh,"
she exclaimed, "it is Allan!"