Though by no means superstitious, there was one circumstance, and only
one, with regard to which I sometimes doubted whether it was not
influenced by some fatality, and the present case was connected with
it.
With another boy, I was passing out of the archway leading upon
Windsor Terrace, in order to hear the Life Guards' band, which here
played every Sunday evening, when once more I met with Miss Curzon.
She was coming away, and at that instant was walking between two other
ladies. This time, then, there was no doubt: as I passed, she made a
very slight, but slow bend of her neck; at the same time there was in
her face a fixed and serious expression. Slight as was the
recognition, it was undoubted.
"Why, Graham," presently exclaimed the friend I was walking with,
"that lady bowed to you!"
"And why should she not?"
"And why should you blush about it so?"
Never mind that--this was, and ever has been, if not the happiest, the
loveliest moment of my life.
On turning back, that I might, should fortune favour me, obtain some
farther traces of her, I just glimpsed her as she entered a carriage,
which drove away in the direction of Datchet.
Once again, then, was I at fault, still possessing not the faintest
suspicion of her retreat, for resident in the neighbourhood I was now
confident she must be.
It was six years and more since I had heard her voice. From that
moment I had dwelt upon it and her, with all my mind, with all my
heart, and with all my soul. But then, this might have been an ideal
passion, as has happened to many of us, and we have never been less
enamoured than when in the immediate presence of its object: but in
this instance it was very different, creating a kind of fretful
happiness quite intolerable. Byron says, in his ever-glowing way,
that--
"Sweeter far than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love!"
But, he should have added, what probably he meant, early love. Love at
twenty is as nothing, unless one's a fool. Downright love exists only
with boyish and the wildest romance, infinitely removed from every
grain of common sense. I will give an instance of this boyish
weakness, though a ridiculous one.
There was a maid-servant in Eton, who was a modest, respectable, and
certainly very pretty girl. Notwithstanding the stoutness of her
ancle, she had made a deep impression on many of the bigger boys,
though probably not one of them had exchanged a syllable with her.
This girl now became betrothed to a Windsor tradesman. No sooner was
this ascertained, than her admirers let him plainly know, that should
he presume to prosecute his design, it should cost him dearly. Several
of them now never met the poor fellow without insulting him; and I
remember one boy, more ardent than the rest, went into his shop and
fought him chivalrously, like a good knight and true. So high did the
feud now run, that the shop-keepers sided with their townsman, and for
months half the school was each evening engaged in a spirited skirmish
with the Windsor mobility for this Fair Maid of Perth; and I believe
that, in consequence of the excitement they evinced on the occasion,
the match was postponed for nearly two years. The boy who
particularised himself for his pugnacious prowess has since become a
preacher in the open fields, and a zealous supporter of the
miraculously unknown tongues.
"But these are foolish things to all the wise," and particularly so
to me, though my head was altogether turned, and my heart too. My days
were more than ever dedicated to roaming over the country; and in the
evening I used to love to scull my skiff far up the stream, and then
float quietly down while I watched the sun setting, and the luxurious
yet modest forget-me-not, on the banks; then leave my boat to sit
motionless on a retired stile, and listen to "the still small voice"
of the mysterious bat, or the drowsy soothing hum of the beetle. One
of these evenings, by the bye, was productive of a little adventure.
I had just accomplished "the shallows," and was now rowing hard
against the stream opposite Boveney Church, when I was startled for
the moment by the sounds of a number of female voices, some of which
even amounted to screams. On looking over my shoulder, I now observed
an enormous pleasure-barge, with its deck and cabin crowded with a
numerous party of ladies and gentlemen. It was drawn up the stream by
three or four horses. At this spot the stream ran with such rapidity,
that a boat which was fastened to the stern, had broken away, and the
ladies became, in a degree, panic-struck, when they saw their only
means of communication with the shore quickly floating away from them.
It was now for me to do my best to capture it, though when I had
fastened it to my skiff, it was with great difficulty that I could
stem the stream with it, and reach them. Having at length succeeded in
this, the instant I arrived, in addition to innumerable thanks, many
fair and braceleted wrists were now proffering full and fizzing
bumpers of champagne, while others showered various fruits into my
skiff.
Without any hesitation, I emptied a respectable number of glasses of
their contents; and having declined the rest, they were reluctantly
withdrawn, with the exception of one. I thought I might as well take
that; I looked at its fair and kind donor, and--there was Miss Curzon!
As I raised the glass to my lips, I glanced across its brim, and again
the same depression of the slender figure--the same expression and
mixture of fixed seriousness!
Now, then, I at last had a certainty of gleaning some tidings of her.
I saw Maberly standing by her side, and, the next morning, I
questioned him closely, but warily, upon the subject.
"I was rather lucky, last night, Maberly," I observed.
"Yes," he replied; "it was no common person who gave you that glass of
wine. Do you not think she was very lovely?"
"There were several lovely persons," I answered.
"You know whom I mean."
"O yes," I prudently answered; "she was sitting on a sofa, close to
the steerage, and gave me--bless her!--the first glass of wine."
"Thank you," said Maberly; "that was my sister."
"Then she was a very nice-looking person," I replied.
"Don't you recollect, now, the girl who held out the last glass to
you?"
"Perfectly; but is she the person you admire so?"
"Oh! you know, you're near-sighted, or you would have thought so."
"And who is she, after all?"
"I am not quite certain that I know her name," said Maberly; "but I
suppose it is the same as her uncle's, Mr. St. Quentin, with whom she
lives there, at the Grange, by Old Windsor."
I said but little more, and withdrew, by no means dissatisfied with
the information I had gained.