NEWS FROM CARLO AT LAST.
It was Carlo’s turn to write, for I had received no letter since the one
I wrote soon after my arrival at Langdale Priory, and I anxiously
expected to hear from him every day. None came, and a week passed before
Mr. Mordaunt heard anything more from my guardian, who had told him that
he need form no plans for leaving the Priory till the new Mr. Vivian
should arrive from America. He had told him, when they met at Graspem’s
in London, that it was just possible Mr. Vivian might be willing to let
the place for a time, though he fancied not at so low a rent as he now
paid.
“And we cannot afford to give a farthing more, so there’s an end of it,”
moaned Mr. Mordaunt; “so you had better pack up and be ready to start at
a moment’s notice.”
Another week passed, and brought no letter from Carlo, and no news from
Mr. Henry or Mr. Vivian. I began to be very anxious about Carlo, but, on
the other hand, the delay of Mr. Vivian’s arrival inspired me with a
vague hope that something might occur to--no, that would be impossible,
I well knew, but I felt such a yearning affection for every tree and
knoll in this beautiful old place, that it seemed almost impossible I
could be torn from it.
At the end of that week, the post brought me a letter from Carlo, and I
ran up to my room and read it alone. It was much shorter than usual, but
he excused himself for its brevity by saying that he was night and day
in attendance upon his father, who had been dangerously ill. He
expressed much pleasure to hear that I found Langdale Abbey such an
enchanting place; but yet the letter was cold--there was not a word
about our future meeting; and the impression it produced on a second
reading was worse, and formed itself into the fatal words, “He does not
now care for me.”
Or could he have been jealous of my evident enthusiasm for this place?
Could he have discovered what I had almost reproached myself for
feeling at one moment, that I loved this place almost better than him?
If so, I deserve to lose his love, thought I; but still, now that I had
lost the place, how sad to lose his love as well! And he could not
possibly have heard of my loss, I thought. It did not seem to be
generally known even here. How much less could the news have reached the
south of Italy!
There seemed now no end to my troubles. At that time I had very little
religion, as will be imagined by those who read this story of my life.
When happy, I enjoyed a kind of vague trust in God’s mercy; and also
perhaps I felt some degree of gratitude, but I did not think upon His
laws, nor endeavour to bring His precepts into the daily concerns of my
life; consequently I was utterly depressed, or despairingly miserable,
at the disappointments I met with. The apparent coldness of Carlo’s
letter was a bitter disappointment, particularly to one like myself,
who, as I afterwards discovered, had such an ardent craving to be loved
as I possess.
Ah! it was this violent wish to be loved that entailed all my
misfortunes; and now that I began to doubt of Carlo’s, I longed for the
love, the real friendship of that attractive girl, Norah. And she had
seemed disposed to like me. I saw it in her face; and I felt that I
should really like to live in the same house with her, even as governess
to her sisters. Oh! if I could but see her, and talk to her about this
plan of mine!
So far my wishes to see her were soon destined to be realized, for that
very afternoon I heard the sound of carriage wheels, and, running into
the next room, I saw the same carriage drive up to the door. Again Norah
looked up, and this time her energetic greeting was mingled with a kind
of mournful compassion, or rather, veneration, and she seemed as if her
former playful recognition was exchanged for a look of serious longing
to be of use. So I construed it, and felt sure they had heard of my
misfortune.
Mrs. Chandos also looked up, and gave a kind of hesitating bow, which
she seemed endeavouring to make according to her usual formal pattern.
Exactly what I wished now happened, for after a few moments, in which I
was revolving in my mind how I could see Norah alone, I heard Mrs.
Mordaunt’s step in the passage, accompanied by a light, buoyant tread,
which I was sure was Norah’s.
I ran to the door, and found her full of tears and smiles, and, with
outstretched hands, she said,
“It is so good of Mrs. Mordaunt to let me come up to your room.”
To Mrs. Mordaunt’s infinite surprise, I rushed into Norah’s arms, and
kissed both her cheeks. Then I held her shoulders, and looked into her
face, and fully enjoyed its kind, and cheering, and loving expression.
Then Mrs. Mordaunt left us, and we had a long and delightful talk. In
that hour I told her everything--my engagement to Carlo, my adoration
for this place and my father’s memory, my disappointment in Carlo, and
my wish to be independent, and, above all, to live with her, if
possible.
“It will be difficult, I fear,” she said, after a long pause. “I am only
just beginning to understand my step-mother, and she me. I am in hopes
that there is more good in her than I thought there was at first. I was,
oh! so miserable, for I feared she cared for nothing but dress and show,
and the things riches could procure. For I am not clever, you know--I
can’t read characters as Aunt Jane does.”
It seemed like the next moment only, although we had told each other so
much, when Mrs. Mordaunt returned to say that Mrs. Chandos was obliged
to go now, and must take Norah away; but we were all to go over and
lunch at Chandos Mount the next day.
“That is, if we are all still here; for Mr. Mordaunt says it is useless
to make any engagement, when we may be obliged to leave this very
evening.”
This well-timed visit of Norah’s had been of great use, but there was a
sad re-action after she was gone, when I read Carlo’s letter again.
There was not much in the words themselves to make me doubt his love,
and I could scarcely account for the feeling of disappointment, which
seemed almost like despair. It seemed so hard that I should lose his
love just at this moment, when I was deprived of my father’s beautiful
place, and all the fortune I had valued so highly.
Strange that I had always dreaded poverty so much, and perhaps
over-valued splendour and luxury, and all that riches could command. And
now I was poor and unloved. What could I do? I could have been almost
happy without marrying Carlo--I mean that I could have given up the
engagement rather than entail my poverty on him, but I could not bear to
lose his love. No, if he became ever so rich, I would not marry him if I
doubted of his love, as that letter had made me doubt. Could he have
heard of it? Could that horrible Henry Mordaunt have written to tell him
of it? Oh! no. Had Carlo heard of my poverty, that would certainly not
make him cease to love me!
Yet Mr. Henry had said it would. In that dreadful interview he warned me
that Carlo would not fulfil the engagement if he knew I was poor. Then I
resolved to write and tell him the exact truth, and release him from the
engagement, if he ceased to care for me; at all events he was free.
I wrote a number of letters, and tore them up one after another. At last
I succeeded in writing one which I determined to send, without reading
it over again, though I knew it did not express half that I wanted to
say.