“Ring on, ye bells--most pleasant is your chime!”
WILSON. Isle of Palms.
“O fairy child! What can I wish for thee?”--Ibid.
Vaudemont remained six days in London without going to H----, and on
each of those days he paid a visit to Lord Lilburne. On the seventh day,
the invalid being much better, though still unable to leave his room,
Camilla returned to Berkeley Square. On the same day, Vaudemont went
once more to see Simon and poor Fanny.
As he approached the door, he heard from the window, partially opened,
for the day was clear and fine, Fanny’s sweet voice. She was chaunting
one of the simple songs she had promised to learn by heart; and
Vaudemont, though but a poor judge of the art, was struck and affected
by the music of the voice and the earnest depth of the feeling. He
paused opposite the window and called her by her name. Fanny looked
forth joyously, and ran, as usual, to open the door to him.
“Oh! you have been so long away; but I already know many of the songs:
they say so much that I always wanted to say!”
Vaudemont smiled, but languidly.
“How strange it is,” said Fanny, musingly, “that there should be so much
in a piece of paper! for, after all,” pointing to the open page of her
book, “this is but a piece of paper--only there is life in it!”
“Ay,” said Vaudemont, gloomily, and far from seizing the subtle
delicacy of Fanny’s thought--her mind dwelling upon Poetry, and his upon
Law,--“ay, and do you know that upon a mere scrap of paper, if I could
but find it, may depend my whole fortune, my whole happiness, all that I
care for in life?”
“Upon a scrap of paper? Oh! how I wish I could find it! Ah! you look as
if you thought I should never be wise enough for that!”
Vaudemont, not listening to her, uttered a deep sigh. Fanny approached
him timidly.
“Do not sigh, brother,--I can’t bear to hear you sigh. You are changed.
Have you, too, not been happy?”
“Happy, Fanny! yes, lately very happy--too happy!”
“Happy, have you? and I--” the girl stopped short--her tone had been
that of sadness and reproach, and she stopped--why, she knew not, but
she felt her heart sink within her. Fanny suffered him to pass her, and
he went straight to his room. Her eyes followed him wistfully: it was
not his habit to leave her thus abruptly. The family meal of the day
was over; and it was an hour before Vaudemont descended to the parlour.
Fanny had put aside the songs; she had no heart to recommence those
gentle studies that had been so sweet,--they had drawn no pleasure, no
praise from him. She was seated idly and listlessly beside the silent
old man, who every day grew more and more silent still. She turned
her head as Vaudemont entered, and her pretty lip pouted as that of
a neglected child. But he did not heed it, and the pout vanished, and
tears rushed to her eyes.
Vaudemont was changed. His countenance was thoughtful and overcast. His
manner abstracted. He addressed a few words to Simon, and then, seating
himself by the window, leant his cheek on his hand, and was soon lost in
reverie. Fanny, finding that he did not speak, and after stealing many a
long and earnest glance at his motionless attitude and gloomy brow, rose
gently, and gliding to him with her light step, said, in a trembling
voice,--
“Are you in pain, brother?”
“No, pretty one!”
“Then why won’t you speak to Fanny? Will you not walk with her? Perhaps
my grandfather will come too.”
“Not this evening. I shall go out; but it will be alone.”
“Where? Has not Fanny been good? I have not been out since you left us.
And the grave--brother!--I sent Sarah with the flowers--but--”
Vaudemont rose abruptly. The mention of the grave brought back his
thoughts from the dreaming channel into which they had flowed. Fanny,
whose very childishness had once so soothed him, now disturbed; he felt
the want of that complete solitude which makes the atmosphere of growing
passion: he muttered some scarcely audible excuse, and quitted the
house. Fanny saw him no more that evening. He did not return till
midnight. But Fanny did not sleep till she heard his step on the stairs,
and his chamber door close: and when she did sleep, her dreams were
disturbed and painful. The next morning, when they met at breakfast (for
Vaudemont did not return to London), her eyes were red and heavy,
and her cheek pale. And, still buried in meditation, Vaudemont’s eye,
usually so kind and watchful, did not detect those signs of a grief that
Fanny could not have explained. After breakfast, however, he asked
her to walk out; and her face brightened as she hastened to put on her
bonnet, and take her little basket full of fresh flowers which she had
already sent Sarah forth to purchase.
“Fanny,” said Vaudemont, as leaving the house, he saw the basket on
her arm, “to-day you may place some of those flowers on another
tombstone!--Poor child, what natural goodness there is in that
heart!--what pity that--”
He paused. Fanny looked delightedly in his face. “You were praising
me--you! And what is a pity, brother?”
While she spoke, the sound of the joy-bells was heard near at hand.
“Hark!” said Vaudemont, forgetting her question--and almost
gaily--“Hark!--I accept the omen. It is a marriage peal!”
He quickened his steps, and they reached the churchyard.
There was a crowd already assembled, and Vaudemont and Fanny paused;
and, leaning over the little gate, looked on.
“Why are these people here, and why does the bell ring so merrily?”
“There is to be a wedding, Fanny.”
“I have heard of a wedding very often,” said Fanny, with a pretty look
of puzzlement and doubt, “but I don’t know exactly what it means. Will
you tell me?--and the bells, too!”
“Yes, Fanny, those bells toll but three times for man! The first time,
when he comes into the world; the last time, when he leaves it; the time
between when he takes to his side a partner in all the sorrows--in
all the joys that yet remain to him; and who, even when the last bell
announces his death to this earth, may yet, for ever and ever, be
his partner in that world to come--that heaven, where they who are as
innocent as you, Fanny, may hope to live and to love each other in a
land in which there are no graves!”
“And this bell?”
“Tolls for that partnership--for the wedding!”
“I think I understand you;--and they who are to be wed are happy?”
“Happy, Fanny, if they love, and their love continue. Oh! conceive the
happiness to know some one person dearer to you than your own self--some
one breast into which you can pour every thought, every grief, every
joy! One person, who, if all the rest of the world were to calumniate
or forsake you, would never wrong you by a harsh thought or an unjust
word,--who would cling to you the closer in sickness, in poverty, in
care,--who would sacrifice all things to you, and for whom you would
sacrifice all--from whom, except by death, night or day, you must be
never divided--whose smile is ever at your hearth--who has no tears
while you are well and happy, and your love the same. Fanny, such is
marriage, if they who marry have hearts and souls to feel that there
is no bond on earth so tender and so sublime. There is an opposite
picture;--I will not draw that! And as it is, Fanny, you cannot
understand me!”
He turned away:--and Fanny’s tears were falling like rain upon the grass
below;--he did not see them! He entered the churchyard; for the bell now
ceased. The ceremony was to begin. He followed the bridal party into
the church, and Fanny, lowering her veil, crept after him, awed and
trembling.
They stood, unobserved, at a little distance, and heard the service.
The betrothed were of the middle class of life, young, both comely; and
their behaviour was such as suited the reverence and sanctity of the
rite. Vaudemont stood looking on intently, with his arms folded on his
breast. Fanny leant behind him, and apart from all, against one of the
pews. And still in her hand, while the priest was solemnising
Marriage, she held the flowers intended for the Grave. Even to that
MORNING--hushed, calm, earliest, with her mysterious and unconjectured
heart--her shape brought a thought of NIGHT!
When the ceremony was over--when the bride fell on her mother’s breast
and wept; and then, when turning thence, her eyes met the bridegroom’s,
and the tears were all smiled away--when, in that one rapid interchange
of looks, spoke all that holy love can speak to love, and with timid
frankness she placed her hand in his to whom she had just vowed her
life,--a thrill went through the hearts of those present. Vaudemont
sighed heavily. He heard his sigh echoed; but by one that had in its
sound no breath of pain; he turned; Fanny had raised her veil; her eyes
met his, moistened, but bright, soft, and her cheeks were rosy-red.
Vaudemont recoiled before that gaze, and turned from the church. The
persons interested retired to the vestry to sign their names in the
registry; the crowd dispersed, and Vaudemont and Fanny stood alone in
the burial-ground.
“Look, Fanny,” said the former, pointing to a tomb that stood far
from his mother’s (for those ashes were too hallowed for such a
neighbourhood). “Look yonder; it is a new tomb. Fanny, let us approach
it. Can you read what is there inscribed?”
The inscription was simply this:
TO W--
G--
MAN SEES THE DEED
GOD THE CIRCUMSTANCE.
JUDGE NOT,
THAT YE BE NOT JUDGED.
“Fanny, this tomb fulfils your pious wish: it is to the memory of
him whom you called your father. Whatever was his life here--whatever
sentence it hath received, Heaven, at least, will not condemn your
piety, if you honour one who was good to you, and place flowers, however
idle, even over that grave.”
“It is his--my father’s--and you have thought of this for me!” said
Fanny, taking his hand, and sobbing. “And I have been thinking that you
were not so kind to me as you were!”
“Have I not been so kind to you? Nay, forgive me, I am not happy.”
“Not?--you said yesterday you had been too happy.”
“To remember happiness is not to be happy, Fanny.”
“That’s true--and--”
Fanny stopped; and, as she bent over the tomb, musing, Vaudemont,
willing to leave her undisturbed, and feeling bitterly how little his
conscience could vindicate, though it might find palliation for, the
dark man who slept not there--retired a few paces.
At this time the new-married pair, with their witnesses, the clergyman,
&c., came from the vestry, and crossed the path. Fanny, as she turned
from the tomb, saw them, and stood still, looking earnestly at the
bride.
“What a lovely face!” said the mother. “Is it--yes it is--the poor idiot
girl.”
“Ah!” said the bridegroom, tenderly, “and she, Mary, beautiful as she
is, she can never make another as happy as you have made me.”
Vaudemont heard, and his heart felt sad. “Poor Fanny!--And yet, but for
that affliction--I might have loved her, ere I met the fatal face of the
daughter of my foe!” And with a deep compassion, an inexpressible and
holy fondness, he moved to Fanny.
“Come, my child; now let us go home.”
“Stay,” said Fanny--“you forget.” And she went to strew the flowers
still left over Catherine’s grave.
“Will my mother,” thought Vaudemont, “forgive me, if I have other
thoughts than hate and vengeance for that house which builds its
greatness over her slandered name?” He groaned:--and that grave had lost
its melancholy charm.