“Vec. Ye see what follows.
Duke. O gentle sir! this shape again!”--The Chances.
That evening Sidney Beaufort arrived in London. It is the nature of
solitude to make passions calm on the surface--agitated in the deeps.
Sidney had placed his whole existence in one object. When the letter
arrived that told him to hope no more, he was at first rather sensible
of the terrible and dismal blank--the “void abyss”--to which all his
future was suddenly changed, than roused to vehement and turbulent
emotion. But Camilla’s letter had, as we have seen, raised his courage
and animated his heart. To the idea of her faith he still clung with
the instinct of hope in the midst of despair. The tidings that she
was absolutely betrothed to another, and in so short a time since her
rejection of him, let loose from all restraint his darker and more
tempestuous passions. In a state of mind bordering upon frenzy, he
hurried to London--to seek her--to see her; with what intent--what hope,
if hope there were--he himself could scarcely tell. But what man who has
loved with fervour and trust will be contented to receive the sentence
of eternal separation except from the very lips of the one thus
worshipped and thus foresworn?
The day had been intensely cold. Towards evening the snow fell fast and
heavily. Sidney had not, since a child, been before in London; and the
immense City, covered with a wintry and icy mist, through which the
hurrying passengers and the slow-moving vehicles passed, spectre-like,
along the dismal and slippery streets--opened to the stranger no
hospitable arms. He knew not a step of the way--he was pushed to and
fro--his scarce intelligible questions impatiently answered--the snow
covered him--the frost pierced to his veins. At length a man, more
kindly than the rest, seeing that he was a stranger to London, procured
him a hackney-coach, and directed the driver to the distant quarter
of Berkeley Square. The snow balled under the hoofs of the horses--the
groaning vehicle proceeded at the pace of a hearse. At length, and
after a period of such suspense, and such emotion, as Sidney never
in after-life could recall without a shudder, the coach stopped--the
benumbed driver heavily descended--the sound of the knocker knelled loud
through the muffled air--and the light from Mr. Beaufort’s hall glared
full upon the dizzy eyes of the visitor. He pushed aside the porter, and
sprang into the hall. Luckily, one of the footmen who had attended Mrs.
Beaufort to the Lakes recognised him; and, in answer to his breathless
inquiry, said,--
“Why, indeed, Mr. Spencer, Miss Beaufort is at home--up-stairs in the
drawing-room, with master and mistress, and Monsieur de Vaudemont;
but--”
Sidney waited no more. He bounded up the stairs--he opened the
first door that presented itself to him, and burst, unannounced and
unlooked-for, upon the eyes of the group seated within. He saw not the
terrified start of Mr. Robert Beaufort--he heeded not the faint, nervous
exclamation of the mother--he caught not the dark and wondering glace of
the stranger seated beside Camilla--he saw but Camilla herself, and in a
moment he was at her feet.
“Camilla, I am here!--I, who love you so--I, who have nothing in the
world but you! I am here--to learn from you, and you alone, if I am
indeed abandoned--if you are indeed to be another’s!”
He had dashed his hat from his brow as he sprang forward; his long fair
hair, damp with the snows, fell disordered over his forehead; his eyes
were fixed, as for life and death, upon the pale face and trembling
lips of Camilla. Robert Beaufort, in great alarm, and well aware of the
fierce temper of Philip, anticipative of some rash and violent impulse,
turned his glance upon his destined son-in-law. But there was no angry
pride in the countenance he there beheld. Philip had risen, but his
frame was bent--his knees knocked together--his lips were parted--his
eyes were staring full upon the face of the kneeling man.
Suddenly Camilla, sharing her father’s fear, herself half rose, and
with an unconscious pathos, stretched one hand, as if to shelter, over
Sidney’s head, and looked to Philip. Sidney’s eyes followed hers. He
sprang to his feet.
“What, then, it is true! And this is the man for whom I am abandoned!
But unless you--you, with your own lips, tell me that you love me no
more--that you love another--I will not yield you but with life.”
He stalked sternly and impetuously up to Philip, who recoiled as his
rival advanced. The characters of the two men seemed suddenly changed.
The timid dreamer seemed dilated into the fearless soldier. The soldier
seemed shrinking--quailing--into nameless terror. Sidney grasped that
strong arm, as Philip still retreated, with his slight and delicate
fingers, grasped it with violence and menace; and frowning into the face
from which the swarthy blood was scared away, said, in a hollow whisper:
“Do you hear me? Do you comprehend me? I say that she shall not be
forced into a marriage at which I yet believe her heart rebels. My claim
is holier than yours. Renounce her, or win her but with my blood.”
Philip did not apparently hear the words thus addressed to him. His
whole senses seemed absorbed in the one sense of sight. He continued to
gaze upon the speaker, till his eye dropped on the hand that yet griped
his arm. And as he thus looked, he uttered an inarticulate cry. He
caught the hand in his own, and pointed to a ring on the finger, but
remained speechless. Mr. Beaufort approached, and began some stammered
words of soothing to Sidney, but Philip motioned him to be silent, and,
at last, as if by a violent effort, gasped forth, not to Sidney, but to
Beaufort,--
“His name?--his name?”
“It is Mr. Spencer--Mr. Charles Spencer,” cried Beaufort. “Listen to me,
I will explain all--I--”
“Hush, hush! cried Philip; and turning to Sidney, he put his hand on his
shoulder, and looking him full in the face, said,--
“Have you not known another name? Are you not--yes, it is so--it is--it
is! Follow me--follow!”
And still retaining his grasp, and leading Sidney, who was now subdued,
awed, and a prey to new and wild suspicions, he moved on gently, stride
by stride--his eyes fixed on that fair face--his lips muttering--till
the closing door shut both forms from the eyes of the three there left.
It was the adjoining room into which Philip led his rival. It was lit
but by a small reading-lamp, and the bright, steady blaze of the fire;
and by this light they both continued to gaze on each other, as if
spellbound, in complete silence. At last Philip, by an irresistible
impulse, fell upon Sidney’s bosom, and, clasping him with convulsive
energy, gasped out:
“Sidney!--Sidney!--my mother’s son!”
“What!” exclaimed Sidney, struggling from the embrace, and at last
freeing himself; “it is you, then!--you, my own brother! You, who have
been hitherto the thorn in my path, the cloud in my fate! You, who are
now come to make me a wretch for life! I love that woman, and you tear
her from me! You, who subjected my infancy to hardship, and, but for
Providence, might have degraded my youth, by your example, into shame
and guilt!”
“Forbear!--forbear!” cried Philip, with a voice so shrill in its agony,
that it smote the hearts of those in the adjoining chamber like the
shriek of some despairing soul. They looked at each other, but not one
had the courage to break upon the interview.
Sidney himself was appalled by the sound. He threw himself on a seat,
and, overcome by passions so new to him, by excitement so strange, hid
his face, and sobbed as a child.
Philip walked rapidly to and fro the room for some moments; at length he
paused opposite to Sidney, and said, with the deep calmness of a wronged
and goaded spirit:
“Sidney Beaufort, hear me! When my mother died she confided you to
my care, my love, and my protection. In the last lines that her hand
traced, she bade me think less of myself than of you; to be to you as a
father as well as brother. The hour that I read that letter I fell on
my knees, and vowed that I would fulfil that injunction--that I would
sacrifice my very self, if I could give fortune or happiness to you. And
this not for your sake alone, Sidney; no! but as my mother--our wronged,
our belied, our broken-hearted mother!--O Sidney, Sidney! have you no
tears for her, too?” He passed his hand over his own eyes for a moment,
and resumed: “But as our mother, in that last letter, said to me, ‘let
my love pass into your breast for him,’ so, Sidney, so, in all that I
could do for you, I fancied that my mother’s smile looked down upon
me, and that in serving you it was my mother whom I obeyed. Perhaps,
hereafter, Sidney, when we talk over that period of my earlier life when
I worked for you, when the degradation you speak of (there was no crime
in it!)--was borne cheerfully for your sake, and yours the holiday
though mine the task--perhaps, hereafter, you will do me more justice.
You left me, or were reft from me, and I gave all the little fortune
that my mother had bequeathed us, to get some tidings from you. I
received your letter--that bitter letter--and I cared not then that I
was a beggar, since I was alone. You talk of what I have cost you--you
talk! and you now ask me to--to--Merciful Heaven! let me
understand you--do you love Camilla? Does she love you?
Speak--speak--explain--what, new agony awaits me?”
It was then that Sidney, affected and humbled, amidst all his more
selfish sorrows, by his brother’s language and manner, related, as
succinctly as he could, the history of his affection for Camilla, the
circumstances of their engagement, and ended by placing before him the
letter he had received from Mr. Beaufort.
In spite of all his efforts for self-control, Philip’s anguish was so
great, so visible, that Sidney, after looking at his working features,
his trembling hands, for a moment, felt all the earlier parts of his
nature melt in a flow of generous sympathy and remorse. He flung himself
on the breast from which he had shrunk before, and cried,--
“Brother, brother! forgive me; I see how I have wronged you. If she has
forgotten me, if she love you, take her and be happy!”
Philip returned his embrace, but without warmth, and then moved away;
and, again, in great disorder, paced the room. His brother only heard
disjointed exclamations that seemed to escape him unawares: “They said
she loved me! Heaven give me strength! Mother--mother! let me fulfil my
vow! Oh, that I had died ere this!” He stopped at last, and the large
dews rolled down his forehead. “Sidney!” said he, “there is a mystery
here that I comprehend not. But my mind now is very confused. If she
loves you--if!--is it possible for a woman to love two? Well, well, I go
to solve the riddle: wait here!”
He vanished into the next room, and for nearly half an hour Sidney was
alone. He heard through the partition murmured voices; he caught more
clearly the sound of Camilla’s sobs. The particulars of that interview
between Philip and Camilla, alone at first (afterwards Mr. Robert
Beaufort was re-admitted), Philip never disclosed, nor could Sidney
himself ever obtain a clear account from Camilla, who could not recall
it, even years after, without great emotion. But at last the door was
opened, and Philip entered, leading Camilla by the hand. His face was
calm, and there was a smile on his lips; a greater dignity than even
that habitual to him was diffused over his whole person. Camilla was
holding her handkerchief to her eyes and weeping passionately. Mr.
Beaufort followed them with a mortified and slinking air.
“Sidney,” said Philip, “it is past. All is arranged. I yield to your
earlier, and therefore better, claim. Mr. Beaufort consents to your
union. He will tell you, at some fitter time, that our birthright is
at last made clear, and that there is no blot on the name we shall
hereafter bear. Sidney, embrace your bride!”
Amazed, delighted, and still half incredulous, Sidney seized and kissed
the hand of Camilla; and as he then drew her to his breast, she said, as
she pointed to Philip:--
“Oh! if you do love me as you say, see in him the generous, the noble--”
Fresh sobs broke off her speech; but as Sidney sought again to take her
hand, she whispered, with a touching and womanly sentiment, “Ah! respect
him: see!--” and Sidney, looking then at his brother, saw, that though
he still attempted to smile, his lip writhed, and his features were
drawn together, as one whose frame is wrung by torture, but who
struggles not to groan.
He flew to Philip, who, grasping his hand, held him back, and said,--
“I have fulfilled my vow! I have given you up the only blessing my
life has known. Enough, you are happy, and I shall be so too, when God
pleases to soften this blow. And now you must not wonder or blame
me, if, though so lately found, I leave you for a while. Do me one
kindness,--you, Sidney--you, Mr. Beaufort. Let the marriage take place
at H----, in the village church by which my mother sleeps; let it be
delayed till the suit is terminated: by that time I shall hope to meet
you all--to meet you, Camilla, as I ought to meet my brother’s wife;
till then, my presence will not sadden your happiness. Do not seek to
see me; do not expect to hear from me. Hist! be silent, all of you; my
heart is yet bruised and sore. O THOU,” and here, deepening his voice,
he raised his arms, “Thou who hast preserved my youth from such snares
and such peril, who hast guided my steps from the abyss to which they
wandered, and beneath whose hand I now bow, grateful if chastened,
receive this offering, and bless that union! Fare ye well.”