Mark where she smiles with amiable cheer,
And tell me, whereto can ye liken it?
When on each eyelid sweetly do appear
An hundred graces as in shade to sit,
Liketh, it seemeth in my simple wit,
Unto the first sunshine in summer's day,
That when a dreadful storm away is flit,
Through the broad world doth spread his goodly ray.
SPENCER.
I do not know a pleasanter sensation than that of driving into
the grounds of a country house or a villa, after a prolonged
stay in London. The change is so sudden from oppressive heat,
bad smells, and ceaseless noise, to bright sunshine, (for even
the sun seems to be contaminated by all it shines upon in a
large town,) pure air, delicious perfume, and the voices of
the birds, who, I maintain, never sing so sweetly and so
unceasingly, as within a few miles of London. The change is so
great, that we feel more strongly than ever the value of that
we have been voluntarily foregoing, at that time of the year.
Those days when summer supersedes the spring.
And smiling June's expanding roses fling
Their perfumed odours o'er the passing breeze,
That sweeps enamoured o'er the fairy trees;
When melody pervades the cloudless sky,
When streams of light intoxicate the eye,
And every waving branch, and leafy bower,
Bursts into song, or blossoms into flower.
As we got out of the carriage, and walked on to the lawn to
meet Mrs. Moore, my eyes fell on a group, which not all the
soothing effect of the change I have just described could
enable me to look upon without disturbance.
On a swing, fastened by ropes to two horse-chesnut trees,
stood Rosa, with a bright colour in her cheeks, a large straw
hat loosely tied with blue ribbons, and her hair falling on
her shoulders in rich curls, which the wind blew about in
every direction. Three men were standing near her; two of whom
(and Edward was one of them) were gently moving the ropes
backwards and forwards, while she shouted out in that silvery
voice, which, however loud, was always sweet, "Higher, higher
still!"
When she caught sight of us, she sprang hastily down from her
elevated position, and rushing to me across the grass, seized
both my hands, and exclaimed in the eager tone of a child who
offers his favourite toy to a new comer, "Should you like to
swing?" I smiled, and shook my head; on which she drew me to a
bench, and sitting down herself on the grass before me, began
rattling away in her usual manner, at the same time making
garlands of all the daisies within her reach.
As Edward and the two other men approached us, I recognised in
one of them Mr. Manby; the other was unknown to me, but Rosa
said carelessly, without looking up from her wreath, "Mr.
Escourt,--Miss Middleton."
It immediately struck me, that this must be the very person
who had played so conspicuous a part in Henry's unfortunate
history; and my bow of acknowledgment was stiff and
ungracious. That portion of Henry's narrative had made a deep
impression upon me. The form of wickedness which I have always
held in the greatest abhorrence, is a deliberate attempt to
lead others into vice; and the efforts which this man had made
to complete Henry's ruin, after having so largely contributed
to bring it about, and the hypocrisy with which he had sought
to conceal his malice, appeared to me instances of those
crimes, which are not the less revolting because they do not
render the perpetrator of them amenable to the laws. It was
not in my nature to weigh with accuracy the correctness of
such impressions, or to make allowances for the probable
exaggeration of Henry's statement; but, if I had doubted
before, one glance at Mr. Escourt's countenance would have
been enough to dispel that doubt. I took a sudden and violent
aversion to him. His was one of those calm faces that
concealed the lurking devil of his malignity; there was a
repulsive gentleness in his voice, and a detestable sweetness
in his manner, which made me thoroughly comprehend the
feelings Henry described himself to have experienced during
the interview that had proved so fatal to him.
Edward's manner to me was more friendly perhaps than usual; it
seemed in the same spirit as his last words in the
breakfast-room in Brook-street. Little did he know all that had
passed through my mind, and worked upon my feelings, since that
time. I was almost angry with him for speaking to me so kindly
and gaily; I fancied that it was since his new attachment, that
he had ceased to look upon me with severity; that he had become
indulgent, because he had grown indifferent; and the pain
which this supposition gave me, involuntarily, though not
unconsciously, influenced my manner to him; and I answered
with irritation some trifling question which he addressed to
me. As usual, when this was the case, he suddenly broke off
the conversation; but, this time, instead of walking away, sat
down on the other side of Rosa; and while Mr. Manby was plying
me with the heaviest kind of small-talk, I heard her telling
Edward one piece of nonsense after another, which made him
laugh in a short, sudden, joyous manner, which had the effect
of making me snub Mr. Manby, in a way which even his
pertinacity was not proof against. He turned to Mr. Escourt,
who was standing near him, and whose very disagreeable eyes
had been fixed upon me for the last few minutes, and proposed
to him a game at billiards. They walked away; and Rosa,
turning suddenly round, and observing probably that I looked
vexed and discomposed, asked me if I should like to see my
room. I jumped up, and followed her to the house; she led the
way up-stairs, and established me in a charming room; where,
as soon as the door was closed upon her, I threw myself down
on the couch, with a feeling of utter wretchedness and
discouragement, differing from anything I had yet experienced.
The window was open; there were green trees close to it, the
waving of whose branches I could see from where I was. Large
nosegays of flowers were placed upon the table, and now and
then the air from the garden dispensed the delicious perfume
which it had stolen from a bed of mignonette. There was also
that drowsy hum of insects, the very song of summer, which we
love, not for its beauty (though there _is_ beauty in its
sleepy busy monotony), but for all it recalls; for all the
associations it brings to our minds. I was very tired; and I
remained some time on the sofa in a state of abstraction
bordering on sleep. I was roused from it in about half-an-hour
by some snatches of an old song, which sounded almost like the
chirpings of a bird, so sweet, and wild, and unconnected was
their melody. I jumped up from the couch, and went to the
window; it looked on a small garden, closed in by a slight
green railing. It was one mass of flowers, perfectly dazzling
in their profusion, variety, and beauty. In the centre was a
large cage made of trellis-work, within which creepers grew,
and marble vases filled with fresh water stood. Dozens of
birds,
"Whose starry wings
Bore the rich hues of all glorious things,"
were flying about it in giddy enjoyment. The love birds
sitting quietly and lovingly together on a corner of the same
perch, the weavers with their endless tails, the miniature
dove, the cordon bleu, with his turquoise breast, and the
little cardinal, with his self-sufficient pomp, were all
there, and seemed to bathe and to fly, to eat and to drink, to
love and to quarrel, as freely as if they still ranged through
the boundless depths of their native woods.
And near them stood the singer of that wild melody, which had
woke me from my short sleep. There she was like a little queen
in the midst of her own fairy kingdom. She was dressed in a
silk gown, whose train swept over the gravel walks as she
moved slowly along. A berthe of the richest Guipure old lace
was clasped on her breast by one single pearl pin; some sprigs
of the deep red salvia were fastened in her hair. She held a
large pair of garden scissors in her hand; and, as she walked
along, she cut the dead flowers from the bushes, as she
passed, and flung them aside; every now and then a fresh burst
of song springing from lips which seemed only made to smile.
She came nearer to the house; and, while cutting off a
drooping moss-rose from its stem, she stood where the slanting
rays of the evening sun threw a rich glow over her auburn hair
and her blooming cheek.
I could hear now the words of her song, and recognised those
lines of Montrose, the Hero and the Bard:
"My dear and only love, I pray,
That little world of thee,
Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchy."
The dead rose, the song, those images of beauty and of joy,
the connection of ideas which they suggested, were all too
much for me. I turned back into the room, and, as I did so, I
caught sight of myself in the standing looking-glass opposite.
My pale face, my heavy dark eyes, my black uncurled hair, were
before me; they seemed to tell my life's history; all, all its
sad secrets were there; its love, its hate, its pride; its
remorse, its anguish, and its despair.
I remarked that day at dinner that Mr. Escourt seemed
particularly anxious to ingratiate himself with me, perhaps
because I had seemed reluctant to allow him to do so, which
with some men is apt to make them strain every nerve to
succeed; but, as I decidedly repulsed all his attempts to make
himself agreeable, he devoted his attentions to Mrs.
Middleton, who seemed amused and interested by his
conversation; and I was obliged to admit that he was clever,
in spite of my antipathy to him.
It is unpleasant to meet in society a man, who we have secret
reasons to know would be shunned by all those who value truth
and honour, if certain facts were revealed, and the veil drawn
aside which hides from the world his real character and
conduct. And when those we love and respect speak of their
regard for such a person, and call him their friend, it is
difficult to repress the accusing words which tremble on our
lips. Such thoughts passed through my mind as I sat at dinner
that day watching Mr. Escourt, while he poured into Mrs.
Middleton's ear his amusing anecdotes, and saw her look of
interest as she listened to him. I felt it yet more when,
after dinner, I heard my uncle invite him in the most cordial
manner to Elmsley; and above all, when Edward addressed him as
"My dear fellow," I gave a start of impatience which must have
seemed unaccountable to Edward, who looked at me with
unaffected surprise.
After dinner we all sat on the stone terrace before the house;
and while I strove in vain to shake off the gloom which
gathered over my spirits more darkly every hour, I could not
disguise from myself that Rosa had never looked more
lovely--had never appeared to greater advantage. Whether with
perfect gravity and a genuine brogue she related, at Edward's
request, the wonderful history of Daniel O'Rourke, who held on
to the moon by its horns; or whether, on some remark of Mr.
Escourt's on the subject to which all her feelings were alive,
in a few words of rapid and fervent eloquence, she spoke of
the sufferings and the wrongs of Ireland, of its injured
honour, its misrepresented creed: whether with the joyousness
of a child she showed off the tricks of her little dog by the
side of the garden lake, or, stepping into the boat which was
made expressly for her use, she seized her oars and rowed us
across like the Lady of Loch Katrine: in each movement there
was grace; in each mischievous glance there was playfulness;
in each word there was animation; and Edward laughed gaily, or
listened with interest, while even Mr. Middleton seemed
excited and amused.
When we returned into the house, Mr. Manby asked Rosa to sing;
and as we all pressed her to do so, she sat down at the
pianoforte, and sang in succession English ballads, Irish
melodies, and Jacobite songs, which last she seemed to take
particular pleasure in. During a pause, Mr. Escourt said,
"Pray, Miss Moore, what was it you were singing to-day before
dinner, in your own garden? Something very wild and pretty."
"Did you detect me making a noise?" she asked with a smile; "a
shocking noise, my little brother calls it. He did not wish to
find fault with me himself the other day, so he whispered to
me while he was playing with some wooden animals, 'Rosa, these
deer say to me that you make a shocking noise.' But this is
what you mean, I suppose," and she began Montrose's love-song.
"This may be all very well," exclaimed Mr. Escourt, when she
had sung it, "for a man who fights and writes verses; who
carries, as he says, a sword and a pen, as should his mistress
discard him, he would no doubt console himself with that same
sword and pen: but I should think, with nine women out of ten,
a dismissal would be the result of so very dictatorial a
declaration. With, only listen to him:" and he repeated the
following lines:--
"Like Alexander I would reign,
And I would reign alone;
My soul did evermore disdain
A rival in my throne,
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
To win or lose it all.
Would you stand this, Miss Moore?"
"Why," she said, as her fingers ran carelessly over the keys,
"I should not feel much inclined to let Alexander reign _at
all;_ but I should not quarrel with him for choosing to reign
_alone_. Would you, Ellen?"
"No," I answered, "only for believing it possible that he did
_not_ reign alone."
I involuntarily turned my eyes towards Edward's as I said
this. They met his, and their expression was so earnest and
affectionate that a thrill of pleasure ran through me.
Mr. Escourt laughed and said,
"Why, you would have your hero still more convicted than he
is. To my mind,
'I'll never love thee more,'
is, under any circumstances, the most impertinent speech a
lover can make, and one which no woman ought to forgive."
"Oh, indeed[]" exclaimed Mr. Manby, "I am quite like Montrose,
I would never care for a woman who did not love me above all
things."
"Nor make her famous by your pen, nor glorious by your sword?"
murmured Rosa, as she bent over the music-books.
Edward smiled; but this time it was my eyes he sought; and by
my side he sat down, when we left the pianoforte and went into
the next room.
I will not minutely record the details of our proceedings, or
of the various alternations of hopes and fears which agitated
me during the next few days. Sometimes when Edward spoke to
me, his voice had a tone, his eyes an expression, which made
me forget for an instant everything but what I heard in that
tone and read in those eyes; and the ecstacy of such moments
made the contrast darker and bitterer each time, when, under
the influence of my secret misgivings, or of my jealous pangs,
that flash of transient joy gave way before the gloom which
suddenly succeeded it. Mrs. Middleton had taught me to tear
away the veil from my own thoughts and feelings--to be true to
myself, and merciless to my own illusions; and therefore,
though I could sometimes read love in Edward's eyes,--though I
could see, that when an expression of strong feeling escaped
me, it awoke emotion in his soul, and struck a chord which
vibrated to the touch; I could also see the struggle which he
made to master and repress these feelings. I saw well his deep
appreciation of the pure and unsullied truth of Rosa's
character. When her eyes were fixed upon him with the bold
simplicity and innocent daring of one
"Who feared no danger, for she knew no sin,"
I have seen him turn to me with an earnest gaze of thoughtful
inquiry, which I dared not meet but by a mute appeal for
mercy. I had heard him murmur in a low voice one evening, in
which storms of jealous anger and gloomy abstraction had swept
over my soul and clouded my brow, I heard him murmur, as
Rosa's joyous laugh reached our ears,
"O, blest with temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day!"
I had heard this, and yet I did not hate her. No, God be
praised, and I bless him for it! not all my sufferings, not
all my faults, not even the tortures of jealousy itself, have
robbed me of that one pure emotion, that one spontaneous
impulse--instinctive homage to what is pure, admiration of
what is good. But how I envied her the privilege of truth! how
bitterly I contrasted her fate with mine! when, one day, I saw
her snatch up her little sister to her knees, while Mr.
Escourt was asserting that there was no one who would
willingly consent to lay open their thoughts to another, and
devouring her with kisses, exclaim, "Now, Minny, you know I
should not mind if you could read every one of my thoughts."
At the outset of this history of myself, and of my sufferings,
I had to gather strength for the task: one fatal day stood out
in dreadful prominence; and to describe it was to live over
again its agonising hours. Again I feel the same kind of
emotion; again I must pause; for I am arrived at that moment
which dragged me down a step lower into the abyss which I had
seen from afar off, and from which I had vainly struggled to
recede. For days, for weeks, I have shut up this book, and put
it aside as an enemy whose sight I feared; but, like the
rattlesnake, this very fear fascinates and subdues me; and as
the stern spells of memory cannot be conjured away, they must
be braved and conquered.