WHAT CAME OF MILLICENT’S VISIT.
For some days Millicent’s distress was too obvious to escape the
attention of her loving friends. They inquired again if she were
ill; if she had received any bad news. She was obliged to lay the
blame of her pale face and sad aspect on indisposition, and then
had to fight off the doctor, who was eagerly pressed upon her. She
said a few days would set her right again she did not doubt; and
immediately pleasant drives and cheerful calls on agreeable friends
were recommended. The young ladies proposed a drive into the parks,
and their brother stayed to accompany them. Millicent had often
driven across the parks, and admired their pleasant greenness amid
the vast brick wilderness of London; but she had no idea of what this
drive was to be. About four in the afternoon they entered Hyde Park,
and found themselves at once in a splendid cavalcade of fine horses,
fine carriages, and fine people, which made Millicent exclaim, “What
is all this about? Where are all these fashionable people going?”
“They are about what we are about; they are going just where we are
going,” said the Friends. “These are the aristocracy taking their
daily airing before dinner.”
As Millicent gazed in astonishment at the trains of handsome
equipages, superb horses, superbly liveried servants, and handsome
young men and women on magnificent horses, she said, “And this every
day! What an amazing scene!”
“Not so amazing,” said Edmund; “if you consider that whilst
Parliament is sitting, not only the wealth of a world’s commerce,
but that of all the rest of the United Kingdom, is being expended
here; that here you see the _élite_ of the British aristocracy of
rank, affluence, and political influence, assembled. Now you may form
some little idea of the riches, the beauty, and taste of England. The
world has no such scene besides—not the Prater at Vienna—not even
the Bois de Boulogne of Paris.” And as they drove, he pointed out
to Millicent, men of distinguished rank, ministers, judges, great
lawyers, ambassadors of different countries, great Parliamentary
orators, and the most noted beauties of the fashionable world.
“Well,” said Millicent, “it is worth seeing; but I am glad I form no
part of it.”
“Why not?” asked Edmund.
“Oh!” said Millicent—“what a butterfly life it seems to me! What a
very gay whirligo-round; much finer than that of children at a fair;
but still, only a whirligo-round. I should grow as sick of it as a
squirrel must of his ever round-spinning cage. Give me a good brisk
canter over a moor, or along the bowery lanes of my own dear country.”
“Yes! and why not have them too?” said her friends. “You do not
consider that these people are, during the season, cooped up in
London—many by severe and unavoidable duties, and this is the only
thing they can get at all resembling country exercise. In the autumn
they will return, most of them, to enjoy their gallops over moors and
along lanes, as much as yourself.”
“I am glad of it,” said Millicent; “and yet thousands who have no
express business in town spend their springs and summers here, and
love this Vanity Fair dearly—this seeing and being seen—this rivalry
of fine horses, dresses, and equipages. I don’t envy them.”
“Oh dear no! Nor do they envy you, Millicent,” said her friends.
“There speaks the Quaker in you; that might be your mother talking.”
“I am glad you think I talk at all like my dear mother,” said
Millicent; “for if it be anything like her talk it must have some
sense in it. But, though I would not like this sort of life myself, I
am much obliged by your making me acquainted with it.”
The trouble which Millicent had shown on account of the bracelet, and
the evident distress, from some cause, which was upon her, made her
loving friends apparently desirous to neutralise the effect a little
by the sisters bringing her elegant presents—beautifully bound books,
and the like. One of them asked her to let her look at her watch;
and, taking off the plain black woven band by which it was held,
replaced it by a pretty gold chain.
“My dear creature!” exclaimed Millicent, “of what use would such a
thing be to me? I could never wear it. I should have a deputation
from the meeting to visit me about it!”
“Never mind that,” said her friend; “thou must teach them better.
There is no particular sin in gold; it is a gift of God, and ought
not to be rejected; and the art which shaped it so beautifully surely
deserves encouragement.”
“All that I grant,” said Millicent; “but only think of wearing a gold
chain in a meeting where the plainest ribbon or a bonnet-tie excites
remark; where an extra plait in a cap brings down a censure from some
zealous woman Friend or other.”
“For that very reason,” said her companion, “you, who know better,
ought to break through this silly narrowness. It is time that Friends
gave up their sectarian notions that ‘they are the people, and that
wisdom must die with them.’”
“Really that is _too_ bad for anything!” exclaimed Millicent, and
yet could not help joining in the general merriment.
“Be sure, dear Millicent,” said her young friends, “these things
do good. It is high time that Friends should see that their real
strength lies in the great principles which they hold, and which have
already so usefully leavened society at large, and that their little
Phariseeisms are of no consequence whatever. Quakerism is like a fine
statue in a public place, on which the dust and smoke have fallen.
You may wipe off these sullying particles, and you only restore the
statue to its true beauty. The greater minds of our society are
beginning to see this, and one day there will come a grand reform
amongst us.”
There were still other scenes to which these “gay young Friends,”
as they were called, wished to introduce Millicent, and amongst
these were the theatre, the opera, and morning and evening concerts.
Against these she made a stout stand. Her parents would greatly
disapprove of it, and she would not for the world grieve them.
Besides, plays and operas were vain, and often wicked things: they
could do her no good, and she did not wish to see them.
“But,” said they, “you, Millicent, are a poetess and a lover of
knowledge. You ought to see life if you are to understand or describe
it.”
“But I don’t want to describe it,” said Millicent.
“Still,” added they, “you should know it, though it were only to know
it; you need not frequent such scenes again if you do not like them.
Don’t you know what the Grand Duke of Weimar, the friend of Goethe,
the great German poet, says? But you don’t read German. He often
said to Goethe that he would wish to experience everything. He would
like to go into the lower regions even for a few days, to see how
they manage to make their life there tolerable under such momentous
disadvantages. He remarked that we are told a great deal about the
life above, and which he thought not very attractive, if it consisted
almost entirely of psalm-singing and waving of palms; but he fancied
that such a very miserable existence as that of the lower world must
have called forth the utmost ingenuity of the human or superhuman
mind, and that there must be some very curious inventions down there.”
“My curiosity,” said Millicent, “will never induce me to wish to
visit those regions. I am quite willing that the Grand Duke should
have the benefit of such a journey all to himself.”
But what avails a strong will, and what are good intentions, when
the heart has received a treacherous bias. Millicent was every day
more drawn by affection towards Edward Barrington, more deeply
attached to his kind sisters, who, with all their gaiety, were full
of the truest feminine feelings, and active in the best duties and
philanthropies of life. In less than three weeks, which she still
spent with them, she had been at the theatre, the opera, at different
concerts, and at a _fête champêtre_ given in the suburban grounds of
a nobleman, where there was a splendid military band, and a concourse
of company, including even persons of royal blood; and her own
oriental style of beauty, which some ladies said looked more like
Arabia or Circassia than England, drew much attention.
Millicent, in spite of her solemn and tearful resolves, had given her
heart wholly to her indefatigable admirer, Edmund Barrington, and
his sisters rejoiced in the knowledge of it. But Mrs. Barrington,
who could not be blind to what was so obviously growing up, was in
great trepidation and anxiety. She told both Edmund and her daughters
that she understood distinctly from Mrs. Heritage that Millicent was
engaged to a young physician in her own neighbourhood; and could
they think it honourable, knowing that, to draw away the young girl’s
affections whilst under their own roof and care?
“Dear mother!” said her daughters, “hast thou seen the portrait of
this young man? We have, and Oh! such a simple, smooth-faced Simon
it is! Can it be right, can it be honourable to allow a young,
clever creature like Millicent to engage herself in her years of
inexperienced country life, to a person far unworthy of her; and to
retain such an engagement after a more extended knowledge of society,
to her life-long unhappiness? No, surely it is better that it should
come to a speedy end.”
But Mrs. Barrington asked them if they were sure that Dr. Leroy
was such a mere cipher as they imagined? She understood from Mrs.
Heritage, who was a woman capable of judging, that he was not only a
very amiable, but very able and accomplished man.”
The daughters had seen a miniature painted by a country artist, in
Millicent’s possession, and certainly a more smooth-faced, simple,
and meaningless portrait never was beheld. It was the picture
which they judged of, not the man, whom they had never seen. Mrs.
Barrington zealously resumed the matter with her son, but he replied,
that if Millicent liked him better than another, he was not going to
say to her, Stick to a man that you now find does not fill by his
image the extended horizon of your heart and mind. He thought she
ought to be left to judge for herself, in such a matter, most of all.
“But, my dear Edmund,” said his mother; “canst thou say that thou
hast left her to judge for herself? Hast thou not done thy best to
persuade her, and to change her feelings in thy favour?”
Edmund smiled. “Ah! dear mother! do we live in such primitive times
that we do not venture to pluck a flower because another person likes
it too? Are these the days of such disinterested chivalry? Are these
days of such self-denying ordinances? I think I could look round in
our meeting, and find some very high precedents for such exercise of
free will.”
Mrs. Barrington was silent, for the truth came very near home, and
certain tender reminiscences rose up from long past days, and made
her reasonings rather faint.
“But what shall I say to thy father? what—oh what! to our friends at
Fair Manor?”
“Leave all that to me,” said her son; “nature is always in quiet
course of development, and brings things round which are not very
easy to the sharpest wits.”
The hour of Millicent’s return home had come. She had arrived in May,
it was now the glowing middle of July. In those two months she had
lived ages. New worlds of life and thought had been opened to her:
but those had not made her happier. The time she had spent in London,
amid such distinguished and affectionate friends, was an enchanted
time, but there lay a heavy cloud on her heart as she turned her mind
homewards. There were revelations to make there, and things to be
done which made her very soul shrink, as it were, into a nut-shell.
Mr. Barrington, who was glad of a trip to Castleborough, and a visit
to his old friend and business connection, Mr. Heritage, accompanied
her in the mail, and during the few days that he stayed all was
outwardly bright. Millicent was enthusiastic in her expressions
of the kindness of her friends in town, and the pleasure they had
procured her, and Mr. Barrington was equally eloquent in the praises
of Millicent, and in his hope of her meeting them again. Then he
went; and then the heart of Millicent sank at what was before her.
She must come to an explanation with Dr. Leroy, and the whole truth
must burst upon her parents. Dr. Leroy had, of course, ridden over
at the first news of Millicent’s return, and she had met him with
all the kindliness that she could assume. But what assumptions can
pass muster with a genuine lover. There had been a great falling off
both in the frequency, the volume, and the fervour of Millicent’s
correspondence with Dr. Leroy. He had his friends in town, and from
them he had heard of the great regard in which Millicent was held
by the Barringtons, of their constant endeavours to amuse her,
of the admiration in which she was held by the gay society into
which she had been introduced, and of the assiduous attendance and
attentions of Edmund Barrington. So long as Mr. Barrington remained,
Millicent managed to stave off the explanation which must inevitably
and promptly come, for Dr. Leroy bore in his pale face and silent
manner, the plainest signs of the uneasiness within.
The moment that Mr. Barrington left, Millicent mounted her favourite
dark bay mare, May Dew, and with Tom Boddily as groom, rode off to
Woodburn Grange. Much love, and many congratulations on her charming
visit to London, and welcomes back, met her there; but as soon as
she could she withdrew with Ann into her chamber, and laid open the
astounding change in her views and feelings. Ann Woodburn sat dumb
with astonishment and concern. Millicent flung her arms round her
neck, and with floods of tears begged her counsel and help in the
dilemma. Counsel! help! What counsel, what help could she give if the
heart of her friend had gone from her old love to a new.
Ann at length said, with a most sorrowful expression, “Poor Dr.
Leroy! poor, poor fellow! what will he do? how will he bear it?” And
again she sat as if paralyzed.
“But what shall I do, dear Ann Woodburn? What can I do?” said
Millicent.
“That is more than I can tell,” said Ann. “God alone can direct you
in such a crisis. What is to be done! What _will_ be the end of it?”
Millicent went on passionately to detail the growth and incidents
of this change, and to defend her new friends from the blame which
Ann charged them with, as dishonourable and selfish. At length she
said, “Dear, dear Millicent, all I can advise is, for you to do
nothing hastily. You have been dazzled by the splendours you have
been living amongst. Take time for reflection; in the quiet of the
country, in the midst of your old associations, a different view of
things may again present itself. Poor Dr. Leroy!—so good, so clever!
My dear friend, the sudden bursting upon me of this news is like a
thunderbolt. I cannot collect my faculties; all I can say is, don’t
hurry, don’t hurry, and pray earnestly, incessantly for help and
direction from God.”
The friends parted with a long and tender embrace, and Millicent rode
off, not homewards, but to Bilts’ farm, to see whether she could draw
a ray of comfort or counsel from Elizabeth Drury. But the same scenes
took place there. After the first glad and mutual salutations and
embraces, Millicent laid open her trouble to her friend Elizabeth,
and with much the same result as with Ann Woodburn. Elizabeth Drury
opened her large grey eyes in astonishment, and then said, “Mercy!
What a fatality! what a perplexity! My dear Millicent, were there
no Dr. Leroy, I should congratulate you with all my heart on such a
connection. But—but!—what in the world is to be done? Millicent dear,
I can only say, with that wise, yet loving Ann Woodburn—take time. I
am no Quaker, you know. I have made no vows against ‘the pomps and
vanities of this wicked world,’ though I suppose somebody did for me
one day. I can understand to a certain extent the fascinations of
great wealth, great splendour of position, great gaiety and prestige
of fashionable life; but let me tell you, I prefer ten thousand
times this more simple and quiet existence here in the country.
What do we want more than we have? A lovely country, sufficiency
of means for enjoying it, friends dear, intelligent, and refined.
Ah! I do not think the luxurious and more glittering life of the
metropolis or of high aristocratic rank can compare with it. When the
attention is drawn every day over such a multitude of objects and
persons, where can it settle? how can the heart take root anywhere?
No—the heart—the heart, my dear friend, in that lies the fountain
of happiness, and a few deep, tender, and lasting attachments are
worth more than a million of mere superficial acquaintances. I say,
with dear Ann Woodburn—take time: weigh well your decision, dear
Millicent. Remember that it may be death, or worse than death, to a
most estimable man, and of much sorrow to others. Wait—wait! Here
you have the prospect of a happy and useful life; here you are loved
and honoured far round; here a great field of beneficent labour
awaits you. Oh! to me, how much more delightful than the grander but
hurrying, whirling life of busy London! How much more worth seem to
me the solid satisfactions of an affluent and intellectual country
life, than the pageantry and ornamental glare of a more artificial
existence.”
Millicent assented with passionate tears to every word of her
friend’s discourse, but this did not help the real difficulty. Her
heart had undergone a revolution, and the stern decision stood
unabated before her. In a few more days Dr. Leroy had insisted on
a candid statement of Millicent’s feelings towards him; and she had
given it, though it cost her a terrible agony. She had no misgivings
as to the necessity of this avowal; but the rent that must be made in
many friendships, the sorrow which she knew it must bring upon her
parents, and the misery which it must inflict on one who had been the
friend of her earliest youth, came with a crushing weight upon her.
Dr. Leroy left the house, and returned to Castleborough, but it was
with the look of a man who had received an inner death-wound. Pale
and silent, he seemed to casual passers as if he had suddenly become
actually black. There was the dark shadow of a dreary desolation on
his countenance. He made no complaint to any one, not even to his
own mother; he made none to the parents of Millicent, but they saw
in her pallid, compressed features, in her silent manner, and her
eyes, whence she strove in vain to remove the traces of weeping,
that something was going awfully wrong. It was not long before Mrs.
Heritage had managed to draw the astounding secret from Millicent’s
lips, on condition only that she should not write to the Barringtons
about it.
What a millstone was that which thus fell on the sober happiness of
Fair Manor. Mrs. Heritage, with her high notions of Christian truth
and integrity, could scarcely realise such a calamity as the breach
of so sacred an engagement with so estimable a man as Dr. Leroy.
Earnestly did she entreat her daughter to pause before she made an
irrevocable decision. Earnestly, wrestlingly did she lay all this
great trouble before God. Scarcely less severe was the blow to Mr.
Heritage. He looked at the happiness of his daughter but as connected
with her reputation for integrity of purpose, and he deeply lamented
the cruel blow given to Dr. Leroy. Both Mr. and Mrs. Heritage wrote
affectionate and tenderly sympathising letters to him, hoping that
things might take a better turn. But the condition of Millicent
occasioned them not only severe grief, but deep alarm. Though she
had, in a mood of desperation, broken the link of attachment with
Dr. Leroy, it had brought no peace to her own bosom. She felt the
sharpness of the wound which she had given him. She recalled the long
season of their youthful friendship, and his many merits and virtues.
She saw in the grief of her parents the amazement and blame which
would run through the circle of her friends; but in vain did she
endeavour to recall a sense of the love which had flitted to another
object. The effect upon her was that of a wasting fire upon her
nerves. She had no violent illness, but she was miserable, pale, and
sad. The least sudden sound shook her like an electric shock. She was
the walking shadow of a withering despondency.
Elizabeth Drury, who was shocked more and more at every fresh sight
of her, proposed that they should go together to some cheerful,
genial sea-coast; and as she had an aunt living at Ventnor, in the
Isle of Wight, she suggested to Mr. and Mrs. Heritage that they
should go there for a while. To this they eagerly agreed; and the
two young ladies, with Tom Boddily as groom, set out for the south
without delay. As for Millicent, she would have gone to the north or
south Pole, or to any place, if she could have hoped to run away from
her own feelings and reflections.
A few days saw them located on the cliffs of Ventnor, overlooking
the ship-studded sea, and amid the lively stir of gay summer
visitors. Elizabeth Drury put forth all her powers of vivacity and
entertainment. She showed her friend about, strolled with her along
the margin of the sounding, dashing waves, read to her, and engaged
horses on which to range the coast and the hills in every direction,
from Sandown to Blackgang Chine, from St. Laurence’s minikin church
to Appuldercombe, Godshill, or the ruins of Carisbrook. They had
a handsome villa to themselves standing in a pleasant shrubbery,
overlooking the town and sea, and out of the way of the general
traffic. They could be in a crush or a solitude at pleasure. Under
the guidance of Elizabeth Drury, and cheered by her buoyant spirit,
which loved to look on the bright side of things as much as possible,
and with her mind full of knowledge and amusing anecdote, Millicent
began to breathe more freely, and to recover strength of frame,
if not much greater peace of mind. There were letters frequently
from London, the greater part of which she gave Elizabeth to read.
They came from the Misses Barrington, regretting that her health
was not strong, and saying, that their brother would be down to
see her in a few days, and if she stayed much longer, they should
come down in a flock to see whether they could not help nature to
recover her spring. Millicent was evidently greatly excited, and
that pleasurably, by the prospect of seeing Edmund Barrington, and
Elizabeth Drury was curious to see the man who had been able to
supplant Dr. Leroy. But they were destined to receive another visit
before that of Edmund Barrington. Elizabeth had proposed the very
next day to take a ride through Niton, and up to the tower of St.
Catherine. They went alone. Elizabeth knew the way, and like a most
experienced groom opened gates in ascending the fields from Niton
to the top of the hill where the tower stands. They had reached
the summit of the hill, and taken a delighted survey of the vast
prospect over sea and land which it gave; the rocks along the winding
coast, over which the milk-white waves were lashing; St. Catherine’s
lighthouse below; the sweep of shore on towards Alum Bay and
Freshwater, and the tamer interior of the island. Tying their horses
to the gate leading into the field in which the tower stands, they
first examined that empty and desolate object, which is familiar to
the mariner so many leagues at sea. They then sat down on the mossy
turf amid the scattered furze bushes, and enjoyed the scent of the
native sward and the simple wild-flowers, and the peaceful scene of
nature spread beneath their eye; the green corn waving on the slopes,
the white flocks grazing silently on the down-like pastures. All
at once they heard the hollow tramp of an approaching horse on the
hill behind them. They sprang up, and observed a gentleman riding
towards them. “Mr. Barrington! it must be Mr. Barrington!” exclaimed
Elizabeth. “No! as I live, it is Dr. Leroy!”
She saw that Millicent had already turned deadly pale, and trembled
violently. “What shall I do?” she said. “What will become of me?”
Elizabeth could only say hurriedly, “Do and say nothing which can
unnecessarily hurt his mind. Poor fellow, he is wretched enough. May
God Almighty aid and guide you both.”
Dr. Leroy had tied his horse to a rail not far from the others, and
was already coming agitatedly towards them. He put out his hand, and
accosted them with a face full of misery, and which could not assume
even a melancholy smile.
“I am an intruder, ladies,” he said; “that is my misfortune; but
excuse me for a few minutes; I will not distress you long; but
I must, as a last favour, request of Millicent a few words to
ourselves. They shall be but few.” His lips quivered, his voice
faltered. Millicent looked imploringly to Miss Drury.
“Oh, _go_, dear Millicent!” she said; “Dr. Leroy’s request, under the
circumstances, is most reasonable. You are old, and, I trust, still
dear friends; give him a kind hearing, give him what comfort you can.”
Millicent moved away silently, in a direction down the hill, beyond
the tower, and her once-beloved suitor moved silently by her side.
Elizabeth Drury threw herself again on the warm summer turf, hid
her face in her hands, and prayed, prayed, prayed, as if she would
call back some dear one from the dead, or would conquer from the
All-ruling Mind some repeal of fate. When she looked up, she saw the
unhappy pair standing quite out of hearing. Dr. Leroy was speaking
very earnestly, Millicent as earnestly looking on the ground,
and switching the grass with her riding-whip. Now she replied as
earnestly; now they moved away a little, now they stood again face
to face. She saw Millicent weeping violently; saw Dr. Leroy take her
hand and kiss it passionately, and again they stood as if silent and
in perplexity. Though Dr. Leroy said that his words should be few,
the interview drew on, and became long. He himself seemed to grow
warm and eloquent, Millicent to content herself with some significant
shakes of the head.
“I wonder,” said Elizabeth to herself, “though miracles, they say,
have ceased, whether a little one might not be wrought for the
happiness of these good young people. Oh! what misery has that London
visit perpetrated on a whole circle of good creatures; and, yet, as
far as I can see, everybody might be just as happy as ever—if they
could only think so. There is a fine, frank, clever, and good young
fellow; well, really, I could like him myself, if I did not like
somebody better, and that silly girl has sent him to the right about
for a London money-bag. Really, we women are very silly with all our
sharpness. Here they come! Good gracious! It is no good. They look
like ghosts!”
The quondam lovers really did approach looking most ominously. A
blight seemed to have passed over them both. Poor Frank Leroy looked
blacker in his misery than ever; Millicent looked very little better.
“Good-bye, dear Miss Drury,” said Dr. Leroy, offering his hand. “I
must hasten away.”
“No,” said Elizabeth, “you must not go; you must stay, at least, and
dine with us. I want to introduce you to my aunt. I want some talk
with you myself.” She continued to retain his hand affectionately.
“I cannot do it, dear friend,” said Dr. Leroy, firmly, but with
strong emotion. “Good-bye—Good-bye!”
He cast a look at Millicent expressive of a thousand things, and
hasting to the gate, mounted his horse and galloped away. The two
young women stood in silence, watching him until he disappeared
behind the old martello tower standing in that direction, and below
the shoulder of the hill. Millicent then threw herself on the turf,
and wept violently. In vain Elizabeth sat down by her, clasped
her in her arms, and endeavoured to console her. She wept long and
bitterly.
“My dear Millicent,” at length Elizabeth said, “if you like Dr. Leroy
so much—if your parting from him costs you so much—why don’t you make
it up with him? Oh! pray do look well into your heart, and see who
really has the most of it. Is not this London affair a mere temporary
illusion? Is not the old love really at the bottom yet?”
“No! no!” said Millicent, “it is not that; but it is because I am
born to make people miserable. Didst thou ever see such misery as in
poor Frank’s face? And now he is determined to quit his home, his
practice, his mother, who doats on him, and go to India. Think—think!
what grief I have occasioned to him—to his mother—to my own dear
parents——”
“And to yourself, dear Millicent,” added Miss Drury. “They may say
that the days of witchcraft are over if they will, but,” she said,
starting up, “I should like—nay, I _must_ see Dr. Leroy before he
leaves Ventnor. He will not really sacrifice his fine practice, and
ruin everything, by some rash act. Come, come, let us go!”
She hurried Millicent away; they mounted their horses by the aid of
the gate, and rode rapidly down hill, and to Ventnor. As they rang at
their gate, Tom Boddily appeared promptly.
“Tom!” said Miss Drury, “have you seen Dr. Leroy?”
“Yes, ma’am; I let him have the horse I ride, and told him where to
find you.”
“And where is he now? Run—tell him I must see him!”
Tom shook his head. “He’s gone, ma’am—gone by the three o’clock
coach; he just caught it as it started.”
Elizabeth walked into the house in silence. “He is gone!” she
repeated. “It is too late! Heaven help us.”
“Oh, let us go too!” said Millicent; “I am wretched here—I am on
thorns; but where shall I be at peace?” and she sat down, and looked
the victim of despair.
“Yes—yes!” said Elizabeth, “we will go. We may still find Dr. Leroy
at Castleborough!” She rushed out, and gave Tom Boddily orders to
make ready for an instant start, to order a carriage and post-horses
for Ryde, whilst she ran and intrusted her aunt with all matters of
payment for the house for their short term. Tom seemed to disappear
as on wings.
A single hour saw them on their way to Ryde. In those times, however,
there were not the numerous steam-packets crossing. There was no
railway to receive them at Portsmouth. With all possible speed,
however, they continued their journey, and on the third day reached
Fair Manor, only to learn that Dr. Leroy had sailed from London in
an Indiaman, in which he had taken the office of surgeon for the
voyage the day after he left the Isle of Wight.
All Castleborough was full of wonder and speculation over this, to
it, strange event. Some desperate cause, every one felt, must have
produced such a catastrophe. Dr. Leroy was so noted for the calmness
and equanimity of his disposition. At Fair Manor a profound sorrow
reigned, and a deep and brooding silence lay over it. Sylvanus
Crook opened the gates for the fly bringing the two young ladies
from Castleborough, in silence. Sukey Priddo, when she came to the
door, looked as if she had seen an apparition, and ran to tell Mrs.
Heritage. Mrs. Heritage came hastily from her room. There were signs
of much weeping on her fair, but solemn, and now pale face. She
clasped her daughter, who sunk into her arms in tears, and without a
word, and carried her, as it were, into the sitting room, and thence
into a small private room beyond. Elizabeth Drury left mother and
daughter some time to themselves, and then, gently knocking at the
door, said she would go on home, and come to inquire after Millicent
in the morning. Mrs. Heritage seized Elizabeth almost convulsively,
and kissed her passionately again and again, and then turned and
sat down by her daughter. And what a sight was it of that lately so
happy daughter! She sat motionless, pale as a corpse, and with a face
of such intense wretchedness as the young usually glad spirits of
Elizabeth had formed no conception of. She fell on her knees before
the unhappy girl, clasped her fondly, and looking into her ghostlike
face with streaming eyes, said, “Dearest Millicent! don’t! don’t be
so cast down! Things may be better yet. They may!—they will!—they
must! God will not afflict us all so cruelly.”
Millicent kissed her friend gratefully, and said, with a wondering
look, “But how can that be?—But I am very faint; I will go to bed.”
Elizabeth and Mrs. Heritage assisted her up-stairs. The servants,
as they passed through the hall, stood aghast and in tears. When
Elizabeth had seen Millicent in bed, and again promised to return
early in the morning, she embraced her affectionately, and, kissing
Mrs. Heritage, hastened down-stairs and away home. There she found
the departure of Dr. Leroy the absorbing subject. Her father
commented very severely on Miss Heritage for jilting him, as he
bluntly called it, for a richer man in London. That was his plain
version of the story. That she found was the universal opinion
amongst their mutual acquaintance. The true cause of Dr. Leroy’s
departure, her mother said, had oozed out to the public, which
was greatly excited by this sudden abandonment of his practice by
a young man so greatly honoured and esteemed. The blame of Miss
Heritage was universal and intense. “She so wealthy,” they said, “to
let wealth and worldly distinction obliterate the feelings and the
friendship of years.”
The shadows that Mrs. Heritage had foreseen in the hayfield, had thus
fallen on her own house and heart in an Egyptian density, wherever
else they might yet extend themselves. No hayfield fête had been
held since that memorable day; and causes more closely touching the
Woodburns than the darkness lying upon Fair Manor seemed to herald a
long cessation of such halcyon times.