A QUIET SCENE-AN UNQUIET HEART.
Meanwhile, not far from the willow-bank which sheltered Lionel, but
far enough to be out of her sight and beyond her hearing, George Morley
found Lady Montfort seated alone. It was a spot on which Milton might
have placed the lady in “Comus”--a circle of the smoothest sward, ringed
everywhere (except at one opening which left the glassy river in
full view) with thick bosks of dark evergreens and shrubs of livelier
verdure; oak and chest nut backing and overhanging all. Flowers, too,
raised on rustic tiers and stages; a tiny fountain, shooting up from a
basin starred with the water-lily; a rustic table, on which lay hooks
and the implements of woman’s graceful work; so that the place had the
home-look of a chamber, and spoke that intense love of the out-door
life which abounds in our old poets from Chaucer down to the day when
minstrels, polished into wits, took to Will’s Coffee-house, and the lark
came no more to bid bards
“Good morrow
From his watch-tower in the skies.”
But long since, thank Heaven we have again got back the English poetry
which chimes to the babble of the waters, and the riot of the birds; and
just as that poetry is the freshest which the out-door life has the most
nourished, so I believe that there is no surer sign of the rich vitality
which finds its raciest joys in sources the most innocent, than the
childlike taste for that same out-door life. Whether you take from
fortune the palace or the cottage, add to your chambers a hall in the
courts of Nature. Let the earth but give you room to stand on; well,
look up--Is it nothing to have for your roof-tree--Heaven?
Caroline Montfort (be her titles dropped) is changed since we last
saw her. The beauty is not less in degree, but it has gained in one
attribute, lost in another; it commands less, it touches more. Still in
deep mourning, the sombre dress throws a paler shade over the cheek. The
eyes, more sunken beneath the brow, appear larger, softer. There is
that expression of fatigue which either accompanies impaired health or
succeeds to mental struggle and disquietude. But the coldness or pride
of mien which was peculiar to Caroline as a wife is gone--as if in
widowhood it was no longer needed. A something like humility prevailed
over the look and the bearing which had been so tranquilly majestic.
As at the approach of her cousin she started from her seat, there was
a nervous tremor in her eagerness; a rush of colour to the cheeks; an
anxious quivering of the lip; a flutter in the tones of the sweet low
voice: “Well, George.”
“Mr. Darrell is not in London; he went to Fawley three days ago; at
least he is there now. I have this from my uncle, to whom he wrote; and
whom his departure has vexed and saddened.”
“Three days ago! It must have been he, then! I was not deceived,”
murmured Caroline, and her eyes wandered mound.
“There is no truth in the report you heard that he was to marry Honoria
Vipont. My uncle thinks he will never marry again, and implies that he
has resumed his solitary life at Fawley with a resolve to quit it no
more.”
Lady Montfort listened silently, bending her face over the fountain,
and dropping amidst its playful spray the leaves of a rose which she had
abstractedly plucked as George was speaking.
“I have, therefore, fulfilled your commission so far,” renewed George
Morley. “I have ascertained that Mr. Darrell is alive, and doubtless
well; so that it could not have been his ghost that startled you amidst
yonder thicket. But I have done more: I have forestalled the wish you
expressed to become acquainted with young Haughton; and your object in
postponing the accomplishment of that wish while Mr. Darrell himself was
in town having ceased with Mr. Darrell’s departure, I have ventured to
bring the young man with me. He is in the boat yonder. Will you receive
him? Or--but, my dear cousin, are you not too unwell today? What is the
matter? Oh, I can easily make an excuse for you to Haughton. I will run
and do so.”
“No, George, no. I am as well as usual. I will see Mr. Haughton. All
that you have heard of him, and have told me, interests me so much in
his favour; and besides--” She did not finish the sentence; but led away
by some other thought, asked, “Have you no news of our missing friend?”
“None as yet; but in a few days I shall renew my search. Now, then, I
will go for Haughton.”
“Do so; and George, when you have presented him to me, will you kindly
join that dear anxious child yonder!
“She is in the new arbour, or near it-her favourite spot. You must
sustain her spirits, and give her hope. You cannot guess how eagerly
she looks forward to your visits, and how gratefully she relies on your
exertions.”
George shook his head half despondingly, and saying briefly, “My
exertions have established no claim to her gratitude as yet,” went
quickly back for Lionel.