A SAD EVENT.
A few weeks' residence found me quite at home at the Hall. My
new-found relatives treated me with the affectionate familiarity which
exists between old and long-tried friends. I ceased to feel myself the
despised _poor relation_; a creature rarely loved and always in the
way, expected to be the recipient of all the kicks and cuffs of the
family to whom his ill-fortune has made him an attache, and to return
the base coin with smiles and flattering speeches.
Of all lots in this hard world, the hardest to bear must be that of a
domestic drudge; war, war to the knife is better than such humiliating
servitude. I could neither fawn nor cringe, and the Baronet, who was a
high-spirited man himself, loved me for my independence.
The summer had just commenced. No hunting, no shooting to while away
an idle hour. But Sir Alexander was as fond of old Izaak Walton's
gentle craft, as that accomplished piscator, and we often rose at
early dawn to stroll through the dewy pastures to the stream which
crossed the park, which abounded with trout, and I soon became an
excellent angler, hooking my fish in the most scientific manner.
When the days were not propitious for our sport, I accompanied Sir
Alexander in his rides, in visiting his model farms, examining the
progress of his crops, the making of hay, the improved breeds of sheep
and cattle, and all such healthy and rural employments, in which he
took a patriarchal delight.
Margaretta generally accompanied us on these expeditions. She was an
excellent equestrian, and managed her high-bred roan with much skill
and ease, never disturbing the pleasure of the ride by nervous or
childish fears.
"Madge is a capital rider!" would the old Baronet exclaim. "I taught
her myself. There is no affectation--no show-off airs in her riding.
She does that as she does everything else, in a quiet, natural way."
The enjoyment of our country life was seldom disturbed by visitors.
All the great folks were in London; the beauties of nature possessing
far less attractions for them than the sophisticated gaieties of the
season in town. If his youth had been dissipated, Sir Alexander
courted retirement in age, and was perfectly devoted to the quiet
happiness of a domestic life.
Margaretta, who shared all his tastes, and whose presence appeared
necessary to his existence, had spent one season in London, but cared
so little for the pleasures of the metropolis, that she resisted the
urgent entreaties of her female friends to accompany them to town a
second time.
"I hate London, Cousin Geoffrey. There is no room in its crowded
scenes for nature and truth. Every one seems intent upon acting a lie,
and living in defiance of their reason and better feelings. I never
could feel at home there. I mistrusted myself and every one else, and
never knew what true happiness was, until I returned to the unaffected
simplicity of a country life."
These sentiments were fully reciprocated by me, who had passed, within
the smoky walls of the huge metropolis the most unhappy period of my
life.
Same hours, every day, were devoted by Sir Alexander to business,
during which he was closely closeted with Mr. Hilton, his steward, and
to disturb him at such times was regarded by him as an act of high
treason.
During these hours, Margaretta and I were left to amuse ourselves in
the best manner we could. She was a fine pianist. I had inherited my
father's passion for music, and was never tired of listening to her
while she played. If the weather was unfavourable for a ride or stroll
in the Park, I read aloud to her, while she painted groups of flowers
from nature, for which she had an exquisite taste. The time fled away
only too fast, and this mingling of amusement and mental occupation
was very delightful to me, whose chief employment for years had been
confined to musty parchments in a dull, dark office.
Our twilight rambles through the glades of the beautiful park, at that
witching hour when both eye and heart are keenly alive to sights and
sounds of beauty, possessed for me the greatest charm.
I loved--but only as a brother loves--the dear, enthusiastic girl, who
leaned so confidingly on my arm, whose glorious eyes, lighted up from
the very fountain of passion and feeling, were raised to mine as if to
kindle in my breast the fire of genius which emanated from her own.
Her vivid imagination, fostered in solitude, seized upon everything
bright and beautiful in nature, and made it her own.
"The lips of song burst open
And the words of fire rushed out."
At such moments it was impossible to regard Margaretta with
indifference. I could have loved, nay, adored, had not my mind been
preoccupied with a fairer image.
Margaretta was too great a novice in affairs of the heart, to notice
the guarded coolness of my homage. My society afforded her great
pleasure, and she wanted the common-place tact of her sex to disguise
it from me.
Dear, lovely, confiding Margaretta, how beautiful does your simple
truth and disinterested affection appear, as I look back through the
long vista of years, and find in the world so few who resemble thee!
Towards the close of a hot day in June we visited the fragrant fields
of new-mown hay, and Margaretta tired herself by chasing a pair of
small, coquettish blue butterflies, who hovered along the hedge, which
bounded the dusty highway, like living gems, and not succeeding in
capturing the shy things, she proposed leaving the road, and returning
home through the Park.
"With all my heart," said I. "We will rest under your favourite beech,
while you, dear Madge, sing with your sweet voice, the
"Drowsy world to rest."
We crossed a stile, and entered one of the broad, green arcades of the
glorious old Park.
For some time we reposed upon the velvet sward, beneath Margaretta's
favourite tree. The slanting red beams of the setting sun scarcely
forced their way through the thickly interlaced boughs of the forest.
The sparkling wavelets of the river ran brawling at our feet, fighting
their way among the sharp rocks that opposed a barrier to their
downward course. We bathed our temples in the cool, clear waters.
Margaretta forgot the dusty road, the independent blue butterflies,
and her recent fatigue.
"There is no music after all like the music of nature, Geoffrey," she
said, untying her straw bonnet, and throwing it on the grass beside
her, while she shook a shower of glossy black ringlets back from her
small oval face.
"Not that it is the instrument, but the soul that breathes through it,
which makes the music. And Nature, pouring her soul into these waves,
and stirring with her plaintive sighs these branches above us, awakens
sounds which find an echo in the heart of all her children, who remain
true to the teachings of the divine mother." Then turning suddenly to
me, she said, "Geoffrey, do you sing?"
"To please myself. I play upon the flute much better than I sing.
During the last half year I remained with my uncle I took lessons of
an excellent master, and having a good ear, and being passionately
fond of music, I gained considerable proficiency. I had been an
amateur performer for years."
"And you never told me one word of this before."
"I did not wish to display all my trifling stock of accomplishments at
once," said I, with a smile. "Those who possess but little are wise to
reserve a small portion of what they have. You shall test its value
the next rainy day."
"In the absence of the flute, Geoffrey, you must give me a song. A
song that harmonizes with this witching hour and holiday time o' the
year."
"Then it must necessarily be a love song," said I; "youth and spring
being the best adapted to inspire the joyousness of love."
"Call not love joyous, Geoffrey; it is a sad and fearful thing to
love. Love that is sincere is a hidden emotion of the heart; it
shrinks from vain laughter, and is most eloquent when silent, or only
revealed by tears."
I started, and turned an anxious gaze upon her pale, spiritual face.
What right had I to be jealous of her? I who was devoted to another.
Yet jealous I was, and answered rather pettishly:
"You talk feelingly, fair cousin, as if you had experienced the
passion you describe. Have you tasted the bitter sadness of
disappointed love?"
"I did not say that." And she blushed deeply. "You chose to infer it."
I did not reply. The image of Harrison rose in my mind. For the first
time I saw a strong likeness between them. Such a likeness as is often
found between persons who strongly assimilate--whose feelings, tastes,
and pursuits are the same.
Was it possible that she had loved him? I was anxious to find out if
my suspicions were true; and without any prelude or apology commenced
singing a little air that Harrison had taught me, both music and words
being his own.
SONG.
I loved you long and tenderly,
I urged my suit with tears;
But coldly and disdainfully
You crushed the hope of years.
I gazed upon your glowing cheek,
I met your flashing eye;
The words I strove in vain to, speak
Were smothered in a sigh.
I swore to love you faithfully,
Till death should bid us part;
But proudly and reproachfully,
You spurned a loyal heart.
Despair is bold--you turned away,
And wished we ne'er had met,
Through many a long and weary day
That parting haunts me yet.
Nor think that chilling apathy,
Can passion's tide repress--
Ah, no! with fond idolatry,
I would not love thee less.
Your image meets me in the crowd,
Like some fair beam of light,
That bursting through its sombre cloud
Makes glad the brow of night.
Then turn my hard captivity,
Nor let me sue in vain,
Whilst with unshaken constancy,
I seek your feet again.
One smile of thine can cheer the heart,
That only beats to be
United, ne'er again to part--
My life! my soul!--from thee.
I sang my best, and was accounted by all the young men of my
acquaintance, to have a fine manly voice. But I was not rewarded by a
single word or encouraging smile.
Margaretta's head was bowed upon her hands, and tears were streaming
fast through her slender fingers.
"Margaret, dearest Margaret!" for in speaking to her, I always dropped
the Italianized termination of her name. "Are you ill. Do speak to
me."
She still continued to weep.
"I wish I had not sung that foolish song."
"It was only sung too well, Geoffrey." And she slowly raised her head
and put back the hair from her brow. "Ah, what sad, what painful
recollections does that song call up. But with these, you have nothing
to do. I will not ask you how you became acquainted with that air; but
I request as a great favour, that you will never sing or play it to me
again."
She relapsed into silence, which I longed to break but did not know
how. At length she rose from the bank on which we had been seated,
resumed her bonnet, and expressed a wish to return to the Hall.
"The night has closed in very fast," said she, "or is the gloom
occasioned by the shadow of the trees?"
"It is only a few minutes past seven," I replied, looking at my watch.
"The hay-makers have not yet left their work." We had followed the
course of the stream, on our homeward path, and now emerged into an
open space in the Park. The sudden twilight which had descended upon
us was caused by a heavy pile of thunder clouds which hung frowning
over the woods, and threatened to overtake us before we could reach
the Hall.
"How still and deep the waters lie," said Margaretta. "There is not a
breath of wind to ruffle them or stir the trees. The awful stillness
which precedes a storm inspires me with more dread, than when it
launches forth with all its terrific powers."
"Hark! There's the first low peal of thunder, and the trees are all
trembling and shivering in the electric blast which follows it. How
sublimely beautiful, is this magnificent war of elements."
"It is very true, dear cousin, but if you stand gazing at the clouds,
we shall both get wet."
"Geoffrey," said Margaretta, laughing, "there is nothing poetical
about you."
"I have been used to the commonest prose all my life, Madge. But here
we are at the fishing-house: we had better stow ourselves away with
your father's nets and tackles until this heavy shower is over."
No sooner said than done. We crossed a rustic bridge which spanned the
stream, and ascending a flight of stone steps, reached a small
rough-cast building, open in front, with a bench running round three
sides of it, and a rude oak table in the middle, which was covered
with fishing-rods, nets, and other tackle belonging to the gentle
craft.
From this picturesque shed Sir Alexander, in wet weather, could follow
his favourite sport, as the river ran directly below, and it was
considered the best spot for angling, the water expanding here into a
deep still pool, much frequented by the finny tribes.
We were both soon seated in the ivy-covered porch, the honey-suckle
hanging its perfumed tassels, dripping with the rain, above our heads,
while the clematis and briar-rose gave out to the shower a double
portion of delicate incense.
The scene was in unison with Margaretta's poetical temperament. She
enjoyed it with her whole heart; her beautiful eyes brimful of love
and adoration.
The landscape varied every moment. Now all was black and lowering;
lightnings pierced with their arrowy tongues the heavy foliage of the
frowning woods, and loud peals of thunder reverberated among the
distant hills; and now a solitary sunbeam struggled through a rift in
the heavy cloud, and lighted up the gloomy scene with a smile of
celestial beauty.
Margaretta suddenly grasped my arm; I followed the direction of her
eye, and beheld a tall female figure, dressed in deep mourning, pacing
too and fro on the bridge we had just crossed. Her long hair,
unconfined by cap or bandage, streamed in wild confusion round her wan
and wasted features, and regardless of the pelting of the pitiless
storm, she continued to hurry backwards and forwards, throwing her
hands into the air, and striking her breast like one possessed.
"Who is she?" I whispered.
"The wreck of all that once was beautiful," sighed Margaretta, "It is
Alice Mornington, the daughter of one of my father's tenants."
"Alice Mornington! Good Heavens! is that poor mad woman Alice
Mornington?"
Margaretta looked surprised.
"Do you know this poor girl?"
I felt that I had nearly betrayed myself, and stammered out, "Not
personally; I know something of her private history, which I heard
accidentally before I came here."
"Geoffrey, no sister ever loved another more devotedly than I loved
that poor girl--than I love her still. After she forsook the path of
virtue, my father forbade me having the least intercourse with her. My
heart bleeds to see her thus. I cannot stand calmly by and witness her
misery. Stay here, while I go and speak to her."
With noiseless tread she glided down the stone steps, and gained the
bridge. The quick eye of the maniac (for such she appeared to be)
however, had detected the movement, and with a loud shriek she flung
herself into the water.
To spring to the bank, to plunge into the stream, and as she rose to
the surface, to bear the wretched girl to the shore, was but the work
of a moment. Brief as the time was that had elapsed between the rash
act and her rescue, she was already insensible, and with some
difficulty I succeeded in carrying her up the steep steps to the
fishing-house. It was some seconds before suspended animation
returned, and when at length the large blue eyes unclosed, Alice awoke
to consciousness on the bosom of the fond and weeping Margaretta.
"Oh, Miss Moncton!" sobbed the poor girl, "why did you save me--why
did you recall me to a life of misery--why did you not let me die,
when the agony of death was already over?"
"Dear Alice!" said Margaret, soothingly, "what tempted you to drown
yourself?"
"I was driven to desperation by the neglect and cruelty of those whom
I love best on earth."
"Do not reproach me, dear Alice," said Margaret, almost choking with
emotion. "It is not in my nature to desert those I love. My heart has
been with you in all your sorrows, but I dared not disobey my father."
"Oh, Miss Moncton, it was not of you I spoke. I could not expect you
to countenance one whom the whole neighbourhood joined to condemn. If
others had only treated me half as well, I should not have been
reduced to such straits."
"Alice, you must not stay here in this sad state. You will get your
death. Lean on my arm. I will take you home."
"Home! I have no home. I dare not go home. _She_ is there! and she
will taunt me with this, and drive me mad again."
"Then come to the Hall, Alice; I will talk to you there, and no one
shall hear us but your own Margaret."
"God bless you! Miss Moncton, for all your kindness. It would, indeed,
be a great relief to tell you all the grief which fills my heart. Yes,
I will go with you to-night. The morrow may take care of the things
which belong to it. Now, or never. There may be no to-morrow on earth
for me."
"Cheer up, poor heart! There may be happiness in store for you yet,"
said Margaret.
"For me?" and Alice looked up with an incredulous smile; so sad, so
dreary, it was enough to make you weep, that wild glance passing over
her wan features. "Oh, never again for me."
She suffered herself to be led between us to the Hall; Margaret
directing me by a path which led through the gardens to a private
entrance at the back of the house. Alice was completely exhausted by
her former violence. I had to put my arm round her slender waist, to
support her up the marble stair-case. I left her with Margaret, at her
chamber-door, and retired to my own apartment, to change my wet
clothes.
Miss Moncton did not come down to tea.
Sir Alexander was in the fidgets about her. "Where's Madge? What the
deuce is the matter with the girl? She went out with you, Geoffrey, as
fresh as a lark. I will hold you responsible for her non-appearance."
I thought it best to relate what had happened. He looked very grave.
"A sad business! A very sad business! I wish Madge would keep her
hands clear of that girl. I am sorry for her, too. But you know,
Geoffrey, we cannot set the opinion of the world entirely at defiance.
And what a man can do with impunity, a young lady must not."
"Miss Moncton has acted with true Christian charity, sir. It is sad
that such examples are so rare."
"Don't think I blame Madge, Geoffrey. She is a dear, good girl, a
little angel. But it is rather imprudent of her to bring the mistress
of Theophilus home to the house. What will Mrs. Grundy say?"
"Margaret has no Mrs. Grundies," said I, rather indignantly. "She will
not admit such vulgar, common-place wretches into her society. To the
pure in heart all things are pure."
"Well done! young champion of dames. You will not suffer Margaretta to
be blamed without taking her part, I see."
"Particularly, sir, when I know and feel that she is in the right."
"She and I must have a serious talk on this subject to-morrow,
however. In the meantime, Geoffrey, bring here the chess-board, and
let us get through a dull evening in the best way we can."