I was again foiled in seeing Trevanion. It was the Easter recess, and
he was at the house of one of his brother ministers, somewhere in the
north of England. But Lady Ellinor was in London, and I was ushered
into her presence. Nothing could be more cordial than her manner,
though she was evidently much depressed in spirits, and looked wan and
careworn.
After the kindest inquiries relative to my parents, and the Captain,
she entered with much sympathy into my schemes and plans, which
she said that Trevanion had confided to her. The sterling kindness
that belonged to my old patron (despite his affected anger at my
not accepting his proffered loan) had not only saved me and my
fellow-adventurer all trouble as to allotment orders, but procured
advice, as to choice of site and soil, from the best practical
experience, which we found afterwards exceedingly useful. And as Lady
Ellinor gave me the little packet of papers with Trevanion's shrewd
notes on the margin, she said with a half sigh, "Albert bids me say,
that he wishes he were as sanguine of his success in the cabinet as
of yours in the Bush." She then turned to her husband's rise and
prospects, and her face began to change. Her eyes sparkled, the colour
came to her cheeks--"But you are one of the few who know him," she
said, interrupting herself suddenly; "you know how he sacrifices all
things--joy, leisure, health--to his country. There is not one selfish
thought in his nature. And yet such envy--such obstacles still! and"
(her eyes dropped on her dress, and I perceived that she was in
mourning, though the mourning was not deep,) "and," she added, "it has
pleased heaven to withdraw from his side one who would have been worthy
his alliance."
I felt for the proud woman, though her emotion seemed more that of
pride than sorrow. And perhaps Lord Castleton's highest merit in her
eyes had been that of ministering to her husband's power and her own
ambition. I bowed my head in silence, and thought of Fanny. Did she,
too, pine for the lost rank, or rather mourn the lost lover?
After a time, I said hesitatingly, "I scarcely presume to condole with
you, Lady Ellinor; yet, believe me, few things ever shocked me like
the death you allude to. I trust Miss Trevanion's health has not much
suffered. Shall I not see her before I leave England?"
Lady Ellinor fixed her keen bright eyes searchingly on my countenance,
and perhaps the gaze satisfied her, for she held out her hand to me
with a frankness almost tender, and said--"Had I had a son, the dearest
wish of my heart had been to see you wedded to my daughter."
I started up--the blood rushed to my cheeks, and then left me pale as
death. I looked reproachfully at Lady Ellinor, and the word "cruel"
faltered on my lips.
"Yes," continued Lady Ellinor, mournfully, "that was my real thought,
my impulse of regret, when I first saw you. But, as it is, do not think
me too hard and worldly, if I quote the lofty old French proverb,
_Noblesse oblige_. Listen to me, my young friend,--we may never meet
again, and I would not have your father's son think unkindly of me
with all my faults. From my first childhood I was ambitious--not as
women usually are, of mere wealth and rank--but ambitious as noble
men are, of power and fame. A woman can only indulge such ambition
by investing it in another. It was not wealth, it was not rank, that
attracted me to Albert Trevanion; it was the nature that dispenses with
the wealth, and commands the rank. Nay," continued Lady Ellinor, in a
voice that slightly trembled, "I may have seen in my youth, before I
knew Trevanion, one (she paused a moment, and went on hurriedly)--one
who wanted but ambition to have realised my ideal. Perhaps, even when
I married--and it was said for love--I loved less with my whole heart
than with my whole mind. I may say this now, for _now_ every beat of
this pulse is wholly and only true to him with whom I have schemed, and
toiled, and aspired; with whom I have grown as one; with whom I have
shared the struggle, and now partake the triumph--realising the visions
of my youth."
Again the light broke from the dark eyes of this grand daughter of
the world, who was so superb a type of that moral contradiction--_an
ambitious woman_.
"I cannot tell you," resumed Lady Ellinor, softening, "how pleased I
was when you came to live with us. Your father has perhaps spoken to
you of me, and of our first acquaintance?"--
Lady Ellinor paused abruptly, and surveyed me as she paused. I was
silent.
"Perhaps, too, he has blamed me?" she resumed, with a heightened colour.
"He never blamed you, Lady Ellinor!"
"He had a right to do so--though I doubt if he would have blamed me on
the true ground. Yet, no; he never could have done me the wrong that
your uncle did, when, long years ago, Mr de Caxton in a letter--the
very bitterness of which disarmed all anger--accused me of having
trifled with Austin--nay, with himself! And _he_, at least, had _no_
right to reproach me," continued Lady Ellinor warmly, and with a curve
of her haughty lip, "for if I felt interest in his wild thirst for
some romantic glory, it was but in the hope that, what made the one
brother so restless, might at least wake the other to the ambition that
would have become his intellect, and aroused his energies. But these
are old tales of follies and delusions now no more: only this will I
say, that I have ever felt in thinking of your father, and even of
your sterner uncle, as if my conscience reminded me of a debt which
I longed to discharge--if not to them, to their children. So when
we knew you, believe me that your interests, your career, instantly
became to me an object. But, mistaking you--when I saw your ardent
industry bent on serious objects, and accompanied by a mind so fresh
and buoyant; and, absorbed as I was in schemes or projects far beyond
a woman's ordinary province of hearth and home--I never dreamed, while
you were our guest--never dreamed of danger to you or Fanny. I wound
you, pardon me; but I must vindicate myself. I repeat that, if we had
a son to inherit our name, to bear the burthen which the world lays
upon those who are born to influence the world's destinies, there is
no one to whom Trevanion and myself would sooner have intrusted the
happiness of a daughter. But my daughter is the sole representative of
the mother's line, of the father's name: it is not her happiness alone
that I have to consult, it is her duty--duty to her birthright, to the
career of the noblest of England's patriots--duty, I may say, without
exaggeration, to the country for the sake of which that career is run!"
"Say no more, Lady Ellinor; say no more. I understand you. I have
no hope--I never had hope--it was a madness--it is over. It is but
as a friend that I ask again, if I may see Miss Trevanion in your
presence, before--before I go alone into this long exile. Ay, look in
my face--you cannot fear my resolution, my honour, my truth. But once,
Lady Ellinor, but once more! Do I ask in vain?"
Lady Ellinor was evidently much moved. I bent down almost in the
attitude of kneeling; and, brushing away her tears with one hand, she
laid the other on my head tenderly, and said in a very low voice--
"I entreat you not to ask me; I entreat you not to see my daughter. You
have shown that you are not selfish--conquer yourself still. What if
such an interview, however guarded you might be, were but to agitate,
unnerve my child, unsettle her peace, prey upon"--
"Oh, do not speak thus--she did not share my feelings!"
"Could her mother own it if she did? Come, come, remember how young
you both are. When you return, all these dreams will be forgotten;
then we can meet as before--then I will be your second mother, and
again your career shall be my care; for do not think that we shall
leave you so long in this exile as you seem to forbode. No, no; it
is but an absence--an excursion--not a search after fortune. Your
fortune--confide that to us when you return!"
"And I am to see her no more?" I murmured, as I rose, and went silently
towards the window to conceal my face. The great struggles in life are
limited to moments. In the drooping of the head upon the bosom--in the
pressure of the hand upon the brow--we may scarcely consume a second in
our threescore years and ten; but what revolutions of our whole being
may pass within us, while that single sand drops noiseless down to the
bottom of the hour-glass.
I came back with a firm step to Lady Ellinor, and said calmly, "My
reason tells me that you are right, and I submit. Forgive me! and do
not think me ungrateful, and over proud, if I add, that you must leave
me still the object in life that consoles and encourages me through
all."
"What object is that?" asked Lady Ellinor, hesitatingly.
"Independence for myself, and ease to those for whom life is still
sweet. This is my twofold object; and the means to effect it must be my
own heart and my own hands. And now convey all my thanks to your noble
husband, and accept my warm prayers for yourself and _her_--whom I will
not name. Farewell, Lady Ellinor."
"No, do not leave me so hastily; I have many things to discuss with
you--at least to ask of you. Tell me how your father bears his
reverse?--tell me, at least, if there is aught he will suffer us to do
for him? There are many appointments in Trevanion's range of influence
that would suit even the wilful indolence of a man of letters. Come, be
frank with me!"
I could not resist so much kindness; so I sat down, and, as collectedly
as I could, replied to Lady Ellinor's questions, and sought to convince
her that my father only felt his losses so far as they affected me,
and that nothing in Trevanion's power was likely to tempt him from
his retreat, or calculated to compensate for a change in his habits.
Turning at last from my parents, Lady Ellinor inquired for Roland, and,
on learning that he was with me in town, expressed a strong desire to
see him. I told her I would communicate her wish, and she then said
thoughtfully--
"He has a son, I think, and I have heard that there is some unhappy
dissension between them."
"Who could have told you that?" I asked in surprise, knowing how
closely Roland had kept the secret of his family afflictions.
"Oh, I heard so from some one who knew Captain Roland--I forget when
and where I heard it--but is it not the fact?"
"My uncle Roland has no son."
"How!"
"His son is dead."
"How such a loss must grieve him!"
I did not speak.
"But is he sure that his son is dead! What joy if he were mistaken--if
the son yet lived!"
"Nay, my uncle has a brave heart, and he is resigned;--but, pardon me,
have you heard anything of that son?"
"I!--what should I hear? I would fain learn, however, from your uncle
himself, what he might like to tell me of his sorrows--or if, indeed,
there be any chance that"--
"That--what?"
"That--that his son still survives."
"I think not," said I; "and I doubt whether you will learn much from
my uncle. Still there is something in your words that belies their
apparent meaning, and makes me suspect that you know more than you
will say."
"Diplomatist!" said Lady Ellinor, half smiling; but then, her face
settling into a seriousness almost severe, she added, "It is terrible
to think that a father should hate his son!"
"Hate!--Roland _hate_ his son! What calumny is this?"
"He does not do so, then! Assure me of that; I shall be so glad to know
that I have been misinformed."
"I can tell you this, and no more--for no more do I know--that if ever
the soul of a father were wrapt up in a son--fear, hope, gladness,
sorrow, all reflected back on a father's heart from the shadows on a
son's life--Roland was that father while the son lived still."
"I cannot disbelieve you," exclaimed Lady Ellinor, though in a tone of
surprise. "Well, do let me see your uncle."
"I will do my best to induce him to visit you, and learn all that you
evidently conceal from me."
Lady Ellinor evasively replied to this insinuation, and shortly
afterwards I left that house in which I had known the happiness that
brings the folly, and the grief that bequeaths the wisdom.