Emmeline had retired to change her dress. Richard had gone, Heaven
knows whither; and Smeaton, after pausing for a few minutes in the
hall, seemingly very busy in examining the suits of old armour which
had hung there since the days of Elizabeth, but in reality seeing none
of them with the mind's eye, though he moved round from one to the
other merely like a piece of mechanism, at length walked up the stairs
to the two rooms which, as I have said, had been appropriated to his
use.
We must draw the curtain of the breast and look in; not perhaps
tracing thought by thought--who can, even when he looks into his own
heart?--but giving such glimpses as may show sufficiently what was
passing within.
"This is unfortunate," he said to himself; "and I must resist such
feelings--yet, why? I cannot answer why. She is very, very beautiful,
graceful, gentle, bright, unsullied by this foul and dusty world in
which we live. Why should I doubt or hesitate? Because my own
sensations take me by surprise, and I feel myself led on by impulse
rather than by reason. But what does boasted Reason do for us in such
things as these? More frequently she misleads than directs us rightly.
I will let things take their course. It is but my own happiness I
peril; and, without perilling it, I cannot serve Emmeline as I could
wish; nay, nor fully keep my promise. I will risk it. Perhaps these
sensations will wear away. I remember when I thought myself
desperately in love with the Spanish girl, the poor Cura's niece, at
Valencia; and it ended in disgust; I do not think it will do so here.
Then it was but sleepy black eyes, and a warm sunny cheek, and a neat
bodice, and a pretty foot--with passion enough in all conscience, but
neither soul nor mind. No, no! Emmeline is very different--yet it may
wear off. If I have thought much of her--dreamed of her, I may say, by
day and night since I have known her--it is very natural, without love
having anything to do with it. Her strange fate, the wrong that has
been done her, the greater wrong, I fear, intended her, the eager
desire to free her from this thraldom, and to open her mind to her own
history--and yet the difficulty of so doing--may all well have created
an interest independent of love. Yet she is very beautiful and very
charming. There is something winning in that smile, half tender, half
playful; and certainly Nature in its happiest leisure never moulded a
form of more exquisite symmetry. It makes one's heart beat almost to
gaze upon her, surpassing far the highest effort of the sculptor's
art, and full of living graces which neither sculptor's chisel nor
painter's brush could ever catch or portray. Hark! she is singing! Ay,
a well-remembered song of my young days. Her chamber must be near
this, from the distinctness of the sounds."
"Mellow year, mellow year,
The winter time is near,
With its frost, and its snow, and its wind;
When the branches are all bare,
And tempests load the air,
And icy chains the dancing rivers bind."
The song ceased, and the light accompaniment of a lute or mandolin
ceased likewise. It seemed but a little outburst of that spirit of
music which is in almost every young heart, and Smeaton said to
himself--"I will sing her the next stanza. Perhaps she does not know
it." And with a rich, mellow, tenor voice, he went on with the song,
thus:--
"But the Spring, the bright Spring,
On his green-embroider'd wing,
Is speeding from the South all the while;
Scattering flowers on Winter's way,
And repairing all decay,
And teaching tearful eyes again to smile."
He listened for a moment; but all was silent, and then, opening the
door of his room, he descended again to the saloon. He had hardly been
there a moment when Emmeline joined him, with a bright frank smile
upon her face, saying, as she entered--
"You have been singing--and one of my dear old nursery songs."
"You left it incomplete," replied Smeaton; "and, as it is one of my
dear old nursery songs too, I felt myself called upon for its honour
to add the last stanza--at least, the last that I remember; for I
believe there are several more."
"Oh, yes," replied Emmeline. "I will sing them all to you some
evening, though Sir John Newark is not very fond of music. Are you?"
"I do not know what life would be without it," replied Smeaton. "Mine,
I know, would have lost many of its few happy hours."
"And does your wife like music? And does she sing often? And has she a
good voice?" exclaimed Emmeline, putting question upon question before
her companion could answer. But a gay smile upon Smeaton's lips
stopped her at length.
"My wife, dear lady!" he said, half laughing. "My wife! I hope she
will sing, if I am ever fortunate enough to have one; but, up to the
present hour, certainly, I have no wife."
Emmeline looked astonished, almost frightened; and, for a moment, she
stood, gazing in his face in silence, and then said, in a slow and
hesitating manner--
"Sir John Newark told me you had a wife."
"Did he, indeed?" asked Smeaton, with a smile, not unmingled with a
look of astonishment; but, the moment after, he added--"Now, I
remember, there was conversation between us regarding Lady Eskdale. He
must have changed my mother into my wife, it seems, which is contrary,
dear lady, to the law of all lands. He pressed the subject upon me, I
recollect; and I gave him very short answers, not thinking fit to
enter upon my own or my mother's affairs with him. I imagined that he
wished to discover what we intended to do with Keanton; but he has led
himself into a very great mistake; for I have no wife, I can assure
you, dear lady."
Emmeline was agitated, she knew not why. Indeed she did not ask
herself. All that she felt was that her heart beat more quickly than
usual; that a change seemed to have come over her thoughts and
feelings in an instant; that all was altered in the relations between
her and her companion. It seemed very strange to her; it confused her,
even seemed to alarm her and, with eager quickness, memory ran back
over all that had passed between her and Smeaton, as though to
ascertain if she had committed no fault towards him under the mistake
into which she had been led. She remembered that he had twice called
her Emmeline; and she recollected more than once that a look of
admiration had come upon his face, when his eyes were turned towards
her, the very memory of which deepened the colour in her cheek. She
was very young and very inexperienced; and the discovery she had made
filled her with many emotions which she strove not to disentangle or
to scan, but which, though agitating, were certainly not painful. She
remained so long silent, however, busied in these thoughts, that
Smeaton himself was somewhat pained.
"She has been only thus bright and frank with me," he thought,
"because she believed me to be a married man; and in all the signs of
dawning regard which I fancied her looks and words betrayed, I have
been mistaken."
Man's heart, however, is a very dark and intricate thing. Solomon and
a great many other personages have affirmed this, and I believe it.
There is nothing which spurs love on like a little difficulty; and
Smeaton, who, a few minutes before, had been doubting whether he was
really falling in love at all, and whether he ought to say or do
anything which might tend to win her affection, had no longer the
least doubt on the subject. He did not pause long to consider; but,
taking her hand in his, he said:
"Emmeline, you have been deceived by Sir John's representations; but
does this make any difference in your confidence and regard? Will you
not trust me--will you not rely upon me, though I be unmarried, as
much as you would freely have done, had the tale you heard been true?"
She did not attempt to withdraw her hand from his, but raised her
beautiful eyes to his face, asking, simply:
"Ought I?"
"Why not?" he exclaimed. "Could my having a wife make me more a man of
honour? Could it render me more anxious to serve you--to free you from
a painful, a difficult, a dangerous situation? Could it make you more
safe than in trusting to my word as a gentleman and a Christian to use
all my efforts for your service, and for the promotion of your
happiness alone?"
"No, oh, no," answered Emmeline, is reply to his eager questions; but
he still went on, saying:
"Would it not rather throw difficulties in our way? Might it not
produce a thousand embarrassments, whereas, if any now occur, you can
yourself remove them by a few short words?"
The meaning of the last part of the sentence seemed clear enough; and,
after a time, it came back to her memory; but at the moment, confused
by a variety of feelings, to her new and strange, and of thoughts
which seemed only to become more entangled every moment, she replied:
"I have so little experience--I am so ignorant of how I ought to act,
or even what I ought to think, that--"
She paused, unable to conclude the sentence, but, seeing a look of
pain on his face, she laid her hand gently upon his, saying:
"Do not let me grieve you. I would not do so for the world. I have the
utmost trust, the utmost confidence in you, and will show it frankly.
But add this to all your other kindness; tell me truly and sincerely
how I ought to act, what I ought to do, and I will do it. Guide me,
guide me, noble friend for I feel that I have none to whom I can look
for guidance but you."
The tears rose in her eyes as she spoke, and Smeaton, with a look
which could not alarm or agitate her, bent his head and pressed his
lips upon her hand.
"I will be your guide, dear Emmeline," he said; "and so God help me as
I seek, in guiding you, your own happiness, your own safety, before
any other objects whatsoever."
Emmeline raised her eyes to his face, full of bright drops, and his
words and that answering look formed a bond between them for life.
There are instincts far stronger, far clearer, far truer, than any
conclusion of reason or any deduction from experience. The shrewd, the
cunning, the hackneyed in the world do well not to trust to them; for
in the first two classes, Nature having endowed them with other
qualities for their guidance and defence, in general denies them these
instincts, just as she denies horns to a lion, and claws to an
elephant; they are provided, and want not farther help; and, with the
hackneyed man of the world, if ever possessed of such instincts, they
are soon worn out, and the traces of them obscured. But, with the
guileless and inexperienced, they are a sure, and often the only,
guide and defence.
The same instinctive feeling of dread and doubt which taught her to
shrink from Sir John Newark, which barred all confidence and checked
all affection, made her heart spring to meet the friendship--perhaps I
might call it by a tenderer name--of Smeaton, and long to pour out all
its feelings and thoughts before him. The agitation of new sensations,
however, checked her for the time, and all she said was:
"Oh, how happy it is to have some one in whom we can wholly trust and
rely!"
That was a blessed moment for Smeaton. It was to the affection which
had sprung up, and was budding in his heart, like the soft beams of a
bright morning sun upon an opening rose, teaching it to expand in all
its full sweetness, and he gazed upon her with a look of love which
could not be mistaken. Of words there was little need; yet words
trembled on his lips which could never be unsaid. Suddenly Emmeline,
with a start, withdrew her hand from his. They had thought themselves,
throughout the whole scene, alone; but it was not so. The windows were
partly open to admit the balmy air; and, though they did not descend
to the ground, as modern windows do, yet they were not raised more
than a foot or two above the level of the terrace without. For the
last two or three minutes, a figure had been standing at the angle
of the most westerly window, and looking in, half hidden by the
stone-work. It now moved across towards the great door, and the shadow
that it cast upon the floor of the room roused Emmeline from her
dreams of happiness, with a sensation of fear.
"What is the matter?" exclaimed Smeaton, surprised by her sudden
start.
"Some one passed across the window," replied Emmeline, with the colour
mounting warmly into her cheek.
"Was it Sir John Newark?" asked Smeaton, while a cloud came over his
brow. "If so, a full explanation must come before it is desirable."
"I think not," replied Emmeline. "The shadow first caught my eye; and,
before could see distinctly, the figure was gone. Nevertheless, I
think it was that of Richard."
Smeaton mused for a moment, and then said.
"Of course he will tell his father what he may have seen and
overheard, and we must take our determination accordingly, Emmeline."
"I do not think he will," said Emmeline, eagerly; but she paused at
the next sentence, adding, more slowly, as if not knowing well how to
express what she meant without some violation of propriety: "Very few
persons here, I believe, are inclined to tell my guardian anything
unless he asks. Why it is, I am sure I do not know, for he is very
kind in most things; yet they seem to fear him, and do not like to say
what they think, lest they should make mischief. Some of the servants,
indeed, but not many even of them, report to him all that passes under
their eyes; but I have never dared to speak freely with him upon any
thing; and, I believe, Richard feels the same. Hark! there is his foot
coming through the great hall. It must have been he who was looking
through the window. Poor boy! he would never think of repeating
anything which he thought could pain me; but I ought not to ask him to
conceal any thing from his father."
"Certainly not," replied Smeaton, frankly. "Let things take their
course; only ascertain as soon as possible what he really does do;
and, in the mean time, dear Emmeline, let me beseech you to cast away
all restraint towards me. It is needful to you and to your own future
fate now, and I feel it is needful to me and my happiness, that you
should give me every opportunity of speaking to you, consulting with
you, advising you in private. Though _I_, perhaps, must find the
opportunities, you must aid me to take advantage of them. Much must be
decided within the next two or three weeks, and upon what is decided
all the future course of your life will depend--and mine also," he
added, in a lower voice. "Ay, and of mine also."
Before she could reply, the latch of the door was raised, and Richard
Newark entered the room, with a slow and thoughtful pace, very
different from his light irregular walk. Emmeline drew a step back;
but Smeaton remained exactly where he was, without the slightest
change of look or manner, while the boy advanced into the room,
humming to himself the snatch of some old song, as if wrapped up in
his own thoughts, and hardly conscious that anybody was there.
"Well, Richard," said Smeaton, "where have you been wandering?"
"I have been upon the terrace for the last five minutes," replied the
lad, simply.
"That I know," rejoined Smeaton. "We saw your shadow on the floor."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Richard Newark, evidently with some surprise. "I
thought you did not see me; but this preposterous knob between my two
shoulders, filled with all sorts of things that never get into other
people's heads, betrays me, I suppose, wherever I go. Well, never
mind! What matters it to me if nightingales will sit and sing on the
edge of a hawk's nest? It is no matter of mine, and I can keep things
to myself as well as my elders and my betters. Only, 'ware the
springe, noble Colonel. Woodcocks have put their necks into a noose
before now."
Emmeline and her lover, for so I think I may now venture to call him,
looked at each other, as if uncertain how to act; but then, starting
forward, with her wild grace, the beautiful girl laid her hand upon
her cousin's arm, saying--
"Do you not love me, Richard? Have you not said that, if you were my
brother, you could not love me more?"
The boy's whole manner was changed in a moment.
"That I do, Emmeline," he cried, catching her hand in his, and holding
out his other hand to Smeaton. "I love you both, and will do anything
I can to serve you. Trust to me, trust to me, and don't be a bit
afraid. I will find means to help you at a pinch. I know that my brain
is somewhat askew; but that is not my fault, and there is some wit
within, though it lies in odd corners. For your sake, Emmeline, and
for yours too, Smeaton, I will rummage it out, and try if I cannot
make it serviceable. I will do you no harm, if I cannot do you good."
"Take care of that, Richard," said Smeaton, gravely.
The boy nodded his head significantly, and then added, with a loud
laugh--
"And now I will be odder than ever, to cover what is going on within;
but I can tell you, dear girl, that I have rendered you one service
this morning, already; for if _I_ had not been at the window, somebody
else would."
"Who?" exclaimed Emmeline, with a look of apprehension.
"Old Mrs. Culpepper was going out for her evening airing," replied the
boy, smiling, "with her stealthy tiptoe step, like a cat crossing the
greensward on a dewy morning. She tended this way, Emmy; but, when she
saw me lolling against the window-frame, she crept off to prowl in
another direction. She watches you all the while she is purring round
you, more closely than you know, and it is better to have me there
than her, I can tell you."
"I am sure it is, Richard," answered Emmeline. "But what you say
surprises and shocks me. I did not know that I required watching by
any one. So Heaven help me, as I desire and seek no wrong, but only to
be as rightly happy as it is God's will I should be."
"No more does a titlark, Emmy," replied the boy; "and yet they shut
him up in an iron cage, and only give him a bit of turf to make him
remember how joyful he would be if he could spread his freed wings,
and soar away up into the sky."
There was something in the simile which touched Emmeline to the heart;
her eyes filled with tears; and, darting away, she quitted the room,
leaving Smeaton and Richard Newark together.