THE LOVERS.
It was noon; and Lady Hatfield sate alone in her drawing-room.
She felt herself so much better, and Dr. Lascelles had that morning so
earnestly recommended her to quit the bed-chamber and seek the change of
scene which even a removal from one apartment to another ever
affords—especially to an invalid, that she had not hesitated to follow
her own inclination and his advice, both of which were fully of accord.
Her uncle, Sir Ralph Walsingham, was announced shortly after Lady
Hatfield had descended to the drawing-room.
"My dear Georgiana," exclaimed the honest and kind-hearted man, as he
entered the apartment, "I am delighted to find you here. But why are you
alone? Where is Miss Mordaunt?"
"In the parlour below," replied Lady Hatfield. "Julia has a visitor,"
she added with an arch smile, in spite of the melancholy which still
oppressed her mind.
"A visitor!" ejaculated the baronet. "Sir Christopher Blunt, I'll be
bound!"
"You have guessed rightly, my dear uncle. But how——"
"How should I know anything about it?" interrupted Sir Ralph. "Surely,
Georgiana, you must be too well acquainted with your friend's
disposition to suppose that she could have possibly held her tongue
relative to the presumed attachment of the worthy knight? Why, all the
time she was at the Manor, did she not absolutely hurl Sir Christopher's
name at every soul whom she could engage in conversation? Was it not
'Sir Christopher had told her _this_ last season,' and 'Sir Christopher
had assured her _that_?' and did she not go much farther than merely to
hint that Sir Christopher was dying for her? For my part, I was sick of
Sir Christopher's name. But now I suppose he has come to lay his title
and fortune at her feet, as the newspapers say: or else what could
possibly signify a visit at so unseemly an hour as mid-day?"
[Illustration]
"It will be an excellent match for Julia," remarked Georgiana, by way of
saying something. "She is not one of those who believe that marriage
should be only a convention of hearts, and not of worldly interests."
And as Lady Hatfield made this observation, a profound sigh escaped her
bosom.
"What means that sigh, niece?" demanded the baronet. "Are you envious of
Miss Mordaunt's worldly-mindedness? I am convinced you are not. By the
way, I met Lord Ellingham last evening——"
"His lordship left his card," said Lady Hatfield, casting down her eyes,
while her bosom again rose and fell with a long and painfully-drawn
sigh.
"Georgiana," exclaimed Sir Ralph, seating himself by the side of his
niece, and taking her hand in a kind manner, "your conduct towards that
young Earl is not just—is not generous—is not rational."
"Oh! my dear uncle," cried Lady Hatfield, starting wildly, "for heaven's
sake renew not the discussion of last evening!"
"Pardon me, my dear niece," said Sir Ralph, affectionately but firmly,
"if I give you pain by referring to the topic of that discussion. I am
your nearest relation—I am a widower, and childless: you know that my
property is extensive—and my fond hope has ever been, since the death of
your aunt Lady Walsingham, that you would marry, and that your children
should inherit those estates and that fortune which I can bequeath to
whomsoever I will. But you refuse to accept the hand of a man who is
every way worthy of you—you reject an alliance which, in every human
probability, would be blessed by a progeny to whom my wealth and yours
may alike descend. Nay—interrupt me not, dear Georgiana: I am old enough
to be your father—I love you as if you were my daughter—and I have your
welfare deeply at heart. To speak frankly, I had a long conversation
last evening with Lord Ellingham——"
Georgiana's attention was for an instant broken by a wild start of
despair.
"My God! what signifies this grief, Georgiana?" asked her uncle. "I
thought to give you pleasure by the assurance I was about to
disclose,—an assurance which conveys to you the unalterable fidelity of
the Earl's affection—his readiness to bury in oblivion any little whim
or caprice which induced you to subject him to the humiliation of a
refusal the other day—his determination to study your happiness so
entirely that any cloud of melancholy, or unknown and unfounded
presentiment—any morbid feeling, in a word—which hangs upon your mind,
shall speedily be dissipated. Such are his generous intentions—such are
his tender aspirations, Georgiana:—can you reject his suit again?"
This appeal, made to the unhappy lady by an individual who, though only
related to her by the fact of having married her mother's sister, had
still ever manifested towards her the sincerest affection and
friendship,—this appeal, we say, came with such overwhelming force upon
the mind of Georgiana, that she knew not how to answer it.
"You consent, Georgiana—you consent!" exclaimed Sir Ralph, entirely
mistaking the cause of her profound silence; and, starting up, he rushed
from the room before her lips could give utterance to a syllable that
might have the effect of stopping him.
"Merciful God! what does he mean to do?" cried Georgiana, clasping her
hands together, while a species of spasmodic shuddering came over her
entire frame.
Hasty footsteps approached the door.
Wildly did the unhappy lady glance around her—with the terrified and
imploring air of one whom the officers of justice were about to fetch to
the scaffold.
The door flew open: Georgiana averted her eyes;—but at the next moment
her hands were grasped in those of another, and warm lips were pressed
upon each fair hand of hers—and for a single instant there streamed
through her whole being the electric warmth of ineffable delight, hope,
and love!
She sank back upon the sofa whence she had risen: her eyes, which for a
moment had seemed to lose the faculty of sight, were involuntarily
turned toward the Earl of Ellingham, who was kneeling at her feet;—and
simultaneously her uncle's voice, sounding like the knell of destiny
upon her ears, exclaimed, "I told you she had consented, Ellingham: be
happy—for Georgiana is yours!"
The door of the apartment was then closed hastily; and Lady Hatfield now
knew that she was alone with her lover.
"Oh! my dearest Georgiana," murmured Arthur, still pressing the lady's
hands in his own, "how happy have you at length made me—and how can I
ever express the joy which animates me at this moment! My heart dances
wildly with joy and gratitude; and all the anguish which I have lately
experienced, is forgotten—as if it never had been. Indeed, my beloved
one, it is for me to implore your pardon—for I should not have remained
absent from you so long. But now that we are re-united, and your
indisposition has passed,——now that your mind has recovered its
naturally healthy tone,—there is nothing, my Georgiana, to interrupt the
free course of our felicity."
Lady Hatfield was seized with a certain involuntary horror, which
completely stupefied her, as these impassioned exclamations fell upon
her ears: and vainly—vainly did she endeavour to reply.
Arthur rose, and seating himself by her side on the sofa, passed his arm
around her slender waist, and drawing her gently towards him, said in a
subdued tone, "From this day forth, beloved Georgiana, you must have no
secrets unknown to me. Confide in me as your best and sincerest
friend—and the tenderest sympathy shall flow from my heart to solace you
in those moments of melancholy which no mortal, however prosperously
placed, can hope altogether to avoid. In the society of a husband who
will never cease to love you—whose constant care shall be to ensure your
felicity—and whose unwearied attention shall be devoted to the promotion
of your happiness, your life will be spent in an atmosphere into which a
cloud shall seldom intrude. Oh! what pictures of perfect bliss present
themselves to my imagination!"
The enamoured nobleman pressed the fair one closer to his breast, as he
thus poured forth his soul with all the ardour of his sincere and
devoted love; and she—in spite of herself,—bewildered, stupefied,
intoxicated as she was by the suddenness with which this scene had been
brought about,—she gazed with mingled rapture and surprise upon that
handsome countenance which the glow of inward passion and ineffable joy
now rendered still more expressive.
She felt as if the hysterical shriek, which for some moments past had
threatened to burst from her lips, were subdued—stifled by some unknown
power, whose influence was strangely sweet and consoling:—her soul
almost sickened in the bliss of that love by which she was surrounded,
and to which her woman's heart could not do otherwise than respond.
Then, again, she felt as if she must start from his arms—reject his
love—dash down that chalice of honied happiness from which they both
were drinking deep draughts—and proclaim to him that it was all a
hideous mistake—that she had never consented to receive him as her
husband—that her uncle had committed a fearful error—and that they must
separate, never, never again to meet!
But at the very moment when she was about to do all this, Arthur drew
her nearer to him;—his breath, sweet as that of flowers, fell on her
burning cheek—his hand pressed hers—she found herself linked to him in
heart by a spell which no mortal courage could at such a moment have
broken—then she caught herself looking into his fine eyes, and reading
the thrilling language of love that was written there—and in another
moment their lips met in one long and delicious kiss.
"Sweet Georgiana, I adore you!" murmured Arthur, his glances speaking
more eloquently than his words. "And now there breathes not a happier
man on the earth's wide surface than I. Say, Georgiana—say, does not
that happiness which I myself experience impart pleasure to you? Could
you now do aught to torture my soul again with the agony of
suspense—with the despair of baffled hope? Believe me, my dearest angel,
that if destiny, in its malignant spite, were now to separate us—if
to-morrow I came and found you gone, or here but cold and altered,—in a
word, if any impediment were to arise to the accomplishment of our
union, I should not survive the blow! As a distracted maniac should I be
borne to a mad-cell—or, if my reason were left me, my grave would be
stained with a suicide's blood!"
Georgiana was appalled by this terrible announcement; and in the agony
of feeling which it excited within her, she cast a glance of profound
tenderness upon the Earl, unwittingly pressing his hand at the same
time.
"Oh! now I know that you entertain the same sentiments as myself," he
cried, mistaking those convulsive movements on her part for the tender
evidences of love: "now I know that your heart beats in unison with
mine. Oh! thrice happy day—the happiest that I ever yet have known. And
happier does it seem, too, because it has dissipated so much previous
anxiety—healed so much acutely-felt pain. Yes—dearest Georgiana—I am
almost glad that you rejected my suit the other day; for the wretched
feelings of the interval have, by contrast, made the present moment
indescribably sweet. And shall I tell you, my beloved one, that I am now
acquainted with the nature of that secret——"
"That secret!" cried Georgiana, with a cold shudder—which Ellingham did
not perceive, for at the moment he pressed her fondly towards him.
"Yes, dearest," he continued: "I know all the power which that secret
influence must occasionally have over you: and, believe me when I
declare that—instead of being any longer annoyed at the fact of that
circumstance having induced you to refuse my hand the other day—I deeply
sympathise with you! And if I now allude to that event—that incident
which years ago, at your late father's country-residence in Hampshire——"
A short convulsive sob burst from Georgiana's breast.
"Oh! pardon me—pardon me, beloved one!" cried the Earl, again imprinting
a kiss upon her lips: "I know that I was wrong to allude to an event
which you can never entirely forget. But if I mentioned it ere now—it
was for the first and the last time—and merely to convince you that he,
whom you will soon receive as your husband, is aware of that secret
influence which holds a sway over your mind; and that he implores you to
forget it—to abandon yourself only to the thoughts of that happiness
which our love and our brilliant social position must ensure us. And
now, my dearest Georgiana, no more on that head: never again let the
topic enter into our discourse—never let us allude to it, even by a
single syllable!"
"Oh! generous—excellent-hearted—noble-minded man," exclaimed Georgiana;
"and is your love for me indeed so strong as this?"
"Can you doubt it, dearest?" said the Earl. "If so—tell me how I can
prove its sincerity?"
"Have you not given me a proof the most convincing that man can give to
woman?" asked Lady Hatfield, concealing her blushing countenance on
Arthur's breast. "Are you not content to receive as your wife one who——"
"No more—no more!" exclaimed the Earl, tenderly hushing her words with
kisses. "Have we not agreed never again to allude to that topic?"
"But one word, Arthur," said Georgiana: "only one word! Who could have
acquainted you——"
"Your uncle, dearest," answered Lord Ellingham;—"that excellent man who
has been mainly instrumental in procuring me the happiness which I now
enjoy!"
"My uncle!" murmured Lady Hatfield, her soul subdued with astonishment
of the most overwhelming nature.
But the Earl's ears caught not the repetition of his answer; neither did
he notice the effect which it produced upon Georgiana;—for her head was
pillowed upon his breast—his hand clasped hers—her fine form leant
against him—and he had no thought save of the pure but intoxicating
happiness which he now enjoyed.
Oh, Love! thou art the sweetest charm of life—the dearest solace in this
sphere of trial and vicissitude—the sentiment that, shining on us as a
star, adds the most refulgent brightness to our lot. Ambition never
imparted consolation to the breaking spirit, and places no curb on the
wild passions and insatiable vices which too often dominate the human
heart. Wealth makes its possessor envied, but also encourages the daring
of the robber, or sharpens the knife of the murderer who seeks to grasp
it. Honours engender hatred in the breasts of those who once were
friends. Pleasure is bought by gold, and must be paid for over and over
again by the health. Genius is a consuming fire: like the spur to the
gallant steed, it urges its votary on, but draws the life-blood in the
act. Glory is the eruption of the volcano—bright, majestic, and
resplendent to gaze upon—yet bearing death in its halo. But thou, O
Love! art the star which beams brighter as the gloom of this cold and
selfish world becomes darker:—thou art the sunshine of the soul—teaching
man to emulate the gentleness, the resignation, and the holy devotion of
woman—and raising woman but one remove from the nature of angels!