There has scarcely been a poet or a prose writer, in any country, or in
any tongue, who has not first declared that there is nothing like love,
and then attempted to liken it to something. The truth is, that fine
essence is compounded of so many sweet things, that, though we may find
some resemblance to this or that peculiar quality, which forms a part,
we shall find nothing which can compare with the whole--nothing so
bright, nothing so sweet, nothing so entrancing, nothing so
ennobling--must we add, nothing so rare. Every fool and every villain
impudently fancies that he can love, without knowing that his very
nature renders it impossible to him. Every libertine and every
debauchee talks of love, without knowing that he has destroyed, in his
own bosom, the power of comprehending what love is--that he has shut
down and battened the pure fountain that can never be opened again.
Every one who can feel a part of love--and that, in general, the
coarser part--believes that he has the high privilege of loving, as
though a man were to drink the mere lees, and call it wine. Oh, no! How
infinite are the qualities requisite--each giving strength, and vigour,
and fire to the other! There must be a pure and noble heart, capable of
every generous and every ardent feeling; there must be a grand and
comprehensive mind, able to form and receive every elevated thought and
fine idea; there must be a warm and vivid imagination, to sport with,
and combine, and brighten every beautiful theme of fancy; there must be
a high and unearthly soul, giving the spirit's intensity to the earthly
passion. Even when all this is done, it is but a sweet melody: the
harmony is incomplete, till there be another being tuned alike, and
breathing, not similar, but responsive tones. Then, and not till then,
there may be love. Man, lay thy hand upon thy heart, and ask thyself,
"Is it not so with me?" If so, happy, thrice and fully happy, art thou.
If not, strive that it may be so; for, rightly felt, the most ennobling
of all earthly impulses is love.
The night that we have seen commence passed over not tranquilly to any
of the party which had been assembled at the Manor House. Alice Herbert
laid her sweet limbs down on the couch which had so often brought her
calm soft slumbers, but it was long ere she closed her eyes; and before
she did so, there dropped from them some tears. Sir Walter lay upon his
bed and thought, and a single sentence will show the subject of his
meditation. "Poor boy," he said, in a low tone, after thinking long;
"he is doomed to disappointment."
Lord Harold tossed in feverish anxiety; and for many an hour Langford
cooled his burning brow by the night air on the banks of the stream.
Day was fast dawning when he prepared to return to the inn; but ere he
had crossed the bridge, a boy of ten years of age, or thereabouts, with
fair curling hair, and a sunny countenance, crossed his path, saying
quickly, "My master waits to speak with you."
"Where is he, Jocelyn?" demanded Langford.
"In the thick wood in the manor park," replied the boy, "just above the
stream: but I will show you."
"Go on!" said Langford; and they were both soon hidden by the trees.
The park of the old manor-house, in its laying out and arrangement,
resembled the period of our tale--that is to say, it lay between two
epochs. There was still, in the neighbourhood of the house, the old
trim flower garden, with its rows of sombre yew trees; there who also
that more magnificent kind of billiard table in which our robust
ancestors used to take delight, the bowling-green; there were also
several long alleys of pine and beech, carried as far as the inequality
of the ground would permit; but then, beyond that again, came the park
scenery, in which we now delight--the deep wood, the dewy lawns, the
old unpruned trees, with every here and there a winding walk, cut
neatly amongst the old roots and stems, and taking advantage of all the
most beautiful points of view. But we will dwell on such matters no
longer; it is with pictures of the human heart that we have to do.
The dew was still upon the turf in the bowling-green, and in the long
grassy walks of the flower garden, when Alice Herbert came forth to
take her morning ramble alone. She was fond of taking the fresh air of
the early day; and enjoyed, as much as ever poet or painter did, the
varied lights and shades cast by the rising sun over the world; lights
and shades like the fitful visions of our boyhood, when the rising sun
of life renders all the shadows longer and deeper, and the brightness
doubly bright. In these morning expeditions, when she went forth to
enrich one hour of her young life with treasures from the bosom of
nature--treasures which she stored up, hardly knowing that she did so,
to be employed long after they were gained, in decorating and
embellishing all her being--there was scarcely anything that met her
eye, or any sound that met her ear, that was not marked and thought of;
examined and commented upon; played with, embellished, and illustrated
by her rich and poetical imagination. The fluttering butterfly that
passed before her was not remarked for the beauty of its colouring
alone; fancy found in it an image of a thousand other things; the mind
moralised upon it, and the heart took the lesson home. Even the clouds,
the slow fanciful clouds, as, writhing themselves into strange shapes,
they floated over the spring sky, sweeping lightly with their blue
shadows the soft bosom of the earth, gave equal food for imagination,
and induced manifold trains of thought; and in the lark's clear melody,
the ear of Alice Herbert heard something more than merely sweet sounds;
her heart joined in his anthem, her thoughts took the musical tone of
his sweet song, and her spirit rose upon his wings towards the gates of
heaven.
It often happened that, in these walks, her father bore her company,
and it was always a joy and satisfaction to her when he did so; for
between father and daughter there was that perfect reciprocity of
feeling that made it delightful to her to be able to pour forth in his
ear all the thoughts that sprang up from her heart; and to hear, as she
leant clinging to his arm, all the sweet and gentle, the simple, but
strong-minded and noble, ideas which the face of native suggested to
her father's fancy. To him she would listen well pleased, though many a
creature of the great world might have scoffed at the simplicity of the
words he uttered. To him she would tell all she herself felt; for
never, from her childhood upwards, had her father checked the
confidence of his child, even by a laugh at her young ignorance.
Thus, when she came down in the morning to go out, she would pause for
a moment at her father's door, to hear if he were stirring. If there
were sounds within, she would knock gently for admission; if there were
no sounds, she would pass on her way. This morning her father was still
sleeping when she came forth, for he had passed a somewhat restless
night, and she went on alone, with, perhaps a more grave and thoughtful
air than usual. She lingered for some moments in the flower-garden; and
then, with a slow step, took her way up the gravel walk which led into
one of the park paths, running along through the woods that crowned the
bank above the stream.
The path she followed was like a varied but a pleasant life, now
emerging into full sunshine as it approached the edge of the bank, now
dipping down into cool and contemplative shadow, as it wound in again
amongst the trees, now softly rising, now gently descending, but never
so rapidly as to hurry the breath or to hasten the footsteps. It was
broad, too, and even; airy and free. Along this path, then, she
wandered, casting off as she went the slight degree of melancholy that
at first shaded her, and turning her mind to its usual subjects of
contemplation. She thus proceeded for more than a mile, and had turned
to go back again to the house, when, as she approached a spot where
another path joined that which she was following, she suddenly heard
quick footsteps coming towards her.
The mind has often, in such cases, rapid powers of combination, seeming
almost to reach intuition; and though Alice Herbert had no apparent
means of ascertaining who was the person that approached, yet she
instantly turned pale, and became, for a moment, a good deal agitated.
With woman's habitual mastery over her own emotions, however, she
recovered herself almost immediately, and was walking on as calmly as
before, when Lord Harold, as she had expected, joined her in her walk.
"Good morning, Alice," he said; "I have just seen your father, and have
come out to meet you."
"Good morning, Edward," was her answer. "You must have been early up to
have been over here so soon. But as my father has risen, let us go in
to breakfast."
"Nay, stay with me a moment, Alice," said the young man; "it is but
seldom that I have a few minutes alone with you."
Alice made no reply, but continued on the way towards the house, with
her eyes cast down and her cheek a little pale. Lord Harold at length
took her hand and detained her gently, saying, "Nay, Alice, you must
stay; I have your father's permission for keeping you a little longer,
though I fear, Alice, from what I see, that I shall keep you here in
vain. Alice," he added, after making an attempt to command his
feelings, "dear Alice, did you mark the few words I said to you last
night?"
Alice Herbert paused for a moment, and one might have heard her heart
beating, so greatly was she agitated; but at length, evidently exerting
a strong effort of resolution, she looked up and replied, "I did mark
them, Edward, and they gave me very great pain, and I have been grieved
about them ever since."
"Why--why?" demanded Lord Harold, eagerly, "why should they give you
pain, when it is in your own power to render them for me, at least, the
happiest words that ever were spoken; and to give me an opportunity of
devoting my whole life to make you happy in return?"
"It is not in my own power, Edward," replied Alice, firmly but gently,
not attempting to withdraw the hand that Lord Harold still held, but
leaving it in his; cold, tranquil, ungiven though unresisting--"it is
not in my own power."
"Then am I so very distasteful to you," he exclaimed, sorrowfully,
"that no attention, no pains, no affection, no time can make you regard
me with complaisance?"
Alice was pained. "Indeed, indeed, Edward, you do me wrong," she said.
"You are not distasteful to me. I do regard you with complaisance. You
know that your society is anything but disagreeable to me; but yet, I
cannot love you as you ought to be loved, as you have a right to be
loved; nor can any attention, nor any kindness which you could show me,
nor any time, make a difference in this respect. We have known each
other from our childhood. You have shown me every degree of kindness,
every sort of attention that any one can show. You have gained my
esteem and my regard; I have always felt towards you almost as a
sister; and perhaps that very feeling may have prevented me from
feeling more."
"Nay, but, Alice, still hear me!" replied Lord Harold,
earnestly--
"hear me, hear me patiently; for remember, I am pleading for something
more than life--for the whole happiness of life! You say you have
regarded me as a brother, that you esteem me, that you do not dislike
my society; were I to become your husband, might not these feelings
grow warmer--stronger?"
"They might, or they might not," answered Alice; "but, Edward, I must
not, I cannot, I will not put them to the test. There is but one thing
that will ever induce me to marry any man--loving him deeply, strongly,
and entirely: loving him with my whole heart."
"And is there such a man?" demanded Lord Harold, suddenly, and at the
same time fixing his eyes keenly upon her.
Alice lifted hers in return, full, but somewhat reproachfully to his
countenance. "Edward," she said, "that is a question you have no right
to put! However," she added, after a moment's pause, "because we have
been companions from our childhood, because I do really esteem you, I
will answer your question. There is no one who has such a hold of me;
and till I meet with such, I will never marry any one."
"Then, dear Alice, there is yet hope!" he exclaimed.
"You construe what I have said very wrongly," she replied. "Do not! Oh!
do not, Lord Harold, by taking words of kindness for words of
encouragement, force me to speak that harshly which I would soften as
much as may be."
"Nay, Alice," answered Lord Harold, "your lesson comes rather late to
produce any benefit to me. I fear that I may have mistaken, before now,
words and acts of mere kindness for words and acts of encouragement. I
have--I acknowledge it--I have entertained hopes; I have thought that
Alice sometimes smiled upon me."
"Now, Edward, for the first time since I have known you," replied
Alice, "you are ungenerous, you are unkind. Brought up together from
childhood, seeing each other constantly, looking upon you almost as a
brother, esteeming, as I acknowledge I esteem you. I could but act as I
have acted. Has there been any change in my conduct towards you from
what that conduct was five, six, or seven years ago? Ought there to
have been any change in my conduct towards you, till I knew that there
was a change in your feelings towards me? Would you not have been the
first to accuse me of caprice, of unkindness, of forgetfulness of old
regard and early friendship? Oh! Edward, why should anything thus come
to interrupt such friendship--to bring a coldness over such regard?"
"Pardon me, pardon me, Alice," said Lord Harold, "I was wrong to refer
to my hopes; but I meant not to say that you had willingly given them
encouragement; I meant rather to excuse myself for entertaining them,
than otherwise. Blame you, I did not, I could not. All that you have
done has been gentle and right. Do not then, Alice, do not let anything
which has passed to-day interrupt our friendship, or bring, as you say,
a coldness over your regard for me. Let me still see you as heretofore;
let me still be to you as a friend, as a brother. There is no knowing
what change may take place in the human heart, what sudden accidents
may plant in it feelings which were not there before. Some good chance
may thus befriend me--some happy circumstance may awaken new feelings
in your heart."
"I cannot suffer you to deceive yourself," she said. "Such will never
be the case. It would be cruel of me, it would be wrong both to myself
and you, could I suffer you to think I should change. Oh, no! This
cannot have taken so strong a hold of you as not to be governable by
your reason. I shall ever esteem you, Edward, I shall ever be your
friend, but I can be nothing more; and let me beseech you to use your
powers of mind, which are great, to overcome feelings that can only
make you unhappy, and grieve me to hear that you entertain them."
She spoke in a manner, in a tone, that left no hope; but though he had
become deadly pale, he seemed now to have made up his mind to his fate.
"Fear not, Alice," he said, "fear not! Whatever I suffer, you shall
hear no more of it. Love you, Alice, I shall ever, to the last day of
my life; but trouble you with that love, will I no more. There is only
one thing I have to request; and that I do from no idle motive of
selfish vanity, from no tear of being pointed at and pitied by our
friends as Alice Herbert's rejected lover, but from motives of some
importance to all. Do not let it be known that such words have passed
between us as have been spoken this day."
"You cannot suppose me capable of speaking of such a thing," cried
Alice, both mortified and surprised.
"Oh, no!" he said; "but I mean to ask that it may remain a secret even
from my father."
"With your own father," said Alice, "you must of course deal as you
please, but with mine----"
"Yours knows my object in coming to-day already," interrupted Lord
Harold, "and must, of course, know the result. Mine has given his
fullest consent, upon my honour, to my seeking your hand. All I ask is,
that he may not know I have sought it and it has been refused. Let me
visit here as usual, let me--"
"I had heard," said Alice, "that you are going up to London. Why not do
so at once?"
"I will," he answered; "I will. But that will be only for a few days;
and, at my return, there must be no difference, Alice. Promise me that;
promise, if but for the sake of early friendship, for the sake of
childish companionship."
"Well," she said, after a moment's pause; "well, but there must be no
mistaking, Edward."
He looked pained. "Do not suppose, Alice," he replied, "that I have any
ungenerous object. When I ask this favour, I ask it for your sake as
well as my own. You must not ask me how or why, but trust me."
"I will," she said; "I will! I have always found you honourable and
generous; but, indeed, let me say, without thinking me unkind, that for
your own sake, with such feelings as you possess towards me, it were
better to be here as little as may be till you have conquered them."
"That will never be, Alice," he answered. "It is enough that you shall
never hear more of them. But here comes Silly John, as people call
him," he added, bitterly. "It is fit that a fool should break off a
conversation begun with such mad and silly hopes as mine! Let us so
back to the Manor, Alice; we shall never get rid of him."
The person who thus interrupted the painful interview between Lord
Harold and Alice Herbert, was one of a class now much more rarely seen
than in those times. There were, it is true, even then, hospitals and
asylums for the insane, but they were few; and Silly John, as he was
called, was not one of those whom the men of that day would ever have
dreamed of putting in confinement. He was perfectly harmless, though
often very annoying; and the malady of the brain under which he
suffered was rather an aberration of intellect than the complete loss
of judgment. It went a deal further, indeed, than in the case of the
_half saved_, in that most beautiful of biographies, that quintessence
of rare learning and excellent thought, _The Doctor_. He was decidedly
insane upon many points; and upon all, the intellect, if not weak, was
wandering and unsettled. His real name was John Graves: he had been an
usher in a small school, and consequently was not without a portion of
learning, such as it was. But his great passion was for music and
poetry: the one would call him into a state of sad though tranquil
silence, the very name of the other would excite him to an alarming
pitch of loquacity. Withal, he was not without a certain degree of
shrewdness in some matters; and what was still more singular and
apparently anomalous, his memory of events and dates was peculiarly
strong, and his adherence to truth invariable.
He now approached Alice and her companion with a quick step, dressed in
an old wide coat of philomot colour, with a steeple-crowned hat, which
had seen the wars of the great rebellion, rusty and battered, but still
whole, and decorated with two cock's feathers which he had torn himself
from the tail of some luckless chanticleer. His grey worsted hose were
darned with many a colour; and in his lean but muscular hand, he
carried a strong cudgel, which steadied his steps, being slightly lame
in the right leg. When he had come within a few feet of the lady and
her suitor, he stopped directly in the path, so that they could not
pass without going amongst the trees; and, for a moment or two, looked
intently in both their faces, with his small grey eyes peering into
theirs, and his large head leaning considerably to the side, so as to
bring the heavy ashy features quite out of the natural line.
"Well, John, what do you want?" demanded Alice, who had been familiar
with the sight of the poor man from her childhood. "Is there anything I
can do for you?"
"No, Mistress Alice; no, my pretty maid!" replied the man. "Only
take care of your sweet self, lady. I came up to be at the
conference--wherever there is a conference, there am I; and I heard you
and Harold talking when I was on the other side of the bushes; and now,
lo! the conference seems over."
"It is so for to-day, at least, John," replied Lord Harold; "so now let
us pass, my good man."
"Call me not good, Harold," he replied.
"'There yet was good but One,
That trod this cold earth's breast.
And now to heaven he's gone
For our eternal rest.'
"But you see I was right, Harold. They call me silly; but I am not silly
in matters of love. I told you how it would be this morning as you
crossed the bridge."
"My good man, I heard you say something," replied the young nobleman;
"but what, I did not know."
"You should have listened, then," replied the madman. "Always listen
when any one speaks to you. Did you not learn that at school? Always
listen, especially to the masters. Now, if you had listened, you would
have heard. I told you she would not have you."
Lord Harold turned red, and Alice felt for him; but he replied,
good-humouredly, as they walked on with the madman following them--"I
rather imagine, John, you have been listening to some purpose."
"No, I have not been listening, but I heard," replied the madman "and
two other pairs of ears did the same."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Lord Harold; "and who might they be?"
"Oh, the fox and the dog!" replied Silly John, in a rambling way; "The
fox and the dog, to be sure. The dog wanted to go away when you came,
but the fox would not let him, saying, that if they stirred they would
be heard and seen, and then folks would wonder what they came there for
so early of a morning--was not that a cunning fox? But I could have
told him what they both came there for, if I had liked, but that would
never do."
"And pray what is the dog's name?" demanded Lord Harold, in a quiet
tone, well knowing that an appearance of curiosity would often set
their half-witted companion rambling to different subjects from that
which had before engaged him.
"Oh, every dog has a name," replied the madman; "but they change their
names as well as men and women, Harold. This dog's name was once Lion,
and it is now Trusty, and to-morrow it may be Lord. I have known dogs
have twenty names in their lives. God help us! we are queer creatures!
And talking of dogs, I had a dog when I was second master at Uppington
School,"--and so he rambled on.
There was no stopping him, or recalling him to the subject; and he
followed Alice and Lord Harold, keeping close to the side of the
latter, and talking incessantly, but now so deeply engaged in the wild
and disordered stream of his own thoughts, that taking no further
notice of the conversation which the young nobleman renewed with his
fair companion, and continued with a low voice till they reached the
house, he went on volubly, touching upon a thousand subjects, and
darting after every collateral idea that was suggested by a chance word
spoken even by himself.