SQUIRE PENDRAY GETS ON HIS STILTS, AND VIEWS LIEUT. FOWLER FROM A LOFTY
EMINENCE.
When Lieut. Fowler called at Pendrea-house the next morning, to take
Blanche out, as he had promised, to finish a sketch she was making of a
scene near the Logan Rock, he was met at the door by the old squire
himself, who, bowing stiffly asked his visitor to grant him a few
minutes' conversation in the library.
"This is an odd reception," thought Fowler; "the old gentleman is up on
his stilts this morning." But, however, as he knew the squire was very
uncertain in his temper, he followed him in silence; and, when they had
entered the room, the squire requested him to be seated, and, after a
moment's pause, in which he seemed to be considering how he should
begin, he said, rather abruptly,--
"I have not deserved this at your hands, Lieut. Fowler."
"What, sir?" said Fowler, in the greatest surprise.
"When you came into this district," continued the squire, without
noticing Fowler's remark, "I invited you to my house; and my family and
myself have tried to make it as agreeable as we could to you, as you
seemed lonely up there by yourself; and the return I have had for all my
kindness, has been your undermining the innocent simplicity of my
youngest daughter, and, in an underhand and clandestine manner, gaining
the affections of an unsophisticated, simple girl, and inducing her to
meet you in bye-places unknown to her family."
"My dear sir!" exclaimed Fowler, scarcely knowing what he said--he was
so taken by surprise; "I protest----"
"It is of no use your denying it," continued the squire; "for I am in
possession of the fact that you have destroyed my child's peace of mind,
without ascertaining whether your attentions would be agreeable to me or
not."
"I acknowledge that I love your daughter, squire Pendray," replied
Fowler; "but I hold her and all your family in too high respect to do
anything underhand or clandestinely, to gain her affections; and I tell
you, sir," he continued, rising with calm dignity, "I have not done so;
and, if you had not been Blanche's father, I would not submit quietly to
be taunted in this way. I should have communicated my feelings to you
long ago, but----"
"But what, sir!" exclaimed the squire, rising from his seat also.
"But for a timid feeling which Blanche possesses," replied Fowler,
"that----"
"Whatever fears Blanche might have had, sir, they ought not to have
prevented you from acting as an honourable man and a gentleman. You are
many years older than my daughter, Lieut. Fowler, and ought not to have
led her away thus. It is well, perhaps, that the discovery has been made
before it was too late. You have taken advantage of my hospitality, sir,
and I desire you will not enter my doors again; and whatever there may
have been between you and my daughter, it must cease. Sir, I wish you a
very good morning." And, bowing to his visitor, the crusty old gentleman
opened another door, which led to the upper part of the house, leaving
Lieut. Fowler standing in the middle of the room, and wondering what
could be the meaning of all this, and who could have informed the squire
of his attachment to his daughter, and of their meetings. He was
conscious of the rectitude and earnestness of his intentions, and knew,
of course, that he had been prevented from making them known to her
father, only by the earnest intreaty of Blanche herself. But he could
not compromise her--indeed he had not an opportunity of doing so, even
if he wished; for, before he had time to reply, or to defend himself,
the old gentleman was gone, and there was no one to receive his
explanation. At first he thought that, perhaps, Blanche might have been
questioned by her father, and had been induced to confess their
attachment and their frequent meetings, without having had the courage
or the opportunity to explain the reason.
He could not remain in the house, of course, nor could he call again,
after what had taken place; but he thought he should like to hear from
Blanche herself how far she was implicated (unintentionally, he was
quite sure) in divulging their secret, and thus causing his dismissal
from a house which he had visited with so much pleasure ever since he
had been in Cornwall. He determined, therefore, that he would see
Blanche, if possible, before he left. So he rang the bell. The servant
who answered it said, in reply to his request to see Miss Blanche for a
moment, that she was confined to her room with a headache, and could not
see him; so he had no alternative but to leave the house.
How little do we know what a day may bring forth! As he walked away from
that house where he had been accustomed to be received almost as one of
the family for a period of four or five years, Lieut. Fowler began to
reflect on the changes and vicissitudes of human life, and how easily
the merest trifle, light as air, will sometimes turn the scale. From his
first introduction to squire Pendray, to the present time, they had
been, as it were, boon companions; for the squire, although an old man,
was a jolly companion over his wine, and would frequently, even then, at
his advanced age, take his gun and have a day's sport with his friend,
and keep up with him too, to the end of the day without flagging, and
would enjoy the bachelors' dinner, and a glass of grog afterwards, at
the lieutenant's little cabin, where the dinner was cooked by a jolly
tar, and served up in sailor fashion, as much as if the table was
spread with the daintiest dishes, and everything was done in the first
style of fashion. And, only two days before, when Fowler dined at
Pendrea-house, he thought, as they sat at their wine after dinner, that
it was impossible his old friend could refuse him his daughter's hand,
if he could only be permitted by her to ask the question; for he had
been always treated more like a brother by the young ladies, than like a
stranger. And now, without even allowing him an opportunity of
explaining his conduct, or of exculpating himself from the insinuations
thrown out against his character as a man of honour and a gentleman, he
is unceremoniously expelled from the house, and forbidden all further
intercourse with her for whom he would willingly lay down his life.
That some secret enemy had been at work, he had not the slightest doubt;
but who it could be, he could not imagine. He was not, therefore, in a
very serene state of mind, when he arrived home, as his men soon
discovered. He ordered them out on night duty, and said he should
himself take a long round and inspect all the outposts during the night.
Blanche had not heard of her lover's having been at the house. She was
not very well, but a walk in the fresh air would have done her good, and
she sat in her room expecting to be informed by her maid, as she had
directed, when Lieut. Fowler called; but none of the female servants saw
him come in, and they did not know he was in the house; for he had been
admitted, as will be remembered, by squire Pendray himself, who,
anticipating that Lieut. Fowler would probably try to see his daughter
before he left the house, desired the footman to say that Miss Blanche
could not be seen; and so the servant was prepared with his answer
before the question was asked. Hour after hour passed away, and still
Blanche waited in anxious expectation, but he did not come--as she
supposed; and at length she went down into the drawing-room to join her
mother and sister.
Maud had done her work cleverly and successfully, and she was satisfied
with herself;--she had avenged the unpleasant insinuations and
reflections cast upon her by her younger sister; and she had prevented
her, she believed, from being ensnared into a connection which was not
deemed eligible in any way for a daughter of the house of Pendray.
Nothing was said by either of the ladies about Lieut. Fowler; and so
Blanche remained in ignorance of his visit and its termination. Day
after day passed away, but Lieut. Fowler did not make his appearance,
and Blanche became alarmed. She walked out occasionally with the hope of
meeting him at one of their favourite haunts, but he did not come. Maud
would now accompany her sister, which was very unusual, their pursuits
and ideas being so widely different. Blanche could not understand it;
and, after their late conversation, she did not like to mention the
name of Fowler to her sister, and so they went on--each having a secret
and reserving it in her own breast, fearing, and yet wishing, to talk to
each other with that confidence which should have existed between two
sisters, who had scarcely ever been separated in their lives.
Blanche, at length, began to feel unhappy and uncomfortable. She
declined going out when her sister asked her, and would sit in her own
room, with her door locked, all day long, and never join the family,
except at meal-times, when she shewed evident signs of mental distress.
The tears would sometimes chase each other gently down her cheeks, as
she sat pretending to eat--for it was a mere pretence;--she had no
appetite, and merely came to the table because she was obliged to do so,
to prevent being questioned. She feared he was ill, but she dared not
ask; and thus, poor timid child, "she let concealment, like a worm i'
the bud, feed on her damask cheek," and pined away in lonely sadness.
Squire Pendray and his eldest daughter divined the cause of Blanche's
melancholy; but, instead of commiserating and consoling her, they
privately denounced Lieut. Fowler as the cause of it all. And, the more
Blanche gave way to her secret grief, and pined for the loss of him
whose presence seemed almost necessary to her existence, the more did
they censure and reproach their former friend.
The only comforter--if such it might be deemed--whom Blanche had, was
Mrs. Pendray, her kind indulgent mother. She, poor lady, knew nothing of
the love affair, and attributed her darling daughter's illness to
another cause, and overwhelmed the sufferer with well-meant attentions,
and loaded her with dainties of all sorts--none of which could Blanche
touch.
The old squire was concerned to see his little pet pining away, and
refusing all nourishment; but his pride would not permit him to yield in
any one particular.
Miss Pendray, too, had her moments of secret anxiety; for Mr. Morley had
not written to anyone, as far as she knew, since his first letter to
Lieut. Fowler, and he had now been gone a fortnight. Lieut. Fowler might
have heard, perhaps, but she had been the means of precluding the
possibility of knowing; for it was in consequence of her tale-bearing to
her father that he had been forbidden the house. She did not, perhaps,
calculate on the mischief she was doing, when her pride and her
ungovernable passion prompted her to betray her sister.