IN WHICH TWO YOUNG PERSONS UNDERSTAND ONE ANOTHER BETTER, PERHAPS, THAN
EVER THEY DID BEFORE, WITHOUT SAYING SO.
And now the ladies, with their gay plumage, have flown away like foreign
birds of passage, and the jolly old priests of Bacchus, in the parlour,
make their libations of claret; and the young fellows, after a while,
seeing a gathering of painted fans, and rustling hoops, and fluttering
laces, upon the lawn, and a large immigration of hilarious neighbours
besides, and two serious fiddlers, and a black fellow with a tambourine
preparing for action, and the warm glitter of the western sun among the
green foliage about the window, could stand it no longer, but stole
away, notwithstanding a hospitable remonstrance and a protest from old
Strafford, to join the merry muster.
'The young bucks will leave their claret,' said Lord Castlemallard; 'and
truly 'tis a rare fine wine, colonel, a mighty choice claret truly (and
the colonel bowed low, and smiled a rugged purple smile in spite of
himself, for his claret _was_ choice), all won't do when Venus
beckons--when she beckons--ha, ha--all won't do, Sir--at the first
flutter of a petticoat, and the invitation of a pair of fine eyes--fine
eyes, colonel--by Jupiter, they're off--you can't keep 'em--I say your
wine won't keep 'em--they'll be off, Sir--peeping under the hoods, the
dogs will--and whispering their wicked nonsense, Dr. Walsingham--ha,
ha--and your wine, I say--your claret, colonel, won't hold 'em--'twas
once so with us--eh, general?--ha! ha! and we must forgive 'em now.'
And he shoved round his chair lazily, with a left-backward wheel, so as
to command the window, for he liked to see the girls dance, the little
rogues!--with his claret and his French rappee at his elbow; and he did
not hear General Chattesworth, who was talking of the new comedy called
the 'Clandestine Marriage,' and how 'the prologue touches genteelly on
the loss of three late geniuses--Hogarth, Quin, and Cibber--and the
epilogue is the picture of a polite company;' for the tambourine and the
fiddles were going merrily, and the lasses and lads in motion.
Aunt Becky and Lilias were chatting just under those pollard osiers by
the river. She was always gentle with Lily, and somehow unlike the
pugnacious Aunt Becky, whose attack was so spirited and whose thrust so
fierce; and when Lily told a diverting little story--and she was often
very diverting--Aunt Becky used to watch her pleasant face, with such a
droll, good-natured smile; and she used to pat her on the cheek, and
look so glad to see her when they met, and often as if she would say--'
I admire you a great deal more, and I am a great deal fonder of you than
you think; but you know brave stoical Aunt Becky can't say all that--it
would not be in character, you know.' And the old lady knew how good she
was to the poor, and she liked her spirit, and candour, and honour--it
was so uncommon, and somehow angelic, she thought. 'Little Lily's so
true!' she used to say; and perhaps there was there a noble chord of
sympathy between the young girl, who had no taste for battle, and the
daring Aunt Becky.
I think Devereux liked her for liking Lily--he thought it was for her
own sake. Of course, he was often unexpectedly set upon and tomahawked
by the impetuous lady; but the gay captain put on his scalp again, and
gathered his limbs together, and got up in high good humour, and shook
himself and smiled, after his dismemberment, like one of the old
soldiers of the Walhalla--and they were never the worse friends.
So, turning his back upon the fiddles and tambourine, Gipsy Devereux
sauntered down to the river-bank, and to the osiers, where the ladies
are looking down the river, and a blue bell, not half so blue as her own
deep eyes, in Lilias's fingers; and the sound of their gay talk came
mixed with the twitter and clear evening songs of the small birds. By
those same osiers, that see so many things, and tell no tales, there
will yet be a parting. But its own sorrow suffices to the day. And now
it is a summer sunset, and all around dappled gold and azure, and sweet,
dreamy sounds; and Lilias turns her pretty head, and sees him;--and oh!
was it fancy, or did he see just a little flushing of the colour on her
cheek--and her lashes seemed to drop a little, and out came her frank
little hand. And Devereux leaned on the paling there, and chatted his
best sense and nonsense, I dare say; and they laughed and talked about
all sorts of things; and he sang for them a queer little snatch of a
ballad, of an enamoured captain, the course of whose true love ran not
smooth;--
The river ran between them,
And she looked upon the stream,
And the soldier looked upon her
As a dreamer on a dream.
'Believe me--oh! believe,'
He sighed, 'you peerless maid;
My honour is pure,
And my true love sure,
Like the white plume in my hat,
And my shining blade.'
The river ran between them,
And she smiled upon the stream,
Like one that smiles at folly--
A dreamer on a dream.
'I do not trust your promise,
I will not be betrayed;
For your faith is light,
And your cold wit bright,
Like the white plume in your hat,
And your shining blade.'
The river ran between them,
And he rode beside the stream,
And he turned away and parted,
As a dreamer from his dream.
And his comrade brought his message,
From the field where he was laid--
Just his name to repeat,
And to lay at her feet
The white plume from his hat
And his shining blade.[1]
And he sang it in a tuneful and plaintive tenor, that had power to make
rude and ridiculous things pathetic; and Aunt Rebecca thought he was
altogether very agreeable. But it was time she should see what Miss
Gertrude was about; and Devereux and Lily were such very old friends
that she left them to their devices.
'I like the river,' says he; 'it has a soul, Miss Lily, and a character.
There are no river _gods_, but nymphs. Look at that river, Miss Lilias;
what a girlish spirit. I wish she would reveal herself; I could lose my
heart to her, I believe--if, indeed, I could be in love with anything,
you know. Look at the river--is not it feminine? it's sad and it's
merry, musical and sparkling--and oh, so deep! Always changing, yet
still the same. 'Twill show you the trees, or the clouds, or yourself,
or the stars; and it's so clear and so dark, and so sunny, and--so
cold. It tells everything, and yet nothing. It's so pure, and so
playful, and so tuneful, and so coy, yet so mysterious and _fatal_.
I sometimes think, Miss Lilias, I've seen this river spirit;
and she's like--very like you!'
And so he went on; and she was more silent and more a listener than
usual. I don't know all that was passing in pretty Lilias's fancy--in
her heart--near the hum of the waters and the spell of that musical
voice. Love speaks in allegories and a language of signs; looks and
tones tell his tale most truly. So Devereux's talk held her for a while
in a sort of trance, melancholy and delightful. There must be, of
course, the affinity--the rapport--the what you please to call it--to
begin with--it matters not how faint and slender; and then the spell
steals on and grows. See how the poor little woodbine, or the jessamine,
or the vine, will lean towards the rugged elm, appointed by Virgil, in
his epic of husbandry (I mean no pun) for their natural support--the
elm, you know it hath been said, is the gentleman of the forest:--see
all the little tendrils turn his way silently, and cling, and long years
after, maybe, clothe the broken and blighted tree with a fragrance and
beauty not its own. Those feeble feminine plants, are, it sometimes
seems to me, the strength and perfection of creation--strength perfected
in weakness; the ivy, green among the snows of winter, and clasping
together in its true embrace the loveless ruin; and the vine that maketh
glad the heart of man amidst the miseries of life. I must not be
mistaken, though, for Devereux's talk was only a tender sort of
trifling, and Lilias had said nothing to encourage him to risk more; but
she now felt sure that Devereux liked her--that, indeed, he took a deep
interest in her--and somehow she was happy.
And little Lily drew towards the dancers, and Devereux by her side--not
to join in the frolic; it was much pleasanter talking. But the merry
thrum and jingle of the tambourine, and vivacious squeak of the fiddles,
and the incessant laughter and prattle of the gay company were a sort of
protection. And perhaps she fancied that within that pleasant and
bustling circle, the discourse, which was to her so charming, might be
longer maintained. It was music heard in a dream--strange and sweet--and
might never come again.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 1: These little verses have been several times set to music,
and last and very sweetly, by Miss Elizabeth Philp.]