_Soph._ You powers, that take into your care the guard
Of innocence, aid me! for I am a creature
So forfeited to despair, hope cannot fancy
A ransom to redeem me ... ...
... ... Was't for this he left me
And, on a feigned pretence--
THE PICTURE.
It would be too adventurous an incident to introduce if this tale were
an invention instead of a narrative of facts, that Mr. Grey was ordered
by his physician to a part of the coast very near to that where Mrs.
Fitzpatrick's cottage was situated. Not a mile of rough hilly ground
divided their dwellings from each other. This choice of a _locale_ was
very easily accounted for. Mr. Warde was acquainted with Mr. Fletcher,
the clergyman of the parish, and wrote to beg him to select a house for
his friend. Mr. Fletcher did his best, but houses were not plentiful in
that district. It was a pretty cottage, but really deserving of no other
name. Mr. Grey did not enjoy it at all; he missed the luxuries of his
own house. The casements did not shut, the chimnies smoked. There was no
piano for Margaret, and Land's room was so small as to be a daily source
of disquiet to his master. He was more annoyed for others than for
himself. Little did Margaret think when she went down to the sea-side
every morning, and sat patiently by her uncle's chair with her book and
her work, that the person who most occupied her mind, was within so
short a distance, engaged in the same sort of pursuit, in watching over
the declining health of a friend.
But her uncle grew weaker and more restless; he determined to return to
Ashdale; and having once fixed the day, he seemed more comfortable in
his mind.
"Do you like the idea of it, my child?" said he to Margaret, "shall you
not be glad to get back to Ashdale?"
"Very glad, Sir," returned Margaret.
"It must be dull, indeed, for you," said Mr. Grey in a pitying tone,
"not a single soul here that we know. We might, to be sure, know the
clergyman; but he gets a holiday exactly at the wrong time, and the man
who does his duty for him does not live in the place. Not a shop to be
seen, nor anything for the child to read but the paper; and that she
does not care about, poor little thing."
"Oh, uncle! if you were well I should not find it dull," said Margaret,
"I should enjoy the sea and the beautiful rocks above everything. But
when there is anything the matter, one always feels safer at home."
Mr. Grey smiled, and said something as he went away about wishing to see
Casement again, in which desire Margaret could not join.
As it was his habit to rest in his own room during the afternoon,
Margaret took her work into the porch, and sat enjoying the sea breeze,
and watching the picturesque road that wound beneath the cottage along
the shore. She had found out that when the mind is anxious and
distressed, the best thing she could do was to work. Her thoughts could
not be compelled to study, and her needle passed the time a little more
calmly and quickly than when she was doing nothing. And now a labourer
might be seen driving a cart drawn by a yoke of oxen along the rugged
way; and then a couple of children carrying between them a basket which
they had been sent to fill at the neighbouring village; and but for such
rare passengers, the road was quiet all day long. While she sat,
thinking of the one subject that filled her mind when she could divert
it for a moment from her uncle's illness; thinking over all that Mr.
Haveloc had ever said and done at Ashdale, she saw, advancing up the
path a figure that made her start and colour, it was--she felt sure of
it--Hubert Gage.
He was walking very fast, opened the rustic gate himself, and hastened
up to her.
Her first thought was a fear about Elizabeth.
"Bessy is well, I hope?" said she eagerly.
"Quite well. At last I see you again! How difficult you have made this
to me! How impossible it was at Ashdale to gain speech of you even for a
moment!"
"Have you long returned from Ireland?" said Margaret, feeling greatly
embarrassed by the tone of her companion.
"Long? This instant! As soon as I learned where you were, I followed
you."
"And Bessy is really well?"
"Bessy? Yes," said he in a tone of impatience. "Let me speak about
yourself. Margaret, you have done me a great injustice, and you have
not given me the means of defending myself. You have thought me
incapable of loving you as you deserved."
Margaret held up her hand as if to stop him, he seized it, and pressed
it to his lips.
"I tell you what, Mr. Hubert Gage, this will not do," said Margaret
gravely, regaining possession of her hand; "there is a great want of
consideration in your conduct. I am sure you pay very little regard to
my tranquillity in coming here. My uncle is very ill, and all my time
and thoughts are occupied in attending upon him. I have no time, and I
must say no patience for these scenes."
Land came down at this moment with Mr. Grey's compliments, and "hearing
Mr. Hubert was below, hoped he would stop to dinner."
He accepted the invitation, then turning to Margaret, as Land
disappeared, said: "I will retract. I will go back instantly if you will
make me one promise--I have a right to claim it; a right from all you
have made me suffer. Give me the means of seeing you. I have not had
fair play--you have not allowed me to address you--to seek to gain your
confidence, your love. Cruel! to make your refusal so absolute; to leave
me no hope; but I will not be so repulsed: you know nothing of me as
yet. Why deny me--"
"Mr. Hubert, you will not listen to me," said Margaret, anxious to bring
the dialogue to a conclusion.
"You are so charming! You look a thousand-fold more beautiful than when
I saw you last. But what of your beauty? Nothing to that angelic
disposition which animates all you do. You thought me so trifling that I
could not comprehend your heart. Margaret, it was that which made me
seek you."
"I am very sorry that I wronged you so far," said Margaret. "I did not
think it was your nature to care much--to love much,--I mean to be much
in earnest about anything. If, indeed," said she, marking the distressed
expression of his countenance, "your happiness is disturbed, I am still
more sorry; but I can do nothing. I cannot tell you falsely that I shall
ever change."
"You will not! See what you do! You have made my whole life
wretched--worse than that, useless. I can settle to nothing. I cannot
leave the country where you are. But I will not despair. You shall see
more of me--you shall love me yet."
"There is one thing," said Margaret with a little air of triumph, "we
leave this place on Thursday."
"So much the better," said Hubert, "for I shall be very near you at
Chirke Weston."
Margaret looked vexed and undecided. She thought there was but one way
to put a stop to his assiduities; and although with great reluctance,
she resolved to adopt it.
"You compel me to be very plain with you, Mr. Hubert," she said; "but I
cannot see any other means of convincing you that we can be no more than
friends to one another. I am engaged to another person."
"Engaged! How is it possible? How can I believe it? You so young--and
living so retired. May I ask if Mr. Grey is aware of this engagement?"
"He is," said Margaret.
"Why then it is Claude Haveloc!" said Hubert, leaning against the side
of the porch.
Margaret was silent. He remained standing, apparently much disturbed.
"And you are engaged to Claude Haveloc?" said he, throwing himself on
the seat beside her.
Her colour mounted; but she made a gesture of assent. He remained for
some moments apparently undecided as to what he should say or do; and
then looking up suddenly, took her hand.
"Forget me if you will," he said; "but never give a thought to him
again."
"Mr. Hubert!" said Margaret, colouring with anger.
"He is entirely unworthy of you; it is the talk of the village beyond
you there; he is paying his addresses to a young lady who is dying of a
consumption. But his attentions for weeks have been too marked to admit
of a doubt. He is pitied and praised by every one. He is daily and all
day at the house."
"Well that can be explained. I will ask him," said Margaret, trying to
speak calmly.
"You can do better than ask him. You can see and judge for yourself.
Walk past the house at any hour, and find him, as I saw him, at the feet
of your rival."
A thought for one moment crossed the mind of Margaret: she would
revenge herself for this neglect--she would accept the hand of Hubert
Gage. But she felt at once the unworthiness of such an idea, and
remained trembling and silent, looking on the ground.
"Where is this house?" said she after a short pause.
"I can show it to you better than I could describe it," he replied. "It
was in searching for you that I lighted upon this history."
"I am much indebted to you," said she with a strange smile.
Her manner, usually so soft, seemed suddenly to change. There was
something cold and bitter in her voice.
"And what will you do?" he asked.
"After dinner, when my uncle sleeps, I walk out," said Margaret; "you
can then show me this house."
Her seeming calmness quite deceived him; he thought that she was not
suffering much. That once convinced her lover had wronged her, she
might be wooed and won again.
"I am going to my uncle now," said she. "I shall see you at dinner;" and
taking up her work-basket she left him.
Hubert did not see her again until dinner was announced; she was then
standing by her uncle's chair, and seemed to take no notice of his
presence. Mr. Grey welcomed him very kindly; he thought Hubert's visit
so amiable, so well-meant. It showed that he did not resent what had
happened.
He asked a number of questions about Captain Gage, and the d'Eyncourt's,
about his own plans and proceedings; and about their neighbours at
Ashdale. Hubert with his eyes fixed on Margaret answered at cross
purposes.
Margaret was perfectly silent. She helped the dishes before her with the
mechanical accuracy of a person in a dream. She ate nothing herself, and
seemed hardly to know that any one was at table. As soon as the cloth
was removed, she rose. Hubert who had watched in vain for some word or
sign which might tell him that she held to her intention of the morning,
followed her to the door.
She turned as she left the room, and, in a whisper almost inaudible,
uttered the word "wait." Mr. Grey soon afterwards apologised for leaving
his guest; he was obliged to retire early. Margaret would be in the
drawing-room; he hoped Hubert would stay and drink tea.
Hubert took leave of Mr. Grey, and waited until the twilight came, and
was succeeded by the broad moonlight, and still Margaret did not appear.
At last, when he thought of going into the house to seek her, for he was
sauntering up and down the small garden, he saw her standing in the
doorway, wrapped in a large shawl.
"Am I too late?" she said, as he approached her.
"Are you ready?" he returned.
"I am," said she, shivering, and hurrying into the garden, "my uncle
sleeps. Heaven knows whether I shall ever sleep again! There have been
treasures paid for knowledge that might have bought a world of peace
twice told. You know that some knowledge brings death in its train. Lead
me on; if you dare."
Her eyes flashed, even through the twilight; she drew herself up and
assumed an air of defiance that he could not have believed possible to
her soft and exquisite beauty. He had yet to learn what it was to rouse
a gentle nature.
Hubert paused beneath the shrubs in the small garden.
"Choose;" he said, "I do not say that knowledge is not pain; and
ignorance, the grossest ignorance, content. You have not now to learn
that I love you. You can give what faith you please to my accusation."
"I cannot doubt you," said Margaret, "let us make haste; I shall never
go if I do not go soon. I am sick--sick."
They passed down the shady lane, where the moonlight traced a fair
trellis-work of boughs and leaves upon the rocky path; and at every
step, as the road grew more uneven, and as Hubert supported her over the
rugged stones, she cried to him to make haste. She went like one who
walked in her sleep, still struggling for swiftness, and more and more
unable to stir as her wish to move grew more pressing. Hubert almost
carried her the few last steps of the way; and there stood the cottage
by the side of the hill, where it broke gently away down to the sea
shore. The waves rippled and sank down upon the beach to a low sweet
music that seemed almost charged with words, so clear and measured was
the sound in that still night.
Margaret stopped for breath, and hung heavily upon his arm. Then the
thought crossed her mind that if Mr. Haveloc was innocent, and came
there by chance, finding her walking alone with Hubert Gage, what would
he think?
"Oh, Heaven!" she said, clasping her hands in agony, "forget that you
love me--speak to me as a sister. Is this true?"
"I never pressed you to believe me," answered her companion.
"Oh, true, true!" said Margaret, hastening on.
She had hardly gone three paces when she stopped again.
"Coward that I am," said she, "to pry upon his actions; to seek these
miserable means of learning his pursuits. He trusts me wholly. I will
ask him what he does there visiting so often; and if--if he loves her
better, let him go. I would set free an Emperor, if he was willing to be
released. I'll not go on. I'll learn nothing this way."
She was gasping for breath. Hubert Gage turned without another word, and
held out his hand to conduct her back again, but she repulsed him, and
stood clasping her temples with a force that seemed designed to hold in
her reason.
"If you think," said she very slowly, for she was collecting her ideas,
"that I shall like you better when I have learned to hate him, know,
once for all, that you will be more intolerable in my eyes than Claude
himself."
He looked distressed, but made no answer.
She paused a moment, and then said in a more quiet tone. "Be sure you
say nothing of all this to my uncle; it would so vex him. He is not well
enough--"
He gave her this promise; and having reached the garden fence, he said
he would wait for her while she went down the terrace walk. She made him
a sign of silence, and stole gently forward till she came under the
verandah. The drawing-room windows were unclosed, and she heard and saw
all that passed within. A sofa was drawn close to the window, on which
reclined a girl of seventeen, who still retained much of the graceful
beauty that had distinguished her. Tall and slight, the full muslin
wrapper in part concealed the wasting influence of that disease which
had so nearly fulfilled its task. Her eyes, with their long black
fringes, seemed to take a disproportioned share in her face, and her
profuse dark hair, which had been wound in large folds at the back of
her head, had fallen in long tresses like broad ribbons over the
cushions that she lay upon. She was reclining, half supported in a
sitting posture by Mr. Haveloc. Her head leaned on his shoulder, and her
splendid eyes rested on his face as if she knew there was a very little
time for her to impress every feature on her memory. He sat quite silent
for some minutes, and Aveline's wasted hand lay passively in his. At
last she said with a soft smile, still gazing at him as though she
feared to lose a moment of his sight,--
"The moon will change soon, will it not, Mr. Haveloc?"
"To-morrow, I think," said he, kindly, not tenderly, for his was not a
nature that could feign, though Margaret was too dizzy to mark the
difference. They were silent for a few moments, and then on some
restless movement of Aveline's, he employed himself in altering the
cushions.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had been leaning her head against the mantel-piece
as she sat, looked up at the slight noise which they made, and then
dropped her head again, with that mute expression of anguish which the
attitude can so eloquently convey.
"I hope you will not go away so early to-night, Mr. Haveloc," said
Aveline, as soon as her pillows were properly arranged, "You went so
very early yesterday, and it is of no use, for I do not sleep the sooner
for it."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick raised her head, and cast a look at Mr. Haveloc as
though she would have said, "humour her," but she sank into her former
position without speaking.
"I am sure, as long as you are not tired," he said, "I will stay until
Mrs. Fitzpatrick thinks proper to turn me out of doors."
"Is mamma asleep?" said Aveline, who was listening for her mother's
voice.
"Asleep, my love!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, in a tone that thrilled
through Margaret, there was in it so much despair.
"We are all half asleep," said Mr. Haveloc. "Shall I ring for candles?"
"Do," said Aveline; "stay! do you see a figure--a shadow--there, in the
verandah?"
Margaret heard no more. She turned, rushed from the terrace down the
steps to the beach on the sands until the foam of the waves broke over
her feet.
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Hubert Gage, who had hastened after her. "What
is it you intend? What are you going to do?"
"What should I do but go home?" said Margaret, turning quietly round. "I
have seen what I came to see."
And turning away again, she began to walk rapidly.
"Speak to me," said he, after he had followed her in silence for some
time. "Tell me--am I to blame?"
Margaret shook her head.
"I cannot bear this silence," he said, after another pause. "Say
something to me."
"What should I say?" asked Margaret, still walking on.
"Do you detest me?"
"You!--No."
They arrived before the gate of the cottage.
Margaret held out her hand to him.
"Good night," said she, in a calm voice. "Let me see you to-morrow."