How slowly do the hours their numbers spend,
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!
SPENSER.
Mathilden's Hertz hat niemand noch ergründet--
Doch, grosse Seelen dulden still.
DON KARLOS.
Mrs. Somerton had kindly offered, as soon as ever she learned the
particulars of Margaret's situation, to take the charge of her, and
treat her like one of her own daughters.
But Mr. Warde did not seize the proposition with the eagerness that it
might seem to merit. Perhaps, he thought, that if Margaret was no better
treated than Mrs. Somerton's daughters, her life would not be all
sunshine; perhaps he feared that the lady would not scrupulously redeem
her pledge; at any rate, he informed his sister decidedly, that it was
his intention to place Margaret with some lady who had no children; for
he thought it would be difficult, if not impossible, for any other to
adjust satisfactorily, the claims of her daughters and her guest. Mrs.
Somerton tried to argue the point, but Mr. Warde was firm, and wrote to
one or two friends describing the sort of home he desired for Margaret.
Blanche was so much occupied with her military friend, her Watkins, as
she called him, that Margaret saw less of her than before. She walked
out in every direction in the hope of meeting him, she staid at home all
day, if she thought he would call; she took an immense deal of trouble
to catch what a good many people would have pronounced to be not worth
catching--her Watkins was ignorant, profligate, and silly; and very
fortunately for Blanche, he behaved to her like most other officers;
that is to say, he walked off one fine morning with his regiment,
without so much as bidding adieu to his lady love. Margaret knew nothing
of this distressing event when she rejoined the family--she had not seen
Blanche for the last day or two, and now she found her reclining on the
sofa, suffering, as Mrs. Somerton told her, from a nervous attack. "That
is hard upon you, Mrs. Somerton," said Margaret, "to have two invalids
on your hands. I must make haste and get well to relieve you of part of
your charge."
"I am sure, my dear Miss Capel," said Mrs. Somerton, "no invalid ever
gave so little trouble as you. I only wish Blanche would imitate your
patience."
Margaret drew a low chair to the sofa, and took her work; "are you
suffering in your head?" she asked Blanche, in a gentle voice.
"No, not much; I'm glad you are come down," said she. "It will be
somebody to talk to; that is a very pretty pattern for a plain collar.
I like the black studs down the front. Do you waltz?" But here the
recollection of having waltzed with Lieutenant Watkins overcame her, and
she became rather hysterical. Mrs. Somerton scolded her, Blanche got
angry, and then order was restored. Mrs. Somerton took Margaret to the
window, and whispered to her the state of the case, and then Blanche
called out to her mother and scolded her for having told Margaret when
she wanted to tell her all about it herself. Margaret turning her eyes
full of wonder from one to the other, could scarcely comprehend that
Blanche was suffering from a disappointment; she contrasted the total
desolation of her own feelings, with the frivolous annoyance that the
other seemed to endure, and could understand nothing of the case.
Quiet was again restored. Mrs. Somerton plied her worsted work. Margaret
netted in silence. Blanche, lying on the sofa, was eating French
chocolate. Presently Mrs. Somerton began to count aloud the stitches in
the bunch of grapes she was working, "thirty-six, thirty-seven,
thirty-eight, thirty-nine."
A burst of crying from Blanche, louder than anything Margaret had heard,
except from a baby; Mrs. Somerton had inadvertently named the number of
Mr. Watkins's regiment.
The fresh scolding, fresh sobs, and, at last, a glass of sal-volatile,
tranquillised her spirits for the present.
It must be admitted that such scenes were rather fatiguing to a young
girl in bad health, and suffering deeply from the reality of which this
was but the shadow.
She learned, however, to set some value upon her own power of
self-command. She could not help feeling that the unrestrained sorrow of
Blanche lost in dignity what it gained in publicity.
Mason knew all about it; and frequently alluded to poor Miss Somerton
with pity; and to Mr. Watkins with all the violence which a
waiting-woman is pretty sure to feel towards a man who has thwarted a
young lady in her laudable endeavours to get married.
In two or three days Margaret was happy to find that Blanche could talk
of waltzing without a sigh; and her mamma might safely count threads
from thirty to forty without awakening any painful reflections.
But there ensued another annoyance to poor Margaret. Whenever she was
alone with Blanche, which was the greatest part of the day, Mr. Watkins
was the one topic of conversation.
When she had heard all about his boots, and his eyes, and his way of
carving a chicken, and his wastefulness in gloves, (a great merit in the
eyes of Blanche,) she naturally hoped that they had come to an end of
the list; but it is quite surprising the number of little anecdotes
which this gentleman furnished. There were all his jokes to repeat; and
these were so exceedingly stupid, that they really did make Margaret
smile sometimes. And then there were several stories of dishonest
actions, which she was expected to laugh at, but which she could not,
for very disgust.
Once he had taken in a Jew; this was his chef-d'[oe]uvre; and twice he
had cheated a friend in the sale of a horse; and Blanche thought this
greatly enhanced his merit, and her loss.
She became rather tearful when she mentioned the last theft; but she
presently recovered herself, and turned the conversation upon a satin
pelisse she was about to buy. In fact, the future and the past pretty
equally divided her mind. The loss of Mr. Watkins, and the arrangement
of her dresses for the autumn.
"Do you know, the last time poor Watkins called, he was so intoxicated!"
cried Blanche. "I was afraid my uncle would have noticed it; but,
fortunately, he only came in for a few minutes; for Watkins staid to
luncheon. I never shall forget his trying to carve the cold lamb."
"Then that was the reason," said Margaret, hesitating, "that you broke
with him."
"Mercy on me, my dear! where were you brought up;" cried Blanche,
laughing. "What! break with a man because he was a little intoxicated?
Not I, believe me!"
Margaret found plenty of things to astonish her in Miss Somerton; but
she was a little more startled than usual at this remark.
She thought of the disgust she would have felt if she had ever seen Mr.
Haveloc intoxicated. She viewed Blanche's attachment as a sort of
natural phenomenon.
Mr. Watkins lasted about a fortnight; during that time very few things
could be said or done without suggesting to Blanche some little anecdote
of this gentleman; and as these tales generally tended to set forth
either some deficiency, or some positive vice in that faithless person;
sometimes calling in question his spelling, and sometimes his morality,
Margaret felt often desirous to turn the subject for very shame; but
Blanche informed her that it was a comfort to talk about him, and she
could not reasonably refuse her that source of consolation.
At the end of the fortnight, Blanche admitted to Mrs. Somerton, that
"Watkins" had a red nose. This had been a point strongly contested
between mother and daughter for the last fourteen days previous; for
Mrs. Somerton thought it her duty to depreciate a man who had failed to
make her daughter an offer; and Blanche warmly defended him from a
charge which his decided talent for drinking rendered, at least,
probable.
The cause of this change was very soon explained. Blanche had found
another officer. She had been introduced to him at a friend's house,
and she very soon managed to bring him to the Vicarage.
When he had nothing in the world to do, it was amusing enough to lounge
away a morning, flirting with Blanche. This was worse than the other
annoyance to Margaret.
It was bad enough to hear incessantly of the absent lover; but now, you
had not only to hear of him all day long in his absence, but to bear his
presence, at least, three days in the week. And Blanche would insist
upon Margaret's keeping her company.
"Don't run away, my dearest creature," said she; "it looks so odd; it
really seems as if you thought the man wanted to propose to me."
Margaret had began to enjoy her walks in the pretty garden and quiet
meadows of the Vicarage. It was a bright, fresh October. She was always
alive to the beauties of the country; but how could she enjoy the mossy
walks and tall rustling trees with the constant fear of being joined by
that tiresome Mr. Compton. And then, if she sat, Blanche would insist on
sitting too. If she said she felt chilly and began to walk again, up
started Blanche and her cavalier, and they all three set off walking
together.
And this Mr. Compton was afflicted with the most boundless and
uncultivated spirits. His laugh was a shriek. He would spring up in the
air like a stag; he would fall on the grass, to give vent to his mirth;
he talked incessantly, and always the most extravagant nonsense. He
would practice dances with Blanche, while poor Margaret played to them;
and then, at every mistake, there were fresh fits of laughter, which
made him stamp about the room until they subsided.
Margaret at first thought him deranged, and was very much afraid of him;
but she afterwards found he was only silly; which is a much milder form
of lunacy. Indeed, he was much more silly than his predecessor; for in
due time, Blanche managed to receive his hand, and became Mrs. Compton,
whether he liked it or not; but this was after Margaret had left them.
Perhaps, Margaret would have endured him more cheerfully, had she been
able to foresee the finale of his visits. It would have been unkind,
indeed, to murmur at the tedious hours which he spent at the Vicarage,
which proved a source of such intense delight to Blanche, and such
comfortable calculation to her mother.
"Has he not eyes!" exclaimed Blanche, as the door closed upon him after
a waltz of two hours.
Margaret (who had officiated as pianiste during that time) admitted that
he possessed that feature in the plural number, and knelt down before
the fire to warm her hands.
"I have ascertained," said Mrs. Somerton, looking up from her worsted
work, "that he _is_ the son of Mr. Compton of Lincolnshire--the second
son, it is true, but I understand the mother's property is settled on
him; if that is the case, it may do, but I will write to Mrs. Stacey,
she knows all about the Comptons. You know he mentioned Mrs. Stacey as
having been staying at his father's."
"I know," said Blanche, "and how he did laugh at her blue gauze
turban!--I thought he would have died."
So did Margaret; though she did not contemplate that event with the
dismay that it might awaken in Blanche's mind.
"Only," continued Mrs. Somerton, "don't go too far till we hear from
Mrs. Stacey; he may have nothing."
"I dare say," retorted Blanche, "I shall go as far as I like. I know he
has property, and I don't care whether it came from his mother, or from
the moon. He was saying, yesterday, what year it was when he came of
age. Don't you know, Margaret, how he laughed about his eldest brother
coming of age first, and then his coming of age afterwards; and saying
that it was not every family where two brothers come of age? Of course
nobody comes of age if they have nothing to come into."
"Certainly, there is something in that," said Mrs. Somerton, resuming
her worsted work: while Margaret became possessed of the interesting
fact, that time suspends his operations in favour of those forlorn
gentlemen and ladies only, who have no means of bribing his delay; and
truly they should have something to compensate for an empty pocket.
But Mr Compton was of great use to Margaret, little as she might have
been disposed to allow it. If he did not come, Blanche was expecting him
all the morning; every horseman, every gig, that passed down the
high-road, might be the looked for guest. A broad gravel walk, at the
end of the garden, commanded a view of the high-road, and thither
Blanche would direct her steps, and loiter from breakfast till
luncheon. "There! that _is_ Compton--I am certain, my dear, I know him
a mile off; besides, his horse, he rides a bay--now does not he?"
"I do not remember. Yes--I think it was a bay when you took me out to
see it," said Margaret.
"Well, then, unless he were riding the black--he has a very fine black
horse, which he thinks would carry a lady," said Blanche looking
sideways at her companion.
"But that is not Mr. Compton--it is the butcher," said Margaret, with a
feeling of satisfaction.
"Oh! true--so it is. I am rather near-sighted. By the bye, I think he
said he should be on duty to-day. Did he say to-day or to-morrow?"
"I did not hear him," said Margaret.
"I think it was to-day; I am sure I wish he never had any duty!" said
Blanche with a sigh. "He has very little, I should think," said
Margaret.
"He gets out of every thing he can, you may be sure," said Blanche,
"there--who is in that gig. Only Charles Hollingsworth, I do believe!
The greatest bore in England; sometimes he pretends to be ill, and goes
out hunting."
"Who, Mr. Hollingsworth?" said Margaret, quite at a loss to know why he
should take that trouble.
"No--Compton--there he really is; let us go to the gate and meet him."
Then when he came, there was nothing but uproar and confusion for some
hours; Blanche's spirits were easily excited, and what with laughing,
waltzing, rushing over the garden after his dogs, and pelting the plums
from the trees, and racing about and throwing them at each other, she
became quite as noisy as her lover. Mrs. Somerton looked on, scolding
them both gently and playfully; it was quite a family picture. All this
clamour was not very amusing to Margaret, but it drew her thoughts
insensibly away from herself, she even became interested in the game.
She speculated upon Blanche's chance of success. Her stake was not deep
enough to make it a matter of painful anxiety. She would have regretted
Mr. Compton, just as much as she had regretted Mr. Watkins; perhaps a
few days longer, for he was decidedly the more attractive of the two. He
had not a red nose, he did not drink, he was only foolish and
extravagant, and very noisy. He treated Margaret with that total
disregard to the usual courtesies offered in society to a lady, that may
be observed in young men, especially officers, when they are occupied by
another woman: but this gave her neither concern nor displeasure. She
had long observed that his head was not capable of holding more than one
idea at a time, and as Blanche was his idea at present, it was not
likely that he should recollect to open the door for Margaret, or to
set down her tea-cup.
But she began to look with anxiety towards a more settled home--the
society here was not to her taste. She saw very little of Mr. Warde, and
she was not allowed to pass her time in his library; she was always
wanted to be present with Blanche and Mr. Compton. She longed for quiet,
for study; for a life that should replace that which she had lost.