"LETHALIS ARUNDO"
That week I went over again to Beverley; the next, I had a book to fetch
for Constance from Fleetsbury, that she had long wished to read, and I
took it to her a volume at a time. My father was still busy with his
painting--Sir Harry had gone off to Newmarket--Miss Minim seemed
delighted to find any one who could relieve the monotony of the Manor
House, and Constance herself treated me, now that the first awkwardness
of our re-introduction was over, like an old playmate and friend. I was
happier than I had ever been in my life. I felt an elasticity of
spirits, a self-respect and self-reliance that I had thought myself
hitherto incapable of entertaining. Oh, the joy of that blindfold time!
whilst our eyes are wilfully shut to the future that we yet know _must_
come, whilst we bask in the sunshine and inhale the fragrance of the
rose, nor heed the thunder-cloud sleeping on the horizon, and the worm
creeping at the core of the flower. I looked on Constance as I would
have looked on an angel from heaven. I did not even confess to myself
that I loved her, I was satisfied with the intense happiness of the
present, and trembled at the bare idea of anything that might break the
spell, and interrupt the calm quiet of our lives. With one excuse or
another, I was at Beverley nearly every day; there were flowers to be
dried, for Constance was a great botanist, and I had taken up that
study, as I would have taken up shoe-making, could I have seen her a
minute a day longer for the pursuit,--there was music to be copied, and
if I could do nothing else, I could point off those crabbed
hieroglyphics like a very engraver. Then Miss Minim broke her fan, and
I walked ten miles in the rain to get it mended, with an alacrity and
devotion that must have convinced her it was not for _her_ sake: and yet
I loved Miss Minim dearly, she was so associated in my mind with
Constance, that except the young lady's own, that wizened old face
brought the blood to my brow more rapidly than any other in the world.
Oh! my heart aches when I think of that beautiful drawing-room, opening
into the conservatory, and Constance playing airs on the pianoforte that
made my nerves tingle with an ecstasy that was almost painful. Miss
Minim engaged with her crotchet-work in the background, and I, the
awkward, ungainly youth, saying nothing, hardly breathing, lest I should
break the spell; but gazing intently on the fair young face, with its
soft kind eyes, and its thrilling smile, and the smooth, shining braids
of jet-black hair parted simply on that pure brow. Mine was no love at
first sight, no momentary infatuation that has its course and burns
itself out, the fiercer the sooner, with its own unsustained violence.
No; it grew and stole upon me by degrees, I drank it in with every
breath I breathed--I fought against it till every moment of my life was
a struggle; and yet I cherished and pressed it to my heart when all was
done. I knew I was no equal for such as Miss Beverley, I knew I had no
right even to lift my eyes to so much beauty and so much goodness--I,
the awkward, ugly schoolboy, or at best the shrinking, unattractive
youth, in whose homage there was nothing for a woman to take pride, even
if she did not think it ridiculous; but yet--God! how I loved her. Not
a blossom in the garden, not a leaf on the tree, not a ray of sunshine,
nor a white cloud drifting over the heaven, but was associated in my
mind with her who was all the world to me. If I saw other women, I only
compared them with _her_; if I read of beauty and grace in my dear old
romances, or hung over the exquisite casts and spirited studies of my
father's painting-room, it was but to refer the poet's dream and the
artist's conception back to my own ideal. How I longed for beauty,
power, talent, riches, fame, everything that could exalt me above my
fellows, that I might fling all down at _her_ feet, and bid her trample
on it if she would. It was bitter to think I had nothing to offer; and
yet I felt sometimes there ought to be something touching in my
self-sacrifice. I looked for no return--I asked for no hope, no favour,
not even pity; and I gave my all.
At first it was delightful: the halcyon days flitted on, and I was
happy. Sir Harry, when at home, treated me with the greatest kindness,
and seemed to find pleasure in initiating me into those sports and
amusements which he himself considered indispensable to the education of
a gentleman. He took me out shooting with him, and great as was my
natural aversion to the slaying of unoffending partridges and innocent
hares, I soon conquered my foolish nervousness about firing a gun, and
became no mean proficient with the double-barrel. My ancient captor,
the head keeper, now averred that "Muster Egerton was the _cooollest_
shot he ever see for so young a gentleman, and _coool_ shots is
generally deadly!" The very fact of my not caring a straw whether I
killed my game or not, removed at once that over-anxiety which is the
great obstacle to success with all young sportsmen. It was sufficient
for me to know that a day's shooting at her father's secured two
interviews (morning and afternoon) with Constance, and I loaded, and
banged, and walked, and toiled like the veriest disciple of Colonel
Hawker that ever marked a covey. All this exercise had a beneficial
effect on my health and spirits; I grew apace, I was no longer the
square, clumsy-built dwarf; my frame was gradually developing itself
into that of a powerful, athletic man. I was much taller than Constance
now, and not a little proud of that advantage. Having no others with
whom to compare myself, I began to hope that I was, after all, not much
worse-looking than the rest of my kind; and by degrees a vague idea
sprang up in my mind, though I never presumed to give it shape and
consistency, that Constance might some day learn to look kindly upon me,
and that perhaps, after many, many years, the time would come when I
should dare to throw myself at her feet and tell her how I had
worshipped her; not to ask for a return, but only to tell her how true,
and hopeless and devoted had been my love. After that I thought I could
die happy.
Weeks grew to months, and months to years, and still no change took
place in my habits and mode of life. My father talked of sending me to
Oxford, for I was now grown up, but when the time came he was loth to
part with me, and I had such a dread of anything that should take me
away from Alton, that I hailed the abandonment of the scheme with
intense joy. Constance went to London with Sir Harry during the season,
and for two or three months of the glorious summer I was sadly low and
restless and unhappy; but I studied hard during this period of
probation, to pass the time, and when she came again, and gave me her
hand with her old kind smile, I felt rewarded for all my anxieties, and
the sun began to shine for me once more.
I was a man now in heart and feelings, and loved with all a man's ardour
and singleness of purpose, yet I never dreamed she could be mine. No; I
shut my eyes to the future, and blindfold I struggled on; but I was no
longer happy; I grew restless and excited, out of temper, petulant in
trifles, and incapable of any fixed application or sustained labour. I
was leading an aimless and unprofitable life; I was an idolater, and I
was beginning to pay the penalty; little did I know then what would be
my sufferings ere the uttermost farthing should be exacted. Something
told me the time of my happiness was drawing to a close; there is a
consciousness before we wake from a moral as well as a physical sleep,
and my awakening was near at hand.
It was a soft grey morning early in August, one of those beautiful
summer days that we have only in England, when the sky is clouded, but
the air pure and serene, and the face of nature smiling as though in a
calm sleep. Not a breath stirred the leaves of the grand old trees in
the park at Beverley, nor rippled the milk-white surface of the mere.
The corn was ready for cutting, but scarce a sheaf had yet fallen before
the sickle; it was the very meridian and prime of the summer's beauty,
and my ladye-love had returned from her third London season, and was
still Constance Beverley. It was later than my usual hour of visiting
at the Manor, for my father had been unwell during the night, and I
would not leave him till the doctor had been, so Constance had put on
her hat and started for her morning's walk alone. She took the path
that led towards Alton, and Bold and I caught sight at the same moment
of the well-known white dress flitting under the old oaks in the park.
My heart used to stop beating when I saw her, and now I turned sick and
faint from sheer happiness. Not so Bold: directly he caught sight of
the familiar form away he scoured like an arrow, and in less than a
minute he was bounding about her, barking and frisking, and testifying
his delight with an ardour that was responded to in a modified degree by
the young lady. What prompted me I know not, but instead of walking
straight on and greeting her, I turned aside behind a tree, and, myself
unseen, watched the form of her I loved so fondly, as she stepped
gracefully on towards my hiding-place; she seemed surprised, stopped,
and looked about her, Bold meanwhile thrusting his nose into her small
gloved hand.
"Why, Bold," said she, "you have lost your master." And as she spoke
she stooped down and kissed the dog on his broad, honest forehead. My
heart bounded as if it would have burst; never shall I forget the
sensations of that moment; not for worlds would I have accosted her
then--it would have been sacrilege, it would have seemed like taking
advantage of her frankness and honesty. No; I made a wide detour, still
concealed behind the trees, and struck in upon the path in front of her
as if I came direct from home. Why was it that her greeting was less
cordial than usual? Why was it no longer "Vere" and "Constance" between
us, but "Mr. Egerton" and "Miss Beverley"? She seemed ill at ease, too,
and her tone was harder than usual till I mentioned my father's illness,
when she softened directly. I thought there were _tears in her voice_
as she asked me--
"How could I leave him if he was so poorly?"
"Because I knew you came back yesterday, Miss Beverley, and I would not
miss being one of the first to welcome you home," was my reply.
"Why do you call me Miss Beverley?" she broke in, with a quick glance
from under her straw hat. "Why not 'Constance,' as you used?"
"Then why not call me 'Vere'?" I retorted; but my voice shook, and I
made a miserable attempt to appear unconcerned.
"Very well, 'Constance' and 'Vere' let it be," she replied, laughing;
"and now, Vere, how did you know I came back yesterday?"
"Because I saw the carriage from the top of Buttercup Hill--because I
watched there for six hours that I might make sure--because----"
I hesitated and stopped; she turned her head away to caress Bold. Fool!
fool that I was! Why did I not tell her all then and there? Why did I
not set my fate at once upon the cast? Another moment, and it was too
late. When she turned her face again towards me it was deadly pale, and
she began talking rapidly, but in a constrained voice, of the delights
of her London season, and the gaieties of that to me unknown world, the
world of fashionable life.
"We have had so many balls and operas and dissipations, that papa says
he is quite knocked up; and who do you think is in London, Vere, and who
do you think has been dancing with me night after night?" (I winced),
"who but your old schoolfellow, your dear old friend, Count de Rohan!"
"Victor!" I exclaimed, and for an instant I forgot even my jealousy at
the idea of any one dancing night after night with Constance, in my joy
at hearing of my dear old schoolfellow. "Oh, tell me all about him--is
he grown? is he good-looking? is he like what he was? is he going to
stay in England? did he ask after me? is he coming down to see me at
Alton?"
"Gently," replied Constance, with her own sweet smile. "One question at
a time, if you please, Vere, and I can answer them. He is grown, of
course, but not more than other people; he is _very_ good-looking, so
everybody says, and _I_ really think he must be, too; he is not nearly
so much altered from what he was as a boy, as some one else I know"
(with a sly glance at me), "and he talks positively of paying us a visit
early in the shooting season, to meet another old friend of yours, Mr.
Ropsley, who is to be here to-day to luncheon; I hope you will stay and
renew your acquaintance, and talk as much 'Everdon' as you did when we
were children; and now, Vere, we must go in and see papa, who has
probably by this time finished his letters." So we turned and bent our
steps (mine were most unwilling ones) towards the house.
We had not proceeded far up the avenue, ere we were overtaken by a
postchaise laden with luggage, and carrying a most
irreproachable-looking valet on the box; as it neared us a well-known
voice called to the boy to stop, and a tall, aristocratic-looking man
got out, whom at first I had some difficulty in identifying as my former
school-fellow, Ropsley, now a captain in the Guards, and as well known
about London as the Duke of York's Column itself. He sprang out of the
carriage, and greeted Constance with the air of an old friend, but
paused and surveyed me for an instant from head to foot with a puzzled
expression that I believe was only put on for the occasion,--then seized
my hand, and declared I was so much altered and improved he had not
known me at first. This is always gratifying to a youth, and Ropsley
was evidently the same as he had always been--a man who never threw a
chance away--but what good could _I_ do him? Why should it be worth his
while to conciliate such as me? I believe he never forgot the fable of
the Lion and the Mouse.
When the first salutations and inquiries after Sir Harry were over, he
began to converse with Constance on all those topics of the London world
with which women like so much to be made acquainted,--topics so limited
and personal that they throw the uninitiated listener completely into
the background. I held my tongue and watched my old schoolfellow. He
was but little altered since I had seen him last, save that his tall
figure had grown even taller, and he had acquired that worn look about
the eyes and mouth which a few seasons of dissipation and excitement
invariably produce even in the young. After detailing a batch of
marriages, and a batch of "failures," in all of which the names of the
sufferers were equally unknown to me, he observed, with a peculiarly
marked expression, to Constance, "Of course you know there never was
anything in that report about De Rohan and Miss Blight; but so many
people assured me it was true, that if I had not known Victor as well as
I do, I should have been almost inclined to believe it."
I watched Constance narrowly as he spoke, and I fancied she winced.
Could it have been only my own absurd fancy? Ropsley proceeded, "I saw
him yesterday, and he desired his kindest regards to you, and I was to
say he would be here on the 3rd."
"Oh! I am so glad!" exclaimed Constance, her whole countenance
brightening with a joyous smile, that went like a knife to my foolish,
inexperienced heart, that OUGHT to have reassured and made me happier
than ever. Does a woman confess she is "delighted" to see the man she
is really fond of? Is not that softened expression which pervades the
human face at mention of the "one loved name" more akin to a tear than a
smile? "He is so pleasant and so good-natured, and will enliven us all
so much here;" she added, turning to me, "Vere, you must come over on
the 3rd, and meet Count de Rohan; you know he is the oldest friend you
have,--an older friend even than I am."
I was hurt, angry, maddened already, and this kind speech, with the
frank, affectionate glance that accompanied it, filled my bitter cup to
overflowing. Has a woman no compunction? or is she ignorant of the
power a few light commonplace words may have to inflict such acute pain?
Constance _cannot_ have guessed the feelings that were tearing at my
heart; but she must have seen my altered manner, and doubtless felt
herself aggrieved, and thought she had a right to be angry at my
unjustifiable display of temper.
"I thank you," I replied, coldly and distantly; "I cannot leave my
father until he is better; perhaps De Rohan will come over and see us if
he can get away from pleasanter engagements. I fear I have stayed too
long already. I am anxious about my father, and must go home.
Good-bye, Ropsley; good-morning, Miss Beverley. Here--Bold! Bold!"
She looked scared for an instant, then hurt, and almost angry. She
shook hands with me coldly, and turned away with more dignity than
usual. Brute, idiot that I was! even Bold showed more good feeling and
more sagacity than his master. He had been sniffing round Ropsley with
many a low growl, and every expression of dislike which a well-nurtured
dog permits himself towards his master's associates; but he looked
wistfully back at Constance as she walked away, and I really thought for
once he would have broken through all his habits of fidelity and
subordination, and followed her into the house.
What a pleasant walk home I had I leave those to judge who, like me,
have dashed down in a fit of ill-temper the structure that they have
taken years of pain, and labour, and self-denial to rear on high. Was
this, then, my boasted chivalry--my truth and faith that was to last for
ever--to fight through all obstacles--to be so pure, and holy, and
unwavering, and to look for no return? I had failed at the first trial.
How little I felt, how mean and unworthy, how far below my own standard
of what a man should be--my ideal of worth, that I had resolved I would
attain. And Ropsley, too--the cold, calculating, cynical man of the
world--Ropsley must have seen it all. I had placed myself in his
power--nay, more, I had compromised _her_ by my own display of
bitterness and ill-temper. What right had I to show any one how I loved
her? nay, what right had I to love her at all? The thought goaded me
like a sting. I ran along the foot-path, Bold careering by my side--I
sprang over the stiles like a madman, as I was; but physical exertion
produced at last a reaction on the mind. I grew gradually calmer and
more capable of reasoning; a resolution sprang up in my heart that had
never before taken root in that undisciplined soil. I determined to win
her, or die in the attempt.
"Yes," I thought, "from this very day I will devote all my thoughts, all
my energies, to the one great work. Beautiful, superior, unattainable as
she is, surely the whole devotion of a life must count for
something--surely God will not permit a human being to sacrifice his
very soul in vain." (Folly! folly! Ought I not to have known that this
very worship was idolatry, blasphemy of the boldest, to offer the
creature a tribute that belongs only to the Creator--to dare to call on
His name in witness of my mad rebellion and disloyalty?) "Surely I
shall some day succeed, or fall a victim to that which I feel convinced
must be the whole aim and end of my existence. Yes, I will consult my
kind old father--I will declare myself at once honestly to Sir Harry.
After all, I, too, am a gentleman; I have talents; I will make my way;
with such a goal in view I can do anything; there is no labour I would
shrink from, no danger I should fear to face, with Constance as the
prize of my success;" and I reached the old worn-out gates of Alton
Grange repeating to myself several of those well-known adages that have
so many premature and ill-advised attempts to answer for--"Fortune
favours the bold;" "Faint heart never won fair lady;" "Nothing venture,
nothing have," etc.