What other can she seek to see,
Than thee, companion of her bower,
The partner of her infancy?
She is back again in her sunny home,
And thick and fast the beatings come
Of that young heart, as ’round she sees
The same sweet flowers, the same old trees.
It is her home, but all in vain
Some lingering things unchanged remain;
The present wakes no smile; the past
Have tears to bid its memory last.
It was already autumn, but autumn stealing slowly on, in the guise of
summer, when, after a few hours’ sail from Sandford, the yacht made
Morden Bay. Not a ripple was on the wave, hardly a breath in the air,
as the light and graceful vessel rather floated with the tide, than
was impelled by its half-filled and nearly flapping sails, into that
romantic haven. Castleton and Lucy were seated upon the deck. He was
to leave her upon landing, and to return in the yacht to Sandford; as
she could not help completely concurring with him that it was much
better that he should not remain with her, whilst she resided at her
father’s. Still the return without him to scenes from which he only
had separated her, seemed more like a dissolution of their connexion,
than either the distance or the period of their parting appeared to
authorise; and perhaps the same impression was made upon him; for,
during the latter part of the sail, he kept constantly dwelling, with
apparent anxiety to convince himself of their certainty, on the many
projects which he meant to put into execution on their re-union.
They were landed just in that identical spot, in the centre of
Morden Bay, where Lucy and George had first been discovered by the
party from Hornscliff. The old coble, against which she had then
leant, was still moored upon the beach, and even so did she now lean
with Castleton, whilst the boat’s crew were engaged in carrying the
packages up the cliff. The similarity of their local position, with
the complete change in every other respect which had come over them
since that epoch, to which their memory referred, had, indeed, struck
them both most forcibly. However this might be, perhaps the very
nature of those recollections prevented them from reciprocating their
impressions; or perhaps the continued silence which ensued might only
be produced by the vicinity of Lady Castleton’s maid, who was waiting
to accompany her to the farm.
Castleton had rather disliked the idea of Mrs. Jenkins being
introduced to a knowledge of her mistress’s name, but he could not
possibly allow her to return home utterly unattended; and as he had
previously intended to change her waiting-woman before long, he had
determined that Jenkins’s service should end with the residence at
the farm.
As the men had returned, and again taken their stations in the boat,
he proposed to depart, and bidding her tenderly farewell, said,
“Here, then, I now leave you, Lucy.” As he uttered these words, a
melancholy presentiment vibrated through him. _Here_ had been his
first meeting--here might be his last parting; and as he returned
to the yacht, his own words seemed to cling to him, as he mentally
repeated, “_Here_, then, I now leave you, Lucy.” He marked her
mounting up the steep path which led to her father’s house, with
slow and unsteady steps, for she was still feeble; and he compared
her present appearance with the light elastic gait, with which he
had seen her bound up that same path. Who but himself had produced
this sad change? With bitter repentance he thought how completely
his experiment had failed; and the notions, which had induced him
to attempt it, now appeared to him in all the naked deformity of
selfishness, stripped of that disguise of assumed diffidence and
self-distrust, in which habitual sophistry had hitherto concealed
them from his own penetration. He had gradually been convinced how
almost impossible it was to fit her to perform, with comfort to
herself and credit to him, her part in that sphere to which he had so
abruptly transferred her.
And yet, on the other hand, after the attempts that he had for many
months made to eradicate all early impressions, did she on this
melancholy occasion return the same, to the home of her childhood?
Was it likely that she would now be able as naturally and efficiently
to fulfil all those filial offices which had formerly been her
delight? He asked himself the question, how had he repaid her for
the destruction of so many habitual sources of innocent satisfaction?
Was she now, as she ought to be, the unique object of his thoughts?
He turned his head away in shame at the consciousness of feeling how
unable he was to answer the question as he ought; but he looked on
the wide waste of waters before him, as if to lose himself and his
reflections on that indefinite horizon, rather than own, by a glance
in an opposite direction, that his thoughts turned towards Sandford,
and the possible prospect he thought there was of his there meeting
Lady Gayland.
But let us not make him out worse than he was: it was no deliberate
intention of this kind which had made him originate the plan; but
perhaps the casual mention, by that lady, of Lord Stayinmore’s yacht
being at the watering-place, to which she might be tempted to go in
the course of the autumn, had first suggested to Castleton the idea
of asking for the loan of the vessel.
Lucy had by this time, with much effort, half ascended the cliff, and
she now stopped to rest at an angle of the path, in an arbour which
had been constructed by herself and her cousin George, in the days of
their childhood; and as she prepared to seat herself within it, she
clung for support to those own sturdy boughs, which, as tendrils, she
had formerly moulded to her will; and as her maid, on whom she had
leant for assistance in the ascent, was a person in whom she could
not confide, she sat here for a while in silence, reflecting on past
times. She drew her sable-lined cloak more closely about her; for in
spite of the cheerfulness of the scene around, she felt the morbid
chilliness of lingering debility and shattered nerves; ills which, on
that spot, she had certainly never suffered from before; but now she
sat and shivered in the sunshine.
And even thus she was marked from near by one who longed to offer
assistance, yet dared not. George, at the first seeing her from the
garden above, as she landed from the boat, had rushed downwards; but
his courage had failed him as he approached; and he, who had braved
dangers in every shape, and in every clime, now, on this well-known
spot, feared to encounter the playmate of his infancy, the confidant
of his childhood; and as she neared the spot at which he had
hesitated and stopped, he hid himself, crouching in the copse behind
the arbour, to mark her more closely before presenting himself to her
notice.
He had known her from a distance; that is, having heard that she
was shortly expected, and to arrive by sea, although the day had
not been fixed, he felt assured that this must be her. Yet, upon
beholding her nearer, so much was she changed, that he felt disposed
to doubt her identity. She had grown much thinner, and this effect
was increased by her mourning attire. He had never before seen her
in the garb of woe, through all the long years which they had passed
together. Custom in her case would not have required her to assume
it for a distant relative, nor had sad necessity obliged her to wear
it for any one whom she would have really lamented. And if (thought
he) she should be as much altered in inward feeling, as in outward
appearance--if even now, sitting alone in that arbour, where we have
together so often lingered, there is a constraint in her manners,
who knows whether that constraint would be removed, or would assume
only a more chilling coldness, at again suddenly beholding the
companion of her youth? This fear pressed so strongly upon his mind
that he stirred not from his concealment, but suffered her to pass on
undisturbed.
She again commenced languidly ascending the remaining part of the
cliff, leaning on her maid, whose patience was very much exhausted,
and who could not help at last exclaiming; “Well to be sure, my lady,
this is the most horriblest outlandish place I ever seed; I wonder
that you, who knowed afore how bad it was, ever thought of returning
to it again; it would have been different if you had been brought to
it unsight unseen.”
“Such as it is,” replied Lady Castleton, “there is no carpeted hall
where I have wandered, since last I was here, which I have trodden
with half the pleasure that I feel as I again climb this rugged
ascent.”
Further comment on the part of her loquacious attendant was for the
present prevented; for they had at length reached the ledge upon
which Bankside Farm-house was situated, and Lucy was received in the
arms of her aunt Alice.