CHAPTER XXII. "A WARNING" AND "A PARTING."
If we wanted any evidence of how little avail all worldly wisdom is,we might take it from the fact that our severest calamities areoften impending us at the moments we deem ourselves most secure frommisfortune. Thus was it that while the events were happening whoseinfluence was to shadow over all the sunshine of her life, Lady EleanorDarcy never felt more at ease. That same morning the post had broughther a letter from the Knight,--only a few lines, hastily written, butenough to allay all her anxiety. He spoke of law arrangements, thenalmost completed, by which any immediate pressure regarding money mightbe at once obviated, and promised, for the very first time in his life,to submit to any plan of retrenchment she desired to adopt. Had it beenin her power, she could not have dictated lines more full of pleasantanticipation. The only drawback on the happiness of her lot in life wasthe wasteful extravagance of a mode of living which savored far more offeudal barbarism than of modern luxury.
Partly from long habit and association, partly from indolence ofcharacter, but more than either from a compassionate considerationof those whose livelihood might be impaired by any change in hisestablishment, the Knight had resisted all suggestion of alteration. Heviewed the very peculations around him as vested rights, and the mosthe could pledge himself to was, that when the present race died out hewould not appoint any successors.
The same post that brought this pleasant letter, conveyed one of farless grateful import to Forester. It was a long epistle from his mother,carefully worded, and so characteristic withal, that if it were any partof our object to introduce that lady to our readers, we could not moreeasily do so than through her own letter. Such is not, however, ourintention; enough if we say that it was a species of domestic homily,where moral principles and worldly wisdom found themselves soinextricably interwoven, no mean skill could have disentangled them. Shehad learned, as careful mothers somehow always contrive to learn, thather son was domesticated in the house with a very charming and beautifulgirl, and the occasion seemed suitable to enforce some of thoseexcellent precepts which hitherto had been deficient in force for wantof a practical example.
Had Lady Wallincourt limited herself to cautious counsels about fallingin love with some rustic beauty in a remote region, Forester might havetreated the advice as one of those matter-of-course events which causeno more surprise than the receipt of a printed circular; but she wentfurther. She deemed this a fitting occasion to instruct her son intothe mystery of that craft, which, in her own experience of life, she hadseen make more than one man's fortune, and by being adepts in which manyof her own family had attained to high and lasting honors. This sciencewas neither more nor less than success in female society. "I will notinsult either your good taste or your understanding," wrote she, "byany warning against falling in love in Ireland. Beauty is--Franceexcepted--pretty equally distributed through the world; neither is thereany nationality in good looks, for, nowadays, admixture of race hasobliterated every peculiarity of origin. In all, then, that concernsmanner, tone, and breeding, your own country possesses the truestandard: every deviation from this is a fault. What is conventionalmust be right, because it is the exponent of general opinion on thosetopics for which each feels interested. Now, the Irish, my dear boy, theIrish are never conventional; they are clannish, provincial, peculiar,but never conventional. Their pride would seem to be rather to rufflethan fall in with the general sympathies of society. They forget thatthe social world is a great compact, and they are always striving forindividual successes by personal distinction: this is the very acme ofvulgarity.
"If they, however, are very indifferent models for imitation, theyafford an excellent school for your own training; they are a shrewd,quick-sighted race, with a strong sense of the ludicrous, and are whatthe French call _malin_ to a degree. To win favor among them without anysubservient imitation of their own habits, which would be contemptible,is not over easy.
"If I am rightly informed, you are at present well circumstanced toprofit by my counsels. I am told of a very agreeable and very prettygirl with whom you ride and walk out constantly, and, far from feelingany maternal uneasiness,--for I trust I know my son,--I am rejoiced atthe circumstance. Make the most of such an advantage by exercising yourown abilities and powers of pleasing, give yourself the habit oftalking your very best on every topic, without pedantry or any signof premeditation. Practise that blending of courteous deference to awoman's opinions with a subdued consciousness of your own powers, whichI have spoken to you of in your dear father's character. Seldom ventureon an axiom, never tell an anecdote; be most guarded in any indulgenceof humor: a laugh is the most dangerous of all triumphs. It is thehabit to reproach us with our frigidity,--I believe not without reason;cultivate, then, a certain amount of warmth which may suggest the ideaof earnestness, apart from all suspicion of enthusiasm, which I haveoften told you is low-lived. Watch carefully by what qualities yoursuccess is more advanced; examine yourself as to what defects youexperience in your own character; make yourself esteemed as a means ofbeing estimable; win regard, and the habit of pleasing will give a charmto your manner, even when you are not desirous to secure affection. Yourpoor dear father often confessed the inestimable advantages of his firstaffairs of the heart, and used to say, whenever by any adroit exerciseof his captivation he had gained over an adverse Maid of Honor, I owethat to Louisa, for such was the name of the young lady,--I forget nowwho she was. The mechanism of the heart is alike in all lands; the meansof success in Ireland will win victory where the prize is higher. In allthis, remember, I by no means advise you to sport with any young lady'sfeelings, nor to win more of her affection than may assure you thatthe entire could also become yours: a polite chess-player will restsatisfied to say, 'check,' without pushing the adversary to 'mate.'
"It will soon be time you should leave the army, and I hope to find youhave acquired some other education by the pursuit than mere knowledge ofdress."
This is a short specimen of the maternal Machiavelism by which "the mostfascinating woman of her set" hoped to instruct her son, and teach himthe road to fortune.
Such is the fatal depravity of every human heart that any subtle appealto selfishness, if it fail to flex the victim to the will, at leastshakes the strong sense of conscious rectitude, and makes our veryworthiness seem weakness.
Forester's first impression was almost anger as he read these lines,the second time he perused them he was far less shocked, and at lastwas puzzled whether more to wonder at the keen worldly knowledge theybetrayed, or the solicitude of that affection which consented to unveilso much of life for his guidance. The result of all these conflictingemotions was depression of spirits, and a discontent with himself andall the world; nor could the fascinations of that little circle in whichhe lived so intimately, subdue the feeling.
Lady Eleanor saw this, and exerted herself with all her wonted powers toamuse and interest him; Helen, too, delighted at the favorable change inher mother's spirits, contributed to sustain the tone of light-heartedpleasantry, while she could not restrain a jest upon Forester's unusualgloominess.
The manner whose fascinations had hitherto so many charms, now almostirritated him; the poison of suspicion had been imbibed, and hecontinually asked himself, what if the very subtlety his mother's letterspoke of was now practised by her? If all the varied hues of captivationher changing humor wore were but the deep practised lures of coquetry?His self-love was piqued by the thought, as well as his perceptiveshrewdness, and he set himself, as he believed, to decipher her realnature; but, such is the blindness of mere egotism, in reality tomisunderstand and mistake her.
How often it happens in life that the moment a doubt prevails as to sometrait or feature of our character, we should exactly seize upon thatvery instant to indulge in some weakness or passing levity that maystrengthen a mere suspicion, or make it a certainty.
Helen never seemed gayer than on this evening, scarcely noticingForester, save when to jest upon his morose and silent mood; sh
e talked,and laughed, and sang in all the free joyousness of a happy heart,unconsciously displaying powers of mind and feeling which, in calmermoments, lay dormant and concealed.
The evening wore on, and Helen had just risen from her harp,--where shewas playing one of those wild, half-sad, half-playful melodies of hercountry,--when a gentle tap came to the door, and, without waiting forleave to enter, old Tate appeared.
The old man was pale, and his features wore an expression of extremeterror; but he was doing his very utmost, as it seemed, to struggleagainst some inward fear, as, with a smile of far more melancholy thanmirth, he said, "Did ye hear it, my Lady? I 'm sure ye heerd it."
"Heard what, Tate?" said Lady Eleanor.
"The--but I see Miss Helen's laughing at me. Ah! don't then, Miss,darlin',--don't laugh."
"What was it, Tate? Tell us what you heard."
"The Banshee, my Lady! Ay, there 's the way,--I knew how 't would be;you 'd only laugh when I tould you."
"Where was it you heard it?" said Lady Eleanor, affecting seriousness togratify the old man's superstition.
"Under the east window, my Lady; then it moved across the flower-garden,and down to the shore beneath the big rocks."
"What was it like, Tate?"
"'T was like a funeral 'coyne' first, Miss, when ye heerd it far away inthe mountain; and then it rose, and swelled fuller and stronger, tillit swam all round me, and at last died away to the light, soft cry of aninfant."
"Exactly, Tate; it was Captain Forester sighing. I never heard a betterdescription in my life."
"Ah! don't laugh, my Lady,--don't now, Miss Helen, dear. I never knewluck nor grace come of laughing when the warnin' was come. 'T is theCaptain, there, looks sad and thoughtful,--the Heavens bless him for it!He knows 'tis no time for laughing."
Forester might have accepted the eulogy in better part, perhaps, had heunderstood it; but as it was, he turned abruptly about, and asked LadyEleanor for an explanation of the whole mystery.
"Tate thinks he has heard--"
"Thinks!" interrupted the old man, with a sorrowful gesture of bothhands. "Musha! I'd take the Gospel on it; I heard it as plain as I hearyour Ladyship now."
Lady Eleanor smiled, and went on--"the cry of the Banshee, that dreadfulwarning which, in the superstition of the country, always betokensdeath, or at least some great calamity, to the house it is heard to wailover."
"A polite attention, to say the least," said Forester, smilingsarcastically, "of the witch or fairy or whatever it is, to announceto people an approaching misfortune. And has every cabin got its ownBan--what do you call it?"
"The cabins has none," said Tate, with a loot of severe reproach, themost remote possible from his habitual air of deference; "'tis only theouldest and most ancient families, like his honor the Knight's, has aBanshee. But it's no use talking; I see nobody believes me."
"Yes, Tate, I do," cried Helen, with an earnestness of manner, eitherreally felt, or assumed to gratify the poor old man's superstitiousveneration; "just tell me how you heard it first."
"Like that!" whispered Tate, as he held up his hand to enforce silence;and at the same instant a low, plaintive cry was heard, as if beneaththe very window. The accent was not of pain or suffering, but ofmelancholy so soft, so touching, and yet so intense, that it stilledevery voice within the room, where now each long-drawn breath wasaudible.
There is a lurking trait of superstition in every human heart, whichwill resist, at some one moment or other, every effort of reason andevery scoff of irony. An instant before, and Forester was ready to jestwith the old man's terrors, and now his own spirit was not all devoidof them. The feeling was, however, but of a moment's duration; suspicionagain assumed its sway, and, seizing his hat, he rushed from the room,to search the flower-garden and examine every spot where any one mightlie concealed.
"There he goes now, as if he could see _her_; and maybe 't would beas well for him he did n't," said Tate, as, in contempt of the Englishincredulity, he gazed after the eager youth. "Is his honor well, myLady?--when did you hear from him?"
"We heard this very day, Tate; he is perfectly well."
"And Master Lionel--the captain, I mane--but I only think he's a childstill."
"Quite well, too," said Helen. "Don't alarm yourself, Tate; you know howsadly the wind can sigh through these old walls at times, and under theyew-trees, too, it sounds drearily; I 've shuddered to myself often, asI 've heard it."
"God grant it!" said old Tate, piously; but the shake of his head andthe muttering sounds between his teeth attested that he laid no suchflattering unction to his heart as mere disbelief might offer. "'T isn't a death-cry, anyhow, Miss Helen," whispered he to Miss Darcy, as hemoved towards the door; "for I went down to the back of the abbey, whereSir Everard was buried, and all was still there."
"Well, go to bed now, Tate, and don't think more about it; if thewind--"
"Ah! the wind! the wind!" said he, querulously; "that's the way italways is,--as if God Almighty had no other way of talking to our heartsthan the cry of the night-wind."
"Well, Captain Forester, what success? Have you confronted the spectre?"said Lady Eleanor, as he re-entered the apartment.
"Except having fallen into a holly-bush, where I rivalled thecomplaining accents of the old witch, I have no adventure to recount;all is perfectly still and tranquil without."
"You have got your cheek scratched for following the siren," said LadyEleanor, laughing; "pray put another log on the fire, it is fearfullychilly here."
Old Tate withdrew slowly and unwillingly; he saw that his intelligencehad failed to produce a proper sense of terror on their minds; and hisown load of anxiety was heavier, from want of participation.
The conversation, by that strange instinct which influences the leastas well as the most credulous people, now turned on the superstitionsof the peasantry, and many a legend and story were remembered by LadyEleanor and her daughter, in which these popular beliefs formed a chieffeature.
"It is unfair and unwise," said Lady Eleanor, at the conclusion of oneof these stories, "to undervalue such influences; the sailor, who passeshis life in dangers, watches the elements with an eye and an air thattraining have rendered almost preternaturally observant, and he sees thesign of storm where others would but mark the glow of a red sunset;so among a primitive people communing much with their own hearts insolitary, unfrequented places, imagination becomes developed in undueproportion, and the mind seeks relief in creative efforts from thewearying sense of loneliness; but even these are less idle fancies thanconclusions come to from long and deep thought. Some strange processof analogy would seem the parent of superstitions which we know to becommon to all lands."
"Which means, that you half believe in a Banshee!" said Forester,smiling.
"Not so; but that I cannot consent to despise the frame of mind whichsuggests these beliefs, although I have no faith in the apparitions.Poor Tate, there, had never dreamed of hearing the Banshee cry if somepainful thought of impending misfortune had not suggested her presence;his fears may not be unfounded, although the form they take bepreternatural."
"I protest against all such plausibilities," said Helen. "I 'm for theBanshee, as the Republicans say in France, 'one and indivisible.' I 'llnot accept of natural explanations. Mr. Bagenal Daly says, we maywell believe in spirits, when we put faith in the mere ghost of aParliament."
"Helen is throwing out a bait for a political discussion," said LadyEleanor, laughing, "and so I 'll even say good night, Captain Forester,and pleasant dreams of the Banshee."
Forester rose and took his leave, which, somehow, was colder than usual.His mother's counsels had got possession of his mind, and distrustperverted every former source of pleasure.
"Her manner is all coquetry," said he, angrily, to himself, as he walkedtowards his room.
Poor fellow! and what if it were? Coquetry is but a gilding, to besure; but it can never be well laid on if the substance beneath is not aprecious metal.
The
re was, at the place where the river opened into the sea, a smallinlet of the bay guarded by two bold and rocky headlands, between whichthe tide swept with uncommon violence, accumulating in time a kindof bar, over which, even in calm weather, the waves were lashed intobreakers, while the waters within were still as a mountain lake. Theancient ruin we have already alluded to passingly, stood on a littleeminence fronting this small creek, and although unmarked by anyarchitectural beauty, or any pretensions, save the humble possession offour rude walls pierced by narrow windows, and a low doorway formed ofthree large stones, was yet, in the eyes of the country people, endowedwith some superior holiness,--so it is certain the little churchyardaround bespoke. It was crowded with graves, whose humble monumentsconsisted in wooden crosses, decorated in recent cases with littlegarlands of paper or wild flowers, as piety or affection suggested. Thefragments of ship-timber around showed that they who slept beneath hadbeen mostly fishermen, for the chapel was peculiarly esteemed by them;and at the opening of the fishing season a mass was invariably offeredhere for the success of the herring-fishery, by a priest from aneighboring parish, whose expenses were willingly and liberally rewardedby the fishermen.
In exact proportion with the reverence in which this spot was regardedby day was the fear and dread entertained of it by night. Stories ofghosts and evil spirits were rife far and near of that lonely ruin, andthe hardiest seamen, who would brave the wild waves of the Atlantic,would not venture alone within these deserted walls after dark. Helenremembered, as a child, having been once there after sunset, induced byan intense curiosity to hear or see something of those sounds and shapesher nurse had told of, and what alarm her absence created among thehousehold increased when it was discovered where she had been.
The same strange desire to hear if it might be that sad and wailingvoice which all had so distinctly heard in the drawing-room, led her,when she had wished her mother good-night, to leave her chamber, and,crossing the flower-garden, to descend to the beach by a small doorwhich opened to a little pathway down to the sea. When the superstitionswhose terrors have affrighted childhood are either conquered by reasonor uprooted by worldly influence, they still leave behind them astrange passion for the marvellous, which in imaginative temperaments isfrequently greatly developed, and becomes a great source of enjoyment orsuffering to its possessor. Helen Darcy's nature was of this kind,and she would gladly have accepted all the tremors and terrors ofher nursery days to feel once again that intense awe, that anxiousheart-beating expectancy, a ghost story used to create within her.
The night was calm and starlit, the sea was tranquil and unruffled,except where the bar broke the flow of the tide, and marked by a longline of foam the struggling breakers, whose hoarse plash was heard abovethe rippling on the strand. Even in the rocky caves all was still,not an echo resounded within those dreary caverns where at times thethunder's self was not louder. Helen reached the little churchyard;she knew every path and foot-track through it, and at last, strollingleisurely onward, entered the ruin and sat down within the deep windowthat looked over the sea.
For some time her attention was directed seaward, watching the waves asthey reflected back the spangled heaven, or sank again in dark shadow,when suddenly she perceived the figure of a man, who appeared slowlypacing the beach immediately beneath where she sat.
What could have brought any one there at such an hour she could notimagine; and however few her terrors of the world of spirits, she wouldgladly at this moment have been safe within the abbey. While she debatedwith herself how to act--whether to remain in her present concealment,or venture on a sudden flight--the figure halted exactly under thewindow. Her doubts and fears were now speedily resolved, for sheperceived it was Forester, who, induced by the beauty of the night, hadthus strolled out upon the shore. "What if I should put his courageousincredulity to the test?" thought Helen; "the moment is propitious now.I could easily imitate the cry of the Banshee!" The temptation was toostrong to be resisted, and without further thought she uttered a low,thrilling wail, in an accent of most touching sorrow. Forester startedand looked up, but the dark walls were in deep shadow; whatever his realfeelings at the moment, he lost no time in clambering up the bankon which the ruin stood, and from which he rightly judged the soundproceeded. Helen was yet uncertain whether to attribute this step toterror or the opposite, when she heard his foot as he traversed thethickly-studded graveyard,--a moment more, and he would be in the churchitself, where he could not fail to discover her by her white dress. Butone chance offered of escape, which was to leap from the window downupon the strand: it was deeper than she fancied, nearly twice her ownheight; but then detection, for more than one good reason, was not to bethought of.
Helen was not one of those who long hesitate when their minds are to bemade up; she slipped noiselessly between the stone mullion and the sideof the window, and sprang out; unfortunately one foot turned on asmall stone, and she fell on the sand, while a slight accent of painunconsciously broke from her. Before she could rise, Forester was besideher; with one arm round her waist, he half pressed, as he assisted herto recover her feet.
"So, fair spirit," said he, jocularly, "I have tracked you, it wouldseem;" then, for the first time discovering it was Helen, he muttered ina different tone, "I ask pardon, Miss Darcy; I really did not know--"
"I am sure of that, Captain Forester," said she, disengaging herselffrom his aid. "I certainly deserve a lesson for my silly attempt tofrighten you, and I believe I have sprained my ankle. Will you kindlysend Florence to me?"
"I cannot leave you here alone, Miss Darcy; pray take my arm, and let meassist you back to the abbey."
The tone of deference he now spoke in, and the increasing pain,concurred to persuade her, and she accepted the proffered assistance.
"The absurdity of this adventure is not repaid by the pleasure of havingfrightened you," said she, laughing; "if I could only say how terrifiedyou were--"
"You might indeed have said so," interrupted Forester, "had I guessedthe figure I saw leap out was yours."
"It was even higher than I thought," said she, avoiding to remark thefervent accents in which these words were spoken.
Forester was silent; his heart was full to bursting; the passion solately dashed by doubts and suspicions returned with tenfold force nowthat he felt her arm within his own as step by step they moved along.
"You are in great pain, I fear," said he, tremulously.
"No, not now. I am so much more ashamed of my folly than a suffererfrom it that I could forgive the sprain if I could the silly notion thatcaused it. 'Twas an unlucky fancy, to say the least of it."
Again there was a pause, and although they walked but slowly, they werefast approaching the little gate that opened into the flower-garden.Forester was silent. "Was it from this cause, or by some secretfreemasonry of the female heart that she suspected what was passing inhis mind, and exerted herself to move on more rapidly?
"Take time, Miss Darcy; not so fast; if not for your sake, for mine atleast."
The last few words were scarcely above a whisper, but every one of themreached her to whom they were addressed; whether affecting not to hearthem, or preferring to mistake their meaning, Helen made no answer.
"I said for _my_ sake," resumed he, with a courage that demanded allhis energy, "because on these few moments the whole fortune of my futurelife is placed. I love you."
"Nay, Captain Forester," said she, smiling, "this is not quite fair; Ifailed in my attempt to terrify you, and have paid the penalty: letthere not be a further one of my listening to what I should not hear."
"And why not hear it, Helen? Is the devotion of one even humble as I am,a thing to offend? Is it the less sincere that I feel how much you areabove me in every way? Will not my very presumption prove how fervent isthe passion that has made me forget all save itself,--all save you?"
Truth has its own accents, however weak the words it syllables. Helenlaughed not now, but walked on with quicker steps; while the youth, thebarrier
once passed, poured forth with heartfelt eloquence his taleof love, recalling to her mind by many a slight, unnoticed trait, hislong-pledged devotion; how he had watched and worshipped her, seeking towin favor in her eyes, and seem not all unworthy of her heart.
"It is true," said he, "I cannot, dare not, ask in return for anaffection which should repay my own; but let me hope that what I nowspeak, the devotion I pledge, is no rejected offering; that although youcare not for me, you will not crush forever one who lives but in yoursmile, that you will give me time to show myself more worthy of theprize I strive for. There is no trial I would not dare--"
"I must interrupt you, Captain Forester," said Helen, with a voicethat all her efforts had not rendered quite steady; "it would be anungenerous requital for the sentiments you say you feel--"
"Say!--nay, Helen, I swear it, by every hope that now thrills withinme--"
"It would be," resumed she, tremulously, "an ungenerous requital forthis, were I to practise any deception on you. I am sincerely, deeplysorry to hear you speak as you have done. I had long since learned toregard you as the friend of Lionel, almost like a brother. The pleasureyour society afforded one I am most attached to increased the feeling;and as intimacy increased between us, I thought how happy were it if theambitions of life did not withdraw from home the sons whose kindness canbe as thoughtful and as tender as that of the daughters of the house.Shall I confess it? I almost wished my brother like you; but yet allthis was not love,--nay, for I will be frank, at whatever cost,--I hadnever felt this towards you, if I suspected your sentiments towardsme--"
"But, dearest Helen--"
"Hear me out. There is but one way in which the impropriety of such ameeting as this can be obviated, chance though it be, and that is,by perfect candor. I have told you the simple truth, not with anyundervaluing sense of the affection you proffer, still less with anycoquetry of reserve. I should be unworthy of the heart you offer me,since I could not give my own in exchange."
"Do you deny me all hope?" said he, in an accent almost bursting withgrief.
"I am not arrogant enough to say I shall never change; but I am honestenough to tell you that I do not expect it."
"Farewell, then, Helen! I do not love you less that you have taught meto think more humbly of myself. Good-by--forever!"
"It is better it should come to this," said Helen, faintly; and she heldout her hand towards him. "Good-by, Forester!"
He pressed one long and burning kiss upon her hand, and turned away,while she, pushing open the door, entered the little garden. Scarcely,however, was the door closed behind her, when the calm courage in whichshe spoke forsook her, and she burst into tears.
So is it, the heart can be moved, even its most tender chords, when thetouch that stirs it is less of love than sorrow.
The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1 (of 2) Page 24
