'We are—and therefore sit down, cousin Grace, and let me claim the privilege of friendship, and speak to you of him who aspires to be more than your friend for life, Mr.—'
Mr. Salisbury!' said Miss Nugent; 'I saw him yesterday. We had a very long conversation; I believe he understands my sentiments perfectly, and that he no longer thinks of being more to me than a friend for life.'
'You have refused him!'
'Yes. I have a high opinion of Mr. Salisbury's understanding, a great esteem for his character; I like his manners and conversation; but I do not love him, and therefore, you know, I could not marry him.'
'But, my dear Miss Nugent, with a high opinion, a great esteem, and liking his manners and conversation, in such a well-regulated mind as yours, can there be a better foundation for love?'
'It is an excellent foundation,' said she; 'but I never went any farther than the foundation; and, indeed, I never wished to proceed any farther.'
Lord Colambre scarcely dared to ask why; but, after some pause, he said—
'I don't wish to intrude upon your confidence.'
'You cannot intrude upon my confidence; I am ready to give it to you entirely, frankly; I hesitated only because another person was concerned. Do you remember, at my aunt's gala, a lady who danced with Mr. Salisbury?'
'Not in the least.'
'A lady with whom you and Mr. Salisbury were talking, just before supper, in the Turkish tent.'
'Not in the least.'
'As we went down to supper, you told me you had had a delightful conversation with her—that you thought her a charming woman.'
'A charming woman!—I have not the slightest recollection of her.'
'And you told me that she and Mr. Salisbury had been praising me A L'ENVIE L'UNE ET L'AUTRE.'
'Oh, I recollect her now perfectly,' said Lord Colambre; 'But what of her?'
'She is the woman who, I hope, will be Mrs. Salisbury. Ever since I have been acquainted with them both, I have seen that they were suited to each other; and fancy, indeed I am almost sure, that she could love him, tenderly love him—and, I know, I could not. But my own sentiments, you may be sure, are all I ever told Mr. Salisbury.'
'But of your own sentiments you may not be sure,' said Lord Colambre; 'and I see no reason why you should give him up from false generosity.'
'Generosity?' interrupted Miss Nugent; 'you totally misunderstand me; there is no generosity, nothing for me to give up in the case. I did not refuse Mr. Salisbury from generosity, but because I did not love him. Perhaps my seeing this at first prevented me from thinking of him as a lover; but, from whatever cause, I certainly never felt love for Mr. Salisbury, nor any of that pity which is said to lead to love; perhaps,' added she, smiling, 'because I was aware that he would be so much better off after I refused him—so much happier with one suited to him in age, talents, fortune, and love—"What bliss, did he but know his bliss," were HIS!'
'Did he but know his bliss,' repeated Lord Colambre; 'but is not he the best judge of his own bliss?'
'And am not I the best judge of mine?' said Miss Nugent; 'I go no farther.'
'You are; and I have no right to go farther. Yet, this much permit me to say, my dear Grace, that it would give me sincere pleasure, that is, real satisfaction, to see you happily—established.'
'Thank you, my dear Lord Colambre; but you spoke that like a man of seventy at least, with the most solemn gravity of demeanour.'
'I meant to be serious, not solemn,' said Lord Colambre, endeavouring to change his tone.
'There now,' said she, in a playful tone, 'you have SERIOUSLY accomplished the task my good uncle set you; so I will report well of you to him, and certify that you did all that in you lay to exhort me to marry; that you have even assured me that it would give you sincere pleasure, that is, real satisfaction, to see me happily established.'
'Oh, Grace, if you knew how much I felt when I said that, you would spare this raillery.'
'I will be serious—I am most seriously convinced of the sincerity of your affection for me; I know my happiness is your object in all you have said, and I thank you from my heart for the interest you take about me. But really and truly, I do not wish to marry. This is not a mere commonplace speech; but I have not yet seen any man I could love. I like you, cousin Colambre, better than Mr. Salisbury—I would rather live with you than with him; you know that is a certain proof that I am not likely to be in love with him. I am happy as I am, especially now we are all going to dear Ireland, home, to live together: you cannot conceive with what pleasure I look forward to that.'
Lord Colambre was not vain; but love quickly sees love where it exists, or foresees the probability, the possibility of its existence. He saw that Miss Nugent might love him tenderly, passionately; but that duty, habit, the prepossession that it was impossible she could marry her cousin Colambre—a prepossession instilled into her by his mother—had absolutely prevented her from ever yet thinking of him as a lover. He saw the hazard for her, he felt the danger for himself. Never had she appeared to him so attractive as at this moment, when he felt the hope that he could obtain return of love.
'But St. Omar!—Why! why is she a St, Omar!—illegitimate!—"No St. Omar SANS REPROCHE." My wife she cannot be—I will not engage her affections.'
Swift as thoughts in moments of strong feeling pass in the mind without being put into words, our hero thought all this, and determined, cost what it would, to act honourably.
'You spoke of my returning to Ireland, my dear Grace. I have not yet told you my plans.'
'Plans! are not you returning with us?' said she, precipitately; 'are not you going to Ireland—home—with us?'
'No—I am going to serve a campaign or two abroad. I think every young man in these times—'
'Good heavens! What does this mean? What can you mean?' cried she, fixing her eyes upon his, as if she would read his very soul. 'Why? what reason?—Oh, tell me the truth and at once.'
His change of colour—his hand that trembled, and withdrew from hers—the expression of his eyes as they met hers—revealed the truth to her at once. As it flashed across her mind, she started back; her face grew crimson, and, in the same instant, pale as death.
'Yes—you see, you feel the truth now,' said Lord Colambre. 'You see, you feel, that I love you—passionately.'
'Oh, let me not hear it!' said she; 'I must not—ought not. Never, till this moment, did such a thought cross my mind—I thought it impossible—oh, make me think so still.'
'I will—it is impossible that we can ever be united.'
'I always thought so,' said she, taking breath with a deep sigh. 'Then why not live as we have lived?'
'I cannot—I cannot answer for myself—I will not run the risk; and therefore I must quit you—knowing, as I do, that there is an invincible obstacle to our union, of what nature I cannot explain; I beg you not to inquire.'
'You need not beg it—I shall not inquire—I have no curiosity—none,' said she, in a passive, dejected tone; 'that is not what I am thinking of in the least. I know there are invincible obstacles; I wish it to be so. But, if invincible, you who have so much sense, honour, and virtue—'
'I hope, my dear cousin, that I have honour and virtue. But there are temptations to which no wise, no good man will expose himself. Innocent creature! you do not know the power of love. I rejoice that you have always thought it impossible—think so still—it will save you from—all I must endure. Think of me but as your cousin, your friend—give your heart to some happier man. As your friend, your true friend, I conjure you, give your heart to some more fortunate man. Marry, if you can feel love—marry, and be happy. Honour! virtue! Yes, I have both, and I will not forfeit them. Yes, I will merit your esteem and my own—by actions, not words; and I give you the strongest proof, by tearing myself from you at this moment. Farewell!'
'The carriage at the door, Miss Nugent, and my lady calling for you,' said her maid. 'Here's your key, ma'am, and here's your gloves, my dear ma'a
m.'
'The carriage at the door, Miss Nugent, said Lady Clonbrony's woman, coming eagerly with parcels in her hand, as Miss Nugent passed her and ran downstairs; 'and I don't know where I laid my lady's NUMBRELLA, for my life—do your Anne?'
'No, indeed—but I know here's my own young lady's watch that she has left. Bless me! I never knew her to forget anything on a journey before.'
'Then she is going to be married, as sure as my name's Le Maistre, and to my Lord Colambre; for he has been here this hour, to my certain Bible knowledge. Oh, you'll see, she will be Lady Colambre?
'I wish she may, with all my heart said Anne; 'but I must run down—they're waiting.'
'Oh no,' said Mrs. le Maistre, seizing Anne's arm, and holding her fast; 'stay—you may safely—for they're all kissing and taking leave, and all that, you know; and my lady is talking on about Mr. Soho, and giving a hundred directions about legs of TABLES, and so forth, I warrant—she's always an hour after she's ready before she gets in—and I'm looking for the NUMBRELLA. So stay, and tell me—Mrs. Petito wrote over word it was to be Lady Isabel; and then a contradiction came—it was turned into the youngest of the Killpatricks; and now here he's in Miss Nugent's dressing-room to the last moment. Now, in my opinion, that am not censorious, this does not look so pretty; but, according to my verdict, he is only making a fool of Miss Nugent, like the rest; and his lordship seems too like what you might call a male COCKET, or a masculine jilt.'
'No more like a masculine jilt than yourself, Mrs. le Maistre,' cried Anne, taking fire. 'And my young lady is not a lady to be made a fool of, I promise you; nor is my lord likely to make a fool of any woman.'
'Bless us all! that's no great praise for any young nobleman. Miss Anne.'
'Mrs. le Maistre! Mrs. le Maistre! are you above?' cried a footman from the bottom of the stairs; 'my lady's calling for you.'
'Very well! very well!' said sharp Mrs. le Maistre; 'very well! and if she is—manners, sir!—Come up for one, can't you, and don't stand bawling at the bottom of the stairs, as if one had no ears to be saved. I'm coming as fast as I conveniently can.' Mrs. le Maistre stood in the doorway, so as to fill it up, and prevent Anne from passing.
'Miss Anne! Miss Anne! Mrs. le Maistre!' cried another footman; 'my lady's in the carriage, and Miss Nugent.'
'Miss Nugent!—is she?' cried Mrs. le Maistre, running downstairs, followed by Anne. 'Now, for the world in pocket-pieces wouldn't I have missed seeing him hand Miss Nugent in; for by that I could have judged definitively.'
'My lord, I beg pardon!—I'm AFEARD I'm late,' said Mrs. le Maistre, as she passed Lord Colambre, who was standing motionless in the hall. 'I beg a thousand pardons; but I was hunting high and low, for my lady's NUMBRELLA.'
Lord Colambre did not hear or heed her; his eyes were fixed, and they never moved.
Lord Clonbrony was at the open carriage-door, kneeling on the step, and receiving Lady Clonbrony's 'more last words' for Mr. Soho. The two waiting-maids stood together on the steps.
'Look at our young lord, how he stands,' whispered Mrs. le Maistre to Anne, 'the image of despair! And she, the picture of death!—I don't know what to think.'
'Nor I; but don't stare if you can help it,' said Anne. 'Get in, get in, Mrs. le Maistre,' added she, as Lord Clonbrony now rose from the step, and made way for them.
'Ay, in with you—in with you, Mrs. le Maistre,' said Lord Clonbrony. 'Good-bye to you, Anne, and take care of your young mistress at Buxton; let me see her blooming when we meet again; I don't half like her looks, and I never thought Buxton agreed with her.'
'Buxton never did anybody harm,' said Lady Clonbrony; 'and as to bloom, I'm sure, if Grace has not bloom enough in her cheeks this moment to please you, I don't know what you'd have, my dear lord—Rouge?—Shut the door, John! Oh, stay!—Colambre! Where upon earth's Colambre?' cried her ladyship, stretching from the farthest side of the coach to the window. 'Colambre!'
Colambre was forced to appear.
'Colambre, my dear! I forgot to say that, if anything detains you longer than Wednesday se'nnight, I beg you will not fail to write, or I shall be miserable.'
'I will write; at all events, my dearest mother, you shall hear from me.'
'Then I shall be quite happy. Go on!'
The carriage drove on.
'I do believe Colambre's ill; I never saw a man look so ill in my life—did you, Grace?—as he did the minute we drove on. He should take advice. I've a mind, cried Lady Clonbrony, laying her hand on the cord to stop the coachman—'I've a mind to turn about, tell him so, and ask what is the matter with him.'
'Better not!' said Miss Nugent; 'he will write to you, and tell you—if anything is the matter with him. Better go on now to Buxton!' continued she, scarcely able to speak. Lady Clonbrony let go the cord.
'But what is the matter with you, my dear Grace? for you are certainly going to die too!'
'I will tell you—as soon as I can; but don't ask me now, my dear aunt!'
'Grace, Grace! pull the cord!' cried Lady Clonbrony—'Mr. Salisbury's phaeton!—Mr. Salisbury, I'm happy to see you! We're on our way to Buxton—as I told you.'
'So am I,' said Mr. Salisbury. 'I hope to be there before your ladyship; will you honour me with any commands!—of course, I will see that everything is ready for your reception.'
Her ladyship had not any commands. Mr. Salisbury drove on rapidly.
Lady Clonbrony's ideas had now taken the Salisbury channel.
'You didn't know that Mr. Salisbury was going to Buxton to meet you, did you, Grace?' said Lady Clonbrony.
'No, indeed, I did not!' said Miss Nugent; 'and I am very sorry for it.'
'Young ladies, as Mrs. Broadhurst says, "never know, or at least never tell, what they are sorry or glad for,"' replied Lady Clonbrony. 'At all events, Grace, my love, it has brought the fine bloom back to your cheeks; and I own I am satisfied.'
Chapter XV
*
'Gone! for ever gone from me!' said Lord Colambre to himself, as the carriage drove away. 'Never shall I see her more—never WILL I see her more, till she is married.'
Lord Colambre went to his own room, locked the door, and was relieved in some degree by the sense of privacy; by the feeling that he could now indulge his reflections undisturbed. He had consolation—he had done what was honourable—he had transgressed no duty, abandoned no principle—he had not injured the happiness of any human being—he had not, to gratify himself, hazarded the peace of the woman he loved—he had not sought to win her heart. Of her innocent, her warm, susceptible heart, he might perhaps have robbed her—he knew it—but he had left it untouched, he hoped entire, in her own power, to bless with it hereafter some man worthy of her. In the hope that she might be happy, Lord Colambre felt relief; and in the consciousness that he had made his parents happy, he rejoiced. But, as soon as his mind turned that way for consolation, came the bitter concomitant reflection, that his mother must be disappointed in her hopes of his accompanying her home, and of his living with her in Ireland; she would be miserable when she should hear that he was going abroad into the army—and yet it must be so—and he must write, and tell her so. 'The sooner this difficulty is off my mind, the sooner this painful letter is written, the better,' thought he. 'It must be done—I will do it immediately.'
He snatched up his pen, and began a letter.
My dear mother—Miss Nugent—'
He was interrupted by a knock at his door.
'A gentleman below, my lord,' said a servant, 'who wishes to see you.'
I cannot see any gentleman. Did you say I was at home?'
'No, my lord; I said you was not at home; for I thought you would not choose to be at home, and your own man was not in the way for me to ask—so I denied you; but the gentleman would not be denied; he said I must come and see if you was at home. So, as he spoke as if he was a gentleman not used to be denied, I thought it might be somebody of consequence, and I showed him into the front drawing-room. I think he said he was su
re you'd be at home for a friend from Ireland.'
'A friend from Ireland! Why did not you tell me that sooner?' said Lord Colambre, rising, and running downstairs. 'Sir James Brooke, I daresay.'
No, not Sir James Brooke; but one he was almost as glad to see—Count O'Halloran!
'My dear count! the greater pleasure for being unexpected.'
'I came to London but yesterday,' said the count; 'but I could not be here a day, without doing myself the honour of paying my respects to Lord Colambre.'
'You do me not only honour, but pleasure, my dear count. People when they like one another, always find each other out, and contrive to meet even in London.'
'You are too polite to ask what brought such a superannuated militaire as I am,' said the count, 'from his retirement into this gay world again. A relation of mine, who is one of our Ministry, knew that I had some maps, and plans, and charts, which might be serviceable in an expedition they are planning. I might have trusted my charts across the channel, without coming myself to convoy them, you will say. But my relation fancied—young relations, you know, if they are good for anything, are apt to overvalue the heads of old relations—fancied that mine was worth bringing all the way from Halloran Castle to London, to consult with TETE-A-TETE. So you know, when this was signified to me by a letter from the secretary in office, PRIVATE, MOST CONFIDENTIAL, what could I do, but do myself the honour to obey? For though honour's voice cannot provoke the silent dust, yet "flattery soothes the dull cold ear of AGE."—But enough, and too much of myself,' said the count: 'tell me, my dear lord, something of yourself. I do not think England seems to agree with you so well as Ireland; for, excuse me, in point of health, you don't look like the same man I saw some weeks ago.'
'My mind has been ill at ease of late,' said Lord Colambre.
'Ay, there's the thing! The body pays for the mind—but those who have feeling minds, pain and pleasure altogether computed, have the advantage; or at least they think so; for they would not change with those who have them not, were they to gain by the bargain the most robust body that the most selfish coxcomb, or the heaviest dunce extant, ever boasted. For instance, would you now, my lord, at this moment change altogether with Major Benson, or Captain Williamson, or even our friend, 'Eh, really now, "pon honour"—would you!—I'm glad to see you smile.'
The Absentee Page 25
