'No; but he could have robbed their homage of half-nay, all its grace.'
They talked of Northwold, and Isabel mentioned various details of Mrs. Ponsonby, which she had learnt from Miss King, and talked of Mary with great feeling and affection. Never had Louis had anything so like a conversation with Isabel, and he was more bewitched than ever by the enthusiasm and depth of sensibilities which she no longer concealed by coldness and reserve. In fact, she had come to regard him as an accessory of Northwold, and was delighted to enjoy some exchange of sympathy upon Terrace subjects-above all, when separated from the school-room party. Time had brought her to perceive that the fantastic Viscount did not always wear motley, and it was almost as refreshing as meeting with Clara, to have some change from the two worlds in which she lived. In her imaginary world, Adeline had just been rescued from the Corsairs by a knight hospitalier, with his vizor down, and was being conducted home by him, with equal probabilities of his dying at her feet of a concealed mortal wound, or conducting her to her convent gate, and going off to be killed by the Moors. The world of gaiety was more hollow and wearisome than ever; and the summons was as unwelcome to her as to Fitzjocelyn, when Lord Ormersfield reminded him that the ladies were going to an evening party, and that it was time to take leave.
'Come with us, Fitzjocelyn,' said his aunt. 'They would be charmed to have you;' and she mentioned some lions, whose names made Louis look at his father.
'I will send the carriage for you,' said the Earl; but Louis had learnt to detect the tone of melancholy reluctance in that apparently unalterable voice, and at once refused. Perhaps it was for that reason that Isabel let him put on her opera-cloak and hand her down stairs. 'I don't wonder at you,' she said; 'I wish I could do the same.'
'I wished it at first,' he answered; 'but I could not have gone without a heavy heart.'
'Are you young enough to expect to go to any gaieties without a heavy heart?'
'I am sorry for you,' said he, in his peculiar tone: 'I suppose I am your elder.'
'I am almost twenty-_four_,' she said, with emphasis.
'Indeed! That must be the age for care, to judge by the change it has worked in Jem Frost.'
The words were prompted by a keen, sudden desire to mark their effect; but he failed to perceive any, for they were in a dark part of the entry, and her face was turned away.
'Fitzjocelyn,' said the Earl, on the way home, 'do not think it necessary to look at me whenever you receive an invitation. It makes us both appear ridiculous, and you are in every respect your own master.'
'I had rather not, thank you,' said Louis, in an almost provokingly indifferent tone.
'It is full time you should assume your own guidance.'
'How little he knows how little that would suit him!' thought Louis, sighing despondingly. 'Am I called on to sacrifice myself in everything, and never even satisfy him?'
CHAPTER XVIII. REST FOR THE WEARY.
Therefore, arm thee for the strife All throughout this mortal life, Soldier now and servant true, Earth behind, and heaven in view. REV. I. WILLIAMS.
The first impression on arriving at Northwold was, that the danger had been magnified. Mrs. Frost's buoyant spirits had risen at the first respite; and though there was a weight on Mary's brow, she spoke cheerfully, and as if able to attend to other interests, telling Louis of her father's wihh for some good workmen to superintend the mines, aud asking him to consult his friends at Illershall on the subject.
Lord Ormersfield came down encouraged by his visit to the invalid, whom he had found dressed and able to converse nearly as usual. She begged him to come to dinner the next day, and spend the evening with her, promising with a smile that if he would bring Louis, their aunt should chaperon Mary.
When the Earl went upstairs after dinner, the other three closed round the fire, and talked in a tranquil, subdued strain, on various topics, sometimes grave, sometimes enlivened by the playfulness inherent in two of the party. Aunt Kitty spoke of her earlier days, and Louis and Mary ventured questions that they would have ordinarily deemed intrusive. Yet it was less the matter than the manner of their dialogue-the deep, unavowed fellow-feeling and mutual reliance-which rendered it so refreshing and full of a kind of repose. Louis felt it like the strange bright stillness, when birds sing their clearest, fullest notes, and the horizon reach of sky beams with the softest, brightest radiance, just ere it be closed out by the thunder-cloud, whose first drops are pausing to descend; and to Mary it was peace-peace which she was willing gratefully to taste to the utmost, from the instinctive perception that the call had come for her to brace all her powers of self-control and fortitude; while to the dear old aunt, besides her enjoyment of her darling's presence, each hour was a boon that she could believe the patient or the daughter, relieved and happy.
Louis was admitted for a few minutes' visit to the sick-chamber, and went up believing that he ought to be playful and cheerful; but he was nearly overcome by Mrs. Ponsonby's own brightness, as she hoped that her daughter and aunt had made themselves agreeable.
'Thank you, I never was so comfortable, not even when my foot was bad.'
'I believe you consider that a great compliment.'
'Yes, I never was so much off my own mind, nor on other people's:' and the recollection of all he owed to Mrs. Ponsonby's kindness rushing over him, he looked so much affected, that Mary was afraid of his giving way, and spoke of other matters; her mother responded, and he came away quite reassured, and believing Mrs. Frost's augury that at the next call, the invalid would be in the drawing-room.
On the way home, however, his father overthrew such hopes, and made him aware of the true state of the case,-namely, that this was but the lull before another attack, which, whether it came within weeks or days, would probably be the last.
'Does Mary know?'
'She does. She bears up nobly.'
'And what is to become of her?'
The Earl sighed deeply. 'Lima is her destiny. Her mother is bent on it, and says that she wishes it herself; but on one thing I am resolved: she shall not go alone! I have told her mother that I will go with her, and not leave her without seeing what kind of home that man has for her. Mary-the mother, I mean-persists in declaring that he has real affection for his child, and that her presence will save him.'
'If anything could-' broke out Louis.
'It should! it ought; but I do not trust him. I know Robert Ponsonby as his wife has never chosen to know him. This was not a time for disguise, and I told her plainly what I thought of risking her daughter out there. But she called it Mary's duty-said that he was fully to be trusted where his child was concerned, and that Mary was no stranger at Lima, but could take care of herself, and had many friends besides Oliver Dynevor there. But I told her that go with her I would!'
'You to take the voyage! Was not she glad?'
'I think she was relieved; but she was over-grateful and distressed, and entreating me to be patient with him. She need not fear. I never was a hasty man; and I shall only remember that she bears his name, and that he is Mary's father-provided always that it is fit Mary should remain with him. Miserable! I can understand that death may well come as a friend-But her daughter!' he exclaimed, giving way more than he might have done anywhere but in the dark; 'how can she endure to leave her to such a father-to such prospects!'
'She knows it is not only to such a father that she leaves her,' murmured Louis.
'Her words-almost her words,' said the Earl, between earnestness and impatience; 'but when these things come to pressing realities, it is past me how such sayings are a consolation.'
'Not if they were no more than sayings.'
There was silence. Louis heard an occasional groaning sigh from his father, and sat still, with feelings strongly moved, and impelled to one of his sudden and impetuous resolutions.
The next morning, he ordered his horse, saying he would bring the last report from the Terrace.
That afternoon, Mrs. Ponsonby observed a tremulo
usneas in Mary's hand, and a willingness to keep her face turned away; and, on more minute glances, a swelling of the eyelids was detected.
'My dear,' said Mrs. Ponsonby, 'you should take a walk to-day. Pray go out with the Conways.'
'Oh no, thank you, mamma.'
'If the cousins come in from Ormersfield, I shall tell Louis to take you to look at his farm. It would be very good for you-My dear, what is it?' for Mary's ears and neck, all that she could see, were crimson.
'Oh, mamma! he has been doing it again. I did not mean to have told you-' said Mary, the strong will to be calm forcing back the tears and even the flush.
'Nay, dear child, nothing can hurt me now. You must let me share all with you to the last. What did you say to him?'
'I told him that I could not think of such things now,' said Mary, almost indignantly.
'And he?'
'He begged my pardon, and said he only did it because he thought it might be a relief to you.'
'Only; did he say 'only?'
'I am not sure. At least,' she added, with a deep sigh, 'I thought he meant only-'
'And you, my dearest, if you had not thought he meant _only_?'
'Don't ask me, mamma; I cannot think about it!'
'Mary, dearest, I do wish to understand you.'
'Is it of any use for me to ask myself?' said Mary.
'I think it is. I do not say that there might not be insuperable obstacles; but I believe we ought to know whether you are still indifferent to Louis.'
'Oh, that I never was! Nobody could be!'
'You know what I mean,' said her mother, slightly smiling.
'Mamma, I don't know what to say,' replied Mary, after a pause. 'I had thought it wrong to let my thoughts take that course; but when he spoke in his own soft, gentle voice, I felt, and I can't help it, that-he-could-comfort-me-better-than-any one.'
Not hesitating, but slowly, almost inaudibly, she brought out the words; and, as the tears gushed out irrepressibly with the last, she hastened from the room, and was seen no more till she had recovered composure, and seemed to have dismissed the subject.
Louis kept this second attempt a secret; he was not quite sure how he felt, and did not wish to discuss his rejection. At breakfast, he received a note from Mrs. Ponsonby, begging him to come to the Terrace at three o'clock; and the hope thus revived made him more conversational than he had been all the former day.
He found that Mary was out walking, and he was at once conducted to Mrs. Ponsonby's room, where he looked exceedingly rosy and confused, till she began by holding out her hand, and saying, 'I wish to thank you.'
'I am afraid I vexed Mary,' said Louis, with more than his usual simplicity; 'but do you think there is no hope? I knew it was a bad time, but I thought it might make you more at ease on her account.'
'You meant all that was most kind.'
'I thought I might just try,' pursued he, disconsolately, 'whether she did think me any steadier. I hope she did not think me very troublesome. I tried not to harass her much.'
'My dear Louis, it is not a question of what you call steadiness. It is the old story of last summer, when you thought us old ones so much more romantic than yourself.'
'You are thinking of Miss Conway,' said Louis, blushing, but with curious naivete. 'Well, I have been thinking of that, and I really do not believe there was anything in it. I did make myself rather a fool at Beauchastel, and Jem would have made me a greater one; but you know my father put a stop to it. Thinking her handsomer than other people can't be love, can it?'
'Not alone, certainly.'
'And actually,' he pursued, 'I don't believe I ever think of her when I am out of the way of her! No, indeed! if I had not believed that was all over, do you think I could have said what I did yesterday?'
'Not unless you believed so.'
'Well, but really you don't consider how little I have seen of her. I was in awe of her at first, and since, I have kept away on purpose. I never got on with her at all till the other evening. I don't believe I care for her one bit. Then,' suddenly pausing, and changing his tone, 'you don't trust me after all.'
'I do. I trust your principle and kindness implicitly, but I think the very innocence of your heart prevents you from knowing what you are about.'
'It is very hard,' said Louis; 'every one will have it that I must be in love, till I shall have to believe so myself, and when I know it cannot come to good.'
'You are making yourself more simple than you really are,' said Mra. Ponsonby, half provoked.
Louis shut his eyes, and seemed to be rousing his faculties; then, taking a new turn, he earnestly said, 'You know that the promises must settle the question, and keep my affections fast.'
'Ah, Louis! there is the point. Others, true and sincere as yourself, have broken their own hearts, and those of others, from having made vows in wilful ignorance of latent feelings. It would be a sin in me to allow you to bind yourself to Mary, with so little comprehension as you have of your own sentiments.'
'Then I have done wrong in proposing it.'
'What would have been wrong in some cases, was more of blindness-ay, and kindness-in you. Louis, I cannot tell you my gratitude for your wish to take care of my dear girl,' she said, with tears in her eyes. 'I hope you fully understand me.'
'I see I have made a fool of myself again, and that you have a right to be very angry with me.'
'Not quite,' said Mrs. Ponsonby, smiling, 'but I am going to give you some advice. Settle your mind as to Miss Conway. Your father is beginning to perceive that his distrust was undeserved; he has promised me not to object in case it should be for your true happiness; and I do believe, for my own part, that, in some respects, she is better fitted for his daughter-in-law than my poor Mary.'
'No one ever was half as good as Mary!' cried Louis. 'And this is what you tell me!'
'Mind, I don't tell you to propose to her, nor to commit yourself in any way: I only tell you to put yourself in a position to form a reasonable judgment of your own feelings. That is due to her, to yourself, and to your wife, be she who she may.'
Louis sighed, and presently added, smiling, 'I am not going to rave about preferences for another; but I do want to know whether anything can be done for poor Jem Frost.'
'Ha! has he anything of this kind on his mind?'
'He does it in grand style-disconsolate, frantic, and frosty; but he puzzles me completely by disclosing nothing but that he has no hope, and thinks me his rival. Can nothing be done?'
'No, Louis,' said Mrs. Ponsonby, decidedly; 'I have no idea that there is anything in that quarter. What may be on his mind, I cannot tell: I am sure that he is not on Mary's.'
Louis rose. 'I have tired you,' he said, 'and you are very patient with my fooleries.'
'You have been very patient with many a lecture of mine, Louis.'
'There are very few who would have thought me worth lecturing.'
'Ah, Louis! if I did not like you so well for what you are, I should still feel the right to lecture you, when I remember the night I carried you to your father, and tried to make him believe that you would be his comfort and blessing. I think you have taught him the lesson at last!'
'You have done it all,' said Louis, with deep feeling.
'And now, may I say what more I want to see in you? If you could acquire more resolution, more manliness-will you pardon my saying so?'
'Ah! I have always found myself the identical weak man that all books give up as a hopeless case,' said Louis, accepting the imputation more easily than she could have supposed possible.
'No,' she said, vigorously, 'you have not come to your time of life without openings to evil that you could not have resisted if you had been really weak.'
'Distaste-and rather a taste for being quizzed,' said Louis.
'Those are not weakness. Your will is indolent, and you take refuge in fancying that you want strength. Rouse yourself, not to be drifted about-make a line for yourself.'
'My father will
have me walk in no line but his own.'
'You have sense not to make duty to him an excuse for indolence and dislike of responsibility. You have often disappointed yourself by acting precipitately; and now you are throwing yourself prone upon him, in a way that is unwise for you both.'
'I don't know what to do!' said Louis. 'When I thought the aim of my life was to be to devote myself to his wishes, you-ay, and he too- tell me to stand alone.'
'It will be a disappointment to him, if you do not act and decide for yourself-yes, and worse than disappointment. He knows what your devotional habits are; and if he sees you wanting in firmness or energy, he will set down all the rest as belonging to the softer parts of your nature.'
'On the contrary,' exclaimed Louia, indignantly, 'all the resolution I ever showed came from nothing else!'
'I know it. Let him see that these things make a man of you; and, Louis-you feel what a difference it might make!'
Louis bowed his head thoughtfully.
'You, who are both son and daughter to him, may give up schemes and pleasures for his sake, and may undertake work for which you have no natural turn; but, however you may cross your inclinations, never be led contrary to your judgment. Then, and with perseverance, I think you will be safe.'
'Perseverance-your old lesson.'
'Yes; you must learn to work over the moment when novelty is gone and failure begins, even though your father should treat the matter as a crotchet of your own. If you know it is worth doing, go on, and he will esteem you and it.'
'My poor private judgment! you work it hard! when it has generally only run me full-drive into some egregious blunder!'
'Not your true deliberate judgment, exercised with a sense of responsibility. Humility must not cover your laziness. You have such qualities and such talents as must be intended to do good to others, not to be trifled away in fitful exertions. Make it your great effort to see clearly, and then to proceed steadfastly, without slackening either from weariness or the persuasions of others.'
'And you won't let me have the one person who can see clearly, and keep me steady?'
Dynevor Terrace (Vol. I) Page 28
