CHAPTER XIII
"LETHALIS ARUNDO"
That week I went over again to Beverley; the next, I had a book to fetchfor Constance from Fleetsbury, that she had long wished to read, and Itook it to her a volume at a time. My father was still busy with hispainting--Sir Harry had gone off to Newmarket--Miss Minim seemeddelighted to find any one who could relieve the monotony of the ManorHouse, and Constance herself treated me, now that the first awkwardnessof our re-introduction was over, like an old playmate and friend. I washappier than I had ever been in my life. I felt an elasticity ofspirits, a self-respect and self-reliance that I had thought myselfhitherto 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 therose, nor heed the thunder-cloud sleeping on the horizon, and the wormcreeping at the core of the flower. I looked on Constance as I wouldhave looked on an angel from heaven. I did not even confess to myselfthat I loved her, I was satisfied with the intense happiness of thepresent, and trembled at the bare idea of anything that might break thespell, and interrupt the calm quiet of our lives. With one excuse oranother, I was at Beverley nearly every day; there were flowers to bedried, for Constance was a great botanist, and I had taken up thatstudy, as I would have taken up shoe-making, could I have seen her aminute a day longer for the pursuit,--there was music to be copied, andif I could do nothing else, I could point off those crabbedhieroglyphics like a very engraver. Then Miss Minim broke her fan, andI walked ten miles in the rain to get it mended, with an alacrity anddevotion that must have convinced her it was not for _her_ sake: and yetI loved Miss Minim dearly, she was so associated in my mind withConstance, that except the young lady's own, that wizened old facebrought 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, openinginto the conservatory, and Constance playing airs on the pianoforte thatmade my nerves tingle with an ecstasy that was almost painful. MissMinim engaged with her crotchet-work in the background, and I, theawkward, ungainly youth, saying nothing, hardly breathing, lest I shouldbreak the spell; but gazing intently on the fair young face, with itssoft kind eyes, and its thrilling smile, and the smooth, shining braidsof jet-black hair parted simply on that pure brow. Mine was no love atfirst sight, no momentary infatuation that has its course and burnsitself out, the fiercer the sooner, with its own unsustained violence.No; it grew and stole upon me by degrees, I drank it in with everybreath I breathed--I fought against it till every moment of my life wasa struggle; and yet I cherished and pressed it to my heart when all wasdone. I knew I was no equal for such as Miss Beverley, I knew I had noright even to lift my eyes to so much beauty and so much goodness--I,the awkward, ugly schoolboy, or at best the shrinking, unattractiveyouth, in whose homage there was nothing for a woman to take pride, evenif she did not think it ridiculous; but yet--God! how I loved her. Nota 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 mymind with her who was all the world to me. If I saw other women, I onlycompared them with _her_; if I read of beauty and grace in my dear oldromances, or hung over the exquisite casts and spirited studies of myfather's painting-room, it was but to refer the poet's dream and theartist's conception back to my own ideal. How I longed for beauty,power, talent, riches, fame, everything that could exalt me above myfellows, that I might fling all down at _her_ feet, and bid her trampleon it if she would. It was bitter to think I had nothing to offer; andyet I felt sometimes there ought to be something touching in myself-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 washappy. Sir Harry, when at home, treated me with the greatest kindness,and seemed to find pleasure in initiating me into those sports andamusements which he himself considered indispensable to the education ofa gentleman. He took me out shooting with him, and great as was mynatural aversion to the slaying of unoffending partridges and innocenthares, I soon conquered my foolish nervousness about firing a gun, andbecame 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 isgenerally deadly!" The very fact of my not caring a straw whether Ikilled my game or not, removed at once that over-anxiety which is thegreat obstacle to success with all young sportsmen. It was sufficientfor me to know that a day's shooting at her father's secured twointerviews (morning and afternoon) with Constance, and I loaded, andbanged, and walked, and toiled like the veriest disciple of ColonelHawker that ever marked a covey. All this exercise had a beneficialeffect on my health and spirits; I grew apace, I was no longer thesquare, clumsy-built dwarf; my frame was gradually developing itselfinto that of a powerful, athletic man. I was much taller than Constancenow, and not a little proud of that advantage. Having no others withwhom to compare myself, I began to hope that I was, after all, not muchworse-looking than the rest of my kind; and by degrees a vague ideasprang up in my mind, though I never presumed to give it shape andconsistency, that Constance might some day learn to look kindly upon me,and that perhaps, after many, many years, the time would come when Ishould dare to throw myself at her feet and tell her how I hadworshipped 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 coulddie happy.
Weeks grew to months, and months to years, and still no change tookplace in my habits and mode of life. My father talked of sending me toOxford, for I was now grown up, but when the time came he was loth topart with me, and I had such a dread of anything that should take meaway from Alton, that I hailed the abandonment of the scheme withintense 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 andrestless and unhappy; but I studied hard during this period ofprobation, to pass the time, and when she came again, and gave me herhand with her old kind smile, I felt rewarded for all my anxieties, andthe sun began to shine for me once more.
I was a man now in heart and feelings, and loved with all a man's ardourand singleness of purpose, yet I never dreamed she could be mine. No; Ishut my eyes to the future, and blindfold I struggled on; but I was nolonger happy; I grew restless and excited, out of temper, petulant intrifles, and incapable of any fixed application or sustained labour. Iwas leading an aimless and unprofitable life; I was an idolater, and Iwas beginning to pay the penalty; little did I know then what would bemy sufferings ere the uttermost farthing should be exacted. Somethingtold me the time of my happiness was drawing to a close; there is aconsciousness 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 beautifulsummer days that we have only in England, when the sky is clouded, butthe air pure and serene, and the face of nature smiling as though in acalm sleep. Not a breath stirred the leaves of the grand old trees inthe 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 beforethe 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 wasstill Constance Beverley. It was later than my usual hour of visitingat the Manor, for my father had been unwell during the night, and Iwould not leave him till the doctor had been, so Constance had put onher hat and started for her morning's walk alone. She took the paththat led towards Alton, and Bold and I caught sight at the same momentof 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 andfaint from sheer happiness. Not so Bold: directly he caught sight ofthe familiar form away he scoured like an arrow, and in less than aminute he was bounding about her, barking
and frisking, and testifyinghis delight with an ardour that was responded to in a modified degree bythe young lady. What prompted me I know not, but instead of walkingstraight on and greeting her, I turned aside behind a tree, and, myselfunseen, watched the form of her I loved so fondly, as she steppedgracefully on towards my hiding-place; she seemed surprised, stopped,and looked about her, Bold meanwhile thrusting his nose into her smallgloved hand.
"Why, Bold," said she, "you have lost your master." And as she spokeshe stooped down and kissed the dog on his broad, honest forehead. Myheart bounded as if it would have burst; never shall I forget thesensations of that moment; not for worlds would I have accosted herthen--it would have been sacrilege, it would have seemed like takingadvantage of her frankness and honesty. No; I made a wide detour, stillconcealed behind the trees, and struck in upon the path in front of heras if I came direct from home. Why was it that her greeting was lesscordial than usual? Why was it no longer "Vere" and "Constance" betweenus, 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 notmiss 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 glancefrom under her straw hat. "Why not 'Constance,' as you used?"
"Then why not call me 'Vere'?" I retorted; but my voice shook, and Imade 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 Iwatched 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 Inot set my fate at once upon the cast? Another moment, and it was toolate. When she turned her face again towards me it was deadly pale, andshe began talking rapidly, but in a constrained voice, of the delightsof her London season, and the gaieties of that to me unknown world, theworld of fashionable life.
"We have had so many balls and operas and dissipations, that papa sayshe is quite knocked up; and who do you think is in London, Vere, and whodo 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 atthe idea of any one dancing night after night with Constance, in my joyat hearing of my dear old schoolfellow. "Oh, tell me all about him--ishe grown? is he good-looking? is he like what he was? is he going tostay in England? did he ask after me? is he coming down to see me atAlton?"
"Gently," replied Constance, with her own sweet smile. "One question ata time, if you please, Vere, and I can answer them. He is grown, ofcourse, but not more than other people; he is _very_ good-looking, soeverybody says, and _I_ really think he must be, too; he is not nearlyso 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 visitearly 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 andrenew your acquaintance, and talk as much 'Everdon' as you did when wewere children; and now, Vere, we must go in and see papa, who hasprobably by this time finished his letters." So we turned and bent oursteps (mine were most unwilling ones) towards the house.
We had not proceeded far up the avenue, ere we were overtaken by apostchaise laden with luggage, and carrying a mostirreproachable-looking valet on the box; as it neared us a well-knownvoice called to the boy to stop, and a tall, aristocratic-looking mangot out, whom at first I had some difficulty in identifying as my formerschool-fellow, Ropsley, now a captain in the Guards, and as well knownabout London as the Duke of York's Column itself. He sprang out of thecarriage, and greeted Constance with the air of an old friend, butpaused and surveyed me for an instant from head to foot with a puzzledexpression that I believe was only put on for the occasion,--then seizedmy hand, and declared I was so much altered and improved he had notknown me at first. This is always gratifying to a youth, and Ropsleywas evidently the same as he had always been--a man who never threw achance away--but what good could _I_ do him? Why should it be worth hiswhile to conciliate such as me? I believe he never forgot the fable ofthe Lion and the Mouse.
When the first salutations and inquiries after Sir Harry were over, hebegan to converse with Constance on all those topics of the London worldwith which women like so much to be made acquainted,--topics so limitedand personal that they throw the uninitiated listener completely intothe background. I held my tongue and watched my old schoolfellow. Hewas but little altered since I had seen him last, save that his tallfigure had grown even taller, and he had acquired that worn look aboutthe eyes and mouth which a few seasons of dissipation and excitementinvariably produce even in the young. After detailing a batch ofmarriages, and a batch of "failures," in all of which the names of thesufferers were equally unknown to me, he observed, with a peculiarlymarked expression, to Constance, "Of course you know there never wasanything in that report about De Rohan and Miss Blight; but so manypeople assured me it was true, that if I had not known Victor as well asI 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 sawhim yesterday, and he desired his kindest regards to you, and I was tosay he would be here on the 3rd."
"Oh! I am so glad!" exclaimed Constance, her whole countenancebrightening with a joyous smile, that went like a knife to my foolish,inexperienced heart, that OUGHT to have reassured and made me happierthan ever. Does a woman confess she is "delighted" to see the man sheis really fond of? Is not that softened expression which pervades thehuman face at mention of the "one loved name" more akin to a tear than asmile? "He is so pleasant and so good-natured, and will enliven us allso much here;" she added, turning to me, "Vere, you must come over onthe 3rd, and meet Count de Rohan; you know he is the oldest friend youhave,--an older friend even than I am."
I was hurt, angry, maddened already, and this kind speech, with thefrank, affectionate glance that accompanied it, filled my bitter cup tooverflowing. Has a woman no compunction? or is she ignorant of thepower a few light commonplace words may have to inflict such acute pain?Constance _cannot_ have guessed the feelings that were tearing at myheart; but she must have seen my altered manner, and doubtless feltherself aggrieved, and thought she had a right to be angry at myunjustifiable display of temper.
"I thank you," I replied, coldly and distantly; "I cannot leave myfather until he is better; perhaps De Rohan will come over and see us ifhe can get away from pleasanter engagements. I fear I have stayed toolong 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. Sheshook hands with me coldly, and turned away with more dignity thanusual. Brute, idiot that I was! even Bold showed more good feeling andmore sagacity than his master. He had been sniffing round Ropsley withmany a low growl, and every expression of dislike which a well-nurtureddog permits himself towards his master's associates; but he lookedwistfully back at Constance as she walked away, and I really thought foronce he would have broken through all his habits of fidelity andsubordination, 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 havetaken years of pain, and labour, and self-denial to rear on high. Wasthis, then, my boasted chivalry--my truth and faith that was to last forever--to fight through all obst
acles--to be so pure, and holy, andunwavering, 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 standardof what a man should be--my ideal of worth, that I had resolved I wouldattain. And Ropsley, too--the cold, calculating, cynical man of theworld--Ropsley must have seen it all. I had placed myself in hispower--nay, more, I had compromised _her_ by my own display ofbitterness and ill-temper. What right had I to show any one how I lovedher? nay, what right had I to love her at all? The thought goaded melike a sting. I ran along the foot-path, Bold careering by my side--Isprang over the stiles like a madman, as I was; but physical exertionproduced at last a reaction on the mind. I grew gradually calmer andmore capable of reasoning; a resolution sprang up in my heart that hadnever before taken root in that undisciplined soil. I determined to winher, or die in the attempt.
"Yes," I thought, "from this very day I will devote all my thoughts, allmy energies, to the one great work. Beautiful, superior, unattainable asshe is, surely the whole devotion of a life must count forsomething--surely God will not permit a human being to sacrifice hisvery soul in vain." (Folly! folly! Ought I not to have known that thisvery worship was idolatry, blasphemy of the boldest, to offer thecreature a tribute that belongs only to the Creator--to dare to call onHis name in witness of my mad rebellion and disloyalty?) "Surely Ishall some day succeed, or fall a victim to that which I feel convincedmust be the whole aim and end of my existence. Yes, I will consult mykind 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 wouldshrink from, no danger I should fear to face, with Constance as theprize of my success;" and I reached the old worn-out gates of AltonGrange repeating to myself several of those well-known adages that haveso many premature and ill-advised attempts to answer for--"Fortunefavours the bold;" "Faint heart never won fair lady;" "Nothing venture,nothing have," etc.