CHAPTER XLVI — TEARS AND SMILES
“Our doubts are traitors;
And make us lose the good we oft might win,
By fearing to attempt.”
—Measure for Measure.
“'Well, every one can master grief but he that has it.'
'Yet say I he's in love.'
'The greatest note of it is his melancholy.'
'Nay, but I know who loves him.'”
—Much Ado About Nothing.
“Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of love,
Accompany your hearts.”
—Midsummer Night's Dream.
READING law did not get on very well that day. De Lolme on the Constitution might have been a medical treatise, for aught I knew to the contrary; Blackstone a work on geology. After a prolonged struggle to compel my attention, from which I did not desist until I became suddenly aware that, for the last half-hour, I had been holding one of the above-named ornaments to the profession the wrong way upwards, I relinquished the matter as hopeless, and, pulling my hat over my brows, sallied forth, and turned my moody steps in the direction of the cottage. Feeling unwilling in my then humour to encounter any of its inmates, I walked round to the back of the house, and throwing open the window of a small room, which was dignified by the name of the study, and dedicated to my sole use and behoof, I leaped in, and closing the sash, flung myself into an easy-chair, where, again involuntarily resuming the same train of thought, I gave myself up a prey to unavailing regrets. On my way I had encountered Freddy Coleman going to shoot wild-fowl, and he had accosted me with the following agreeable remark: “Why, Frank, old boy, you look as black as a crow at a funeral; I can't think what ails you all to-day. I met Harry Oaklands just now, seeming as much down in the mouth as if the bank had failed; so I told him your sister was going to marry Lawless, just to cheer him up a bit, and show him the world was all alive and merry, when off he marched without saying a word, looking more grumpy than ever.”
“Why did you tell him what was not true?” was my reply.
“Oh! for fun; besides, you know, it may be true, for anything we can tell,” was the unsatisfactory rejoinder.
In order the better to enable the reader to understand what is to follow, I must make him acquainted with the exact locale of the den or study to which I have just introduced him. Let him imagine, then, a small but very pretty little drawing-room, opening into a conservatory of such minute dimensions, that it was, in point of fact, little more than a closet with glazed sides and a skylight; this, again, opened into the study, from which it was divided by a green baize curtain; consequently, it was very possible for any one to overhear in one room all that passed in the other, or even to hold a conversation with a person in the opposite apartment. Seeing, however, was out of the question, as the end of a high stand of flowers intervened—purposely so placed, to enable me to lie perdu in the event of any visitors calling to whom I might be unwilling to reveal myself. On the present occasion, the possibility of any one in the drawing-room seeing me was wholly precluded, by reason of the curtain already mentioned being partially drawn.
I had not remained long in thought when my reverie was disturbed by some one entering the outer room and closing the door. The peculiar rustle of a lady's dress informed me that the intruder was of the gentler sex; and the sound of the footstep, so light as to be scarcely audible, could proceed from no other inmate of the cottage but Fanny.
Even with the best intentions, one always feels a degree of shame in playing the eaves-dropper; a natural sense of honour seems to forbid us, unnoticed ourselves, to remark the actions of others; yet so anxious was I, if possible, to gain some clue to the state of my sister's affections, that I could not resist the temptation of slightly changing my position, so that, concealed by a fold of the curtain, and peeping between two of the tallest camellias, I could command a view of the drawing-room. My ears had not deceived me; on the sofa, up to which she had drawn a small writing-table, was seated Fanny; her elbow was supported by the table before her, and her head rested on one of her little white hands, which was hidden amid the luxuriant tresses of her sunny hair. Her countenance, which was paler than usual, bore traces of tears. After remaining in this attitude for a few moments, motionless as a statue, she raised her head, and throwing back her curls from her face, opened the writing-case and wrote a hurried note; but her powers of composition appearing to fail her before she reached the conclusion, she paused, and, with a deep sigh, drew from a fold in her dress a letter, which I instantly recognised as the remarkable document produced by the joint talents of Lawless and Coleman. As she perused this original manuscript, a smile, called forth by the singular nature of its contents, played for an instant over her expressive features, but was instantly succeeded by an expression of annoyance and regret.
At this moment a man's footstep sounded in the passage, and Fanny had scarcely time to conceal her letter ere the door was thrown open, and Harry Oaklands entered.
The change of light was so great on first coming into the room out of the open air, that, not until the servant had withdrawn, after saying, “You will find Mr. Fairlegh in the study, sir,” was Harry able to perceive that, excepting himself, Fanny was the sole occupant of the apartment.
“I hope I am not disturbing you,” he began, after an awkward pause, during which his cheek had flushed, and then again grown pale as marble. “The servant told me I should find Frank here alone, and that you and Mrs. Fairlegh were out walking.”
“Mamma is gone to see the poor boy who broke his leg the other day; but I had a little headache, and she would not let me go with her.” “And Frank?”
“Frank went out soon after breakfast, and has not yet returned; I think he said he was going to the Hall—he wanted to find some book in the library, I fancy—I wonder you did not meet him.”
“I have not been at home since the morning; my father carried me off to look at a farm he thinks of purchasing; but, as Frank is out, I will not interrupt you longer; I dare say I shall meet him in my way back. Good—good-morning!”
So saying, he took up his hat, and turned abruptly to leave the room. Apparently, however, ere he reached the door, some thought came across him which induced him to relinquish this design, for he stood irresolutely for a moment, with the handle in his hand, and then returned, saying in a low voice, “No, I cannot do it!—Fanny,” he continued, speaking rapidly, as if mistrusting his self-control, “I am going abroad to-morrow; we may not meet again for years, perhaps (for life and death are strangely intermingled) we may meet in this world no more. Since you were a child we have lived together like brother and sister and I cannot leave you without saying good-bye—without expressing a fervent wish that in the lot you have chosen for yourself you may meet with all the happiness you anticipate, and which you so well deserve.”
“Going abroad?” repeated Fanny mechanically, as if stunned by this unexpected intelligence.
“Yes; I start for the Continent early to-morrow morning: you know I am always alarmingly hasty in my movements,” he added, with a faint attempt at a smile.
“It must be on account of your health,” exclaimed Fanny quickly. “Ah!” she continued, with a start, as a new and painful idea occurred to her, “the fearful leap you took to save me—the exertion was too much for you; I knew—I felt at the time it would be so; better, far better, had I perished in that dark river, than that you should have endangered your valuable life.”
“Indeed, it is not so, Fanny,” replied Oaklands kindly, and, taking her hand, he led her to the sofa, for she trembled so violently it was evident she could scarcely stand; “I am regaining strength daily, and Ellis will tell you that complete change of scene and air is the best thing for me.”
“Is that really all?” inquired Fanny; “but why then go so suddenly? Think of your father; surely it will be a great shock to Sir John.”
“I cannot stay here,” replied Harry impetuously, “it would madden me.” The look of surprise and alarm with which Fanny regarded him led him to perceive the error he had committed, and, fearful of betraying himself, he added quickly, “You must make allowance for the morbid fancies of an invalid, proverbially the most capricious of all mortals. Six weeks ago I was in quite as great a hurry to reach this place as I now am to get away from it—”
He paused, sighed deeply, and then, with a degree of self-control for which I had scarcely given him credit, added, in a cheerful tone, “But I will not thrust my gloomy imaginings upon you; nothing dark or disagreeable should be permitted to cloud the fair prospect which to-day has opened before you. You must allow me,” he continued, in a calm voice, though the effort it cost him to preserve composure must have been extreme—“you must allow me the privilege of an old friend, and let me be the first to tell you how sincerely I hope that the rank and station which will one day be yours—rank which you are so well fitted to adorn—may bring you all the happiness you imagine.”
“Happiness, rank and station! May I ask to what you refer, Mr. Oaklands?” replied Fanny, colouring crimson. “I may have been premature in my congratulations,” replied he; “I would not distress or annoy you for the world; but under the circumstances—this being probably the only opportunity I may have of expressing the deep interest I must always feel in everything that relates to your happiness—I may surely be excused; I felt I could not leave you without telling you this.”
“You are labouring under some extraordinary delusion, Mr. Oaklands,” rejoined Fanny, turning away her face, and speaking very quickly; “pray let this subject be dropped.”
“You trifle with me,” replied Oaklands sternly, his self-control rapidly deserting him, “and you know not the depth of the feelings you are sporting with. Is it a delusion to believe that you are the affianced bride of George Lawless?”
As he spoke, Fanny turned her soft blue eyes upon him with an expression which must have pierced him to the very soul—it was not an expression of anger—it was not exactly one of sorrow; but it was a look in which wounded pride at his having for a moment believed such a thing possible, was blended with tender reproach for thus misunderstanding her. The former feeling, however, was alone distinguishable, as, drawing herself up with an air of quiet dignity, which gave a character of severity to her pretty little features of which I could scarcely have believed them capable, she replied, “Since Mr. Lawless has not had sufficient delicacy to preserve his own secret, it is useless for me to attempt to do so; therefore, as you are aware that he has done me the honour of offering me his hand, in justice to myself I now inform you that it is an honour which I have declined, and, with it, all chance of attaining that 'rank and station' on which you imagined I had placed my hopes of happiness. You will, perhaps, excuse me,” she added, rising to leave the room; “these events have annoyed and agitated me much.”
“Stay!” exclaimed Oaklands, springing up impetuously, “Fanny, for Heaven's sake, wait one moment! Am I dreaming? or did I hear you say that you had refused Lawless?”
“I have already told you that it is so,” she replied: “pray let me pass; you are presuming on your privileges as an old friend.”
“Bear with me for one moment,” pleaded Oaklands, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion. “You have not refused him out of any mistaken notions of generosity arising from difference of station? In a word—for I must speak plainly, though at the risk of distressing you—do you love him?”
“Really—” began Fanny, again attempting to quit the room, and turning first red, then pale, as Oaklands still held his position between her and the door.
“Oh! pardon me,” he continued in the same broken voice, “deem me presuming—mad—what you will; but as you hope for happiness here or hereafter, answer me this one question—Do you love him?”
“No, I do not,” replied Fanny, completely subdued by the violence of his emotion.
“Thank God!” murmured Oaklands, and sinking into a chair, the strong man, overcome by this sudden revulsion of feeling, buried his face in his hands and wept like a child. There is no sight so affecting as that of manhood's tears. It seems natural for a woman's feelings to find vent in weeping; and though all our sympathies are enlisted in her behalf, we deem it an April shower, which we hope to see ere long give place to the sunshine of a smile; but tears are foreign to the sterner nature of man, and any emotion powerful enough to call them forth indicates a depth and intensity of feeling which, like the sirocco of the desert, carries all before it in its resistless fury. Fanny must have been more than woman if she could have remained an unmoved spectator of Harry Oaklands' agitation.
Apparently relinquishing her intention of quitting the room, she stood with her hands clasped, regarding him with a look of mixed interest and alarm; but as his broad chest rose and fell, convulsed by the sobs he in vain endeavoured to repress, she drew nearer to him, exclaiming:—
“Mr. Oaklands, are you ill? Shall I ring for a glass of water?” Then, finding he was unable to answer her, completely overcome, she continued, “Oh! what is all this? what have I said? what have I done? Harry, speak to me; tell me, are you angry with me?” and laying her hand gently on his shoulder, she gazed up in his face with a look of the most piteous entreaty.
Her light touch seemed to recall him to himself, and uncovering his face, he made a strong effort to regain composure, which, after a moment or two, appeared attended with success; and taking her hand between his own, he said, with a faint smile:—
“I have frightened you—have I not? The last time I shed tears was at my mother's funeral, and I had never thought to weep again; but what pain of body and anguish of mind were powerless to accomplish, joy has effected in an instant. This must all seem very strange to you, dear Fanny; even I myself am surprised at the depth and vehemence of my own feelings; but if you knew the agony of mind I have undergone since the night of that hateful charade—Fanny, did it never occur to you that I loved you with a love different to that of a brother?”
As she made no reply, merely turning away her head, while a blush, faint as the earliest glance of young-eyed Morning, mantled on her cheek, he continued, “Yes, Fanny, I have known and loved you from childhood, and your affection has become, unconsciously as it were, one of the strongest ties that render life dear to me; still I frankly confess, that till the idea of your loving another occurred to me, I was blind to the nature of my own affection. To be with you, to see and talk to you daily, to cultivate your talents, to lead you to admire the beauties that 1 admire, to take interest in the pursuits which interested me, was happiness enough—I wished for nothing more. Then came that business of the duel, and the affectionate kindness with which you forestalled my every wish; the delicate tenderness and ready tact which enabled you to be more than a daughter—a guardian angel—to my father, in the days of his heavy sorrow—sorrow which my ungoverned passions had brought upon his grey head—all these things endeared you to me still more. Next followed a period of estrangement and separation, during which, as I now see, an undefined craving for your society preyed upon my spirits, and, as I verily believe, retarded my recovery. Hence, the moment I felt the slightest symptoms of returning health, my determination to revisit Heathfield. When we again met, I fancied you were ill and out of spirits.”
“It was no fancy,” murmured Fanny in a low voice, as though thinking aloud.
“Indeed!” questioned Harry; “and will you not tell me the cause?”
“Presently; I did not mean to speak—to interrupt you.”
“My sole wish and occupation,” he continued, “was to endeavour to interest and amuse you, and to restore your cheerfulness, which I believed the anxiety and fatigue occasioned by my illness to have banished; and I nattered myself I was in some degree succeeding, when Lawless's arrival and his openly professed admiration of you seemed to change the whole current of my thoughts—nay, my very nature itself. I became sullen and morose; and the feeling of dislike with which I beheld Lawless's attentions to you gradually strengthened to a deep and settled hatred; it was only by exercising the most unceasing watchfulness and self-control that I refrained from quarrelling with him; but so engrossed was I by the painful interest I felt in all that was passing around me, that I never gave myself time to analyse my feelings; and it was not until the night of the charade that I became fully aware of their true character; it was not till then I learned that happiness could not exist for me unless you shared it. Conceive my wretchedness when, at the very moment in which this conviction first dawned upon me, I saw from Lawless's manner that in his attentions to you he was evidently in earnest, and that, as far as I could judge, you were disposed to receive those attentions favourably. My mind was instantly made up; I only waited till events should prove whether my suspicions were correct, and in case of their turning out so, feeling utterly unfit to endure the sight of Lawless's happiness, determined immediately to start for the Continent. Prank, who taxing me with my wretched looks, elicited from me an avowal of the truth, told me Lawless was about to make you an offer; Coleman (probably in jest, but it chimed in too well with my own fears for me to dream of doubting him) that it had been accepted. The rest you know. And now, Fanny,” he continued, his voice again trembling from the excess of his anxiety, “if you feel that you can never bring yourself to look upon me in any other light than as a brother, I will adhere to my determination of leaving England, and trust to time to reconcile me to my fate; but if, by waiting months, nay years, I may hope one day to call you my own, gladly will I do so—gladly will I submit to any conditions you may impose. My happiness is in your hands. Tell me, dear Fanny, must I go abroad to-morrow?”
And what do you suppose she told him, reader? That he must go? Miss Martineau would have highly approved of her doing so; so would the late Poor-law Commissioners, and so would many a modern Draco, who, with the life-blood that should have gone to warm his own stony heart, scribbles a code to crush the kindly affections and genial home-sympathies of his fellow-men. But Fanny was no female philosopher; she was only a pure, true-hearted, trustful, loving woman; and so she gave him to understand that he need not set out on his travels, thereby losing a fine opportunity of “regenerating society,” and vindicating the dignity of her sex. And this was not all she told him either; for, having by his generous frankness won her confidence, he succeeded in gaining from her the secret of her heart—a secret which, an hour before, she would have braved death in its most horrible form rather than reveal. And then her happy lover learned how her affection for him, springing up in the pleasant days of childhood, had grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength; until it became a deep and all-absorbing passion—the great reality of her spirit-life; for love such as hers, outstripping the bounds of time, links itself even with our hopes beyond the grave;—how, when he lay stretched upon the bed of suffering, oscillating between life and death, the bitter anguish that the thought of separation occasioned her, enlightened her as to the true nature of her feelings; how, as his recovery progressed, to watch over him, and minister to his comfort, was happiness beyond expression to her;—how, when he left the cottage, everything seemed changed and dark, and a gulf appeared to have interposed between them, which she deemed impassable;—how, in the struggle to conceal, and, if possible, conquer her attachment, she studiously avoided all intercourse with him, and how the struggle ended in the loss of health and spirits;—how, during his absence, she felt it a duty still to bear up against these feelings of despair, and to endure her sad lot with patient resignation, and succeeded in some degree, till his return once again rendered all her efforts fruitless;—and how she then avoided him more studiously than before, although she saw, and sorrowed over the evident pain her altered manner caused him;—how, always fearing lest he should question her as to her changed behaviour, and by word or sign she should betray the deep interest she felt in him, she had gladly availed herself of Lawless's attentions as a means of avoiding Harry's kind attempts to amuse and occupy her—attempts which, at the very moment she was wounding him by rejecting them, only rendered him yet dearer to her;—and how she had gone on, thinking only of Harry and herself, until Lawless's offer had brought her unhappiness to a climax, by adding self-reproach to her other sources of unhappiness. All this, and much more, did she relate; for if her coral lips did not frame every syllable, her tell-tale blushes filled up the gaps most eloquently.
And Harry Oaklands?—Well, he did nothing desperate; but after his first transports had subsided into a more deep and tranquil joy, he sat, with her little white hand clasped in his own, and looked into her loving eyes, and for one bright half-hour two of the wanderers in this vale of tears were perfectly and entirely happy.