CHAPTER IX.
Emmeline had retired to change her dress. Richard had gone, Heaven knows whither; and Smeaton, after pausing for a few minutes in the hall, seemingly very busy in examining the suits of old armour which had hung there since the days of Elizabeth, but in reality seeing none of them with the mind's eye, though he moved round from one to the other merely like a piece of mechanism, at length walked up the stairs to the two rooms which, as I have said, had been appropriated to his use.
We must draw the curtain of the breast and look in; not perhaps tracing thought by thought--who can, even when he looks into his own heart?--but giving such glimpses as may show sufficiently what was passing within.
"This is unfortunate," he said to himself; "and I must resist such feelings--yet, why? I cannot answer why. She is very, very beautiful, graceful, gentle, bright, unsullied by this foul and dusty world in which we live. Why should I doubt or hesitate? Because my own sensations take me by surprise, and I feel myself led on by impulse rather than by reason. But what does boasted Reason do for us in such things as these? More frequently she misleads than directs us rightly. I will let things take their course. It is but my own happiness I peril; and, without perilling it, I cannot serve Emmeline as I could wish; nay, nor fully keep my promise. I will risk it. Perhaps these sensations will wear away. I remember when I thought myself desperately in love with the Spanish girl, the poor Cura's niece, at Valencia; and it ended in disgust; I do not think it will do so here. Then it was but sleepy black eyes, and a warm sunny cheek, and a neat bodice, and a pretty foot--with passion enough in all conscience, but neither soul nor mind. No, no! Emmeline is very different--yet it may wear off. If I have thought much of her--dreamed of her, I may say, by day and night since I have known her--it is very natural, without love having anything to do with it. Her strange fate, the wrong that has been done her, the greater wrong, I fear, intended her, the eager desire to free her from this thraldom, and to open her mind to her own history--and yet the difficulty of so doing--may all well have created an interest independent of love. Yet she is very beautiful and very charming. There is something winning in that smile, half tender, half playful; and certainly Nature in its happiest leisure never moulded a form of more exquisite symmetry. It makes one's heart beat almost to gaze upon her, surpassing far the highest effort of the sculptor's art, and full of living graces which neither sculptor's chisel nor painter's brush could ever catch or portray. Hark! she is singing! Ay, a well-remembered song of my young days. Her chamber must be near this, from the distinctness of the sounds."
"Mellow year, mellow year,
The winter time is near,
With its frost, and its snow, and its wind;
When the branches are all bare,
And tempests load the air,
And icy chains the dancing rivers bind."
The song ceased, and the light accompaniment of a lute or mandolin ceased likewise. It seemed but a little outburst of that spirit of music which is in almost every young heart, and Smeaton said to himself--"I will sing her the next stanza. Perhaps she does not know it." And with a rich, mellow, tenor voice, he went on with the song, thus:--
"Mellow year, mellow year,
The winter time is near,
With its frost, and its snow, and its wind;
When the branches are all bare,
And tempests load the air,
And icy chains the dancing rivers bind."
He listened for a moment; but all was silent, and then, opening the door of his room, he descended again to the saloon. He had hardly been there a moment when Emmeline joined him, with a bright frank smile upon her face, saying, as she entered--
"You have been singing--and one of my dear old nursery songs."
"You left it incomplete," replied Smeaton; "and, as it is one of my dear old nursery songs too, I felt myself called upon for its honour to add the last stanza--at least, the last that I remember; for I believe there are several more."
"Oh, yes," replied Emmeline. "I will sing them all to you some evening, though Sir John Newark is not very fond of music. Are you?"
"I do not know what life would be without it," replied Smeaton. "Mine, I know, would have lost many of its few happy hours."
"And does your wife like music? And does she sing often? And has she a good voice?" exclaimed Emmeline, putting question upon question before her companion could answer. But a gay smile upon Smeaton's lips stopped her at length.
"My wife, dear lady!" he said, half laughing. "My wife! I hope she will sing, if I am ever fortunate enough to have one; but, up to the present hour, certainly, I have no wife."
Emmeline looked astonished, almost frightened; and, for a moment, she stood, gazing in his face in silence, and then said, in a slow and hesitating manner--
"Sir John Newark told me you had a wife."
"Did he, indeed?" asked Smeaton, with a smile, not unmingled with a look of astonishment; but, the moment after, he added--"Now, I remember, there was conversation between us regarding Lady Eskdale. He must have changed my mother into my wife, it seems, which is contrary, dear lady, to the law of all lands. He pressed the subject upon me, I recollect; and I gave him very short answers, not thinking fit to enter upon my own or my mother's affairs with him. I imagined that he wished to discover what we intended to do with Keanton; but he has led himself into a very great mistake; for I have no wife, I can assure you, dear lady."
Emmeline was agitated, she knew not why. Indeed she did not ask herself. All that she felt was that her heart beat more quickly than usual; that a change seemed to have come over her thoughts and feelings in an instant; that all was altered in the relations between her and her companion. It seemed very strange to her; it confused her, even seemed to alarm her and, with eager quickness, memory ran back over all that had passed between her and Smeaton, as though to ascertain if she had committed no fault towards him under the mistake into which she had been led. She remembered that he had twice called her Emmeline; and she recollected more than once that a look of admiration had come upon his face, when his eyes were turned towards her, the very memory of which deepened the colour in her cheek. She was very young and very inexperienced; and the discovery she had made filled her with many emotions which she strove not to disentangle or to scan, but which, though agitating, were certainly not painful. She remained so long silent, however, busied in these thoughts, that Smeaton himself was somewhat pained.
"She has been only thus bright and frank with me," he thought, "because she believed me to be a married man; and in all the signs of dawning regard which I fancied her looks and words betrayed, I have been mistaken."
Man's heart, however, is a very dark and intricate thing. Solomon and a great many other personages have affirmed this, and I believe it. There is nothing which spurs love on like a little difficulty; and Smeaton, who, a few minutes before, had been doubting whether he was really falling in love at all, and whether he ought to say or do anything which might tend to win her affection, had no longer the least doubt on the subject. He did not pause long to consider; but, taking her hand in his, he said:
"Emmeline, you have been deceived by Sir John's representations; but does this make any difference in your confidence and regard? Will you not trust me--will you not rely upon me, though I be unmarried, as much as you would freely have done, had the tale you heard been true?"
She did not attempt to withdraw her hand from his, but raised her beautiful eyes to his face, asking, simply:
"Ought I?"
"Why not?" he exclaimed. "Could my having a wife make me more a man of honour? Could it render me more anxious to serve you--to free you from a painful, a difficult, a dangerous situation? Could it make you more safe than in trusting to my word as a gentleman and a Christian to use all my efforts for your service, and for the promotion of your happiness alone?"
"No, oh, no," answered Emmeline, is reply to his eager questions; but he still went on, saying:
"Would it not rather throw difficulties in our way? Might it not produce a thousand embarrassments, whereas, if any now occur, you can yourself remove them by a few short words?"
The meaning of the last part of the sentence seemed clear enough; and, after a time, it came back to her memory; but at the moment, confused by a variety of feelings, to her new and strange, and of thoughts which seemed only to become more entangled every moment, she replied:
"I have so little experience--I am so ignorant of how I ought to act, or even what I ought to think, that--"
She paused, unable to conclude the sentence, but, seeing a look of pain on his face, she laid her hand gently upon his, saying:
"Do not let me grieve you. I would not do so for the world. I have the utmost trust, the utmost confidence in you, and will show it frankly. But add this to all your other kindness; tell me truly and sincerely how I ought to act, what I ought to do, and I will do it. Guide me, guide me, noble friend for I feel that I have none to whom I can look for guidance but you."
The tears rose in her eyes as she spoke, and Smeaton, with a look which could not alarm or agitate her, bent his head and pressed his lips upon her hand.
"I will be your guide, dear Emmeline," he said; "and so God help me as I seek, in guiding you, your own happiness, your own safety, before any other objects whatsoever."
Emmeline raised her eyes to his face, full of bright drops, and his words and that answering look formed a bond between them for life.
There are instincts far stronger, far clearer, far truer, than any conclusion of reason or any deduction from experience. The shrewd, the cunning, the hackneyed in the world do well not to trust to them; for in the first two classes, Nature having endowed them with other qualities for their guidance and defence, in general denies them these instincts, just as she denies horns to a lion, and claws to an elephant; they are provided, and want not farther help; and, with the hackneyed man of the world, if ever possessed of such instincts, they are soon worn out, and the traces of them obscured. But, with the guileless and inexperienced, they are a sure, and often the only, guide and defence.
The same instinctive feeling of dread and doubt which taught her to shrink from Sir John Newark, which barred all confidence and checked all affection, made her heart spring to meet the friendship--perhaps I might call it by a tenderer name--of Smeaton, and long to pour out all its feelings and thoughts before him. The agitation of new sensations, however, checked her for the time, and all she said was:
"Oh, how happy it is to have some one in whom we can wholly trust and rely!"
That was a blessed moment for Smeaton. It was to the affection which had sprung up, and was budding in his heart, like the soft beams of a bright morning sun upon an opening rose, teaching it to expand in all its full sweetness, and he gazed upon her with a look of love which could not be mistaken. Of words there was little need; yet words trembled on his lips which could never be unsaid. Suddenly Emmeline, with a start, withdrew her hand from his. They had thought themselves, throughout the whole scene, alone; but it was not so. The windows were partly open to admit the balmy air; and, though they did not descend to the ground, as modern windows do, yet they were not raised more than a foot or two above the level of the terrace without. For the last two or three minutes, a figure had been standing at the angle of the most westerly window, and looking in, half hidden by the stone-work. It now moved across towards the great door, and the shadow that it cast upon the floor of the room roused Emmeline from her dreams of happiness, with a sensation of fear.
"What is the matter?" exclaimed Smeaton, surprised by her sudden start.
"Some one passed across the window," replied Emmeline, with the colour mounting warmly into her cheek.
"Was it Sir John Newark?" asked Smeaton, while a cloud came over his brow. "If so, a full explanation must come before it is desirable."
"I think not," replied Emmeline. "The shadow first caught my eye; and, before could see distinctly, the figure was gone. Nevertheless, I think it was that of Richard."
Smeaton mused for a moment, and then said.
"Of course he will tell his father what he may have seen and overheard, and we must take our determination accordingly, Emmeline."
"I do not think he will," said Emmeline, eagerly; but she paused at the next sentence, adding, more slowly, as if not knowing well how to express what she meant without some violation of propriety: "Very few persons here, I believe, are inclined to tell my guardian anything unless he asks. Why it is, I am sure I do not know, for he is very kind in most things; yet they seem to fear him, and do not like to say what they think, lest they should make mischief. Some of the servants, indeed, but not many even of them, report to him all that passes under their eyes; but I have never dared to speak freely with him upon any thing; and, I believe, Richard feels the same. Hark! there is his foot coming through the great hall. It must have been he who was looking through the window. Poor boy! he would never think of repeating anything which he thought could pain me; but I ought not to ask him to conceal any thing from his father."
"Certainly not," replied Smeaton, frankly. "Let things take their course; only ascertain as soon as possible what he really does do; and, in the mean time, dear Emmeline, let me beseech you to cast away all restraint towards me. It is needful to you and to your own future fate now, and I feel it is needful to me and my happiness, that you should give me every opportunity of speaking to you, consulting with you, advising you in private. Though I, perhaps, must find the opportunities, you must aid me to take advantage of them. Much must be decided within the next two or three weeks, and upon what is decided all the future course of your life will depend--and mine also," he added, in a lower voice. "Ay, and of mine also."
Before she could reply, the latch of the door was raised, and Richard Newark entered the room, with a slow and thoughtful pace, very different from his light irregular walk. Emmeline drew a step back; but Smeaton remained exactly where he was, without the slightest change of look or manner, while the boy advanced into the room, humming to himself the snatch of some old song, as if wrapped up in his own thoughts, and hardly conscious that anybody was there.
"Well, Richard," said Smeaton, "where have you been wandering?"
"I have been upon the terrace for the last five minutes," replied the lad, simply.
"That I know," rejoined Smeaton. "We saw your shadow on the floor."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Richard Newark, evidently with some surprise. "I thought you did not see me; but this preposterous knob between my two shoulders, filled with all sorts of things that never get into other people's heads, betrays me, I suppose, wherever I go. Well, never mind! What matters it to me if nightingales will sit and sing on the edge of a hawk's nest? It is no matter of mine, and I can keep things to myself as well as my elders and my betters. Only, 'ware the springe, noble Colonel. Woodcocks have put their necks into a noose before now."
Emmeline and her lover, for so I think I may now venture to call him, looked at each other, as if uncertain how to act; but then, starting forward, with her wild grace, the beautiful girl laid her hand upon her cousin's arm, saying--
"Do you not love me, Richard? Have you not said that, if you were my brother, you could not love me more?"
The boy's whole manner was changed in a moment.
"That I do, Emmeline," he cried, catching her hand in his, and holding out his other hand to Smeaton. "I love you both, and will do anything I can to serve you. Trust to me, trust to me, and don't be a bit afraid. I will find means to help you at a pinch. I know that my brain is somewhat askew; but that is not my fault, and there is some wit within, though it lies in odd corners. For your sake, Emmeline, and for yours too, Smeaton, I will rummage it out, and try if I cannot make it serviceable. I will do you no harm, if I cannot do you good."
"Take care of that, Richard," said Smeaton, gravely.
The boy nodded his head significantly, and then added, with a loud laugh--
"And now I will be odder than ever, to cover what is going on within; but I can tell you, dear girl, that I have rendered you one service this morning, already; for if I had not been at the window, somebody else would."
"Who?" exclaimed Emmeline, with a look of apprehension.
"Old Mrs. Culpepper was going out for her evening airing," replied the boy, smiling, "with her stealthy tiptoe step, like a cat crossing the greensward on a dewy morning. She tended this way, Emmy; but, when she saw me lolling against the window-frame, she crept off to prowl in another direction. She watches you all the while she is purring round you, more closely than you know, and it is better to have me there than her, I can tell you."
"I am sure it is, Richard," answered Emmeline. "But what you say surprises and shocks me. I did not know that I required watching by any one. So Heaven help me, as I desire and seek no wrong, but only to be as rightly happy as it is God's will I should be."
"No more does a titlark, Emmy," replied the boy; "and yet they shut him up in an iron cage, and only give him a bit of turf to make him remember how joyful he would be if he could spread his freed wings, and soar away up into the sky."
There was something in the simile which touched Emmeline to the heart; her eyes filled with tears; and, darting away, she quitted the room, leaving Smeaton and Richard Newark together.