BOOK II.
(Continued.)
CHAPTER XXI.
THE ELOPEMENT DELAYED.
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds
Towards Phœbus' mansion; such a waggoner
As phaeton would whip you to the west.
Come, gentle night; come, loving black browed night
Give me my Romeo.
Romeo and Juliet.
Captain Heath and the postilion were not the only persons impatient at the unexpected delay. Cecil leaning against a tree, watching with anxious eyes the window of Blanche's bed-room for the signal, and counting the weary minutes, as they dragged with immeasurable tediousness through their course of sixty seconds, began at length to suppose that she would never come.
Nor was the unhappy Blanche herself the least impatient of the four. The whole mystery of the delay was the presence of Violet in her room. She had repeatedly announced her intention of going to bed, but Violet gave no signs of retiring, and their conversation continued.
It more than once occurred to her to place Violet in her confidence, but certain misgivings restrained her. The fact is, Blanche had been uneasy at Cecil's attentions to Violet, during the first period of their acquaintance with him; an uneasiness which she now understood to have been jealousy; and naturally felt reluctant to speak of her engagement to one who had almost been her sister's lover.
It happened that Cecil's name came up during their conversation, and Violet turning her large eyes upon her sister's face, said,—
"Shall I tell you my suspicion, Blanche? Cecil Chamberlayne is fast falling in love with you: you colour; you know it then? perhaps return it? Oh, for God's sake tell me that you do not return it!"
"Why should I not?" replied Blanche, greatly hurt.
"My poor Blanche!" said Violet, tenderly kissing her, "I have hurt you, but it is with a surgeon's knife, which inflicts pain to save pain. If it is not too late—if you are only at the brink of the abyss, not in it—let me implore you to draw back, and to examine your situation calmly. Oh! do not waste your heart on such a man."
There was an earnestness in her manner which only made her language more galling, and Blanche somewhat pettishly replied,—
"You did not always think so. At one time you were near wasting your heart, as you call it, upon him."
"I was," gravely replied Violet, "and a fortunate accident opened my eyes in time. You, who seemed to have watched me so closely, may have noticed that for some time I have ceased to encourage his attentions."
"Since he has ceased to pay them," retorted Blanche.
Violet smiled a scornful smile.
Neither spoke for a few minutes.
"I have a great mind to ascend the ladder," said the impatient Cecil to himself, and see if it is only womanly weakness which detains her."
"Can they have been detected?" Captain Heath asked himself for the twentieth time.
"Blanche," said Violet at last, "you greatly misunderstand me; but what is worse, you greatly misunderstand him. Listen!"
She then narrated the whole of her episode with Cecil: her first yearnings towards him—her interest, and almost love; then the scene at the Grange; his conduct in the affair with the bull; she recalled to Blanche the mutual coldness which must have been observed until after Cecil's confession respecting his cowardice, which so far cleared him in her eyes, that she was amiable to him for the rest of the evening; she then told her of reflections made that night when alone, and the result to which she had arrived, and concluded by saying:—
"I am most willing to admit his fascinating manners, his varied accomplishments, and some good qualities; but he is weak, selfish, and capricious. He is not a proper husband for you, the more so as he is poor, and has not the character which will enable him to battle with the world. Rich, he would not make you a good husband; poor, he will be a curse to you, and throw the blame of his misery upon you."
Blanche remained perfectly quiet during this dissection of her lover's character, and not a change in her countenance betrayed that it had in the least affected her. Nor had it. Perfectly incredulous, she listened to her sister, seeing only the distortion of prejudice in her language.
"Have you finished, Violet?" she quietly asked.
"I have."
"Then give me a night to consider."
"Yes, consider it calmly; think of the man on whom you are about to bestow your affections, and ask yourself seriously, Is he the man I ought to choose?—— Good-night, Blanche!"
"Good-night. God bless you!" said Blanche, hugging her fervently, which Violet attributed to the emotion excited by their conversation, but which really was the embrace of parting.
A few minutes afterwards, Blanche was descending the ladder, a small packet in her hand, and was received in the arms of her impatient lover.
CHAPTER XXII.
HOW THEY WENT TO LONDON.
How the old post-chaise rattled merrily along the hard road, as if conscious of the precious burden which it bore! There was no moon: the sky was overcast. Lights glimmered from the windows of distant houses at rare intervals; and the watch-dog's lonely bark was occasionally heard—a sort of mournful sound, which told how deep the night had gone.
With what wild passion—with what inextinguishable delight the lovers pressed close to each other, in that rumbling chaise! The sense of peril and of escape was mixed with the indescribable rapture of two beings conscious that all barriers are borne down, and that they at length belong to each other.
Away! away! from home, with its restraints, its perils, and its doubts—far into the wide world of love and hope!—from father, sisters, friends—from luxuries and comforts, cheaply held by those who know not the reverse—to the protecting bosom of a husband, dearer than all the world beside; and with him to begin the battle of life, which love will make an everlasting triumph!
Away goes the rumbling chaise! too slowly for its inmates, whose impatience needs wings; too swiftly for the wretched man, who sits behind, communing with his own bitter thoughts.
What a slight partition divided the delirious lovers from the unhappy wretch who rode behind them—a partition which divided the joys of paradise from the pangs of purgatory. The captain had not only to endure the misery of unhappy love, but also the, to him, horrible torture of believing the girl he loved had given herself up to a villain, who did not intend to marry her.
"If I do force him to marry her," he said, "what happiness can she expect from such a scoundrel? Her character will be saved; but her heart will be broken ... If he refuses ... if I shoot him ... she will hate me ... will not less revere his memory ... and will have lost her name!"
And merrily the chaise rattled on.
It reached London at last. There the captain got down, and, hailing a cab, bade the driver follow the post-chaise, at a slight distance. It stopped at an hotel. They alighted, and went in.
The captain followed them to the hotel. His first act was to write this letter to Meredith Vyner.
(Don't read this aloud.)
"My DEAR VYNER,
"Before this reaches you, the flight of your daughter with Chamberlayne will have been known to you. Make yourself as easy as possible under the deplorable calamity; for I am in the same hotel with them, and will see them duly married.
"You will be astonished to hear me talk of their marriage, and of my forwarding it, instead of taking every step to prevent it. But, when I tell you that marriage is now imperative—that it is, alas! what we must all now eagerly desire—my conduct will be intelligible. Put your perfect trust in me. You know my affection for your children, and my regard for the honour of the family."
Great, indeed, was the consternation at the Hall, on the morning when the flight was discovered. At first it was imagined Blanche had gone off with Captain Heath; but when Cecil's absence was also discovered, the real state of the case was acknowledged. But the captain's absence still remained a mystery. That he should be implicated in the elopement, seemed impossible. His known dislike to Cecil, and his great regard for the whole family, contradicted such a suspicion. Yet wherefore was he not forthcoming?
This threw such a mystery over the whole affair, they knew not what conclusion to form; some doubts began to arise as to whether it really was an elopement. Such matters were not usually managed by three persons. And yet the moonlight ramble by the three on the preceding evening did not that look as if there were some understanding between them?
To this Rose objected, that as they had been willing to accept of her company, it was evident there could have been nothing in it beyond a mere ramble.
It was observable that the one who suggested and most warmly maintained the probability of there being no elopement in the case, but only perhaps some bit of fun, was Mrs. Meredith Vyner, who absolutely dissuaded her husband from taking any steps towards pursuing the fugitives by this reasoning:—
"Either they have eloped, or they are executing some joke. I incline to the latter; but even admitting the former, you know dear,—it is perfectly useless your following them, until you know what route they have taken, and as yet we have got no clue whatever. While you are hurrying to Gretna, they may be quietly housed in London, and so you have all the bother and agitation for nothing."
Like all indolent men, Vyner was glad to have an excuse for sitting still and doing nothing. But what was Mrs. Vyner's motive for dissuading him? Simply this: she believed in the elopement, and was delighted at it. Not only was there one daughter "off her hands"—one rival the less—but by the act of setting her father's consent at defiance, gave him the power of refusing to give any dowry, or even a trousseau, with something like an excuse for so doing. Mrs. Vyner had already run her husband too deeply into debt, not to keep a sharp eye on any means of economy that did not affect her comforts or caprices; and money spent upon "her dear girls," was always considered worse than lost.
On the arrival of Captain Heath's letter, all the mystery was revealed; and great was the talk it occasioned!
CHAPTER XXIII.
CECIL'S JEALOUSY.
A husband's jealousy, which cunning men would pass upon their wives for a compliment, is the worst can be made them; for indeed it is a compliment to their beauty, but an affront to their honour.
WYCHERLEY: The Gentleman Dancing Master.
The captain had just sealed his letter when he saw Cecil leave the hotel alone. He determined to profit by the opportunity, and seek Blanche. He found her writing.
As she recognised him, she gave a low scream, and then springing up, exclaimed:—
"Is my father with you? Oh! intercede for us. Gain his consent."
"I am alone, Blanche."
"Alone?"
"I came with you from Wytton. The same carriage brought us both; you rode inside, and I behind."
"What! .... is .... what! are you going to....?"
"To watch over you, dear Blanche, as a brother would. To force him to marry you."
"Force! why, what do you mean? Cecil is but this instant gone for the license."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Sure? He said so; and shall I doubt his word?"
"Why then did he bring you here? Why did he not take you to Gretna?"
"Because he feared we might be pursued, and they would be sure to follow that route."
"Hm! Yes, it is possible. And till you are married?"
"I am to stay with an old lady—a relation of his. He will prepare her to receive me this morning."
He sighed. So strange is human nature, that the idea of Cecil behaving delicately and honourably in the transaction, was at first a disappointment and an additional grief to him! He could not bear to think his rival less contemptible than he had held him to be, nor could he with pleasure find that his own services were not needed. Blanche wanted no protector. Nevertheless, partly out of a lingering suspicion that all would not go on so smoothly as it promised, and partly from the very want he felt to consider himself of some use to his beloved Blanche, he refused entirely to credit her statement of Cecil's intentions, and declared that he would remain to watch.
"At any rate, allow me to give you away," he said, "I shall then be sure that all is right. Can you refuse me?"
She held out her hand to him by way of answer. He raised it respectfully to his lips, gazed sorrowfully at her, and withdrew.
When Cecil returned, and learned from her that the captain was in the same hotel, that he had seen Blanche, and that she had consented to his giving her away, he stormed with rage.
"Heath again! Is the viper always to be in my path, and imagine I shall not crush him at last? What is the meaning of his thrusting himself between us?" he asked her, with great fierceness. "What the devil is at the bottom of it? What makes him so anxious to have you married? I am a beggar, and he knows it; yet first one thing, then the other, he has nothing but schemes to make me marry you. Wanted me to be a quill-driver, that I might be rich enough to marry. Marry, marry, marry! By God! there is something in it which I will discover."
"Cecil, dearest Cecil, you terrify me!"
He paced angrily up and down the room, without attending to her. A horrible suspicion had taken possession of his mind: he thought that Captain Heath had not only been her lover, but that his passion had been returned, and that it was to conceal the consequences of their guilty love that a marriage with any one seemed so desirable.
"I see it all," he said to himself, as he strode about the room; "they have selected me as their gull. It is a collusion. From whom, but from her, should he have known we had taken that moonlight stroll in the shrubbery? Why should he take upon himself the office of sentinel? Why offer me a situation? Why follow us up to town? How should he know we were to elope? Why should he, in God's name, be anxious to have her married, when it is quite clear he loves her, or has loved her, himself? He owned it last night—owned that he loved her! I do believe, when he carried off the ladder, he knew I was in the room, and adopted that mode of making me irretrievably commit myself.—But it is not too late.—We are not married yet!"
How curiously passion colours facts! No one will say that Cecil had not what is called abundant "evidence" for his suspicion, and the evidence was coherent enough to justify to his own mind all that he thought. It is constantly so in life. We set out with a presumption, and all the "facts" fit in so well with the presumption, that we forget it is after all not the facts, but the interpretation which is the important thing we seek and instead of seeking this we have begun by assuming it; whereas had we assumed some other interpretation, we should perhaps have found the facts quite as significant, although the second interpretation would be diametrically opposed to the former.
Had Cecil, instead of seeking for corroborative facts to pamper his own irritable jealousy, just asked himself whether the characters of Blanche and the captain were not quite sufficient of themselves to throw discredit on any suspicion of the kind—whether, indeed, he ought to entertain such an idea of such persons, unless overwhelmed by the most clear, precise, unequivocal evidence—he would have saved himself all the tortures of jealousy, and would not have desecrated the worship of his love by thoughts so debasing and so odious.
Blanche, perfectly bewildered, sat silent and trembling, keeping her eyes fixed upon the strangely altered bearing of her lover.
Stopping from his agitated walk, he suddenly stood still, folded his arms, gazed at her with quiet fierceness, and said,—
"As Captain Heath takes so much interest in, you, perhaps he will have no objection to escort you back to your father."
"Cecil! ... Cecil! ... In Heaven's name, what do you mean?" she said, half rising from her chair; but afraid to trust her trembling limbs, she sank back again, and looked at him in helpless astonishment.
"My meaning is very plain, very," he said, with intense coldness. "You are free to return to your family, or not to return, if you prefer remaining with Captain Heath. Perhaps," he added sarcastically, "as he is so partial to marriage, he will marry you himself."
She strove to speak, but a choking sensation at the throat prevented her. She saw him leave the room without having strength to recall him, without ever making a motion to prevent him.
In mute despair, she heard his heavy tread upon the stairs, and like a person stunned, felt no command of her faculties, scarcely felt anything beyond a stupid bewildering prostration of the soul.
With flushed face and heated brain, Cecil rushed into the street, and wandered distractedly away. The fresh air somewhat cooled his burning brow, and the exercise gradually enabled him to recover his self-possession. He began to doubt whether he had not been rash in his suspicions.
"It is quite true that Heath has taken a most extraordinary part in the whole affair; but I remember now, that, during our interview in my room, he seemed by no means anxious I should marry her; indeed I taunted him with wishing to get me out of the way. He offered me the secretaryship to enable me to marry, and when I refused that he set his face against ... I have been an ass! ...
"And yet his conduct is inexplicable. He loves her, and she knows it.... What a web entangles me! ... I will return and question her; she cannot deceive me ... she is not altogether lost ... I will try her."
With this purpose he returned.
Meanwhile, Captain Heath had found Blanche weeping bitterly, under the degrading accusation of Cecil's jealousy; and having extorted from her some incoherent sentences, which made him aware of what had passed, he said, "My dear Blanche, I am going to bid you have courage for an act of fortitude. You must struggle with yourself—you must reason calmly for a moment."
"Oh, tell me, tell me what to do. How shall I eradicate his suspicions?"
"You cannot do it. In one so weak and capricious—one who could think so unworthily of you, and upon such ridiculous appearances—jealousy is incurable. It will bring endless misery upon you. It will destroy all love, all confidence. If he suspects you already, what is to secure you from his suspicions hereafter? Blanche, you must quit this. Return with me to your father's; he will receive you kindly."
"No, no, no," sobbed the unhappy girl.
"Yes, Blanche. It is a hard alternative, but it is the best. You ought to rejoice in his injustice, because it displays him in his true colours. He tells you what you have to expect."
"I love him."
"Alas! I know it; but you see how he repays your love."
She only sobbed in answer.
"He will make you miserable for ever. Now, before the irrevocable step is taken, release yourself from such a fate: return with me."
She wept, but could not speak.
Heath's arguments at last prevailed; and, in a tone of terrible despair, she exclaimed, "Take me home, then."
A flash of joy passed over his sad face as he heard this heart-broken phrase, which assured him that, however his beloved Blanche might suffer at first, she was at least saved from the certain misery of becoming the wife of Cecil Chamberlayne.
On reaching the hotel, Cecil ran rapidly up stairs, and on the first landing stood aghast, at seeing Blanche coming down, leaning on the captain's arm. She was weeping, and her face was hidden by the handkerchief with which she wiped her eyes.
"Where are you taking her?" Cecil fiercely asked.
"Home," was the stern reply.
"Home! Whose home? yours?"
"To her father."
"And by whose authority?" he said, in a low, hoarse, almost suffocated voice.
"Her own," was the crushing answer.
They passed on.
Cecil, amazed, bewildered, could merely utter, in a tone of sad and reproachful inquiry, "Blanche!"
A stifled, agonizing sob burst from her; but clinging closer to her protector, she hurried him on.
Cecil leaned against the banister for support. As Blanche reached the bottom of the stairs, she could not resist giving a parting look; and the anguish of the face which then met her eye so completely changed her feelings, that, forgetting all Captain Heath had said, she flew up the stairs and threw herself into Cecil's arms, exclaiming, "My own beloved, you will not send me from you?"
He pressed her frantically to his heart, and carried her back to their apartment.
Captain Heath's face was contracted by a fearful spasm as he slowly sought his own room. Once more were his hopes crushed; once more had he to renounce the visions of exquisite bliss which filled his soul. On the point of for ever separating Blanche from her unworthy lover, as he had imagined, and with the opening which that separation made for his own future prospects, he now again saw that the struggle was useless, and that Blanche was irretrievably lost to him.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE DENOUEMENT.
Four days afterwards, Meredith Vyner received this letter:—
"They are married at last; and are now gone to Broadstairs for the honeymoon. It is a sad affair; but it was inevitable. May she be happy!
"I was to have given her away; but, from some caprice on his part, it was not permitted; and the office was performed by one of his club friends, a certain Mr. Forrester. I was present, however; though not invited. From one of the side pews, I witnessed the ceremony. The last words of dear Blanche were, that I should intercede for her with you; which, God knows, I would, did I think that a father's heart needed the intercession! But your kind nature is quite assurance enough to me.
"I am forced to go to Italy, to join my brother; and, as I have no time to lose, Mrs. Vyner will, I dare say, excuse my taking formal leave. Pray, let my trunks be packed, and forwarded to me, at Southampton, where I shall be to-morrow.
"You shall hear further from me soon; now I am too busy to write more."
In the calm tone of this letter there is the same stoicism which always enabled this brave man if not to conquer, at least to conceal his emotions. Who could have suspected the misery which really lay concealed in those few lines?
The adroitness with which he recommended Blanche to her father's generosity, showed how affection will sharpen the wits, and make even the most candid people cunning, to attain their ends. He knew that Mrs. Vyner had too much need of money, not to grudge any bestowed upon the girls; and that Vyner himself was little likely to suffer his regard for his child, such as it was, to withstand his wife's persuasion. Therefore, to have pleaded in Blanche's favour, would have been to call down certain defeat. Instead of that, he adroitly assumed that Vyner could not need any intercession—could not, as a father, do otherwise than pardon his daughter. To refuse the pardon, would therefore be to act contrary to all expectation. The question was thus not discussed, but settled.
The second point in his letter is, the journey to Italy: that needs only a very brief comment: he hoped, in the confusion of foreign scenes, to distract his thoughts from grief.
Farewell, then, thou brave, honest, self-sacrificing man! May travel bring oblivion! may time bring consolation to thy sad and noble heart!