CHAP. XIV.
O how full of briars is this working-day world!
As you Like it.
As soon as the affectionate Jane had entirely recovered her self-possession, she left her chamber, and repaired to Katharine. It was the dark evening hour of autumn, and there was no light in the room of the invalid but that emitted from the glowing embers on the hearth. Jane seated herself by the bedside, and, taking the hand of Katharine, gently pressed it, and said,—
“My dear Kate, I have done all that you wished; and I have sped well.”
“You have, then, seen Francis?”
“Yes; I put your note into his own hands. He was much affected; but he promised obedience to your wishes at once.”
Katharine gave a sigh, and turned her face to the wall. There was a short pause of silence before Jane proceeded:—
“He bade me tell you that his father and your kinsfolk in America are well; and that the immediate object of his return is the love of his country.”
“Ah, Jane! I know what that means. I remember too well all the warm and bitter words that passed between my father and his on that subject. Would he had stayed in the peaceful Plantations! The ocean between us was not a wider separation than the gulf that divides party from party at home; besides, Jane, he is deluded: they will play upon his generous nature,—they will make a traitor of him. Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft. Would he had stayed abroad!”
“I must not forget, Katharine, to tell you that he strictly charged me to say that he was loyal. ‘It is a word,’ said he, ‘of many imports:’—mind you tell her that I am loyal.’—No, dear Katharine, his is no traitor’s heart: he may be on the wrong side of the quarrel, but he is the King’s true subject at the bottom.”
“Hush! Jane; whisper not these dangerous words,—there is deceit in them. The soul’s enemy finds each of us treacherous enough in will, and crooked enough in judgment, without the weak and indulgent folly of our friends. Be true to me,—be English, Jane:—I love you passing well.”
Jane kissed her pale cheek; and there was another pause. At last Katharine said, in a very low voice,—
“How was Cousin Francis looking? Is he in health?”
“His complexion is more brown, and he has less colour than formerly; his countenance, too, is very grave—almost sad; yet there is a steady fire in his eyes; and he is as graceful and as strong as ever. But for his late care and watching, I should say he was better in health than when he left Milverton for America.”
“He was not hurt at my note, I hope,—was he, Jane? Speak truly.”
“Not hurt; but disappointed, certainly. However, he is noble and sensible, and saw that it was right.”
“You think so.”
“I am sure of it, by his manner.”
“Do you think he will go away directly?”
“Yes; perhaps he is already gone. I could see in the firm and resolute step with which he walked away from me that his decision was taken.”
“Then it was not at the hostelry that you saw him? Where did you meet him?”
Jane now detailed, in part, the circumstances of their interview, as already related; suppressing all mention of the passionate words and gestures of Francis, and any notice of her having been seen in his company by Juxon. It had been the first intention of Jane to proceed to the house of Ruth’s mother, on whose protection she could depend, and to wait there till Francis, who she doubted not was the lodger spoken of, should return thither; for, before Jane left Milverton House, Francis had already disappeared from the Beechery. It would be easy to invent some plausible excuse to Ruth’s mother for her visit to Warwick; and, having contrived her interview with Francis as if by accident, to return to Milverton, if belated till dusk, under the old woman’s escort. But this plan was rendered unnecessary by the circumstance of Francis overtaking Jane upon her way to the city.
“My dear affectionate girl,” said Katharine to her sweet friend, “how much, how very much, I thank you:—kiss me, dear, and leave me to compose myself, if I can, to sleep.”
But sleep was impossible in her frame of mind at that moment:—it was solitude she needed, that she might meditate and weep alone. However, there was a high sound principle ever at work in her bosom; so that a little solitary and prayerful reflection never failed to restore the calmness of her mind, and the strength of her resolutions.
The spirit of Jane Lambert was of another sort; and, restored to the privacy of her own chamber, she gave a free vent to the sorrow and anxiety which she had so courageously suppressed before Katharine.
When she descended to the hall to supper, and all the party were assembled, she remarked or fancied that George Juxon expressly avoided seating himself near her; and, after asking her one or two questions about the progress of Katharine’s recovery, he addressed her no more.
Her pride was a little wounded to observe that he was in high and careless spirits, and became quite the life of the table. Cuthbert, too, was, for him, unusually cheerful. Sir Oliver seemed in great good humour; and the boy Arthur was radiant with delightful and joyous anticipations of the new world, which an entrance at Oxford would open before him. Literary and characteristic anecdotes of distinguished and eccentric scholars of both universities, in times past as well as present, enlivened the social meal; and though but a very thin partition separated the subjects of university discipline from those of church polity and state government, neither were introduced that evening.
Jane thought that she had never before discerned so clearly the fine qualities of Juxon;—his sound but charitable judgment, his accurate memory, the kindliness of his nature, and the playfulness of his stories, at once charmed and depressed her. She wished to leave the table; yet still she lingered on, listening and irresolute; and the proposal to retire was first made by Mistress Alice.
An avowed contempt for the opinion of the many is not inconsistent with a very earnest and anxious regard for the judgment of the few whom we chance to admire and esteem. The dear, high-spirited girl, who thought herself above the censure of the world, and indifferent to its voice, was now, though clear from the slightest reproach of conscience, agonised with apprehensions lest she should have forfeited the respect of George Juxon. When, at a later hour, the household was assembled for the evening service, and the prayers were reverently read by Juxon, her heart beat in her bosom so quick and loud as to be audible to Cuthbert Noble, who kneeled near her. As soon as they rose, he regarded her with a look of such compassionate inquiry, that Jane, fearing he was about to question her concerning her health, and not daring to trust herself with a reply, abruptly left the apartment.
Juxon had himself observed her flushed cheek and her disturbed manners, and began to entertain very serious alarm for her. How far his duty as a friend, and, above all, as a Christian minister, authorised him to seek acquaintance with the nature and extent of those secret engagements of Jane Lambert, which he could not but fear, from her evident agitation, were at variance with plain principle and prudence, it was not easy for him to resolve. He truly liked her frank, generous, and inartificial character. He knew full well that in her brother she had neither a kind, a careful, or a wise guardian. It was surely wrong to stand upon the brink of a whirlpool, and see any one drawn down to ruin, whom it was in our power, if not to save, at least to admonish of the danger. His mind instantly reverted to the noble Katharine as the proper channel through which his manly and benevolent warnings might be safely conveyed with delicacy and effect. But many days might yet elapse ere the opportunity of a conversation with Katharine might occur; for she was confined not only to her chamber, but to her bed. Should he venture to hint his fears to herself? Yes: if she was the character he yet hoped to find her, it would be taken well; if not, it would matter very little in what light she viewed his disinterested service.
On the following morning, soon after breakfast, he saw Jane Lambert by herself in the Lime Walk, and he joined her.
She looked surprised and embarrassed; and he was not without a fear that his presence at that moment was inconvenient and irksome, and very possibly prevented her going forth to an interview with her lover in the very same fields where he had met her the evening before.
However, from the very fear he took courage; and, after the common salutations and usual words about the garden and the weather had passed, he broke the subject thus:—
“Mistress Jane, you are too little acquainted with the world for your own happiness, or rather, for your security,—may a friend say this without offending you?”
“A friend may say any thing to me, Master Juxon, that a damsel may not blush to hear.”
“I understand you—I must say no more—and yet I meant you well.”
“But good intentions do often tread upon the foot just where it is most tender.”
“Well, lady, enough: I will spare your maiden blushes; only remember, of our sex, that he doth always act most openly who is most loyal.”
“Loyal! Master Juxon, what mean you? Did you then so far forget yourself as to follow and trace out the gentleman whom you last evening stood watching as he parted from me?—I do not understand you.”
“Mistress Jane, you should have known me better;—so far from watching your interview with the strange gentleman with whom I saw you, it was to avoid intrusion that I waited in the adjoining close till you parted from him, and would have gone back again altogether, but for the great circuit and the business which I had in Warwick.”
“You saw us part, then?”
“Yes, to my wonder, and to my sorrow that my eyes had caught an action meant only for your own. Lady, forgive the word; but at lovers’ oaths forget not that Cupid laughs:—may Jane Lambert never be won by any suitor who does not openly woo her!”
“Amen to your kind wish, Master Juxon—so be it:—I know what you think, and am sorry, but I cannot help it;—however, you are not my father confessor, nor do I ever wish to have one.”
“True, lady; but though not your confessor, I am your friend, your true and bold friend, or I should never have dared to utter what I have done. I can have no object in these hints but your best and highest interest: that which I have noticed to yourself I shall never mention to any other, except, perhaps, to Katharine Heywood, from whose lips whatever falls is wise and noble.”
“O! not to her—name not this idle matter to her. Promise me, Juxon, that you will not breathe a syllable about it to her. I shall be more unhappy if you do than I am already.”
“Alas! you are then unhappy, and would shun the best help and consolation which friendship would provide for you. No, this I cannot promise; on the contrary, I am only confirmed in the propriety of my intention.”
“Well, I implore you again, and earnestly, not to speak upon this subject to Katharine. As you value my peace of mind, be silent upon it to all: there is a mystery about it I may not unfold. I know that appearances are against me: I am sorry for your hard thoughts, but I must bear them. I could wish to explain these cross circumstances to you, but am not free to do so without violating a sacred duty. Promise me that you will meet my wish.” Thus saying, she put her hand upon his arm, and looked into his face with wet and beseeching eyes. “Juxon, you have always been plain and true, and friendly to me; and though I and my perplexities ill deserve your interest or care, promise me that you will not name them to dear Katharine.”
For a moment Juxon was affected by the wild earnestness of her manner; and he thought he had never seen more heart or feeling in the expression of a human countenance than in the flushed face of Jane Lambert.
“Well, Mistress Jane, you are so urgent, that I must promise to obey your will; but it grieves me to see you thus sadly troubled. May God help you, and guide you, and guard you, and keep you from evil, that it may not grieve you! Your secret is safe with me.”
“And shall I lose your friendship?”
“No, lady, never: would only that it may have worth sufficient in your eyes to be used aright!”
“Believe me, I shall never forget it, and I will never do aught to forfeit such a treasure;“—so saying, she hurried away, with tears in her eyes, and left him absorbed in a state of feeling which cannot be described.
The more he thought of what he had witnessed the evening before, and the more he considered the conversation which had just passed, the more satisfied he was that Jane Lambert was secretly betrothed to some one whom she dared not openly acknowledge as her lover. It was also plain, that, for some powerful reason, she had not confided the secret of this attachment even to Katharine, who was her bosom friend. He had comfort in remembering that nothing could be more respectful than the action of the stranger, when he kissed her hand at parting; and combining this with her own honest looks and proud though mysterious expressions, he was satisfied that, up to the present moment, she had taken no irrevocable step. There was, moreover, a warm strength in her last words, that assured him his friendly cautions were not thrown away, and that his motives were not misinterpreted. Upon the whole, he was justified, to his own mind, in what he had done; and his thoughts rested upon the character of Jane with greater interest than it had ever before excited in him.
“How very generous and devoted would be the love of such a girl,” said he to himself: “what a proud spirit, what an affectionate heart, she has; what a fire there is in her fine eyes—I never before saw her look half so beautiful:—it is clear that they have been lighted up by love:—well, God grant that the man of her choice may be worthy of it!”
He now sauntered slowly back to the house; and entering the library, found Cuthbert Noble sitting alone, and making extracts from an old folio volume.
“You see,” said the young tutor, “I am making preparations for my departure from Milverton; but thus I may innocently suck honey from the hives of Sir Oliver, without robbing him, or those who come after him, of the smallest portion of such sweets as they contain.”
“And what may be your study?” said Juxon, as he came up to the table, and looked over him.
“A curious work,” replied Cuthbert, “containing the most remarkable pieces of John Huss, together with his life—imprinted in the last century at Augsburg.”
“Friend Cuthbert, you are too constant in these serious and solemn studies and speculations.”
“Master Juxon,” answered the pale youth, “they are every thing or they are nothing.”
“Verily, for my part I think divine truth is as clear and glorious as the sun in the firmament; and to warm ourselves, and to walk in the light of it, is better wisdom than to read so many commentaries and discourses upon it.”
“May we not sometimes lie indolently warming ourselves by a fire of our own, and fancy it as comfortable as basking in the sun? Walking in the light is no such easy matter; and in my case I find that the words, and, above all, the examples, of those who have earnestly contended for the truth, as so many outstretched and helping hands to assist me in climbing the hill.”
“What hill?”
“The high hill, Master Juxon, where the reformers and martyrs of past times have left the print of their blessed footsteps.”
“Cuthbert, I see that you are in earnest, that you are sincere; but you are on a road beset by enemies, to the full as dangerous as those on any other. Pride may be waiting to assail you,—spiritual pride, the worst of all enemies: you want to do something; you would unlock heaven’s gates by some great performance:—remember its arches are so low that none can enter them who crawl not on their knees:—the little child’s is the appointed stature for all believers.”
“That, indeed, is true—it is a solemn truth; but there are beasts to be fought with, Juxon, and the stern combat is at hand. It is upon this I think by day, on this I dream by night.”
“So much the worse: you are commanded, in many senses, to ‘take no thought for the morrow;’ and in none is it more your duty to obey the precept than in waiting the events of the coming day in quietness and in confidence: you conjure up shadows that you may fight with them.”
“Nay, but you wrong my judgment:—to you they may so seem; but my eye can see the black and dismal realities beyond, which reflect these shadows.”
“Well, Cuthbert, it is vain to talk with you on these subjects:—on all others you are so clear and reasonable, that I shall always remember our intercourse with pleasure. I hear that there is a new arrangement, and that you do not wait to accompany Arthur to Oxford; but that you leave Milverton next week, therefore, very probably, I shall not see you again till your departure. Farewell, friend: my best and warmest wishes for your happiness will always accompany you. I shall ever be happy to hear of or from you, and be delighted to meet you again.”
With these words he put out his hand to Cuthbert, who grasped it eagerly, and struggled for a reply in vain.
The parting had taken him totally by surprise:—the thought of all Juxon’s friendly and kind services, of all his frank and endearing qualities, came up, with a rush before his fancy, and choked his utterance. The strong pressure of Cuthbert’s hand, and the slowness with which he released that of Juxon, told the latter all that he would have said; and, as the door closed behind his departing friend, Cuthbert sank back into his seat, and, resting his head with hidden face upon the table, remained for several minutes silent and motionless.