CHAPTER XLI.
"Maria!" said the Earl of Ashborough, addressing Miss Beauchamp on the morning after his return from Emberton, "what say you, dear sister, to a tour on the continent for six months or a year?"
"Why, personally, I should have no objection, Henry," answered Miss Beauchamp; "but you forget, my dear brother, there are nine very respectable gentlemen, young and old, expiring for me at this present moment. Now, what would they do if I were to go abroad?"
"Expire for somebody else, I suppose," replied Beauchamp; "I can not perceive any other event."
"Henry! Henry!" cried his sister, "you are perfectly insulting. But to tell you the truth, I think it is the best thing you can do, to travel to the south; for during the past month you have looked so like a gambler, or a member of the Lower House, or some of those people that sit up all night, and come home pale and thin in the morning, that I am ashamed to be seen with you. But seriously, I will go where you like, noble brother," she added, leaning her two hands half affectionately, half maliciously, on Beauchamp's arm, and looking up in his face; "I will go where you like, and help you to search for sweet Blanche Delaware, with all my eyes."
Beauchamp smiled, much less annoyed than his sister had expected; but gliding his arm round her waist he held her tight, while he answered, "Will you, indeed, Maria? Well, then, as a reward for your disinterested kindness, I trust you may find William Delaware with his sister."
Maria Beauchamp turned as red as an infantry regiment, and struggling away from her brother's grasp, ran into her own room, where, strange to say, she wept like a child. But Beauchamp, by his retort, had, at all events, insured that not one teasing word upon the subject of Blanche Delaware should pass his sister's lips; and as soon as he could arrange his affairs--which of course kept him three weeks longer than he had expected--with two carriages, as little baggage, and as few servants as his sister would suffer him to take, he was once more rolling away toward Dover.
Following the invariable rule of looking in, instead of looking out, we shall much prefer giving a sketch of what was passing in the heart of Henry Beauchamp, Earl of Ashborough, to depicting the beauties of the Canterbury road, or expatiating on the sublimities of Rochester and Chatham.
As Dr. Wilton had imagined, Beauchamp certainly was as impatient as human being could be, to see Blanche Delaware, and to make one more effort for happiness; but there were many points in Beauchamp's situation, and many feelings at Beauchamp's heart, which the good rector had not taken at all into account. Ever since he had parted with Blanche at the Prior's Fountain, he had been placed in the painful circumstances of a rejected lover, while just a sufficient degree of hope had been left to keep love alive, to render the feeling of disappointment perpetual, and to aggravate its bitterness by doubt. In seeking her he loved, therefore, he knew not what he was to expect; but as he was not one to be satisfied with any thing less than love for love, he determined that he would not suffer his exertions in favor of William Delaware to be urged as any tie upon Miss Delaware's affection; but that he would have the clearest assurance that the heart was his, before he again asked the hand, which, in his eyes, would be worthless without it. He felt, indeed, that it would be difficult to press Blanche upon the subject of her former rejection of his suit, and yet he perversely determined that the rejection ought to be explained before the suit could be renewed. These thoughts, however, and the many contending emotions with which they were connected, both agitated and depressed him; and the hopes which his short interview with Blanche at the inn, as well as several previous considerations had excited, waxed weak and faint as he crossed the channel and found he was approaching nearer to her dwelling.
In Paris, however, he was destined to meet another disappointment--slight, indeed, but calculated to increase the impatience that was glowing upon him. He found, on inquiring at Mrs. Darlington's hotel, that she had left the French metropolis two days before for Italy; and, as the people of the house had informed him that her departure had been somewhat sudden, he immediately settled it in his own mind that she had heard some tidings of the Delawares, and had proceeded at once to join them. Now, although, when Beauchamp came to reflect upon this supposition, he found that it did not very well agree with the indifferent, comfort-loving, bonnet-and-cap sort of character of Mrs. Darlington, yet it was a favorite fancy, and he did not chose to give it up. He therefore intimated his wish that his sister would agree to pursue their way toward Italy without delay; and Miss Beauchamp--although she was really fatigued with a long journey over a road that can never have been mended since the days of _Klovigh_, as Chateaubriand calls the French king--acquiesced at once without farther question. She did it so sweetly and good humoredly, too, that it opened her brother's heart at once; and, sitting down beside her, he told her all his motives, and all his wishes, and all his hopes, in a way that defied her taking advantage of him even by a smile. In return, he gained a world of good advice, which, as it came from a woman, and related to a woman, Beauchamp wisely treasured up for service.
With scarcely a day's interval, the whole party were once more upon the road; but as the way or ways from Paris to Geneva are each and all as well beaten by English travelers as that between London and Dover, we shall not pause to itinerarize even here. At only one small town on the road shall we take the liberty of stopping, inasmuch as an accidental circumstance induced Beauchamp to stay there longer than he had at first proposed. He had chosen the road by Dijon instead of that by Macon, and, after sleeping at Dole, set out early in the morning, in hopes of reaching Geneva that night. The first stage from Dole, if we remember right, is Mont sous Vaudrey. At all events, if it be not the first it is the second; and perhaps the reader and the guide-book will excuse us if we make mistake. Here, however, Beauchamp changed horses about half-past ten, and then rattled on through that neat little village, entered a part of the forest of Rahon, and then, after winding on up and down the wavy hills at the foot of the Jura, reached the small village of Aumont, at the distance of about five or six miles from the relay. Without stopping there, however, the postillion trotted on, and, driving through the Crozanne, paused for a moment to let his horses pant, while Beauchamp and his sister gazed out upon a wide and very beautiful scene of hill and valley, lighted up by the soft sunshine of spring, with an occasional wreath of morning mist hanging upon the brows of the mountains.
"What town is that?" demanded Beauchamp, speaking out of the window to the postillion. "There--before you--a little to the left, leaning its back against the hills, with two or three neat châteaux scattered on the slope."
"C'est Poligny, monsieur!" replied the postillion; and, adding that they changed horses there, rode on.
As they approached the little town, the country became richly cultivated in vines and corn; and the aspect of the whole scene, backed by mountains and sparkling with a thousand streams, was gay and engaging.
"What a beautiful spot!" cried Miss Beauchamp. "I really think, Henry, when you marry, and turn me out of your house to die an old maid, I will buy yon gray château on the hill--looking something between a village church and a farm house--and spend the rest of my days at Poligny."
"See it first on a rainy day, Maria!" replied her brother, whose increasing anxiety and impatience did not afford the brightest medium through which to view the world.
"Out, cynic!" cried his sister; "I will never see things on a rainy day when I can see them on a fine one; and now, tell me, whither are you going to whirl me at this violent rate? What particular spot of the earth's surface is the ultimate object of this journey, my lord? Or are we to go on rolling forever?"
"Why, I think, my dear sister," replied Beauchamp, musing; "I think it is not unlikely to end in Sicily--I have some reason to imagine--"
"Goodness!" exclaimed Miss Beauchamp, interrupting him, "that must surely be an English woman in the widow's dress."
"Hai, postillion! Arrettez! Arrettez donc!" was all the young earl's reply to his sister's observation; and the next moment, much to her surprise, he was out of the carriage, and speaking kindly to the woman whom she had noticed, and who had turned round to take a casual glance of the two gay carriages that came dashing up into the little quiet town of Poligny.
"Indeed! Is he so ill!" said Beauchamp, gravely, as he listened to widow Harrison's account of the journey she had lately taken, and her son's present situation. "I sill really sorry to hear it--but you can not have good medical advice here. It would be much better to get him on to Geneva."
"Oh, but indeed we have very good advice, sir!" answered the widow. "There is good Dr. Arnoux here, who was in England in the time of the war--an emigrant--and lodged for three years in our house in Emberton, before our misfortunes. I have just been getting Walter's medicines while he is asleep."
"Well, Mrs. Harrison," replied Beauchamp, whose natural kindness of heart was not to be mastered even by impatience. "I will stay here at the inn to-day; and whenever you think that your son is likely to be awake, I will come down and see him. But you must point me out the house."
The poor woman replied that the young sailor was generally more drowsy in the morning, and seemed much better and more lively in the evening; and, with many unobtrusive but heartfelt thanks she described to Beauchamp the way to her dwelling.
"Well, then, I will come down in the evening," answered Beauchamp, "and we will see whether we can not devise some plan that may improve his health."
With this promise, he returned to the carriage; and, while it drove on to the auberge, satisfied his sister's curiosity in regard to the poor widow. "So now, Maria," he said, "you will have the day's rest you have been sighing for so long."
"Granted out of compassion to the widow," cried his sister; "but not out of pity for me, though my whole frame has been aching for the last three days, and my maid was very nearly expiring at Dole."
Notwithstanding this complaint, Miss Beauchamp, after luncheon, showed herself quite willing to accompany her brother on an expedition in a _char-à-banc_ of the country, among the neighboring hills; and as they descended the stairs of the auberge to enter their little vehicle, they heard another female tongue asking one of the servants, in provincial English, who was the owner of the two splendid carriages that stood before the house? The young earl smiled as he listened to his title, given with vast pomposity by his courier, remarking to his sister, that if his new rank was of no great use to himself, it was at least of some service to his servants. By the time they had reached the door however, both the inquirer and respondent had made themselves invisible; and getting into the _char-à-banc_ without any other attendance than the driver, the earl and his sister proceeded on their expedition. Of it we shall say nothing, but refer our readers to the indispensable Mrs. Marianna Starke. On their return, however, they found their dinner prepared; and after somewhat hastily concluding that meal, Beauchamp said he would leave his sister, and walk down to the widow's cottage. But Miss Beauchamp, whose heart was not always as light as it seemed, declared that she would accompany him, protesting that men were worth nothing upon a charitable errand.
It was a sweet, bright evening in the end of March, with the sky, through which the sun was dipping down toward his rest, so rich and warm, that one might have taken it for the beginning of October, had it not had been for the almanac, and for the tender green of the trees, and the flood of untaught melody that came pouring from every bush. The road led down to where there are two or three scattered houses of a better class--which they call _les maisons bourgeois_--built upon the slope of a little dell at the back of the town, between it and the rise of the mountains. In one of these, with the face looking through the valley of the Glantine to the open country beyond, was the house now occupied by the widow. It was easily found, and Beauchamp and his sister paused ere they entered, to gaze for a moment on the rich view, lying calm and purple under the evening sky, while the dark masses of hill on the other hand--rising up from a base of mingled wood and mature, with the small château that Miss Beauchamp had so much admired, breaking the line of the trees--towered up in solemn majesty above the whole.
The door was open, and Beauchamp entering first, proceeded into one of the rooms, where he heard some one speaking. The widow and her son were sitting together near the window, and both rose (though the latter moved with difficulty) to receive their benefactor.
"Here is my sister come to see you, Mrs. Harrison," he said, as he entered. "Sit down, Walter. I am sorry to hear that the journey has made you so ill, my poor fellow;" and taking a seat opposite to him--while Miss Beauchamp beckoned Mrs. Harrison out to the door, in order to leave her brother's conversation more at liberty--he gazed upon the sunk but hectic cheek of the young sailor, and the dazzling brightness of his feverish eye.
"It was not the journey, sir," replied the young man with a shake of the head, mournful, but not discontented--"it was not the journey;" and then, looking round to see that his mother was not there, he added--"I told you sir, it would not last long, and I thank God for it! for I have never forgiven myself--and every hour that I linger on is a reproach to my heart. So now that I know mother will be cared for, and that I have shown my gratitude to you and to the captain, God bless him!--and that I have learned to think better than I used--I don't care how soon it comes to an end. But, sir," he continued, quickly, as if he had forgotten to do so before, "I ought to thank you deeply for all your kindness; and especially, I am sure, for taking the trouble to come and see me to-night, when there are so many things you must have to do and talk about."
The young man's eyes gazed vacantly out upon the prospect as he spoke. "He wanders!" thought Beauchamp. "I have heard physicians say that it is the sign of approaching death with consumptive people."
"Oh no!" he added, aloud; "I have but little business of any kind to do; and, indeed, I should have been here before, but your mother said you were sleeping."
"I sleep more in the day than at night," replied the young man; "the cough keeps me awake. But I hope, Mr. Beauchamp," he continued, in the same abrupt manner--"I hope you will forgive me every thing I ever did or said amiss to you. Indeed, I am very sorry for every wrong thing that I have done through life--and hope God will forgive me!"
"Your offenses toward me," answered Beauchamp, "if there have been any, which I do not know, are easily forgiven; and in the Almighty we are sure of a more merciful judge than man can be. Mrs. Harrison," he said, wishing to change the subject, and hearing the door behind him open, "I should wish much to see this Dr. Arnoux whom you mentioned to me. Where does he live?"
As Beauchamp spoke, he turned round slowly in his chair, in order to address the widow; but the words had scarcely passed his lips, when he started up. Looking in at the door, indeed, was the figure of his sister, with the poor widow behind her; but between him and them were two other figures--and darting forward, with all his doubts, and apprehensions, and restitutions swallowed up in joy, Beauchamp clasped the hand of Blanche Delaware in his own, while his left was pressed almost as warmly by Captain Delaware.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "Blanche! William! Is it possible!"
"Yes, yes, indeed!" replied Captain Delaware. "Beauchamp, our friend, our benefactor, our guardian angel I may call you, we have met again, at length!"
Blanche Delaware said not a word; and though her eyes sparkled with joy that would not be kept down, and her cheek glowed like crimson at the joy her eyes betrayed, she trembled like an aspen in the wind, and, sinking into a seat, a few sweet, happy tears rolled over her fair face.
"Well," said Miss Beauchamp, advancing from the door, "I must acknowledge that this is hardly fair--that I, who drew Mrs. Harrison out of the way when I heard who was coming, in order that this merry meeting should have none of its surprise anticipated, can find no one to welcome _me!_ Blanche Delaware, my dear cousin," she added, taking Blanche's hand, and kissing her as a sister, "How have you been this many a day? We have not met since we were no higher than that stool; but I have learned to love you, nevertheless. Have you quite forgotten Maria Beauchamp?"
Blanche wept outright.
"What then, Mr. Beauchamp, have you not seen Sir Sidney?" asked the widow's son, almost at the same moment. "It was very kind indeed of you to come and see me first."
As he spoke, a violent fit of coughing seized him; and Beauchamp, seeing that the excitement of all that was passing around was too much for him, proposed to depart at once, telling him that he would come early the next day, after having seen the physician. Miss Beauchamp, holding Blanche's hand kindly in her own, led her toward the door of the cottage, while their two brothers followed; and perhaps there was never a congregation of happier faces went forth into the world, than those which then stood looking over fair France from the borders of Switzerland.
Maria Beauchamp turned toward the town; but Blanche hesitated, and looked up to her brother.
William Delaware caught her glance immediately, and, straightforward as ever, came at once to the point. "The truth is, Beauchamp," he said, "it might be somewhat painful for us to go up to Poligny with you; for, this morning, we learned a circumstance from our old housekeeper, which, in fact, kept us from coming down to widow Harrison's at an earlier hour--though, indeed, I should personally care nothing about it."
"But what is it? What has happened now?" demanded Beauchamp, in the eager and apprehensive tone of one who fears that the cup of happiness just offered to his lip may be snatched away before he can drink. "What, in fortune's name, has occurred now?"
"Nothing of any consequence," answered Captain Delaware. "Only we understand--and you, who know all that has passed, will comprehend our feelings on the occasion--we understand that the Earl of Ashborough is here."
"He is, indeed, I am sorry to say," replied Beauchamp, pointing to the deep mourning that he wore. "But let us forget, I entreat, that any one who has ever borne the title that I now bear, felt differently from myself toward the name of Delaware."
Blanche looked up to heaven, and her lips moved; but her cheek glowed eloquently again as Maria Beauchamp's hand clasped somewhat tighter upon her own, and she saw a smile, half sad, half playful, shining on her fair cousin's lip.
Still the whole party paused in silence; for there was so much to be said that there was nothing said at all. Each heart was full of feelings that would have taken days to pour forth; and at length William Delaware proposed the wisest thing for all parties, that they should part for that time, as night was coming on, and meet again the next morning.
"You know," he said, "what delight my father will have in seeing you, Beauchamp; and, indeed, I feel as if we were wronging him in anticipating any part of all that we have to talk to you about. Yonder is our residence," he added, pointing to the identical château that Miss Beauchamp had fixed upon in entering the town; "and I am sure I need not say that the sooner you come the greater will be the pleasure to us."
"I shall not be late," answered Beauchamp; "depend upon it, I shall not be late."
"But, Maria, you will come also," said Blanche, looking up in her cousin's face.
"Oh, certainly! dear Blanche," replied Miss Beauchamp; "as your brother can tell you, I am a very early person in my habits. You may expect to see me at six in the morning."
Captain Delaware smiled, and could have said something in reply; but as he began to divine that, whatever might be the result, he should have more than one opportunity of seeing Maria Beauchamp again, he reserved his rejoinder, and after another lingering pause, they parted.
"Henry, I admire your taste," said Miss Beauchamp, as they walked back to the inn; "she is a beautiful, sweet girl, indeed, and will do very well to make a countess of."
"Hush, hush, Maria!" said her brother. "Spare your raillery yet for a while. There is much to be got over, before we come to such conclusions as that. The game is yet to be played, and I will give you leave to laugh if I win."
"You will be a sad bungler, my dear brother, if you lose such a game as that," replied Miss Beauchamp; "for you have all the cards in your own hands; but let us arrange our plans, Harry. At whatsoever hour you please to-morrow, you take some vile beast of a horse from the inn, and ride over by yourself. I will come to breakfast at my own time in the carriage. Nay, I will have my way this time at least; for I do not choose to have any lover in the carriage with me--except it were one of my own."
Beauchamp yielded, of course; for there were more cogent arguments in his own breast in favor of his sister's plans, than any she thought fit to produce. He had now food enough for thought during the evening; but he did not forget to send for good Dr. Arnoux, from whom he received a confirmation of his worst apprehensions in regard to the widow's son. From that worthy man, also, he learned that it was at his suggestion that Captain Delaware, and Sir Sidney--who had been an old friend of his while he lived as an _emigré_ at Emberton--had fixed their abode at Poligny, the retired situation of which, and its immediate proximity to both Switzerland and Germany, rendered it peculiarly advantageous under the circumstances in which they were placed for the time.
This conference ended, Beauchamp retired to bed, and obtained such sleep as lovers usually are supposed to gain while their fate is in suspense.