Certainly De Walden thought not; for he said in a low voice "Ma chere amie, de grace ne chantez pas!"[ 5] and I was firm in my refusal.
[5]: My dear friend, pray do not sing!
Perhaps it was well that I was not allowed to go on with my song, as the words were only too expressive of my own feelings, for they were as follows:—
| SONG |
|---|
| How bright this summer's sun appear'd! |
| How blue to me this summer's sky! |
| While all I saw and all I heard |
| Could charm my ear, could bless my eye. |
| The lonely bower, the splendid crowd, |
| Alike a joy for me possess'd; |
| My heart a charm on all bestow'd, |
| For that confiding heart was bless'd. |
| But thou art changed!—and now no more |
| The sun is bright, or blue the sky; |
| Now in the throng, or in the bower, |
| I only mark thy alter'd eye. |
| And though midst crowds I still appear, |
| And seem to list the minstrel's strain, |
| I heed it not—I only hear |
| My own deep sigh that mourns in vain. |
My carriage was announced soon afterwards; and I saw by the manner of both, that Lady Martindale was trying to persuade my husband to stay all night: but as De Walden came with us, propriety, if not inclination, forbade him to comply, and he sullenly enough followed De Walden and me to the carriage. When there, that considerate friend refused to enter it—declaring as it was moon-light he preferred walking home.
What a relief was this to my mind! for I dreaded some unpleasant altercation, especially if De Walden expressed the belief which he evidently entertained, that Lady Martindale and Annette Beauvais were the same person.
When he entered the carriage my husband threw himself into one corner of it, and remained silent. I expected this: still I did not know how to bear it; for I could not help contrasting the past with the present. Is there—no, there is not—so agonizing a feeling in the catalogue of human suffering, as the first conviction that the heart of the being whom we most tenderly love, is estranged from us? In vain could I pretend to doubt this overwhelming fact. Seymour had resented for another woman, and to me! He had even joined in, and enjoyed, the mean revenge that woman took, though that revenge was a public affront to me! And now in sullen silence, and in still rankling resentment, he was sitting as far from me as he possibly could sit, and the attachment of years seemed in one hour destroyed!
All this I felt and thought during the first mile of our drive home: but so closely does hope ever tread on the heels of despair, that one word from Pendarves banished the worst part of my misery; for in an angry tone he at length observed, "So, madam, your champion would not go with us: I think it is a pity you did not walk with him—I think you ought to have done no less, after his public gallantry in your service."
"Ha!" thought I immediately, "this is pique, this is jealousy; and perhaps he loves me still!" What a revulsion of feeling I now experienced! and never in his fondest moments did I value an expression of tenderness from him more, than I did this weak and churlish observation; for he was not silent and sullen on account of Lady Martindale's fancied injuries; but from resentment of De Walden's interference. In one moment therefore the face of nature itself seemed changed to me; and I eagerly replied, "I was certainly much obliged to De Walden—I needed a champion, and who so proper to be it as himself, the only old friend I had in the room, yourself excepted, and the only person in it probably who now (here my voice faltered) has a real regard and affection for me!"
"Helen!" cried Pendarves, starting up, "you cannot mean what you say! You do not, cannot believe that De Walden loves you better than I do."