Delaware; or, The Ruined Family. Vol. 3

by G. P. R. James

"Expire for somebody else, I suppose," replied Beauchamp; "I cannot 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 towards 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 anything less than love for love, he determined that he would not suffer his exertions in favour 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 growing upon him. He found, on enquiring at Mrs. Darlington's hotel, that she had left the French metropolis two days before for Italy; and, as the people of the house 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 favourite fancy, and he did not choose to give it up. He therefore intimated his wish that his sister would agree to pursue their way towards 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 humouredly, 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 travellers 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 mistake. Here, however, Beauchamp changed horses at about half-past ten, and thence 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 postilion 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 postilion. "There--before you--a little to the left, leaning its back against the hills, with two or three neat chateaux scattered on the slope."

"C'est Poligny, Monsieur!" replied the postilion; 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.