Ethel Churchill/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII.
DIFFICULTIES.
I do not ask to offer thee
A timid love like mine;
I lay it, as the rose is laid,
On some immortal shrine.
I have no hope in loving thee,
I only ask to love;
I brood upon my silent heart,
As on its nest the dove.
But little have I been beloved,
Sad, silent, and alone;
And yet I feel, in loving thee,
The wide world is mine own.
Thine is the name I breathe to Heaven,
Thy face is on my sleep;
I only ask that love like this
May pray for thee and weep.
Agreeable as Norbourne Courtenaye found his uncle's society, he could not but perceive that it operated, in some strange way, as a restraint upon his mother. For the first time in her life she avoided all his attempts at obtaining an hour's quiet conversation. She kept herself almost entirely to her own apartments; and when she made her appearance at table, it was with a worn and haggard countenance, and a frame that her son could see wasting before his very eyes. All Lord Norbourne's efforts to draw her into conversation were vain: she would start and turn pale if he suddenly addressed her; though, the moment after she would recover herself, and evince absolute anxiety to address him. Norbourne was convinced that there was some secret; and the deep respect and affection he felt for a parent who had been every thing to him, made him reluctant to inquire into aught that she might wish concealed. Yet what possible mystery could there be? He was fretted and irresolute. Besides, what would Ethel think of his silence?
Another cause for embarrassment began to occasion him considerable uneasiness. He found that the report of his marriage with his cousin was universal. That, however, was of small consequence, compared with a consciousness, that daily forced itself upon him, of a preference on the part of that cousin. It would be too cruel to encourage such a fancy for a moment. He could not but perceive that the faint colour never visited her pale cheek but when he spoke to her; that her eyes unconsciously followed him; and that the slightest opinion he expressed became, from that moment, hers.
One morning he had admired the perfume of a rare flower which she had in her hand. A taste for flowers had been among her few enjoyments, and her father had indulged this taste at a most lavish cost: the hothouse at Norbourne Park was the admiration of the country. The next morning he found the room he deemed peculiarly his own, filled with plants of the same description. Constance had sent to the Park for them. There was nothing in the attention beyond that ready kindness which is so essentially feminine; but the manner in which she received his acknowledgements was much: there was an embarrassment so far beyond the occasion, and a happiness not less obvious because it was rather betrayed than confessed. But Norbourne himself loved, and love has a ready sympathy with love.
Love is a new intelligence entered into the being: it is the softest, but the most subtle light; in all experience it deceives itself; but how many truths does it teach,—how much knowledge does it impart! It makes us alive to a thousand feelings, of whose very existence, till then, we had not dreamed. The poet's page has a new magic: we comprehend all that had before seemed graceful exaggeration; we now find that poetry falls short of what it seeks to express; and we take a new delight in the musical language that seems made for tenderness.
Even into philosophy is carried the deeper truth of the heart—and how many inconsistencies are at once understood! We grow more indulgent, more pitying; and one sweet weakness of our own leads to so much indulgence for others. We doubt, however, whether the term weakness be not misapplied in this case. If there be one emotion that redeems our humanity by stirring all that is generous and unselfish within us, that awakens all the poetry of our nature, and that makes us believe in that heaven of which it bears the likeness, it is love: love, spiritual, devoted, and eternal; love, that softens the shadow of the valley of death, to welcome us after to its own and immortal home. Some Greek poet says,—"What does he know who has not suffered?" He might have asked,—"What does he know who has not loved?" Alas! both questions are synonymous. God help the heart that breaks with its after knowledge!
How sad seemed the lot of a young girl, touched by all the keen susceptibilities of youth, full of gentle and shrinking tenderness, fated to be unreturned! Nothing can compensate to a woman for the want of exterior attraction. There is a nameless fascination about beauty, which seems, like all fairy gifts, crowded into one. It wins without an effort, and obtains credit for possessing every thing else. How many mortifications, from its very cradle, has the unpleasing exterior to endure! To be unloved—what a fate for a woman whose element is love!
Poor Constance was originally pretty: the outline of the features was still graceful, but long sickness had contracted, and given an expression of suffering; while all colouring had faded into a cold white. The eyes were heavy, and their naturally soft blue was dim and faded before its time. Her figure was slight; but the cruel accident—a fall in her childhood, which had laid the foundation of her ill health—had made her a little aside, and caused a degree of lameness, which rendered it difficult for her to move without assistance. The only positive beauty she possessed was a profusion of hair of the softest gold, which gave the pale face around which it hung almost the likeness of a spirit. What a contrast to the bright and blooming image of Ethel Churchill, which was treasured in Norbourne's memory!