Ethel Churchill/Chapter 24
CHAPTER XXIV.
CONFIDENCE.
Fear not to trust her destiny with me:
I can remember, in my early youth,
Wandering amid our old ancestral woods,
I found an unfledged dove upon the ground.
I took the callow creature to my care,
And fain had given it to its nest again:
That could not be, and so I made its home
In my affection, and my constant care.
I made its cage of osier-boughs, and hung
A wreath of early leaves and woodland flowers:
I hung it in the sun; and, when the wind
Blew from the cold and bitter east, 'twas screened
With care that never knew forgetfulness.
I loved it, for I pitied it, and knew
Its sole dependence was upon my love.
"I understood, my lord, that you wished to see me," said Norbourne Courtenaye, with the calm, cold manner, that had marked his bearing to his uncle since his marriage had been decided upon: "I fear that I have kept you waiting, for I went first to your own room"
"It was here," interrupted Lord Norbourne that I wished to see you."
He paused, and his nephew stood by with his arms folded, in silence, as if resolved not to begin the conversation. There was much resemblance between the two: both had the same cast of features. It is curious to remark how a family sets its mark on its descendants: assuredly there is a subtle sympathy in the ties of blood, still one of the mysteries of our nature. But if their old line gave the resemblance, time had marked the difference. The meaning on Norbourne's fine features came direct from the feeling; his eyes were thoughtful, but they had that deep and inward look which belongs only to the dreaming meditations of youth. He wore a saddened and subdued air; it was obvious that he had not yet learned sorrow's bitterest task—that of concealment.
Lord Norbourne's countenance needed closer analysis to detect its hidden meaning. His dark brow was knit, and his darker eye rarely wore any other expression than that of penetration. He looked upon you, and read you through. His features, fine, high, and somewhat stern in repose, were yet capable of being moulded to any meaning it was his will that they should express. Now, though his mouth worked with agitation, it had not lost its bland and habitual smile; but there was that in his face few ever saw in the self-possessed, the cold and reserved Lord Norbourne. He paced the gallery with quick and irregular steps, while his eye more than once met that of his nephew, who, however, preserved a resolute silence.
"This is most unworthy hesitation," exclaimed he, at last; and, approaching the fireplace, leant opposite Norbourne. "I see," continued he, "that you resent my conduct. I do not wonder at it. I reproach myself for it; but, at least, hear me before you utterly condemn me. I find I cannot do without some portion of your good-will; for, little as you may believe it, you have ever been dear to me as a child of my own."
The earnestness of his uncle's manner touched Norbourne in spite of himself; and, almost unconsciously, he made a step nearer to him, as he continued:—
"I am ambitious: I own it; for what are a man's talents given, but for a high and influential career? I was ambitious for myself; I am now ambitious for my line. I do take pride in thinking of our house restored to all its original honours. Have you none in knowing the position you will occupy?"
"Do you think," said Norbourne, sternly, "wealth and rank would have tempted me to act as I have done? Lord Norbourne, I tell you to your face, but that you had in your power the name and fame of a beloved mother—ay, and her life too, I would never have married your daughter. I loved—I do love another; but why should I speak of warm and natural emotions to one who knows not of them?"
"Poor Constance!" exclaimed her father.
"Nay," interrupted Norbourne, "do not fear for her. She, at least, shall never know that at the altar where I pledged my faith, did I also sacrifice my sweetest and my best hopes. She shall not be the victim of your ambition. Carefully will I guard her from any sorrow that rests with me: pity girdles her round with a tenderness, deep almost as love. And now, my lord, I conclude that our conference is at an end: why should we inflict unnecessary pain on each other?"
"Not yet," exclaimed his uncle, yielding wholly to the impulse of strong emotion. "Norbourne, I am neither so callous nor so worldly as you deem me. Look on these portraits!" and he pointed to four pictures that hung on the wall opposite. Never was the painter's skill taxed to give more lovely likenesses of humanity. There were four blooming girls, all drawn at full length; and, though different, it was hard to say which was the most beautiful. "Are not those children of whom any father might be proud?" asked Lord Norbourne. "For years I hoped to have a son; and, when that was denied me, I thought ever of one of those girls as your wife. Years passed by, and each year saw one of those bright heads laid low in the grave. My poor sickly Constance alone escaped the hereditary malady which destroyed her lovely and healthful sisters. A year ago that neglected child, so young, so feeble, and so uncared for, was my nurse through the fever which even the hireling would hardly brave. I loved her with that deep remorseful love which feels that it is a late atonement. I saw (for she is too ignorant and too guileless for disguise) that her heart was wholly yours. I saw her, too, delicate, sensitive; ready to fade away before life's first sorrow. I could not bear to think that disappointed affection should hurry her to an early grave. Norbourne, in the name of the deepest and the holiest feeling that I have, I implore you to forgive me."
Norbourne took the proffered hand; his anger had vanished in sympathy, and they stood for a few moments in agitated silence, which was broken by Lord Norbourne.
"I know that you are now in love: but what is love?—a young man's feverish dream, whose realities, on awakening, he would give worlds to recall. I loved once—foolishly, madly; for I sacrificed every thing to my boyish passion. I married one without fortune or connexion; for her sake I gave up all those higher schemes on which my hopes had fed from very childhood. For her sake I was content to endure poverty, and—far worse—obscurity. Do you wish to see the face which made me—a fool?"
He stepped forward, and touched the spring of a picture-case, which Norboume had not before seen opened. He almost started at the dazzling loveliness of the countenance on which he gazed. The large black eyes flashed, as if they realised the old poet's description:—
"Such eyes on Jove had thrown
A lightning, fierce and sudden as his own."
The colour on the cheek was rich and eloquent, and the small mouth curved with a consciousness of its own loveliness. It was one of those faces that at once appeal to the imagination: you feel that there must be a history belonging to it. You have a foreboding of passion, and its fulfilment, despair.