Ethel Churchill/Chapter 68
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A FRIEND AT COURT.
I did not know till she was lost,
How much she was beloved;
She knows it in that better world,
To which she is removed.
I feel as she had only sought
Again her native skies;
I look upon the heavens, and seem
To meet her angel eyes.
Pity, and love, and gentle thoughts,
For her sake, fill my mind:
They are the only part of her
That now is left behind.
The disappointed petitioners stood, for a few moments, on the terrace while waiting for their carriage: they stood in complete silence; Ethel the most vexed, Lady Marchmont the most surprised. Henrietta felt like a dethroned divinity, refusal and rebuff were such very novel things to her, excepting from her husband; and from husbands they come as matters of course. But she was a petted, spoiled beauty; and to be dismissed in such an unceremonious manner was beyond her comprehension: she no longer wondered that Lord Marchmont was in opposition. As for Ethel, she was quite bewildered: she had felt such implicit reliance on Henrietta's success, that the disappointment was doubly bitter, because wholly unexpected.
They had stood both so completely absorbed in their disagreeable reverie, that neither perceived the approach of a stranger, who was about to pass them with a slight but courteous bow, when he caught sight of Henrietta, and immediately stopped.
"This is an unexpected pleasure!" exclaimed he. "What good fortune blows Lady Marchmont hither?"
"Good fortune, do you call it?" cried Henrietta: "why I can scarcely refrain from venting my rage even upon poor, unoffending you. Good! my Lord; don't expect even a civil word from me. It is a very disagreeable thing to agree with one's husband; but to-night I move my patches, and become Tory."
"Nay," replied Lord Norbourne, for he was the stranger, "Sir Robert can have done nothing to merit so severe a sentence. Come, let me hear your grievance. He has bought some picture you wanted, or refused a slip from some plant, without which, of course, you cannot exist for an hour?"
"Dear Lord Norbourne," said Henrietta, "my business is of a much more serious nature. I leave it to your own kindness whether it shall or not be intruded upon you."
"Lady Marchmont knows," replied he, "that it is no commonplace expression of civility, when I say, let me have the happiness of serving you whether it be in a little or great thing."
"I equally know that I may take you at your word," said Henrietta: "and, as a first step, as it is her history that I am about to tell, will you allow me to introduce my young friend? Miss Churchill, Lord Norbourne."
It would be difficult to say on which party the name of the other produced the greatest effect. With Ethel there was the one association: this, then, was Courtenaye's uncle, whose daughter he had married. The whole past rose vividly before her—all her sorrow, all her suffering. The tears started, but pride repressed them; or, rather, pride is no name for the sensitive and shrinking feeling which trembles even at compassion for its misery. It was very painful to Ethel to seek aid from Lord Norbourne. Had she consulted her own wishes, she would have withdrawn at once; but it was a sacred duty to advance her grandmother's cause by every possible means: and, moreover, was not the listener in complete ignorance of the agitation he caused by his presence? She little knew how well Lord Norbourne was acquainted with her name; or how large a share he had had in her unhappiness. Her appearance produced on him an emotion which even his calm and polished manner could scarcely conceal. She brought to him the image of Constance; thus at once unlocking the spring of his kindliest and best feelings. He felt at once what he owed of amends to the young and fair creature, whose beauty wore such obvious trace of suffering—of suffering, too, that he had inflicted. His better nature was awakened on her behalf; he longed to serve her, to be kind to her; he felt as if such service and such kindness were a worthy offering to the memory of his own angel child. Unconscious of all this, Lady Marchmont was equally surprised and delighted to find what interest Lord Norbourne took in her story. Like all women who seem to have an imperative necessity in their nature to give a romantic reason for every thing, she began to think that his lordship had suddenly fallen in love with the beautiful girl to whose cause he was giving such earnest attention.
"Well," said Lord Norbourne, as Henrietta concluded her narrative, "I trust that Lady Marchmont will not be driven to the desperate necessity of agreeing with her husband, even in politics. Just walk round the lawn for two or three minutes, and let me try my influence with Sir Robert."
He left them without waiting; and Henrietta, after following him with eyes that looked the most eloquent thanks, turned to her companion, exclaiming,—
"I cannot say much for the success of my first scheme, that you should be the second Lady Walpole; but what do you say to being the third Lady Norbourne? but, I warn you, in the last case we shall be rivals."
The expression of Ethel's face quite checked her vivacity. For the first time it struck Lady Marchmont how much her friend was altered. Ethel had not even heard what she said, so completely was she lost in her own thoughts. She leant against the balustrade of the terrace, her gaze fixed on the river, but seeing it not. The flush of excitement had left her deadly pale; while the blue eyes looked unnaturally large, with a sad set expression, as if haunted by the perpetual presence of one oppressive thought. Henrietta felt, whose image was present to Ethel: she said nothing; but pressing her companion's arm kindly, drew her onwards, and walked along the terrace in silence. But Henrietta's imagination was too acute and too buoyant not to arrange a whole future during their walk. She reconciled Ethel and Courtenaye; she gave Lord Norbourne's consent to their marriage; and was just ending, like a fairy tale, with—"and they lived very happy for the rest of their lives," when Lord Norbourne returned.
"I expect a charming welcome," said he, "for I return successful: Sir Robert relents. I have offered to become security that Mrs. Churchill has done with treasonable correspondence. She will not yet be permitted to return to the Manor House: it is too convenient for 'treasons, stratagems,' &c.; and it is as well not to be put in the way of temptation: but she will be allowed perfect liberty in London. Something of a fine is still talked of; but even that, I hope, will be remitted."
"How kind you are!" exclaimed Lady Marchmont; but Ethel found no voice to speak. Lord Norbourne took her hand very kindly, and placed her in the carriage.
"You must allow me," said he, "to call on Mrs. Churchill. I flatter myself I shall be able to convince her that, without compromising her principles, the best thing that she can do will be not to attempt carrying them into practice."
He turned down the very terrace where they had just been walking; and though, certainly, there was as little resemblance as could well be between himself and Lady Marchmont, yet their thoughts flowed in precisely the same channel. Chilled and hardened, as it had been, by constant contact with the world, yet Lord Norbourne's was inherently a high and generous nature. To such, atonement is a necessity and an enjoyment. Ethel's happiness seemed to him like a sad sweet debt, owing to the memory of his lost Constance.