Ethel Churchill/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII.
ARRIVED AT HOME.
A pale and stately lady, with a brow
That might have well beseemed a Roman dame,
Cornelia, ere her glorious children died;
Or that imperial mother, who beheld
Her son forgive his country at her word.
Yet there was trouble written on her face;
The past had left its darkness.
It was a wretched evening on which Norbourne Courtenaye reached his home. A cold wind, a piercing rain, and a bad road, with a worse hack (for his own horses had been knocked up), rendered more acute the misery which he, as a parted lover, was bound to feel. He felt himself more unhappy at every succeeding mile: and when he arrived—wet through, cold, tired, and hungry—he conceived, very justly, that he was the most unhappy of created beings. Still, it was almost worth while to endure all these sufferings for the sake of such a welcome as awaited him at home. A good fire, and a good dinner, are wonderful restoratives; and Mrs. Courtenaye was so happy at seeing her son again, that he could not but feel happy too. She hung round him, watching his every look as if she grudged the veriest menial offices from the servants; and she almost scolded him for not eating, when he had done justice enough to the good things set before him to have satisfied even the cook herself. Some old writer says, "we like to see those we love eating and sleeping;" and there is much truth in the homely remark. We like them to be the objects of our active care, or of our patient watchfulness.
Mrs. Courtenaye idolised her son, with that intense love which a reserved and proud temper feels for the one and only object on which it lavishes all its hoarded affection. His father had died when his only child was but two years old; and to that child his young, rich, and beautiful widow, had been wholly devoted. Many suitors she certainly had; but even the wildest jest had never given one of them a hope of success. It was said that she spoiled her son—it was not so. Her strong sense and excellent judgment preserved her authority; which was strengthened, not weakened, by the tenderest care that ever mother bestowed on orphan. From her lips, a reproof was sufficient punishment; for the boy well knew that he was the least sufferer.
Mrs. Courtenaye was rather respected than popular in the neighbourhood: her habits were secluded, though no one dispensed more liberally that hospitality which suited their position in the country. She was of an old Catholic Scotch family, and had been educated in a Spanish convent, which she never left till her marriage with Mr. Courtenaye. Some said that her union with a heretic weighed upon her mind; and that her penances were of an unusually strict order. There was that in her still fine, but careworn features, which seemed to bear out the assertion. She was subject to fits of deep melancholy; and, even in her most social hours, there was a sort of subdued sadness in her eyes; and she never had the glad, frank manner of one whose heart is at ease. Her very fondness for her son had something mournful in it; she seemed to fear the indulgence of all earthly affections. Still, nothing could be more perfect than the union of herself and her child. It was touching to see them together; for, if this cold world has one tie more holy, and more redeemed from all selfish feeling than another, it is that which binds the widow and the orphan together.
His dress changed, and his dinner over, Norbourne followed Mrs. Courtenaye to the drawing-room, where she had left his uncle and cousin. Their way lay through the hall, where hung the helm of many a bold forefather, and arms that had seen service even in the crusades.
"I cannot help, dearest mother," said he, half seriously, half smiling, "having a little respect for myself when I return home. My noble ancestors have bequeathed to me an honourable name:-—well, I will at least strive not to disgrace it." Mrs. Courtenaye fondly pressed his hand, and he could see that the tears stood in her eyes. "I should rather have said," exclaimed he, "I will at least try to be worthy of my mother."
They found Lord Norbourne so engaged with a heap of political pamphlets, that he did not at first perceive their entrance. When he did, he welcomed his nephew with great cordiality,—we should rather say courtesy, for Lord Norbourne had never been cordial in his life. He hurried together questions and compliments.
"On my honour, Mrs. Courtenaye, you will make me an advocate for petticoat government, after such a specimen of its excellent influence. Still, my young friend, I am like the rest of the world—cannot leave well alone—must have you up to town. Sir Robert was inquiring about the representative of our house, only the other day. I, you know, am but a younger brother. But I forget that you have not seen your cousin for an age. You young people must have an immense deal to talk over. There, Norbourne, I consign you to younger and fairer hands."
So saying, he resumed his seat and his pamphlets, in which he appeared completely absorbed. Mrs. Courtenaye took up a religious work, and she, too, turned her face away. Her eyes were resolutely fixed on the page, but she saw it not. Her cheek was pale and cold as marble, and there was that convulsive quiver about the mouth which is the most certain sign of mental agitation.
Norbourne drew kindly towards his cousin Constance. He had for her the affection of early habit, and the tenderness of pity. Delicate and slightly deformed, with only one surviving parent, whose affection chiefly showed itself in ambitious projects for her aggrandisement, there was much in Constance's position that awakened the softest compassion. When Norbourne entered the room, a deep flush of crimson betrayed how instantly she recognised him. The colour had faded, but enough remained to make her look almost pretty; and, if any thing can make a woman look so, it is the presence of him she loves. Poor Constance loved her cousin timidly; for, painfully conscious of her personal defects, she was shy and retiring. During the lives of her sisters, she had been thrown quite in the background; and her cousin had been the only one from whom she had always received support and consideration. How gratefully does a woman repay such a debt!
Norbourne Courtenaye was the only person with whom Constance was at her ease. During the lifetime of her beautiful sisters, she had met with so many mortifications, that she shrank from all general society; and she had been too secluded, during the last twelvemonth, to know the merits and charms which would inevitably be found in Lord Norbourne's heiress. Of her father she stood in great awe, and of her aunt scarcely less; to which was also added a sense of strangeness. But Norbourne she had known from a child: he had taken her part as a boy, and as a young man had never neglected her; her memory was stored with a thousand slight attentions which he had himself forgotten. After the first flutter of conscious delight which his entrance had caused, she was able to talk to him cheerfully, and her spirits rose with the unwonted enjoyment.
It may be doubted whether Lord Norbourne was quite as much engrossed by his pamphlets as he appeared; for once or twice, as his daughter's laugh reached his ear, his stern features relaxed into a smile, which changed the whole expression of his face. More than once, too, he tried to catch Mrs. Courtenaye's eye; but she was too much absorbed in the book. Norbourne, it must be confessed, was impatient for the close of the evening: he had so much that he wished to tell his mother, and it struck him that she looked unusually pale and harassed. Still his cousin's claims, as a woman and his guest, were imperative; and, moreover, he felt for a young creature, shut out from so many ordinary sources of enjoyment, and whose life was so solitary. But never had she appeared so utterly uninteresting as now; for Ethel's sweet face shone before him, a sad contrast to the sickly and languid countenance of Constance. Neither had Constance the natural talents of Ethel; she was deficient in all powers of conversation. Accustomed to be repressed and neglected, she lacked courage to say what she thought. What a change from the sweet, uncurbed vivacity of Ethel, whose thoughts sprang directly from the heart into utterance! At length, however, the evening wore away; and, after kindly assisting his cousin across the galley, Norbourne hurried to his mother's dressing-room: she was just going in, as he asked admission to tell all his adventures.
"Not to-night, my beloved child: you must be tired: not to-night."
She leant forward to kiss his forehead: he started at the touch, for her lips were cold as ice.