Ethel Churchill/Chapter 86
CHAPTER X.
A LATE BREAKFAST.
Why did I love him? I looked up to him
With earnest admiration, and sweet faith.
I could forgive the miserable hours
His falsehood, and his only, taught my heart;
But I cannot forgive that for his sake.
My faith in good is shaken, and my hopes
Are pale and cold, for they have looked on death.
Why should I love him? he no longer is
That which I loved.
Sir George Kingston had just wrapped her cloak round the graceful figure of Lady Marchmont, and was going to hand her into the carriage, when her attention was asked for a moment by Lord Norbourne. Drawing her within the shadow of a column, he said in an earnest whisper,—
"Dearest Lady Marchmont, something has gone wrong between Norbourne and Miss Churchill: I suspect that, from most mistaken pique, she has refused him; may I rely on your influence to set it right?"
"You may, at all events," replied she, "rely on my utmost endeavours."
"They cannot fail!" said he: "do justify Norbourne; tell her how wrong I was to strain my influence to the utmost, as I frankly confess I did: but I must not now detain you. Good night. I leave our cause in your hands."
So saying, he resigned her to Sir George Kingston's care, who said, as he placed her in the carriage:—
"Henceforth I shall need a new calendar; the shortest day of the year is, I have just found out, in July!"
Lady Marchmont found her companions in no mood for discourse. Her husband was asleep, and Ethel's languid voice was scarcely audible when she forced a reply to some trilling question; and Henrietta could perceive, from the convulsive movement, and from the short suppressed sob, that she was weeping. When they arrived at home, the light showed Ethel so pale, so worn out, that she thought all attempt at any intercession were best deferred to the morrow. It must, also, be confessed, that she felt too weary for much eloquence as a pleader.
The golden sunshine of noon, as it fell slanting over the windows of Lady Marchmont's dressing-closet the following morning, lighted up as pretty a piece of artificial life, as could ever have furnished painter with an interior. Fantastic figures, and bright birds and flowers on the paper, recalled nothing that had ever been seen before—the fantastic reigned predominant; so it did in the china scattered profusely round. I never could enter into the passion for china; it is an affection born of ostentation. Those stiff shepherdesses; those ill-shaped teapots; those monsters, which take every shape but a graceful one; those little, round cups make no appeal to my imagination; they suggest nothing but ideas of trade; they are redolent of the auction-room. Moreover, I detest bargains; the bargain can only be one, because either the first purchaser is dead, or ruined. He has left either heirs or creditors, each equally greedy, careless, and impatient; or, if these toys be disposed of during a lifetime, such sale only tells a common tale of, first extravagance, then want; fancies indulged thoughtlessly, to end miserably. A bargain is a social evil; one man's loss, tempting another man's cupidity. But, "it were too curious to examine thus," is the motto of daily existence; and, in the meantime, the sunshine fell carelessly over a careless world.
The soft west wind waved the curtains to and fro, letting in golden glimpses, now shedding new lustre over the frosted silver, and polished glass, of the mirror; then, by the change of shadow, giving what seemed almost motion to the quaint figures on the Indian paper, or kindling, with clearer colour, the roses that were crowding the flower-stands. The breath of the roses, mingled with the fragrant bohea, which stood just made on the little breakfast-table.
Ensconced, each in a large fauteuil, wrapped in loose, white dressing-gowns, the hair only gathered with a single riband, sat the two friends. The excitement of yesterday's triumphs had not yet left Lady Marohmont's lip and eye. She was in the gayest spirits; a mood, the inevitable augury of ill; it is like the very bright sunshine which is sure to precede rain. "When the pavement dries so quickly, we may be sure of another shower," is a common saying, and it may serve as a type. Alas! this careless gaiety seems like tempting fate.
Ethel was the very reverse: the mouth was pale, the eyes were heavy; during the preceding night they had closed with the weight of tears, but not with sleep; she looked what she felt, very wretched. The habit of endurance, almost mistaken for composure, had been broken in upon; she had been forced to remember her past happiness; again to shrink from the future. It was as if the gates of life had been twice closed upon her; not that, for a moment, she regretted her refusal; never again could Norbourne Courtenaye be what he had been to her; but never could she feel for another what she had felt for him; so young, and yet with all the sweetest hopes of life a blank: she hoped, she feared, she wished for nothing. It was in vain that she made an effort to talk; her companion's gaiety only oppressed her. Henrietta saw that any attempt to lead the conversation to the point she wished, would be in vain; she was, therefore, obliged to do what, to a woman, is especially disagreeable, to begin upon her subject at once. She hesitated; for her own heart told her, that where the lover fails, no third party ever succeeds.
"My dear Ethel," said she, "tell me the truth; what did Mr. Courtenaye say to you last night? Moonlight and sentiment always go together."
"Don't be witty now," exclaimed Ethel, "I cannot bear it; be serious, and I will not have a reserve from a friend so kind and so true as yourself. Mr. Courtenaye renewed his offer last night"
"And you accepted him!" replied Henrietta, purposely.
"Accepted him!" returned Ethel: "never!"