CHAP. XX. Mayfield she was beautiful, but her beauty was of a more feminine and pleasing cast. Yet there was that in her face which saddened as well as pleased. The lightsome loveliness-of whose character, bright blue eyes and long golden hair were the chief arbiters-was almost neutralized by a deep thoughtful earnestness that somehow told its own tale of long and severe suffering, past but unforgotten. As she stood leaning with her hand upon her forehead against the half-open fold of the window, her tall slender figure drooping slightly forward as if with somewhat of weariness, she might well have suggested the idea of poor Mariana watching with painful longing for him who came not, only that all before and beneath her was joyous and beautiful. Her eye traversed a great sweep of green mountains surrounding a spacious basin, in the heart of which, dome and turret, campanile and baptistry, palace and garden, stately square and festive street, all fair in form and palpitating with living sunshine, stood Florence, a very vision of joy. It fills, one's heart with sunshine even to think of an Italian villa far up in bright hills-of terraced gardens all aglow with orange-trees, purple with grapes, and peopled with the white imagery of classic, eld-of shady balconies in soothing vicinity to the music of fountains-of cool belvideres opening commandingly on wide circuits of beauty, glorious in vastness of mountain outline, charming in detail of forest, stream, towered city, and sunny white hamlet of skies serenely cloudless, and the dreamy whispers of the love-laden winds of the South. To read of them is to long for them, to see them is to covet them, to live in them is sweet lotuslanguishment, to remember them is to regret. At a window opening on such a balcony overlooking such a scene sat two ladies: hour, two in the afternoon; month, April; year, late in the last decade. The elder, the mistress of the mansion, was by name Lady Mayfield. She was considerably over forty years of age; but neither the tears of widowhood, nor the long anxiety of a mother whose only son had but recently returned from years of daily danger in his country's service, had traced the slightest wrinkle on her brow, or the faintest silver in her hair. She had been a beautiful woman, and was so still. If there was any defect in her beauty at all, it lay perhaps in its being a little too decided; the features being, from their There is a time when natural beauty is its strongly-marked isolation, too susceptible of own end, its own fruition, its own enjoyment. analysis to allow full scope to that idealizing Before sorrow has touched the soul, ere yet it tendency which forms more than half of our per- has become necessary to struggle and to conception of beauty, and which builds more upon quer, the sunshine, and the green leaf, and general expression than upon individual linea- the sparkling brook are beautiful, because ment. Still there was nothing harsh or repul- they are very part and parcel of ourselves. But sive about Lady Mayfield's face; and when she when the isolating power of sorrow has sepaspoke, her eye lit up with such bright good-rated our souls from things inanimate, coldly nature, and her tone indicated such honesty in the speaker and such trust towards the hearer as completely softened down any impression of severity that her features when still might have been apt to convey. Her companion was a young lady apparently about twenty-three years of age. Like Lady But however strongly optical laws might assert themselves, and insist on imprinting the beautiful image of all this on the retina belonging to the young lady in question, her thoughts were plainly in a region beyond optical laws. One could read in the limpid depth of her eye far distant things, of which all the beauty before her was but faint symbolism. individualizing our separate being, and teaching us, undeniably, that we are suffering spirits, struggling to conquest-then does outer beauty become essentially suggestive, pointing to something beyond itself, something more godlike than form, more etherial than colour, more spiritual than sound, and yet more richly satis K fying, and more royally bounteous than all com-, recommendation, you remember how I followed bined-then does beauty, hitherto unquestion- you to your poor lodging, and introduced myingly loved for its own sweet sake, begin to de- self as wishing to obtain, not a governess, but a mand an explanation of itself, of its origin, of companion to my lonesome widowhood. I had its power, of its tendency, of its end; until it fallen in love with your face and your voice; finds that with all its preciousness and all its and trusting to my own power of reading physiwonder of delight, it is but a feeble index trem- ognomy, I only asked you one question; and your bling towards an unknown pole. Was it thus answer, though it was but one word, satisfied me; with her?-that earthly loveliness was not an for I think I know the tone of truth. I told idol blindly worshipped, but a suggestive simili- you what I wished, and that if you would come tude that lifted the soul above it, to regions with me I would take you unreservedly. Then peopled with dear memories, and dearer hopes? you told me that you had left your home secretly. Yet flesh is flesh; and there is a certain gate You told me, moreover, that Mary Johnston was in Florence called the Porta San Gallo, and it not your real name, and that you might be would be hard to say what it symbolizes in the liable at a moment's notice to be compelled to spiritual world. Though two miles distant, it return to Scotland. With any other than my was full in view of the balcony above-mentioned. self I am sure that these statements would have For a moment or two the young lady's gaze had been received with suspicion and dissatisfaction. rested vacantly upon it, when she suddenly I was satisfied, and you are here. While you started, and awaking as if from a reverie, turned have been with me I have watched you, not as a abruptly into the drawing-room, and, with her spy, but as an admiring friend; and you have back to Lady Mayfield, began to arrange, or to more than surpassed my first impressions of make a pretence of arranging, a bouquet of your character. Besides character, you have flowers, already tastefully disposed in a vase on surprised me by the extent of your education, one of the tables. Lady Mayfield observed the which includes accomplishments that even the sudden movement of her companion, and, look- most liberally educated of our sex seldom even ing from her work out of the open window, saw attempt to acquire. I have discovered in your a horseman threading his way along the winding manner some traces of birth and breeding, such road that led from the Porta San Gallo to the as are almost unknown to any but those who heights on which the villa Fiorini was situated. have blood to boast of, as well as training. I "There is Sir Arthur, at last," said she; "I'll have mastered your whole character, but you never send him for the letters again. Giuglio deny me your history. Oh, Mary! it grieves me would have been here two hours ago. I have to know that you have a secret from me, not been wearying for my budget sadly." because you fret my curiosity by concealing it, but because I see that whatever it is, it is a source of grief to you, which possibly I might be able to alleviate. Will you at least let me know the nature of it? Is it money, Mary?" There was a pause, during which the younger lady continued to arrange the flowers upon most arbitrary principles of taste. "No response from the signorina. Ah! that is because you never get any letters from England. Now, what will you say if there should be one to-day?” The young lady seemed suddenly to discover that the stalks of the flowers were too long, and began nervously to tear away the offending superfluity. "Come hither, Mary," said Lady Mayfield, after another pause. Her companion turned round, and in so doing betrayed a face bewitchingly sad with tears, which she rushed to hide, kneeling by the side of her friend, and laying her head on her knee. "You are not happy here, Mary. Have I not been kind to you? "Oh yes, Lady Mayfield," answered she, looking up, and smiling gratefully through her tears; "you have been kind indeed." "Then is it not time, Mary dear, that you should let me know this secret of yours. I have trusted you out-and-out for nearly two years, and you have become dear to me as my own daughter. Will you not trust me in turn ?" "Not yet, Lady Mayfield," said the kneeling girl." "Forgive me, but not yet." "Listen, Mary, once more. When I overheard you, two years ago, in the act of being refused entrance into the Governess's Institution at Liverham, on the ground of your having no "No." "Blighted love?" "I have a right to know it, Mary." "If kindness gives you a right-oh yes, you have a right, indeed; yet I cannot, cannot reveal it !" "I did not mean that any little kindness of mine gave me a positive right to extort it from you: but I have a right quite apart from that." "What do you refer to, Lady Mayfield ?" asked the soi-disante Miss Johnston, looking up curiously. "The best right in the world-my son Sir Arthur loves you!" The girl started, rose to her feet, and, looking Lady Mayfield full in the face, faltered out"I understand your meaning: you mean that it is time for me to leave your house?" "I had no such meaning," said Lady Mayfield, gently, but firmly; and drawing her again towards her, she continued-" Come, now, kneel down as before, fair offender, and confess. Look up, now: were you not aware of this already?" "As I live I was not." "And did you not suspect it? During the three months he has spent with us since his re turn from India, has he sought any other so ciety than yours? When he might have been fêted in Florence as a rich Englishman and a renowned soldier, has he not persistently refused every invitation just that he might pass his whole time near you?" "You forget, Lady Mayfield, that his mother's society is especially dear to him after his long absence and his many dangers." "How comes it, then," asked Lady Mayfield, laughing, "that he always remembers some engagement in the house when I enter the garden and find him with you? or some other engagement in the garden when I enter the house and find him with you? Come, now, Mary dear, have you not suspected it?" "The idea of it had certainly crossed my mind, but only to be dismissed as foolish on my part. I grieve to learn that it is true." "Grieve! why grieve? Perhaps," said Lady Mayfield, a little scornfully, "you think the loss of an arm in the service of his country an insuperable objection!" Nay, nay, dear Lady Mayfield! I grieve to learn that it is true because it puts an end to the dear days I have spent with you. It must not be; and to end it, what remains for me but to leave you, my kind, kind friend?" and the young lady again hid her face in Lady Mayfield's dress, and wept audibly. "That is what I cannot understand," said the latter, somewhat sharply. "My son loves you, therefore you must leave me. Something to do with that horrid secret again! Or perhaps simply that you do not love him; is that it, Mary?" I have no right to love "I did not say so. any one!" "The secret again! Now, plainly and seriously, Mary, if you tell me your history, and I hear from your own lips that, whatever untoward circumstance may have compelled you to leave your home secretly, it is not such as would make it a dishonour to call you daughter, though you turn out to be a penniless girl, I love you so much, that I could wish no other wife for my son. Did ever true love present so smooth a course? But here comes Sir Arthur: we shall speak of this again. Get up and dry your eyes," said she, fondly, smoothing the young lady's hair. "There, now you look as composed as Minerva out there. By-the-bye, Sir Arthur insists that that form and figure have been stolen from you!" At this moment a tall, handsome young man entered the room, carrying a bag containing a budget of letters. His face was quite the ideal of manly, English beauty, though it was slightly orientalized by the trace of the Indian sun: moreover, it was of the military type, which somehow forms a cast by itself; so that one could almost recognize an English officer even under the garb of priesthood. It was a fine open face, flushed with health and radiant with kindly humour-a face on good terms with all the world, and yet exhibiting all the delicacy of lineament that appertains to noble birth. The dark hair made the large white forehead appear all the whiter; and if long dark whiskers are really-as we have heard-loved of ladies, we may as well mention them too as among the personal gifts of Sir Arthur Mayfield. As we have said before, he was tall, and though upon the whole of a slender figure, his breadth of chest gave him all the appearance of what he really was-a powerful man. He had but one defectthat which his mother has already mentioned. The sleeve which his left arm should have filled was attached to the breast of his coat; yet somehow it did not seem a defect at all to those who knew how the loss had been met with; and if Beauty, as many teach us, is but a thing of association, the very void could not fail to be associated with such perceptions as honour and admiring regret. We complete his passport into our reader's society by setting him down for twenty-three years of age. "The newspapers said you made a good soldier, Arthur," said Lady Mayfield, as he entered the room; "but as for a postman, that is evidently beyond you." 6 "I beg a thousand pardons, mamma," replied the young soldier; "but the fact is-the fact is, I had a commission to execute for Miss Johnston, and I forgot before I left to get her to tell me the Italian for cambric frilling.' Now, I have been in at least a dozen modiste's shops in town, and not one could I get to understand what 'cambric frilling' meant. By the way, I see: I might have remembered that this is the first of the month. Well, really, Miss Johnston, it is too bad to be playing English tricks in a foreign country. Now confess it; is there such a thing as cambric frilling'? "Indeed there is, Sir Arthur," answered Miss Johnston, laughing and blushing; while Lady Mayfield, laughing also, declared that he was about as good as an errand-boy as he was as a postman, "But come, my son," said she, "give me my letters, and let me be off. I like to devour them in secret." "Ten for Lady Mayfield," said he, counting them out one by one; "and for Sir Arthur Mayfield nothing but a miserable newspaper!" "Anything for Miss Johnston?" asked his mother, looking searchingly at the young lady. "Nothing! Why, Miss Johnston, your friends are surely all dead, or ashamed of you, or- I beg your pardon, I did not mean to hurt you." Miss Johnston had turned even paler than usual at this reference to her friends. The young officer remarked it at once, and as his mother retired from the room and closed the door, he sat down beside her, turning his unopened newspaper round and round, and evidently not knowing what to say. "What is the matter, Miss Johnston? Have I hurt your feelings ?” "Oh no, Sir Arthur. Please read your paper," said she, taking up a piece of work, "Lady Mayfield wants me to be very busy at this today." "And can you not talk while you work? Oh, I see it all; you are angry with me for not getting you that cambric frilling." Miss Johnston laughed, in spite of her evident desire to place Sir Arthur on as distant a footing as possible. She thought of rising, or leaving the room; but that might have implied that something unusual had happened, or might have looked as if she wished to bring matters to a crisis. So she sat still, and merely held her peace. At length, when, after sitting some time in silence, she heard Sir Arthur draw a long breath and clear his throat, as if about to commence a formal speech, it suddenly occurred to her that silence was bad policy, and that her safest plan was to keep him going until Lady Mayfield returned. So, just as he was about to speak, she anticipated him. 66 Well, what is the leading article about, Sir Arthur? Drainage, I suppose, or poor-rates, or suffrage extension, or some other interesting subject?" Sir Arthur slowly took off the cover, unfolded the newspaper, and looked at the leading article. "It seems to be," said he, after glancing over it, "a series of strictures on Scotch verdicts, and, as usual, that old story of Virtue Le Moyne is raked up." Miss Johnston's work fell from her hands, and she herself sunk back in her chair, pale and trembling. mamma? "For heaven's sake, Miss Johnston, what have I done now? Are you ill? Shall I fetch Ah, I think I understand mamma has told you, and my presence only agitates you; but what meaning am I to put upon your agitation? Ah, tell me, do you think you can love me, Mary?" "Sir Arthur Mayfield," said the young lady, with as much firmness as she could command, "this is the only unkindness I have ever experienced under this roof." 66 "Nay, Miss Johnston," cried he, springing up, pray do not rise. If either of us must leave the room, I will: but first let me explain. It might have been unkindness, had I presumed so far on your position as to have asked your hand secretly. But what have I done? I have gone openly to Lady Mayfield, and have told her that I love you; and now, with her willing consent, I come honourably and openly to yourself, and tell you the same tale. You may refuse me, Miss Johnston-that is your undoubted right-but surely you cannot cut me to the heart by accusing me of unkindness?" "Pardon the word, Sir Arthur; but the consequences of this may be very cruel to me." "I will pardon the word, but repeat the offence," said Sir Arthur, lifting her fallen work. "You have not answered me-could you love me, Mary?" "But I cannot give you up thus easily. Why reject me? I have birth, wealth, health, an honourable name, a mother who loves you as a daughter; and I had concluded, from your behaviour towards me during the last three months, that I was not disagreeable to you. What should there be between us? I will not give you up, Mary, unless you tell me pointblank that you cannot love me!" Miss Johnston worked on, silently and nervously. "You do not say No. Ah, Mary," cried he, flinging himself beside her, and taking her hands in his, "you must, you must accept my love; unless," said he, again relinquishing her hands as a sudden thought occurred to him-" unless you have passed your word to another. Is it so?" "It is not so, and yet, as before, I tell you, Sir Arthur Mayfield, that this cannot be. Ah, well I know that by one word I could turn all your love into coldness, and all your admiration into horror! Take my word for it, and ask no more. Try to forget me. I leave this house to-morrow. I believe in your love, Sir Arthur, and that it will wound you to see me pass from your sight; but even that wound Time will heal." "What does this signify?" said Sir Arthur, rising, and looking down at her in astonishment. "Nay, unless you tell me all, I shall think it is only a clever stratagem to stay my importunity. Tell me, now," and he knelt down before her, and again took her hands in his, “I ask you yet again, Mary, do you love me, and will you be my wife?" "You know not what you ask. Listen: you force it from me. Would you marry a woman whose name is not free from the charge of But her lips whitened, and her whole face changed to so fearful an expression, that, as he looked, the young soldier trembled as he had never trembled in bloody charge or deadly breach. "Of what! for God's sake speak Miss Johnston!" "Of murder!" CHAP. XXI. When Lady Mayfield returned to the drawingroom, she saw at once that words potent for good or evil had passed between Miss Johnston and her son. The former was just in the position in which she had left her; but Sir Arthur was seated on a couch at some distance from her. Nothing further had passed between them from the time of Miss Johnston's disclosure. Sir Arthur had simply risen from his knees and retired to a distance, not so much horror-struck as morally and intellectually paralyzed. He had "You do not love me, then?" said the young clutched at his newspaper and resumed his seat, man, as he leant his head upon the open win-when he heard his mother approaching; but by dow, and looked down lovingly and despair- no effort of will could he recal the colour to his ingly upon the rich gift that refused to be his. cheeks, or stay the convulsive heaving of his "Sir Arthur, this must not be. In kindness spare me!" |