Читать книгу Margaret Capel, vol. 2 - Ellen Wallace - Страница 2

Perhaps few things are more curious to those who, as bystanders, contemplate the game of life, than to see how in the stream of time, persons the most divided, and the least likely to be brought into contact, are whirled by those resistless waves nearer and nearer, until at last they meet; or if no collision takes place, still the course of the one, draws into its channel, or modifies in some strange way the course of the other.

Margaret little thought as she sat dreaming over her lot at Ashdale, that a sick girl in another county, whom she had never seen, and whose name she had never heard, was to exercise a strange influence over her future fate.

Mr. Haveloc was constantly at Ashdale. He went, it is true, backwards and forwards from his own place to that of Mr. Grey, but his visits to his home were wonderfully short, and those at Ashdale longer and longer. His attention, his devotion to Margaret increased daily; she never had occasion to form a wish. He seemed to divine all her thoughts, to anticipate everything that she could by possibility enjoy. And his was especially the kind of character to interest her; his failings were not of a nature to come in her way, and the earnestness of his disposition suited her ideas of the romance of love. She was not likely to mistake a devotion that knew no pause, that entertained no other idea than herself day after day.

Then his knowledge, which though rather desultory, was unusual in a man who had not to earn his living—his command of languages, his accomplishments—all things that he never cared to bring forward, but that accident discovered to her by degrees, increased his power over her mind.

Men cannot forgive acquirement in a woman, though they will sometimes pardon a sort of natural cleverness; but it is a common story that women are swayed by genius or learning in a man.

Margaret was hardly aware of the impatience of his temper, which he never showed except to Mr. Casement, when she fully sympathised with him; but she daily noticed his attention to her uncle, his anxiety about his health, and the readiness with which he would give up his evenings to amuse his old friend. All that she had heard of him before their acquaintance was merged into the facts which were to his advantage. She remembered the defence of the lady and her daughter in Calabria. She forgot all about Mrs. Maxwell Dorset.

At first, after her rejection of Hubert Gage, she was a good deal annoyed and distressed by his perseverance. He called on Mr. Grey, he wrote to her, he described himself as distracted, herself as mistaken. He was determined to believe that they were made for each other; and that Margaret was under some strong delusion when she did not think as he did on that subject. Margaret began to dread and dislike the very name of Hubert Gage; she feared to meet him in her walks; every ring at the bell gave her the apprehension that he was coming to see her. And whether it was his youth or his disposition, that must be blamed for the fact, he acted very unreasonably in the affair. He did not take his disappointment at all like a philosopher; and to crown everything, when Captain Gage had with infinite difficulty procured him a ship, he declined the appointment, upon some trivial excuse, and persisted in remaining in the neighbourhood; to the great vexation of his family, and the annoyance of Margaret.

At last he was persuaded to accompany his brother who was returning to Ireland; and then Margaret had an interval of peace. She was able to see Elizabeth whenever she pleased; and Mr. Grey left off pitying poor Hubert, when he no longer saw him passing the house, or looking disconsolate at church.

As Margaret had no female companion, her natural delicacy of feeling told her that she ought never to be alone with Mr. Haveloc: but those quiet evenings were almost tête-á-tête when her uncle slept in his easy chair, and she sat working by the fire, with Mr. Haveloc always by her side, talking or reading to her in a low voice, or making her speak Italian, and playfully correcting her mistakes.

And when the spring mellowed into summer, and Mr. Grey had his chair moved to the large window that opened upon the broad terrace, Mr. Haveloc would persuade Margaret to pace up and down the walk, always in sight, though not in hearing, of her kind uncle, whose great delight was to watch them as they passed and repassed.

The moon had risen, and gleamed brightly behind one of the dark cedars upon the lawn. Part of the smooth turf was almost whitened by its peculiar light, while the trees cast their inky shadows forward upon the grass. Every flower, half closed and hung with dew, gave forth its sweetest fragrance.

"And you like sunlight really better than this, Mr. Haveloc?" said Margaret, as they paused to look upon the landscape.

"Good honest sunlight—strong enough to steep everything in mist, I really do," replied Mr. Haveloc.

"You are thinking of Italy?"

"No; of English sunshine. I never think of Italy."

These last words were spoken as if he meant to infer that there was something a great deal more attractive than Italy in her near neighbourhood.

Her hand was resting on his arm; he pressed it, and she did not attempt to withdraw it. She felt, no doubt respecting his love; he expressed it in his manner, and she was sure he would not act a falsehood. It was all under her uncle's eye, and if he had disapproved of it, he would have put a stop to it before now. It made her perfectly happy, and a little frightened only when she thought he was on the point of saying something decisive. She would so gladly have gone on exactly as they were then.

"This is very pretty," said Mr. Haveloc, as they again paused opposite to the dark mournful cedars.

"Oh, beautiful!" returned Margaret. "If there were but some old oaks about the place: but those ash-trees in the meadow near the copse—those are really splendid, are they not?"

"Very fine! When I was staying here as Mr. Grey's ward, I believe I used to sketch those trees once a week."

"I wish I could sketch!"

"Do you? I have no respect for the arts; I had rather a person should appreciate pictures than paint them."

"But do you not think painting them helps one to appreciate them?"

"I think it teaches one to know the difficulties, but not to feel the sentiment."

"Uncle Grey, do you smell the Chinese honeysuckle?" asked Margaret, pausing before the window.

"Yes my love; it is very strong to-night."

"Are you ready for your tea, uncle?"

"I shall be in about ten minutes, my dear."

"Can you guess ten minutes, Mr. Haveloc?"

Mr. Haveloc looked at his watch, and could not distinguish the figures. Margaret thought she could see better. He held the watch to her—she pored over it in vain.

"You must guess it now, Mr. Haveloc."

"Mr. Grey is not very particular," said Mr. Haveloc, "I think I may venture."

They walked on to the end of the terrace.

"Do you recollect one day when I kept the dinner waiting," said Mr. Haveloc.

"Oh, yes! I remember," said Margaret with a sigh—it was the day that had begun her troubles with Hubert Gage. "Mr. Casement was so cross because he could not fathom your business with Mr. Grey."

"What a long deliverance we have had from the old monster," said Mr. Haveloc.

"Oh, yes! I was so glad when—" Margaret stopped short.

"When he was laid up with the rheumatism," added Mr. Haveloc, laughing.

"Oh, no! not exactly. One ought not to be glad of that; but really, I think I rejoiced that anything kept him out of the way."

"Gessina is growing quite fat," said Mr. Haveloc, as the beautiful creature bounded towards them.

"Stop! I am going to carry her," said Margaret stooping down.

"Cannot you trust me to do that?" asked Mr. Haveloc.

"No; because I am going to wrap her in a corner of my shawl."

"Stay, do not give her too much," said Mr. Haveloc, assisting in the distribution of the shawl, "you must take care of yourself, in the evening air."

"She has had so much running about to-day," said Margaret.

"Yes, I saw you taking her out to exercise this morning, before breakfast."

"Did you? When we were on the lawn?"

"Yes, with that Indian-rubber ball you made her a present of."

"You laugh, but it is a capital ball for Gessina to play with."

"I thought Gessina and her mistress both seemed to enjoy it very much."

"I did not know you were up then, Mr. Haveloc."

"I had not left my room, I confess."

"How very idle!"

"Oh, it was! but then I had been sitting up half the night."

"What a strange fancy of yours."

"I was writing letters."

"What! with all the day before you?"

"I like to spend the day in your company."

Here a low growl that seemed hardly human, made both start violently. Margaret dropped Gessina. Mr. Haveloc turned sharply round.

"Ugh! little woman; are you going to give us tea to-night?" growled Mr. Casement.

"Oh, dear yes, Sir. I declare I did not know what time it was," said Margaret hastily.

"There is not the slightest hurry," said Mr. Haveloc detaining Margaret by the hand, "there can be no possible occasion for you to make tea before the usual time."

Margaret looked up in deprecation of his contemptuous tone. Mr. Casement turned to hobble back to the house.

"Ugh, sweethearts!" he grumbled, as he left them.

Margaret blushed crimson. Mr. Haveloc still holding her hand, walking slowly and silently in the same direction. At last, in that calm voice which in people of impatient temper always marks strong emotion, he said:—

"He is right Margaret—I love you!"

Margaret was excessively agitated—she trembled violently; but the transparent candour of her nature did not now desert her. In a faltering tone she replied: "I thought so."

"Come along, little woman," said Mr. Casement as Margaret stepped in at the window. "It is well I am come among you again. Poor uncle is laid on the shelf now; that's very plain."

"Did I keep you waiting, uncle?" said Margaret softly as she took her place before the urn.

"No, my love, never mind what he says. You know his ways by this time."

"Come, sit down, youngster, and don't make a fuss. Take it easy," said Mr. Casement addressing Mr. Haveloc, who was behind Margaret's chair.

Margaret ventured to cast an imploring glance at Mr. Haveloc, who regarded Mr. Casement as if he should like to reduce him to ashes; but being unprovided with any apparatus for this ceremony, he sat down beside Margaret, without making any reply.

It seemed as if Mr. Casement would never go that evening. He wrangled through one game of piquet after another; at last he got up. "Well, good night Master Grey," he said, "if you are blind-folded, I am not. Those young ones have been muttering at the window there, ever since we sat down to cards."

"What is it Claude?" asked Mr. Grey, as soon as Mr. Casement had gone.

Mr. Haveloc told him what it was. Margaret laid her head on her uncle's shoulder—he put his arm round her waist. "Well then, Claude," he said, "your best plan is to set off to-morrow morning; the sooner you go, the sooner you will come back."

Margaret looked up with a face suddenly blanched even to her lips. "What—go away—leave me, uncle?" she said. Her voice failed her; almost her breath; she had not believed it possible that they should ever be parted.

Mr. Grey explained to Margaret as he had before explained to Mr. Haveloc his reasons for insisting on this measure.

When he had finished, she burst into one of those paroxysms of tears that she only gave way to under very strong emotion. Mr. Haveloc hung over her chair in speechless distress. Mr. Grey endeavoured in the tenderest manner to moderate her agitation.

"You see, my child," he said, "you are but seventeen, and very young for your age; and this fellow here, somewhere about two-and-twenty. It is very important you should both know your own minds a little more clearly than you can do now. In such serious affairs, it is right to be very cautious. You see, my dear little girl, what day of the month is it? You see, a year soon passes; and next 14th of June, he will be here again."

Margaret checked her tears, and tried to reward his efforts with a smile.

"Well, then, Claude, you and I must have a little conversation together. Wish him good night, my child; you had better part now and not see each other to-morrow morning. It is wisest, is it not Claude? There give her a kiss and have done with it. That's good children!"

Margaret was speechless with grief: the last words Mr. Haveloc addressed to her as he led her to the door, were, "If I ever bestow a thought upon another, forget me; I can invoke no heavier curse upon my head."