Читать книгу Edith Percival - May Agnes Fleming - Страница 12

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"Where is the heart that has not bowed

A slave, eternal love, to thee?

Look on the cold, the gay, the proud—

And is there one among them free?"

—Landon.

It was a dark, unpleasant night—nearly a fortnight after the adventure of the burning ship. The privateer was still cruising about in quest of "Britishers," whom the captain was particularly anxious to "send to thunder!"—as he himself elegantly expressed it. During this time, Fred's acquaintance with Miss Percival hardly progressed as rapidly as Gus had prophesied it would. There was a sort of embarrassment, a coldness, a reserve, in her manner toward him, that offended his sensitive pride; and their intercourse now generally consisted of a bow, when they met, and a formal "good day." Though she spent the greater part of each day with Gus, on deck, she seemed to shrink from meeting him; and Fred, seeing this, studiously avoided her. Yet sometimes, suddenly raising his head, he would find those soft blue eyes wandering wistfully over to where he stood, yet always dropping before his; while her rising color and averted head betokened emotions she would fain have concealed.

Wrapped in his cloak, with his hat drawn down over his brows, Fred paced up and down the deck in no very amiable frame of mind. It was a dense, gloomy night. The storm-clouds were drifting, dark and threatening, over the leaden sky; a chill, raw wind was blowing, piercingly cold-sighing, dirge-like, through the rigging, while the creaking of the cordage seemed to chant back a sort of dismal refrain; a thick rain was falling, making everything wet and uncomfortable. It was indeed suicidal weather, but perfectly congenial to the thoughts passing through the mind of the tall, cloaked figure pacing so restlessly to and fro.

At times, sounds of song and peals of laughter would come floating up from the cabin, where old Dr. Kirk, Captain Harden, Gus, and Miss Percival were assembled. These sounds were to Fred's feelings like "vinegar upon nitre;" and his lip curled scornfully and bitterly whenever he passed. Suddenly the mention of his own name arrested his steps. Some secret power held him, as it were, forcibly to the spot, to listen.

"Where's Stanley?" inquired Captain Harden.

"Keeping sentry on deck, no doubt," answered Gus, "according to his usual custom. I'll wager a guinea that quick, excited tread we heard a moment ago, was Fred walking up and down."

"Maister Stanley's a queer sort o' a lad," observed the doctor. "I ne'er cam across ane sae proud in a' my days. T'ither day he was stannin' lookin' sae dooer and sulky, by himsel' that I didna think hem well, and I recommended a dose o' peells. Well, instead o' thankin' me, as a body ought, he glowered at me a minute, as if he thought me mad, and walked off wi' himsel' without sayin' a word. Hech, sirs! deil a more thanks I got!"

Gus couldn't help laughing; but he observed:

"Oh, you must excuse him, doctor! Fred has some queer notions; but, in general, he's a capital fellow—brave as a lion, but proud as Lucifer."

"What is your opinion, Miss Percival, of the gentleman now under discussion?" inquired Captain Harden.

Oh, what would not Fred have given to hear the reply! Miss Percival's low, musical voice had hitherto possessed an unspeakable charm for him; but now he would not have objected had it been as loud as the boatswain's so that he might have heard the answer; but, though he strained every nerve to listen, he could not catch her words.

"That's just like Edith," observed Gus. "Hasn't 'formed an opinion,' indeed! As if any young lady could meet such a good-looking fellow as Fred without forming an opinion about him. He reminds me wonderfully of the old woman in the song." And Gus drawled, in a sing-song tone:

"There was an old woman—and what do you think?

She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink—

Victuals and drink was the whole of her diet—

And yet this old woman could never be quiet."

If Gus had seen the fiery flash of Fred's eye, at that moment, he might have hesitated a little about the comparison.

"I dinna see how Maister Stanley's like that auld wumman," said the doctor, solemnly.

"Why, my dear doctor, it's as clear as mud," said Gus. "Fred, like the old lady in the rhyme, 'never is quiet.' It's a perfect martyrdom to a serious person like myself, to be with one as restless as an uneasy conscience, and as fiery as one of your own Scotch Douglases."

Fred had not waited to hear this explanation; but wrapping himself more closely in his cloak, resumed his solitary march up and down—the loud mirth and laughter from the cabin, amid which at times he could recognize the silvery voice of Edith—giving added bitterness to his thoughts. Poor Fred! Like the country swain in love, he felt "hot and dry like, with a pain in his side like;" and like every other young gentleman when he first falls in love, tormenting himself with a thousand imaginary evils—until, as Gus phrased it, there was "no standing him."

Upon their arrival in Boston, Fred would have started immediately to see his father; but Gus, who was to accompany Edith home, urged him to go with them. And Edith pleaded too—more with her eager, blushing face and eloquent eyes, than with words.

"Do, Mr. Stanley," she urged, laying her little white hand on his own—"do come! Papa will be so anxious to see one who has saved his daughter's life."

Every nerve thrilled at that magnetic touch; but still he stood irresolute.

"Please, Mr. Stanley," continued that low, musical voice—to his ear the sweetest he had ever heard; and the starry eyes were raised to the face above her.

Fred looked down, to encounter those pleading blue eyes raised so earnestly to his; and—just as you would have done, my dear sir, had you been in his place—surrendered.

The residence of Major Percival was several miles from the city; and after spending one night at a hotel, the trio started next morning.

The drive to Percival Hall was always remembered by Fred among the happiest moments of his life. The cold reserve which Edith had always maintained on shipboard had entirely vanished. An almost childish glee at being once more at home had taken its place, and she chatted and laughed with a freedom and vivacity that completely finished poor Fred.

A sudden turn in the road brought them, at length, in sight of Percival Hall. An avenue of stately horse-chestnuts led up to the Hall itself—an imposing-looking structure of red brick. Behind the house was an extensive orchard, and nearer still, a pretty flower-garden.

"There's papa—there's papa!" exclaimed Edith, springing up and clapping her hands; and before Fred, who had risen, could assist her, she had leaped out, and flew into the arms of an elderly gentleman, who came humming carelessly down the steps in front of the mansion.

While the major with many an exclamation of surprise and delight, embraced his daughter, Fred scrutinized him from head to foot.

In stature he was about middle size, stout, and squarely built, with prominent features and high cheek-bones. There was an air of sternness and command about him, while the firmly-closed mouth betrayed unusual obstinacy in following his own opinions. The high, broad forehead and massive head displayed a lofty intellect; and there was a piercing keenness in the gaze of his sharp grey eyes, that gave an observer the uncomfortable sensation that he was reading their inmost thoughts.

He now advanced toward the young man, who had alighted, and holding out his hand to Fred, said with grateful courtesy:

"My daughter tells me, sir, you have saved her life. I am not in the habit of making fine speeches; but believe me, sir, the heartfelt gratitude of an old man will ever follow you."

Fred bowed in silence.

"And don't you know this young gentleman, papa?" said Edith, with an arch glance toward Gus.

"I have not that hon—eh?" he added, suddenly—"can it be? Bless my soul! Gus Elliott, is this yourself?" and the major seized his hand with a grip of iron.

"Well, sir," replied Gus, with a grimace, "if ever I had any doubts on the subject, the aching of my fingers, at present, has convinced me I am myself, and no mistake."

"Well, well, well!", exclaimed the major, surveying him from head to foot with his sharp eyes, "how you have shot up since I saw you last! And you're Gus Elliott! Well, who'd have thought it? Edith! Ah, she has gone, I see. Walk up, gentlemen—walk up. Mrs. Percival will be delighted to see you."

So saying, Major Percival ran up the steps, followed by the two young men. The long hall was flanked by doors on either side; and opening one of these, he ushered the twain into the family sitting-room. Here they found Edith clasped in the arms of a handsome, middle-aged lady; while a young girl stood by her side, alternately laughing and crying.

"My wife, and daughter Ellen, Mr. Stanley. I suppose," he added, smilingly, to his wife, "Edith has told you all about the achievements of this promising young gentleman. There, there—don't overwhelm him with thanks. I see by his countenance he doesn't like it! Come, Nell—why don't you thank your sister's deliverer?"

"Mamma won't give me a chance," replied Nell—a lively, dark-eyed girl, with pretty, restless features. "She has monopolized Mr. Stanley all to herself."

"Well, there, I'll resign him to you, sauce-box," said Mrs. Percival, smiling, "though I imagine Mr. Stanley will soon tire of your everlasting chattering."

"Here is some one else you have not seen yet, Nell," said her sister, glancing at Gus, who now advanced.

"Why, can it—no, it—yes, it—why, I declare its Gus!" exclaimed Nell, as she darted forward, and without ceremony flung her arms around his neck.

"Dear me! Ellen, that's shockingly improper conduct!" said the highly-scandalized Mrs. Percival.

"Oh, isn't it nice!" exclaimed Nell, as she came dancing back, with cheeks and eyes all aglow. "We'll have such good times, now you and 'Dith have come back!"

"Where is Nugent, mamma?" inquired Edith.

"He went away with Ralph De Lisle, about a week ago, my dear," replied her mother. "We expect them both home again in a few days."

The name seemed to act like a galvanic shock on Edith, who gave a sudden start, and flushed to the temples.

"And oh, Edith!" exclaimed her voluble sister—"you ought to see Ralph since you left him to wear the willow. Poor fellow! he was such a victim to 'green and yellow melancholy' for a week after that, I couldn't bear to look at him. My! won't he be glad to hear you've come back—and so will I, too, for I do long for a wedding dreadfully."

"Ellen!" said her mother, reprovingly.

"Oh, well, mamma, there's nobody here that doesn't know all about it," said the chatter-box. "But, dear me! Mr. Stanley, ain't you well?—you look like a ghost!"

Edith, who had been gazing steadfastly out of the window, now turned suddenly round; and Fred started at seeing the deadly paleness of her face.

"Ring the bell, Edith, for a glass of water," said Nell. "Why, I declare you're as bad yourself," she added, suddenly confronting her. "Just look, mamma, how pale they both are! I'm afraid it's catching. Do I look pale?" And the serious expression of Nell, as she glanced at her own blooming face in the glass, was truly laughable.

But the color that had faded from the face of both speedily returned. The eyes of Fred and Edith met; and before that penetrating glance hers fell, while a vivid crimson mantled cheek and brow.

During the remainder of the evening, the name of Ralph De Lisle was frequently mentioned by all save Edith, who seemed to shrink painfully from the subject. From what he heard, Fred judged De Lisle was a suitor for the hand of Edith—and what was more, a favored one.

When Fred retired that night, it was with no very pleasant feelings. Who and what was this De Lisle? He asked himself the question repeatedly, without much hope of obtaining an answer. His resolution was to see Gus alone; and, if possible, obtain from him an explanation, without exciting suspicion as to the state of his own feelings. If, as he feared, he was indeed beloved by her, then he himself would immediately depart, and see her no more.

The next day an opportunity occurred. Fred and Gus found themselves separated from the others, and straying arm in arm through the garden.

"Who is this Ralph De Lisle, about whom they all appear to be so anxious?" inquired Fred, with affected carelessness, unconscious that he was rooting up the violets with his cane.

"A suitor of Edith's, I believe," replied Gus, indifferently.

"Ah! and a favored one, if I may judge."

"Hum! I should think so—they're to be married in a few weeks."

There was no response from his companion, and Gus went on:

"The father of this De Lisle was a Frenchman, and the intimate friend of Major Percival. When dying, he committed his son to his care, with a request that Edith and Ralph, who had always been firm friends, should be united, if they were willing, when his son attained his majority. Major Percival promised him that his request should be fulfilled; and his word with him is law unalterable. The young couple love one another, it seems; so their 'course of true love' runs smoothly enough. Edith wished to visit some friends of hers in England before she became Mrs. De Lisle, and she was returning home when you rescued her from the burning ship."

"Better, far better, I had left her to perish there!" was the bitter thought that passed through Fred's mind.

"De Lisle is an immense favorite with the major;" continued Gus: "some say he appears fonder of him even than of his own son. He is the leader of a gang of tories, and a tory himself to the core of his heart. But here comes Nell—breezy and airy as ever."

"Oh, Mr. Stanley!" she exclaimed, as she came flying up to him, "we are going to have a sailing party to-morrow, and you must be sure to come. So, if you have any engagement for that day, you may just break it at once."

"I regret it is impossible for me to comply," said Fred, gravely. "I must depart to-morrow."

"Depart for where?" demanded Gus, surprised at this sudden announcement.

"To see my father. I should have gone before could I have broken the spell that bound me here!" and he bowed to Nell.

"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Stanley!" exclaimed that young lady. "You sha'n't go, and that's the end of it. Your father can wait a day or two very well. Sister, come here, and persuade Mr. Stanley to stay. He's going away, he says."

"Going away!" echoed Edith, growing pale as she spoke.

"But we positively won't allow it, until after to-morrow, at least—shall we, sister? Coax him like a good girl, while I have a race with Carlo—he's pulling the dress off my back. You're such a good hand to persuade people, you know. I remember, when De Lisle used to be leaving, how you would coax him to stay. Come, Carlo!"

Again Edith started at the abrupt mention of that name, and the subdued light that had filled Fred's eye as he watched her changing face, gave place to a look of cold determination. Gus urged him pressingly to remain, and Edith's eyes were raised pleadingly to his face as she faltered out a similar request. But their entreaties were in vain. Fred declined politely but firmly, and entered the house to announce his determination to Major Percival and his wife. Here, as he expected, he was again overwhelmed with entreaties to remain; but having resisted those of Edith, he found little difficulty in remaining firm in his determination.

"At least, then, you will soon visit us again?" urged Mrs. Percival, when she found all her entreaties of no avail.

To rid himself of their importunities, Fred promised; and early the next morning, he was off.

The family was all assembled on the front piazza, to say good-bye—all but Edith.

"Where's Edith?" inquired the major, as he, too, missed her.

"She had a bad headache this morning, and couldn't leave her room," replied Nell, to whom the question was addressed. "It's strange, too! I never knew her to have the headache before."

She glanced demurely at Fred, who was shaking hands with her father; and there was a world of meaning in her bright eyes.

"Well, good-bye, Miss Ellen," he said, approaching her, "until we meet again. Remember me to your sister."

He bowed, sprang into the carriage, and drove off, quite unconscious that from her chamber-window the eyes of Edith were watching him until he disappeared.