Margaret Capel, vol. 2

Having come to these reflections, he threw himself with great dignity into a corner of the carriage, and attempted to go to sleep.

Not succeeding in this attempt, the next best thing was to discover that he was going at a snail's pace, and to fly in a passion with the post-boys; and to work himself up into a fever of excitement that increased every mile of the way. Suddenly he recollected the Will that he had induced Mr. Grey to make—a Will that deprived Margaret of what would have undoubtedly been her inheritance.

How little had he ever thought that any circumstance could occur which would lead him to regret such an arrangement. Now it must be cancelled without delay—a new Will made.

Good Heaven, if he should be too late! And he let down the front glasses, and bestowed another exordium on the postillions.

At last he reached Ashdale. It was one o'clock in the morning; the doors were opened as soon as the horses' feet were heard, a plain proof that he had been anxiously expected. He threw himself from the carriage and hurried up to the servant in the hall.

"Mr. Grey—"

"He is very ill, Sir; not expected to live till morning."

"Not till morning—good Heaven! and that Will—" he muttered to himself as he rushed upstairs. He thought more of Margaret than of Mr. Grey even then. Margaret was seated at the bed-side close to her uncle's pillow; as still and as white as a figure moulded in wax. Her eyes were fixed upon his face; one hand rested in his; the other hung listless by her side. Mr. Casement stood leaning against the foot of the bed, looking, to do him justice, very disconsolate. Margaret lifted up her heavy eyes, and gave one look at Mr. Haveloc. He was in mourning; a token of respect he had thought proper to pay Aveline; the sight sent a thrill to her heart.

She leaned over her uncle, and kissed his forehead.

"My dear uncle, Mr. Haveloc," she whispered.

Mr. Haveloc stepped close to the bed, and took Mr. Grey's hand, which Margaret resigned to him.

"Ah, Claude!" said Mr. Grey with a faint smile.

They were the last words he spoke. Almost directly afterwards he fell into a kind of doze; his eyes half closed.

Mr. Haveloc turned abruptly round, seized Mr. Casement by the arm and led him to the window. He had never addressed Mr. Casement in his life before, and that gentleman might be pardoned for looking extremely surprised on the occasion.

"Tell me—how is he?" said Mr. Haveloc.

"Anybody might see that with half an eye, I should think," muttered Mr. Casement more gruffly than usual, for he had a great mind to cry.

"Good Heaven, can nothing be done!" exclaimed Mr. Haveloc clasping his hands.

"Nothing at all," returned Mr. Casement. "The doctor left at eight o'clock, and Mr. Warde at ten. When the doctor and parson both go, I take it, there is an end of everything."

"Good Heaven! and I have something of the last importance to communicate to him!" exclaimed Mr. Haveloc. "Ah, youngster! clever of you to leave it to the last," said Mr. Casement.

"Good Heaven! when I was away—when I did not know it before. It concerns his niece—"

"Oh! some rigmarole about Miss Peggy you may tell it to me. I am appointed one of her guardians."

Mr. Haveloc turned abruptly away, and stood by the bed-side, watching Mr. Grey with eager interest. At length, he thought it just possible that Margaret might have arranged everything with her uncle before writing to him.

"Did your uncle know of the resolution you announced to me in your letter of yesterday?" he asked coldly.

"Hush! no. Don't speak to him;" said Margaret shrinking back with an appearance of terror.

He sighed, and moved to a little distance from her chair. Mr. Casement came close to the bed, and he saw that all would soon be over. Margaret sat paralysed with fear, watching the peculiar and earnest expression of the countenance which marks that when the senses are sealed, the soul is still awake, and waiting to be released. And it is at once awful and sublime when no pause or cessation of consciousness takes place, and the spirit steps from one existence to the other without an interval of slumber.

"Come little woman—come away;" said Mr. Casement taking her hand and raising her from her chair, "you can do nothing more. He will never see, or know any one again."

She had no power to resist; she would have opposed nothing. She suffered him to lead her in silence from the room; and so was spared the last appalling moment when the spirit vanishes from its human abode.

CHAPTER XVII

Is there no more but parting left, of allThe love we bore each other? Is it easySo to break trust and faith? Are all the talesOf constancy, that make the heart beat high,Mere fables?—Then, indeed, farewell!—'tis time.ANON.

The next morning Mr. Warde came early to Ashdale, and finding that all was over, he took Margaret home with him to the Vicarage.

She had sat up all night, and what with fasting and want of sleep, she was perfectly exhausted.

Mrs. Somerton and Blanche were at the Vicarage, and they were both very kind to Margaret. Indeed, many women not very deserving of respect in their general conduct, are ready to show kindness to others under actual suffering.

Mrs. Somerton insisted on Margaret going to bed at once, and Blanche brought some tea to her bed-side as soon she was undressed. She kept her bed for some days. All that she had lately endured, unnerved her completely; and when, at length, she made the effort to rise, her limbs trembled so much, that it was with the utmost difficulty that she could get down stairs; and there seated in an arm-chair, she remained for some hours every day, unable to undergo the fatigue of speaking, or even of listening to what was passing.

When Mr. Grey's Will was read, it was found that he bequeathed his estate to his cousin, Mr. Trevor of the East India Company's service; an annuity to one or two servants; and a legacy of ten thousand pounds to his niece Margaret Capel. Margaret was very much affected when Mr. Warde told her this piece of news; she repeated over and over again how very kind it was of her uncle to have left her this money; a trait which pleased Mr. Warde very much, for he was afraid she would have been very greatly disappointed that her uncle had not left her the bulk of his property. However, a great many people kindly undertook to be disappointed for her; and to say that it was a shame in Mr. Grey, after having her to live with him, to treat her in that manner, and cut her off with ten thousand pounds; and that old people never knew how to leave their money so as to give satisfaction to their relations; which is true enough.

Nobody knew that it was Margaret's own fault; that she was in the secret, and that a word from her, after her rupture with Mr. Haveloc, would have caused her uncle to alter his Will, and settle all his property upon her; but her one aim was to spare him the knowledge of an event which would give him pain; she never thought about securing his fortune. Mr. Warde told her that he and Mr. Casement were named as her guardians until she married or became of age; and that he thought her best plan would be to reside with some lady who might be able to offer her a comfortable home, and desirous to profit by the arrangement; that such a person would be easily found, but that he trusted for the present she would remain at the Vicarage; so that they might look about at their leisure, and select the residence that should present the most advantages. Margaret thanked him very much for his kindness; for the future she felt a sort of vague indifference. She acceded, at once, to his plans, and hardly gave another thought to her prospects.

Blanche Somerton who had been excessively kind, even delicate in her attentions, until after the funeral of Mr. Grey, now began to think that Margaret's languid sorrow was a little out of place. She was one of the many who think that all regrets are quite useless and nonsensical as soon as the dead are buried. Her own emotions were stormy and brief; and she felt good-naturedly that it was high time to begin to cheer up Margaret's spirits.

"I declare, I envy you of all things;" said she one morning, "with twenty thousand pounds you can surely make a very good match. But it all depends upon where Uncle Warde places you; take my advice and don't go to a Methodist. I would get some dowager at Bath, or Cheltenham to take me out, if I were you. You might meet with something very advantageous at Bath; better I think than in London. There is so much competition; though you are certainly very pretty—not that I like you in mourning."

Here Margaret who was reclining languidly in an arm-chair, began to cry, by stealth as it were, wiping her eyes quietly with her handkerchief.

"Oh! my dear, your spirits are wretched," cried Blanche. "You have no idea how it distresses me to see you. You really ought to go out and amuse yourself; we have all our troubles, I assure you. I sometimes find it very difficult to bear up."

"Yes; I should be selfish, indeed, if I thought myself the only person afflicted," said Margaret. "I am very sorry to hear that you have any immediate cause of distress."

Here Mr. Warde appeared at the doorway; he made a sign to Blanche, and after a few whispered words, that young lady nodded, and went up stairs. Mr. Warde then came up to Margaret, and took a chair by her side.

"My dear," he said, "Mr. Haveloc wishes to see you."

Margaret's heart beat so wildly that she could hardly breathe.

"I thought, as he was an intimate friend of your uncle, I had better prepare you for his visit," said Mr. Warde. "I feared you would be agitated if he came in without being announced."

"Must I see him?" asked Margaret, as soon as she could utter a word.

"Certainly not, if you feel the effort would be too great," said Mr. Warde. "He seemed very anxious to pay his respects to you, before leaving the place. I understand it is his intention to go abroad for some years: and I suppose having met you frequently at your uncle's, he did not wish to quit the country without taking leave of you. But do not, on any account, exert yourself. I will take him a message, if you feel in the least degree unequal to seeing him."

Margaret laid her hand on Mr. Warde's arm as if to detain him. Everything seemed whirling round; she could not hear distinctly his last words; there was a noise and giddiness in her brain. Going abroad! So then all was over; he was as determined as herself to cancel their engagement. She should have liked a little reluctance, a little hesitation; perhaps a little entreaty. But this was well. She could be proud now—no weakness.

"Is he here?" she asked Mr. Warde.

"Yes, waiting in my study."

"Then let him come directly," said she, "directly; because I am not in a mood for tears now; and because I could not answer for myself half an hour hence."

Mr. Warde pressed her hand, and went out in search of Mr. Haveloc.

Margaret heard his step with a sickening at the heart that she could not control: he came in—bowed, took a seat at some distance; then started up, brought his chair closer, and sat down beside her.

They were both silent, Margaret struggling with her tears. Mr. Haveloc looking on the ground, perfectly uncertain how to begin.

But after a short pause, during which she clasped more tightly the arm of her chair, Margaret forced back her tears, and said in a low tone: "We have both lost so much, and so lately, Mr. Haveloc, that we do not find it easy to allude to it."

She had never seen him look so pale, or so wretched, and she felt that she forgave him everything, though she struggled very hard against the feeling. Unconsciously her voice took a softer tone, and her countenance depicted the compassion she felt. But her companion, quite as much offended as grieved, by her rejection, had not the skill to read these signs of a softened resolution.

"I did not intrude upon you with that intention," he said. "I had something to explain to you which is a source of great distress to me, but for which I can find no remedy."

Margaret bent forward with much anxiety, Mr. Haveloc proceeded with increased coldness.

"When I had reason to suppose that you intended to honour me with your hand, I requested Mr. Grey to settle his estate upon his next heir, as I imagined I had more than enough for all our wishes; and I confess, that it pleased my pride to fancy that through my means, alone, the woman whom I loved, should be surrounded by all the luxuries and refinements of life."

"I know," said Margaret. "He told me what had been done. I was glad of it. I cannot think why that should annoy you."

"It pains me to consider myself as the means of having deprived you of a noble fortune," said Mr. Haveloc, "a fortune which I once vainly thought I should have been able to compensate to you. But I was not aware that you knew this, and I feared you should think your uncle fickle or unkind, instead of ascribing the act to my ill-judged reliance—upon the future."

"You acted quite rightly, Mr. Haveloc," said Margaret. "I wished it then, and I am not more disposed to reject it now. Mr. Trevor is a worthy man, with a young family. He will value his inheritance; and I trust only that he will cherish my uncle's memory as warmly as I ever shall." She found it difficult to keep her voice quite steady, just at the close; but she made a little pause and succeeded.

"As you have not deigned to give me any explanation of your change of purpose," said Mr. Haveloc. "I am at a loss to defend myself; or to plead for what, in truth, is very near my heart. There is, indeed, one passage in my life to which it is possible your motives may refer; in that case, I should, I avow it, be left defenceless. I cannot undo the past!"

"I know it," said Margaret hurriedly; "I should be sorry if—I mean that I wish to forget entirely—all that—I mean, that we were ever on other terms than—"

"I have no doubt that you will succeed perfectly," said Mr. Haveloc, rising from his chair as he spoke.

There was a touch of irony in the remark which stung her to the quick. When all she had undergone, and had yet to endure, was before her, to be told that she would find it easy to forget the past, was unbearable. Her heart swelled, but there is a great deal of endurance in a woman; as many people know, for they put it to a pretty good trial.

All the pride in her nature was aroused.

"You have nothing more to say, I believe," said she, drawing herself up.

"I could say a thousand things," he exclaimed, with a passionate change of manner; "if I thought you had the patience to hear me. But you care nothing for my thoughts; and, perhaps, I merit but little consideration. Still from you—but these storms always come from the quarter on which we are least prepared. You scarcely know what you do in casting me off. But I hope I am not so much the slave of circumstances as to be made reckless by misfortune. And you, Margaret, is it—in all the chances of the future—is it likely that any man will love you as I have done?"

"Mr. Haveloc!" said Margaret, still more offended.

"And that unhappy Will!" he continued, "I suffer more from that subject than you would be willing to believe if I were to describe it: one day you will lay that to my other offences—if, indeed, you then can recall my name."

"You do me great injustice in thought," said Margaret. "If it will be any relief to you, let me assure you again that there is nothing in the whole chapter of accidents which could give me so little concern. I am not called upon to bear poverty, recollect."

"Then," said Mr. Haveloc, "we have but to part. How difficult it is to me, no words could speak—but those things which are inevitable, had best be quickly done. So—farewell."

Without another word, or look, or gesture, he rushed out of the room and from the house.

Margaret sat for some time trying to recollect every thing he had said. He had not asked her to forgive him—had simply said he could not undo the past; he had not begged, as he might have done, that she would give him time and opportunity to retrieve it. It had seemed that he was willing—even anxious, to be set free—he had made arrangements before seeing her, that proved he had decided this to be their last meeting. She was dead—and therefore he might have endeavoured to return to Margaret, if he had desired a reconciliation. But no—she had offended him, and he was too proud to wish it. Margaret tried to think it was best for both; but a sense of agony, amounting almost to suffocation, would not let it be. If she could have wept—but no tears came—so she lay helplessly in her chair, watching the ebony cabinet that stood opposite first receding farther and farther, then seemed to float before her eyes, until sense and memory went out together, and she fell into a deep swoon.

It was some time before Blanche, who came down as soon as Mr. Haveloc left the house, could restore Margaret to consciousness. When she succeeded, she was full of condolence.

"What a bore it was, my dear creature," said she, "that you should have had to receive that horrid man. Had it been any one else, it might have done you all the good in the world; for you might have had a nice little flirtation to raise your spirits. But as for him—I hate him; his manners are so abrupt. Of course he began talking of poor dear Mr. Grey. So mal-á-propos."

"He did speak of my uncle," said Margaret.

"I knew it!" exclaimed Blanche. "That was it. I wish there was a nice little dance you could go to; or a concert—but this place is a perfect hermitage; and your mourning too would be a drawback. How beautifully you were dressed at Bessy Gage's wedding. You had a cluster of pink daisies at the side of your bonnet. That was an excellent match! I would have almost married old Sir Philip, myself, for the sake of Sherleigh. I say, did Hubert Gage ever make you an offer?"

Margaret blushed, but astonishment kept her silent.

"Every body says he did," continued Blanche, "and I do not wonder that you refused him. I hate younger sons. Mamma wished me to marry him at one time, but I declined. I almost wish now that I had kept him on, just to pique somebody else. Do you like military men?"

"No." said Margaret.

"Well, I wonder at that," said Blanche. "I think I could make you change your mind. Did you happen to notice me walking with a young man, in the garden, yesterday before dinner?"

"No, I was up stairs," said Margaret, faintly.

"Well—if you can manage to walk out to-morrow—do you think you could?"

"No, I am sure I could not."

"That is a pity, because I often meet him on the S– road. You would be so much amused with him. He has such spirits, and I should not be jealous, no—Watkins is all my own."

At another time Margaret would have laughed at this declaration; now, she sighed heavily and sank back in her chair.

"You are quite fatigued with that wretch Mr. Haveloc; it was just like my uncle to admit him. However, thank goodness he is going to Russia directly, and will not bore you again. But here comes my uncle; not a word about Watkins, I entreat. We keep it a secret from him, but I will take care that you are in the way the next time he comes to the house."

"I will go up stairs and lie down, if you please," said Margaret, trying to rise. "I am not very well."

Blanche helped Margaret up stairs, and she had another attack of illness, which again confined her to her bed for some days.

CHAPTER XVIII

How slowly do the hours their numbers spend,How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!SPENSER.Mathilden's Hertz hat niemand noch ergründet—Doch, grosse Seelen dulden still.DON KARLOS.

Mrs. Somerton had kindly offered, as soon as ever she learned the particulars of Margaret's situation, to take the charge of her, and treat her like one of her own daughters.

But Mr. Warde did not seize the proposition with the eagerness that it might seem to merit. Perhaps, he thought, that if Margaret was no better treated than Mrs. Somerton's daughters, her life would not be all sunshine; perhaps he feared that the lady would not scrupulously redeem her pledge; at any rate, he informed his sister decidedly, that it was his intention to place Margaret with some lady who had no children; for he thought it would be difficult, if not impossible, for any other to adjust satisfactorily, the claims of her daughters and her guest. Mrs. Somerton tried to argue the point, but Mr. Warde was firm, and wrote to one or two friends describing the sort of home he desired for Margaret.

Blanche was so much occupied with her military friend, her Watkins, as she called him, that Margaret saw less of her than before. She walked out in every direction in the hope of meeting him, she staid at home all day, if she thought he would call; she took an immense deal of trouble to catch what a good many people would have pronounced to be not worth catching—her Watkins was ignorant, profligate, and silly; and very fortunately for Blanche, he behaved to her like most other officers; that is to say, he walked off one fine morning with his regiment, without so much as bidding adieu to his lady love. Margaret knew nothing of this distressing event when she rejoined the family—she had not seen Blanche for the last day or two, and now she found her reclining on the sofa, suffering, as Mrs. Somerton told her, from a nervous attack. "That is hard upon you, Mrs. Somerton," said Margaret, "to have two invalids on your hands. I must make haste and get well to relieve you of part of your charge."

"I am sure, my dear Miss Capel," said Mrs. Somerton, "no invalid ever gave so little trouble as you. I only wish Blanche would imitate your patience."

Margaret drew a low chair to the sofa, and took her work; "are you suffering in your head?" she asked Blanche, in a gentle voice.

"No, not much; I'm glad you are come down," said she. "It will be somebody to talk to; that is a very pretty pattern for a plain collar. I like the black studs down the front. Do you waltz?" But here the recollection of having waltzed with Lieutenant Watkins overcame her, and she became rather hysterical. Mrs. Somerton scolded her, Blanche got angry, and then order was restored. Mrs. Somerton took Margaret to the window, and whispered to her the state of the case, and then Blanche called out to her, mother and scolded her for having told Margaret when she wanted to tell her all about it herself. Margaret turning her eyes full of wonder from one to the other, could scarcely comprehend that Blanche was suffering from a disappointment; she contrasted the total desolation of her own feelings, with the frivolous annoyance that the other seemed to endure, and could understand nothing of the case.

Quiet was again restored. Mrs. Somerton plied her worsted work. Margaret netted in silence. Blanche, lying on the sofa, was eating French chocolate. Presently Mrs. Somerton began to count aloud the stitches in the bunch of grapes she was working, "thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine."

A burst of crying from Blanche, louder than anything Margaret had heard, except from a baby; Mrs. Somerton had inadvertently named the number of Mr. Watkins's regiment.

The fresh scolding, fresh sobs, and, at last, a glass of sal-volatile, tranquillised her spirits for the present.

It must be admitted that such scenes were rather fatiguing to a young girl in bad health, and suffering deeply from the reality of which this was but the shadow.

She learned, however, to set some value upon her own power of self-command. She could not help feeling that the unrestrained sorrow of Blanche lost in dignity what it gained in publicity.

Mason knew all about it; and frequently alluded to poor Miss Somerton with pity; and to Mr. Watkins with all the violence which a waiting-woman is pretty sure to feel towards a man who has thwarted a young lady in her laudable endeavours to get married.

In two or three days Margaret was happy to find that Blanche could talk of waltzing without a sigh; and her mamma might safely count threads from thirty to forty without awakening any painful reflections.

But their ensued another annoyance to poor Margaret. Whenever she was alone with Blanche, which was the greatest part of the day, Mr. Watkins was the one topic of conversation.

When she had heard all about his boots, and his eyes, and his way of carving a chicken, and his wastefulness in gloves, (a great merit in the eyes of Blanche,) she naturally hoped that they had come to an end of the list; but it is quite surprising the number of little anecdotes which this gentleman furnished. There were all his jokes to repeat; and these were so exceedingly stupid, that they really did make Margaret smile sometimes. And then there were several stories of dishonest actions, which she was expected to laugh at, but which she could not, for very disgust.