Margaret Capel, vol. 3

She looked involuntarily for Mr. Haveloc, he was not in the room. Still the storm did not abate. George Gage, who had been supporting Harriet for an hour without repining, now looked at his watch.

"Twelve o'clock! I say Harriet, would you mind Everard looking after you, while I went to smoke a cigar?"

"Oh! hear him—how profane he is!" sobbed Harriet, "to talk of smoking, with that—oh, gracious! that dreadful noise going on!"

"Well, I will not if you have any dislike—"

"By Jove, I must be off now," said Captain Smithson rising.

"No! for Heaven's sake don't be imprudent, Captain Smithson," cried Lucy, looking up, "you will be killed."

"And if you are," said Harriet, drying her eyes, "it will never do; for we shall not be able to find another 'father,' by Monday."

"No, no, come with me Smithson," said Mr. Gage. "There Harriet. I am sure you don't mind it now, only look at Miss Capel."

But not an inch would Harriet let him stir. Captain Smithson longing for something to drink, made a sign to Mr. Gage, and slipped out. Margaret did not like the idea of waiting there till morning. She remembered that the conservatory commanded a very extensive view that reached to the sea; and she thought how grand that rich expanse of country would look, when summoned into life by each vivid flash of lightning.

Miss Campbell well knowing that the sickly fairness of her complexion would not stand late hours, had managed to steal off to bed. Margaret thought she should be able to follow her example—she moved gently to the door, and as no voice was raised in disapproval of her attempt, she hurried through the empty drawing-room, gained the hall, ran across, and into the large conservatory. As the house stood upon high ground, nearly twenty miles of country were visible between the windows and the sea. On one side a steep hill rose clothed with trees, so as almost to shut out the sky, and swept abruptly down to the level ground, where copse and thicket, and fertile meadows succeeded each other in many tinted chequer work, mingled with hamlets and solitary church spires. All was dark as night—a lamp hung over the door which led to the conservatory, but this did not serve to light more than a few yards of the marble pathway, which led between the orange trees. Margaret walked to the end of the path, and waited for a flash. It came, and for a single moment every tree and every roof in the wide land-scape was seen bathed in light beneath the angry sky—the silver strip of sea on the horizon glancing like a mirror, beneath the black clouds. It was a grand spectacle, as the keen lightning was seen ripping up the dark masses, or dropping like a quivering dart into the thick tree tops. And the sudden darkness, and the solemn thunder rolling fainter and more faint, seemed to complete the magnificence of the hour.

At length, the interval between the peals became longer, and Margaret who had been conscious of no fatigue while watching the storm, began to feel sleepy and exhausted. After waiting some minutes, during which, such was the stillness, she could hear her own pulse, she turned away, and saying half to herself, "It is over, now;" she moved slowly down the path.

All at once a sharp light blazed across her eyes—a peal that deafened her—a crash—a sound as of musquetry just over head—a quick shower of hail and broken glass together, rattling upon the marble pavement. She raised her arms, as if to save herself, when she was suddenly seized, and whirled out into the hall so quickly, that she lost her breath, almost her senses.

"Are you hurt?"

Margaret looked up at her questioner. The rattling noise of the breaking glass—the tremendous sound above, that seemed to rock the walls of the house, so sudden, so bewildering, frightened away her voice. She looked round in complete amaze. She was sitting on one of the hall chairs, and Mr. Haveloc supporting her, kneeling by her side.

"Are you not hurt?" he asked again.

She passed her hand over her eyes, and gazed around, still confused. "No," said she, "what was it?"

"The hail came suddenly," he said.

"Yes, it did—but—were you there?" she asked.

"I was."

"The storm was—very—beautiful," said she losing her voice in tears before the words were ended.

"I was not watching the storm," he replied.

Overcome by agitation and fright, her nerves thoroughly unstrung by the feelings of the few preceding days, she covered her face with her hands, and gave way to her tears. There was a silence, only broken by her heavy sobs. The thunder had ceased,—the hail was over, only the large fast drops of rain fell splashing among the stiff orange leaves.

"Margaret," he said, "tell me now. What have I done?"

"Nothing—nothing!" she faltered through her tears.

"Then it was for no fault of mine; the change was in yourself," said he suddenly. "You had seen—you had loved; and it has been your turn to suffer."

"I have suffered, Claude," said Margaret withdrawing her hands from her face.

Her voice, her aspect, so inimitably tender and mournful, struck him to the heart.

She had gained courage and composure, and went on.

"And it is a comfort to me to have seen and spoken with you once again," said she; "because having done you an injustice, in my thoughts, I am glad to tell you so. I am pleased to think that you acted as I should have most desired, had I known the facts which were so cruelly perverted to me. But still—I hope," she added, as she rose to go, "that as I must remain here for the present, you will not often come to the house, because the sight of you reminds me too forcibly of those old times."

How exquisitely graceful she looked; with that imploring attitude—that bashful entreaty in her gesture.

"But, I don't understand—" he said, detaining her.

"No—it is a long story," said Margaret sadly.

"But why not tell it me? Have I not a right to know it? I, who love you better than any-thing in the world?"

Her smiles came back—her blushes.

"If you wish it," she said, "only not now. Still I must say for myself, that every one believed as I did. Even your friends here, entirely thought so till Mrs. Fitzpatrick set them right."

"But—believed what?"

"That you were engaged to Miss Fitzpatrick."

"What—engaged—and when? Good Heavens! And you, Margaret—to Miss Fitzpatrick! How could you believe such an incredible lie?"

"Don't ask me, Claude," said Margaret, feeling as if it really had been too bad in her to credit her own eyesight, as well as the assurance of every one she came near.

"And this is what has parted us for two years. Miss Fitzpatrick—but it is all clear now. You are satisfied—you are mine again—say so."

"You are a tyrant, Claude."

"But say it."

"I do say it—there, some one is coming. I must go."

Margaret flew up stairs. The ladies, satisfied that the storm was over, now came out, pale with fear and watching. Harriet's keen eye espied Mr. Haveloc leaning against the door of the conservatory.

"Marius among the ruins of Carthage," said she with a laugh.

"Marius! Mrs. Gage, can you say nothing better for me than that? Will you come to-morrow and fish with us?"

"Well; that is not a bad idea. I can throw a fly in a way that will make you jealous. Can you lend me a fishing-rod?"

"Twenty."

"And you don't mean to set out at an uncouth hour to-morrow?"

"Not at all—two or three o'clock."

"But I shall be jealous," said Lucy. "Do you not ask me to come too?"

"By all means; bring all the ladies who like angling. Lady James, will you answer for Miss Campbell?"

"I shall bring Margaret, I know;" said Harriet quickly.

"Do—if Miss Capel will come;" said he with a peculiar smile.

"I shall ask no questions;" said Harriet coolly. "I shall pack her up in a band-box, and take her; though she cannot angle like some people!"

"No; she cannot angle," said Mr. Haveloc; laughing at the angry expression in Harriet's face.

"Ah! you think yourselves, too deep for me;" said Harriet turning and walking up-stairs; "but I would have you look sharp; for I know the symptoms."

CHAPTER XIV

And though our joy is all too new to wearThe golden sweetness of assured repose,Since the good Gods have steered our bark of lifeThrough the rough storm and the deceitful calm,We may together stem the tranquil waveNot fearful, not secure—but grateful ever;While in the roseate light of new born hopeWe steep the shadows of the coming time—Most blest, that whatsoe'er our future lotLove gilds the present, sanctifies the past.Anon.

"I say, little one," exclaimed Harriet, as Margaret entered the Oratory to breakfast the next morning, "Will you go fishing with us to day, to Tynebrook?"

"With you—to Tynebrook, Harriet?" said Margaret quite surprised.

"Yes; did you never hear of such a place? Perhaps, you don't know that I saw Mr. Haveloc last night, and made a fishing party for the ladies?"

"Last night, Harriet!" said Margaret colouring.

"Yes, child," returned Harriet. "I suppose you think nobody can have interviews with a gentleman but yourself."

Never was a more random shot, but it had the effect of covering Margaret's face with blushes.

"How you love to torment Miss Capel;" said Mr. Gage, who was in the room. "I wonder she ever comes near you."

"I never saw any-thing like your cheeks, child," continued Harriet,

'They'll be in scarlet straight at any news.'

"Do have a little mercy, Harriet," said poor Margaret. "I cannot tell what you mean."

"I mean nothing more or less than this. You are to come with me to Tynebrook this morning, to learn how to angle; who knows what you may catch? I told Mr. Haveloc I should bring you, and he could not prevent me, though he seemed very much averse to your company."

Margaret smiled quietly at this remark, and Harriet turned to attack Everard, who entered the room at this moment.

"So here you are, slugs, who gave you leave to come and breakfast here this morning?"

"It is so dull, alone," said Everard, drawing his chair to the table.

"Where is your book, Sir? Have you learned that scene through? I have a great mind to hear you say it before I give you any coffee."

"I can't, Harriet," said Everard, quietly beginning his breakfast.

"Can't—what? Good gracious, that I should live to hear anybody say they can't!"

"I can't learn it; nor could you, if—" (here he stopped and took breath,) "if you did not know the English of it."

"If that is not a sufficient reason," said Mr. Gage, laughing, "I never heard one."

Everard went on peaceably eating his breakfast.

Harriet surveyed him in speechless indignation.

"He does not know the English of it!" she exclaimed at last; "he reads it like a parrot. Why even Captain Smithson—your prètendu, Margaret—knows French. It is something horrible. George, what shall we do?"

"Oh! Haveloc must take it now," said Mr. Gage, "he cannot have any real objection when he sees you in actual want of his assistance."

"Will you try to persuade him, Margaret?" said Harriet.

Margaret shook her head.

"It is a mere idle excuse," exclaimed Harriet after a pause, "I am sure, by the way he read that long scene with Camille, that he understood it."

"I know the meaning of part, but I cannot make it all out," said Everard.

"Then I will translate it for you. You give me an infinite deal of trouble, but I console myself by thinking how remarkably well you will look."

Everard, soothed by this little compliment, offered no opposition to the plan; and Harriet, rising from the table, said that if Margaret had breakfasted, they would go down stairs and arrange their expedition.

A similar desire seemed to possess the whole party of ladies—to learn to angle. Never did a more brilliant morning follow a stormy night. Mrs. Fitzpatrick said something about damp grass, but she was the only middle-aged lady present, and her hint fell to the ground.

Lady James and Miss Campbell, standing together, by the open piano, were engaged in an interesting conversation; Miss Campbell sometimes running over the keys with one hand, and looking down at the music book; Lady James approaching her head nearer and nearer in the earnestness of her discourse.

Harriet reclined in the corner of a couch, fixed her eyes, brimming with mischief, upon the talkers; and, although Lady James had the precaution to speak low, she caught a few fragments.

"He was absolutely rivetted by that song of Schubert's" said Lady James.

"It is one of my best," said Miss Campbell.

"The lilac bonnet to-day, my love, with the white china-asters."

"Yes, I intended—"

"You will be delighted with Tynebrook; it is the finest seat in this part of the country."

"Larger than Wardenscourt?" whispered Miss Campbell.

"Decidedly, and altogether a different style of place. A magnificent park; oaks that the Druids might have planted, and the house built in the quadrangular form like a Spanish convent."

"I like that sort of thing; but I fear he is rather difficult to—"

("To make a fool of," Harriet was almost tempted to add.)

"Not at all, my dear," pursued Lady James, "it is all manner; did I never tell you how he was drawn in by our good friend, Mrs. Maxwell Dorset?"

"No; I should like to hear it, of all things!"

"I'll tell you another time. Recollect, music is his passion. Talk of Spohr and Beethoven."

"I do so dislike a 'fanatico per la musica,'" said Miss Campbell.

"Yes, but a man of his standing in society," argued Lady James, "by the bye, I must secure him to drive with us to Tynebrook, this morning. You and him together; I will sit in front with Lord James."

Harriet sprang from the sofa, seized upon Margaret, who was quietly reading, and whirled her into the verandah. Lord Raymond, Mr. Gage and Mr. Haveloc were standing on the lawn. Mr. Gage smoking.

"Come here, some of you!" cried Harriet.

Mr. Haveloc instantly turned round, and rushed up the steps.

"At last!" he said, "I have been into the drawing-room half a dozen times, to see if you were not down."

"I have been there for ten minutes, I should think," said Harriet. "But I am afraid that pretty speech was not meant for me—perhaps, you took me for Mrs. Fitzpatrick?"

It did look as if he meant the speech for Margaret, since he took her hand and kept it.

"How did you sleep?" he asked Margaret.

"Very well, thank you, after all my fright," returned Harriet, "but it was a terrible storm, was it not Mr. Haveloc?"

"Ay—there was a storm last night," he said, as if just recollecting it.

"Did not you hear something of it then —you ought, I am sure; for I found you all among the broken glass."

"Will you give me a lift, Mrs. Gage, this morning," he asked.

"With all my heart," said Harriet, "I take Margaret and Mrs. Fitzpatrick; there is just room for you, if Margaret has no objection."

"Not any, Harriet," said Margaret quietly.

"George!" cried Harriet, "I am going to run off with Mr. Haveloc."

"Pray do," replied Mr. Gage.

"You will never see me again, after this morning!" she exclaimed.

Mr. Gage laughed and lit another cigar.

"There is a sort of stupid tranquillity about those Gages," said Harriet, "I had hoped that George was an irascible person; but he grows more and more like his father."

"That is a high compliment, Harriet;" said Margaret. "At–there was always a good deal of philandering between you and Uncle Gage," said Harriet; "you are an arrant little flirt in a quiet way."

"It must be a very quiet way, then;" said Mr. Haveloc, smiling.

"Don't you take her part!" cried Harriet, "you are on my side. George, I wish you would give me a cigar."

"Not I, indeed," said Mr. Gage.

"Then I will get one from Lord James;" said Harriet, coolly.

Mr. Gage came up to the verandah, and offered her his cigar case. Harriet took one.

"What are you going to do with it, Harriet?" asked Margaret.

"Nothing child—I have never smoked since the day I made you ill—but I don't choose him to refuse me any-thing. There, you stingy wretch, you may have it back again. Mr. Haveloc, tell me in confidence, what is your favourite colour for a bonnet?"

Mr. Haveloc laughed, and said that he had not made up his mind, but that when he saw Mrs. Gage's, he should be able to decide the point.

Lady James was not pleased when she saw Mr. Haveloc step into Mrs. Gage's carriage; but she contented herself by bringing up the old story of Mrs. Maxwell Dorset, and declaring that it was now the same thing over again, with Mrs. Gage; a very designing young woman with all her apparent frankness. Miss Campbell cordially agreed in this flattering verdict.

But if Harriet had heard this remark, she would only have laughed at it, with Margaret and Mr. Haveloc seated opposite to her, as her carriage swept through the park gates, and drove into the stately avenues of Tynebrook. They drove into the quadrangle through a grey archway, covered with ivy, and alighted at a stone entrance, divided by an oaken screen from the great hall.

"I say, little one, should not you like to have it?" asked Harriet, glancing round the splendid hall, "if you are very good, I'll see if I can help you."

Harriet equipped herself like a true angler, with a basket over her shoulder. Mr. Haveloc was buckling on her accoutrements for her, when the rest of the party crowded into the hall.

Lady James, though disturbed, did not allow herself defeated.

"Go to him, my love, and ask him to teach you to throw a fly," said she.

Miss Campbell took her advice, and succeeded, at least, in securing Mr. Haveloc's services. Having ascertained that Margaret was not going to fish, he selected a rod and a basket for Miss Campbell, put a fly on her line, and wished her success.

But Miss Campbell said she was such a novice, that Mr. Haveloc must kindly give her a little advice; and, at least, select for her a very fortunate spot.

So they all set off to the stream that ran through the park; a rough, brawling rivulet, that tumbled and foamed among rocky stones and straggling roots of trees.

Mr. Haveloc carried Miss Campbell's rod and basket; and having found a spot where there were no hawthorns near to intercept her line, he recommended her to begin forthwith.

She made a trial; but any one who has taken a fishing-rod in their hand for the first time, knows that it is by no means an easy task to guide it.

After several desperate manœuvres, in which she perilled herself and her neighbours, more than once, with the spike at the end, she gave up the attempt, and trusted to the sole attraction of her lilac bonnet.

Harriet was far up the stream with Mr. Gage; and Everard, who was wandering about with his play-book in his hand, finding Miss Campbell disengaged, insisted on her hearing him; and she had the delightful task of listening to his blunders, while she was calculating whether, if Mr. Haveloc proved obstinate, it would be possible for her to accept a younger son.

Mr. Haveloc had managed to detach Margaret from the rest of the party, and they sat watching the stream, as it glided through the tangled roots of the hawthorns.

They had time to say, not all they wished; but all there was any occasion for before they were interrupted; for Mr. Haveloc well knew the precise angle of the rocky bank at which they would be invisible to the party below.

Harriet, coming down with her basket on her shoulder, and her rod unjointed, was the first to discover them. She suspended her song; stood before them a minute, enjoying Margaret's rosy blushes, and Mr. Haveloc's look of extreme unconcern; and then shrugging her shoulders, and throwing down her basket on the grass, exclaimed:—

"Well! never say I did not have a hand in it."

The ladies had settled to go home after a late luncheon. The gentlemen adhered to their original plan.

Everybody thought Mr. Haveloc was rather particular in his attentions to Margaret; fortunately, for her comfort, they did not know how particular. They did not know that he had obtained her permission to write to Mr. Warde and to Mr. Casement, by that day's post. They did not know that when he went up to dress, the letters were written; and that Margaret's last words as he put her in the carriage, were to beg "that he would be very polite to poor Mr. Casement."

Harriet happened to be alone with Margaret, as Mrs. Fitzpatrick went back with Lady Raymond; and she caressed and teazed her alternately all the way home, but Margaret could now bear teazing very bravely.

This was destined to be a day of events, for when they returned to Wardenscourt, they found Captain Gage and Elizabeth already arrived. Lucy and Harriet, both warmly attached to Lady d'Eyncourt, flew to welcome her.

"And Margaret," said Elizabeth enquiringly, when she had embraced her cousins.

Margaret was in her arms at once, sobbing with joy and emotion. Elizabeth stroked down her hair, and spoke soothingly to her: she had grown older so fast, that Margaret was really a child to her now.

Captain Gage was in excellent spirits. He was come back to England, which delighted him, for he had no great taste for foreign parts. And now that the grief of Sir Philip's death was, with him, over, he felt that he had his daughter back again, all to himself, and that was a great source of consolation. He was sorry it happened that his sons were out fishing, but it was a capital day for sport, and he should see them in the morning, which after all, was almost the same thing. So he kissed Harriet again, and asked her whether she could give George a good character.

Elizabeth was beautiful in her weeds; she looked graver, older, and more serene. There was something in her slow and dignified movements, that reminded Margaret of Sir Philip. And though she suffered, as Schiller tells us as all great minds suffer, in silence and alone, yet those who knew her best, felt a certainty, (in her case fully confirmed by time), that she would never marry again. She seemed to feel, as the poets tell us, women felt in their days, that her destiny was accomplished, her part in the drama of life played out, that she had given her heart to her husband; and that to all eternity her soul was wedded to the soul that had preceded hers to Heaven.

With these peculiar views, a second marriage would have been to her a crime replete with horror and disgrace.

That many people regretted these views, and that some sought to change them, will not be wondered at, considering that, independent of her beauty and good private fortune, Sir Philip left her mistress and sole heiress of Sherleigh, expressing only a wish that if she should not marry again, it might go to some one of Captain Gage's descendants.

Every one, whom it nearly concerned, was pleased with Margaret's approaching marriage. Mrs. Fitzpatrick declared it was all that she could wish. Lady d'Eyncourt congratulated her warmly, her guardians gave a willing assent, Mr. Casement saying, that if Miss Peggy liked to venture upon the young man, it was her affair; that there was no mistake about his property, but that he thought him a violent fellow.

Elizabeth desired that Margaret should be married from Chirke Weston. Hubert was safe on the coast of South America, and there was no drawback to the plan. Captain Gage insisted upon giving her away. He said he had half a right to do so, since he had a narrow escape of being her father in earnest. For he still regarded Hubert's attachment to her as a childish piece of business, that would serve very well for a jest when one was wanting. So after the performance of the Vaudeville, which went off to admiration, the party at Wardenscourt broke up. The Gages and Raymonds, with Margaret and Mrs. Fitzpatrick started for Chirke Weston; and Mr. Haveloc was kindly invited to take up his abode with Mr. Warde, who was to perform the ceremony.

Margaret found many changes since she left that neighbourhood, though none so strange to her as the change in her own prospects. At the Vicarage, Mrs. Somerton still resided, but her eldest daughter was now with her; a sharp, fractious spinster, who seemed but a bad exchange for her wilful, pretty sister, now fortunately Mrs. Compton.

Mrs. Compton had a little girl, and was grown, her mother said, more steady; and Mr. Compton had just been in all the newspapers for playing at skittles before a church door, during divine service, at some place where he was quartered with a detachment. This last piece of information came from the acid sister; but Mrs. Somerton added that it was done for a bet, which in her opinion, at once explained and excused the action.