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_ CHAPTER XLVIII - 'NE'ER TO BE FOUND AGAIN'
'My own, my father's friend!
I cannot part with thee!
I ne'er have shown, thou ne'er hast known,
How dear thou art to me.'
ANON.
The elements of the dinner-parties which Mrs. Lennox gave, were
these; her friends contributed the beauty, Captain Lennox the
easy knowledge of the subjects of the day; and Mr. Henry Lennox
and the sprinkling of rising men who were received as his
friends, brought the wit, the cleverness, the keen and extensive
knowledge of which they knew well enough how to avail themselves
without seeming pedantic, or burdening the rapid flow of
conversation.
These dinners were delightful; but even here Margaret's
dissatisfaction found her out. Every talent, every feeling, every
acquirement; nay, even every tendency towards virtue was used up
as materials for fireworks; the hidden, sacred fire, exhausted
itself in sparkle and crackle. They talked about art in a merely
sensuous way, dwelling on outside effects, instead of allowing
themselves to learn what it has to teach. They lashed themselves
up into an enthusiasm about high subjects in company, and never
thought about them when they were alone; they squandered their
capabilities of appreciation into a mere flow of appropriate
words. One day, after the gentlemen had come up into the
drawing-room, Mr. Lennox drew near to Margaret, and addressed her
in almost the first voluntary words he had spoken to her since
she had returned to live in Harley Street.
'You did not look pleased at what Shirley was saying at dinner.'
'Didn't I? My face must be very expressive,' replied Margaret.
'It always was. It has not lost the trick of being eloquent.'
'I did not like,' said Margaret, hastily, 'his way of advocating
what he knew to be wrong--so glaringly wrong--even in jest.'
'But it was very clever. How every word told! Do you remember the
happy epithets?'
'Yes.'
'And despise them, you would like to add. Pray don't scruple,
though he is my friend.'
'There! that is the exact tone in you, that--' she stopped short.
He listened for a moment to see if she would finish her sentence;
but she only reddened, and turned away; before she did so,
however, she heard him say, in a very low, clear voice,--
'If my tones, or modes of thought, are what you dislike, will you
do me the justice to tell me so, and so give me the chance of
learning to please you?'
All these weeks there was no intelligence of Mr. Bell's going to
Milton. He had spoken of it at Helstone as of a journey which he
might have to take in a very short time from then; but he must
have transacted his business by writing, Margaret thought, ere
now, and she knew that if he could, he would avoid going to a
place which he disliked, and moreover would little understand the
secret importance which she affixed to the explanation that could
only be given by word of mouth. She knew that he would feel that
it was necessary that it should be done; but whether in summer,
autumn, or winter, it would signify very little. It was now
August, and there had been no mention of the Spanish journey to
which he had alluded to Edith, and Margaret tried to reconcile
herself to the fading away of this illusion.
But one morning she received a letter, saying that next week he
meant to come up to town; he wanted to see her about a plan which
he had in his head; and, moreover, he intended to treat himself
to a little doctoring, as he had begun to come round to her
opinion, that it would be pleasanter to think that his health was
more in fault than he, when he found himself irritable and cross.
There was altogether a tone of forced cheerfulness in the letter,
as Margaret noticed afterwards; but at the time her attention was
taken up by Edith's exclamations.
'Coming up to town! Oh dear! and I am so worn out by the heat
that I don't believe I have strength enough in me for another
dinner. Besides, everybody has left but our dear stupid selves,
who can't settle where to go to. There would be nobody to meet
him.'
'I'm sure he would much rather come and dine with us quite alone
than with the most agreeable strangers you could pick up.
Besides, if he is not well he won't wish for invitations. I am
glad he has owned it at last. I was sure he was ill from the
whole tone of his letters, and yet he would not answer me when I
asked him, and I had no third person to whom I could apply for
news.'
'Oh! he is not very ill, or he would not think of Spain.'
'He never mentions Spain.'
'No! but his plan that is to be proposed evidently relates to
that. But would you really go in such weather as this?'
'Oh! it will get cooler every day. Yes! Think of it! I am only
afraid I have thought and wished too much--in that absorbing
wilful way which is sure to be disappointed--or else gratified,
to the letter, while in the spirit it gives no pleasure.'
'But that's superstitious, I'm sure, Margaret.'
'No, I don't think it is. Only it ought to warn me, and check me
from giving way to such passionate wishes. It is a sort of "Give
me children, or else I die." I'm afraid my cry is, "Let me go to
Cadiz, or else I die."'
'My dear Margaret! You'll be persuaded to stay there; and then
what shall I do? Oh! I wish I could find somebody for you to
marry here, that I could be sure of you!'
'I shall never marry.'
'Nonsense, and double nonsense! Why, as Sholto says, you're such
an attraction to the house, that he knows ever so many men who
will be glad to Visit here next year for your sake.'
Margaret drew herself up haughtily. 'Do you know, Edith, I
sometimes think your Corfu life has taught you----'
'Well!'
'Just a shade or two of coarseness.'
Edith began to sob so bitterly, and to declare so vehemently that
Margaret had lost all love for her, and no longer looked upon her
as a friend, that Margaret came to think that she had expressed
too harsh an opinion for the relief of her own wounded pride, and
ended by being Edith's slave for the rest of the day; while that
little lady, overcome by wounded feeling, lay like a victim on
the sofa, heaving occasionally a profound sigh, till at last she
fell asleep.
Mr. Bell did not make his appearance even on the day to which he
had for a second time deferred his visit. The next morning there
came a letter from Wallis, his servant, stating that his master
had not been feeling well for some time, which had been the true
reason of his putting off his journey; and that at the very time
when he should have set out for London, he had been seized with
an apoplectic fit; it was, indeed, Wallis added, the opinion of
the medical men--that he could not survive the night; and more
than probable, that by the time Miss Hale received this letter
his poor master would be no more.
Margaret received this letter at breakfast-time, and turned very
pale as she read it; then silently putting it into Edith's hands,
she left the room.
Edith was terribly shocked as she read it, and cried in a
sobbing, frightened, childish way, much to her husband's
distress. Mrs. Shaw was breakfasting in her own room, and upon
him devolved the task of reconciling his wife to the near contact
into which she seemed to be brought with death, for the first
time that she could remember in her life. Here was a man who was
to have dined with them to-day lying dead or dying instead! It
was some time before she could think of Margaret. Then she
started up, and followed her upstairs into her room. Dixon was
packing up a few toilette articles, and Margaret was hastily
putting on her bonnet, shedding tears all the time, and her hands
trembling so that she could hardly tie the strings.
'Oh, dear Margaret! how shocking! What are you doing? Are you
going out? Sholto would telegraph or do anything you like.'
'I am going to Oxford. There is a train in half-an-hour. Dixon
has offered to go with me, but I could have gone by myself. I
must see him again. Besides, he may be better, and want some
care. He has been like a father to me. Don't stop me, Edith.'
'But I must. Mamma won't like it at all. Come and ask her about
it, Margaret. You don't know where you're going. I should not
mind if he had a house of his own; but in his Fellow's rooms!
Come to mamma, and do ask her before you go. It will not take a
minute.'
Margaret yielded, and lost her train. In the suddenness of the
event, Mrs. Shaw became bewildered and hysterical, and so the
precious time slipped by. But there was another train in a couple
of hours; and after various discussions on propriety and
impropriety, it was decided that Captain Lennox should accompany
Margaret, as the one thing to which she was constant was her
resolution to go, alone or otherwise, by the next train, whatever
might be said of the propriety or impropriety of the step. Her
father's friend, her own friend, was lying at the point of death;
and the thought of this came upon her with such vividness, that
she was surprised herself at the firmness with which she asserted
something of her right to independence of action; and five
minutes before the time for starting, she found herself sitting
in a railway-carriage opposite to Captain Lennox.
It was always a comfort to her to think that she had gone, though
it was only to hear that he had died in the night. She saw the
rooms that he had occupied, and associated them ever after most
fondly in her memory with the idea of her father, and his one
cherished and faithful friend.
They had promised Edith before starting, that if all had ended as
they feared, they would return to dinner; so that long, lingering
look around the room in which her father had died, had to be
interrupted, and a quiet farewell taken of the kind old face that
had so often come out with pleasant words, and merry quips and
cranks.
Captain Lennox fell asleep on their journey home; and Margaret
could cry at leisure, and bethink her of this fatal year, and all
the woes it had brought to her. No sooner was she fully aware of
one loss than another came--not to supersede her grief for the
one before, but to re-open wounds and feelings scarcely healed.
But at the sound of the tender voices of her aunt and Edith, of
merry little Sholto's glee at her arrival, and at the sight of
the well-lighted rooms, with their mistress pretty in her
paleness and her eager sorrowful interest, Margaret roused
herself from her heavy trance of almost superstitious
hopelessness, and began to feel that even around her joy and
gladness might gather. She had Edith's place on the sofa; Sholto
was taught to carry aunt Margaret's cup of tea very carefully to
her; and by the time she went up to dress, she could thank God
for having spared her dear old friend a long or a painful
illness.
But when night came--solemn night, and all the house was quiet,
Margaret still sate watching the beauty of a London sky at such
an hour, on such a summer evening; the faint pink reflection of
earthly lights on the soft clouds that float tranquilly into the
white moonlight, out of the warm gloom which lies motionless
around the horizon. Margaret's room had been the day nursery of
her childhood, just when it merged into girlhood, and when the
feelings and conscience had been first awakened into full
activity. On some such night as this she remembered promising to
herself to live as brave and noble a life as any heroine she ever
read or heard of in romance, a life sans peur et sans reproche;
it had seemed to her then that she had only to will, and such a
life would be accomplished. And now she had learnt that not only
to will, but also to pray, was a necessary condition in the truly
heroic. Trusting to herself, she had fallen. It was a just
consequence of her sin, that all excuses for it, all temptation
to it, should remain for ever unknown to the person in whose
opinion it had sunk her lowest. She stood face to face at last
with her sin. She knew it for what it was; Mr. Bell's kindly
sophistry that nearly all men were guilty of equivocal actions,
and that the motive ennobled the evil, had never had much real
weight with her. Her own first thought of how, if she had known
all, she might have fearlessly told the truth, seemed low and
poor. Nay, even now, her anxiety to have her character for truth
partially excused in Mr. Thornton's eyes, as Mr. Bell had
promised to do, was a very small and petty consideration, now
that she was afresh taught by death what life should be. If all
the world spoke, acted, or kept silence with intent to
deceive,--if dearest interests were at stake, and dearest lives
in peril,--if no one should ever know of her truth or her
falsehood to measure out their honour or contempt for her by,
straight alone where she stood, in the presence of God, she
prayed that she might have strength to speak and act the truth
for evermore. _
Read next: CHAPTER XLIX - BREATHING TRANQUILLITY
Read previous: CHAPTER XLVII - SOMETHING WANTING
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