CHAPTER XXIX.

“In short, Isabella, I offer you myself!”

“Heavens!” cried Isabella, “what do I hear? You, my lord?”

Castle of Otranto.

A novel is like a weatherglass,--where the man appears out at one time,

the woman at another. Variable as the atmosphere, the changes of our

story now re-present Lucy to the reader.

That charming young person--who, it may be remarked, is (her father

excepted) the only unsophisticated and unsullied character in the pages

of a story in some measure designed to show, in the depravities of

character, the depravities of that social state wherein characters are

formed--was sitting alone in her apartment at the period in which we

return to her. As time, and that innate and insensible fund of healing,

which Nature has placed in the bosoms of the young in order that her

great law, the passing away of the old, may not leave too lasting and

keen a wound, had softened her first anguish at her father's death, the

remembrance of Clifford again resumed its ancient sway in her heart. The

loneliness of her life, the absence of amusement, even the sensitiveness

and languor which succeed to grief, conspired to invest the image of her

lover in a tenderer and more impressive guise. She recalled his words,

his actions, his letters, and employed herself whole hours, whole days

and nights, in endeavouring to decipher their mystery. Who that has been

loved will not acknowledge the singular and mighty force with which a

girl, innocent herself, clings to the belief of innocence in her lover?

In breasts young and unacquainted with the world, there is so pure a

credulity in the existence of unmixed good, so firm a reluctance to

think that where we love there can be that which we would not esteem, or

where we admire there can be that which we ought to blame, that one may

almost deem it an argument in favour of our natural power to attain

a greater eminence in virtue than the habits and arts of the existing

world will allow us to reach. Perhaps it is not paradoxical to say that

we could scarcely believe perfection in others, were not the germ of

perfectibility in our own minds! When a man has lived some years among

the actual contests of faction without imbibing the prejudice as well

as the experience, how wonderingly be smiles at his worship of former

idols, how different a colour does history wear to him, how cautious is

he now to praise, how slow to admire, how prone to cavil! Human nature

has become the human nature of art; and he estimates it not from what it

may be, but from what, in the corruptions of a semi-civilization, it is!

But in the same manner as the young student clings to the belief that

the sage or the minstrel, who has enlightened his reason or chained his

imagination, is in character as in genius elevated above the ordinary

herd, free from the passions, the frivolities, the little meannesses,

and the darkening vices which ordinary flesh is heir to, does a woman

who loves for the first time cling to the imagined excellence of him she

loves. When Evelina is so shocked at the idea of an occasional fit

of intoxication in her “noble, her unrivalled” lover, who does not

acknowledge how natural were her feelings? Had Evelina been married six

years, and the same lover, then her husband, been really guilty of what

she suspected, who does not feel that it would have been very unnatural

to have been shocked in the least at the occurrence? She would not have

loved him less, nor admired him less, nor would he have been less “the

noble and the unrivalled,”--he would have taken his glass too much, have

joked the next morning on the event, and the gentle Evelina would

have made him a cup of tea; but that which would have been a matter

of pleasantry in the husband would have been matter of damnation in a

lover. But to return to Lucy.

If it be so hard, so repellent, to believe a lover guilty even of a

trivial error, we may readily suppose that Lucy never for a moment

admitted the supposition that Clifford had been really guilty of gross

error or wilful crime. True that expressions in his letter were

more than suspicious; but there is always a charm in the candour of

self-condemnation. As it is difficult to believe the excellence of those

who praise themselves, so it is difficult to fancy those criminal who

condemn. What, too, is the process of a woman's reasoning? Alas! she is

too credulous a physiognomist. The turn of a throat, with her, is the

unerring token of nobleness of mind; and no one can be guilty of a sin

who is blessed with a beautiful forehead! How fondly, how fanatically

Lucy loved! She had gathered together a precious and secret hoard,--a

glove, a pen, a book, a withered rose-leaf,--treasures rendered

inestimable because he had touched them; but more than all, had she

the series of his letters,--from the first formal note written to her

father, meant for her, in which he answered an invitation, and requested

Miss Brandon's acceptance of the music she had wished to have, to the

last wild and, to her, inexplicable letter in which he had resigned her

forever. On these relics her eyes fed for hours; and as she pored

over them, and over thoughts too deep not only for tears but for all

utterance or conveyance, you might have almost literally watched the

fading of her rich cheek and the pining away of her rounded and elastic

form.

It was just in such a mood that she was buried when her uncle knocked at

her door for admittance. She hurried away her treasures, and hastened to

admit and greet him.

“I have come,” said he, smiling, “to beg the pleasure of your company

for an old friend who dines with us to-day. But, stay, Lucy, your hair

is ill-arranged. Do not let me disturb so important an occupation as

your toilette; dress yourself, my love, and join us.”

Lucy turned, with a suppressed sigh, to the glass. The uncle lingered

for a few moments, surveying her with mingled pride and doubt; he then

slowly left the chamber.

Lucy soon afterwards descended to the drawing-room, and beheld with a

little surprise (for she had not had sufficient curiosity to inquire

the name of the guest), the slender form and comely features of Lord

Mauleverer. The earl approached with the same grace which had in his

earlier youth rendered him almost irresistible, but which now, from the

contrast of years with manner, contained a slight mixture of the comic.

He paid his compliments, and in paying them declared that he must leave

it to his friend, Sir William, to explain all the danger he had dared,

for the sake of satisfying himself that Miss Brandon was no less lovely

than when he had last beheld her.

“Yes, indeed,” said Brandon, with a scarcely perceptible sneer, “Lord

Mauleverer has literally endured the moving accidents of flood and

field,--for he was nearly exterminated by a highwayman, and all but

drowned in a ditch!”

“Commend me to a friend for setting one off to the best advantage,”

said Mauleverer, gayly. “Instead of attracting your sympathy, you see,

Brandon would expose me to your ridicule; judge for yourself whether I

deserve it!” and Mauleverer proceeded to give, with all the animation

which belonged to his character, the particulars of that adventure with

which the reader is so well acquainted. He did not, we may be sure,

feel any scruple in representing himself and his prowess in the most

favourable colours.

The story was scarcely ended when dinner was announced. During that meal

Mauleverer exerted himself to be amiable with infinite address. Suiting

his conversation, more than he had hitherto deigned to do, to the temper

of Lucy, and more anxious to soften than to dazzle, he certainly never

before appeared to her so attractive. We are bound to add that the point

of attraction did not reach beyond the confession that he was a very

agreeable old man.

Perhaps, if there had not been a certain half-melancholy vein in

his conversation, possibly less uncongenial to his lordship from the

remembrance of his lost diamonds, and the impression that Sir William

Brandon's cook was considerably worse than his own, he might not have

been so successful in pleasing Lucy. As for himself, all the previous

impressions she had made on him returned in colours yet more vivid;

even the delicate and subdued cast of beauty which had succeeded to her

earlier brilliancy, was far more charming to his fastidious and courtly

taste than her former glow of spirits and health. He felt himself very

much in love during dinner; and after it was over, and Lucy had retired,

he told Brandon, with a passionate air, that he adored his niece to

distraction!

The wily judge affected to receive the intimation with indifference; but

knowing that too long an absence is injurious to a grande passion, he

did not keep Mauleverer very late over his wine.

The earl returned rapturously to the drawing-room, and besought Lucy,

in a voice in which affectation seemed swooning with delight, to indulge

him with a song. More and more enchanted by her assent, he drew the

music-stool to the harpsichord, placed a chair beside her, and presently

appeared lost in transport. Meanwhile Brandon, with his back to the

pair, covered his face with his handkerchief, and to all appearance

yielded to the voluptuousness of an after-dinner repose.

Lucy's song-book opened accidentally at a song which had been praised by

Clifford; and as she sang, her voice took a richer and more tender tone

than in Mauleverer's presence it had ever before assumed.

THE COMPLAINT OF THE VIOLETS WHICH LOSE THEIR SCENT IN MAY.

In the shadow that falls from the silent hill

We slept, in our green retreats

And the April showers were wont to fill

Our hearts with sweets.

And though we lay in a lowly bower,

Yet all things loved us well,

And the waking bee left her fairest flower,

With us to dwell.

But the warm May came in his pride to woo

The wealth of our honeyed store;

And our hearts just felt his breath, and knew

Their sweets no more!

And the summer reigns on the quiet spot

Where we dwell, and its suns and showers

Bring balm to our sisters' hearts, but not--

Ah! not to ours.

We live, we bloom, but forever o'er

Is the charm of the earth and sky;

To our life, ye heavens, that balm restore,

Or--bid us die!

As with eyes suffused with many recollections, and a voice which melted

away in an indescribable and thrilling pathos, Lucy ceased her song,

Mauleverer, charmed out of himself, gently took her hand, and holding

the soft treasure in his own, scarcely less soft, he murmured,--

“Angel, sing on! Life would be like your own music, if I could breathe

it away at your feet!”

There had been a time when Lucy would have laughed outright at this

declaration; and even as it was, a suppressed and half-arch smile played

in the dimples of her beautiful mouth, and bewitchingly contrasted the

swimming softness of her eyes.

Drawing rather an erroneous omen from the smile, Mauleverer rapturously

continued, still detaining the hand which Lucy endeavoured to

extricate,--

“Yes, enchanting Miss Brandon! I, who have for so many years boasted

of my invulnerable heart, am subdued at last. I have long, very long,

struggled against my attachment to you. Alas! it is in vain; and you

behold me now utterly at your mercy. Make me the most miserable of men

or the most enviable. Enchantress, speak!”

“Really, my lord,” said Lucy, hesitating, yet rising, and freeing

herself from his hand, “I feel it difficult to suppose you serious; and

perhaps this is merely a gallantry to me by way of practice on others.”

“Sweet Lucy, if I may so call you,” answered Mauleverer, with an ardent

gaze, “do not, I implore you, even for a moment, affect to mistake me!

Do not for a moment jest at what, to me, is the bane or bliss of life!

Dare I hope that my hand and heart, which I now offer you, are not

deserving of your derision?”

Lucy gazed on her adorer with a look of serious inquiry; Brandon still

appeared to sleep.

“If you are in earnest, my lord,” said Lucy, after a pause, “I am truly

and deeply sorry. For the friend of my uncle I shall always have esteem;

believe that I am truly sensible of the honour you render me, when I add

my regret that I can have no other sentiment than esteem.”

A blank and puzzled bewilderment for a moment clouded the expressive

features of Mauleverer; it passed away. “How sweet is your rebuke!” said

he. “Yes; I do not yet deserve any other sentiment than esteem. You are

not to be won precipitately; a long trial, a long course of attentions,

a long knowledge of my devoted and ardent love, alone will entitle me

to hope for a warmer feeling in your breast. Fix then your own time of

courtship, angelic Lucy!---a week, nay, a month! Till then, I will not

even press you to appoint that day which to me will be the whitest of my

life!”

“My lord!” said Lucy, smiling now no longer half archly, “you must

pardon me for believing your proposal can be nothing but a jest; but

here, I beseech you, let it rest forever. Do not mention this subject to

me again.”

“By heavens!” cried Mauleverer, “this is too cruel. Brandon, intercede

with me for your niece.”

Sir William started, naturally enough, from his slumber, and Mauleverer

continued,

“Yes, intercede for me; you, my oldest friend, be my greatest

benefactor! I sue to your niece; she affects to disbelieve. Will you

convince her of my truth, my devotion, my worship?”

“Disbelieve you!” said the bland judge, with the same secret sneer that

usually lurked in the corners of his mouth. “I do not wonder that she is

slow to credit the honour you have done her, and for which the noblest

damsels in England have sighed in vain. Lucy, will you be cruel to Lord

Mauleverer? Believe me, he has often confided to me his love for you;

and if the experience of some years avails, there is not a question of

his honour and his truth. I leave his fate in your hands.”

Brandon turned to the door.

“Stay, dear sir,” said Lucy, “and instead of interceding for Lord

Mauleverer, intercede for me.” Her look now settled into a calm and

decided seriousness of expression. “I feel highly flattered by his

lordship's proposal, which, as you say, I might well doubt to be gravely

meant. I wish him all happiness with a lady of higher deserts; but I

speak from an unalterable determination, when I say that I can never

accept the dignity with which he would invest me.”

So saying, Lucy walked quickly to the door and vanished, leaving the two

friends to comment as they would upon her conduct.

“You have spoiled all with your precipitation,” said the uncle.

“Precipitation! d---n it, what would you have? I have been fifty years

making up my mind to marry; and now when I have not a day to lose, you

talk of precipitation!” answered the lover, throwing himself into an

easy-chair.

“But you have not been fifty years making up your mind to marry my

niece,” said Brandon, dryly.

“To be refused, positively refused, by a country girl!” continued

Mauleverer, soliloquizing aloud; “and that too at my age and with all

my experience!--a country girl without rank, ton, accomplishments! By

heavens! I don't care if all the world heard it,--for not a soul in the

world will ever believe it.”

Brandon sat speechless, eying the mortified face of the courtier with

a malicious complacency, and there was a pause of several minutes.

Sir William then, mastering the strange feeling which made him always

rejoice in whatever threw ridicule on his friend, approached, laid his

hand kindly on Mauleverer's shoulder, and talked to him of comfort and

of encouragement. The reader will believe that Mauleverer was not a man

whom it was impossible to encourage.