CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE END OF DOUBT.
I tell thee death were far more merciful
Than such a blow. It is death to the heart;
Death to its first affections, its sweet hopes;
The young religion of its guileless faith.
Henceforth the well is troubled at the spring;
The waves run clear no longer; there is doubt
To shut out happiness—perpetual shade;
Which, if the sunshine penetrate, 'tis dim,
And broken ere it reach the stream below.
It is strange how we hope, even against hope. The light came into Ethel's eyes, the colour flushed her cheek, when she caught sight of the letter. She believed that it must be for her; and it was with a sick feeling of disappointment that she saw the servant pass by her. I do not think that life has a suspense more sickening than that of expecting a letter which does not come. The hour which brings the post is the one that is anticipated, the only one from which we reckon. How long the time seems till it comes! With how many devices do we seek to pass it a little quicker! How we hope and believe each day will be our last of anxious waiting! The post comes in, and there is no letter for us. How bitter is the disappointment! and on every repetition it grows more acute. How immeasurable the time seems till the post comes in again! The mind exhausts itself in conjectures; illness, even death, grow terribly distinct to hope in its agony—hope that is fear! We dread we know not what; and every lengthened day the misery grows more insupportable. Every day the anxiety takes a darker shadow. To know even the very worst of all we have foreboded, appears a relief.
The letter which Ethel had watched so eagerly, was the usual one from Henrietta. Her uncle almost snatched it, with hands that trembled with eagerness. His whole face lighted up. He read the direction; he looked at the seal with an expression of even childlike fondness; he hoarded his enjoyment by delaying to break it. At last he opened the letter: he watched the fair Italian hand with delight. Lady Marchmont's hand-writing was peculiarly fine; often careless, and sometimes illegible, but never to her uncle. Her affectionate remembrance was marked in the care with which she wrote, lest her letters might be troublesome to decipher. He read it at first eagerly; he needed to be assured of her health and happiness; then slowly, lingering over every word: and then, as was his custom, prepared to read it aloud.
In the mean time, Ethel had leant her head on her hand, while the large tears trickled slowly through her fingers. Every day the disappointment grew more insupportable. The sight of another's letter filled her with the bitterest envy. Suffering cannot come unattended with bad feelings. It was in vain that she checked herself; but the question would arise, Why should Henrietta be so much happier than herself? Scarcely could she command her attention when Sir Jasper began to read. That last evening when they were all together, rose with terrible distinctness. The little fountain shone with the falling moonlight, and Henrietta's eyes seemed to grow darker and more intense as they filled with that pure and spiritual ray. Walter Maynard stood beside, pale and dejected; and nearer still leant Norbourne Courtenaye. How well she remembered his tender and earnest gaze, and the small knot of blue harebells on which her own glance fell; when, with sweet shame and pleasure, she looked down, too timid to look upon him. A more solemn and deep conviction of how utterly she loved him seemed to strike upon her heart. She started, for she heard his name; his name that, saving from her own lips, whispered in the stillness of midnight, she had not heard since his departure. Quietly, even carelessly, Sir Jasper was reading the following passage from Lady Marchmont's letter:—
"Do you remember a young man called Norbourne Courtenaye, who was staying at Churchill Manor? He has just married his cousin, Lord Norboume's daughter. It is a splendid match. I thought him épris with our pretty Ethel, but the present marriage is quite one of interest. They are just now keeping the honeymoon: but, with such an heiress! I say that it ought to be called the harvest-moon!"
Ethel started to her feet, the rich flush that had covered her cheek at the first mention of his name died into deadly paleness. The dew started on her forehead, and her eyes dilated with a wild, strange expression; their very blue seemed curdled and glazed. She snatched the letter from Sir Jasper, who started as her icy hand touched his: she attempted to read the passage herself, but the letters seemed to swim before her gaze: they turned to fire; the paper dropped from her grasp; a thick mist appeared to gather over the room; she gave a convulsive shudder, and dropped on the floor perfectly insensible.
It would have spared her a world of wretchedness, had she never recovered from that death-like trance. Truly did the ancients say, "Those whom the gods love, die young!" The flowers fall from the hand unwithered; the eyes close in the sunshine; they go down to the grave as if it were an altar, in their hour of hope and of beauty: they are spared life's longest agony—that of endurance, and endurance without expectation.