CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE INFLUENCE OF THE DEAD.
Who are the spirits watching by the dead?
Faith, from whose eyes a solemn light is shed;
And Hope, with far-off sunshine on the Head.
The influence of the dead is that of Heaven;
To it a majesty of power is given,
Working on earth with a diviner leaven.
To them belongs all high and holy thought:
The mind, whose mighty empire they have wrought;
And grief, whose comfort was by angels brought.
And gentle Pity comes, and brings with her
Those pensive dreams that their own light confer;
While Love stands watching by the sepulchre.
Confidence is inseparable from human nature. Never was temper so reserved but it has its moments of unbending—moments when the full heart unlocks its secret fountains, and tells of emotions unsuspected, and thoughts hitherto concealed by the guarded brow and practised lip. Now, of all times and places calculated for confidence, there is no time like evening; no place like sitting over the fire.
Much may be said in favour of a long walk on a summer twilight; the heart opens to the soft influences of the lovely hour; but those very influences distract us from ourselves. The eye is caught by the presence of the beautiful: the violets, half hidden in the long grass; a branch of hawthorn, heavy with its fragrant load; a cloud, on which the crimson shadow lingers to the last:—these are too fair to be passed by unnoticed; they take us from our discourse with a half unconscious delight. Moreover, before the calm and subduing aspect of nature, human cares feel their own vanity. The lulling music of leaves, stirred only by the gentle wind, enters into the soul; and the sweet, deep drawn, breath brings its own tranquillity. Passionate and present, indeed, must be the despair that resists the harmony of such an hour; but the quiet chamber, and the secluded hearth, have an atmosphere of another kind. The objects around have been seen so often, that they have at last become, as it were, unseen; their familiarity does not carry us out of ourselves, for all their associations are our own. They remind us of nothing in which we were not the principal actors; if they call up the image of a friend, they call up our own also. Not a chair nor a table but has some link with our by-gone hours. Here we read, modifying the thoughts of others with our own; there we wrote; and how much is implied in that little phrase! how the whole world of inward existence passes before us, while putting only a small portion of it on paper! With how much is every letter combined, whether of business, or of affection! The room is filled with the ghosts of departed hours, often unnoticed and unremembered; but, when recalled by some chance circumstance, how vivid, and how distinct do they rise upon the memory!
The chamber in which Lord Norbourne was seated, was especially one of this kind; it had been his own room for years, and was crowded with all that marked his character and his taste. It was not large, but of unusual height, and fitted up with great costliness. The bookcases were ebony, inlaid with green morocco, and so were the tables, and the curtains were of crimson velvet. They were closely drawn, but you could hear a gentle rain beating against the window panes. There were few pictures, but each a masterpiece. A sunny landscape of Claude Lorraine's, contrasted the stormy darkness of one by Salvator Rosa: while the spiritual loveliness of a "Madonna," by Guido, was opposed to the passionate beauty of a "Fornarini," by Raphael. Only one modern picture was admitted, and that was a likeness of Constance, painted under her father's especial instructions. It was not taken in the dress of the time; but a loose white robe was gathered in with a few simple folds at the waist. The long hair of the palest gold was just parted on the forehead, and then fell unbound to the waist. Not an ornament of any kind was introduced, only one white thin hand held a bunch of lilies. The likeness was very strong; and the artist had caught, with great felicity, the sweet expression, the purity and the fragility which were Constance's great charm. You believed in angels as you gazed upon her face. On either side of the hearth sat Lord Norbourne and Mr. Courtenaye; they had dined together, and the wine and fruit still stood on the small table drawn between them, where strawberries and cherries were not in strict accordance with the cheerful fire. But Lord Norbourne was greatly in advance of his age, and, as to the matter of that, of our own. He had no vague false notions of beginning fires in November, and ending them in May; but had arrived at the philosophical conclusion, that there are very few evenings, in all the year, that a fire is not a consummation of domestic felicity in England most devoutly to be wished.
Norbourne had been exerting himself to amuse his uncle, but with little success; and the conversation languished till the servants had left the room.
"I have seemed very ungracious," said Lord Norbourne: "but I am too much occupied with one subject to be able to talk on any other."
"What is it?" exclaimed Courtenaye: "I will, at least, promise to be an attentive listener."
"That I do not doubt," replied his uncle, with a forced smile: "for I am going to talk about your marrying again."
Norbourne coloured; and, after a moment's silence, said,—
"This is a very painful subject. For both our sakes, might it not be avoided?"
"No," returned the other; "the confidence that now exists between us, and to which I cling as the last happiness of my life, must be unbroken by even the shadow of a restraint. Would you wish it otherwise, Norbourne?"
"My dearest uncle!" exclaimed his listener.
"We shall feel more at ease," continued Lord Norbourne, "when each fully understands the feelings of the other. I have shrunk, I own, from the subject; but an interview that I had this morning induces me to defer it no longer. I saw Miss Churchill to-day."
"Ethel!" exclaimed Norbourne, his strong and uncontrollable emotion betraying the power that her name still had over him: he tried to say something more, but the words died on his lips.
"I never saw so lovely a creature," continued his uncle: "I do not now wonder that you found it so hard to forgive me. Ah, I was wrong, very wrong!"
"My dear uncle," interrupted the other, "let there be some remembrances buried for ever in oblivion between us."
"Not yet," returned Lord Norbourne. "I feel what I owe you; the future must repay the past."
"I cannot bear you to speak thus," interrupted Courtenaye. "When I think of that gentle creature whose sweet eyes are now looking upon us, as if indeed they looked from heaven; when I recall all your kindness, and all your affection,—I feel, indeed, that you have a right to dispose of my whole existence."
"I should be glad to do so for your happiness," replied his uncle, in a tone of earnest affection: "I always loved you, but the last few months have drawn us so much together. There is a tie between us nothing can break."
"Nothing, indeed!" replied Norbourne, taking his uncle's hand.
Both were silent for a few minutes, when Lord Norbourne resumed the conversation.
"But you do not ask me how, when, and where?—have you no curiosity to hear where I met with Miss Churchill?"
Norbourne smiled, and his uncle continued.
"Of all places in the world, at Sir Robert Walpole's villa at Chelsea."
His listener looked astonished, and added, in a whisper,—"You call her Miss Churchill; how is it that you know her by that name rather than her present one?"
"Why, Miss Churchill is her present name; but I forget that you know nothing of her history. That singularly foolish old lady, her grandmother, got up a sort of caricature conspiracy, and Miss Churchill was to have been married to a coxcombical Jacobite, of the name of Trevanion; but he was arrested in the church, though he has since escaped by means of the jailor's daughter."
"But what could bring Miss Churchill to London?"
"Why, her grandmother came off at once to see what friends she could find; but a foolish visit to the Duchess of Buckingham, some indiscreet letters, and Mr. Trevanion's escape, made Mrs. Churchill the object of serious suspicion. Lady Marchmont—it is extraordinary how women do learn every thing!—heard that an arrest was intended, and what does she and her fair friend do, but set off, like two errant damsels in a romance, to obtain a pardon from Sir Robert."
"And how did they succeed?" asked Norbourne.
"Why, just as might be expected," replied his uncle, "not at all: Walpole thought them two fools for their pains; and, irritated by the gout, dismissed them with as little ceremony as possible."
"And can nothing be done for the poor old lady?" exclaimed Courtenaye, eagerly.
"And the pretty young one?" returned his lordship, laughing. "Why, I have been a complete Amadis of Gaul this morning, rescuing distressed beauty, if not from peril, from perplexity. I met Lady Marchmont on the terrace, not a little surprised to meet her ladyship there."
"Lord Marchmont is in the opposition, is he not?" asked his nephew.
"Yes, for the time being; not that he knows very well what he is. We care little for him, his solemn lordship is one of those never long attached to any party, it being quite impossible to come up to their exaggerated ideas of self-importance. They reckon time by a series of personal affronts; for an aptitude to take offence is the constant characteristic of their low, dull vanity—a vanity never satisfied. Still it surprised me to meet Lady Marchmont at Chelsea."
"I never," said Norbourue, "observed any similarity of opinion between the brilliant countess and her lord and master."
"True," returned the other; "but you must have noted, as well as I have done, a careful avoidance of any thing like direct opposition to Lord Marchmont; therefore, I certainly wondered at her appearance."
"But how did she interest you in their favour?" asked his nephew.
"By introducing Miss Churchill," said Lord Norbourne, earnestly. "Norbourne, till I saw that lovely face—so pale, so sad—I never felt how little had her happiness been considered. I cannot tell you how I was touched by her appearance;—what a relief it was to me when I found that I could serve her."
"My dearest uncle," exclaimed Norbourne, "how little are people in general aware of how kind you are!"
"I care for the opinion of people in general," replied his companion, "precisely what it is worth—nothing! Every hour my contempt increases for the herd of mankind. False, flattering, and cowardly,—treating them ill is only giving them their deserts, and they treat you all the better in consequence. Trample them underfoot, and then, being in their proper places, they know how to behave."
"It is very discouraging," answered the other, "to find how often kindness is thrown away; but it will not be so in the present instance."
"That is a hint, is it not, to go on with my story?" asked Lord Norbourne, smiling. "Well, I found Sir Robert in a very bad humour: some silly vote, and still sillier speech, of Lord Marchmont had irritated him the night before; and the names of the very gentlemen to whom Miss Churchill had referred as their securities, enraged him to the last degree. It was owing to their opposition that our member lost his election for the county."
"How unfortunate!" cried Courtenaye.
"'All's well that ends well,'" replied his uncle. "Sir Robert was, at first, very much surprised at my taking up the case, and obviously did not know to the influence of which lady he was to attribute it. I believe his opposition, in the first instance, originated in the fear that, by thus acting, I was making a fool of myself."
"An alarm as unnecessary, as the alarms our friends entertain on our account generally are. A friend is never alarmed for us in the right place. But how did you manage to convince Sir Robert that you were in your sober senses?"
"Why, I did what I always do," returned his uncle, "to a man for whom I have a respect,—I told him the truth. I frankly avowed that I took an interest in Miss Churchill, and on your account."
Norbourne coloured, from mixed sensations; still hope was the predominant one.
"I believe that the whole business," continued his uncle, "is now settled. I do not think that you will regret Mrs. Churchill being obliged to remain in town for some time to come; and if the fine does dip somewhat deeply into the old lady's hoards, it matters little; for whoever you marry will be unto me as a daughter."
Norbourne could only look at his uncle with grateful affection; and Lord Norbourne continued:—
"I think, Norbourne, that I could do anything for yourself; yet shall I tell you that my present line of conduct does not arise from my own prompting."
"To whose then?" exclaimed Norbourne, in undisguised astonishment.
"I am," answered Lord Norbourne, "but fulfilling the last wishes of our poor Constance. You do not even now know how precious your happiness was to that gentle and loving heart."
"I cannot bear," exclaimed Norbourne, "to think of happiness, and Constance in her grave. Ah, if she did but know the sorrow I have felt for her sake."
"If," returned her father, "according to her own sweet belief, the departed yet watch the beloved on earth, how would she wish to soothe an unavailing regret! But you must now see a letter I found, addressed to me, after her death."
Lord Norbourne rose from his seat; and, unlocking one of the closets, took from it a small ivory casket. "You open it," said he in a broken voice, "by touching this spring. Read the letter it contains, and return it to me to-morrow. It is a treasure with which I would not part for any thing in this world."