CHAPTER XI.
CONVERSATION AFTER BREAKFAST.
False look, false hope, and falsest love,
All meteors sent to me,
To show how they the heart could move,
And how deceiving be:
They left me darkened, crushed, alone;
My spirit's household gods o'erthrown.
The world itself is changed, and all
That was beloved before
Is vanished, and beyond recall,
For I can hope no more:
The sear of fire, the dint of steel,
Are easier than such wounds to heal.
"Ethel," said Lady Marchmont, earnestly "you are wrong: I will not talk to you, because I know it would be in vain, of the advantages of the connexion; for I believe too late, that nothing in marriage can supply the want of affection: but, Ethel, you love him!"
"I did!" replied the other, coldly.
"Nay, you do!" continued the countess. "Forgive me, dearest, if I seem to say more than even our old friendship would warrant; but do let me implore you, not from any mistaken pride—nay," seeing Ethel about to speak, "I will not be interrupted—do not, from mistaken pride, throw your happiness away from you. Think what it is to go through life loving, and beloved; to be understood, appreciated, cared for; the thousand slight things of daily life made delicious by a quiet, yet well understood sympathy; your thoughts shared, your sorrows soothed; a motive for every action, for you know that their object is the happiness of another."
"Mr. Courtenaye has already shewed how much he cared for that happiness," returned Ethel, bitterly.
"Yet you love him!" said Henrietta. "True, his name passes your lips; if you thought that you were to meet him anywhere, you would not go; yet, not the less is his image perpetually before you. We drive out together; half the time you do not hear a word that I say; lost in your own thoughts—thoughts which, many slight things betray, are fixed on one object. If you rouse from your reverie, you are restless and agitated; your eye wanders round in one perpetual search; and if, perchance, as has happened once or twice, he has only passed in the distance, your eye brightens, your cheek flushes crimson, and your whole frame quivers with uncontrollable emotion!"
"I did not think," whispered Ethel, "that I could have shown such weakness: you know not how I have struggled with—how I despise it!"
"Nay," replied Henrietta, "why should you struggle with a feeling which, in you, is both natural and excusable? Come, be generous, and forgive Mr. Courtenaye; it is of no use expecting romantic constancy in the present day. You do not know, and, therefore, can make no allowance for embarrassments of a pecuniary nature; but involved estates are very troublesome things."
"Oh, Henrietta!" exclaimed her listener, "what must that love be which worldly circumstances could, in a moment, suffice to change? Ah, what is there in the wide world that I could not have endured for his sake?"
"Well, then," interrupted Lady Marchmont, "endure a little wrong on his part: I have no doubt his uncle exercised great influence over him. Now, Lord Norbourne, who, 1 can tell you, is one of your greatest admirers, consents, and there is not an obstacle to your happiness."
"Yes," said Ethel, "there is one not to be got over—the past! Henrietta, I could forgive the misery that I have suffered, though even you know not what it has been. My God, forgive me murmurs wrung from me by wretchedness too great to be endured! Night after night, I have laid my head on the pillow, and prayed that I might never raise it again; day after day, I have turned away loathing from the morning light! How could I bear to think on the many miserable hours before me! With what heart-sickness I waited for the letter that never came! I have felt my temper grown irritable, my spirits broken, all my former enjoyments grown distasteful, my very nature changed—all this I could forgive, but I cannot forgive his own unworthiness! He whom I thought so high-minded, so generous; to whom I looked up, and on whom I relied with such fearless confidence; for him to prove so cruel, so false! In what can I ever believe again? It is not for his loss that I grieve, but I grieve over my own wasted affections; for all, that I cannot again even dream! No; let Mr. Courtenaye restore me my belief in his own high excellence, let him give me back my hope, my confidence, and then let him ask me to love him once more,—but not till then!"
She bowed her face in her hands, and the large tears trickled slowly through.
"Yet," said Lady Marchmont, seating herself by Ethel, "this very grief shows you regret him."
"It does!" exclaimed Ethel, suddenly raising her face, and dashing the tears aside. "I loved him—utterly, tenderly, as I shall never love again; but I will not trust my happiness a second time with one who wrecked it so entirely: I have not courage to risk such suffering again. He sacrificed me first for interest; I should next be flung aside for some newer fancy. There is no faith to be placed, where faith has been once broken: and now, let this subject be dropped forever between us. I will not, I could not, marry Mr. Courtenaye!"
"It is of no use," exclaimed Lady Marchmont, as her companion left the room, "and I know not what to say. She convinces my reason, and yet I see she is wretched; she will neither be happy with him, nor without him. Love is a fearful risk; and, I believe, of all the ingenious inventions for multiplying and varying misery, it is one of the most ingenious."
"One word more," said Ethel, returning for a moment: "I must entreat, as a personal favour, that this subject be never renewed between us. It can only serve to keep alive feelings that I owe it to myself to subdue. Henceforth I shall consider forgetfulness a duty."
Poor Ethel! of all duties, forgetfulness is the hardest to fulfil. The very effort to forget teaches us to remember.