CHAPTER XII.
"Still the rose is fanned
With life and love's sweet hues."
Croly.
In the meantime how did Lucy bear the horror of Evelyn's death?—with an abandonment to despair it was heart-rending to witness. Fortunately her health was delicate—we say fortunately, for the mind must have yielded, had not the body sunk under the pressure of this first great sorrow. In Lucy"s brief and quiet career, crime and anguish had as yet been but words; sad and gentle regrets might have flung a moment's lightest shadow on her path, but she had known no real suffering, and its first experience was a shock which left her scarcely the power of feeling.
It is an old saying (and most old sayings are singularly true—we are not so very much wiser than our ancestors, after all), that this most violent grief is the soonest over; yes, if this violence rather alludes to the expression than to the emotion. Words and tears exhaust themselves—and certainly Lucy indulged amply in both. She was one of those timid and dependent tempers to whom weeping is natural; in all emergencies, great or small, her resource, if not remedy, was to cry. To such a one, sympathy is the first relief—confession half transferred the responsibility of the thoughts confessed to the hearer; and the extent of her regret was unconsciously measured by what she was expected to feel. Bodily fatigue soon follows upon the burst of sobs and the passionate exclamation; rest must follow, and the repose soon be comes physical as well as mental. Despair is unnatural; and the powers of Time, the comforter, can scarcely be exaggerated; but the agency by which he works is exhaustion.
There is a grief which may darken a whole life, shut up the heart from every influence but its own, remain unchanged through every change of various fortune, flinging its own shadow over all that is fair, its own bitterness into all that is sweet; but that grief is the silent and the secret—it goes abroad with a smooth brow and a smiling lip—it knows not the relief of tears, and words it disdains. None have fathomed its depths, for its existence is denied; pride is mingled with its strength, for the hidden soul knows there is that within which parts it from its kind, and perhaps triumphs even in such agonising consciousness. With such the spirits often seem buoyant without a cause—often too gay for the occasion. The truth is, that society is to them as a theatre; and what actor is there who does not occasionally over act his part? Few ever penetrate their dark and weary seclusion, for few ever look beyond the surface, unless actuated by some hope, fear, or love of their own, and then their feelings blind their judgment. Such motives turn all objects into mirrors, which reflect some likeness, even if distorted, of themselves. We conjecture, question, desire, anticipate—do everything but observe. And slight, indeed, are the tokens by which the seared heart betrays itself. But it has its signs; there is that real disregard of the pleasures in which it shares, half as a disguise, half to avoid the trouble of importunity. But the eye, however trained to attention, will wander; the set smile becomes absent—weariness is pleaded as an excuse—and lassitude serves as the cloak to indifference. Moreover, though almost unconsciously, the words have a biting and shrewd turn—the opinions are either harsh or given with undue levity—contradiction is almost habitual—and the feelings, denied the resource of sympathy, take refuge in sarcasm.
But Lucy's was too yielding and tearful a nature for this strong endurance and hidden suffering. She was like those fragile creepers which, flung off from the protection of one branch, cling intuitively to the next. Her love for Francis Evelyn was an emanation of that romance which is in the heart of every girl; her preference was as much circumstance as choice, and strengthened by no comparison. It was the natural consequence of solitude, and the belief in the necessity of having a lover, which flutters round the very youthful fancy; and Francis was the only young and handsome cavalier who happened to have been thrown in her way. And perhaps the attachment owed half its power to its concealment and to its silence. Had she married him, she would have been very miserable—her beauty would inevitably have lost, in his eyes, its charm with its novelty; and then all her real deficiencies would have been suddenly discovered, besides many which would only have existed in his own fancy. Nothing could have given her the tact, the presence of mind, the quick perception, the self-control necessary to success in society; and her sweetness and gentleness would have been like a faint fragrance—too delicate for the overpowering atmosphere on which it was fated to waste its fragile existence. With his active and intriguing temper, Francis would doubtless have taken an eager part in the court cabals and conspiracies which make the history of Charles the Second; and how useless in such would he have found Lucy! Neglect would have been her inevitable portion, and to her that would have been worse than death—perhaps death itself.
There is a flower which our earth is too rude to nourish, and whose sole existence is in the clear pure atmosphere; such a flower is Lucy's best emblem. The harsher duties and cares of this weary world were not for her—her natural element was affection. For days and nights Francesca watched beside her pillow, and patiently soothed the sorrowful invalid. Both had much to say—for the nurse had her own course of discipline to pursue with her patient. From the beginning she recounted her own history; and the effect was what she anticipated—indignation became Lucy's strongest sensation; she could not comprehend such duplicity, and she even exaggerated its cruelty and its wrong. There was also a little feminine vanity—a quick sense of injury— which was wonderfully beneficial. Francesca just suggested the idea, which was eagerly caught and tenaciously retained—namely, Francis's infidelity to herself. What! could he go away, leaving her to a solitude wholly occupied with his image and yet have his heart sufficiently vacant to admit even light and passing fancies, beside the serious vow and faith offered to another! Lucy angrily disclaimed aught beyond pity for the memory of the treacherous cavalier; but said that, for his sake, she should hate the very name of love. Francesca thought this rather a rash assertion, as, indeed, such disclaimers usually are.
Winter was now setting in, and our Italian, with all the early associations of a southern clime, trembled before its gloomy influence, and feared lest she should see Lucy's spirits sink with the monotony of its long evenings; for she saw at once that she had not mind enough to be attracted by any abstract pursuit—the selfishness was so quiet and so kindly as to be almost imperceptible; still she could only be interested in something referring to herself. She had no energy for application—in music she never got beyond a few simple airs caught by ear; and Italian, which she began to learn, soon became equally wearisome to both mistress and pupil—for it is a wearisome task to teach where there is little inclination and less understanding.
But an unexpected auxiliary appeared on the scene. We have before alluded to Charles Aubyn, the young clergyman of their village. One visit led to another, and soon every evening saw him a privileged visitor in their apartment, to Lucy's increasing pleasure, and Francesca'a great relief.
The reason why so many fallacious opinions have passed into proverbs is owing to that carelessness which makes the individual instance the general rule. Of all feelings, love is the most modified by character; like the chameleon, it is indeed coloured by the air which it breathes. To half the world its depth is unknown, and its intensity unfelt. To such the expression of its wild passion, its fateful influence, its unalterable faith, are but mysteries, or even mockeries; while, again, to those who hold such true and fervent creed, the heartless change, the utter forgetfulness, the sudden transfer of life's deepest and dearest emotion, is equally absurd and incomprehensible.
Francesca could not at first believe her eyes when she saw the tremulous rose mount into Lucy's cheek at the sound of Charles Aubyn's approach. Scarcely could she credit that the absence and restlessness which her companion betrayed when his daily visit was deferred could be felt on the comparative stranger's account. But when she saw them sit mutually contented by each other's side for hours, Lucy's soft blue eyes only raised to give one gentle smile, and then sink, half agitation, half timidity—and when, finally, by some process or other, Lucy usually contrived that, let their discourse begin on what subject it might, it regularly ended with some reference to Mr. Aubyn—she was obliged to yield to conviction, and to allow, what no romantic imagination likes to admit, that there may be, nay, actually is such a thing as second love in the world; and with a pardonable, because natural, inconsistency, she felt almost disappointed that Lucy had followed her own advice, and forgotten one so unworthy of her affection as Francis Evelyn. It took some time to abate the poetry of her disappointment, and to force from her the admission that Lucy was much more likely to be happy with her present lover—for such he was now acknowledged to be.
Charles Aubyn was one of those in whose composition the heart has a larger share than the head. With more talent; his native enthusiasm would have been a powerful influence; but it lacked that ability which, by strengthening the impulse, gives it power over others. He felt keenly, but he neither reflected nor calculated—hence he lived in a little world of exaggeration. With Lucy this impetuosity served his cause—it carried her along with it; but when enthusiasm of any kind is unshared, it appears only on its ridiculous side; and hence Francesca's good sense and good taste were perpetually revolted by a thousand slight incoherences and absurdities utterly imperceptible to her companion. Fortunately for Charles Aubyn, he was placed in a situation for which he was eminently calculated; his kind-heartedness was constantly called into action by his duties among his parishioners, and his excitable temperament found vent in religious fervour; and in Lucy he met with that up-looking admiration which, under any circumstances, it is exceedingly comfortable to inspire.
Lawrence Aylmer was one of the best-satisfied of the party. He much desired to see his daughter married—he felt that she was quite unfitted for those in her own sphere—had been frightened into almost poetry when he learnt her attachment to Evelyn,—so many were the evil consequences which he anticipated might have happened from so dangerous a connexion; but now he was more than contented—he was delighted—and went to sleep every evening reckoning up the various kinds of worldly substance which he had amassed for her sake.