Margaret Capel Volume Ii Part 27

"Then," said Mr. Haveloc, "we have but to part. How difficult it is to me, no words could speak--but those things which are inevitable, had best be quickly done. So--farewell."

Without another word, or look, or gesture, he rushed out of the room and from the house.

Margaret sat for some time trying to recollect every thing he had said.

He had not asked her to forgive him--had simply said he could not undo the past; he had not begged, as he might have done, that she would give him time and opportunity to retrieve it. It had seemed that he was willing--even anxious, to be set free--he had made arrangements before seeing her, that proved he had decided this to be their last meeting.

She was dead--and therefore he might have endeavoured to return to Margaret, if he had desired a reconciliation. But no--she had offended him, and he was too proud to wish it. Margaret tried to think it was best for both; but a sense of agony, amounting almost to suffocation, would not let it be. If she could have wept--but no tears came--so she lay helplessly in her chair, watching the ebony cabinet that stood opposite first receding farther and farther, then seemed to float before her eyes, until sense and memory went out together, and she fell into a deep swoon.

It was some time before Blanche, who came down as soon as Mr. Haveloc left the house, could restore Margaret to consciousness. When she succeeded, she was full of condolence.

"What a bore it was, my dear creature," said she, "that you should have had to receive that horrid man. Had it been any one else, it might have done you all the good in the world; for you might have had a nice little flirtation to raise your spirits. But as for him--I hate him; his manners are so abrupt. Of course he began talking of poor dear Mr. Grey.

So mal-a-propos."

"He did speak of my uncle," said Margaret.

"I knew it!" exclaimed Blanche. "That was it. I wish there was a nice little dance you could go to; or a concert--but this place is a perfect hermitage; and your mourning too would be a drawback. How beautifully you were dressed at Bessy Gage's wedding. You had a cl.u.s.ter of pink daisies at the side of your bonnet. That was an excellent match! I would have almost married old Sir Philip, myself, for the sake of Sherleigh. I say, did Hubert Gage ever make you an offer?"

Margaret blushed, but astonishment kept her silent.

"Every body says he did," continued Blanche, "and I do not wonder that you refused him. I hate younger sons. Mamma wished me to marry him at one time, but I declined. I almost wish now that I had kept him on, just to pique somebody else. Do you like military men?"

"No," said Margaret.

"Well, I wonder at that," said Blanche. "I think I could make you change your mind. Did you happen to notice me walking with a young man, in the garden, yesterday before dinner?"

"No, I was up stairs," said Margaret, faintly.

"Well--if you can manage to walk out to-morrow--do you think you could?"

"No, I am sure I could not."

"That is a pity, because I often meet him on the S---- road. You would be so much amused with him. He has such spirits, and I should not be jealous, no--Watkins is all my own."

At another time Margaret would have laughed at this declaration; now, she sighed heavily and sank back in her chair.

"You are quite fatigued with that wretch Mr. Haveloc; it was just like my uncle to admit him. However, thank goodness he is going to Russia directly, and will not bore you again. But here comes my uncle; not a word about Watkins, I entreat. We keep it a secret from him, but I will take care that you are in the way the next time he comes to the house."

"I will go up stairs and lie down, if you please," said Margaret, trying to rise. "I am not very well."

Blanche helped Margaret up stairs, and she had another attack of illness, which again confined her to her bed for some days.

CHAPTER XVIII.

How slowly do the hours their numbers spend, How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!

SPENSER.

Mathilden's Hertz hat niemand noch ergrundet-- Doch, grosse Seelen dulden still.

DON KARLOS.

Mrs. Somerton had kindly offered, as soon as ever she learned the particulars of Margaret's situation, to take the charge of her, and treat her like one of her own daughters.

But Mr. Warde did not seize the proposition with the eagerness that it might seem to merit. Perhaps, he thought, that if Margaret was no better treated than Mrs. Somerton's daughters, her life would not be all sunshine; perhaps he feared that the lady would not scrupulously redeem her pledge; at any rate, he informed his sister decidedly, that it was his intention to place Margaret with some lady who had no children; for he thought it would be difficult, if not impossible, for any other to adjust satisfactorily, the claims of her daughters and her guest. Mrs.

Somerton tried to argue the point, but Mr. Warde was firm, and wrote to one or two friends describing the sort of home he desired for Margaret.

Blanche was so much occupied with her military friend, her Watkins, as she called him, that Margaret saw less of her than before. She walked out in every direction in the hope of meeting him, she staid at home all day, if she thought he would call; she took an immense deal of trouble to catch what a good many people would have p.r.o.nounced to be not worth catching--her Watkins was ignorant, profligate, and silly; and very fortunately for Blanche, he behaved to her like most other officers; that is to say, he walked off one fine morning with his regiment, without so much as bidding adieu to his lady love. Margaret knew nothing of this distressing event when she rejoined the family--she had not seen Blanche for the last day or two, and now she found her reclining on the sofa, suffering, as Mrs. Somerton told her, from a nervous attack. "That is hard upon you, Mrs. Somerton," said Margaret, "to have two invalids on your hands. I must make haste and get well to relieve you of part of your charge."

"I am sure, my dear Miss Capel," said Mrs. Somerton, "no invalid ever gave so little trouble as you. I only wish Blanche would imitate your patience."

Margaret drew a low chair to the sofa, and took her work; "are you suffering in your head?" she asked Blanche, in a gentle voice.

"No, not much; I'm glad you are come down," said she. "It will be somebody to talk to; that is a very pretty pattern for a plain collar.

I like the black studs down the front. Do you waltz?" But here the recollection of having waltzed with Lieutenant Watkins overcame her, and she became rather hysterical. Mrs. Somerton scolded her, Blanche got angry, and then order was restored. Mrs. Somerton took Margaret to the window, and whispered to her the state of the case, and then Blanche called out to her mother and scolded her for having told Margaret when she wanted to tell her all about it herself. Margaret turning her eyes full of wonder from one to the other, could scarcely comprehend that Blanche was suffering from a disappointment; she contrasted the total desolation of her own feelings, with the frivolous annoyance that the other seemed to endure, and could understand nothing of the case.

Quiet was again restored. Mrs. Somerton plied her worsted work. Margaret netted in silence. Blanche, lying on the sofa, was eating French chocolate. Presently Mrs. Somerton began to count aloud the st.i.tches in the bunch of grapes she was working, "thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine."

A burst of crying from Blanche, louder than anything Margaret had heard, except from a baby; Mrs. Somerton had inadvertently named the number of Mr. Watkins's regiment.

The fresh scolding, fresh sobs, and, at last, a gla.s.s of sal-volatile, tranquillised her spirits for the present.

It must be admitted that such scenes were rather fatiguing to a young girl in bad health, and suffering deeply from the reality of which this was but the shadow.

She learned, however, to set some value upon her own power of self-command. She could not help feeling that the unrestrained sorrow of Blanche lost in dignity what it gained in publicity.

Mason knew all about it; and frequently alluded to poor Miss Somerton with pity; and to Mr. Watkins with all the violence which a waiting-woman is pretty sure to feel towards a man who has thwarted a young lady in her laudable endeavours to get married.

In two or three days Margaret was happy to find that Blanche could talk of waltzing without a sigh; and her mamma might safely count threads from thirty to forty without awakening any painful reflections.

But there ensued another annoyance to poor Margaret. Whenever she was alone with Blanche, which was the greatest part of the day, Mr. Watkins was the one topic of conversation.

When she had heard all about his boots, and his eyes, and his way of carving a chicken, and his wastefulness in gloves, (a great merit in the eyes of Blanche,) she naturally hoped that they had come to an end of the list; but it is quite surprising the number of little anecdotes which this gentleman furnished. There were all his jokes to repeat; and these were so exceedingly stupid, that they really did make Margaret smile sometimes. And then there were several stories of dishonest actions, which she was expected to laugh at, but which she could not, for very disgust.

Once he had taken in a Jew; this was his chef-d'[oe]uvre; and twice he had cheated a friend in the sale of a horse; and Blanche thought this greatly enhanced his merit, and her loss.

She became rather tearful when she mentioned the last theft; but she presently recovered herself, and turned the conversation upon a satin pelisse she was about to buy. In fact, the future and the past pretty equally divided her mind. The loss of Mr. Watkins, and the arrangement of her dresses for the autumn.

"Do you know, the last time poor Watkins called, he was so intoxicated!"

cried Blanche. "I was afraid my uncle would have noticed it; but, fortunately, he only came in for a few minutes; for Watkins staid to luncheon. I never shall forget his trying to carve the cold lamb."

"Then that was the reason," said Margaret, hesitating, "that you broke with him."

"Mercy on me, my dear! where were you brought up;" cried Blanche, laughing. "What! break with a man because he was a little intoxicated?

Not I, believe me!"