Margaret Capel Volume Iii Part 23

_Org._ Time can never On the white table of unguilty faith Write counterfeit dishonour.

FORD.

"It was the heat, Harriet, indeed. Mrs. Fitzpatrick will tell you that I cannot bear hot weather," said Margaret earnestly.

"Mrs. Fitzpatrick is not in the room, _ma mie_," said Harriet, taking a chair just opposite to Margaret. "I certainly never knew such a heroine as you are. Going down to dinner after an obstinate fainting fit; divinely dressed, and looking like a very pale angel. Now I have said a generous thing, because I see your white dress is more prettily made than mine; but I make a great exertion and forgive you."

Margaret smiled.

"Well now, Margaret, what was it? This is the second time of asking.

Beware of the third."

"I have told you, dear Harriet," said Margaret. "I was not well when I came. I felt wretchedly all yesterday, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick thought the journey had been too much for one day; she means to divide it when we go back."

"When you go back! That will not be while I am here, I can tell you,"

said Harriet. "Oh! I do wish Margaret that you were married. I hate single women!"

"I really cannot help that, Harriet," said Margaret.

"I told you all about my affair with George;" said Harriet with emphasis.

"True, dear Harriet, but I was not a married woman!" said Margaret, trying to rally her spirits.

"If you think I should repeat anything to George, you are quite mistaken," said Harriet, "he may think himself very well off if I confide to him my own affairs."

"But, indeed, dear Harriet, I have no affairs to confide;" persisted poor Margaret.

"You cannot be in love with Mr. Haveloc;" said Harriet musing, and trying to recall what happened at Chirke Weston, the only time she saw them both together.

"In love with him--no!" said Margaret drawing herself up, and speaking with energy.

"Brava! you handsome little creature;" cried Harriet catching her in her arms, and covering her with kisses, "but come, it is a dull party to-day, but we will make up for it to-morrow."

If it was a dull party, it was at least a very large one. The drawing-room was full. Lady Raymond, with jewels in her dress and hair, was standing by a vase of flowers, showing something choice to one of the guests. Lord Raymond came in quietly, spoke to the company, went up to his wife and looked at her dress, took hold of one of her ornaments, with some curiosity, and then stood on the hearth-rug until dinner was ready.

Margaret was a.s.signed to Everard Gage, who never talked if he could help it; and she felt the luxury of repose and silence during this grand, tedious dinner.

When they were again in the drawing-room, the ladies divided into little knots according to their tastes and degrees of intimacy. Mrs.

Fitzpatrick was seated in one of the windows; Margaret at a stand near her, looking over some prints; Harriet was discussing, with Miss Campbell and Lady James Deacon, the French vaudeville they meant to act.

Lady Raymond, whose feelings, though not very deep, were kindly, seated herself beside Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"We met a very old friend of yours to-day, quite unexpectedly," she said in a low voice.

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick with great interest. "Was it Mr.

Haveloc? Is he at Tynebrook?"

"He is just arrived," said Lucy, "and he dines with us to-morrow. I thought you would like to know."

"Thank you; I shall be truly glad to see him;" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick with a sigh.

"I know it all," said Lucy in a sympathising tone. "Raymond told me he was engaged to my poor cousin." For Lady Raymond having adopted Mrs.

Fitzpatrick to that degree of relationship, extended the kindred to her lost daughter.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was truth itself; there was no occasion to enter into detail; but she could not avoid correcting an erroneous statement of facts.

"He is a very intimate and tried friend of mine," she said; "but he was not engaged, nor even attached to my daughter in the common sense of the word. He did not form our acquaintance until after Aveline had too clearly shown a tendency to the complaint which destroyed her. There could have been no thought of marriage between them; but being in my neighbourhood, during the latter part of her illness, he paid me such frequent visits, that, had there been any gossip in that solitary place, I dare say it would have ascribed such a reason for his conduct. I am sure he was like a son to me, at a time when I was deeply in need of support. And it is possible that under other circ.u.mstances, if his heart was disengaged, of which I am entirely ignorant, the regard and respect that he felt for my daughter might have ripened into a permanent attachment."

"Of course it would; it is just the same thing. How melancholy!" said Lucy, with the usual amount of pity in her voice. "And so after all, my dear Mrs. Fitzpatrick, you are to be the future mistress of Tynebrook."

"Do be reasonable, my dear Lady Raymond," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, laughing. "I have always heard it considered hazardous for ladies to think of single men as their brothers: but I never heard that the same danger existed when they looked upon them as sons."

The prints fell from Margaret's hands. She sat listening--breathless--with parted lips, and eyes fixed, to every word that Mrs. Fitzpatrick uttered.

At first she could not think; she seemed turned to stone. Her next feeling was a sense of oppression, which made her find the crowded room intolerable. She looked cautiously round, and seeing every one engaged in their own pursuits, she made her escape through one of the open windows into the shrubbery.

And all this she might have known easily before. She must often have been within a hair's breadth of knowing, when anything moved Mrs.

Fitzpatrick to some distant allusion to her daughter.

And two years had pa.s.sed, during which she had been guilty of such injustice, such baseness; for had she loved n.o.bly, would she have believed appearances against him? She, who was so slow to believe evil of the most casual acquaintance. All her sorrow, all her agony had been nothing to this corroding sense of shame to which she was now delivered.

When she had believed herself sinned against, she knew where to seek for alleviation; but how shield her heart from the intolerable sting of believing herself to be the one in fault? To have ruined her happiness for life through a narrowness of soul that refused to trust implicitly the heart and honour of the man she had chosen!

To her high generosity of feeling the anguish that these reflections brought with them was intolerable.

Sinking on a seat, she remained motionless--tearless; endeavouring to still by the pressure of her hands, the wild beating of her heart. And few people, after committing some deadly crime, would have felt more conscience-stricken, more self-debased, than Margaret, when she reproached herself for the ungenerous want of a romantic confidence.

How long she sat there she knew not; but she was roused by the clear voice of Harriet, among the shrubs exclaiming:

"Run, Everard! Why don't you run? How can you expect to find any one at this snail's pace?"

"I do run," was the faint reply.

Margaret, thinking it better to declare herself, called to Harriet, who was presently at her side. Everard Gage creeping slowly after.

Harriet turned to look at him.

"Come, make haste, and give Miss Capel your arm--or, no; run as fast as you can to the house, and bring out a shawl."

Everard turned, and disappeared slowly down the walk.

"Well, now, ma mie," said Harriet, sitting down beside her; "was the room too hot?"

"Yes; but it was rather the sound of so many voices that disturbed me,"

said Margaret.

"Well, then, little one, go to bed," said Harriet. "If you sleep soundly, you will be well to-morrow. I can't think what is come to the child; her hands are as cold as ice."