the colour came to her cheeks – "But you are one of the few who know him," she said, interrupting herself suddenly; "you know how he sacrifices all things – joy, leisure, health – to his country. There is not one selfish thought in his nature. And yet such envy – such obstacles still! and" (her eyes dropped on her dress, and I perceived that she was in mourning, though the mourning was not deep,) "and," she added, "it has pleased heaven to withdraw from his side one who would have been worthy his alliance."
I felt for the proud woman, though her emotion seemed more that of pride than sorrow. And perhaps Lord Castleton's highest merit in her eyes had been that of ministering to her husband's power and her own ambition. I bowed my head in silence, and thought of Fanny. Did she, too, pine for the lost rank, or rather mourn the lost lover?
After a time, I said hesitatingly, "I scarcely presume to condole with you, Lady Ellinor; yet, believe me, few things ever shocked me like the death you allude to. I trust Miss Trevanion's health has not much suffered. Shall I not see her before I leave England?"
Lady Ellinor fixed her keen bright eyes searchingly on my countenance, and perhaps the gaze satisfied her, for she held out her hand to me with a frankness almost tender, and said – "Had I had a son, the dearest wish of my heart had been to see you wedded to my daughter."
I started up – the blood rushed to my cheeks, and then left me pale as death. I looked reproachfully at Lady Ellinor, and the word "cruel" faltered on my lips.
"Yes," continued Lady Ellinor, mournfully, "that was my real thought, my impulse of regret, when I first saw you. But, as it is, do not think me too hard and worldly, if I quote the lofty old French proverb, Noblesse oblige. Listen to me, my young friend, – we may never meet again, and I would not have your father's son think unkindly of me with all my faults. From my first childhood I was ambitious – not as women usually are, of mere wealth and rank – but ambitious as noble men are, of power and fame. A woman can only indulge such ambition by investing it in another. It was not wealth, it was not rank, that attracted me to Albert Trevanion; it was the nature that dispenses with the wealth, and commands the rank. Nay," continued Lady Ellinor, in a voice that slightly trembled, "I may have seen in my youth, before I knew Trevanion, one (she paused a moment, and went on hurriedly) – one who wanted but ambition to have realised my ideal. Perhaps, even when I married – and it was said for love – I loved less with my whole heart than with my whole mind. I may say this now, for now every beat of this pulse is wholly and only true to him with whom I have schemed, and toiled, and aspired; with whom I have grown as one; with whom I have shared the struggle, and now partake the triumph – realising the visions of my youth."
Again the light broke from the dark eyes of this grand daughter of the world, who was so superb a type of that moral contradiction —an ambitious woman.
"I cannot tell you," resumed Lady Ellinor, softening, "how pleased I was when you came to live with us. Your father has perhaps spoken to you of me, and of our first acquaintance?" —
Lady Ellinor paused abruptly, and surveyed me as she paused. I was silent.
"Perhaps, too, he has blamed me?" she resumed, with a heightened colour.
"He never blamed you, Lady Ellinor!"
"He had a right to do so – though I doubt if he would have blamed me on the true ground. Yet, no; he never could have done me the wrong that your uncle did, when, long years ago, Mr de Caxton in a letter – the very bitterness of which disarmed all anger – accused me of having trifled with Austin – nay, with himself! And he, at least, had no right to reproach me," continued Lady Ellinor warmly, and with a curve of her haughty lip, "for if I felt interest in his wild thirst for some romantic glory, it was but in the hope that, what made the one brother so restless, might at least wake the other to the ambition that would have become his intellect, and aroused his energies. But these are old tales of follies and delusions now no more: only this will I say, that I have ever felt in thinking of your father, and even of your sterner uncle, as if my conscience reminded me of a debt which I longed to discharge – if not to them, to their children. So when we knew you, believe me that your interests, your career, instantly became to me an object. But, mistaking you – when I saw your ardent industry bent on serious objects, and accompanied by a mind so fresh and buoyant; and, absorbed as I was in schemes or projects far beyond a woman's ordinary province of hearth and home – I never dreamed, while you were our guest – never dreamed of danger to you or Fanny. I wound you, pardon me; but I must vindicate myself. I repeat that, if we had a son to inherit our name, to bear the burthen which the world lays upon those who are born to influence the world's destinies, there is no one to whom Trevanion and myself would sooner have intrusted the happiness of a daughter. But my daughter is the sole representative of the mother's line, of the father's name: it is not her happiness alone that I have to consult, it is her duty – duty to her birthright, to the career of the noblest of England's patriots – duty, I may say, without exaggeration, to the country for the sake of which that career is run!"
"Say no more, Lady Ellinor; say no more. I understand you. I have no hope – I never had hope – it was a madness – it is over. It is but as a friend that I ask again, if I may see Miss Trevanion in your presence, before – before I go alone into this long exile. Ay, look in my face – you cannot fear my resolution, my honour, my truth. But once, Lady Ellinor, but once more! Do I ask in vain?"
Lady Ellinor was evidently much moved. I bent down almost in the attitude of kneeling; and, brushing away her tears with one hand, she laid the other on my head tenderly, and said in a very low voice —
"I entreat you not to ask me; I entreat you not to see my daughter. You have shown that you are not selfish – conquer yourself still. What if such an interview, however guarded you might be, were but to agitate, unnerve my child, unsettle her peace, prey upon" —
"Oh, do not speak thus – she did not share my feelings!"
"Could her mother own it if she did? Come, come, remember how young you both are. When you return, all these dreams will be forgotten; then we can meet as before – then I will be your second mother, and again your career shall be my care; for do not think that we shall leave you so long in this exile as you seem to forbode. No, no; it is but an absence – an excursion – not a search after fortune. Your fortune – confide that to us when you return!"
"And I am to see her no more?" I murmured, as I rose, and went silently towards the window to conceal my face. The great struggles in life are limited to moments. In the drooping of the head upon the bosom – in the pressure of the hand upon the brow – we may scarcely consume a second in our threescore years and ten; but what revolutions of our whole being may pass within us, while that single sand drops noiseless down to the bottom of the hour-glass.
I came back with a firm step to Lady Ellinor, and said calmly, "My reason tells me that you are right, and I submit. Forgive me! and do not think me ungrateful, and over proud, if I add, that you must leave me still the object in life that consoles and encourages me through all."
"What object is that?" asked Lady Ellinor, hesitatingly.
"Independence for myself, and ease to those for whom life is still sweet. This is my twofold object; and the means to effect it must be my own heart and my own hands. And now convey all my thanks to your noble husband, and accept my warm prayers for yourself and her– whom I will not name. Farewell, Lady Ellinor."
"No, do not leave me so hastily; I have many things to discuss with you – at least to ask of you. Tell me how your father bears his reverse? – tell me, at least, if there is aught he will suffer us to do for him? There are many appointments in Trevanion's range of influence that would suit even the wilful indolence of a man of letters. Come, be frank with me!"
I could not resist so much kindness; so I sat down, and,
