till now. Well!”
“Well, Mr. Vigors has brought me a letter from her, and it is that which has put me out. I dare say you have not heard me speak before of Lady Haughton, for I am ashamed to say I had almost forgotten her existence. She is many years older than my husband was; of a very different character. Only came once to see him after our marriage. Hurt me by ridiculing him as a bookworm; offended him by looking a little down on me, as a nobody without spirit and fashion, which was quite true. And, except by a cold and unfeeling letter of formal condolence after I lost my dear Gilbert, I have never heard from her since I have been a widow, till to-day. But, after all, she is my poor husband’s sister, and his eldest sister, and Lilian’s aunt; and, as Mr. Vigors says, ‘Duty is duty.’”
Had Mrs. Ashleigh said “Duty is torture,” she could not have uttered the maxim with more mournful and despondent resignation.
“And what does this lady require of you, which Mr. Vigors deems it your duty to comply with?”
“Dear me! What penetration! You have guessed the exact truth. But I think you will agree with Mr. Vigors. Certainly I have no option; yes, I must do it.”
“My penetration is in fault now. Do what? Pray explain.”
“Poor Lady Haughton, six months ago, lost her only son, Sir James. Mr. Vigors says he was a very fine young man, of whom any mother would have been proud. I had heard he was wild; Mr. Vigors says, however, that he was just going to reform, and marry a young lady whom his mother chose for him, when, unluckily, he would ride a steeplechase, not being quite sober at the time, and broke his neck. Lady Haughton has been, of course, in great grief. She has retired to Brighton; and she wrote to me from thence, and Mr. Vigors brought the letter. He will go back to her to-day.”
“Will go back to Lady Haughton? What! Has he been to her? Is he, then, as intimate with Lady Haughton as he was with her brother?”
“No; but there has been a long and constant correspondence. She had a settlement on the Kirby Estate,—a sum which was not paid off during Gilbert’s life; and a very small part of the property went to Sir James, which part Mr. Ashleigh Sumner, the heir-at-law to the rest of the estate, wished Mr. Vigors, as his guardian, to buy during his minority, and as it was mixed up with Lady Haughton’s settlement her consent was necessary as well as Sir James’s. So there was much negotiation, and, since then, Ashleigh Sumner has come into the Haughton property, on poor Sir James’s decease; so that complicated all affairs between Mr. Vigors and Lady Haughton, and he has just been to Brighton to see her. And poor Lady Haughton, in short, wants me and Lilian to go and visit her. I don’t like it at all. But you said the other day you thought sea air might be good for Lilian during the heat of the summer, and she seems well enough now for the change. What do you think?”
“She is well enough, certainly. But Brighton is not the place I would recommend for the summer; it wants shade, and is much hotter than L——”
“Yes; but unluckily Lady Haughton foresaw that objection, and she has a jointure-house some miles from Brighton, and near the sea. She says the grounds are well wooded, and the place is proverbially cool and healthy, not far from St. Leonard’s Forest. And, in short, I have written to say we will come. So we must, unless, indeed, you positively forbid it.”
“When do you think of going?”
“Next Monday. Mr. Vigors would make me fix the day. If you knew how I dislike moving when I am once settled; and I do so dread Lady Haughton, she is so fine, and so satirical! But Mr. Vigors says she is very much altered, poor thing! I should like to show you her letter, but I had just sent it to Margaret—Mrs. Poyntz—a minute or two before you came. She knows something of Lady Haughton. Margaret knows everybody. And we shall have to go in mourning for poor Sir James, I suppose; and Margaret will choose it, for I am sure I can’t guess to what extent we should be supposed to mourn. I ought to have gone in mourning before—poor Gilbert’s nephew—but I am so stupid, and I had never seen him. And—But oh, this is kind! Margaret herself,—my dear Margaret!”
We had just turned away from the house, in our up-and-down walk; and Mrs. Poyntz stood immediately fronting us. “So, Anne, you have actually accepted this invitation—and for Monday next?”
“Yes. Did I do wrong?”
“What does Dr. Fenwick say? Can Lilian go with safety?”
I could not honestly say she might not go with safety, but my heart sank like lead as I answered,—
“Miss Ashleigh does not now need merely medical care; but more than half her cure has depended on keeping her spirits free from depression. She may miss the cheerful companionship of your daughter, and other young ladies of her own age. A very melancholy house, saddened by a recent bereavement, without other guests; a hostess to whom she is a stranger, and whom Mrs. Ashleigh herself appears to deem formidable,—certainly these do not make that change of scene which a physician would recommend. When I spoke of sea air being good for Miss Ashleigh, I thought of our own northern coasts at a later time of the year, when I could escape myself for a few weeks and attend her. The journey to a northern watering-place would be also shorter and less fatiguing; the air there more invigorating.”
“No doubt that would be better,” said Mrs. Poyntz, dryly; “but so far as your objections to visiting Lady Haughton have been stated, they are groundless. Her house will not be melancholy; she will have other guests, and Lilian will find companions, young like herself,—young ladies—and young gentlemen too!”
There was something ominous, something compassionate, in the look which Mrs. Poyntz cast upon me, in concluding her speech, which in itself was calculated to rouse the fears of a lover. Lilian away from me, in the house of a worldly-fine lady—such as I judged Lady Haughton to be—surrounded by young gentlemen, as well as young ladies, by admirers, no doubt, of a higher rank and more brilliant fashion than she had yet known! I closed my eyes, and with strong effort suppressed a groan.
“My dear Annie, let me satisfy myself that Dr. Fenwick really does consent to this journey. He will say to me what he may not to you. Pardon me, then, if I take him aside for a few minutes. Let me find you here again under this cedar-tree.”
Placing her arm in mine, and without waiting for Mrs. Ashleigh’s answer, Mrs. Poyntz drew me into the more sequestered walk that belted the lawn; and when we were out of Mrs. Ashleigh’s sight and hearing, said,—
“From what you have now seen of Lilian Ashleigh, do you still desire to gain her as your wife?”
“Still? Oh, with an intensity proportioned to the fear with which I now dread that she is about to pass away from my eyes—from my life!”
“Does your judgment confirm the choice of your heart? Reflect before you answer.”
“Such selfish judgment as I had before I knew her would not confirm but oppose it. The nobler judgment that now expands all my reasonings, approves and seconds my heart. No, no; do not smile so sarcastically. This is not the voice of a blind and egotistical passion. Let me explain myself if I can. I concede to you that Lilian’s character is undeveloped; I concede to you, that amidst the childlike freshness and innocence of her nature, there is at times a strangeness, a mystery, which I have not yet traced to its cause. But I am certain that the intellect is organically as sound as the heart, and that intellect and heart will ultimately—if under happy auspices—blend in that felicitous union which constitutes the perfection of woman. But it is because she does, and may for years, may perhaps always, need a more devoted, thoughtful care than natures less tremulously sensitive, that my judgment sanctions my choice; for
