showed her that a new day was come.
CHAPTER III. LOVERS’ PENITENCE IN MERRY ENGLAND.
Lady Carewe was in no haste to reach the cottages. They were not her only object. She led the way through the flower-garden, and gathered the violets, and lingered over the hyacinths while they were sparkling with dew; and she described the Fawsley gardens in which Margaret was to take her delight. There was no trace of displeasure in her manner, and Henrietta was relieved and softened. When they had passed out upon the cliff, they sauntered in the morning sun, and dazzled their eyes with the glitter on the sea. When they had reached a recess, carpeted with grass, Lady Carewe proposed to sit awhile, and see the boats go out from the beach below.
“Now my child,” said she, “I wish you would open your heart to me as if I were your mother. You are as a daughter to me; and you always will be; and I wish to know of every care which troubles your mind.”
“Oh! Aunt! Indeed I cannot speak of that,” replied Henrietta. “To you of all persons I can least say what I feel.”
“I hope to prove to you that that is a mistake, my love. I do not ask what trouble has come between you and Harry, because I know it.”
“I was sure he and you were consulting together last night,” Henrietta said.
“We were. My son has told me all. He sees where he was wrong. I see where you were both wrong; and I trust to see you both right when you begin to discover how great a thing your mutual love is; how much too great a thing to be made the sport of passion—”
“Passion, Aunt!”
“Yes, passion in you, exciting passion in him. What but passion could make young creatures like you forget your ignorance of affairs which strain the best faculties of the best men in the nation? What but passion could make either of you turn away from the path of pleasantness and peace which God has opened to you in marriage, to stake your happiness on the chances of public affairs with which neither of you has any call to meddle?”
“Surely we have a duty, aunt, to those whom God has placed in authority over us—”
“No doubt, my dear; and who is more devoted to that duty than the father and the friends whom you lightly condemn—whose experience you slight, whose public virtue you do not even understand? What duty can you have in comparison with that which weighs upon your father? And if you and he take different views of the same duty, which is the more likely to be right?”
“Have I not warrant for loyalty to our King and Queen?” Henrietta asked. “Can I help it if, when we read in God’s Word of submission to those who are in authority, of obedience to be rendered as we would render it to God, my heart glows with the longing to comfort and serve the sovereigns who are insulted by rude men, and presumptuous boys, and pert women? I must tell you, aunt, my whole soul is full of reverence when I think of the king’s countenance, so divinely melancholy, and—”
“And of the Queen’s?” asked Lady Carewe, smiling.
“The Queen’s sorrow does not show as melancholy,” said Henrietta. “She is too great to weep. She has a noble spirit, possessed of a natural right to inflict rebuke. Lady Carlisle says that when she recounts to her ladies any new outrage on the king’s authority, any check to his purposes by wilful men, she has the air of one inspired. It is impossible to meet her eye at such a moment, it flashes so gloriously. Her consort is twice a king when she is by his side. Can I help honouring such a queen, and insisting on her being honoured, when her meanest subjects are encouraged by those who should be patterns of loyalty, to watch her conduct and revile her name?—Consider, aunt, I bear her name! Should that not bind me to her?”
“Not more than we are all bound by God having placed her on the throne. To say that she is Queen is to express our duty to her. Of that duty there is no question, my dear. The question is, how most faithfully to fulfil that duty, together with the duty of the King’s subjects to one another, and to generations to come. But this is not the question for you and me at this moment. The burden lies, not on us, but on men who have understanding, and knowledge, and conscience equal to such a charge. You and I have a more humble task.”
“I know all you would say about that, aunt, but if Harry and I cannot agree—”
“Well, my child, what then?”
“O! I do not know what I would say! I cannot settle my mind about what we ought to do. I only know I am very miserable.”
And Henrietta laid her head on her aunt’s shoulder, and wept bitter tears.
“Harry is miserable too,” said Lady Carewe. “It was my wish to ascertain what you thought, and not to give you advice in a case in which you must judge for yourselves. But the one thing that I can do is to set before you both the choice you have to make.”
“O, do so!” cried Henrietta.
“There is no doubt of your love for each other?”
A convulsive pressure of the hand gave Lady Carewe an instant confirmation on this point.
“You are both certain at this moment that you can never be happy apart?”
Another confirmation.
“Whether or not it might prove to be so, such is the present conviction of both of you. The question then is, whether differences of judgment, and strong prejudice or conviction on any matter of controversy, should make you part, at the entire sacrifice of the happiness of both. If you think that duty commands this sacrifice, I have no more to say;—no one ought to have a word to say.”
There was a pause; but Henrietta did not speak, or lift her head.
“In such a case you must immediately part, and meet no more for some years at least.”
“I could go to Uncle Oliver’s,” Henrietta murmured; but her aunt felt that her heart was throbbing as if it would burst.
“Or Harry must depart.” Struggling with the trembling of her own voice, Lady Carewe related how Harry recoiled from the idea of remaining in England, except in Henrietta’s company; and how he would hasten to the American settlements, if he must indeed lose all he cared for in life.
Henrietta saw now how serious a question it was whether her particular notion of loyalty ought to impose all this misery. She did not say so; but she told as much by her question.
“But how can we live together if we wrangle as we did yesterday?”
“That is indeed the question, my child. I would ask whether you could not agree either to humble your young minds to learn from wiser folk about these great affairs of the Church and the State, or to refrain from disputing upon them. I should say that you must either agree to this or part: and I am quite sure that the one thing which you must eschew, as you would eschew sin and sorrow, is such dispute as each of you at this moment rues.”
Henrietta sighed. She was not yet ready to promise anything.
“Youthful enthusiasm will account for almost any marvel,” Lady Carewe proceeded; “or else it would be incomprehensible to me that the daughter of John Hampden should, with such significance as she can, cast reproach on her father’s loyalty to the King, while the King himself declares, in the most public manner, his trust in that loyalty.”
