Night and Morning Part 58

"So be it." And he rode on, muttering, "f.a.n.n.y, your pious wish will be fulfilled. But flowers,--will they suit that stone?"

He put up his horse, and walked through the lane to Simon's.

As he approached the house, he saw f.a.n.n.y's bright eyes at the window.

She was watching his return. She hastened to open the door to him, and the world's wanderer felt what music there is in the footstep, what summer there is in the smile, of Welcome!

"My dear f.a.n.n.y," he said, affected by her joyous greeting, "it makes my heart warm to see you. I have brought you a present from town. When I was a boy, I remember that my poor mother was fond of singing some simple songs, which often, somehow or other, come back to me, when I see and hear you. I fancied you would understand and like them as well at least as I do--for Heaven knows (he added to himself) my ear is dull enough generally to the jingle of rhyme." And he placed in her hands a little volume of those exquisite songs, in which Burns has set Nature to music.

"Oh! you are so kind, brother," said f.a.n.n.y, with tears swimming in her eyes, and she kissed the book.

After their simple meal, Vaudemont broke to f.a.n.n.y and Simon the intelligence of his intended departure for a few days. Simon heard it with the silent apathy into which, except on rare occasions, his life had settled. But f.a.n.n.y turned away her face and wept.

"It is but for a day or two, f.a.n.n.y."

"An hour is very--very long sometimes," said the girl, shaking her head mournfully.

"Come, I have a little time yet left, and the air is mild, you have not been out to-day, shall we walk--"

"Hem!" interrupted Simon, clearing his throat, and seeming to start into sudden animation; "had not you better settle the board and lodging before you go?"

"Oh, grandfather!" cried f.a.n.n.y, springing to her feet, with such a blush upon her face.

"Nay, child," said Vaudemont, laughingly; "your grandfather only antic.i.p.ates me. But do not talk of board and lodging; f.a.n.n.y is as a sister to me, and our purse is in common."

"I should like to feel a sovereign--just to feel it," muttered Simon, in a sort of apologetic tone, that was really pathetic; and as Vaudemont scattered some coins on the table, the old man clawed them up, chuckling and talking to himself; and, rising with great alacrity, hobbled out of the room like a raven carrying some cunning theft to its hiding-place.

This was so amusing to Vaudemont that he burst out fairly into an uncontrollable laughter. f.a.n.n.y looked at him, humbled and wondering for some moments; and then, creeping to him, put her hand gently on his arm and said--

"Don't laugh--it pains me. It was not nice in grand papa; but--but, it does not mean anything. It--it--don't laugh--f.a.n.n.y feels so sad!"

"Well, you are right. Come, put on your bonnet, we will go out."

f.a.n.n.y obeyed; but with less ready delight than usual. And they took their way through lanes over which hung, still in the cool air, the leaves of the yellow autumn.

f.a.n.n.y was the first to break silence.

"Do you know," she said, timidly, "that people here think me very silly?--do you think so too?"

Vaudemont was startled by the simplicity of the question, and hesitated.

f.a.n.n.y looked up in his dark face anxiously and inquiringly.

"Well," she said, "you don't answer?"

"My dear f.a.n.n.y, there are some things in which I could wish you less childlike and, perhaps, less charming. Those strange s.n.a.t.c.hes of song, for instance!"

"What! do you not like me to sing? It is my way of talking."

"Yes; sing, pretty one! But sing something that we can understand,--sing the songs I have given you, if you will. And now, may I ask why you put to me that question?"

"I have forgotten," said f.a.n.n.y, absently, and looking down.

Now, at that instant, as Philip Vaudemont bent over the exceeding sweetness of that young face, a sudden thrill shot through his heart, and he, too, became silent, and lost in thought. Was it possible that there could creep into his breast a wilder affection for this creature than that of tenderness and pity? He was startled as the idea crossed him. He shrank from it as a profanation--as a crime--as a frenzy. He with his fate so uncertain and chequered--he to link himself with one so helpless--he to debase the very poetry that clung to the mental temperament of this pure being, with the feelings which every fair face may awaken to every coa.r.s.e heart--to love f.a.n.n.y! No, it was impossible!

For what could he love in her but beauty, which the very spirit had forgotten to guard? And she--could she even know what love was? He despised himself for even admitting such a thought; and with that iron and hardy vigour which belonged to his mind, resolved to watch closely against every fancy that would pa.s.s the fairy boundary which separated f.a.n.n.y from the world of women.

He was roused from this self-commune by an abrupt exclamation from his companion.

"Oh! I recollect now why I asked you that question. There is one thing that always puzzles me--I want you to explain it. Why does everything in life depend upon money? You see even my poor grandfather forgot how good you are to us both, when--when Ah! I don't understand--it pains--it puzzles me!"

"f.a.n.n.y, look there--no, to the left--you see that old woman, in rags, crawling wearily along; turn now to the right--you see that fine house glancing through the trees, with a carriage and four at the gates? The difference between that old woman and the owner of that house is--Money; and who shall blame your grandfather for liking Money?"

f.a.n.n.y understood; and while the wise man thus moralised, the girl, whom his very compa.s.sion so haughtily contemned, moved away to the old woman to do her little best to smooth down those disparities from which wisdom and moralising never deduct a grain! Vaudemont felt this as he saw her glide towards the beggar; but when she came bounding back to him, she had forgotten his dislike to her songs, and was chaunting, in the glee of the heart that a kind act had made glad, one of her own impromptu melodies.

Vaudemont turned away. Poor f.a.n.n.y had unconsciously decided his self-conquest; she guessed not what pa.s.sed within him, but she suddenly recollected--what he had said to her about her songs, and fancied him displeased.

"Ah I will never do it again. Brother, don't turn away!"

"But we must go home. Hark! the clock strikes seven--I have no time to lose. And you will promise me never to stir out till I return?"

"I shall have no heart to stir out," said f.a.n.n.y, sadly; and then in a more cheerful voice, she added, "And I shall sing the songs you like before you come back again!"

CHAPTER VIII.

"Well did they know that service all by rote;

Some singing loud as if they had complained, Some with their notes another manner feigned."

CHAUCER: Pie Cuckoo and the Nightingale, modernised by WORDSWORTH.--HORNE's Edition.

And once more, sweet Winandermere, we are on the banks of thy happy lake! The softest ray of the soft clear sun of early autumn trembled on the fresh waters, and glanced through the leaves of the limes and willows that were reflected--distinct as a home for the Naiads--beneath the limpid surface. You might hear in the bushes the young blackbirds trilling their first untutored notes. And the graceful dragon-fly, his wings glittering in the translucent suns.h.i.+ne, darted to and fro--the reeds gathered here and there in the mimic bays that broke the shelving marge of the gra.s.sy sh.o.r.e.

And by that gra.s.sy sh.o.r.e, and beneath those shadowy limes, sat the young lovers. It was the very place where Spencer had first beheld Camilla.

And now they were met to say, "Farewell!"

"Oh, Camilla!" said he, with great emotion, and eyes that swam in tears, "be firm--be true. You know how my whole life is wrapped up in your love. You go amidst scenes where all will tempt you to forget me. I linger behind in those which are consecrated by your remembrance, which will speak to me every hour of you. Camilla, since you do love me--you do--do you not?--since you have confessed it--since your parents have consented to our marriage, provided only that your love last (for of mine there can be no doubt) for one year--one terrible year--shall I not trust you as truth itself? And yet how darkly I despair at times!"

Camilla innocently took the hands that, clasped together, were raised to her, as if in supplication, and pressed them kindly between her own.

"Do not doubt me--never doubt my affection. Has not my father consented?

Reflect, it is but a year's delay!"

"A year!--can you speak thus of a year--a whole year? Not to see--not to hear you for a whole year, except in my dreams! And, if at the end your parents waver? Your father--I distrust him still. If this delay is but meant to wean you from me,--if, at the end, there are new excuses found,--if they then, for some cause or other not now foreseen, still refuse their a.s.sent? You--may I not still look to you?"

Camilla sighed heavily; and turning her meek face on her lover, said, timidly, "Never think that so short a time can make me unfaithful, and do not suspect that my father will break his promise."

"But, if he does, you will still be mine."