CHAPTER VI.
"On some fond breast the parting soul relies."--GRAY.
NOT a day passed in which Maltravers was absent from the side of
Florence. He came early, he went late. He subsided into his former
character of an accepted suitor, without a word of explanation with Lord
Saxingham. That task was left to Florence. She doubtless performed it
well, for his lordship seemed satisfied though grave, and, almost for
the first time in his life, sad. Maltravers never reverted to the cause
of their unhappy dissension. Nor from that night did he once give way
to whatever might be his more agonised and fierce emotions--he never
affected to reproach himself--he never bewailed with a vain despair
their approaching separation. Whatever it cost him, he stood collected
and stoical in the intense power of his self control. He had but one
object, one desire, one hope--to save the last hours of Florence
Lascelles from every pang--to brighten and smooth the passage across the
Solemn Bridge. His forethought, his presence of mind, his care, his
tenderness, never forsook him for an instant: they went beyond the
attributes of men, they went into all the fine, the indescribable
minutiae by which woman makes herself, "in pain and anguish," the
"ministering angel." It was as if he had nerved and braced his whole
nature to one duty--as if that duty were more felt than affection
itself--as if he were resolved that Florence should not remember that
/she had no mother/!
And, oh, then, how Florence loved him! how far more luxurious, in its
grateful and clinging fondness, was that love, than the wild and jealous
fire of their earlier connection! Her own character, as is often the
case in lingering illness, became incalculably more gentle and softened
down, as the shadows closed around it. She loved to make him read and
talk to her--and her ancient poetry of thought now grew mellowed, as it
were, into religion, which is indeed poetry with a stronger wing. . . .
There was a world beyond the grave--there was life out of the chrysalis
sleep of death--they would yet be united. And Maltravers, who was a
solemn and intense believer in the GREAT HOPE, did not neglect the
purest and highest of all the fountains of solace.
Often in that quiet room, in that gorgeous mansion, which had been the
scene of all vain or worldly schemes--of flirtations and feastings, and
political meetings and cabinet dinners, and all the bubbles of the
passing wave--often there did these persons, whose position to each
other had been so suddenly and so strangely changed--converse on those
matters--daring and divine--which "make the bridal of the earth and
sky."
"How fortunate am I," said Florence, one day, "that my choice fell on
one who thinks as you do! How your words elevate and exalt me!--yet
once I never dreamt of asking your creed on these questions. It is in
sorrow or sickness that we learn why Faith was given as a soother to
man--Faith, which is Hope with a holier name--hope that knows neither
deceit nor death. Ah, how wisely do you speak of the /philosophy/ of
belief! It is, indeed, the telescope through which the stars grow large
upon our gaze. And to you, Ernest, my beloved--comprehended and known
at last--to you I leave, when I am gone, that monitor--that friend; you
will know yourself what you teach to me. And when you look not on the
heaven alone but in all space--on all the illimitable creation, you will
know that I am there! For the home of a spirit is wherever spreads the
Universal Presence of God. And to what numerous stages of being, what
paths, what duties, what active and glorious tasks in other worlds may
we not be reserved--perhaps to know and share them together, and mount
age after age higher in the scale of being. For surely in heaven there
is no pause or torpor--we do not lie down in calm and unimprovable
repose. Movement and progress will remain the law and condition of
existence. And there will be efforts and duties for us above as there
have been below."
It was in this theory, which Maltravers shared, that the character of
Florence, her overflowing life and activity of thought--her aspirations,
her ambition, were still displayed. It was not so much to the calm and
rest of the grave that she extended her unreluctant gaze, as to the
light and glory of a renewed and progressive existence.
It was while thus they sat, the low voice of Ernest, tranquil yet half
trembling with the emotions he sought to restrain--sometimes sobering,
sometimes yet more elevating, the thoughts of Florence, that Lord
Vargrave was announced, and Lumley Ferrers, who had now succeeded to
that title, entered the room. It was the first time that Florence had
seen him since the death of his uncle--the first time Maltravers
had seen him since the evening so fatal to Florence. Both
started--Maltravers rose and walked to the window. Lord Vargrave took
the hand of his cousin and pressed it to his lips in silence, while his
looks betokened feelings that for once were genuine.
"You see, Lumley, I am resigned," said Florence, with a sweet smile.
"I am resigned and happy."
Lumley glanced at Maltravers, and met a cold, scrutinising, piercing
eye, from which he shrank with some confusion. He recovered himself in
an instant.
"I am rejoiced, my cousin, I /am/ rejoiced," said he, very earnestly,
"to see Maltravers here again. Let us now hope the best."
Maltravers walked deliberately up to Lumley. "Will you take my hand
/now/, too?" said he, with deep meaning in his tone.
"More willingly than ever," said Lumley; and he did not shrink as he
said it.
"I am satisfied," replied Maltravers, after a pause, and in a voice that
expressed more than his words.
There is in some natures so great a hoard of generosity, that it often
dulls their acuteness. Maltravers could not believe that frankness
could be wholly a mask--it was an hypocrisy he knew not of. He himself
was not incapable, had circumstances so urged him, of great crimes; nay,
the design of one crime lay at that moment deadly and dark within his
heart, for he had some passions which in so resolute a character could
produce, should the wind waken them into storm, dire and terrible
effects. Even at the age of thirty, it was yet uncertain whether Ernest
Maltravers might become an exemplary or an evil man. But he could
sooner have strangled a foe than taken the hand of a man whom he had
once betrayed.
"I love to think you friends," said Florence, gazing at them
affectionately, "and to you, at least, Lumley, such friendship should be
a blessing. I always loved you much and dearly, Lumley--loved you as a
brother, though our characters often jarred."
Lumley winced. "For Heaven's sake," he cried, "do not speak thus
tenderly to me--I cannot bear it, and look on you and think--"
"That I am dying. Kind words become us best when our words are
approaching to the last. But enough of this--I grieved for your loss."
"My poor uncle!" said Lumley, eagerly changing the conversation--"the
shock was sudden; and melancholy duties have absorbed me so till this
day, that I could not come even to you. It soothed me, however, to
learn, in answer to my daily inquiries, that Ernest was here. For my
part," he added with a faint smile, "I have had duties as well as
honours devolved on me. I am left guardian to an heiress, and betrothed
to a child."
"How do you mean?"
"Why, my poor uncle was so fondly attached to his wife's daughter, that
he has left her the bulk of his property: a very small estate--not L2000
a year--goes with the title (a new title, too, which requires twice as
much to carry it off and make its pinchbeck pass for gold). In order,
however, to serve a double purpose, secure to his /protegee/ his own
beloved peerage, and atone to his nephew for the loss of wealth--he has
left it a last request, that I should marry the young lady over whom I
am appointed guardian, when she is eighteen--alas! I shall then be at
the other side of forty! If she does not take to so mature a
bridegroom, she loses thirty--only thirty of the L200,000 settled upon
her, which goes to me as a sugar-plum after the nauseous draught of the
young lady's 'No.' Now, you know all. His widow, really an exemplary
young woman, has a jointure of L1500 a year, and the villa. It is not
much, but she is contented."
The lightness of the new peer's tone revolted Maltravers, and he turned
impatiently away. But Lord Vargrave, resolving not to suffer the
conversation to glide back to sorrowful subjects, which he always hated,
turned round to Ernest, and said, "Well, my dear Ernest, I see by the
papers that you are to have N------'s late appointment--it is a very
rising office. I congratulate you."
"I have refused," said Maltravers, drily.
"Bless me!--indeed!--why?"
Ernest bit his lip, and frowned; but his glance wandering unconsciously
at Florence, Lumley thought he detected the true reply to his question,
and became mute.
The conversation was afterwards embarrassed and broken up; Lumley went
away as soon as he could, and Lady Florence that night had a severe fit,
and could not leave her bed the next day. That confinement she had
struggled against to the last; and now, day by day, it grew more
frequent and inevitable. The steps of Death became accelerated. And
Lord Saxingham, wakened at last to the mournful truth, took his place by
his daughter's side, and forgot that he was a cabinet minister.
