<h4><SPAN name="CHAPTER32" id="CHAPTER32">CHAPTER VI.<br/>
A WIDOWER'S PROPOSAL.</SPAN></h4>
<p></p>
<p>For some time after his return Edward Arundel was very restless and gloomy:
roaming about the country by himself, under the influence of a pretended
passion for pedestrianism; reading hard for the first time in his life,
shutting himself in his dead father's library, and sitting hour after hour in a
great easy–chair, reading the histories of all the wars that have ever
ravaged this earth––from the days in which the elephants of a
Carthaginian ruler trampled upon the soldiery of Rome, to the era of that
Corsican barrister's wonderful son, who came out of his simple island home to
conquer the civilised half of a world.</p>
<p>Edward Arundel showed himself a very indifferent brother; for, do what she
would, Letitia could not induce him to join in any of her pursuits. She caused
a butt to be set up upon the lawn; but all she could say about Belinda's "best
gold" could not bring the young man out upon the grass to watch the two girls
shooting. He looked at them by stealth sometimes through the window of the
library, and sighed as he thought of the blight upon his manhood, and of all
the things that might have been.</p>
<p>Might not these things even yet come to pass? Had he not done his duty to
the dead; and was he not free now to begin a fresh life? His mother was
perpetually hinting at some bright prospect that lay smiling before him, if he
chose to take the blossom–bestrewn path that led to that fair country.
His sister told him still more plainly of a prize that was within his reach, if
he were but brave enough to stretch out his hand and claim the precious
treasure for his own. But when he thought of all this,––when he
pondered whether it would not be wise to drop the dense curtain of
forgetfulness over that sad picture of the past,––whether it would
not be well to let the dead bury their dead, and to accept that other blessing
which the same Providence that had blighted his first hope seemed to offer to
him now,––the shadowy phantom of John Marchmont arose out of the
mystic realms of the dead, and a ghostly voice cried to him, "I charged you
with my daughter's safe keeping; I trusted you with her innocent love; I gave
you the custody of her helplessness. What have you done to show yourself worthy
of my faith in you?"</p>
<p>These thoughts tormented the young widower perpetually, and deprived him of
all pleasure in the congenial society of his sister and Belinda Lawford; or
infused so sharp a flavour of remorse into his cup of enjoyment, that pleasure
was akin to pain.</p>
<p>So I don't know how it was that, in the dusky twilight of a bright day in
early May, nearly two months after his return to Dangerfield, Edward Arundel,
coming by chance upon Miss Lawford as she sat alone in the deep
bay–window where he had found her on his first coming, confessed to her
the terrible struggle of feeling that made the great trouble of his life, and
asked her if she was willing to accept a love which, in its warmest fervour,
was not quite unclouded by the shadows of the sorrowful past.</p>
<p>"I love you dearly, Linda," he said; "I love, I esteem, I admire you; and I
know that it is in your power to give me the happiest future that ever a man
imagined in his youngest, brightest dreams. But if you do accept my love, dear,
you must take my memory with it. I cannot forget, Linda. I have tried to
forget. I have prayed that God, in His mercy, might give me forgetfulness of
that irrevocable past. But the prayer has never been granted; the boon has
never been bestowed. I think that love for the living and remorse for the dead
must for ever reign side by side in my heart. It is no falsehood to you that
makes me remember her; it is no forgetfulness of her that makes me love you. I
offer my brighter and happier self to you, Belinda; I consecrate my sorrow and
my tears to her. I love you with all my heart, Belinda; but even for the sake
of your love I will not pretend that I can forget her. If John Marchmont's
daughter had died with her head upon my breast, and a prayer on her lips, I
might have regretted her as other men regret their wives; and I might have
learned by–and–by to look back upon my grief with only a tender and
natural regret, that would have left my future life unclouded. But it can never
be so. The poison of remorse is blended with that sorrowful memory. If I had
done otherwise,––if I had been wiser and more
thoughtful,––my darling need never have suffered; my darling need
never have sinned. It is the thought that her death may have been a sinful one,
that is most cruel to me, Belinda. I have seen her pray, with her pale earnest
face uplifted, and the light of faith shining in her gentle eyes; I have seen
the inspiration of God upon her face; and I cannot bear to think that, in the
darkness that came down upon her young life, that holy light was quenched; I
cannot bear to think that Heaven was ever deaf to the pitiful cry of my
innocent lamb."</p>
<p>And here Mr. Arundel paused, and sat silently, looking out at the long
shadows of the trees upon the darkening lawn; and I fear that, for the time
being, he forgot that he had just made Miss Lawford an offer of his hand, and
so much of his heart as a widower may be supposed to have at his disposal.</p>
<p>Ah me! we can only live and die <em>once</em>. There are some things, and
those the most beautiful of all things, that can never be renewed: the bloom on
a butterfly's wing; the morning dew upon a newly–blown rose; our first
view of the ocean; our first pantomime, when all the fairies were fairies for
ever, and when the imprudent consumption of the contents of a pewter
quart–measure in sight of the stage–box could not disenchant us
with that elfin creature, Harlequin the graceful, faithful betrothed of
Columbine the fair. The firstlings of life are most precious. When the black
wing of the angel of death swept over agonised Egypt, and the children were
smitten, offended Heaven, eager for a sacrifice, took the firstborn. The young
mothers would have other children, perhaps; but between those others and the
mother's love there would be the pale shadow of that lost darling whose tiny
hands <em>first</em> drew undreamed–of melodies from the sleeping chords,
<em>first</em> evoked the slumbering spirit of maternal love. Amongst the later
lines––the most passionate, the most sorrowful––that
George Gordon Noel Byron wrote, are some brief verses that breathed a lament
for the lost freshness, the never–to–be–recovered youth.</p>
<p>"Oh, could I feel as I have felt; or be what I have been;<br/>
Or weep as I could once have wept!"</p>
<p>cried the poet, when he complained of that "mortal coldness of the soul,"
which is "like death itself." It is a pity certainly that so great a man should
die in the prime of life; but if Byron had survived to old age after writing
these lines, he would have been a living anticlimax. When a man writes that
sort of poetry he pledges himself to die young.</p>
<p>Edward Arundel had grown to love Belinda Lawford unconsciously, and in spite
of himself; but the first love of his heart, the first fruit of his youth, had
perished. He could not feel quite the same devotion, the same boyish chivalry,
that he had felt for the innocent bride who had wandered beside him in the
sheltered meadows near Winchester. He might begin a <em>new</em> life, but he
could not live the <em>old</em> life over again. He must wear his rue with a
difference this time. But he loved Belinda very dearly, nevertheless; and he
told her so, and by–and–by won from her a tearful avowal of
affection.</p>
<p>Alas! she had no power to question the manner of his wooing. He loved
her––he had said as much; and all the good she had desired in this
universe became hers from the moment of Edward Arundel's utterance of those
words. He loved her; that was enough. That he should cherish a remorseful
sorrow for that lost wife, made him only the truer, nobler, and dearer in
Belinda's sight. She was not vain, or exacting, or selfish. It was not in her
nature to begrudge poor dead Mary the tender thoughts of her husband. She was
generous, impulsive, believing; and she had no more inclination to doubt
Edward's love for her, after he had once avowed such a sentiment, than to
disbelieve in the light of heaven when she saw the sun shining. Unquestioning,
and unutterably happy, she received her lover's betrothal kiss, and went with
him to his mother, blushing and trembling, to receive that lady's blessing.</p>
<p>"Ah, if you knew how I have prayed for this, Linda!" Mrs. Arundel exclaimed,
as she folded the girl's slight figure in her arms.</p>
<p>"And I shall wear white glac� with pinked flounces, instead of tulle
puffings, you sly Linda," cried Letitia.</p>
<p>"And I'll give Ted the home–farm, and the white house to live in, if
he likes to try his hand at the new system of farming," said Reginald Arundel,
who had come home from the Continent, and had amused himself for the last week
by strolling about his estate and staring at his timber, and almost wishing
that there was a necessity for cutting down all the oaks in the avenue, so that
he might have something to occupy him until the 12th of August.</p>
<p>Never was promised bride more welcome to a household than bright Belinda
Lawford; and as for the young lady herself, I must confess that she was almost
childishly happy, and that it was all that she could do to prevent her light
step from falling into a dance as she floated hither and thither through the
house at Dangerfield,––a fresh young Hebe in crisp muslin robes; a
gentle goddess, with smiles upon her face and happiness in her heart.</p>
<p>"I loved you from the first, Edward," she whispered one day to her lover. "I
knew that you were good, and brave, and noble; and I loved you because of
that."</p>
<p>And a little for the golden glimmer in his clustering curls; and a little
for his handsome profile, his flashing eyes, and that distinguished air
peculiar to the defenders of their country; more especially peculiar, perhaps,
to those who ride on horseback when they sally forth to defend her. Once a
soldier for ever a soldier, I think. You may rob the noble warrior of his
uniform, if you will; but the <em>je ne sais quoi</em>, the nameless air of the
"long–sword, saddle, bridle," will hang round him still.</p>
<p>Mrs. Arundel and Letitia took matters quite out of the hands of the two
lovers. The elderly lady fixed the wedding–day, by agreement with Major
Lawford, and sketched out the route for the wedding–tour. The younger
lady chose the fabrics for the dresses of the bride and her attendants; and all
was done before Edward and Belinda well knew what their friends were about. I
think that Mrs. Arundel feared her son might change his mind if matters were
not brought swiftly to a climax, and that she hurried on the irrevocable day in
order that he might have no breathing time until the vows had been spoken and
Belinda Lawford was his wedded wife. It had been arranged that Edward should
escort Belinda back to Lincolnshire, and that his mother and Letitia, who was
to be chief bridesmaid, should go with them. The marriage was to be solemnised
at Hillingsworth church, which was within a mile and a half of the Grange.</p>
<p>The 1st of July was the day appointed by agreement between Major and Mrs.
Lawford and Mrs. Arundel; and on the 18th of June Edward was to accompany his
mother, Letitia, and Belinda to London. They were to break the journey by
stopping in town for a few days, in order to make a great many purchases
necessary for Miss Lawford's wedding paraphernalia, for which the Major had
sent a bouncing cheque to his favourite daughter.</p>
<p>And all this time the only person at all unsettled, the only person whose
mind was ill at ease, was Edward Arundel, the young widower who was about to
take to himself a second wife. His mother, who watched him with a maternal
comprehension of every change in his face, saw this, and trembled for her son's
happiness.</p>
<p>"And yet he cannot be otherwise than happy with Belinda Lawford," Mrs.
Arundel thought to herself.</p>
<p>But upon the eve of that journey to London Edward sat alone with his mother
in the drawing–room at Dangerfield, after the two younger ladies had
retired for the night. They slept in adjoining apartments, these two young
ladies; and I regret to say that a great deal of their conversation was about
Valenciennes lace, and flounces cut upon the cross, moire antique, mull muslin,
glac� silk, and the last "sweet thing" in bonnets. It was only when loquacious
Letitia was shut out that Miss Lawford knelt alone in the still moonlight, and
prayed that she might be a good wife to the man who had chosen her. I don't
think she ever prayed that she might be faithful and true and pure; for it
never entered into her mind that any creature bearing the sacred name of wife
could be otherwise. She only prayed for the mysterious power to preserve her
husband's affection, and make his life happy.</p>
<p>Mrs. Arundel, sitting <em>t�te–�–t�te</em> with her younger son
in the lamp–lit drawing–room, was startled by hearing the young man
breathe a deep sigh. She looked up from her work to see a sadder expression in
his face than perhaps ever clouded the countenance of an expectant
bridegroom.</p>
<p>"Edward!" she exclaimed.</p>
<p>"What, mother?"</p>
<p>"How heavily you sighed just now!"</p>
<p>"Did I?" said Mr. Arundel, abstractedly. Then, after a brief pause, he said,
in a different tone, "It is no use trying to hide these things from you,
mother. The truth is, I am not happy."</p>
<p>"Not happy, Edward!" cried Mrs. Arundel; "but surely
you––––?"</p>
<p>"I know what you are going to say, mother. Yes, mother, I love this dear
girl Linda with all my heart; I love her most sincerely; and I could look
forward to a life of unalloyed happiness with her, if––if there was
not some inexplicable dread, some vague and most miserable feeling always
coming between me and my hopes. I have tried to look forward to the future,
mother; I have tried to think of what my life may be with Belinda; but I
cannot, I cannot. I cannot look forward; all is dark to me. I try to build up a
bright palace, and an unknown hand shatters it. I try to turn away from the
memory of my old sorrows; but the same hand plucks me back, and chains me to
the past. If I could retract what I have done; if I could, with any show of
honour, draw back, even now, and not go upon this journey to Lincolnshire; if I
<em>could</em> break my faith to this poor girl who loves me, and whom I love,
as God knows, with all truth and earnestness, I would do so––I
would do so."</p>
<p>"Edward!"</p>
<p>"Yes, mother; I would do it. It is not in me to forget. My dead wife haunts
me by night and day. I hear her voice crying to me, 'False, false, false; cruel
and false; heartless and forgetful!' There is never a night that I do not dream
of that dark sluggish river down in Lincolnshire. There is never a dream that I
have––however purposeless, however inconsistent in all its other
details––in which I do not see <em>her</em> dead face looking up at
me through the murky waters. Even when I am talking to Linda, when words of
love for her are on my lips, my mind wanders away, back––always
back––to the sunset by the boat–house, when my little wife
gave me her hand; to the trout–stream in the meadow, where we sat side by
side and talked about the future."</p>
<p>For a few minutes Mrs. Arundel was quite silent. She abandoned herself for
that brief interval to complete despair. It was all over. The bridegroom would
cry off; insulted Major Lawford would come post–haste to Dangerfield, to
annihilate this dismal widower, who did not know his own mind. All the
shimmering fabrics––the gauzes, and laces, and silks, and
velvets––that were in course of preparation in the upper chambers
would become so much useless finery, to be hidden in
out–of–the–way cupboards, and devoured by misanthropical
moths,––insect iconoclasts, who take a delight in destroying the
decorations of the human temple.</p>
<p>Poor Mrs. Arundel took a mental photograph of all the complicated horrors of
the situation. An offended father; a gentle, loving girl crushed like some
broken lily; gossip, slander; misery of all kinds. And then the lady plucked up
courage and gave her recreant son a sound lecture, to the effect that this
conduct was atrociously wicked; and that if this trusting young bride, this
fair young second wife, were to be taken away from him as the first had been,
such a calamity would only be a fitting judgment upon him for his folly.</p>
<p>But Edward told his mother, very quietly, that he had no intention of being
false to his newly–plighted troth.</p>
<p>"I love Belinda," he said; "and I will be true to her, mother. But I cannot
forget the past; it hangs about me like a bad dream."</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
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