<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2>
<p>Twenty Second: Night.—What have I done? and what will be
the end of it? I cannot calmly reflect upon it; I cannot
sleep. I must have recourse to my diary again; I will
commit it to paper to-night, and see what I shall think of it
to-morrow.</p>
<p>I went down to dinner resolving to be cheerful and
well-conducted, and kept my resolution very creditably,
considering how my head ached and how internally wretched I
felt. I don’t know what is come over me of late; my
very energies, both mental and physical, must be strangely
impaired, or I should not have acted so weakly in many respects
as I have done; but I have not been well this last day or
two. I suppose it is with sleeping and eating so little,
and thinking so much, and being so continually out of
humour. But to return. I was exerting myself to sing
and play for the amusement, and at the request, of my aunt and
Milicent, before the gentlemen came into the drawing-room (Miss
Wilmot never likes to waste her musical efforts on ladies’
ears alone). Milicent had asked for a little Scotch song,
and I was just in the middle of it when they entered. The
first thing Mr. Huntingdon did was to walk up to Annabella.</p>
<p>‘Now, Miss Wilmot, won’t you give us some music
to-night?’ said he. ‘Do now! I know you
will, when I tell you that I have been hungering and thirsting
all day for the sound of your voice. Come! the
piano’s vacant.’</p>
<p>It was, for I had quitted it immediately upon hearing his
petition. Had I been endowed with a proper degree of
self-possession, I should have turned to the lady myself, and
cheerfully joined my entreaties to his, whereby I should have
disappointed his expectations, if the affront had been purposely
given, or made him sensible of the wrong, if it had only arisen
from thoughtlessness; but I felt it too deeply to do anything but
rise from the music-stool, and throw myself back on the sofa,
suppressing with difficulty the audible expression of the
bitterness I felt within. I knew Annabella’s musical
talents were superior to mine, but that was no reason why I
should be treated as a perfect nonentity. The time and the
manner of his asking her appeared like a gratuitous insult to me;
and I could have wept with pure vexation.</p>
<p>Meantime, she exultingly seated herself at the piano, and
favoured him with two of his favourite songs, in such superior
style that even I soon lost my anger in admiration, and listened
with a sort of gloomy pleasure to the skilful modulations of her
full-toned and powerful voice, so judiciously aided by her
rounded and spirited touch; and while my ears drank in the sound,
my eyes rested on the face of her principal auditor, and derived
an equal or superior delight from the contemplation of his
speaking countenance, as he stood beside her—that eye and
brow lighted up with keen enthusiasm, and that sweet smile
passing and appearing like gleams of sunshine on an April
day. No wonder he should hunger and thirst to hear her
sing. I now forgave him from my heart his reckless slight
of me, and I felt ashamed at my pettish resentment of such a
trifle—ashamed too of those bitter envious pangs that
gnawed my inmost heart, in spite of all this admiration and
delight.</p>
<p>‘There now,’ said she, playfully running her
fingers over the keys when she had concluded the second
song. ‘What shall I give you next?’</p>
<p>But in saying this she looked back at Lord Lowborough, who was
standing a little behind, leaning against the back of a chair, an
attentive listener, too, experiencing, to judge by his
countenance, much the same feelings of mingled pleasure and
sadness as I did. But the look she gave him plainly said,
‘Do you choose for me now: I have done enough for him, and
will gladly exert myself to gratify you;’ and thus
encouraged, his lordship came forward, and turning over the
music, presently set before her a little song that I had noticed
before, and read more than once, with an interest arising from
the circumstance of my connecting it in my mind with the reigning
tyrant of my thoughts. And now, with my nerves already
excited and half unstrung, I could not hear those words so
sweetly warbled forth without some symptoms of emotion I was not
able to suppress. Tears rose unbidden to my eyes, and I
buried my face in the sofa-pillow that they might flow unseen
while I listened. The air was simple, sweet, and sad.
It is still running in my head, and so are the words:—</p>
<p class="poetry">Farewell to thee! but not farewell<br/>
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:<br/>
Within my heart they still shall dwell;<br/>
And they shall cheer and comfort me.</p>
<p class="poetry">O beautiful, and full of grace!<br/>
If thou hadst never met mine eye,<br/>
I had not dreamed a living face<br/>
Could fancied charms so far outvie.</p>
<p class="poetry">If I may ne’er behold again<br/>
That form and face so dear to me,<br/>
Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain<br/>
Preserve, for aye, their memory.</p>
<p class="poetry">That voice, the magic of whose tone<br/>
Can wake an echo in my breast,<br/>
Creating feelings that, alone,<br/>
Can make my tranced spirit blest.</p>
<p class="poetry">That laughing eye, whose sunny beam<br/>
My memory would not cherish less;—<br/>
And oh, that smile! I whose joyous gleam<br/>
No mortal languish can express.</p>
<p class="poetry">Adieu! but let me cherish, still,<br/>
The hope with which I cannot part.<br/>
Contempt may wound, and coldness chill,<br/>
But still it lingers in my heart.</p>
<p class="poetry">And who can tell but Heaven, at last,<br/>
May answer all my thousand prayers,<br/>
And bid the future pay the past<br/>
With joy for anguish, smiles for tears.</p>
<p>When it ceased, I longed for nothing so much as to be out of
the room. The sofa was not far from the door, but I did not
dare to raise my head, for I knew Mr. Huntingdon was standing
near me, and I knew by the sound of his voice, as he spoke in
answer to some remark of Lord Lowborough’s, that his face
was turned towards me. Perhaps a half-suppressed sob had
caught his ear, and caused him to look round—heaven
forbid! But with a violent effort, I checked all further
signs of weakness, dried my tears, and, when I thought he had
turned away again, rose, and instantly left the apartment, taking
refuge in my favourite resort, the library.</p>
<p>There was no light there but the faint red glow of the
neglected fire;—but I did not want a light; I only wanted
to indulge my thoughts, unnoticed and undisturbed; and sitting
down on a low stool before the easy-chair, I sunk my head upon
its cushioned seat, and thought, and thought, until the tears
gushed out again, and I wept like any child. Presently,
however, the door was gently opened and someone entered the
room. I trusted it was only a servant, and did not
stir. The door was closed again—but I was not alone;
a hand gently touched my shoulder, and a voice said,
softly,—‘Helen, what is the matter?’</p>
<p>I could not answer at the moment.</p>
<p>‘You must, and shall tell me,’ was added, more
vehemently, and the speaker threw himself on his knees beside me
on the rug, and forcibly possessed himself of my hand; but I
hastily caught it away, and replied,—‘It is nothing
to you, Mr. Huntingdon.’</p>
<p>‘Are you sure it is nothing to me?’ he returned;
‘can you swear that you were not thinking of me while you
wept?’ This was unendurable. I made an effort
to rise, but he was kneeling on my dress.</p>
<p>‘Tell me,’ continued he—‘I want to
know,—because if you were, I have something to say to
you,—and if not, I’ll go.’</p>
<p>‘Go then!’ I cried; but, fearing he would obey too
well, and never come again, I hastily added—‘Or say
what you have to say, and have done with it!’</p>
<p>‘But which?’ said he—‘for I shall only
say it if you really were thinking of me. So tell me,
Helen.’</p>
<p>‘You’re excessively impertinent, Mr.
Huntingdon!’</p>
<p>‘Not at all—too pertinent, you mean. So you
won’t tell me?—Well, I’ll spare your
woman’s pride, and, construing your silence into
“Yes,” I’ll take it for granted that I was the
subject of your thoughts, and the cause of your
affliction—’</p>
<p>‘Indeed, sir—’</p>
<p>‘If you deny it, I won’t tell you my
secret,’ threatened he; and I did not interrupt him again,
or even attempt to repulse him: though he had taken my hand once
more, and half embraced me with his other arm, I was scarcely
conscious of it at the time.</p>
<p>‘It is this,’ resumed he: ‘that Annabella
Wilmot, in comparison with you, is like a flaunting peony
compared with a sweet, wild rosebud gemmed with dew—and I
love you to distraction!—Now, tell me if that intelligence
gives you any pleasure. Silence again? That means
yes. Then let me add, that I cannot live without you, and
if you answer No to this last question, you will drive me
mad.—Will you bestow yourself upon me?—you
will!’ he cried, nearly squeezing me to death in his
arms.</p>
<p>‘No, no!’ I exclaimed, struggling to free myself
from him—‘you must ask my uncle and aunt.’</p>
<p>‘They won’t refuse me, if you
don’t.’</p>
<p>‘I’m not so sure of that—my aunt dislikes
you.’</p>
<p>‘But you don’t, Helen—say you love me, and
I’ll go.’</p>
<p>‘I wish you would go!’ I replied.</p>
<p>‘I will, this instant,—if you’ll only say
you love me.’</p>
<p>‘You know I do,’ I answered. And again he
caught me in his arms, and smothered me with kisses.</p>
<p>At that moment my aunt opened wide the door, and stood before
us, candle in hand, in shocked and horrified amazement, gazing
alternately at Mr. Huntingdon and me—for we had both
started up, and now stood wide enough asunder. But his
confusion was only for a moment. Rallying in an instant,
with the most enviable assurance, he began,—‘I beg
ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Maxwell! Don’t be too
severe upon me. I’ve been asking your sweet niece to
take me for better, for worse; and she, like a good girl, informs
me she cannot think of it without her uncle’s and
aunt’s consent. So let me implore you not to condemn
me to eternal wretchedness: if you favour my cause, I am safe;
for Mr. Maxwell, I am certain, can refuse you nothing.’</p>
<p>‘We will talk of this to-morrow, sir,’ said my
aunt, coldly. ‘It is a subject that demands mature
and serious deliberation. At present, you had better return
to the drawing-room.’</p>
<p>‘But meantime,’ pleaded he, ‘let me commend
my cause to your most indulgent—’</p>
<p>‘No indulgence for you, Mr. Huntingdon, must come
between me and the consideration of my niece’s
happiness.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, true! I know she is an angel, and I am a
presumptuous dog to dream of possessing such a treasure; but,
nevertheless, I would sooner die than relinquish her in favour of
the best man that ever went to heaven—and as for her
happiness, I would sacrifice my body and soul—’</p>
<p>‘Body and soul, Mr. Huntingdon—sacrifice your
soul?’</p>
<p>‘Well, I would lay down life—’</p>
<p>‘You would not be required to lay it down.’</p>
<p>‘I would spend it, then—devote my life—and
all its powers to the promotion and
preservation—’</p>
<p>‘Another time, sir, we will talk of this—and I
should have felt disposed to judge more favourably of your
pretensions, if you too had chosen another time and place, and
let me add—another manner for your declaration.’</p>
<p>‘Why, you see, Mrs. Maxwell,’ he began—</p>
<p>‘Pardon me, sir,’ said she, with
dignity—‘The company are inquiring for you in the
other room.’ And she turned to me.</p>
<p>‘Then you must plead for me, Helen,’ said he, and
at length withdrew.</p>
<p>‘You had better retire to your room, Helen,’ said
my aunt, gravely. ‘I will discuss this matter with
you, too, to-morrow.’</p>
<p>‘Don’t be angry, aunt,’ said I.</p>
<p>‘My dear, I am not angry,’ she replied: ‘I
am surprised. If it is true that you told him you could not
accept his offer without our consent—’</p>
<p>‘It is true,’ interrupted I.</p>
<p>‘Then how could you permit—?’</p>
<p>‘I couldn’t help it, aunt,’ I cried,
bursting into tears. They were not altogether the tears of
sorrow, or of fear for her displeasure, but rather the outbreak
of the general tumultuous excitement of my feelings. But my
good aunt was touched at my agitation. In a softer tone,
she repeated her recommendation to retire, and, gently kissing my
forehead, bade me good-night, and put her candle in my hand; and
I went; but my brain worked so, I could not think of
sleeping. I feel calmer now that I have written all this;
and I will go to bed, and try to win tired nature’s sweet
restorer.</p>
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