CHAPTER XII.

Love mocks all sorrows but his own, And damps each joy he does not yield.

_Unpublished Poems._

De Molton had the happiness of finding no chasm in the dear and well-known family circle. He could look round and meet the beaming, tearful, tender glance of his doting mother, the gay but kindly smile of his father, the affectionate countenances of his sisters; and he felt that the joy of reunion almost compensates for the pain of separation, when the return is not embittered by the absence of any familiar face.

Three years, however, had worked some changes in those around him. His mother was thinner, her eyes were dimmer, her nose appeared sharper, and she was altogether a smaller person than he had left her. His father was fatter, and his head more bald. His elder sister had acquired an air which bespoke the spinster of a certain age. His youngest sister was wonderfully improved: but it was Charlotte, the fourth, in whom he perceived the greatest alteration.

The very charming young man whose conversation Lady Cumberworth had been so unwilling to interrupt, had at length made his proposals; and Charlotte, whom her brother Frank remembered pale, and thin, and shy, and dull, was grown rosy and blooming, with a peculiarly expressive countenance, and singularly speaking eyes.

The moment De Molton could draw his mother aside, he questioned her concerning Lady Blanche; and from her he learned that the Falkinghams were still in London, that Lady Blanche was still unmarried, and that she was supposed to have lately refused a most excellent and worthy man.

De Molton's heart throbbed with joy which he did not attempt to conceal from his mother; but the very hope, to which, in her tenderness, she had not been able to resist ministering, alarmed her, now she witnessed its excess, and she began to remind her son how impossible it was that he should ever marry Lady Blanche, how improbable that the Falkinghams should ever consent to such an union, and, even should they not oppose it as strenuously as she anticipated, how impossible it was that he should by any means muster an income sufficient to provide against real, actual poverty.

But Lady Cumberworth's prudential reasonings came too late. Her son had made up his mind that honour and gratitude now demanded the same line of conduct as that prompted by inclination, and he resolved if, upon the first interview which he could obtain with Lady Blanche, he had reason to believe he still held the same place in her affections, that he would brave all the frowns of fortune, and gladly, gaily, gallantly encounter any degree of poverty, provided she were willing to share it with him: if she were not willing to do so, she could but refuse him.

In vain did Lady Cumberworth use every argument she might have recollected before she imprudently revived the hopes he had been attempting to crush. De Molton, when once he had taken a resolution, was immovable; and his mother, although frightened at what she had assisted to bring about, could not help loving him the better for his ardour, and her heart went with him, while she dreaded the reproaches of others for having fomented what she ought to have repressed.

De Molton left a card at Lord Falkingham's the day after his arrival. On returning from the morning drive, Blanche found it upon the table, and she could not entirely check a faint exclamation. Her mother looked at her with a stern and reproachful, but melancholy glance, which suddenly drove back the colour already mounting to her cheeks. She felt ready to faint; but she was ashamed to show such emotion before one whose feelings were so little in unison with her own, and by a strong effort she mastered herself. She would have given the world had Lady Falkingham spoken, even to reproach her. This chilling silence was more awful, more subduing, than any words which could be uttered.

She gladly seized the first excuse to retire to her own room, and there to enjoy the delight of finding that her lover was in England, safe, and faithful;--for she felt convinced he was faithful. She had seen Lady Cumberworth only two days before. He was not then arrived. His calling the very day after his return, before he had any printed cards (for his name was only written, and, as she thought, written with an unsteady hand), spoke volumes to her hopeful heart.

They dined out on that day; and, after their dinner, were to proceed to a party at which Blanche thought it possible she might meet the Cumberworths, and, consequently, De Molton.

If Lady Blanche's reputation for good manners had depended upon her conduct on that memorable day, she would certainly have been reckoned the least well-bred young lady who ever sat at "good men's feasts." Three times did the master of the house ask her to drink wine before she took any notice whatever of his request, and then she answered, "Mutton, if you please." The servants were repeatedly obliged to touch her sleeve with the silver dishes containing the _entrées_, before they could induce her to turn round; and her next neighbour gave up the point of leading her into anything like connected conversation; not, however, till he had made many fruitless attempts to do so; for there was an animation in her countenance, there was a fire in her eye, and a blushing consciousness pervading her whole demeanour, which convinced him it was not because she was either dull, or shy, or stupid, that it was impossible to excite or to interest her.

It was with infinite vexation that Lady Falkingham remarked all these symptoms. Not a word was spoken during their drive from the dinner to the party. She knew Blanche's frank nature, and she knew, if once the ice was broken, she would speak boldly and strongly all that Lady Falkingham least wished to hear.

When they entered the assembly, the room was not full, and Blanche at once saw that none of the Cumberworth family were there. Though she ardently desired to see De Molton, yet she almost dreaded it. So many eyes would be upon her, that she would willingly have postponed the long-wished-for moment of meeting.

The rooms began to fill. She fancied a likeness in the hair of this man, in the forehead of another: but no; when the crowd allowed her to see the rest of the face, it was not De Molton.

At length the door opened wide, and she heard announced in a loud voice, "Lady Cumberworth, the Miss De Moltons, and Captain De Molton."

Every thing swam before her eyes: she could scarcely distinguish Lady Cumberworth's delicate and fragile, though faded beauty, as she entered the apartment followed by three fine handsome girls, all taller and larger than their mother. Behind them all, she at length perceived the stately figure of De Molton; his face bronzed,--yes, and oldened too,--but there was the same look of feeling and of dignity, although he seemed to wish to glide unperceived into the room till his eager and inquiring glance had ascertained whether his long-loved Lady Blanche was present.

Their eyes met, and as instantly fell; but that one glance revealed to each that, although so long separated, time had worked no change in their feelings. In one second he was by her side--the crowd had again closed in--Lady Blanche was seated while most of those around were standing, and their meeting was more private than in many a less crowded apartment.

But Lady Falkingham was by her daughter's side; both felt her cold and searching eyes upon them, and both were unable to utter. Lady Falkingham, after a somewhat lofty recognition of De Molton, made nor sign nor movement which could encourage him to seat himself; and he stood before them, growing every moment more and more shy, and feeling himself more inconveniently tall than ever he did before.

Blanche, in a trembling voice, had asked him when he landed, and inquired whether his voyage had been prosperous, to which questions he had made some indistinct answers; when Lady Falkingham's attention being for a moment withdrawn by some one on the other side, he asked in a low voice whether he should find Lady Blanche at home the next morning? She answered "she hoped so."

"I must see you," he added; "but not here--not thus!" Lady Falkingham turned round, and he hurried away, leaving Blanche in a confused state of perfect happiness.

He mingled among the crowd, and was soon overpowered with greetings from numerous old acquaintances, and friendly congratulations upon his safe return; but Lady Blanche was aware that his eye still turned towards her, and that she was still in his thoughts.

She was romantic; her heart was formed for love; while, for nearly three years, her taste for the romantic, and the warmth of her attachment, had been nearly deprived of aliment. Since her last definitive conversation with Lord Glenrith, she had had no delicate distresses, no interesting persecutions, no occurrences of any kind. This very blank had, to a person of her disposition, been a greater trial than any more active trial would have been. Perhaps it was one which her constancy might not have stood, if her rejection of Lord Glenrith had not caused her pride, as well as her feelings, to be engaged in preserving an undeviating fidelity to her absent lover. Be that as it may, the pleasure of again knowing herself beloved, of again meeting eyes which beamed softly upon hers, of being once more engaged in all the pleasing agitations of a love-affair, was inexpressibly delightful.

De Molton, on his part, returned home intoxicated with the rapturous conviction that the beautiful, the admired Lady Blanche had for his sake rejected many of the best matches in England; that among all the temptations of the London world, and in spite of all the opposition of her parents, she had enshrined his image in her heart of hearts. The result was, that they were both desperately in love; and they both wondered how they had endured existence during their long and hopeless separation.

The next morning, De Molton called at an unusually early hour; but Lady Falkingham, as a measure of precaution, had ordered the servants to say--'not at home,' and he was refused admittance. He bit his lips, and retired from the door with a flushed brow, but a more lofty bearing even than usual. He returned home to indite a long and passionate epistle to Lady Blanche, as passionate as might be expected from a man who had loved long, fervently and hopelessly; who felt himself presumptuous in offering himself, yet was conscious that his effusions would not meet a cold and disdainful eye, but that they were addressed to one who fully returned his affection.

At the same time he wrote to Lord Falkingham, giving a true and undisguised account of his present situation and of his future prospects; both of which were, it must be confessed, as unpromising as can well be imagined. Yet, while he honestly detailed his own unworthiness to match with such a person as Lady Blanche, there was a proud humility pervading every line he wrote, which proved that, although on the score of fortune he owned himself her inferior, he felt conscious of being an honourable and high-minded man, her equal in birth and situation, and one who would not brook being treated with any want of consideration or respect.

Blanche received his letter with unalloyed delight. She read over and over again the glowing expressions of devotion it contained, and resolved that nothing short of the positive commands of both parents should prevent her returning such an answer as might reward De Molton for all he had suffered on her account.

With his letter in her hand, she hastened to her father's study, in order to open the subject to him before her mother had had an opportunity of influencing him against her wishes.

"Papa," she said, "I have had a letter!"

"So have I, my dear!" answered Lord Falkingham, who was sitting in his leathern arm-chair, one foot on the fender, the other on a bar of the grate, with one hand holding the open letter, with the other stroking his eye-brows, as he often did when thinking deeply and unpleasantly.

"Papa, mine is from Captain De Molton," and she coloured a little,--but it was only a little; for she was resolved, and not trembling. She knew her father was aware of her attachment; and she did not experience the confusion attendant on the first confession of a budding preference.

"So is mine," rejoined Lord Falkingham, "and very distressing it is. Take it and read it, my dear Blanche, and you will perceive that, knowing as I do how completely you return Captain De Molton's affection, it is a communication which must exceedingly distress a father's feelings!"

Blanche's countenance fell: she seized the letter; she fancied there must be some difficulty, some objection on his part, to which he had not alluded in his letter to her, and she devoured each line with her eyes, dwelling with delight upon the expressions of devotion to herself, on the impossibility he had experienced to drive her from his mind; she admired the noble pride which pervaded the whole; she fully appreciated the candour with which he entered upon the subject of his poverty; and quickly glancing over the sums specified as his younger brother's fortune, the amount of his pay, &c., as topics in which she had no interest, and which were "papa's affair," she returned the letter to her father with a pleased and animated countenance. "What a beautiful letter, papa! There is nobody the least like him; nobody so noble, so true, so constant!" and she clasped her hands earnestly; "and I know, papa, you value such qualities a thousand times more than riches!"

"Yes, my child, more than riches; but they will not do instead of a competency. You have been brought up in luxury, and you are very little calculated to make a poor man's wife."

"Oh, papa! you know that Lord Glenrith's splendour did not gratify me the least. You know how indifferent I was to the diamonds; that I never felt the least wish for his wife's beautiful _trousseau_, which all the world was admiring; nor for the long-tailed roan horses; nor for anything of the sort. I could be happy without those things; but, papa, I could not--no, I could not live with a husband I did not love:" she spoke with strong emotion: "and I never shall love any one except Captain De Molton. So, if you forbid me to think of him, you may rest assured I shall never marry as long as I live. I have proved this is not a girlish fancy. It may be a first love; but it is not the contemptible first love of every young lady which you and mamma despise so much."

"Would to Heaven it were!" exclaimed Lord Falkingham. "Blanche, you make me very unhappy, for I see nothing before you but a choice of evils; no happiness, or much unhappiness."

"No, papa! not unhappiness. People cannot be unhappy when they are truly attached, and when they are together. And indeed ours is a true attachment. It has stood the test of time and of absence. It has conquered all difficulties. If it was the passing fancy people can be laughed out of, I should have been cured long ago. If I could not forget Captain De Molton when I was uncertain whether he remembered me or not, shall I forget him now, when I find that, among strangers, in foreign lands, in another hemisphere, he has thought of me, and me only; when, added to my admiration of his character, I must feel gratitude for his constancy?"

"This is very perplexing," rejoined Lord Falkingham; "I wish the fellow was not so very poor. He is an honest, straightforward gentleman, though: he has no humbug about him: he does not try to make the best of himself."

Blanche smiled through her tears, and looked up at her father with such a proud exulting tenderness at hearing him speak in these terms of De Molton, that his heart was touched, and, kissing her forehead, he said, "Well, my child, I will do my best. If he can get his father to assist him, and if we can make up anything like an income----"

"Remember, I despise riches, dear papa; I hate the very name of money."

"Yes, my love, yes; and so do a great many other people, who want the things which cannot be got without money, as much as their neighbours do. Well! I will see De Molton; I will talk to him."

At this moment Lady Falkingham entered. Blanche felt a little alarmed at having first flown to her father in the tumult of her joy; but still she was glad her father was not to receive his first impressions upon the subject from her mother. Lady Falkingham looked surprised at finding father and daughter together, with evident traces of agitation visible on both their countenances. Lord Falkingham began:--

"My dear, I have just received this letter, and I have been talking to Blanche very seriously upon the subject."

Lady Blanche was grateful to her father for so wording his sentence that it might almost seem as if he had sent for her; for she now felt that Lady Falkingham might be hurt, and perhaps with some reason, at her first impulse having brought her to her father, rather than to her mother, upon such an occasion. Lord Falkingham dwelt upon the serious manner in which he had spoken to his daughter; for he knew his wife would disapprove of his having allowed her to hope there was any chance of his ultimate approbation.

Lady Falkingham took the letter, and after having perused its contents with an unmoved countenance, she returned it, merely saying,--

"I think Captain De Molton is as presumptuous a young man as I ever heard of. He cannot surely expect that Lady Blanche De Vaux is to follow him in the baggage-waggon."

The colour forsook Blanche's cheek, but the next moment it rushed again to her face, and her eyes flashed at hearing De Molton thus spoken of. The few words her father had said in approbation of his conduct had justified and sanctioned to her own mind her resolution to abide by him through all opposition. Her father thought him noble in soul, and worthy in character; he found no objection to him but the want of contemptible worldly advantages; and she felt it was both generous and consistent to persevere in her devotion.

Lord Falkingham, having once said he admired the manly candour of De Molton's letter, was not disposed to agree with his wife; and the severity of her remark made him adopt the side of the lovers more decidedly than he might otherwise have done. "Nay, my dear," he answered, "there is nothing presumptuous in the manner in which he offers himself. He speaks most humbly of his own situation."

"It is the pride that apes humility. The very fact of proposing, is presumption in itself."

"It might be, if he did not know that Blanche was in love with him; but as he cannot doubt that fact, I must say I think the young man has acted very properly in offering himself. We should think him cold and calculating if he did otherwise."

"Certainly, if a girl throws herself at a man's head, proclaiming her attachment to the sound of the trumpet, and making her _belle passion_ the talk of the town, it alters the case. I once thought it impossible a daughter of mine should ever so degrade herself. But Blanche has long been beyond my control."

Blanche was so indignant for De Molton, that, although deeply hurt at what her mother said, she was not softened, and did not weep, as she would otherwise have done. She had always fancied that if Lady Falkingham had known more of De Molton, she would have perceived his superiority to the rest of mankind; that, like Lady Westhope, she would have admitted that he was formed to captivate the heart of woman, even while she condemned the marriage as imprudent: but now that her mother had read this touching and manly effusion, this epistle breathing the very soul of honour and of loyalty to the lady of his love, she was indeed astonished, disappointed, and mortified, at finding her still unmoved; and for a time her heart shut itself up from one parent, while it opened to the other.

"I think the best thing I can do," resumed Lord Falkingham, "is to have some conversation with Lord Cumberworth, and see whether it is possible to arrange anything."

"It is utterly impossible Lord Cumberworth can ever make Captain De Molton a fit match for Blanche."

"But the girl says she can never marry anybody she does not love, and that she can never love anybody except Captain De Molton."

"She has never tried," rejoined Lady Falkingham: "from the moment she so foolishly rejected Lord Glenrith she has wilfully fostered her silly predilection for this interesting penniless captain, though she has seen how miserable her infatuation has made me. If she had not nurtured it by every means in her power, it would have died away like other young ladies' first loves."

There was a contemptuous expression thrown into these last words, which roused all the heroine in Blanche.

"Mamma," she said, "I am very sorry I have made you unhappy; I am very sorry to have given my father any uneasiness; but it is not in my power to command my feelings. I can tell Captain De Molton that I will never marry him without your consent; but I can never cease to love him, nor can I ever love another. How can you say I have not tried to please you, and to obey you! Did I not accept Lord Glenrith, and have I ever ceased to repent having done so? If you command it, I will now refuse Captain De Molton; but when I do so, I cannot attempt to conceal from him that my affections are wholly his, that they have been his during three years of absence, and that they will be his as long as I live."

"You see, my dear, that you will not manage Blanche in this way. The truth is, the girl is desperately in love, and we must try to make the best of it."

Blanche was glad that her father at length treated her attachment with some respect, but she would greatly have preferred the phrase 'irrevocably attached,' to 'desperately in love.'

"Indeed, Lord Falkingham, if you encourage your daughter in these high-flown notions, there is no use in my interfering, and I must make up my mind to seeing her a beggar, and an unhappy beggar; for Blanche is not formed to struggle with poverty; she has been accustomed to every indulgence; every wish, every fancy has hitherto been gratified. No young lady thinks it more indispensable to be perfectly well dressed, no one is more alive to any want of refinement in those with whom she lives. I know my own child; she will never be happy in the style, and among the associates to whom she wilfully dooms herself."

Lady Falkingham wept, but her tears were not all tenderness; some anger, some mortification were mixed with the feeling which prompted them to flow.

Blanche felt all this, without knowing that she felt it, and was somewhat shocked at her own want of filial piety in not being more touched by the tears her mother shed over her.

This most unpleasant family colloquy ended by Lord Falkingham's writing to Lord Cumberworth to request an interview, and by the mother and daughter returning to the drawing-room, with less cordiality between them than is usual in modern days, when mothers are oftener over indulgent, than over severe.