CHAPTER VII.
YOUNG LOVE.
“So gaze met gaze, And heart saw heart, translucid through the rays, One same, harmonious, universal law, Atom to atom, star to star can draw, And heart to heart! Swift darts, as from the sun, The strong attraction, and the charm is done.” THE NEW TIMON.
It was such a beautiful morning, such a holiday seeming morning—the green foliage all sparkling with dew in the rays of the early sun, the air vocal, noisy with all sorts of merry sounds, cheerful household sounds, gay woodland music, the crowing of roosters, the cackling of hens, and above all, the merry, merry, merry bursts of melody from the birds. Augustus Wilde and Sophie Churchill sat in the vine-clad porch of Grove Cottage. (Emily was in the dining-room washing up her breakfast things, and the minister was writing his sermon in his room.)
“Do you know, Miss Churchill, that I am perpetually in danger of offending against the rules of etiquette, and calling you Sophie, as my sister calls you. Whenever I turn to address you, ‘Sophie’ springs to my lips. I warn you of it that you may not be offended when it comes—why, ‘Sophie’—it just suits you—such a little shy fawn as you are—in every soft wave of your brown hair, in every floating beam of your tender eyes, in every fold of your sober dress ‘Sophie’ is revealed. I must call you Sophie.”
They were sitting on the bench with their backs against the open window of Emily’s bedroom (the little chamber on the left front, that I have described). He now felt his ears grasped from behind and his head well shaken. Sophie raised her eyes and saw the white dress, black curls, and merry face of his sister stooping from the window over him.
“Sophie, is it? Impudence! Well, Sophie, let him call you what he will—but don’t you call him Augustus—there is nothing august about him, call him ‘Gusty,’ or ‘Gusty Wilde,’ for look you!” said she, pulling back his head, and kissing his brow, “there is so much latent strength and fire in this young man’s veins that it is extremely apt to break out in storms—just watch him in controversy with Mr. Withers—the sudden anger will dart from his eyes like a spring lancet from its sheath!” She shook him again, and let him go.
“Oh! the atrocious medical simile!—like ‘lightning from a mountain cloud,’ you meant.”
“Like a pea from a pop-gun, more likely. Now, Miss Churchill, he said your air and manner _revealed_ ‘Sophie’—very well—every glance, and start, and spring, every interjection and exclamation in his looks, gestures, and conversation _exposes_ ‘Gusty Wilde.’”
“_Now_, Miss Churchill, do you believe that?” inquired he, with mock seriousness.
“No, I am sure—” began Sophie.
“You are sure of nothing—he is on his good behavior now; wait and see. But that is not what I broke in upon you for, Mr. Wilde—I have come to invite you and Miss Churchill to ride with me this morning. We will borrow the parson’s gig, and come, I will be good. You shall drive Sophie, and I will ride FireFly, my pony. Come, run, Sophie, smoothe your hair, it is a little blown about by the breeze, and put on your bonnet. And _you_, Master Lieutenant, be so kind as to don your undress uniform at least—what is the good of having a brother in the Navy, if he dress like an undertaker at a funeral? Come! I want to show you off; I want to get half the girls in the neighborhood in love with you. Dear me! Am I not rich just now? Two beaux—the best of beaux for a country neighborhood—a preacher and an officer. Mercy! I shouldn’t wonder if my house became the resort of all the merry maidens and manœuvring mammas in —— county.”
They made many calls that day before returning to a late dinner. The last house they called at was Mrs. Gardiner Green’s, where they were received and entertained by that lady and her pretty daughter Rose.
The next day was Sunday, and they all went to church. Lieutenant Wilde sat between his sister and Miss Churchill in the front pew; there was an expression of serious joy upon the faces of the youth and maiden never seen there before—the minister, perhaps, never was less happy in his written sermon or its delivery, than upon this occasion. He had brought Sophie to church in his gig; at the close of the service he took her home to the Grove.
The afternoon and evening passed pleasantly. Early the next morning Sophie returned to Heath Hall, to recommence her school duties. That day passed as usual; in the evening after tea, Sophie sat by the open window; it was a beautiful starlight night, and she delayed ordering lights, preferring to enjoy the cool night air, and listen to the pleasant night sounds by the open window. Presently a tall dark figure passed before the window, and in another moment the minister had entered and was by her side.
“Good evening, Miss Churchill.”
“Good evening, Mr. Withers.”
He took a seat by her side, and sat with his head bowed upon his hands that rested upon the top of a stick held between his knees; he was silent a long time; at last Sophie arose to order lights.
“Where are you going, Miss Churchill?”
“To have candles brought.”
“Sit still, Miss Churchill.”
Sophie resumed her seat.
“You have had a very pleasant visit to the Grove, Miss Churchill?”
“Very, sir.”
“Humph! you were very much pleased with Mr. Wilde?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah! that is very candid. But do you think, Miss Churchill, that I can altogether approve of the marked preference shown by a young lady in your circumstances for a young gentleman?”
Sophie looked bewildered, dismayed. The poor girl, naturally timid, had been made quite cowardly by the misconceptions, misconstructions, and misrepresentations of others; she grew pale, and replied with a faltering voice—
“I—I did not know—I knew—I know that my profession would seem to require more steadiness, gravity, and circumspection than I possess—but I was unconscious of any—”
Her voice faltered, broke down, and she stopped short, and burst into tears. He answered sternly—
“You know very well, Miss Churchill, that it is not your ‘profession’ I speak of. What can _that_ be thought to have to do with your preferences? No, Miss Churchill, you know very well that I allude to the relations subsisting between us.”
“The relations subsisting between us?” faltered Sophie.
“You certainly cannot successfully affect ignorance of a fact with which the whole county is acquainted, though it may _now_ seem convenient for you to attempt it.” He paused. “Well, Miss Churchill?”
“I do not understand you at all, sir.”
“Then all the county understands and have understood for two months past, that we are to be married soon, Miss Churchill.”
“Oh, my God, no! You never dreamed—_I_ never dreamed of that! Oh, no! I had rather _die_! Oh! God knows I had!” exclaimed Sophie, wildly, clasping her hands and rising.
He caught her hand, and pressed her trembling into her seat again.
“Your aversion to me is certainly flattering—_very_ flattering, Miss Churchill—but it is rather late _now_ to express it. You have received my visits nightly for three months past—and now, to-night, for the first time, you express a strong and utter aversion to me.”
“Oh, because _I couldn’t help it_! How could I help your coming here—how can I help this aversion I feel—pardon me if I have expressed it strongly. I have a high respect for you, and I ought to feel honored by your preference—any woman in the parish would. You are too good—too wise for me, believe me you are! I am a child—a fool! Oh! don’t think of it! _pray_ don’t think of it! Consider how many ladies—ladies of family and fortune—would be proud to wed the minister; who would throw himself away upon a poor, lone girl, without connexions, and without influence!”
Sophie had risen in her earnestness, and stood before him with her clasped hands.
He closed his eyes and smiled; he stretched forth his hand, and taking hers, drew her again to her seat, and passed his arm around her waist and whispered—
“My little Sophie, my little fawn, you shall be Mrs. Withers in three weeks, just as sure as you live!”
She shrank from the clasp of his arm, as though it had been the clammy coil of a serpent.
“I will not! cannot! durst not! Mr. Withers, why don’t you marry Rose Green? She would have you; or Mrs. Somerville, or Mrs. Slye, or Mrs. Joshua Eversham, or Miss Polly Mortimer—any of them would have, would be proud to marry the minister of the parish.”
“I know that, Miss Churchill!”
“And any of these ladies would make you a good wife.”
“I do not doubt it, Miss Churchill.”
“Then why don’t you marry one of them?”
“Because they are each ready to fall into my arms.”
Sophie was wounded and became silent—she attempted to withdraw herself from the embrace of his arm, but every attempt was punished by a tighter fold.
“Miss Churchill, do you know that there is an instinct in human nature—to speak more correctly, in _man’s_ nature, or in speaking _most_ correctly, perhaps I should say in _my own_ nature—to pursue that which _flies_? Why, Sophie, when I was a lad, I always preferred to play with kittens that were scarey and spiteful, that would kick, scratch, and bite, that would resist to the death rather than with one that would cosily and quietly nestle down in my lap—the latter I should have shaken off.”
“But how,” said Sophie, “if the poor kitten neither resisted nor caressed you—shrank and shivered and died in your hands?”
“I should not give the weak thing a chance, Sophie; when the shrinking and shivering commenced, I should throw it heavily upon the ground, and thereby kill it.”
Sophie shuddered.
Both were silent for some time; then he spoke—
“What day, Miss Churchill, between this and the first of next month will it please you to bestow upon me the honor of your hand?”
“No day! no day! Don’t look at me so, Mr. Withers, pray don’t; it makes me ill—_pray don’t_—I am a mere girl, a mere child; it frightens me, this idea of marrying you—indeed, believe me, it does!”
“Come! Miss Churchill, come! This will not do—this fickleness and unfaithfulness on your part will not answer; I cannot permit it. I thought the footing we stood upon in relation to each other well understood; you certainly could _not_ have misinterpreted the meaning of my visits here; no one else has misconceived them. Mrs. Gardiner Green inquired of me to-day when our marriage was to come off. I told her that it would take place some time this month, that I would apprise her of the exact day to-morrow. It is for the purpose of ascertaining your day that I have called this evening. Come, Sophie, satisfy me upon this point.”
“I cannot! I cannot! God _knows_ I cannot! Oh! _Why_ do you persist in this? Why! why love a girl who is in no respect, of age, mind, education, or wealth, your equal?”
“Fiddlestick! have I said I loved you? No, Sophie, thank God I have never yet been, never, I trust, shall be, under the influence of that most weak and puerile passion.”
“Then, in the name of reason and of mercy, why seek to marry a girl whom you do not love, and who hates—no, does not _hate_, but who fears and recoils from you?”
“Precisely because she _does_ fear and recoil from me!”
“I will not marry you, then! I will not marry you then! please God to give me strength. Surely I am a free girl; no one has a right, or will attempt, or could succeed in forcing my inclinations. Come, I will be firm, and nothing can compel me!”
“But destiny. You are in a net of circumstances from whence there is no escape, Sophie Churchill. Do not struggle, you will lacerate your limbs and waste your strength only to entangle yourself the more.”
Again silence ensued. Sophie continued from time to time to try to extricate herself from his grasp, each attempt but serving to rivet his arm about her waist—at last he said—
“The embrace of my arm is an emblem of the surrounding of your fate; you can as easily escape the one as the other.”
Sophie burst into tears, and wept long and freely. He did not attempt to soothe or even to speak to her. At last her fit of grief and terror exhausted itself, and she became calm. Then she said—
“Oh, I might have guessed all this sorrow from the first time I ever met your eye!”
“Flattering again!”
The clock struck. Sophie struggled.
“Mr. Withers, it is ten o’clock.”
“Well, Miss Churchill, I only wait my answer to return home.”
“I have given you the only one I can give—take it again. I cannot give myself to you.”
“Then I can take you, that’s all, Sophie. Mrs. Gardiner Green will call upon you to-morrow,” and so saying, he arose and took his leave.
When left alone Sophie paced uneasily up and down the floor, saying, as she clasped her temples—
“Am I mad or going mad? am I dreaming? Under a spell? Oh, _what_ is this? What is this closing around me like irresistible destiny? Why cannot I awake, arouse from this? I know I’m free; _why_ can’t I use my freedom? What a spell, what a mystery, what a horror! Oh! my Heavenly Father! If I could awake! I lose my free will! Oh, fate! fate! fate! thy hand is on me, and there is no resisting it!”
Thus the pinions of her weak will fluttered in the iron grasp of a strong and implacable one.