The Gipsy Part 12

The deep emotion that he felt overpowered him for an instant; but then he made a great exertion, and, rising from the sofa, "Marian," he said, "I have now told you all, even to my innermost thoughts; and I have but one word to add, my dear, dear cousin. Nearly three years ago, you a.s.sured me of your love, and promised me your hand; and every member of your family willingly consented to our ultimate union; but then I was the Honourable Edward de Vaux, the heir to one of the most ancient peerages in England, and to twenty thousand per annum. Things have now changed; and, if the a.s.sertions in this letter, and my own suspicions be correct, I am now a nameless, illegitimate beggar, without a right to any thing on earth but my sword and my reputation--with shame upon my mother's head--with nothing to claim from my father, and without even a name that I can offer you. Under these circ.u.mstances, though I shall love you to the last day of my life, and think of you through every moment in the whole course of time, I give you back your promise, I free you from all engagement, and leave you totally untied to a connection from which your friends will naturally be glad enough to separate you."

He spoke calmly, slowly, and distinctly; but the deadly paleness of his countenance showed how deeply he was moved at heart; and Marian gazed upon him, with her long dark eyelashes raised high, her beautiful eyes full upon his face, and her lip slightly trembling while he went on. As soon as he had ceased, she rose from the sofa, and, with agitation and ardour, all unlike her usual calmness, cast herself at once upon his bosom, with her arms circling his neck, her lips pressed upon his cheek, and her tears falling rapidly upon him.--"Edward, Edward!" she cried, "I am yours--all yours! Could you--could you do such injustice to your own Marian? You have given me back my promise, and I here give it you again--so that, whatever comes, I may never hear from any one a single word against our union.

Nay, nay, let me speak--it is seldom that I am vehement; but I must speak now--you have my promise, most solemnly, most strictly; and I consider myself as much bound to you as if I were your wife. Not only shall no other person upon earth ever have my hand, but, whatever happens, and whoever opposes it, you shall have it, when and where you choose to ask it."

Need I say how tenderly he pressed her to his heart? Need I say how ardently, how sincerely he thanked her? But still there was some slight hesitation in his mind. He almost doubted that she fully appreciated his situation, and he felt that he could not receive such a promise as she had made till she comprehended all. He bade her think, then, of the whole; and conjured her to remember, that it was not alone the loss of name and station, but that, if his antic.i.p.ations were correct, every thing like wealth, or even competence, would also be lost to him.

But all Marian's reserve was now gone, and the long-restrained feelings of her heart flowed forth all together. "Nay, nay, Edward,"

she said, again seating herself on the sofa, without, however, withdrawing the small soft hand he held in his; "nay, nay, Edward, have I not enough for us both? enough to give us every comfort? Nay, every luxury that we ought to have we shall still possess; and why need we wish for more? Do you think that the coach-and-six, and the golden-coated coachman, and the three lackeys on the footboard ever entered into my calculations of happiness?"

"No; but, dearest Marian," he replied, "it is only painful to me to think that I bring nothing to unite to your property. Your large fortune renders it only the more necessary that I should have one too--"

"Hush, hush, hus.h.!.+" cried Marian, eagerly: but still he went on: "I have to owe you every thing, Marian; love, and happiness, and rank, and station, and fortune too."

"And will you, Edward, _you_ talk so proudly to Marian de Vaux?" she exclaimed. "Will you be too haughty to enjoy all the blessings that we possess, because it is Marian that gives them? Is not that which is mine yours? Has it not been so since we were children? Do not distress me, Edward, by one thought of such a kind. Indeed, I shall think you do not love me--that you are going to refuse my offered hand."

"Oh, Marian, Marian!" he cried, kissing it a thousand times, while something very bright, and not unlike a tear, glittered in his eye. "I would not lose it for a thousand worlds! Distress you! dearest girl! I grieve to have distressed you for a moment; but I felt myself bound to tell you all."

"Oh, that does not distress me at all," replied Marian; "the only thing that could distress me would be to see you grieve, or to think that you should make a difference, even in thought, between what is yours and what is mine. I declare, Edward, I never knew what it was to feel glad of a large fortune before; but now I am thankful, not only for what my mother left me, but for every s.h.i.+lling that my good old granduncle and guardian has sc.r.a.ped together for me, by his economy thereof. Three thousand a year, Edward--consider, we shall be as rich as princes; and if it had not been for that, this misfortune might have obliged us to wait on for many a year, till you had made a fortune in India, and very likely have lost your health, which no fortune could have compensated."

Marian de Vaux spoke in a manner totally different from that which her cousin had seen her display for many a year. Her beautiful eyes were full of light and feeling; a smile, half-tender, half-playful, hovered over her lip, and her voice was full of eager kindness and thrilling affection. He had remembered her thus as a girl; but, as she had grown up towards womanhood, either the feelings which had animated her bosom with such a warm and enthusiastic glow had pa.s.sed away, or the expression of them had been gradually suppressed. Now, again, she was all that he remembered her, and to see her so, plunged him into a sweet vision of the past--connected, though by some fine golden threads, with the present. He had seated himself on the sofa beside her, and, still holding her right hand in his, he had glided his left arm round her waist, and then, with his eyes fixed on a distant spot of the floor, he remained in silence for two or three moments after she had done speaking. Unless man were a cold unfeeling piece of ticking mechanism, like a watch, our measures of time would always be by our sensations: and as Marian had at that moment given way to all the eagerness of her heart, the two moments that Edward de Vaux remained in thought seemed to her an age. "What is the matter, Edward?" she said. "Are you still unhappy?"

"No, my beloved," he answered, looking up in her face with a glance that fully confirmed his words,--"no, my beloved; I am most happy! so happy, indeed, that, were I placed as I was before, I would almost again undergo the pain which this discovery first caused me, to enjoy the delight which my Marian's conduct has bestowed."

"And did you doubt what that conduct would be, Edward?" she demanded, half-reproachfully. Edward de Vaux coloured, and might have hesitated; for conscience, that bitter smiter, who always finds his time to apply the lash, now struck him severely for all those images which an irritable fancy had suggested concerning Marian's conduct. But she saved him the pain of a reply, which must either have been mortifying or insincere. "And did you doubt what my conduct would be?" she asked; and in the next moment she added, "But never mind, dear Edward; you see what it is, and do never doubt it again."

"I will never doubt, as long as I live, my own beloved girl," he answered, ardently; "I will never doubt, as long as I live, that it will on every occasion be all that is good, and n.o.ble, and generous: but it was not that alone, my Marian, that made me so happy--so very, very happy."

"What was it, then, dear Edward," she asked, in some surprise; for Marian, with all the quickness of a woman's perception, had noticed the pa.s.sing colour that came into De Vaux's cheek; and knowing him, and all the little intricacies of his heart, better than he thought--better, perhaps, than she thought herself--she had instantly set down the blush to its right cause, and said, in her own heart, "Edward has been tormenting himself with fancies." Now, however, his words puzzled her, though a latent consciousness of having--in the urgency of the moment, and in the desire to sooth and render Edward patient under his misfortune--a latent consciousness of having given free course to feelings and enthusiasms which she had long held close prisoners in her bosom, made her now feel embarra.s.sed in turn; and a bright warm blush, partly from curiosity, partly from that consciousness, mantled for a moment in her cheek.

Edward de Vaux gazed upon her as she put her question with a smile, full of deep fond affection--with a sort of triumphant happiness, too, in his look that made her inclined, she knew not why, to hide her eyes upon his bosom, as she had done long ago, when first she had acknowledged to him the love that he had won, and witnessed the joy that it called up in his countenance. "I will tell you what it is, dearest," he answered, "that makes me now so happy, that I should have considered anything but yourself a light sacrifice to obtain such joy.

It is, that the misfortune which has befallen me has called forth my beloved Marian's true and natural character, and shown her to me fully, as the same dear, excellent, feeling, enthusiastic girl that I have always pictured her to my own imagination--such as her feelings as a child gave promise that she would be--such as I remember her appearing constantly, not many years ago."

Marian blushed, and looked down; and there was a swimming moisture in her eyes, which a little more might have caused to overflow in tears: but they would not have been unhappy ones. She felt--

But it is difficult to say what she felt. It was not that she felt detected, for that word would imply a shade of culpability which she did not feel; but she felt that she had betrayed herself--that a veil which she had cast over the true features of her mind, from many a deep and complicated motive, had been raised--had been s.n.a.t.c.hed away, and could never be dropped effectually again. The effect which the raising of that veil had produced was all glad and gratifying, it is true; but still there was that fluttering emotion at her heart, which the disclosure of long-hidden feelings must always produce: she felt as if she had told her love for the first time over again; and she knew, too, that she might be called upon to a.s.sign motives, and give reasons, which would be difficult to explain, but which she determined not to withhold, for many a good and sufficient cause. But all this agitated her. She blushed, she almost trembled; and Edward de Vaux was but the more convinced, from the agitation which he beheld, that the concealment of her real character, and the repression of her finest feelings, had been a conscious and voluntary act on the part of her he loved.

He became curious, as well he might be, to learn more; and, as Marian still sat silently beside him, he tried the tacit persuasion of a gentle kiss upon the blus.h.i.+ng cheek, that almost touched his shoulder.

She turned round towards him with a thoughtful smile; but, as she did not speak, he asked more boldly, "Why, Marian, why, dearest, after having given me your love, and promised me your hand, have you let that dear little heart play at hide and seek with me, till I have sometimes almost doubted whether it was my own?"

"You should not have doubted that, De Vaux," Marian answered; "but if you really wish to know why I have somewhat changed my conduct since I was a girl, and why I have, in some degree, repressed feelings that I have not experienced the less warmly, I will let you into some of the secrets of a woman's heart; but you must promise me, Edward, never to abuse the trust," she added, smiling more gaily; "and you must promise, too, not to be angry with any thing I shall say."

"Angry! angry with you, Marian!" said De Vaux; "do not believe such a thing possible."

Marian smiled again, for there is often a sort of prophetic presentiment in the breast of woman, which teaches her that, however much she may rule and command the lover, the husband will not receive the power in vain; and, perhaps, it is this knowledge of the shortness of their reign which sometimes makes women abuse it a little while it lasts. Marian smiled again at De Vaux's words, and then replied, "Well, then, Edward, keep your part of the compact, and I will tell you all. You say I have changed very much since I was a girl; and that is but natural, Edward; for, depend upon it, every woman does change, if she feels and thinks at all deeply. As a girl, her words and her actions are all of but little importance in the eyes of those around her, or in her own, unless she be nourished in conceit and affectation from her cradle; and, during the first fifteen or sixteen years of her life, though she may be taught to act like a lady, yet she sees no reason for concealing anything she feels, or anything she thinks, if it be not likely to hurt the feelings of others. As she goes on towards womanhood, however, the world changes its conduct towards her, and she finds it necessary to change towards it. She learns to look upon trifles in her own conduct, and in the conduct of others towards her, as matters of importance: the world and society a.s.sume a different aspect she trembles lest she should say, or do, or feel what is wrong; and very often she expresses too little of what she feels, lest she should express too much. Then, too, Edward," continued Marian, with the colour which had partly left her cheek while she spoke coming richly up again, and spreading over her whole face, "then, too, Edward, if she learns to love, all those fears and apprehensions are a thousand-fold increased. She is terrified at her own sensations, and almost thinks it wrong and sacrilegious to suffer that one being by whom her affections are won to take that station in her heart, above all the rest of the world, which she has. .h.i.therto devoted solely to a being beyond the world. Perhaps before that time she may have longed to love and be beloved; but the first moment she feels that it is so--especially if it come upon her suddenly--depend upon it, her feelings are more or less those of terror."

De Vaux smiled, but his hand pressed tenderly upon Marian's as he did so; and she felt it was as much a smile of thanks, as if he had accompanied it with words of ever so much grat.i.tude for the picture of her feelings that she had given him. She paused, however, for she was coming to matter which she feared might not please him so well; and his thoughts turning, too, in the same direction, he said, after waiting for a few moments to see if she would go on, "But, dear Marian, this happens to every woman without producing such a change as I have seen in you; and besides, what I have seen to-day, Marian, has shown me fully that there has been some more distinct and individual motive. Tell it me, Marian, tell it me, my beloved; and, believe me, I will not abuse your confidence."

"Nor be angry?" she said, smiling again. "Remember, that it is a princ.i.p.al part of our agreement. Well, then, I will go on. When first we were engaged to each other, Edward, my chief thought--as, indeed, it ever has been since--was how to make the man I loved most completely happy, as far as my own conduct was concerned; and I was reading at that time a very clever book, which recommended women, on their marriage, to study, not alone the general character of their husband, but all his individual opinions and thoughts, in order to make their own behaviour completely conformable thereto; it a.s.serted, also, that such was the surest way of winning happiness for both. I believed it, and resolved to try to follow the advice even before marriage. I listened to every thing you said, concerning the conduct of other women that we knew, with a determination of trying to acquire the qualities that you praised, and to avoid all that you blamed."

"But, good G.o.d! my dearest Marian!" exclaimed Edward, warmly, "surely I did not blame them for suffering the beauties or the excellences of their natural characters to appear, nor praise them for a.s.suming a coldness that was the most opposed to the general warmth of their nature?"

"Not exactly, Edward," replied Marian; "but I will tell you what you did, which came much to the same purpose. Though whatever I did seemed to give you pleasure, yet, when you spoke of any of our acquaintance, you were so severe upon what appeared to me very slight mistakes in their demeanour; you were so rigid in your ideas of what was right in general behaviour; you even once censured so heavily a display, rather too open, of attachment to her husband, on the part of a lady whom we both knew, that I began to find that your opinions on such subjects were very nice indeed: and knowing," added Marian, with a smile, which De Vaux felt fully, "and knowing that my lover, with these nice opinions, was peculiarly sensitive to every thing that he thought could draw the slightest degree of ridicule upon him or his, I determined so to school my own conduct, and to repress the expression of my own feelings, as to ensure his heart against the slightest annoyance, concerning a word, or a movement, or a look of his wife."

Marian paused, and Edward de Vaux, with his eyes bent upon the ground, remained silent for two or three minutes, till she became alarmed.

"You promised me, Edward," she said, "not to be angry."

"Not to be angry with you, my beloved girl," he said; "but I did not promise not to be angry with myself; and well, well do I deserve it."

"Nay, nor must you be angry with yourself either, Edward," replied Marian; "if you are, I shall still think some of it lights upon me.

If, in seeking the means of rendering you happy, I have made you unhappy, I shall meet with punishment instead of reward."

"Dearest Marian," answered De Vaux, "it were vain to deny it. I have been a fastidious fool hitherto; and, like the other sneerers of this world, have been seeking the mote in my brother's eye, while I have forgot the beam in my own. But henceforth I will take example by you, dearest Marian, and so school my own heart as to get over that feeling of the ridiculous in others, and terror for it in myself, which I now find and believe to be a vice and not a quality."

Marian shook her head with a doubtful smile, as if she would have said, "It is in your nature, Edward."

"I will, indeed, Marian," he continued; "and you shall see what a strong resolution can do even with Edward de Vaux. But you must promise me in return, dearest, to reward my efforts, by casting off the reserve that my foolish fastidiousness has drawn over you. The qualities of my Marian's heart and mind are too beautiful to be hidden beneath such a veil."

Marian smiled again, but looked a little thoughtful, for she felt that the task her lover would impose was no easy one. "I will do my best, Edward," she said; "but it must be by degrees. In the first place, all the world would think me mad, if I were to change suddenly from the quiet still-life demeanour of Marian de Vaux, and take up the gay, lively, enthusiastic character of Isadore Falkland; and, in the next place, it would be impossible, for I have now been training myself to this behaviour so long, that it has become quite habitual to me; and, whatever are the emotions that I feel at heart, my first effort--even before I know I am making one--is to keep those emotions from appearing. Sometimes, indeed," she added, laughing, "they break through all restraint, as they have done today; but that is only on great occasions. However, I will do my best to change back again; and, perhaps, as I have overdone the quiet and composed, I may find the happy medium, in returning to my old thoughtlessness. But, in the mean time, Edward, never you be deceived in regard to what I feel. You have seen the veil, as you call it, cast away; and you know entirely what is beneath it."

"A thousand, thousand thanks, for letting me see it, Marian," he replied: "but I can never thank you enough, my beloved, for all that you have done this day--for showing me your heart, and for giving me a glimpse, too, of my own."

"But I owe you thanks, too, Edward--deep and many thanks," replied Marian, "for the generous candour of your conduct; and for not shrinking, even for a moment, from making me a sharer in your thoughts and feelings, however painful they might be to communicate. And oh, Edward, let me entreat you ever to pursue the same course hereafter.

Let me be the sharer of all your thoughts; let me hear every thing painful or to be feared, from your own lips, and the tale will loose half its bitterness; and I promise you that, if I cannot a.s.sist you with advice and support, I will not embarra.s.s you by womanly fear, or weak irresolution."

"I will, Marian, I will!" replied De Vaux; "for I can contemplate no case in which what I had to communicate would combine half so many sources of pain and anxiety as that which is just past: and now, dearest, then, give me your advice in regard to the course I ought to pursue in investigating this very painful business."

"Do you not think, Edward," said Marian, "that you had better not investigate it at all? If, by letting it rest, and treating this information with contempt, you were likely to injure any one, of course I should say, sift it to the last grain. But it seems that these people, whoever they are, that send you such disagreeable tidings, hold out our approaching marriage as the only motive for your enquiry farther; and, as you have told me the whole without reserve, and I am perfectly satisfied, I see no reason why you should trouble yourself further about it. If you are to lose the t.i.tles and estates of your father on any pretext, let the gipsies send their information to the person who is to benefit by your loss. I would think no more of it."

De Vaux shook his head, for his vivid imagination and excitable nature did not fit him for sitting down quietly under such a load of suspense. "No, no, Marian!" he said; "I could not bear such uncertainty; I should not know an hour's peace, and whenever a letter was put into my hand, whenever a stranger desired to speak with me, I should dread some evil tidings. Investigate thoroughly I must. If I find these insinuations false, my peace will be established on a surer rock than ever; and my disposition may not be the worse for the ordeal I have undergone, and the lessons I have received. If my fears prove just, and these tidings true, I think, dear Marian--I think," and he drew her nearer to his heart--"I think that, with the a.s.surance of such love as yours, I can see all the rest that was bright in my lot pa.s.s away from me without a sigh."

Marian's heart was relieved, for she had doubted how Edward de Vaux would endure the certainty which might soon be forced upon him, of the severe reverses which were yet unconfirmed. She had doubted, and, with all the skilful tenderness of a woman's heart, she had at once perceived that the most open a.s.surances of her own love were the surest antidotes that she could offer him against the evils of the day. She had acted, it is true, by impulse; but there is always some rapidly operating motive even at the bottom of impulse itself, which, nine times out of ten, works with wonderful sagacity. There are many moments in the life of man, when his boasted reason, which is but a slow and considerate personage, has not time to act, and when, if there were no power but this same reason to save us from drowning, we might drown beyond redemption for anything that reason would do to help us; but G.o.d, who gives their never-failing instinct to the beasts, does not leave man without resource in those moments when haste, and need, and apprehension render him little better than a judgment-less animal, and has afforded him also a kind of instinct, a power which only acts on sudden emergencies, when reason has not time; which power we call impulse, but which is neither more nor less than the instinct of a hurry.

Marian de Vaux had, in the first instance, acted on impulse, but as she went on, finding that impulse was quite right, and that the only means to sooth and to strengthen her lover under his misfortunes, was to let him see throughout the full extent of her love for him, she cast away, as we have seen, every reserve, and showed Edward de Vaux that he could but lose little, whatever he lost, compared with that inestimable affection which was still his own.

Marian's heart was relieved by perceiving that her conduct had been successful, and that De Vaux was nerved against the worst; and, as she had no particular taste for suspense herself, any more than he had, she now recalled her words, and advised him, if his feelings were such as he expressed, to pursue the investigation at once.

"That, Marian, for all our sakes and on every account, I must do,"

he replied; "but the only question with me is, in which way had I better follow the inquiry. Here are two courses pointed out in this letter,--to apply at once to my father; or, in the first place, to visit this gipsy, and to ascertain precisely what information he possesses. I have already considered, and believe that the latter course would be the best; but my Marian has every right to guide me."

"Oh! do not go to the gipsy," cried Marian on the first impulse; but impulse was wrong in this instance, and Marian soon found that it was so. Edward himself paused, and thought over the matter again; but, on consideration, Marian remembered many an objection to the plan of seeking information from Lord Dewry himself. She knew his haughtiness and his violence, and she knew, too, that De Vaux, tingling under a sense of degradation, and feeling that such degradation was attributable to his father, was in no state of mind to submit to the proud and insulting tone Lord Dewry too often employed, or to speak calmly and dispa.s.sionately upon a subject, in regard to which his whole heart was bleeding, and every better feeling deeply wounded. She dreaded the collision which might ensue between the two, and she thought it also very probable that Lord Dewry might refuse all information on the subject. "I am afraid I am wrong, Edward," she said at length; "I have a dread of those gipsies,--I do not know why; but still, perhaps, you should be more sure that such insinuations as these are not mere calumny, before you speak to your father about it."

"That is true, my love," replied De Vaux; "and, besides, I have just remembered that if I wish to have the gipsy's information at all, I must have it before I see my father. He here in this letter tells me to come either this evening or to-morrow early. Now, it is too late to go to my father this evening, and before I could be back, if I went over to-morrow, the time would be expired and the gipsy gone. I think my best plan will be, to go early to the gipsy camp to-morrow morning, hear all the man has to say, and then, if necessary, I can ride over to the hall and speak with my father ere he goes out."

"Yes, I doubt not that such is the best course," replied Marian; "but for G.o.d's sake, Edward, take care of those gipsies. They are, I believe, a terrible race of savages; and you told me that this was a large encampment which you saw in the wood. They might murder you, Edward, for your purse or your watch."

"Oh, no fear, no fear, dearest!" replied De Vaux; "you see they never attempted to murder Manners today, though he was there at five or six in the morning, and his purse is likely to be much better filled than mine; and as they knew him, and know me, they must know also that his fortune is larger than mine ever will be."

"But they may have some motive of revenge against you, Edward,"