University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

For almost the first time in her life Ann had
stolen away without bidding me good-night; and
for the very first time the omission gave me no
pain. I now began to flatter myself that Balcombe's
conjectures were right, and that she was
at length beginning to discover the secret of her
heart. That Howard's attention had at first given
her great pleasure was certain; but it was like the
pleasure of an ingenuous child at any expression of
approbation from one highly esteemed. To the
admiration of such a man as Howard no woman
could be insensible; for none could be indifferent
to the possession of such qualities as alone could
command it. His attentions, too, were so tempered
by respect and delicacy, and managed with
such address, that they could not be unacceptable
in themselves, though he should be an object of
indifference. But now they were not received
exactly as before. Though flattered and gratified,
there was a sort of restlessness in the manner of
the receiver which showed that they awakened
thoughts in which he had no part. These things

had occurred to me; and Miss Howard's dexterous
hint that what Ann had been accustomed to
consider as sisterly affection was in fact the warmest
feeling of which her warm heart was capable,
could not be misunderstood.

There was something, indeed, in the conduct of
that young lady which I could not comprehend.
Could she have any objection to the success of her
brother's suit? Certainly not. For Ann she expressed
and unequivocally displayed the most cordial
friendship. Towards her brother she manifestly
felt the most devoted affection, and enthusiastic
admiration. It was impossible to doubt that
his happiness was dear to her. One thing at least
was clear; that her imputed partiality to me either
never had existed, or had settled down into sentiments
such as do not often survive a preference
which is not reciprocated. I therefore began to
suspect some mistake in the matter from the first.

In these ideas I found that Balcombe fully concurred.
It may be well supposed, therefore, that
I was impatient to obtain their full confirmation.
My first step would, of course, have been to seek
an interview with Ann; but from this I was restrained
by a solemn promise, the more binding
because she had no security for it but my word.
Not only had I no right to take a step which might
wound her, but I knew that scrupulous regard to
that and all other pledges was indispensable to her
favour. I felt myself, therefore, condemned to

silence, of which I could not help complaining to
Balcombe.

“You forget,” said he, “that enforced silence is
the most eloquent of all pleaders. She who has
imposed it is all the time speaking to her heart on
your behalf; not indeed to awaken love, (that were
superfluous,) but gratitude and admiration. Under
such circumstances esteem it a privilege to be
silent. If, as I suspect, Margaret Howard is
aware of the interdict, she has left little for you to
say, and will soon obtain leave for you to say that
little.”

“But what motive can she have,” asked I, “to
interest herself in my behalf?”

“I cannot tell,” said Balcombe, “what there may
be besides the manifest generosity of her temper,
and something, perhaps, of that disposition, which
so many women have, to take a part in such matters.
But I suspect some nearer motive besides.
Perhaps a desire to rescue herself from some misconstruction.
But go to sleep, William; and this
time be sure you mingle thanksgivings with your
prayers, for I think I see the dawn of happiness
opening such as may well deserve your thanks.”

The next day I saw, and not without concern,
that Howard's spirits were depressed. His duties
to his guests were obviously a burden upon him.
The excitement of his sister's feelings, too, seemed
painful; and, though she carried herself with the
cheerful air of one sure of the right and bent to do
it, yet it was plain that her mind needed an opportunity

for that guidance and support which are best
sought in retirement. As our visit was for no determinate
time, we accommodated it to these symptoms,
and in the evening of a somewhat dull day
returned to Craiganet.

The next day, while Balcombe and I were out
with our guns, Howard and his sister drove over.
We returned to the house just as he was about to
leave it.

“I shall ride the servant's horse, Margaret,” said
he; “and you will command him and the barouche
until you choose to go home.”

He said this with polite kindness; but I thought
I saw some little pique in his manner. His brow,
too, was flushed, and his eye wandering; his address
to Balcombe was hurried, and towards myself
there was something quite different from his accustomed
cordiality. In this mood he took his leave;
and our party, after an interchange of sundry
blank looks, separated to dress for dinner. Until
we met at table, Ann did not make her appearance.
As soon as she entered the room, I was struck with
her excited countenance. Her eye swam in light,
her cheek glowed, and, though she manifestly
shrank from the gaze of others, there was an air of
individuality and resolve about her which contrasted
strongly with her accustomed timidity.
Her whole manner was that of one who sees an
object distinctly, with a fixed purpose of pursuing
it. She leaned on the arm of Miss Howard, from
whose countenance every shade of embarrassment

and perplexity was banished. She was full of animation,
and, with the aid of Balcombe, roused up
the spirit of conversation once more among us. As
soon as dinner was over she called for her carriage,
and I, ordering a horse for the servant, offered to
accompany her.

“No, no, Mr. William,” said she; “you are not
the beau for my money. You belong to the sunflower
school. Mr. Balcombe's versatile notions
of love and gallantry give me better hopes of
him; and if, like Major Dalgetty, he'll take service
with me, I shall be glad to enlist him for the campaign.”

“Under what prouder banner than that of the
white lion,” said Balcombe, “could a soldier
serve? Command me, Lady Margaret; and believe
that, if I have been less prompt to offer service
than you to demand it, it was but because I
thought that younger knights might be more
acceptable.”

“Younger, indeed!” said the lady, “and why
younger? Time was when men did not give themselves
up to selfishness till they grew old; but now
they are so carefully trained to it, that, if a lady
should have need to find a champion fitted to deeds
of chivalrous emprize, she must take one whose
beard is gray. But we have no right to expect
anything better. When woman sets up for herself,
and contends for the mastery with man, she
makes him her rival, not her protector. But come,
Mr. Balcombe; these notions are too oldfashioned

for our friends here. Let us be off, and discourse
at will of the degeneracy of the men and women
of modern days.”

So saying, she kissed Ann, courtesied to the
rest, and giving her hand to Balcombe, tripped
away to her carriage.

The evening was pleasant, and I proposed a
walk to Ann. She coloured slightly, but assented,
when a glance from Jane brought the blood again
to her face, and she seemed to hesitate.

“Do you doubt my promise?” said I, in a low
voice.

“No, I do not,” said she, firmly; adding, after a
short pause, “and I will walk with you.”

“I have never seen your friend Miss Howard in
so attractive a light before,” said I, as soon as we
had left the house.

“She is a noble creature,” said Ann. “She has
as little of selfishness, and as much zealous devotion
to her friends as human nature is capable of.
You have never seen this before, because you
have heretofore seen her through a discolouring
medium.”

“I do not understand you,” said I.

“I suppose not,” replied Ann; “but I can
assure you that she has as much in common with
your generous friend Mr. Balcombe as befits her
sex.”

“I am glad,” said I, “to hear the approbation of
him which your remark implies.”

“Of him! Surely approbation is quite too cold

a word for such a character, even in the mouth of
one never benefited by him. But I must be dead
to gratitude if I did not already feel a warm affection
for a man who has perilled his life in our service,
and whose heart seems to cleave to me with
a father's affection. I feel as if I had known him
all my life, and am already disposed to give him
all my confidence, as to a father or elder brother.”

“You will find it well placed,” said I. “A truer
friend cannot be; and his sagacity and wisdom
make him the safest adviser I ever knew. The
qualities that glitter on the surface of his character,
brilliant as they are, are of little value compared
to his intrinsic worth.”

“Poor Margaret!” said Ann. “She said true,
that the cultivated selfishness of the young men of
this day unfits them to mate with a woman capable
of genuine feminine devotion. It is almost a pity
Mr. Balcombe is married.”

“You would not think so if you knew his wife,”
said I. “I have no mind to disparage your friend,
but I am not sure that I know any woman worthy
to be the wife of George Balcombe, but her who
is so.”

I now gave some of the details of our late adventures
for the purpose of illustrating Mrs. Balcombe's
character.

“She is certainly a noble woman,” said Ann;
“but she can hardly be a very agreeable acquaintance.”

“I found her very much so,” said I, “as soon as

I became an acquaintance. But whether I ever
should have known her, but for the circumstances
which broke down her reserve, is uncertain. As
to your solicitude for Miss Howard,” continued I,
“there seems no great call for that, as from appearances,
she and her cousin Angus are at last
disposed to fulfil the anxious wish of his father.
He is certainly a fine young man, and well worthy
of any woman.”

“That may be,” said Ann; “but old Mr. Douglas
will never see the accomplishment of that
wish.”

“There seems to be a perfect understanding
between them,” said I.

“I believe there is,” she replied, “but not such
as you suppose. They have a great affection for
each other, and the utmost mutual confidence; but
that is all. I profess no skill in such matters; but
knowing Margaret Howard as I now do, it appears
to me that any one may discover that her heart is
yet untouched.”

“Knowing her as you now do,” said I, marking
her emphasis on the word. “You have then
thought otherwise?”

She coloured deeply at this question, and at last
replied simply that she had.

“And whom,” said I, “did you suppose to be
the happy man?”

I felt her relax her hold on my arm as if to withdraw
her's; but she commanded herself, and answered,
with an effort at firmness,

“I cannot tell you that. It is enough to say that
I now know that I was deceived.”

I did not know what to say to this. I was conscious
that I had rather kept my promise in the
letter than in the spirit; for Ann could not suppose
me to be ignorant that I was the person alluded
to, and that I had wiled from her an admission that
she had been under a delusion concerning me
which was now removed. I felt that I had been
guilty of a breach of faith; but acknowledgment
or apology would but make the matter worse.
But though I reproached myself, I did not fail to
enjoy the discovery of a fact which might explain
her former conduct. I wished to ask if she also
supposed the attachment of Miss Howard reciprocated,
but did not dare to go so far. But of that I
could hardly entertain a doubt. She at length
broke the embarrassing silence by some question
about James Scott, and this led to a conversation
of indifferent matters, in which she got rid of
the slight reserve that had shown itself for the
moment.

Balcombe returned late, and with a mind obviously
full of something; but showed no disposition
to talk. As soon as we went to our room he
began.

“Well, William; I have had a long and interesting
conversation with Miss Howard.”

“And what have you learned?” asked I.

“Much that concerns you,” was the reply.

“And nothing that has not increased my admiration
of her.”

“For Heaven's sake,” said I, “unbuckle your
mail, then, and give us the news.”

“Softly, softly, my dear fellow. I must begin
at the beginning, if I can find where it is, and tell
my story as she did, so as to do justice to all
parties.”

“Then tell it in your own way,” said I. “Let
me have your conversation.”

“Well, then,” said Balcombe, “we were hardly
seated before she began.

“`Mr. Balcombe,' said she, `you don't deserve
half the credit for sagacity that your friend Napier
gives you, if you haven't found out that I had a
design in thus laying violent hands upon you.'

“`To say the truth,' said I, `I had some suspicion
of the sort; but, as I feared no ill, I was willing
to let time make proof.'

“`I mean nothing but good,' said she, `to you
and your's; but I have that to say which I would
have to reach the ears of your friend Mr. Napier,
just as I say it. But there would be an impropriety
in speaking or writing to him. A third person is
the proper filter to take off any indelicacy from
my communication.'

“She began then by telling me just what I have
heard from you about Douglas and your sister.

“`Angus and I,' said she, `are first cousins; we
have been brought up almost together, and our
intimacy has never been interrupted. I was soon

apprised of what had been proposed, and he and
I soon came to a perfect understanding. He is a
fine, noble spirited youth, in whose happiness I take
a deep interest, and I saw that his union with Jane
was essential to it. My brother, on a visit to Oakwood,
became enamoured of Ann. My confidence
in his taste and judgment disposed me to think
favourably of any woman whom he might select
as a wife, and I was eager to make an acquaintance
with her. I therefore readily acquiesced in
his proposal to transfer our residence to Oakwood
for a season, and my mother was easily drawn into
the measure. Angus immediately struck at the
opening; and, having taken Henry into our confidence,
it was arranged that my cousin should, with
my connivance, commence such a course of attention
to me, as should make his father wish him to
become one of our party. He was impatient to
see Jane, to show her that he had not changed,
and to assure himself of her constancy. Besides,
he was not without a hope, that Henry's success,
of which (admiring him as we do) we had little
doubt, would reconcile his father to his own marriage
with Jane; so that on every account we
were desirous to do what we might in support of
my brother's suit. Accordingly, after a little delicate
and well-managed flirtation, of which we
took care to have but few witnesses besides my
uncle Douglas, the scheme was proposed by him,
and we all came together to Oakwood.

“`I at once set myself to study the character of

Ann. I saw that she experienced a pure and childlike
pleasure in Henry's attentions, but that as yet
love entered not into it. I was sure that if her
heart were ripe for love, she had not yet found it
out, and I admonished my brother to make his approaches
with great caution. This he did, and
displayed so much address and delicacy in the
midst of all his tenderness, that, partiality aside,
I had no idea that any disengaged heart could
withstand him. At length he declared his wishes,
but was careful not to press for a peremptory answer.
The poor little flattered thing was so relieved
by this, that I wondered she did not love him
for very gratitude. This feeling did indeed operate
so far as to make her receive his attentions
with as much kindness, and very little more embarrassment
than before. In the mean time, my surprise
at Henry's want of success set me to looking
about for a cause, and I soon saw enough of Mr.
Napier to suspect that I had found one. The devotion
of Henry to Ann, and of Angus to Jane,
had thrown us much together. I found him one
that a girl brought up in the house with could
hardly fail to love, and yet might well love without
knowing it.'

“I will not tell you, William, the points in your
character which led Miss Howard to this conclusion.

“`But I saw,' said she, `that Ann had not found
out her own secret. She was pleased and satisfied
with Henry's attentions; and I was not sorry

that circumstances put it in my power to prevent
much interruption from Mr. Napier. I soon found
that he was ill at ease. His wandering glances
presently told me that if Ann did not know her
own secret, he had at length discovered his; and
being sure of this, I did not apprehend that I could
do him any injury by receiving, as if from choice,
his enforced attentions. In doing this I did not
dream of anything more than to leave Henry
without interruption to pursue his well-managed
course of attention to Ann, and to give her time to
wean herself from a habit of admiring and leaning
on her cousin, which might in time give birth
to love. As to Douglas, I had discharged him
from all attendance on me as soon as we arrived
at Oakwood; but still it was well the gallantry of
Napier should always be at hand to excuse him to
others for neglecting me. Having established
things on this footing, I quietly awaited what
seemed to me the inevitable result of Henry's
attentions to Ann. In this, however, I was disappointed.
The interruption in our intercourse occasioned
by the death of Mr. Napier may have had
a disastrous influence. But I was led to look further
back for the cause of his failure, and at length
suspected that the place which her cousin occupied
in Ann's heart, seeming as it did to her but that of
a brother, was in truth that of a favoured lover.
On our return to Oakwood, her manifest anxiety
concerning Mr. Napier exceeding that of his sisters,
and at the same time expressed more guardedly;
the unusual flush of her cold cheek produced
by any allusion to him; her frequent abstraction,
and occasional unconsciousness of my brother's
presence, left little doubt in my mind that my conjecture
had been right.

“`At first I saw this with no feeling but that of
regret on Henry's account. But a circumstance
soon occurred which showed that it touched me
on a more delicate point. I had of late observed
that that amiable, ingenuous girl Laura Napier
had become very much attached to me. She was
always hanging about me, and always ready to
perform the little offices of a younger sister, with a
zeal which showed that she found great pleasure
in them. Not long ago she begged me to let her
take down my hair and comb it, and while thus
employed she kept me amused with her playful
rattle. At length she ventured to say something
of the pleasure with which she looked forward to
the time when I was to be her sister. I started at
this with a vehemence that alarmed her, and in
her eagerness to excuse herself, she assured me
that the whole family considered Mr. Napier and
me as engaged. You may believe that this information
convinced me that in my care of others
I ought to have been more chary of myself. My
inquiries of Laura gave me no clew to the source
or grounds of this tale, and I determined to seek it
of one who might give more satisfactory information.

“`I accordingly inquired of Jane, who knew

nothing, it seemed, of the origin of the rumour,
but had had no doubt of its truth. This was
provoking. Why did she not doubt it? Oh,
nobody doubted it.

““`Does not Ann doubt it?”

““`Certainly not: how should she? William
is handsome and agreeable; he has been very
attentive; and really,” said she, “he has been so
well received that I could not doubt it.”

““`And Ann?” repeated I; “Does she believe
it? can she believe it?”

“`Saying this, I was going in quest of her, when
Jane said, “Hadn't you better not undeceive her?
It would distress her very much. Her heart is
set on the connection, and the expectation of it
must certainly dispose her more favourably to an
alliance with your brother.”

“`This staggered me, but I presently reflected
that in such matters a woman's first duty is to herself,
not as self, but as one of the guardians of her
sex's honour. I accordingly sought out Ann, and
asked her how she had heard the report. She
seemed much agitated, and instead of answering
my question, asked in turn why I had put it.

““`Because,” said I, “I have learned that it had
reached you, and am anxious to know its source,
as well as anxious to contradict it effectually.”

““`Contradict it!” she exclaimed, with a countenance
of eager surprise, while every feature
quivered with emotion, and she trembled in every
joint. “Is it not then true?”

““`True!” said I; “certainly not. I never
had a serious thought of Mr. Napier, and I doubt
if he ever thought of me at all. Certainly, if he
did, he never told me so.”

“`While I spoke, she gazed at me with a look
of intense interest, and as I uttered the last words,
her colour flushed over cheek, and neck, and brow,
then faded, then returned, and at last she burst
into tears, and hid her face in my bosom. Jane
would have said she was very much distressed.
But there was no mistaking those tears. They
flowed from the rapture of reviving hope. I did
not probe her heart with words. I saw it plainly
enough. I contented myself with pursuing my
original inquiry, and found that a foolish girl, who
pretended to be my confidential friend, had told
Jane that I had acknowledged a partiality for Mr.
Napier. This was wrong in Jane, Mr. Balcombe.
Doubtless the silly thing had told her so; but she
must have known that I would repose such confidence
nowhere, and certainly not with such a person
as that.

“`From this time I saw that Ann was an
altered being. She was obviously more happy.
Her colour, which had faded, resumed its freshness;
her look of abstraction now became that of
one that chews the cud only of sweet fancies; her
eye brightened; her smile became spontaneous;
and, though less volatile, she was obviously more
cheerful. Mrs. Napier, who had, with all a mother's
solicitude, remarked a former change of the

opposite character, one day spoke of this to me in
terms which led me to hint my suspicion of the
cause. Judge my astonishment when she assured
me that I must be mistaken; as William, not long
before he left home, had addressed Ann, and was
not only rejected, but condemned to be for ever
silent on that subject. I was the more amazed,
because this conduct was so much the reverse of
that observed towards my brother. I could only
account for it by supposing that she, believing that
idle rumour about me, had considered Mr. Napier
as having trifled unjustifiably with her feelings.
Further inquiry showed that her conduct on the
occasion had been that of one who felt herself
injured and insulted.

“`Now, Mr. Balcombe,' continued the young
lady, `I find that with none but good intentions I
have suffered myself to be made an instrument
of much mischief. Mr. Napier and Ann have
both been rendered unhappy, and my poor brother
has been kept wearing his heart out in a vain
pursuit. Worse than vain it might have been, had
Ann, in the desperation of her wounded feelings,
deserted, and even insulted, as she supposed, by
the man she loved, thrown herself into Howard's
arms, they must have been wretched. Notwithstanding
what I said the other night, I do think
there are hearts that can know no second love.
Ann Napier's is one of them. My first duty was
to undeceive my brother. He could hardly be expected
to take this kindly; and when I advised

him to urge for a decisive and final answer, he
seemed as if he thought I had turned against him.
But he knows me better; though it is natural he
should feel hurt when he sees me (though he acknowledges
it to be my duty) seeking to repair
my error at his expense. I at length prevailed
with him to put his fate to the final test; and to-day
he did so, with the result I had anticipated.
He is now out of the field, but Napier will hold
himself bound in honour to his promised silence,
and from Ann he will certainly never get a hint
to speak. Now it is for me who made this difficulty
to remove it, and I invoke your aid in doing
so. I mistake very much if you will be long at
a loss to bring together two young people whose
hearts are panting to fly into each other's bosoms.”'