LADY RACHEL.
“Beauty, alone, is lost, too warily kept.”
I once had a long conversation with a fellow-traveller
in the coupé of a French diligence. It was a
bright moonlight night, early in June—not at all the
scene or season for talking long on very dry topics—
and with a mutual abandon which must be explained
by some theory of the silent sympathies, we fell to
chatting rather confidentially on the subject of love.
He gave me some hints as to a passage in his life
which seemed to me, when he told it, a definite and
interesting story; but in recalling it to mind afterward,
I was surprised to find how little he really said,
and how much, from seeing the man and hearing his
voice, I was enabled without effort to supply. To
save roundabout, I'll tell the story in the first person,
as it was told to me, begging the reader to take my
place in the coupé and listen to a very gentlemanly
man, of very loveable voice and manners; supplying,
also, as I did, by the imagination, much more than is
told in the narration.
“I am inclined to think that we are sometimes best
loved by those whom we least suspect of being interested
in us; and while a sudden laying open of hearts
would give the lie to many a love professed, it would,
here and there, disclose a passion which, in the ordinary
course of things, would never have been betrayed.
I was once a little surprised with a circumstance
of the kind I allude to.
“I had become completely domesticated in a family
living in the neighborhood of London—I can
scarce tell you how, even if it were worth while. A
chance introduction, as a stranger in the country,
first made me acquainted with them, and we had gone
on, from one degree of friendship to another, till I
was as much at home at Lilybank as any one of the
children. It was one of those little English paradises,
rural and luxurious, where love, confidence, simplicity,
and refinement, seem natural to the atmosphere, and I
thought, when I was there, that I was probably as
near to perfect happiness as I was likely to be in the
course of my life. But I had my annoyance even
there.
“Mr. Fleming (the name is fictitious, of course)
was a man of sufficient fortune, living, without a profession,
on his means. He was avowedly of the middle
class, but his wife, a very beautiful specimen of
the young English mother, was very highly connected,
and might have moved in what society she pleased.
She chose to find her happiness at home, and leave
society to come to her by its own natural impulse and
affinity—a sensible choice, which shows you at once
the simple and rational character of the woman.
Fleming and his wife were very fond of each other,
but, at the same time, very fond of the companionship
of those who were under their roof; and between
them and their three or four lovely children, I could
have been almost contented to have been a prisoner
at Lilybank, and to have seen nobody but its charming
inmates for years together.
“I had become acquainted with the Flemings, however,
during the absence of one of the members of
the family. Without being at all aware of any new
arrival in the course of the morning, I went late to
dinner after a long and solitary ride on horseback, and
was presented to Lady Rachel —, a tall and reserved-looking
person, sitting on Fleming's right
hand. Seeing no reason to abate any of my outward
show of happiness, or to put any restraint on the natural
impulse of my attentions, I took my accustomed
seat by the sweet mistress of the house, wrapped up
my entire heart, as usual, in every word and look
that I sent toward her, and played the schoolboy that
I felt myself, uncloudedly frank and happy. Fleming
laughed and mingled in our chat occasionally, as he
was wont to do, but a glance now and then at his
stately right-hand neighbor, made me aware that I
was looked upon with some coolness, if not with a
marked disapproval. I tried the usual peace-offerings
of deference and marked courtesy, and lessened
somewhat the outward show of my happiness, but
Lady Rachel was apparently not propitiated. You
know what it is to have one link cold in the chain of
sympathy around a table.
“The next morning I announced my intention of
returning to town. I had hitherto come and gone at
my pleasure. This time the Flemings showed a determined
opposition to my departure. They seemed
aware that my enjoyment under their roof had been,
for the first time, clouded over, and they were not
willing I should leave till the accustomed sunshine
was restored. I felt that I owed them too much to
resist any persuasion of theirs against my own feelings
merely, and I remained.
“But I determined to overcome Lady Rachel's
aversion—a little from pique, I may as well confess,
but mostly for the gratification I knew it would give
to my sweet friends and entertainers. The saddle is
my favorite thinking-place. I mounted a beautiful
hunter which Fleming always put at my disposal
while I stayed with them, and went off for a long gallop.
I dismounted at an inn, some miles off, called
for black wax, and writing myself a letter, despatched
it to Lilybank. To play my part well, you will easily
conceive, it was necessary that my kind friends should
not be in the secret.
“The short road to the heart of a proud woman, I
well knew, was pity. I came to dinner that day a
changed man. It was known through the family, of
course, that a letter sealed with black had arrived for
me, during my ride, and it gave me the apology I
needed for a sudden alteration of manner. Delicacy
would prevent any one, except Mrs. Fleming, from
alluding to it, and she would reserve the inquiry till
we were alone. I had the evening before me, of
course.
“Lady Rachel, I had remarked, showed her superiority
by habitually pitching her voice a note or two
below that of the persons around her—as if the repose
of her calm mind was beyond the plummet of
their superficial gayety. I had also observed, however,
that if she succeeded in rebuking now and then
the high spirits of her friends, and lowered the general
diapason till it harmonized with her own voice,
she was more gratified than by any direct compliment
or attention. I ate my soup in silence, and while the
children, and a chance guest or two, were carrying on
some agreeable banter in a merry key, I waited for
the first opening of Lady Rachel's lips, and, when
she spoke, took her tone like an echo. Without looking
at her, I commenced a subdued and pensive description
of my morning's ride, like a man unconsciously
awakened from his revery by a sympathetic
voice, and betraying, by the tone in which he spoke,
the chord to which he responded. A newer guest
had taken my place, next to Mrs. Fleming, and I was
opposite Lady Rachel. I could feel her eyes suddenly
fixed on me as I spoke. For the first time, she
addressed a remark to me, in a pause of my description.
I raised my eyes to her with as much earnestness
and deference as I could summon into them,
and, when I had listened to her and answered her observation,
kept them fastened on her lips, as if I hoped
she would speak to me again—yet without a smile,
and with an expression that I meant should be that
of sadness, forgetful of usages, and intent only on an
eager longing for sympathy. Lady Rachel showed
her woman's heart, by an almost immediate change
of countenance and manner. She leaned slightly
over the table toward me, with her brows lifted from
her large dark eyes, and the conversation between us
became continuous and exclusive. After a little while,
my kind host, finding that he was cut off from his
other guests by the fear of interrupting us, proposed
to give me the head of the table, and I took his place
at the left hand of Lady Rachel. Her dinner was
forgotten. She introduced topics of conversation
such as she thought harmonized with my feelings,
and while I listened, with my eyes alternately cast
down or raised timidly to hers, she opened her heart
to me on the subject of death, the loss of friends, the
vanity of the world, and the charm, to herself, of sadness
and melancholy. She seemed unconscious of the
presence of others as she talked. The tears suffused
her fine eyes, and her lips quivered, and I found, to
my surprise, that she was a woman, under that mask
of haughtiness, of the keenest sensibility and feeling.
When Mrs. Fleming left the table, Lady Rachel
pressed my hand, and, instead of following into the
drawing-room, went out by the low window upon the
lawn. I had laid up some little food for reflection as
you may conceive, and I sat the next hour looking
into my wineglass, wondering at the success of my
manœuvre, but a little out of humor with my own hypocrisy,
notwithstanding.
“Mrs. Fleming's tender kindness to me when I
joined her at the tea-table, made me again regret
the sacred feelings upon which I had drawn for
my experiment. But there was no retreat. I excused
myself hastily, and went out in search of Lady
Rachel, meeting her ladyship, as I expected, slowly
pacing the dark avenues of the garden. The dimness
of the starlight relieved me from the effort of keeping
sadness in my countenance, and I easily played out
my part till midnight, listening to an outpouring of
mingled kindness and melancholy, for the waste of
which I felt some need to be forgiven.
“Another day of this, however, was all that I could
bring my mind to support. Fleming and his wife had
entirely lost sight—in sympathy with my presumed
affliction—of the object of detaining me at Lilybank,
and I took my leave, hating myself for the tender
pressure of the hand, and the sad and sympathizing
farewells which I was obliged to receive from them.
I did not dare to tell them of my unworthy ruse.
Lady Rachel parted from me as kindly as the rest,
and I had gained my point with the loss of my self-esteem.
With a prayer that, notwithstanding this deceit
and misuse, I might find pity when I should indeed
stand in need of it, I drove from the door.
“A month passed away, and I wrote, once more, to
my friends at Lilybank, that I would pass a week
with them. An occurrence, in the course of that
month, however, had thrown another mask over my
face, and I went there again with a part to play—and,
as if by a retributive Providence, it was now my need
of sympathy that I was most forced to conceal. An
affair which I saw no possibility of compromising, had
compelled me to call out a man who was well known
as a practical duelist. The particulars would not in
terest you. In accepting the challenge, my antagonist
asked a week's delay, to complete some important
business from which he could not withdraw his attention.
And that week I passed with the Flemings.
“The gayety of Lilybank was resumed with the
smile I brought back, and chat and occupation took
their natural course. Lady Rachel, though kind and
courteous, seemed to have relapsed into her reserve,
and, finding society an effort, I rode out daily alone,
seeing my friends only at dinner and in the evening.
They took it to be an indulgence of some remainder
of my former grief, and left me consequently to the
disposition of my own time.
“The last evening before the duel arrived, and I
bade my friends good-night as usual, though with
some suppressed emotion. My second, who was to
come from town and take me up at Lilybank on his
way to the ground, had written to me that, from what
he could gather, my best way was to be prepared for
the worst, and, looking upon it as very probably the
last night of my life, I determined to pass it waking,
and writing to my friends at a distance. I sat down
to it, accordingly, without undressing.
“It was toward three in the morning that I sealed
up my last letter. My bedroom was on the ground-floor,
with a long window opening into the garden;
and, as I lifted my head up from leaning over the seal,
I saw a white object standing just before the casement,
but at some little distance, and half buried in the darkness.
My mind was in a fit mood for a superstitious
feeling, and my blood crept cold for a moment; I
passed my hand across my eyes—looked again. The
figure moved slowly away.
“To direct my thoughts, I took up a book and
read. But, on looking up, the figure was there again,
and, with an irresistible impulse, I rushed out to the
garden. The figure came toward me, but, with its
first movement, I recognised the stately step of Lady
Rachel.
“Confused at having intruded on her privacy, for I
presumed that she was abroad for solitude, and with
no thought of being disturbed, I turned to retire.
She called to me, however, and, sinking upon a garden-seat,
covered her face with her hands. I stood
before her, for a moment, in embarrassed silence.
“`You keep late hours,' she said, at last, with a
tremulous voice, but rising at the same time and, with
her arm put through mine, leading me to the thickly-shaded
walk.
“`To-night I do,' I replied; `letters I could not
well defer—'
“`Listen to me!' interrupted Lady Rachel. `I
know your business for the morning—'
“I involuntarily released my arm and started back.
The chance of an interruption that would seem dishonorable
flashed across my mind.
“`Stay!' she continued; `I am the only one in the
family who knows of it, and my errand with you is
not to hinder this dreadful meeting. The circumstances
are such, that, with society as it is, you could
not avoid it with honor.'
“I pressed her arm with a feeling of gratified justification
which quite overcame, for the moment, my
curiosity as to the source of her knowledge of the
affair.
“`You must forgive me,' she said, `that I come to
you like a bird of ill omen. I can not spare the precious
moments to tell you how I came by my information
as to your design. I have walked the night
away, before your window, not daring to interrupt you
in what was probably the performance of sacred duties.
But I know your antagonist—I know his demoniac
nature, and—pardon me!—I dread the worst!'
“I still walked by her side in silence. She resumed,
though strongly agitated.
“`I have said that I justify you in an intention
which will probably cost you your life. Yet, but for
a feeling which I am about to disclose to you, I should
lose no time and spare no pains in preventing this
meeting. Under such circumstances, your honor
would be less dear to me than now, and I should be
acting as one of my sex who had but a share of interest
in resisting and striving to correct this murderous
exaction of public opinion. I would condemn
duelling in argument—avoid the duellist in society—
make any sacrifice with others to suppress it in the
abstract—but, till the feeling changes in reference to
it, I could not bring myself to sacrifice, in the honor
of the man I loved, my world of happiness for my
share only.'
“`And mean you to say—' I began, but, as the
light broke upon my mind, amazement stopped my
utterance.
“`Yes—that I love you!—that I love you!' murmured
Lady Rachel, throwing herself into my arms,
and fastening her lips to mine in a long and passionate
kiss—`that I love you, and, in this last hour of
your life, must breathe to you what I never before
breathed to mortal!'
“She sank to the ground, and, with handfuls of
dew, swept up from the grass of the lawn, I bathed
her temples, as she leaned senseless against my knee.
The moon had risen above the trees, and poured its
full radiance on her pale face and closed eyes. Her
hair loosened and fell in heavy masses over her shoulders
and bosom, and, for the first time, I realized
Lady Rachel's extraordinary beauty. Her features
were without a fault, her skin was of marble fairness
and paleness, and her abandonment to passionate feeling
had removed, for the instant, a hateful cloud of
pride and superciliousness that, at all other times, had
obscured her loveliness. With a newborn emotion
in my heart, I seized the first instant of returning
consciousness, and pressed her, with a convulsive eagerness,
to my bosom.
“The sound of wheels aroused me from this delirious
dream, and, looking up, I saw the gray of
the dawn struggling with the moonlight. I tore myself
from her arms, and the moment after was whirling
away to the appointed place of meeting.
“I was in my room, at Lilybank, dressing, at eleven
of that same day. My honor was safe, and the affair
was over, and now my whole soul was bent on this
new and unexpected vision of love. True—I was
but twenty-five, and Lady Rachel probably twenty
years older—but she loved me—she was highborn and
beautiful—and love is not so often brought to the lip
in this world, that we can cavil at the cup which holds
it. With these thoughts and feelings wrangling tumultuously
in my heated blood, I took the following
note from a servant at my door.
“`Lady Rachel — buries in entire oblivion the
last night past. Feelings over which she has full control
in ordinary circumstances, have found utterance
under the conviction that they were words to the dying.
They would never have been betrayed without
impending death, and they will never, till death be
near to one of us, find voice, or give token of existence
again. Delicacy and honor will prompt you to
visit Lilybank no more.'
“Lady Rachel kept her room till I left, and I have
never visited Lilybank, nor seen her since.”
