 | CHAPTER XXXI. Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold |  |
31. CHAPTER XXXI.
With the next day's arrangements for departure from
Florence, Paul found that his leave-takings of intimate
friends were to be less general than he had anticipated.
The Tetherlys at once concluded to bear him company
on his journey. Blivins, in a week or two, was to follow
the Firkin family to France, where his marriage to Miss
Sophia was to take place. With the season a little more
advanced, the Princess C— proposed to change her
studio to Paris, where she might have all the facilities
of Art, and, at the same time, be within reach of the
society of London and the French capital. And Mary
Evenden hoped, there, to resume her studies with “Signor
Valerio,” as Mrs. Cleverly, after a short trip to Rome and
Naples, was to join the rest of the gay world, in centering,
for the first months of summer, near the Tuileries and St.
James's.
Miss Ashly came to town to be present at the departure
of the Tetherlys, and she was the bearer of a letter to Paul
opportunity to speak to him alone for a moment, probably
to acknowledge, in words, the accordance of her feelings
with the communication to Sybil's father, which she had
been permitted to read; but Paul's heart was too full of
all that made up his farewell to Florence, that morning,
and he carefully avoided the tête-à-tête, entrenching himself
within the forms of kindly ceremony and politeness.
He took the letter she had brought for himself, as she
stood at the carriage-door, at the last moment, and it was
not till the first stoppage, at a secluded albergo in the
mountains, that he stole away to a lonely spot, under
the trees, and had the courage to break the seal. The
colonel thus wrote:
Your letter was so in accordance with what had already passed
between us, that I was not surprised at its tone and contents.
There was a startling unlikeness, in it, to the common language
of lovers, as well as to the common usage of the world, but we
were prepared for its delicate generosity, by knowing the standard
up to which you live. Allow me to begin by thanking you, frankly,
and with all my heart, for the fresh proof of it which touches me
so nearly—adding, however (though the explanation is scarce
necessary), that, if it were a question of my own happiness only,
I should not accept so unreservedly this sacrifice of yourself. For
my daughter, I must be even less magnanimous toward a friend
harder this proof of affection is than the other extreme.
But will you allow me to say, also, my dear Fane, that I love my
daughter too well to be worldly in my anxiety for her welfare?
You will hardly believe, perhaps, that the sacred letter, which you
enclosed to me, was, in its impulse and purpose, the echo to my
own heart's most earnest prayer—varied but by the different view
of the same blessing and the road to reach it, as seen by sadder,
and perhaps wiser eyes. Mrs. Paleford (may God soften to me her
irreparable loss!) looked into her own conscious heart for her
daughter's image. She thought her what she felt herself to be—
that, and that only. And, were it so, I ask to be believed when I
say, that, as the father of Sybil, I would now sign, and send to you
again, her mother's precious letter of blessing and bestowal.
While, however, as there is little need to say, I think you
abundantly worthy of my daughter, and the future career and
destiny, whatever it may be, which is toned and guided by qualities
like yours, abundantly worthy of her sharing, I must still think
(you will pardon me for insisting) that your mode of life and your
tastes are not those in which she is likeliest to find happiness.
That she loves you, at present, I have very little doubt. Your
departure from Florence will leave a dark cloud on her heart.
But it is the love of a child, and of instinct; and it is for your
exterior of graces and genial courtesy. She has not reasoned upon
it. She loves you for the least of what constitutes your character—
the least of what your life is to develop. With the first choice of
the many different doors, that open away from the common vestibule
of youth, your paths would divide. You will close all behind
you, on your way to that inner sanctuary where burns only the
lamp of genius—she will turn rather where the lofty dome lets in
dim silence of a cell—for her joyousness of expansion, it must be
the music unimprisoned but by the columns of a palace.
A wife, my dear Fane, must live in the same world as her husband
to be happy with him; and it is from the difficulty of this,
that the wives of men of genius are seldom happy. Sybil has
neither a predominant imagination nor a natural love of seclusion;
and while, therefore, if she had these essential qualities, she could
be blest only by such a husband as yourself, she is wholly unsuited
to you, wanting these. Then, guardedly as her tastes and habits
have been kept simple, by her education and by my limited means,
she is innately luxurious and prodigal. She feels, as she looks, a
queen—with no instinctive sense, apparently, that there can be
any propriety of limit to her possession of what naturally befits her.
Capable of sacrificing her life for you, therefore, at any crisis that
could call upon her devotion, she would unconsciously sacrifice
yours by slow degrees, where the call was made only on her economy.
You will have seen, by this, why I differed from the sacred
thought which prompted Mrs. Paleford's letter to you, and why I
still give my preference to your wealthier and less gifted rival.
Mr. Ashly's sphere of life is Sybil's own natural and befitting
sphere, and, in all that forms his pride and his daily occupation
and enjoyment, she can fully and freely share. His character you
know, for you have studied and most skillfully represented it, in its
best light, with your pencil. The only problem is the result of the
experiment you have so generously given us the opportunity to
try—dependent, after all, on that most willful of capricious things,
a woman's heart. If Sybil has conceived a life-long passion for
you (as is very possible), and if Mr. Ashly fails, consequently, to
which my own heart yearns already to give you. To me, as you
must know, you would be far the more agreeable of the two, as
son, friend, and companion. We are both leaving ourselves out
of the question, however—you, thank God, as well as I—and the
happiness of my beautiful Sybil is the sacred chalice to be held
high by our united hands till its place is chosen. God bless you
for your nobleness to her, and for your truth of friendship to me;
and believe me, my dear Fane, always faithfully yours,
The travelling carriage resumed its way, after the noon
halt in the mountains; and Paul, with the secret contained
in the foregoing letter to be kept from the Tetherlys, was
an absent-minded companion on that journey. They had
silent sympathies in common, however, and the scenery and
the incidents of the road gave them topics enough, when,
to invent conversation would have been difficult. And so,
with the lapse of days that were to Paul like an unrealized
dream, they arrived duly in Paris.
With the proceeding thence, after a short stay, to London,
and with Paul's establishment there, and his first professional
year, the reader is not to be troubled. It was a
broken interval in the thread of our story. The letters
and introductions of the young artist were more than sufficient
for his wants, and it was the usual course of things
in a career whose flattering outset is made easy by kindness.
history which were else untold, we pass over this period
therefore, and, in our next chapter, take up the broken
thread farther on.
| CHAPTER XXXI. Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold | |