Ethel Churchill/Chapter 61
CHAPTER XXVI.
REMINISCENCES.
All, tell me not that memory
Sheds gladness o'er the past;
What is recalled by faded flowers,
Save that they did not last?
Were it not better to forget,
Than but remember and regret?
Look back upon your hours of youth—
What were your early years,
But scenes of childish cares and griefs?
And say not childish tears
Were nothing; at that time they were
More than the young heart well could bear.
Go on to riper years, and look
Upon your sunny spring;
And from the wrecks of former years,
What will your memory bring?—
Affections wasted, pleasures fled,
And hopes now numbered with the dead!
"Shut yourself up—go nowhere!" exclaimed Lady Marchmont: "well, I cannot help your going mad; but, at all events, I will not aid and abet you in so doing. You are now in town, and a town life you must lead."
"I have," replied Ethel, leaning languidly back in her chair, "neither health nor spirits for gaiety."
"A girl of nineteen talking of health and spirits!" interrupted her visitor; "why, you have beauty enough to supply the place of both. However, I have no objection to your adopting le genre languissant, it will the less interfere with my own. If you were to come out starry and startling, we should not be friends a week."
"Oh, Henrietta!" exclaimed Ethel, half reproachfully.
"Nay, don't look so serious; or, rather, upon second thoughts, do; for it is singularly becoming to you. It is delightful to think how we shall set each other off. I am dark, classical, and have some thoughts of binding my black tresses with myrtle, and letting Sir Godfrey Kneller finish my portrait as Aspasia: you, on the contrary, are soft, fair, with the blue eyes and golden hair of a Madonna. We shall always be contrasts, and never be rivals."
"At all events," answered Ethel, "we can never be the last."
"I don't know," said Lady Marchmont; "but, at all events, we will be generous about our lovers."
"I neither expect nor wish for any," said her companion.
"Not wish for a lover!" cried Henrietta; "I never heard any thing so absurd! or, perhaps, you would prefer waiting till after you are married?"
"My dear Henrietta," exclaimed Ethel, colouring; and, after a moment's pause, added, "I never wish to hear the name even of a lover again."
"What, my dear, frightened at the narrow escape you had of being married?" replied Lady Marchmont, purposely alluding to the marriage; for she felt that even hinting at Norbourne Courtenaye was treading on too delicate ground. No woman likes to dwell on a subject so mortifying as a faithless lover.
"An escape you may well call it," replied her friend. "Oh, Henrietta! you do not know what a dreadful thing it is to see yourself on the point of being married to a man you both dislike and despise."
"But why did you consent to marry him?" asked Lady Marchmont, a little conscience-stricken.
"Because I was utterly dispirited and ill: I had not strength to say 'No' to my grandmother, whom I had always been in the habit of obeying."
"They would not have found me so obedient," cried the countess.
"I was rather passive than obedient," replied Ethel; "but the interruption of the ceremony awakened me like a shock. The relief was what I cannot describe: I seemed to awake as if from a lethargy. Thought, resolution, and a belief in my own powers of resistance, appeared to revive suddenly within me. I have seen more, and reflected more, during the last month, than I ever did before in the whole course of my existence."
"Suppose Mr. Trevanion should obtain his pardon, would you still think yourself compelled to marry him?"
"No; though I should certainly not think myself justified in marrying another."
"Well, then," exclaimed Lady Marchmont, "I shall use my utmost influence to get him beheaded, out of the way, as soon as possible. Dear, dear! I am afraid that he would only be hanged; at least, I can endeavour to have him complimented with the axe."
"My dear Henrietta, how can you jest on such serious subjects?"
"On what others would you have me jest?" replied her companion, her beautiful mouth curving with a bitter smile. "The serious things of life are its keenest mockeries. The things set apart for laughter are not half so absurd as those marked out for tears. Ah! if we did but look at life in its true point of view—false, hollow, mocking, and weary as it is!—we should just walk down this very street, and be found floating on the Thames to morrow."
Ethel watched the sudden change that passed over her companion's face with silent surprise; which when Henrietta observed, she at once resumed her former gaiety.
"It is not one of our least absurdities that we never do what we purpose doing. Here we met to-night, on purpose to talk over the past, and we have done nothing but talk over the future. Ah, I believe that most of us may as well forget the past!"
"Indeed we may," said Ethel; and a deeper shade of sadness passed across her sweet face.
"We have not only," added Lady Marchmont, "forgotten the past, but also the passing present. I hear my chair in the hall; and to keep Lord Marchmont waiting, when he has announced his intention of supping at home, far exceeds my prerogative; so good night, dearest, you will either see or hear from me to-morrow."
"She is right," murmured Ethel, as, after her guest's departure, she resumed her seat; and, leaning her head on her hand, gave way to the indulgence of a melancholy reverie. "Of what avail is it to dwell upon the past?—I wish I could forget!"