Ethel Churchill/Chapter 22
CHAPTER XXII.
THE JEWELS GIVEN.
A gentle creature was that girl,
Meek, humble, and subdued;
Like some lone flower that has grown up
In woodland solitude.
Its soil has had but little care,
Its growth but little praise;
And down it droops the timid head
It has not strength to raise.
For other brighter blooms are round,
And they attract the eye;
They seem the sunny favourites
Of summer, earth and sky.
The human and the woodland flower
Hath yet a dearer part,—
The perfume of the hidden depths,
The sweetness at the heart.
"You must wear these to-day, my dear child," said Lord Norbourne, as, entering the dressing-room of his daughter, he laid a suit of pearls on her table.
Constance looked up in her father's face, tearfully: there was something in his voice so kind, so subdued, so different from its ordinary careless and sarcastic tone; and the expression on his features was equally unusual. Touched and encouraged for the first time in her life, she flung herself, unbidden, into her father's arms, and he held her tenderly to his heart.
"Are you happy, my child?" asked he in a low broken whisper.
"Happy! my dearest father," exclaimed she, hiding her face on his arm, where she still hung, till he could only see the back of her neck, and even that was rosy with one deep blush—"unutterably happy! Even to myself I never dared own, till now, how much I loved my cousin. When others taunted me with faults which, God knows, I felt but too bitterly, Norbourne always took my part. From him I never heard an unkind word. I have often cried myself to sleep in his arms. As I grew older, I loved him but the more, because such love seemed hopeless. I never dreamt that one so beautiful, so gifted, could waste a thought on myself. But it was happiness to hope that he might be happy, to think of him, to pray for him. And now to know that he loves me (for he would not marry me without.) makes me feel as if I were in a dream, whose only fear is to awake. And you my dearest father, how kind you are to me! Can you forgive me if I tell you that there was a time when I thought you did not care for me, because I was not fair as my sisters? It made me feel so lonely, so sad; and I clung yet more to my love for my cousin: no one cared for my affection; it was, therefore, my own to do with as I would. But his love scarcely fills me with a deeper joy than does yours. O, my father! if I have ever given you cause for pain, if I have ever angered you, forgive me now: tell me that, in future years, when weary of the hurried life that you now lead, my care, my affection, will be a comfort to you; tell me, my own dearest father, that you love me!"
While speaking, Constance had raised her head, and gazed eagerly on her father: her cheek was warm, with colour more lovely from its extreme delicacy; her eyes lighted up with the eloquence of excited emotion; and every feature was animated with the impassioned and beautiful feelings of the moment. She looked lovely; and Lord Norbourne, for an instant, forgot the under current of self-reproach, which, though he would not have owned, yet made itself only too forcibly felt within.
"Do I love you?" said he, in answer to her touching appeal: "deeply and dearly, my last, my only child. I have, Heaven knows, nothing to pardon in one who has always been so patient, so sweet, and so good. No, my dearest and gentlest, it is you who must forgive, if, taken up with the cares of the world, in projects that looked only to the future, I have forgotten the womanly tenderness due to an orphan girl: yet you are, you have been, very dear to me, my own sweet Constance."
His voice faltered; for affections, undisturbed for years, swelled within him. Every kindly and warm emotion was awakened, and, for the first time, he felt remorse: he almost trembled to think how completely his daughter was deceived, while he also felt that her happiness could not be dearly purchased. And yet, Norbourne—was he not his victim, and made such by all that was most generous in his nature? Had he stood alone, his uncle was perfectly aware that no wealth, no rank, no worldly advantage, would have moved him; but his mother had been the tie, and Lord Norbourne started to think how mercilessly he had enforced his power. A glance at Constance somewhat reassured him. Could his nephew be long wholly given up to vain regrets, with one so devoted, and so sweet, at his side? Such affection must bring with it hope and healing. For the first time, too, he thought with pity on her who was forsaken. He knew there was some prior attachment. What at this moment might not some young and lovely victim be suffering!
But it was not in his temper to dwell long on vain regrets: he soothed them by turning to the numerous advantages which attended this alliance, and was soon able to say calmly to his daughter,—"Shall I lead you down-stairs?"
"A few minutes yet," exclaimed she. "Leave me a little while alone."
The door closed after Lord Norbourne; and Constance flung herself on her knees, and half said, half wept, a thanksgiving for her entire happiness.