CHAPTER XVII
THE COMMON LOT
"And so, you see, my dear Egerton, it is out of the question. I own to agreat liking for your character. I think you behaved yesterday like atrump. I am too old for romance, and all that, but I can understandyour feeling, my boy, and I am sorry for you. The objection I havenamed would alone be sufficient. Let it never be mentioned again. Yourfather was my oldest friend, and I hope you will not think it necessaryto break with us; but marriage is a serious affair, and indeed is not tobe thought of."
"No hope, Sir Harry?" I gasped out; "years hence, if I could win fame,distinction, throw a cloak of honour over this accursed brand, give hera name to be proud of, is there no hope?"
"None," replied Sir Harry; "these things are better settled at once. Itis far wiser not to delude yourself into the notion that, because youare a disappointed man now, you are destined to become a great onehereafter. Greatness grows, Vere, just like a cabbage or a cauliflower,and must be tended and cultivated with years of labour and perseverance;you cannot pluck it down with one spring, like an apple from a bough.No, no, my lad; you will get over this disappointment, and be all thebetter for it. I am sorry to refuse you, but I must, Vere, distinctly,and for the last time. Besides, I tell you in confidence, I have otherviews for Constance, so you see it is totally out of the question. Youmay see her this afternoon, if you like. She is a good child, and willdo nothing in disobedience to her father. Farewell, Vere, I am sorryfor you, but the thing's done."
So I walked out of the Baronet's room in the unenviable character of adisappointed suitor, and he went back to his farm book and his trainer'saccounts, as coolly as if he had just been dismissing a domestic; whilstI--my misery was greater than I could bear--his last words seemed toscorch me. "I should get over it--I should be the better for it." AndI felt all the time that my heart was breaking; and then, "he had otherviews for Constance;" not only must she never be mine, but I must sufferthe additional pang of feeling that she belongs to another. "Would toGod," I thought, "that we had sunk together yesterday, never to riseagain!"
I went to look for her in the shrubbery: I knew where I should find her;there was an old summer-house that we two had sat in many a time before,and I felt sure Constance would be there. She rose as I approached it:she must have seen by my face that it was all over. She put her hand inmine, and, totally unmanned, I bent my head over it, and burst into aflood of tears, like a child. I remember to this day the very pattern ofthe gown she wore; even now I seem to hear the soft, gentle accents inwhich she reasoned and pleaded with me, and strove to mitigate mydespair.
"I have long thought it must come to this, Vere," she said, with herdark, melancholy eyes looking into my very soul; "I have long thought wehave both been much to blame, you to speak, and I to listen, as we havedone: now we have our punishment. Vere, I will not conceal from you Isuffer much. More for your sake than my own. I cannot bear to see youso miserable. You to whom I owe so much, so many happy hours, andyesterday my very life. Oh, Vere, try to bear it like a man."
"I cannot, I cannot," I sobbed out; "no hope, nothing to look forwardto, but a cheerless, weary life, and then to be forgotten. Oh that Ihad died with you, Constance, my beloved one, my own!"
She laid her hand gently on my arm--
"Forgotten, Vere," she said; "that is not a kind or a generous speech.I shall never forget you. Always, always I shall think of you, pray foryou. Papa knows best what is right. I will never disobey him: he hasnot forbidden us to see each other; we may be very happy still. Vere,you must be my brother."
"No more," I exclaimed, reproachfully, "no more?"
"No more, Vere," she answered, quite gently, but in a tone that admittedof no further appeal. "Brother and sister, Vere, for the rest of ourlives; promise me this," and she put her soft hand in mine, and smiledupon me; pure and sorrowful, like an angel.
I was stung to madness by her seeming coldness, so different from my ownwild, passionate misery.
"Be it so," I said; "and as brother and sister must part, so must youand I. Anything now for freedom and repose; anything to drive yourimage from my mind. I tell you that from henceforth I am a desperateman. Nobody cares for me on earth,--no father, no mother, none for whomto live; and the one I prized most discards me now. Constance, younever can have loved me as I have loved. Cold, heartless, false! Iwill never see you again."
She was quite bewildered by my vehemence. She looked round wildly atme, and her pale lip quivered, and her eyes filled with tears: even thenI remained bitter and unmoved.
"Farewell," I said, "farewell, Constance, and for ever."
Her hand hung passively in mine, her "good-bye" seemed frozen on herlips; but she turned away with more than her usual majesty, and walkedtowards the house. I remarked that she dropped a white rose--fit emblemof her own dear self--on the gravel path, as she paced slowly along,without once turning her head. I was too proud to follow her and pickit up, but sprang away in an opposite direction, and was soon out of hersight.
That night, when the wild clouds were flying across the moon, and thewind howled through the gloomy yews and the ghostly fir-trees, and allwas sad and dreary and desolate, I picked up the white rose from thatgravel path, and placed it next my heart. Faded, shrunk, and withered,I have got it still. My home was now no place for me. I arranged myfew affairs with small difficulty, pensioned the two old servants mypoor father had committed to my charge; set my house in order, packed upmy things, and in less than a week I was many hundred miles from AltonGrange and Constance Beverley.