Night and Morning, Volume 5. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

again caught his gaze: he had heard all.

      "And they ill-treat her," he muttered: "that divides her from them!—she will be left here—I shall see her again." As he turned to depart, Lilburne beckoned to him.

      "You do not mean to desert our table?"

      "No: but I am not very well to-night—to-morrow, if you will allow me."

      "Ay, to-morrow; and if you can spare an hour in the morning it will be a charity. You see," he added in a whisper, "I have a nurse, though I have no children. D'ye think that's love? Bah! sir—a legacy! Good night."

      "No—no—no!" said Vaudemont to himself, as he walked through the moonlit streets. "No! though my heart burns,—poor murdered felon!—to avenge thy wrongs and thy crimes, revenge cannot come from me—he is Fanny's grandfather and—Camilla's uncle!"

      And Camilla, when that uncle had dismissed her for the night, sat down thoughtfully in her own room. The dark eyes of Vaudemont seemed still to shine on her; his voice yet rung in her ear; the wild tales of daring and danger with which Liancourt had associated his name yet haunted her bewildered fancy—she started, frightened at her own thoughts. She took from her bosom some lines that Sidney had addressed to her, and, as she read and re-read, her spirit became calmed to its wonted and faithful melancholy. Vaudemont was forgotten, and the name of Sidney yet murmured on her lips, when sleep came to renew the image of the absent one, and paint in dreams the fairy land of a happy Future!

      CHAPTER VI

      "Ring on, ye bells—most pleasant is your chime!"

WILSON. Isle of Palms.

      "O fairy child! What can I wish for thee?"—Ibid.

      Vaudemont remained six days in London without going to H–, and on each of those days he paid a visit to Lord Lilburne. On the seventh day, the invalid being much better, though still unable to leave his room, Camilla returned to Berkeley Square. On the same day, Vaudemont went once more to see Simon and poor Fanny.

      As he approached the door, he heard from the window, partially opened, for the day was clear and fine, Fanny's sweet voice. She was chaunting one of the simple songs she had promised to learn by heart; and Vaudemont, though but a poor judge of the art, was struck and affected by the music of the voice and the earnest depth of the feeling. He paused opposite the window and called her by her name. Fanny looked forth joyously, and ran, as usual, to open the door to him.

      "Oh! you have been so long away; but I already know many of the songs: they say so much that I always wanted to say!"

      Vaudemont smiled, but languidly.

      "How strange it is," said Fanny, musingly, "that there should be so much in a piece of paper! for, after all," pointing to the open page of her book, "this is but a piece of paper—only there is life in it!"

      "Ay," said Vaudemont, gloomily, and far from seizing the subtle delicacy of Fanny's thought—her mind dwelling upon Poetry, and his upon Law,– "ay, and do you know that upon a mere scrap of paper, if I could but find it, may depend my whole fortune, my whole happiness, all that I care for in life?"

      "Upon a scrap of paper? Oh! how I wish I could find it! Ah! you look as if you thought I should never be wise enough for that!"

      Vaudemont, not listening to her, uttered a deep sigh. Fanny approached him timidly.

      "Do not sigh, brother,—I can't bear to hear you sigh. You are changed.

      Have you, too, not been happy?"

      "Happy, Fanny! yes, lately very happy—too happy!"

      "Happy, have you? and I—" the girl stopped short—her tone had been that of sadness and reproach, and she stopped—why, she knew not, but she felt her heart sink within her. Fanny suffered him to pass her, and he went straight to his room. Her eyes followed him wistfully: it was not his habit to leave her thus abruptly. The family meal of the day was over; and it was an hour before Vaudemont descended to the parlour. Fanny had put aside the songs; she had no heart to recommence those gentle studies that had been so sweet,—they had drawn no pleasure, no praise from him. She was seated idly and listlessly beside the silent old man, who every day grew more and more silent still. She turned her head as Vaudemont entered, and her pretty lip pouted as that of a neglected child. But he did not heed it, and the pout vanished, and tears rushed to her eyes.

      Vaudemont was changed. His countenance was thoughtful and overcast. His manner abstracted. He addressed a few words to Simon, and then, seating himself by the window, leant his cheek on his hand, and was soon lost in reverie. Fanny, finding that he did not speak, and after stealing many a long and earnest glance at his motionless attitude and gloomy brow, rose gently, and gliding to him with her light step, said, in a trembling voice,—

      "Are you in pain, brother?"

      "No, pretty one!"

      "Then why won't you speak to Fanny? Will you not walk with her? Perhaps my grandfather will come too."

      "Not this evening. I shall go out; but it will be alone."

      "Where? Has not Fanny been good? I have not been out since you left. us. And the grave—brother!—I sent Sarah with the flowers—but—"

      Vaudemont rose abruptly. The mention of the grave brought back his thoughts from the dreaming channel into which they had flowed. Fanny, whose very childishness had once so soothed him, now disturbed; he felt the want of that complete solitude which makes the atmosphere of growing passion: he muttered some scarcely audible excuse, and quitted the house. Fanny saw him no more that evening. He did not return till midnight. But Fanny did not sleep till she heard his step on the stairs, and his chamber door close: and when she did sleep, her dreams were disturbed and painful. The next morning, when they met at breakfast (for Vaudemont did not return to London), her eyes were red and heavy, and her cheek pale. And, still buried in meditation, Vaudemont's eye, usually so kind and watchful, did not detect those signs of a grief that Fanny could not have explained. After breakfast, however, he asked her to walk out; and her face brightened as she hastened to put on her bonnet, and take her little basket full of fresh flowers which she had already sent Sarah forth to purchase.

      "Fanny," said Vaudemont, as leaving the house, he saw the basket on her arm, "to-day you may place some of those flowers on another tombstone!– Poor child, what natural goodness there is in that heart!—what pity that—"

      He paused. Fanny looked delightedly in his face. "You were praising me —you! And what is a pity, brother?"

      While she spoke, the sound of the joy-bells was heard near at hand.

      "Hark!" said Vaudemont, forgetting her question—and almost gaily—

      "Hark!—I accept the omen. It is a marriage peal!"

      He quickened his steps, and they reached the churchyard.

      There was a crowd already assembled, and Vaudemont and Fanny paused; and, leaning over the little gate, looked on.

      "Why are these people here, and why does the bell ring so merrily?"

      "There is to be a wedding, Fanny."

      "I have heard of a wedding very often," said Fanny, with a pretty look of puzzlement and doubt, "but I don't know exactly what it means. Will you tell me?—and the bells, too!"

      "Yes, Fanny, those bells toll but three times for man! The first time, when he comes into the world; the last time, when he leaves it; the time between when he takes to his side a partner in all the sorrows—in all the joys that yet remain to him; and who, even when the last bell announces his death to this earth, may yet, for ever and ever, be his partner in that world to come—that heaven, where they who are as innocent as you, Fanny, may hope to live and to love each other in a land in which there are no graves!"

      "And this bell?"

      "Tolls for that partnership—for the wedding!"

      "I think I understand you;—and they who are to be wed are happy?"

      "Happy, Fanny, if they love, and their love continue. Oh! conceive the happiness to know some one person dearer to you than your own