Chapter XII

What other can she seek to see,
Than thee, companion of her bower,
The partner of her infancy?

She is back again in her sunny home,
And thick and fast the beatings come
Of that young heart, as ’round she sees
The same sweet flowers, the same old trees.
It is her home, but all in vain
Some lingering things unchanged remain;
The present wakes no smile; the past
Have tears to bid its memory last.

It was already autumn, but autumn stealing slowly on, in the guise of summer, when, after a few hours’ sail from Sandford, the yacht made Morden Bay. Not a ripple was on the wave, hardly a breath in the air, as the light and graceful vessel rather floated with the tide, than was impelled by its half-filled and nearly flapping sails, into that romantic haven. Castleton and Lucy were seated upon the deck. He was to leave her upon landing, and to return in the yacht to Sandford; as she could not help completely concurring with him that it was much better that he should not remain with her, whilst she resided at her father’s. Still the return without him to scenes from which he only had separated her, seemed more like a dissolution of their connexion, than either the distance or the period of their parting appeared to authorise; and perhaps the same impression was made upon him; for, during the latter part of the sail, he kept constantly dwelling, with apparent anxiety to convince himself of their certainty, on the many projects which he meant to put into execution on their re-union.

They were landed just in that identical spot, in the centre of Morden Bay, where Lucy and George had first been discovered by the party from Hornscliff. The old coble, against which she had then leant, was still moored upon the beach, and even so did she now lean with Castleton, whilst the boat’s crew were engaged in carrying the packages up the cliff. The similarity of their local position, with the complete change in every other respect which had come over them since that epoch, to which their memory referred, had, indeed, struck them both most forcibly. However this might be, perhaps the very nature of those recollections prevented them from reciprocating their impressions; or perhaps the continued silence which ensued might only be produced by the vicinity of Lady Castleton’s maid, who was waiting to accompany her to the farm.

Castleton had rather disliked the idea of Mrs. Jenkins being introduced to a knowledge of her mistress’s name, but he could not possibly allow her to return home utterly unattended; and as he had previously intended to change her waiting-woman before long, he had determined that Jenkins’s service should end with the residence at the farm.

As the men had returned, and again taken their stations in the boat, he proposed to depart, and bidding her tenderly farewell, said, “Here, then, I now leave you, Lucy.” As he uttered these words, a melancholy presentiment vibrated through him. _Here_ had been his first meeting--here might be his last parting; and as he returned to the yacht, his own words seemed to cling to him, as he mentally repeated, “_Here_, then, I now leave you, Lucy.” He marked her mounting up the steep path which led to her father’s house, with slow and unsteady steps, for she was still feeble; and he compared her present appearance with the light elastic gait, with which he had seen her bound up that same path. Who but himself had produced this sad change? With bitter repentance he thought how completely his experiment had failed; and the notions, which had induced him to attempt it, now appeared to him in all the naked deformity of selfishness, stripped of that disguise of assumed diffidence and self-distrust, in which habitual sophistry had hitherto concealed them from his own penetration. He had gradually been convinced how almost impossible it was to fit her to perform, with comfort to herself and credit to him, her part in that sphere to which he had so abruptly transferred her.

And yet, on the other hand, after the attempts that he had for many months made to eradicate all early impressions, did she on this melancholy occasion return the same, to the home of her childhood? Was it likely that she would now be able as naturally and efficiently to fulfil all those filial offices which had formerly been her delight? He asked himself the question, how had he repaid her for the destruction of so many habitual sources of innocent satisfaction? Was she now, as she ought to be, the unique object of his thoughts? He turned his head away in shame at the consciousness of feeling how unable he was to answer the question as he ought; but he looked on the wide waste of waters before him, as if to lose himself and his reflections on that indefinite horizon, rather than own, by a glance in an opposite direction, that his thoughts turned towards Sandford, and the possible prospect he thought there was of his there meeting Lady Gayland.

But let us not make him out worse than he was: it was no deliberate intention of this kind which had made him originate the plan; but perhaps the casual mention, by that lady, of Lord Stayinmore’s yacht being at the watering-place, to which she might be tempted to go in the course of the autumn, had first suggested to Castleton the idea of asking for the loan of the vessel.

Lucy had by this time, with much effort, half ascended the cliff, and she now stopped to rest at an angle of the path, in an arbour which had been constructed by herself and her cousin George, in the days of their childhood; and as she prepared to seat herself within it, she clung for support to those own sturdy boughs, which, as tendrils, she had formerly moulded to her will; and as her maid, on whom she had leant for assistance in the ascent, was a person in whom she could not confide, she sat here for a while in silence, reflecting on past times. She drew her sable-lined cloak more closely about her; for in spite of the cheerfulness of the scene around, she felt the morbid chilliness of lingering debility and shattered nerves; ills which, on that spot, she had certainly never suffered from before; but now she sat and shivered in the sunshine.

And even thus she was marked from near by one who longed to offer assistance, yet dared not. George, at the first seeing her from the garden above, as she landed from the boat, had rushed downwards; but his courage had failed him as he approached; and he, who had braved dangers in every shape, and in every clime, now, on this well-known spot, feared to encounter the playmate of his infancy, the confidant of his childhood; and as she neared the spot at which he had hesitated and stopped, he hid himself, crouching in the copse behind the arbour, to mark her more closely before presenting himself to her notice.

He had known her from a distance; that is, having heard that she was shortly expected, and to arrive by sea, although the day had not been fixed, he felt assured that this must be her. Yet, upon beholding her nearer, so much was she changed, that he felt disposed to doubt her identity. She had grown much thinner, and this effect was increased by her mourning attire. He had never before seen her in the garb of woe, through all the long years which they had passed together. Custom in her case would not have required her to assume it for a distant relative, nor had sad necessity obliged her to wear it for any one whom she would have really lamented. And if (thought he) she should be as much altered in inward feeling, as in outward appearance--if even now, sitting alone in that arbour, where we have together so often lingered, there is a constraint in her manners, who knows whether that constraint would be removed, or would assume only a more chilling coldness, at again suddenly beholding the companion of her youth? This fear pressed so strongly upon his mind that he stirred not from his concealment, but suffered her to pass on undisturbed.

She again commenced languidly ascending the remaining part of the cliff, leaning on her maid, whose patience was very much exhausted, and who could not help at last exclaiming; “Well to be sure, my lady, this is the most horriblest outlandish place I ever seed; I wonder that you, who knowed afore how bad it was, ever thought of returning to it again; it would have been different if you had been brought to it unsight unseen.”

“Such as it is,” replied Lady Castleton, “there is no carpeted hall where I have wandered, since last I was here, which I have trodden with half the pleasure that I feel as I again climb this rugged ascent.”

Further comment on the part of her loquacious attendant was for the present prevented; for they had at length reached the ledge upon which Bankside Farm-house was situated, and Lucy was received in the arms of her aunt Alice.