Chapter III: Captain Heath Returns

O why, when Love doth wound, doth it not then
Strike deeper down--and kill!
_Old Play._

There was not a farthing in the house. Cecil was out on the chimerical expedition of borrowing a few pounds from one of his gaming-table acquaintances. Continual assistance had been lent them by Vyner and by Julius; but, of course, these sums were dissipated in the usual way; and so recent had been the assistance, that even Cecil had not the face to apply again.

Blanche was weeping over the cradle of her child, whom she had just rocked asleep, when the door opened, and the servant put in her head to say,--

"Please, mum, a gentleman."

In another instant, Captain Heath stood before her with outstretched hand, and embarrassed countenance: she grasped his hand in both of hers and pressed it warmly, for she felt that a deliverer was near. Since last they had met, what changes in her life! What had they both not undergone! He was much thinner, and looked older. Sorrow had deeply lined his noble brow, and dimmed his kind blue eye. He had sought in travel to forget the cause of his voluntary exile; and had learned, if not to forget, at least to master his feelings. When men have passed the impressionable and changeable age of youth, love becomes a more serious and enduring passion with them--it becomes consolidated in their manhood. And Captain Heath--too old not to have lost all the volatility of youth, but still too young to have lost its fervour--found that his passion for Blanche was ineffaceable.

Had he, then, returned with any hopes? No; his was one of those strong, brave, manly natures which know how to endure any calamity, any condition, so soon as it is recognised as _inevitable_; they endure, without childish repining, what they know must be endured; they brace their minds to the struggle, and they conquer at least that weak and fretful anxiety which attends upon those who cannot calmly look fate in the face.

He returned, but it was to watch over his beloved; and on his return, what was his horror to hear of the situation into which her wretched husband had precipitated her!

Blanche was embarrassed, yet delighted. From childhood she had known him, and loved him almost as a father; and to her old affection there was now added, the unconscious flattery of her knowledge of his love for her. No woman is ever insensible to such flattery; the man who loves her, though hopelessly, is always interesting in her eyes. Blanche was eminently a woman.

"How kind of you to come and see us," she said, "and in such a place as this! But then you are one of our true friends, and poverty cannot scare you."

"Yes, Blanche, I am your friend: always remember that, and in any difficulty, be sure not to forget it. But let me see your child: she is asleep?--what a beauty! How you must love it! Dear little thing, how quiet its breathing! may I kiss it? will she wake up?"

"No; kiss her gently: she is so used to it!"

He stooped down, and kissed its warm, soft cheek, and then gazed at it for some minutes in silence. With a mother's pride, Blanche watched him, occasionally looking down upon her darling, with that yearning tenderness, which only mothers know.

A low sigh escaped from him as he turned away from the cradle.

"Have you been long in England?" she asked.

"I came home last week. This is my second visit."

"Your first was to papa, I suppose?"

"Yes. Things are in a sad state there, Blanche. Your father is very much altered. But what could he expect? What could induce him to marry again?"

"Mama's conduct is shocking!--To think of a wife forgetting herself so!--Did you see her?"

"Yes, and she was as civil to me as ever, talked as hypocritically--and spoke of you in terms that made me excessively angry."

"What did she say?"

"It was not _what_ she said, so much as the manner of saying it: the tone of pity, of false pity, affecting to look upon you as if..."

"And what... Did she speak of ... of Cecil!"

Heath was silent.

"Ah! I know she did; but you must not believe her; indeed, it is not true--indeed, he is not."

"Is it possible?"

"That is .... she must have exaggerated.... He has been imprudent, unfortunate.... but he is the kindest, best of men.... They are all against him; they do not understand him; they require a man of genius to be as formal and regular as other men .... absurd, is it not? .... Are not all men of genius ... are they not?"

"Unhappily!" replied Heath.

"I know you would not join the cabal against him. You are more liberal! Oh! if you knew his heart, how good it is!--I wish he were here..."

At this moment little Rose Blanche cried; and her mother took her up. The little creature was terrified at first seeing the captain, and clung to her mother for protection; but after a little coaxing, she became pacified, and in a few minutes was in his arms and playing with his dark moustache, which greatly interested her.

This interruption saved Heath from an embarrassing situation, and threw the conversation entirely upon the child, of whom the fond mother had innumerable anecdotes to relate, all of which went to the establishment of the fact, that for intelligence and goodness, no such baby was to be met with in the three kingdoms. Heath was too happy to let the conversation continue in that strain, and having spent an agitated yet delicious hour with her, he thought it time to go.

"My dear Blanche," he said at last, "I came here upon a matter of business, which I must not forget in the pleasure of seeing you. My residence in Italy has developed in me a taste for pictures. I am not rich; but I am alone in the world, and can afford to indulge my taste. Your husband is an artist, and I am come to command a picture from him. I leave the subject, size, and price, entirely to him. Let him execute whatever his genius prompts him; and I am quite sure I shall be the gainer by leaving the price to him. Meanwhile, as you are not in flourishing circumstances, here is a cheque for fifty pounds, on account. When he wants more, he knows where to apply."

He placed a cheque in her hand as he said this. She understood but too well this delicate mode of assisting them, and a tear rose into her eye as she pressed his hand significantly: she could not speak. He embraced her child repeatedly, and, with a fond protecting look, bade her good-bye.

Left alone, she burst into tears: they were tears of gratitude and tears of shame: gratitude for the beautiful and delicate friendship of the act and its manner: shame at finding herself reduced to such a state, that she was forced to accept alms from her former lover.

As she grew calmer, the thought rose within her, that perhaps this might be the saving of Cecil--that he, finding employment, might resolutely set to work, and--no longer forced to seek a subsistence by gaming,--resume his honourable career.

Building cloud-castles on the landscape of the future, she was light and joyous when Cecil returned, and flung herself upon his neck, with almost frantic delight.