# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 113

CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE DISCLOSURE.
Young, loving, and beloved—these are brief words; And yet they touch on all the finer chords, Whose music is our happiness; the tone May die away, and be no longer known, In the sad changes brought by darker years, When the heart has to treasure up its tears, And life looks mournful on an altered scene— Still it is much to think that it has been.
Ethel was yet bathing her eyes with elderflowers, preparatory to going, when her departure was again delayed by another visitor.
"Tell her," exclaimed she, "that I am just going to a dying friend—ask if she will see my grandmother."
​ The servant obeyed, but returned almost instantly, saying, "that the lady said, she must entreat Miss Churchill to see her for ten minutes, she would not detain her longer. "Indeed, madam," continued the maid, "I think you had better go down, for she is quite the lady, and seems so miserable at the idea of your not seeing her."
"Perhaps," said Ethel, "I had better see her, a few minutes cannot much matter. I know by myself," added she, in a lower tone, "that sorrow is impatient."
On entering the parlour into which the visitor had been shown, she saw a tall figure, wrapped in a dark mantle, with her back towards her, in one of the recesses of the windows. The noise of her steps, light as they were, attracted the stranger's notice, who, turning round and letting her mantle fall as she did so, showed a tall and stately figure, dressed in what appeared to be some conventual costume. Her face, though thin and pale, bore the traces of great former beauty; and, although Ethel was sure that she had ​never seen the lady before, yet there was something in her features strangely familiar.
The colour came rapidly into her cheek: her heart told her the face now before her brought the memory of one still too dearly remembered—it was Norbourne Courtenaye that it recalled; the likeness was, despite the difference of sex and age, singularly striking.
What a vain thing is forced forgetfulness! For months Ethel had sedulously banished one image from her thoughts, and she fancied that she had succeeded: alas! even a chance and casual resemblance sufficed to make her tremble with emotion. To such emotion she had long made it a rule not to give way. She steadied her voice; though, with all her resolution, it was a little tremulous; and, entreating her visitor to be seated, asked what were her commands.
The stranger appeared almost to forget that it was her business to speak: she fixed her dark, penetrating eyes on the beautiful girl, who stood, blushing and confused, at the scrutiny.
​ "Perhaps," said Ethel, a little apprehensively—for the garb of her companion made her think that; perhaps, she was some Jacobite emissary—"it was my grandmother whom you wished to see?"
"No, no, it was yourself!" exclaimed the stranger, eagerly, as if startled by Ethel's voice. "Pardon me, young lady, but I am not well; and to myself my errand is a painful one."
"Pray do not stand," said Ethel; and, drawing a large arm-chair, took the stranger's hand, and gently forced her to be seated.
"Pray sit by me," continued the lady; and Ethel placed herself in the window-seat, wondering at her singular visitor, in whom, however, she could not help feeling interested. "I ought to tell you my name," exclaimed the stranger, breaking silence by an obvious effort, "I am Mrs. Courtenaye."
Ethel started to her feet, turning deadly pale, and sank again on her seat; and her visitor seemed almost startled at the effect which her words had produced. Miss ​Churchill had, however, for months subjected her feelings to a discipline too severe to be wholly overcome by them now. Her features became cold and calm; and there was a slight touch of haughtiness in her manner, as she said,—
"May I be permitted to ask the cause why Mrs. Courtenaye honours me with a visit?"
"Because the happiness of my only child is in your hands—because," exclaimed she, "I have recently stood by the bed that was every hour expected to be that of death, and, during the delirium of fever, yours was the only name upon Norbourne's lips."
"Mrs. Courtenaye," replied Ethel, rising, "it is useless to prolong an interview which can only be humiliating and painful to both."
"Listen to me," cried Mrs. Courtenaye, catching her hand, and detaining her.
"Nay," replied her companion: "I can understand and pity your feelings; but you must, also, respect mine. I entreat you not to enter on a subject which inflicts on me—I will tell you frankly—inflicts on me a ​degree of pain of which you have little idea."
"You do love him, then?" cried Mrs. Courtenaye.
"Madam," returned Ethel, again attempting to leave the room, "you can have no possible right to ask the question."
"I am wrong," exclaimed the other; "but solitude has made my habits abrupt, and my very anxiety defeats my object. All that I implore is, that you will listen to me patiently—listen to me, lady, but for five minutes."
What could Ethel do but resume her seat? and Mrs. Courtenaye continued,—
"Do tell me, before I proceed, whether there was any other motive for your rejection of Norbourne's renewed address than resentment for his former inconstancy?"
"Do not call it resentment," cried Ethel; "perhaps it will save a continuance of this to me most distressing conversation, if I say, that Mr. Courtenaye's conduct has been such that I never could permit myself to regard him ​with, if you will force it from me, my once trusting affection."
"You do not know," interrupted Mrs. Courtenaye, "the circumstances in which he was placed."
"I believe that I do," returned the other, coldly.
Mrs. Courtenaye looked amazed; a sudden fear, that her story was not the profound secret that she supposed it to be, came over her, and she asked, faintly—"What do you suppose those circumstances to have been?"
"Embarrassments," returned Ethel, with an expression of as much scorn as her sweet face would express, "from which his cousin's wealth set him free."
"Oh, you are quite wrong!" cried his mother; "no love of fortune, nor of ambition, could have tempted Norbourne to desert you. Little, indeed, do you know his high and generous nature, when you suppose that he could be actuated by an interested motive."
"Was it, then," asked Ethel, faintly, "love for his cousin?"
​ "No," replied Mrs. Courtenaye, "it was love for his mother."
"I do not know," exclaimed Miss Churchill, a little natural pride increasing her indignation, "why you should have objected to his union with one who, in fortune and family, was his equal in every way; and who loved him—how deeply, how dearly, my own heart only can tell! But why do you thus seek to stir up again feelings, with which you have each so cruelly trifled?"
"Reproach me!" said Mrs. Courtenaye, "I deserve it; but do not blame Norbourne. Never has his heart changed from its entire affection for you; and little do you know the wretchedness that he has endured."
"Madam, you might have spared us both this. I pity him! I pity myself!" exclaimed she, struggling with the tears she could no longer suppress; "but my love and my esteem must go together, and you obliged me to tell you that Mr. Courtenaye has forfeited the last."
"But I can restore it to him," cried Mrs. ​Courtenaye; "I have already delayed my explanation too long: you are an orphan, Miss Churchill; but have you never thought how sweet it would have been to have had a mother—one who knelt, blessing your pillow, every night, and watched your steps during day? Suppose that you had such a parent, that you knew you had been from your birth her only object in the wide, cold world, would you not have made some sacrifice for her sake?"
"Any, even to my life!" returned Ethel, in a faltering voice.
"Suppose," continued Mrs. Courtenaye, "that that mother had knelt at your feet; told you that her life, and, far more precious than life, her honour, were in your hands, and implored you to save them, would you not have yielded to her frantic entreaties?"
"I would!" cried Ethel, but her voice was scarcely audible.
Mrs. Courtenaye then rapidly sketched her previous history; and, long before it was ended, Ethel had bowed her face in her hands, and was weeping bitterly.
​ "Oh!" exclaimed she, "true and generous as ever! how I have misjudged him!"
"The atonement is in your own hands," said Mrs. Courtenaye; "you will let him see you this evening?"
"If he loves me still," whispered Ethel; but now she felt deep in her own heart, that affection knows no change, nor shadow of turning.