# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 46

CHAPTER XI.
THE PAST.
Weep for the love that fate forbids;  Yet loves, unhoping, on, Though every light that once illumed  Its early path be gone.
Weep for the love that must resign  The soul's enchanted dream, And float, like some neglected bark,  Adown life's lonely stream!
Weep for the love that cannot change;  Like some unholy spell, It hangs upon the life that loved  So vainly and so well.
Weep for the weary heart condemned  To one long, lonely sigh, Whose lot has been in this cold world,  To dream, despair and die!
It is a mystery how fate sometimes answers to our secret wishes. All night one thought made Norbourne's pillow restless, and formed ​part of every troubled dream. He rose, and it was easy to carry it into execution. The day before, his departure from London would have excited the greatest surprise. This morning, the first thing he saw was a letter from his mother, urging his immediate presence at Courtenaye Hall, on account of some pressing business, owing to a lawsuit having just terminated in their favour.
In his journey down, he must pass within twenty miles of Ethel Churchill's home. He at once resolved that he would see her; it was but to implore her forgiveness, and even Constance might forgive the wish. He hurried off, allowing himself no time to think; and the rapid motion and violent exercise produced their usual effect. The fever of the body triumphed over that of the mind; if not forgotten, it was, at least, lulled.
Late at night, he arrived at a little village about two miles from Mrs. Churchill's house. It required all the influence of his handsome face with the landlady, and his handsome purse with the landlord, to procure those three great ​requisites for a traveller—admittance, supper, and a bed. Completely wearied out, he retired to rest, and did not waken the following morning till later than he intended. Remembering Ethel's habit of walking before breakfast in the little plantation adjoining the house, he hurried his toilet, in a hope, which he scarcely acknowledged to himself, of meeting her there. He amazed the pretty hostess by refusing breakfast; however, flinging down double the amount of her already unconscionable bill, consoled her for his want of appetite. This done, he sprung on his horse, which he urged to the utmost speed till he came to the once well-known gate, which was the side entrance to the plantation. There he fastened his horse, and, flinging his cloak over the panting creature, entered the little wood.
It was just the beginning of spring; only a few of the trees had as yet ventured to put forth the scarce unfolded leaves; there was the promise of green, rather than the green itself, and that soft yellow, which has the bloom of a flower before the flowers themselves. ​The gray boughs of the oak were still bare; and the hollies were fresh and bright, though their scarlet berries and Christmas had passed away together. As yet, the banks were uncovered by the various creeping plants, which in June were so luxurious; but the maiden's hair flung down its long green tresses, and every sunny nook had its group of primroses—the primrose, which is spring's second herald.
It is curious to note how gradually the flowers warm into the rich colours and aromatic breath of summer. First, comes the snow-drop, formed from the snows, which give it name; fair, but cold and scentless: then comes the primrose, with its faint soft hues, and its faint soft perfume—an allegory of actual existence, where the tenderest and most fragile natures are often those selected to bear the coldest weather, and the most bleak exposure. This is fanciful; but the whole place was thronged with "fast coming fancies," so fairy-like were the shadows that fell from the pensile branches, so changeful the golden lights that glimmered on the scarcely budding boughs.
​ Norbourne felt the influence of the lovely hour and scene. Every step he took brought with it some gentle recollection; for a few moments he wandered on, lost in a delicious reverie. But the past only brought the present more vividly before him—he started! for the first time, the folly and the error he was committing seemed to strike forcibly upon his mind. He turned pale, and leant, breathless, against an oak beside. What could he say to Ethel when he saw her?—he had no excuse that he might offer for his falsehood: what could he say?—nothing! What right had he, the husband of another, to offer Miss Churchill vain regrets, which to her were only insults? and Constance, his sweet, his devoted Constance, she who had not a wish, nor a thought, but what were his own—how could he justify his conduct to her? That she might never know, was nothing. To his own heart he could not answer his meditated treachery; for treachery it was to tell another how much he grieved over an union in which she, at least, was wholly blameless. The tumult and ​excitement of his soul softened in the sacred presence of nature. He felt that he owed it alike both to Ethel and to Constance, to abandon his intended purpose.
"Yet once again," exclaimed he, passionately, "let me gaze on that beautiful and beloved face! let me see if sorrow has cast a shadow on its surpassing loveliness! I will not let her know how near I am, and how wretched! No, in secret and in silence will I look upon her once more; and then, farewell for ever!"
Only those who know what it is to give up some cherished wish just on its very verge of fulfilment, and give up from that sense of right which it is hard to deny, and yet harder to execute—only they can tell what it cost Norbourne to give up his purpose of seeing Ethel: yet he did give it up; and advanced only with the hope of one distant look, relying on his knowledge of the various little paths to escape through the wood if any one came too near. At length, he stopped within the shelter of a large spreading arbutus, it was too near ​the house to advance further; but, though sheltered himself, he could see all the once familiar objects. There was the little fountain, the grass-plot, and the summer-house. There they were as of old—they, at least, were the same. He welcomed them as old familiar friends; but, when he glanced around, the symptoms of change were on them as well. Then the pale hues of autumn were around; now, every thing was colouring with spring. He looked, but in vain, for the blue harebells beside the little fountain; they were gone, and with them, how much of hope and of affection had gone too! His heart beat, till he leant breathless on one of the spreading boughs. At that moment, he saw a figure move in the summer-house: it came towards the door: it was Ethel. At first, he only saw the face—it was pale, sad; but there was a change even beyond that unwonted paleness. Gradually his eye took in her whole appearance. Early as it was, she was splendidly dressed. Her golden hair glittered with gems in the light of the morning; her robe was of white ​damask, flowered with silver; and a long white veil was half folded round her.
Norbourne had not courage to even think the surmise that, in spite of himself, would arise. At that moment he saw Mrs. Churchill, attended by a gentleman, both richly attired, come from the house. They advanced to the summer-house, and the cavalier approached Ethel, who still stood in her pensive and abstracted attitude, as if to lead her away. Slowly and reluctantly as it seemed, she let him take her hand; slowly and reluctantly, but she let him take it. The three returned to the house; and Norbourne could see that there were many guests assembled.
"Let me know the worst!" exclaimed he, rushing with frantic violence from the spot. He hurried through the wood, and sprang upon his horse, intending to gallop to the village, and ask about the family. He had not far to go; for he had scarcely gained the road before he met a party of peasants, dressed in their Sunday attire. One question was enough: an elderly woman answered him; "Yes, please ​your honour, we are going to see Miss Ethel married to a grand gentleman from foreign parts." Norbourne asked no more; but, putting spurs to the horse, he galloped across the common, as if life and death had been upon his speed.