Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (253 page)

 
‘Yes, my lord’.

 
‘Then listen. I would much sooner give half – aye, the whole of my estate to Lord Hartfield, than yourself! What I said just now was only to try you’.

 
Miss Laury raised her eyes, sighed like one awaking from some hideous dream, but she could not speak.

 
‘Would I’, continued the Duke, ‘would I resign the possession of my first love to any hands but my own? I would far rather see her in her coffin;
 
and I would lay you there as still, as white, and much more lifeless than you were stretched just now at my feet before I would, for threat, for entreaty, for purchase, give to another a glance of your eye or a smile from your lip. I know you adore me now, Mina, for you could not feign that agitation, and therefore I will tell you what proof I gave yesterday of my regard for you: Hartford mentioned your name in my presence, and I revenged the profanation by a shot which sent him to his bed little better than a corpse’.

 
Miss Laury shuddered, but so dark and profound are the mysteries of human nature ever allying vice with virtue, that I fear this bloody proof of her master’s love brought to her heart more rapture than horror. She said not a word, for now Zamorna’s arms were again folded around her, and again he was soothing her to tranquillity by endearments and caresses that far away removed all thought of the world, all past pangs of shame, all cold doubts , all weariness, all heart-sickness resulting from hope long deferred. He had told her that she was his first love, and now she felt tempted to believe that she was likewise his only love. Strong-minded beyond her sex, active, energetic, and accomplished in all other points of view, here she was as weak as a child. She lost her identity; her life was swallowed up in that of another.

 
There came a knock at the door. Zamorna rose and opened it. His valet stood without.

 
‘Might I speak with your Grace in the ante-room?’ asked Monsieur Rosier in somewhat of a hurried tone. The Duke followed him out.

 
‘What do you want with me, sir? Anything the matter?’

 
‘Ahem!’ began Eugene, whose countenance expressed much more embarassment than is the usual characteristic of his dark, sharp physiognomy. ‘Ahem! My lord Duke, rather a curious spot of work, a complete conjuror’s trick if your Grace will allow me to say so’.

 
‘What do you mean, sir?’

 
‘Sacré! I hardly know. I must confess I felt a trifle stupefied when I saw it.’

 
‘Saw what? Speak plainly, Rosier!’

 
‘How your Grace is to act I can’t imagine’, replied the valet, ‘though indeed I have seen your Majesty double wonderfully well when the case appeared to me extremely embarassing, but this I really thought extra – I could not have dreamt!’

 
‘Speak to the point, Rosier, or – ’ Zamorna lifted his hand.

 
‘Mort de ma vie’ exclaimed Eugene, ‘I will tell your Grace all I know. I was walking carelessly through the passage about ten minutes since when I heard a step on the stairs, a light step as if of a very small foot. I turned, and there was a lady coming down. My lord, she was a lady!’

 
‘Well, sir, did you know her?’

 
‘I think if my eyes were not bewitched I did. I stood in the shade screened by a pillar and she passed very near without observing me. I saw her distinctly, and may I be d — d this very moment if it was not – ’

 
‘Who, sir?’

 
‘The Duchess!’

 
There was a pause which was closed by a clear and remarkable prolonged whistle from the Duke. He put both his hands into his pockets and took a leisurely turn through the rom.

 
‘You are sure, Eugene?’ he asked. ‘I know you dare not tell me a lie in such a matter because you have a laudable and natural regard to your proper carcass! Aye, it’s true enough, I’ll be sworn. Mrs Irving, the wife of a minister of the North! A satirical hit at my royal self! By G — d ! pale fair neck, little mouth and chin! Very good! I wish that same little mouth and chin were about a hundred miles off. What can have brought her? Anxiety about her invaluable husband – could not bear any longer without him – obliged to set off to see what he was doing. It’s as well that turnspit Rosier told me, however. If she had entered the room unexpectedly above five minutes since – God! I should have had no resource but to tie her hand and foot. It would have killed her! What the d — l shall I do?Must not be angry; she can’t do with that sort of thing just now. Talk softly, reprove her gently, swear black and white to my having no connection with MR Pakenham’s housekeeper’.

 
Ceasing his soliloquy, the duke turned again to his valet.

 
‘What room did Her aGrace go into?’

 
‘The drawing room, my lord, she is in there now’.

 
‘Well, say nothing about it, Rosier – on pain of sudden death! Do you hear me, sir?’

 
Rosier laid his hand on his heart, and Zamorna left the room to commence the operations.

 
Softly unclosing the drawing room door, he perceived a lady by the hearth. Her back was towards him, but there could be no mistake. The whole turn of form, the style of dress, the curled auburn head: all were attributes but of one person – of his own unique, haughty, jealous little Duchess. He closed the door as noiselessly as he had opened it and stole forwards. Her attention was absorbed in something, a book she had picked up. As he stood unobserved behind her he could see that her eye rested on the fly-leaf, where was written in his own hand:

Holy St. Cyprian! Thy waters stray

With still and solemn tone:

And fast my bright hours pass away

And somewhat throws a shadow grey,

Even as twilight closes day,

Upon thy waters lone.

Farewell! If I might come again,

Young as I was and free,

And feel once more in every vein

The fire of that first passion reign

Which sorrow could not quench or pain,

I’d soon return to thee;

But while thy billows seek the main

That never more may be!

 
This was dated ‘Mornington, 1829’.

 
The Duchess felt a hand press her shoulder and she looked up. The force of attraction had its usual results and sh clung to what she saw.

 
‘Adrian! Adrian!’ was all her lips could utter.

 
‘Mary! Mary!’ replied the Duke, allowing her to hang about him: ‘Pretty doings! What brought you here? Are you running away, eloping in my absence?’

 
‘Adrian, why did you leave me? You said you would come back in a week, and it’s eight days since. I could not bear any longer. I have never slept nor rested since you left me. Do come home!’

 
‘So you actually have set off in search of a husband!’’said Zamorna, laughing heartily, ‘‘nd been overturned and obliged to take shelter in Pakenham’’ shooting-box!’

 
‘Why are you here, Adrian?’ inquired the Duchess who was far too much in earnest to join in his laugh. ‘Who is Pakenham?And who is that person who calls herself his housekeeper? And why do you let anybody live so near Hawskliffe without ever telling me?’

 
‘I forgot to tell you’ said his Grace. ‘I’ve other things to think about when those bright hazel eyes are looking up at me! As to Pakenham, to tell you the truth he’s a sort of left-hand cousin of your own, being natural son to the old Admiral, my uncle, in the South, and his housekeeper is his sister. Voilà tout. Kiss me now’.

 
The Duchess did kiss him, but it was with a heavy sigh; the cloud of jealous anxiety hung on her brow undissipated.

 
‘Adrian, my heart aches still. Why have you been staying so long in Angria? O, you don’t care for me! You have never thought how miserable I have been longing for your return, Adrian!’ She stopped and cried.

 
‘Mary, recollect yourself!’ said His Grace. ‘I cannot be always at your feet. You were not so weak when we were first married. You let me leave you often then without any jealous remonstrance’’

 
‘I did not know you as well at that time’, said Mary, ‘and if my mind is weakened, all its strength has gone away in tears and terrors for you. I am neither so handsome nor so chherful as I once was, but you ought to forgive my decay because you have caused it.’

 
‘Low spirits’, returned Zamorna,’looking on the dark side of matters! God bless me, the wicked is caught in his own net. I wish I could add ‘yet shall I withal escape’. Mary, never again reproach yourself with loss of beauty till I give the hint first. Believe me now; in that and every other respect you are just what I wish you to be. You cannot fade any more than marble can – at least not in my eyes. And as for your devotion and tenderness, though I chide its excess sometimes, because it wastes and bleaches you almost to a shadow, yet it formsthe very finest chain that binds me to you. Now cheer up! Tonight you shall go to Hawkscliffe; it is only five miles off. I cannot accompany you because I have some important business to transact with Pakenham which must not be deferred. Tomorrow, I will be at the castle before dawn. The carriage will be ready. I will put you in, myself beside you; off we go straight to Verdopolis, and there for the next three months I will tire you of my company, morning, noon, and night! Now what can I promise more? If you choose to be jealous of Henri Fernando, Baron of Etrei; or John, Duke of Fidena; or the fair Earl of Richton, who, as God is my witness, has been the only companion of my present peregrinations, why, I can’t help it. I must then take to soda-water and despair, or have myself petrified and carved into an Apollo for your dressing room. Lord! I get no credit with my virtue!’

 
By dint of lies and laughter the individual at last succeded in getting all things settled to his mind.

 
The Duchess went to Hawkscliffe that night; and, keeping his promise for once, he accompanied her to Verdopolis next morning.

 
Lord Hartford still lies between life and death. His passion is neither weakened by pain, piqued by rejection, nor cooled by absence. On the iron nerves of the man are graved an impression which nothing can efface. Warner curses him; Richton deplores.

 
For a long space of time, good bye, reader! I have done my best to please you; and though I know that through feebleness, dullness, and iteration my work terminates rather in failure than triumph, yet you are sure to forgive, for I have done my best.

                                                 
C. Brontë

Haworth, January 17th, 1838

CHAPTER 1

Charles Townshend pays a visit to Louisa Dance’s house, and finds Macara Lofty under the influence of opium

“AMEN!” Such was the sound, given in a short shout, which closed the evening service at Ebenezer Chapel. Mr Bromley rose from his knees. He had wrestled hard, and the sweat of his pious labours shone like oil upon his forehead. Fetching a deep breath and passing his handkerchief over his damp brow, the apostle sank back in his seat. Then, extending both brawny arms and resting them on the sides of the pulpit, with the yellow-spotted handkerchief dependent from one hand, he sat and watched the evacuation of the crowded galleries.

“How oppressively hot the chapel has been to-night,” said a soft voice to me, and a bonnet, bending forward, waved its ribbons against my face.

“Aye, in two senses,” was my answer. “Literally, as to atmosphere, and figuratively, as to zeal. Our brother has exercised [conducted ther service; expounded scripture (obsolete)] with freedom, madam.”

“Nonsense, Charles! I never can get into this slang! But come, the crowd is lessening at the gallery-door. I think we shall be able to make our way through it now, and I do long to get a breath of fresh air. Give me my shawl, Charles.”

The lady rose, and, while I carefully enveloped her in the shawl and boa [“a snake-like coil of fur or feathers worn by women about the neck” (
OED
). The earliest usage in this sense cited in the 
OED
is 1936; CB was clearly familiar with the latest fashions] which were to protect her from the night-air, she said, smiling persuasively, “You will escort me to my villa and sup with me on a radish and an egg.” I answered by pressing the white hand over which she was just drawing a glove of French kid. She passed that hand through my arm and we left the gallery together.

A perfectly still and starlight night welcomed us as we quitted the steam and torches of the chapel. Threading our way quickly through the dispersing crowd at the door, we entered a well-known and oft-trod way, which in half an hour brought us from among the lighted shops and busy streets of our quartier to the deep shade and — at this hour — the unbroken retirement of the vale.

“Charles,” said my fair companion in her usual voice, half a whisper, half a murmur. “Charles, what a sweet night — a premature summer night! It only wants the moon to make it perfect — then I could see my villa. Those stars are not close enough to bring out the white front fully from its laurels. And yet I do see a light glittering there. Is it not from my drawing-room window?”

“Probably,” was my answer, and I said no more. Her ladyship’s softness is at times too surfeiting, more especially when she approaches the brink of the sentimental.

“Charles,” she pursued, in no wise abashed by my coolness. “How many fond recollections come on us at such a time as this! Where do you think my thoughts always stray on a summer night? What image do you think ‘a cloudless clime and starry skies’ always suggests?”

“Perhaps,” said I, “that of the most noble Richard, Marquis of Wellesley, as you last saw him, reposing in gouty chair and stool, with eyelids gently closed by the influence of the pious libations in claret with which he has concluded the dinner of rice-currie, devilled turkey and guava.”

Louisa, instead of being offended, laughed with silver sound. “You are partly right,” said she. “The figure you have described does indeed form a portion of my recollections. Now, will you finish the picture, or shall I do it in your stead?”

“I resign the pencil into hands better qualified for its management,” rejoined I.

“Well, then, listen,” continued the Marchioness. “Removed from the easy chair and cushioned foot-stool and from the slumbering occupant thereof, imagine a harp - that very harp which stands now in my boudoir. Imagine a woman, seated by it. I need not describe her: it is myself. She is not playing. She is listening to one who leans on her instrument and whispers as softly as the wind now whispers in my acacias.”

“Hem!” said I. “Is the figure that of a bald elderly gentleman?”

Louisa sighed her affirmative.

“By the bye,” continued I. “It is constantly reported that he has taken to — ”

“What?” interrupted the Marchioness. “Not proof spirits, I hope! Watered Hollands I know scarcely satisfied him.”

“No, madam, repress your fears. I was alluding merely to his dress. The pantaloons are gone: he sports white tights and silks.”

Low as the whisper was in which I communicated these stunning tidings, it thrilled along Louisa’s nerves to her heart. During the pause which followed, I waited in breathless expectation for the effect. It came at last. Tittering faintly, she exclaimed, “You don’t say so! Lord! how odd! But after all, I think it’s judicious, you know. Nothing can exhibit more perfect symmetry than his leg, and then he does get older of course, and a change of costume was becoming advisable. Yet I should almost fear there would be too much deep shade and — at this hour — the unbroken retirement of the vale.

“Charles,” said my fair companion in her usual voice, half a whisper, half a murmur. “Charles, what a sweet night — a premature summer night! It only wants the moon to make it perfect — then I could see my villa. Those stars are not close enough to bring out the white front fully from its laurels. And yet I do see a light glittering there. Is it not from my drawing-room window?”

“Probably,” was my answer, and I said no more. Her ladyship’s softness is at times too surfeiting, more especially when she approaches the brink of the sentimental.

“Charles,” she pursued, in no wise abashed by my coolness. “How many fond recollections come on us at such a time as this! Where do you think my thoughts always stray on a summer night? What image do you think ‘a cloudless clime and starry skies’ always suggests?”

“Perhaps,” said I, “that of the most noble Richard, Marquis of Wellesley, as you last saw him, reposing in gouty chair and stool, with eyelids gently closed by the influence of the pious libations in claret with which he has concluded the dinner of rice-currie, devilled turkey and guava.”

Louisa, instead of being offended, laughed with silver sound. “You are partly right,” said she. “The figure you have described does indeed form a portion of my recollections. Now, will you finish the picture, or shall I do it in your stead?”

“I resign the pencil into hands better qualified for its management,” rejoined I.

“Well, then, listen,” continued the Marchioness. “Removed from the easy chair and cushioned foot-stool and from the slumbering occupant thereof, imagine a harp — that very harp which stands now in my boudoir. Imagine a woman, seated by it. I need not describe her: it is myself. She is not playing. She is listening to one who leans on her instrument and whispers as softly as the wind now whispers in my acacias.”

“Hem!” said I. “Is the figure that of a bald elderly gentleman?”

Louisa sighed her affirmative.

“By the bye,” continued I. “It is constantly reported that he has taken to — ”

“What?” interrupted the Marchioness. “Not proof spirits, I hope! Watered Hollands I know scarcely satisfied him.”

“No, madam, repress your fears. I was alluding merely to his dress. The pantaloons are gone: he sports white tights and silks.”

Low as the whisper was in which I communicated these stunning tidings, it thrilled along Louisa’s nerves to her heart. During the pause which followed, I waited in breathless expectation for the effect. It came at last. Tittering faintly, she exclaimed, “You don’t say so! Lord! how odd! But after all, I think it’s judicious, you know. Nothing can exhibit more perfect symmetry than his leg, and then he does get older of course, and a change of costume was becoming advisable. Yet I should almost fear there would be too much spindle [thin, feeble, as in “spindle-shank], he was very thin, you know — very — ”

“Have you heard from his lordship lately?” I asked.

“Oh no! About six months ago I had indeed one little note, but I gave it to Macara by mistake, and really I don’t know what became of it afterwards.”

“Did Macara express hot sentiment of incipient jealousy on thus accidentally learning that you had not entirely dropped all correspondence with the noble Earl?”

“Yes. He said he thought the note was very civilly expressed, and wished me to answer it in terms equally polite.”

“Good! And you did so?”

“Of course. I penned an elegant billet on a sheet of rose-tinted note-paper, and sealed it with a pretty green seal bearing the device of twin hearts consumed by the same flame. Some misunderstanding must have occurred, though, for in two or three days afterwards I received it back unopened and carefully enclosed in a cover. The direction was not in his lordship’s hand-writing: Macara told me he thought it was the Countess’s.”

“Do you know Selden House, where his lordship now resides?” I asked.

“Ah yes! Soon after I was married I remember passing it while on a bridal excursion to Rossland [Ross’s Land, the kingdom founded by Captain John Ross, Anne Bronte’s principal character in the 
Young Men’s Play
] with the old Marquis. We took lunch there, indeed, for Colonel Selden (at that time the owner of it) was a friend of my venerable bridegroom’s. Talking of those times reminds me of a mistake everybody was sure to make at the hotels and private houses etc. where we stopped. I was universally taken for Lord Wellesley’s daughter. Colonel Selden in particular persisted in calling me Lady Julia.

“He was a fine-looking man, not so old as my illustrious spouse by at least twenty years. I asked Dance, who accompanied us on that tour, why he had not chosen for me such a partner as the gallant Colonel. He answered me by the sourest look I ever saw.”

“Well,” said I, interrupting her ladyship’s reminiscences. “Here we are at your villa. Goodnight. I cannot sup with you this evening: I am engaged.”

“Nay, Charles,” returned she, retaining the hand I would have withdrawn from hers. “Do come in! It is so long since I have had the pleasure of a quiet tète à tète with you.”

I persisted for some time in my refusal; but at length yielding to the smile and the soft tone of entreaty I gave up the point, and followed the Marchioness in.

On entering her ladyship’s parlour, we found the candles lighted and a supper-tray placed ready for us on the table. By the hearth, alone, Lord Macara Lofty was seated. His hand, drooping over the arm-chair, held two open letters: his eyes were fixed on the fire — as seemed, in thought. Louisa roused him. I could not help being struck by the languid gaze with which he turned his eyes upon her as she bent over him. There was vacancy in his aspect, and dreamy stupor.

“Are we late from chapel?” said she. “Bromley’s last prayer seemed interminably long.”

“Rather, I should think,” was the Viscount’s answer. “Rather, a trifle or so — late, you said? O ah! to be sure. I have been sitting with you two hours, have I not Louisa? — just dusk when I walked up the valley — late! certainly — ”