THE OLD ESCRITOIR.
After this night I never remember to have seen that rich, fruity smile
upon my mother’s lips again. Bear in mind, there had been no quarrel
between her and Lord Clare; not even a hard word; but she loved him so
deeply, so fatally. She who had no world, no thought, no existence that
did not partake of him, and her trust in him had been like the faith of
a devotee. All at once she _felt_ that he had secrets, thoughts,
memories, many things long buried in his heart, of which she had no
knowledge. She had gathered it only from a look; but if all the angels
of heaven had written it out in fire before her eyes, the revelation
could not have been more perfect.
And now the proud tranquillity of her life, the rich contentment of her
love departed forever. The gipsy blood fired up again; she was restless
as a wild bird. Her care of me relaxed. I ran about the park recklessly,
like the deer that inhabited it. She rode out sometimes alone, and
always at full speed. I saw her often talking with old Turner, and
observed that he looked anxious and distressed after their
conversations.
She was a proud creature, that young gipsy mother, but it was a pride of
the soul, that which blends with genius as platina strengthens and
beautifies gold. All the sweet trusting fondness of manner which had
made her love so luxurious and dreamy, changed to gentle sadness. She
met Lord Clare meekly and with a certain degree of grateful submission,
but without warmth. It was the humility which springs from excess of
pride. In the whole range of human feelings there is not a sensation
that approaches so near to meekness, as the pride of a woman who feels a
wrong but gives it no utterance.
Lord Clare saw and understood this. You could see it in his air; in his
slow step as he approached the house; in the anxious look with which he
always regarded my mother on their first meetings. He grew more tender,
more solicitous to divine her wishes, but never asked an explanation of
the change that had come over her. What was the reason of this? Why did
Lord Clare remain silent on a subject that filled both their thoughts?
Those who know the human heart well can best answer.
Lord Clare had reached that point in life when we shrink from new
sources of excitement. I have said that he was young only in years. The
romance of suffering had long since passed away. He was capable of
feeling the pain, nothing more.
Close by Lord Clare’s estate, and visible through the trees in winter,
when no foliage intervened, was an old mansion that had once been
castellated, but modern art had transformed it into a noble dwelling,
leaving the old keep and some prominent towers merely for their
picturesque effect. A large estate surrounded it, sweeping down, on the
north, to that of Lord Clare’s, and extending as far as the eye could
reach toward the mountain ridges that terminated the view.
The estate had belonged to a wealthy banker of London, one of those city
men who sometimes, by their energies, sweep the possessions of the
peerage into their coffers with a sort of ruthless magic. This man had
married a distant relative of Lord Clare—a lady who at one time had been
an inmate of his father’s family. She had married the banker suddenly,
most people supposed for his wealth, for she carried nothing but high
birth and connections to her city bridegroom.
The dwelling, of which I speak, had been purchased before the marriage,
as a surprise for the lady. Close to the estate of her young relative,
almost regal in its splendor, what gift could be more acceptable to the
bride? It was purchased, renovated, furnished, and settled upon her. On
her bridal morning only she became aware of the fact. Those who
witnessed the ceremony saw that the bride turned pale, and that a
strange look came into her face as she acknowledged the magnificent
kindness of her bridegroom; but one brief visit was all that she made to
the estate, and it became a matter of comment that Lord Clare should
have started on his foreign travels the day before the bridal party
arrived in the neighborhood.
Now Mr. Morton was dead, and about this time his widow, Lady Jane, came
down to live at the castle. Turner informed us of this, but there was
something in his manner that did not please me. His precise language,
and that sort of solemn drollery that made him so unique, and to us so
lovable, abandoned him as he told this news. His dear, honest, eyes
wavered, and there was something wrong in his whole appearance that I
shall never forget.
Another piece of news he brought us after this. Lord Clare’s sister, a
lady some years older than himself, had arrived at Greenhurst, and more
company was expected. This lady was a widow, and heiress at law to the
title and entailed estates, for both descended alike to male or female
heir. My poor mother knew nothing of all this; how should she? The laws,
and even customs of England were a sealed book to her. She only felt
that strangers were intruding into her paradise, and the shadows around
her home grew deeper and deeper.
I fancy all this gossip was brought to us by Lord Clare’s direction, for
he never mentioned the subject himself, and poor old Turner certainly
did not seem to find much pleasure in imparting unpleasant information.
With all his eccentricities, he was a discreet and feeling man.
I have said that I ran wild about the grounds, like a little witch or
fairy. This made me bold and reckless. I put no limits to my rambles,
but trampled through flower-beds, waded rivulets, and made myself
acquainted with everything I met without fear. Up to this time I had
never entered the mansion nor met any of the servants without avoiding
them. Perhaps I had been directed to do this. I cannot remember if it
was the command of my mother or an intuition. But now I ventured into
the garden, the graperies, and at length into the house itself.
I had not seen Lord Clare in several days, and possibly it was a longing
for his presence that gave me courage to steal up the broad, oaken
staircase, and along the sumptuous rooms that lay beyond.
The magnificence did not astonish me, for it was only on a broader scale
than the exquisite arrangement of my own pretty home; but the stillness,
the vast breadth and depth of the apartments filled me with a sort of
awe, and I crept on, half afraid, half curious, to see what would come
next.
At length I found myself in a little cabinet. The walls were hung with
small pictures; the carpet was like wood-moss gleaming through flowers;
two or three crimson easy chairs stood around. On a table lay some
curious books in bindings of discolored vellum, others glowing with
purple and gold, the ancient and modern in strong contrast. An escritoir
of ebony, sculptured an inch deep, and set with precious stones, stood
near it; some papers lay upon the open leaf, and a small drawer was half
out, in which were other papers, folded and emitting a faint perfume.
Child-like, I clambered up the chair that stood before this desk and
began tossing the papers about. Something flashed up from the drawer
like a ray of light. I plunged my hand in again and drew forth a golden
shell, frosted over with ridges of orient pearls and edged with
diamonds. I clasped the gem between my hands and sprang down with a glad
little shout, resolved to examine it at my leisure. Either the leap or
the pressure of my hands opened the spring, and when I sat down on the
carpet and unclosed my fingers, the shell flew open, and I saw the face
of Lord Clare. I had not seen my father in some days, and as if the
portrait had been himself, I fell to kissing it, murmuring over the
endearing names that his presence always prompted.
After a little, my eyes fell on the opposite half of the shell, and the
face that met my gaze checked my joy; it was not beautiful, but a
singular fascination hung about the broad forehead and the clear,
greyish blue eyes. The power embodied there enthralled me more than
beauty could have done. My murmurs ceased; my heart stopped its gleeful
beating; I looked on the pair with a sort of terror, yet could not
remove my eyes.
All at once I heard steps in the next room. Huddling the miniature up
with the folds of my scarlet dress, I sat upon the floor, breathless and
full of wild curiosity, but not afraid. The door opened and Lord Clare
came in. He did not observe me, for a cloud of lace from one of the
windows fell between us, and he sat down by the desk wearily leaning his
forehead in the palm of one hand. I heard him sigh and observed that he
moved his hand rapidly across his forehead two or three times, as if to
assuage the pain of some harassing thought.
Still with the miniature and some folds of my dress huddled together, I
got up, and moving toward the desk clambered softly up the chair on
which he sat. Putting one arm around his neck, I laid my head close to
his cheek and murmured, after the fashion of my gipsy mother, “Oh, my
Busne, my Busne!”
He started violently; my weight drew back the chair, and I fell heavily
to the carpet.
“Child, child, how came you here?” cried my father, looking down upon
me, pale as death, and excited beyond anything I had ever witnessed,
“surely, surely, your mother cannot have brought you—tell me, was it
Turner—was it”——
“No, no,” I answered, forcing back the tears of pain that sprung to my
eyes, “it was myself, not Turner, not mamma, only myself—my own self; I
came alone; I will go alone—I and the pretty Busne in my dress. That
will not throw me down—that will not strike my head, and fill my eyes
with sparks of fire. It is the good Busne, mamma and I loved—it will
make her glad again. Let me go out—me and the good Busne.”
I still lay upon the floor, for the blow against my head made it reel
when I attempted to move; but my hand clung to the miniature, and a
fierce spirit of rage, hitherto unknown, possessed me. He stooped over
me with his old, gentle manner, and attempted to lift me in his arms,
but in my rage I shrunk away.
“You don’t love me—you don’t love mamma,” I cried, fighting him back
with one hand. “She knows it—I know it, and so does good Turner. You go
away one, two, four days, and all that time she sits this way, looking
on the floor.”
I struggled to a sitting posture and sunk into the abstracted manner
that had become habitual to my mother. I do not know what chord of
feelings was struck by this position, but tears crowded into his eyes,
and dropping on one knee by my side, he laid a hand on my head. I sprang
up so violently that the miniature fell to my feet, glittering and open.
“Child, gipsy, where did you get this?” he cried, white with agitation,
and seizing my arm. “There!” I answered, stamping my foot, and pointing
with my clenched hand to the desk.
“Who told you—how dare you?”
“No one told me—dare, what is that?” I answered, meeting his pale anger
with fire in my heart and eyes.
“Contaminated again by this gipsy gang,” he muttered, gazing upon the
female face. “Jane, Jane, to what degradation you have driven me.”
I listened greedily. The name of that woman was Jane; how from that hour
I hated the sound.
“Go!” he said to me, sternly, “go and never enter this room again. Tell
your mother that this mad life must have an end. You shall not run
through the estate like a gip—like a wild animal.”
Every word sunk like a drop of gall into my heart—the bitterness—the
scorn—the angry mention of my mother’s name. I left the miniature in his
hand, and, with my infant teeth scarcely larger than pearls clenched
hard, turned away, burning with futile wrath. He called me back, but I
kept on. Again he called, and his voice trembled. It only filled my
little heart with scorn that a man should not hold his anger more
firmly. In order to avoid him, I fled like a deer through the spacious
apartments, ignorant what direction I ought to take, but determined to
run anywhere rather than speak to him again.