THE LADY OF MARSTON COURT.
I sprang forward like a hunted animal, through ante-rooms, chambers,
halls, and galleries. At last I stood panting and wild as an uncaged
bird, in what seemed a little summer parlor, opening upon the most
blooming nook of a flower garden. Broad sash windows led to the ground,
flooding the room with cheerful light. If I remember correctly, for
nothing but a dizzy sense of luxurious elegance reached me at the time,
the apartment was filled with rich, old-fashioned furniture, which
required the graceful relief of embroidered cushions, and a lavish
supply of flowers to make it so cheerful as it seemed.
All the doors in that house opened without noise, and, though I rushed
in madly enough, the carpets were too thick for any sound of my
tumultuous approach to precede me. A lady sat in one of the low windows
reading. I started and held my breath—not from fear, that from infancy
had been a sentiment unknown to me—but a terrible sensation, which even
now I can neither explain nor describe, seized upon me. The face of that
woman was the one I had seen, in the miniature. The same grandeur of
forehead, the same eyes—not beautiful in repose, but full of all the
latent elements of beauty. The same blended strength and sweetness in
the mouth and chin was there.
She was in deep mourning. A crape bonnet and veil lay on the sofa by her
side, and her golden hair contrasted with the sweeping sable of her
bombazine dress. She was neither handsome nor young, yet the strange
mesmeric influence that surrounded that woman had a thousand times more
power over those who could feel it, than youth or the most perfect
loveliness of form and features could have secured. Her influence over
me was a sort of enchantment. I held my breath, and remember feeling a
deep sentiment of pity for my mother. I had no reason for this, and was
a mere child in all things, but the moment my eyes fell on that woman
they filled with tears of compassion for my mother.
She was reading and did not know of my presence; but after a moment Lord
Clare came hastily forward in pursuit of me, and though his footsteps
gave forth no sound, and his movements were less rapid than mine, I
could see that she _felt_ his approach; for her pale cheek grew scarlet,
and I saw the book tremble like a leaf in her hand. He passed me, for I
stood close to the wall, and entered the room before she looked up. Then
their eyes met, and hers, oh, how warmly they sparkled beneath the
drooping lids after that first glance!
Lord Clare checked his footsteps, stood a moment irresolute, then
advanced toward her. She rose, and I saw that both trembled, and their
voices were so broken that some murmured words passed between them which
escaped me. The first sentence that I understood was from the lady.
“I thought that your sister had arrived, and drove over, notwithstanding
your uncousinly neglect of my note.”
“She is expected every moment,” answered Lord Clare, in a gentle but
firm voice, for his self-possession had returned.
He sat down as if forced to do the honors of his house, and made some
cold inquiries after the lady’s health, but without looking at her. The
lady was greatly agitated, I could see that plainly enough. Her color
came and went, and if she attempted to speak, her lips trembled and
uttered no sound. Her eyes were fixed upon Lord Clare, and, in my whole
life, I have never seen anything so full of the soul’s grandeur as those
eyes while they slowly filled with tears. They had not uttered a word
for some moments, then with a quiver not only of the lips, but of all
her features, she uttered his name.
“Clarence.”
He looked up shivering like a leaf to the sound, and well he might, for
never did a proud woman’s soul go more eloquently forth in a single
word.
“What would you with me, Lady Jane Morton?” he said, with that measured
firmness which often precedes the breaking down of a man’s stern will.
“I would say,” answered Lady Jane, and the tears rolled one by one down
her burning cheeks as she spoke, “I would say that my pride, my
stubbornness has wronged you.”
“It has indeed,” was the still cold reply.
“I would—I would speak of my regret.”
“What can regret avail? Lady, tell me if you have the power—what can
atone for years of wasted youth—affections trampled to the dust, a life
disturbed?”
“Ah, Clarence.”
How strangely the name sounded. I had never heard it in my life before,
and I am sure my poor mother was ignorant that he was called Clarence.
This among the rest he had hoarded from her.
“Oh, Clarence, I feel—I have long felt how cruel, how ungrateful, how
miserably proud I was—but I, I, do you think _I_ have not suffered?”
Lord Clare looked at her suddenly. An expression of painful surprise
came over his pale features.
“Why should you have suffered?” he questioned, almost sternly, “because
you pitied the man you had scorned?”
“Because I loved him!” The words seemed wrung from the very depths of
her heart. Her face fell forward, and she buried its shame in her hands.
Lord Clare sprang to his feet. A glow of such joy as I have never seen
on a human face before or since, transfigured him. His eyes absolutely
blazed; and a smile, oh, the glory of that smile poured its sunshine
over his features. It lasted but a moment, the next that beautiful joy
went out. Some sharp memory convulsed his features, and he dropped back
in his seat again. His eyes had fallen upon me.
She looked up and only saw the last miserable expression of his face. A
faint groan burst from her lips, and you could see her noble form shrink
with a sense of humiliation.
“I know—I know,” she cried, clasping her hands, and making a strong
effort to subdue the anguish of disappointment that seized upon her—“my
cruelty has done its work—even the poor privileges of friendship cannot
be ours.”
“It is too late—too late,” said Lord Clare, turning his eyes almost
fiercely upon my little form where it crouched by the wall.
“Still,” said Lady Jane, with more firmness, “I must not be condemned as
heartless and unprincipled where my motives were all good, and my
judgment only in fault. That which was self-sacrifice must not rest in
your heart as perfidy. I was proud, unreasonable, but as I live all this
was from a solemn conviction of right. I believed that the love you
expressed for me”——
“Expressed!” said Lord Clare, in a tone of bitter reproach.
“_Felt_ for me then—for I am satisfied that you did love me once.”
Here Lady Jane’s assumed strength gave way. When we speak of love as a
thing that has been, what woman’s heart is there which does not swell
with regret?
“I did love you,” said Lord Clare, turning his eyes away from the sight
of her tears.
“And do so no longer?” was the earnest, almost supplicating reply. How
full of soul that woman was—what strange fascination lay about her!
“It is too late—I cannot.” He met the expression of her eyes, those
pleading, wonderful eyes, and added, “I dare not!”
She understood him. She felt that her empire in that heart was there
still, though it might be in ruins. Still she struggled hard to suppress
the exhibition of this wild delight, but it broke through her tears like
lightning among rain-drops. It dimpled her mouth—oh, she _was_ beautiful
then! She strove to conceal this heart-tumult, and kept her eyes upon
the floor, but the lids glowed like rose-leaves, and flashes as if from
great diamonds came through her dark lashes. Yes—yes, she was beautiful
then! One moment of expression like that is worth a life-time of the
symmetrical prettiness which ordinary men admire in common-place women.
With the conviction of his continued affection Lady Jane recovered much
of her composure. Her manner, unconsciously perhaps to herself, became
gentle, pleading, almost tender. If she wept, smiles brightened through
her tears. Now and then her voice was almost playful, and once as she
lifted her eyes to his, there was a faint reflection of her mood upon
Lord Clare’s face. Alas! my poor mother!
“We may never mention this subject again,” she said, with sweet
meekness, “and now let me say one word in my own exculpation. We were
inmates of the same family—you full of youth in its first bright vigor—I
your elder by some years. It was a safe companionship—our families never
dreamed of danger. I full of worldly wisdom, strong in the untaxed
strength of a heart that had never truly loved, but fancied itself tried
to the utmost, would have smiled in scorn had any one predicted that
which followed. You loved me notwithstanding my years, my want of
beauty, my poverty, you loved me—and I loved you—God only knows how
completely, how fatally!”
“Go on,” said Lord Clare, who listened breathlessly.
“You,” continued Lady Jane, “brave, noble, generous, had no dread, no
false shame. You would have made me lady of this mansion, the partaker
of your bright young life. You gloried in the passion that won
forgetfulness of all disparity between us, believing that it would
secure happiness to us both. You offered me a hand which the proudest
lady of England would have gloried in accepting. Listen to me, Clarence,
I would at that moment have given up all my after existence, could I
have been your wife one year, certain that the love you expressed would
have endured—that you would never regret the sacrifice so readily made
for me. Still, I refused you—nay, turned from professions of affection
that were the sweetest, dearest sounds that ever filled my ear. You were
young—I no longer so. You were rich—I a poor dependent on your father’s
bounty. I was a coward, I had no courage to brave the whispers which
would say that, treacherous to the hospitality of my relative,
mercenary, grasping, I had used my experience to entrap the young heir
of a rich earldom into an unsuitable marriage. I could not endure that
the disparity of our years and my poverty should become subjects of
common gossip.”
“How little I cared for that!” said Lord Clare, with a constrained
smile.
“I know it—but this very generosity, this self-abnegation frightened me,
I could not believe in its permanency. It seemed to me more the
thanklessness of youth than a stern, settled purpose. You had
forbearance for my maturity, but I, ungrateful that I was, had no faith
in your youth.”
“Did you deem love a thing of years?”
“Not now, but then I did! My own feelings shocked and terrified me; they
seemed unnatural, I could not forgive my heart that they had found
lodgment there. So much more absorbing than anything I had ever known,
they seemed like a hallucination. I distrusted the sweet madness that
possessed me, and by one rash, wicked act, sought to wrench our souls
apart, thinking all the time that your happiness required the effort. I
left your father’s house—I—I placed an unloved man between you and me. I
was mad, wicked. In one month after, when your father died, and I had
not his scorn to dread, I would have given the world—but no matter what
or how I have suffered—you are avenged—I am punished.”
“Why should we revert to this?” said Lord Clare, gently. “The past is
the past.”
“I have wounded your pride to save mine,” exclaimed Lady Jane, and her
eyes sparkled with tears again. “It is your turn now, but if you knew—if
you knew all, this bitter humiliation would be some atonement.”
“I would not soothe my wounded pride at your expense, Lady Jane, still I
thank you. It is something to know that a passion which cost me so much
was not altogether scorned.”
She was about to answer with some eagerness, but the sound of a carriage
sweeping round the broad gravel walk to the front entrance, interrupted
her. They both listened, looking earnestly at each other. Then she
reached forth her hand, and said, smiling through her tears, “Cousin
Clarence, we cannot be enemies, that is too unnatural”——
He wrung her hand with a sort of passion, dropped it, and rushed from
the room. She stood a moment weeping, then her mouth brightened and
curved into a smile, and with a proud air she swept by me, darkening the
sunshine with her long, black garments. I followed her with my eyes,
creeping on my hands and knees across the threshold that I might see her
again, and be sure it was no fairy play I had witnessed. Then I sat down
on the carpet, buried my face in the embroidery of my scarlet frock, and
began to cry.
After a time, I could not tell how long, for my little soul was
overflowing with emotions, I felt a hand laid gently on my head. I
started, shook the long curls back from my face, and there was my father
bending over me. His face was so pale and stern that I shrunk away, but
he lifted me up by the arm, and grasping my hand till it pained me, led
me forth.
As we approached the hall, I saw servants passing to and fro, removing
packages, lap-dogs, and cushions from a travelling carriage at the door.
A waiting-maid stood in the entrance, chatting directions in French and
broken English, with a pretty King Charles held close to her bosom,
which was amusing himself with the pink ribbons of her cap.
“Where is Tip? Will no one bring up Tip?” cried a voice from the
staircase, and directly I saw a tall, spare woman, with the faintest
pink in her cheeks, and the faintest blue in her eyes, coming down the
steps. She had drawn off her gloves and untied her travelling bonnet. A
few long, flaxen curls streamed down her shoulders with the purple
ribbons, and one sickly white hand glided down the ebony balustrades.
“Bring up Tip, I cannot do anything without Tip,” she continued to say,
leaning forward and reaching out her arms for the dog, which the maid
obediently brought to her.
I had a full view of this woman as she mounted the staircase fondling
her dog, and from that moment loathed her from my soul. It was Lord
Clare’s sister.
My father paused and drew me suddenly back as his sister appeared on the
stairs. The moment she was gone we moved rapidly through the hall, took
a back entrance, and entered the grounds. He walked on with long, stern
strides, clasping my hand, but unconscious that I was almost leaping to
hold my pace even with his. We entered the wilderness, and then, for the
first time, my father spoke.
“Zana,” he said, “look at me here, in my eyes.”
I lifted my gaze to his steadily. His eyes were inflamed and full of
trouble; they fell before mine, and left my little heart burning with
strange triumph.
“Zana, you saw the lady?”
“Yes.”
“And heard all that she was saying?”
“Yes.”
“What was she talking about? Can you tell me?”
“I can tell you what she said, and what you answered.”
“Word for word?” questioned my father, anxiously.
“Yes, sir, word for word.”
“And you will repeat this to—to your mother?”
“No, I will not.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Clare, and I saw that his eye brightened with a look
of relief, “and why not?”
“Because I will not. She would hate that dark lady as I do—she would cry
more and more—she would know all about it!”
“About what?”
“About”—I hesitated, no words came to express the ideas that were fixed
upon my mind so firmly. I knew as well as he did that he loved that
lady, and that my mother was a burden, but how could the infant words at
my command express all this? My father seemed relieved by my hesitation,
and said more gently,
“Well, well, go home, tell your mother that I have company—my sister,
you will remember—and that I may not be able to see her this evening.”
“She can wait!” I answered, swelling with indignation.
He led me to the verge of our garden, pointed along the path I should
take, and turned back without kissing me. I was glad of this, though he
had never done it before. My little soul was up in arms against him.
I did not go home, but wandered about the wilderness searching for
birds’ nests, not because I enjoyed it, but a dread of seeing my mother
for the first time kept me in the woods.
Her life was more quiet than ever after this, but you would not have
known her for the same being. Her eyes grew larger and _so_ wild; her
figure became lithe and tall again; all the luxuriance of her beauty
fled. She suffered greatly, even a child could see that.
Greenhurst was filled with company, and we seldom saw Lord Clare. Turner
came to us every day, but he too seemed changed. The rich, dry humor so
long a part of his nature forsook him. His visits were short, and he
said little. Thus the season wore on, and I suffered with the rest. How
many hours did I remain at the foot of some great oak or chestnut,
thinking of that proud lady and her interview with my father. I kept my
secret; not once had I alluded to that strange visit to the hall. It
weighed upon me—at times almost choked me, but I felt that it must
remain my own burden.