THE weary hours steal on
And flaky darkness breaks.--_Richard III._
ONCE more, suddenly and unlooked for, the lord of Burleigh appeared at
the gates of his deserted hall! and again the old housekeeper and her
satellites were thrown into dismay and consternation. Amidst blank and
welcomeless faces, Maltravers passed into his study: and as soon as the
logs burned and the bustle was over, and he was left alone, he took up
the light and passed into the adjoining library. It was then about nine
o'clock in the evening; the air of the room felt damp and chill, and the
light but faintly struggled against the mournful gloom of the dark
book-lined walls and sombre tapestry. He placed the candle on the table,
and drawing aside the curtain that veiled the portrait, gazed with deep
emotion, not unmixed with awe, upon the beautiful face whose eyes seemed
fixed upon him with mournful sweetness. There is something mystical
about those painted ghosts of ourselves, that survive our very dust!
Who, gazing upon them long and wistfully, does not half fancy that they
seem not insensible to his gaze, as if we looked our own life into them,
and the eyes that followed us where we moved were animated by a stranger
art than the mere trick of the limner's colours?
With folded arms, rapt and motionless, Maltravers contemplated the form
that, by the upward rays of the flickering light, seemed to bend down
towards the desolate son. How had he ever loved the memory of his
mother! how often in his childish years had he stolen away, and shed wild
tears for the loss of that dearest of earthly ties, never to be
compensated, never to be replaced! How had he respected, how sympathized
with the very repugnance which his father had at first testified towards
him, as the innocent cause of her untimely death! He had never seen
her,--never felt her passionate kiss; and yet it seemed to him, as he
gazed, as if he had known her for years. That strange kind of inner and
spiritual memory which often recalls to us places and persons we have
never seen before, and which Platonists would resolve to the unquenched
and struggling consciousness of a former life, stirred within him, and
seemed to whisper, "You were united in the old time." "Yes!" he said,
half aloud, "we will never part again. Blessed be the delusion of the
dream that recalled to my heart the remembrance of thee, which, at least,
I can cherish without a sin. 'My good angel shall meet me at my hearth!'
so didst thou say in the solemn vision. Ah, does thy soul watch over me
still? How long shall it be before the barrier is broken! how long
before we meet, but not in dreams!"
The door opened, the housekeeper looked in. "I beg pardon, sir, but I
thought your honour would excuse the liberty, though I know it is very
bold to--"
"What is the matter? What do you want?"
"Why, sir, poor Mrs. Elton is dying,--they say she cannot get over the
night; and as the carriage drove by the cottage window, the nurse told
her that the squire was returned; and she has sent up the nurse to
entreat to see your honour before she dies. I am sure I was most loth to
disturb you, sir, with such a message; and says I, the squire has only
just come off a journey--"
"Who is Mrs. Elton?"
"Don't your honour remember the poor woman that was run over, and you
were so good to, and brought into the house the day Miss Cameron--"
"I remember,--say I will be with her in a few minutes. About to die!"
muttered Maltravers; "she is to be envied,--the prisoner is let loose,
the bark leaves the desert isle!"
He took his hat and walked across the park, dimly lighted by the stars,
to the cottage of the sufferer. He reached her bedside, and took her
hand kindly. She seemed to rally at the sight of him; the nurse was
dismissed, they were left alone. Before morning, the spirit had left
that humble clay; and the mists of dawn were heavy on the grass as
Maltravers returned home. There were then on his countenance the traces
of recent and strong emotion, and his step was elastic, and his cheek
flushed. Hope once more broke within him, but mingled with doubt, and
faintly combated by reason. In another hour Maltravers was on his way to
Brook-Green. Impatient, restless, fevered, he urged on the horses, he
sowed the road with gold; and at length the wheels stopped before the
door of the village inn. He descended, asked the way to the curate's
house; and crossing the burial-ground, and passing under the shadow of
the old yew-tree, entered Aubrey's garden. The curate was at home, and
the conference that ensued was of deep and breathless interest to the
visitor.
It is now time to place before the reader, in due order and connection,
the incidents of that story, the knowledge of which, at that period,
broke in detached and fragmentary portions on Maltravers.