THE FLIGHT OF ESTELLE.
“Enough that we are parted—that there rolls,
A flood of headlong fate between our souls.
Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee,
As hell from heaven to all eternity!”—_Moore._
“Yet! oh yet! thyself deceive not!
Love may sink by slow decay!
But by sudden wrench, believe not,
Hearts can thus be torn away.”—_Byron._
When Lady Montressor reached her own apartment, she found her faithful
attendant, Susan Copsewood, kneeling among the trunks, in the middle of
the floor, busily engaged in packing them.
On hearing the door opened Susan arose from her knees to receive and
attend upon her mistress; but started and stood aghast on beholding the
wild and haggard countenance of the lady. True, she had often seen that
beauteous countenance darkened with the midnight of despair, or
convulsed with a storm of passionate sorrow; and so she had no right to
be amazed at any of its tempestuous changes; but she had never seen any
thing like this—this half-insane, death-like look!
“Heaven and earth, my lady! what is it? What new misfortune? What can I
do for you? Sit down, dear Madam—here!” she exclaimed, recovering her
presence of mind sufficiently to enable her to draw forward an easy
chair and place her mistress in it. Lady Montressor sank down into the
seat and dropped her face upon her open hands, while her vail of long,
black ringlets fell forward concealing them.
“Lady—dear lady! What is the matter? What can I do for you?” pleaded
Susan, kneeling by her mistress’s side and looking up imploringly to her
hidden face—“dear, dear lady, what can I do for you?—what is it?”
“Oh! nothing, nothing, Susan!”
“Forgive me, dear Madam, but you always say that! And this is not just
_nothing_!”
“Susan——?”
“My dearest mistress!”
“I think you _love_ me?”
“Do you think the sun _warms_ you, dear lady?”
“And I know you are _faithful_ to me.”
“If I were half as faithful to the Lord, I should be sure of Heaven, my
lady.”
“Hush! speak lower. Go and see if the passage is clear, and then lock
the door.”
Susan obeyed, and then returned and kneeled down by her mistress’s side.
Lady Montressor dropped her hands from her agonized face, and looked
down deeply into the honest, affectionate eyes that were lifted so
imploringly to hers.
“Susan, I _know_ you will be worthy of the great trust I am about to
repose in you.”
“Try me, Madam! try me! if it is a secret, they might put me on an
old-time rack and wrench and screw my limbs until their own limbs ached
with the labor, and they’d never screw any thing out of my lips that was
put into my heart by your ladyship!”
“I do believe you speak sincerely; but your fidelity will not be put to
so severe a test, Susan,” said Lady Montressor. Then, after a thoughtful
pause, during which she sat with her head resting wearily on her hand,
and her eyes fixed upon the floor, she suddenly looked up and said—
“Susan, I must go to London to-night.”
“Madam! My lady!” exclaimed the girl in consternation.
“I must depart in secret, and alone,” continued Lady Montressor, while
Susan gazed with no abatement of surprise and anxiety.
“_You_ will, therefore, have to make all necessary arrangements for me.”
“But, Madam—but, my dearest mistress——”
“Be silent, dear girl, or rather listen to me, and answer my questions.
When does the Bristol train go?”
“At twelve to-night, and at six in the morning, Madam.”
“I must go by the night train. How far is the depot from this house,
Susan?”
“At least a mile, my lady.”
“What o’clock is it now?”
“It has just struck eight, Madam.”
“No later? good! We can complete all necessary arrangements in three
hours, and I can leave here by eleven and reach the depot in time. Go
now, dear girl, and engage a hackney-coach to be in readiness.—No! that
would never do—that would betray me. I must walk the distance.”
“Dear, dear lady, you could never walk it—never!”
“Yes, I am able. I shall walk,” said Lady Montressor, so calmly and
resolutely, that her maid dared not pursue the argument; but looking at
her mistress through eyes obscured with tears, she said—
“Dear, dear lady, you keep on saying ‘I,’ and ‘I,’ ‘I can leave,’ and ‘I
shall walk,’ as if—as if—as if—oh!——” cried Susan, suddenly breaking
down and sobbing aloud.
Her mistress gazed upon her in calm surprise, while she sobbed and
caught her breath, and sobbed again, struggling through the fit into
composure. Then when the girl, with a few ebbing, little sobs, wiped her
eyes, Lady Montressor said—
“Now then, Susan, why do you grieve?”
The question nearly set Susan off again, but she valiantly slaughtered a
sob with a hiccough, and answered, rather accusatively, by saying—
“You keep on repeating ‘I’ and ‘I’ as if—as if—you were going to leave
me behind.”
“What! do you wish to go with me, Susan?”
“Oh! my lady.”
“But I am about to leave England—to leave all my past, easy and pleasant
life behind, and to go into retirement in some foreign country.”
“Well, my lady! what have I done to deserve to be cast off and left
behind?”
“Nothing ill, have you done, my dear girl! but do you really wish to
leave your native country, your home and friends, and attach yourself to
the doubtful fortunes of a hapless fugitive like your mistress?”
“Dear lady, I have neither father nor mother—nor any one to love and
serve but _you_——”
“I will leave a letter with you for Mr. Oldfield, who will procure you a
better home than I could ever give you.”
“It isn’t _that_,” said Susan, with a certain quiet self-respect. “I
would get homes enough, dear lady; but——”
“But what?”
“I wish to go with _you_. I love you, my lady. I would follow you to the
world’s end!”
“If you follow me, it may even be to that extent, dear girl!” said Lady
Montressor, extending her hand to Susan, who caught and covered it with
kisses.
“I may go, your ladyship?”
“It is only for your own sake I hesitate, to say—yes, Susan.”
The girl chose to hear only the two last words of Lady Montressor’s
reply, and arose with alacrity to wait her next orders.
“You may put up a change of clothing in a small packet—that will be
sufficient for me. The trunks must be left here for the present—to take
them with us would be to blazon our journey. By the way, how came they
all open, and in the middle of the floor?” said Lady Montressor,
noticing for the first time the confusion of the room.
“Pardon, my lady. But when we were leaving the court-room, his
lordship—Lord Montressor I mean, said to me—‘Susan, my good child,
hasten home and pack your lady’s trunks before she shall have time to
get there, so that she shall not be incommoded and fatigued by the
confusion.’ And I was doing it, your ladyship, not expecting you in so
soon.”
“Oh, the dear! the kind! the ever-thoughtful! Oh, _my lord! my lord!_”
murmured Estelle in low, inaudible, heart-broken tones, as this little
instance of Lord Montressor’s ever-considerate love touched her heart.
“Dear lady, you are not well! You have taken no rest and no refreshment
since morning. Let me undress you; lie down and rest, while I go and
order something for you.”
“I cannot! Oh, I cannot, Susan!”
“But Lady Montressor——”
“Do not teaze me, dear girl! I can neither eat nor sleep.”
“But how then will your ladyship have strength to reach the cars?”
“Truly! that is well put! I thank you, Susan, for reminding me. Well,
well, if I must take something, go order a cup of coffee, it will be
sufficient.”
“And, dear lady, won’t you lie down and sleep, while I go and have it
prepared?”
“Well, well, my girl, to please you I will lie down, whether I can sleep
or not,” replied Lady Montressor, who then arose and permitted her maid
to loosen her dress and arrange her comfortably upon the couch where she
laid down, but not to _sleep!_ not even to _rest!_ There was no rest for
that tempest-tost soul.
Susan closed the blinds, let down the curtains, and having thus darkened
the chamber, stole out to do her errand.
And Lady Montressor, after many hours of excitement, found herself in
the calm of solitude. Alone! but alone with her heart! alone with her
Tempter! She had thought the moral struggle over, the victory won, the
Tempter fled! But ah! no sooner did she find herself thus alone, than
the Evil spirit, in his fairest guise, reappeared to her, beset her,
arrayed before her tearless, burning eyes and bleeding heart, the
loveliness of the life she was leaving, the desolation of the doom to
which she was departing! Ah! how difficult, how cruel, how insupportable
the duty, to turn away from native country, from home, from friends, and
more than all from _him_—from _him_, and go out sorrowing, alone and
exposed, into the wide, bleak, dreary, desolate world! It was like going
into the “outer darkness” spoken of in the Scriptures! To go far away,
out of his knowledge, and out of his reach! never again to meet his dear
familiar eyes and smile! never again to hear one tone of his beloved
voice! never to expect his coming or listen for his step! never to get a
letter from him and never to write one! never to hear of him again in
the whole course of her life!—never! never! How insufferable, while yet
living, thus to die away from his knowledge, to die to him! It was like
being buried alive! like going with her warm young blood, and loving
heart, and thinking brain, down, down into the grave, to be smothered
under the stifling clods of the earth!
“I cannot do it! I cannot! Oh, God! it is too much! too much!” she
cried, wringing her pale fingers in the extremity of anguish. The
Tempter, ever watchful to take advantage of our weakest moment,
whispered—That she need not do it! that she was not required thus to
immolate her rich, warm young life! to leave _him_ bereaved! She was
free to love him forever! for was he not her legal husband? She could
fold her spirit’s bruised and weary wings and nestle down sweetly into
his home and heart, held open to enfold her! The temptation was
invincible, irresistible! it drew her soul onward with a mighty
magnetism.
“I faint—I yield—Oh, God! my God! come to aid! save, or I perish!” she
cried, and suddenly lost all consciousness!
A strange vision passed before her spirit. She was in the heart of a
vast and dense forest whose tall, dark trees encircled and nodded over
the banks of a lake of crystal clearness and unfathomable depth. She
stood, frightened, and despairing, she knew not wherefore, until looking
down into the dark, transparent waters, she beheld her husband, Lord
Montressor, sinking, drowning! With a cry of desolation, she was about
to cast herself into the lake, when she felt herself gently held back,
and looking over her shoulder, she beheld a man of celestial presence,
arrayed in flowing white garments, standing behind her, holding her by
his left hand, while his right hand was lifted toward Heaven in a
gesture of supreme majesty! Full of awe her gaze followed his index, and
she beheld high in the Heavens, the ascending form of her husband. And
so she understood that it was but the _reflected image_ of the ascending
form, that she had mistaken for her husband sinking in the water! “And
thus,” said the celestial Mentor—“the apparent perishing of the
beautiful hopes of earth is but the inverted reflection of their
translation to Heaven!”
With this vision before her, with this voice in her ears, she gently
opened her eyes—restored to full consciousness. How quiet after the
tempest of emotion, was now her soul, how patient her spirit—how short
and unreal, mortal and visible life seemed; how real and eternal the
invisible and spiritual! Her whole being was calmed, and strengthened
and elevated. Her first waking thoughts were prayers for courage, for
fortitude! for oh! withal she needed a martyr’s firmness and heroism, to
persevere and tread unflinchingly the dread path of duty she had chosen.
Presently her maid stole in on tip-toe, and cautiously approached the
couch.
“I am not sleeping, Susan, child. You may ring and order lights,” the
lady said.
Susan obeyed. And when lights were brought and Susan could see her
mistress’s face,—
“You are better, my lady,” she said, cheerfully.
“I am better, Susan,” replied Lady Montressor, rising and suffering her
attendant to bathe her face and hands, and comb her hair and arrange her
dress. When these toilet services were rendered, the maid rang again and
was answered by the waiter, who made his appearance with a tray of
refreshments for Lady Montressor.
Susan placed a sofa-table beside the couch upon which her ladyship
reclined, arranged the viands upon it, and pressed her mistress to
partake of them.
Lady Montressor forced herself to swallow a piece of bread and a few
mouthfuls of coffee. Then pushing the salver from her, she said—
“There! take these things away, my girl, and go and get your supper,
while I write two letters that must be left behind.”
Susan did as she was ordered.
And Lady Montressor when left alone, went and sat down at her
writing-table, and wrote—first, a short note of adieu, which she folded
and directed to Mr. Oldfield.
Then she commenced a farewell letter to Lord Montressor. She poured out
her whole heart and soul freely upon that paper!—page after page, sheet
after sheet, was filled as her pen flew along the lines; her undying
love, her terrible temptation, her agonizing struggle, her final,
despairing renunciation—all, all, was poured forth with the living
eloquence of a loving, despairing, impassioned heart! At last she
paused, exhausted, and laid down her pen.
Had she finished? Had she poured forth all her burning brain
thought?—all her bleeding heart felt?
Ah, no!—not a millionth part! And yet she had said too much! too much!
“Alas! how inconsistent I am! how weak,” she said; “I practice
self-denial at one point, and fall into self indulgence at another! Why,
to write _thus_, _to him_, is almost as wrong as to remain and live with
him! For, oh! if I should send him this letter, showing him how much I
love and suffer and despair, he will never resign me, never free himself
and forget me and be happy! No, no, he would search for me over the
world, and not finding me, would sit down in his ‘chamber of desolation’
to mourn me forever! That must not be! He must not know the anguish of
this bosom. I must drink this cup of renunciation to the dregs, denying
my heart even the sorrowful consolation of writing to him;—save,
perhaps, a few lines of friendly leave-taking.”
She tore up her first and impassioned letter, and then she took a sheet
of paper and wrote a short note of adieu, which she folded and directed.
A few minutes after this her maid returned to the room, and announced
that her few preparations were complete, and that it was near eleven
o’clock.
“Are _you_ ready, Susan?”
“Yes, Madam,” replied the girl, tying on her bonnet.
“Is the house quiet?”
“Our portion of it is, my lady.”
“Very well, then. Now give me my cottage bonnet and shawl.—Thank you.
Now my thick vail and my gloves.—That is right. Have you the packet?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“We are ready, then, I believe?”
“Yes, my lady,” replied Susan; but still she lingered.
“Come, then, why do you loiter?”
“Forgive me, dear lady! but I knew you could not walk; besides, it is
coming on to rain hard; so I took the liberty of going out and engaging
a cab, that is to wait for us at the corner of the next square. Pray do
not be uneasy, dear lady; the cabman knows nothing, but that he is to
take two passengers to the cars.”
“Well, well, my girl! you acted for the best, and I do not blame you,
but thank you; and trust that your act may not lead to a premature
discovery of our flight. Come, let us go,” said Lady Montressor, and she
placed the two letters in a conspicuous position on the mantle-piece,
while Susan extinguished the lights.
They then left the chamber; Susan closed the door after them. And so
Lady Montressor, attended by her faithful servant, went down the stairs,
through the long passage, and out by the private door—out into the
double darkness of the midnight and the tempest!