THE LAST STRUGGLE.
“One struggle more, and I am free
From pangs that rend my heart in twain;
One long, last sigh to love and thee,
Then back to dreary life again.”—_Byron._
As soon as Susan had closed the door behind her, Lady Montressor dropped
her face into her hands, and sigh after sigh, and groan after groan,
burst from her overcharged bosom.
“Oh, Montressor! Oh! my lord! my dear lord! Oh, woe is me! that I must
put far away from my parched lips this draught of joy that would be as
the waters of life to my thirsting and famished soul! Oh, woe is me,
Lord Montressor, that I must deceive and wound your loving, trusting
nature! that I must turn from the light, and life, and warmth you bring
me, and bury myself alive in the darkness and coldness of this my living
grave! for how long, great Heaven! for how long! I am so young—I shall
live so many years! how shall I bear this living death, oh, spirits in
Heaven, how shall I bear it! Will my heart break? Will my brain turn?
Will death come and end my anguish? I cannot tell! I do not know! but
better any fate! any suffering for me, than that reproach should come to
your noble name, my lord! And after all—in my bitter, bitter cup—there
is a single sweet drop! the thought that I suffer for you, my lord—that
I suffer for you, even as I would die for you! Yet if I could see you
but for one moment to-day! could feel my poor hand clasped in your dear
hand for one instant! could meet one glance of your eyes—what life—what
life would thrill again to my dying heart! Oh! heart be still! be
strong! this must not be! we must not meet again! Oh, heart! learn the
heroism of silent endurance!” While she thus lamented and struggled with
herself, there was a rap at the chamber door.
“Now I shall hear of him”—she said, as with a supreme effort she
controlled her emotion, steadied her voice, and bade the rapper “Come
in.”
Barbara Brande opened the door and entered. But the traces of extreme
suffering were still so strongly marked upon Lady Montressor’s fine
countenance, that Babara, instead of the smiling greeting she had been
about to offer started back in alarm, exclaiming,
“Good Heavens, Mrs. Estel, are you ill?”
“Yes—and no, Miss Brande! Come in and close the door, for I wish to
speak with you—confidentially.”
Barbara in perplexity obeyed.
“Draw your chair close beside me, if you please, Miss Brande, for I must
speak low.”
Barbara feeling more and more embarrassed, complied.
“Do you know, Miss Brande, that I regret exceedingly not having given
you my full confidence before leaving Baltimore?”
“I should have felt honored in your confidence, Madam,” said Barbara
with increasing surprise.
“At least you would have justified it, no doubt.”
“I should not have been undeserving of your faith, Mrs. Estel.”
“I am sure of it! But I am called by another name besides Estel.”
“Madam!”
“Do not look, or speak in this way, my dear Miss Brande, or you will
repel the confidence I wish so much to give you,” said Lady Montressor,
in a voice, and with a look of such hopeless misery, that Barbara’s
heart was touched, and she said very gently—
“Speak, then, Madam; I will not be unworthy of your confidence! Your
name you said was not Estel.”
“No—I said that I was called by another name besides that. Estel is
_really_ my name, else I should not certainly have called myself by it;
but it is my baptismal—not my surname. I am known in the world as the
Viscountess Montressor.”
“The Viscountess Montressor! Good Heaven!” exclaimed Barbara, in
amazement.
“And you did not suspect this?”
“No, Madam, by my sacred honor, I did not.”
“And yet, he who conferred upon me his name and title, was your
passenger to this place, landed here with you this morning?”
“That is very true, Madam. Lord Montressor engaged passage for himself
and two servants, in my vessel, for Havana, and his lordship came ashore
this morning for a day’s sport in the woods—that is all that I know! I
am completely mystified, my lady,” said Miss Brande, in augmented
astonishment.
“Do you think, Miss Brande,” inquired Lady Montressor, with a look of
deep interest, “that his lordship knows or suspects the identity of the
party to whom you have let your house?”
“I do not know, Madam, since it is not impossible that _he_, also, may
have concealed something from me; but I should judge from appearances
that he knew nothing of your ladyship’s presence in the neighborhood.”
“Forgive the necessity that compels me to question you, Miss Brande, and
pray tell me, did you ever mention to his lordship the name of the
lessee of your property?”
“No, Madam, I never did.”
“Then I will beseech you never to do it; for, if once Lord Montressor
heard the name of ‘Estel,’ it would furnish him with the only clue he
needs to my identity and retreat.”
“Forgive me, in your turn, dear lady, but all this is very
inexplicable!”
“Ah! it is so, indeed, to you! And I appear to invite your faith,
without giving you my confidence! Is it not so? Well! I will explain!
and you, if you will have patience, will hear a sorrowful story. But,
first,” said Lady Montressor, even in this anxious hour considerate of
the convenience of others, “have you breakfasted?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“And can you give me half an hour?”
“I am at Lady Montressor’s service for half the day, if she will command
me,” said Barbara, who felt her heart painfully attracted to her
interesting tenant.
“Listen, then, Miss Brande! Do you ever see the English papers?”
“Seldom, or never, my lady.”
“Then you have seen no account of a wretched English woman of rank, who
was struck in her pride of place—struck at her highest culmination of
fortune and happiness—struck down, down, down, to a bottomless pit of
black dishonor and despair! You have heard of no such woman?”
“No, no, no; Great Heaven, no!” exclaimed Barbara, shuddering.
“Look at her, then, Miss Brande. She stands before you,” said Lady
Montressor, rising, and fixing her eyes upon the shocked face of
Barbara.
“No, no, no; Heaven of Heavens, no! You would not have been that guilty
one, my lady,” exclaimed Barbara, covering her face with her hands, to
shut out the sight of that pale and spectral countenance, and those
gleaming black eyes, that seemed to consume those upon whom they looked.
“I said a _wretched_, not a guilty woman. Are wretchedness and guilt
synonymous? If so, then, indeed, am I a very guilty, being a very
wretched woman,” said Lady Montressor, in a thrilling, impassioned
voice.
“Pardon me, my lady, if I have not understood you,” replied Barbara,
with emotion.
“How should you, indeed, until you hear. Attend, then, Miss Brande, and
I will tell you my story,” said the lady, sinking again into her seat.
And while Barbara Brande heard with painful interest, Lady Montressor
related the tragic history of her two marriages, and ended by declaring
the motives that had induced her to withdraw herself from Lord
Montressor’s knowledge.
Barbara listened with a face often streaming with tears, and when she
had heard all, she took the lady’s wasted hand and said—
“He weighs nothing in the balance of his love for you?”
“Nothing.”
“Neither rank, nor wealth, nor fame?”
“No; alas, no!”
“He stood nobly by you in your trial?”
“He did, he did; my dear and honored lord! he did!”
“He followed you across the ocean?”
“Yes, yes.”
“And he is still in pursuit of you?”
“He is. Oh, he is.”
“Then, Lady Montressor, how can you still elude him? The man who claimed
you, even had his claim been ever so just, is now no more; there is not
the shadow of a reason why you should fly so faithful a friend as Lord
Montressor has shown himself to be.”
“His honor, Miss Brande. His honor should forbid him to mate with one so
wretched as myself!”
“A man’s honor, my lady, is, according to my judgment, in his own
exclusive keeping, and cannot be injured by anything but guilt or
folly.”
“But the honor of the woman, with whom Lord Montressor mates, should be
like that of Cæsar’s wife, ‘not only pure, but unsuspected,’” said the
lady. “Therefore have I withdrawn myself from him and renounced his
name. Therefore, though my heart should break, my brain madden, or my
life go down to death in the pain of this continued effort—will I
conceal myself from his pursuit; until worn out with waiting and with
searching, he shall at last repudiate and forget me.”
“And you can coolly resolve to drive him to that?” exclaimed Barbara.
“_Coolly?_ Miss Brande? Oh, look at me and say if you think I do this
coolly! No, no; no, no! but he must be constrained to have that fatal
ceremony that passed between us at the parish church at Hyde, annulled
by Parliament. And he must ally himself to some lady—his equal in
position and of unblemished honor.”
“Lady Montressor, if I have read his lordship’s character aright, he can
never do that.”
“He can and must! he owes it to his family, to his position, to his
rising fame!”
“Lady Montressor, you also are influenced by a worldly education. You
have all the prejudices of caste. You think entirely too much of
‘family,’ ‘position,’ and ‘fame,’ more than Lord Montressor does by
half. I tell you, that next to _duty_, ‘love is the greatest good in the
world,’ and Lord Montressor knows it. Oh, Madam, how can you disregard
the great love he bears you?” said Barbara, pleadingly.
“_I_ disregard it—oh, Heaven!” exclaimed the lady, growing paler than
before.
“I see you do not really do so! I see the struggle in your mind! Oh,
Madam, yield to your simpler and better nature! Make him and yourself
happy! Come, let me send into the forest and bring him here to plead his
own cause!” prayed Barbara, with earnest eloquence.
“Miss Brande, no! if you would not have me die before you—no! You do not
know what you ask. You do not appreciate to how much of humiliation an
alliance with me would subject him at home! You do not know England.”
“Then _what_ can I do for you? And why have you uselessly harrowed me
with this terrible story?” demanded Barbara, more in sorrow than in
anger at what her simple, honest, straightforward nature looked upon as
the unnecessary self-torturing of a morbid fastidiousness.
“Not to distress you, needlessly, Miss Brande; but since Lord Montressor
has not yet discovered the clue to my retreat, to beseech your
assistance in still concealing it from him. And this assistance that I
pray is only of a negative character, only your forbearance, only that
you refrain from mentioning in his presence the name of your tenant.
Miss Brande, will you oblige me in this matter?”
“I will be guided by your wishes, Lady Montressor.”
“Another thing I must entreat—that you will never call me again ‘Lady
Montressor;’ nor think of me as the wife of Lord Montressor. It is a
name and a position that I have renounced. Nay, that I am not even sure
that I ever had a just right to wear! For, look you, when I left England
the question of the legality of my childish marriage was still pending
before the Spiritual Court of Arches. And law is such an uncertain
thing, you know, that the decision of the bench of Bishops may have been
different and quite opposite to that opinion advanced by the first
lawyer of the day, Lord Dazzleright, who denied the validity of the
first marriage, and affirmed the legality of the second. Therefore, you
perceive that the only name to which I feel sure of possessing an
unquestioned claim, is that one bestowed upon me in baptism, and which
marriage does not change—Estelle—call me Mrs. Estel.”
“I will do so, since you wish it, Madam. May God comfort you and guide
you through your very trying path, for I begin to see now that _in one
respect_ you are right,” said Barbara, with earnestness, “for as long as
there exists the slightest question of the perfect legality of that
ceremony that passed between yourself and his lordship, you can as a
Christian do no otherwise than reserve yourself—Baron Dazzleright and
Parson Oldfield to the contrary notwithstanding. Upon this subject, a
pure-hearted woman’s instinct is worth all the legal opinions and
theological dogmas in the world. You are right, dear lady, and in your
painful adherence to right I see the brightest hope of your coming
years.”
“Aye, of my life in another state of existence; and that seems to
hearts—yearning hearts of flesh—so distant and so vague!”
“No; I spoke of your coming years in this world. ‘Godliness is
profitable unto all things—having the promise of the life that NOW IS as
well as of that which is to come.’ Wait patiently for the Lord—He can
lift you out of this ‘horrible pit,’ this ‘miry clay,’ and set your
‘feet upon a rock.’”
There was something in the strong, earnest, cheerful faith of this noble
girl, who had herself received so terrible a shock, that cheered and
strengthened and inspired the mourning woman to whom she spoke.
Estelle had always had strength to _suffer_, but now the cordial clasp
of Barbara’s hand, the earnest tones of her voice, the cheerful
confidence of her promise, gave the sufferer strength to _hope_.
Feeling now that she would best serve Lady Montressor by withdrawing and
leaving her to take repose or refreshment, Barbara, renewing her
promises to keep Lord Montressor away from the house, took leave.
Estelle sank upon her knees beside the bed, and burying her face in the
bed-clothes, prayed.
Presently Susan came in with breakfast, which she inferred that her lady
would choose upon this morning to have served in her chamber.
At Susan’s earnest entreaty, Lady Montressor compelled herself to
swallow a little coffee and a morsel of bread and jelly, and then pushed
the waiter from her sight, and turned away.
“Close the front door; keep the house dark and quiet. I will, after
awhile, go into the front parlor and sit by the window, where, without
being seen, I may look out upon the sea,” said the lady, as she
dismissed her attendant.
What a long, weary, trying day!
Barbara Brande went over the house and over the grounds, in consultation
with Lady Montressor’s maid upon various matters relating to repairs and
alterations that required their mutual care.
Lord Montressor, accompanied by little Edwy, and attended by his groom
with the dogs and guns, roamed far and wide through the woods behind the
Headland.
Estelle, having locked the parlor doors, sat at the front window, and,
shielded from outside view by the closed Venetian blinds, gazed through
their slats, watching the sea-coast, if haply she could catch one
glimpse of the “one loved form.” How long and patiently she sat and
waited for that single transient moment of painful joy! As the day
waned, and the sun declined, and the lights and shadows changed, she
sank into a kneeling posture before the window, and with her clasped
hands resting upon its sill, and her chin leaned upon them, she
continued to gaze through the bars out upon the darkening coast and upon
the sea, still bright in the reflection of the last rays of the setting
sun.
At length, just as she was beginning to fear that she should not see him
before the evening grew too dark for her to identify his form, her
patience was rewarded.
A party emerged from the woods off to her right, and foremost among them
she recognized his well-known, commanding form, clothed in a
hunting-suit of green, with the game-bag at his side, the fowling-piece
across his shoulder, and two pointers at his feet. Behind him came the
boy, the old negro, and the groom, all heavily laden with game. He
paused upon the same spot, whereon in the morning he had parted with his
shipmates, he paused and turned his fine face toward the house—toward
the very window whereat she knelt and gazed!
Oh! could he but have known who watched behind those green blinds!—but
evidently he knew not—suspected not the near proximity of her whom he so
eagerly sought, and who at this very moment, from behind those blinds,
gazed upon him in such passionate love and prayerful sorrow.
He called the old negro to his side, and selecting what seemed to be the
best specimens from each bunch of game, tied them together, put them in
the hands of Neptune, and pointed toward the house.
Old Neptune touched his hat, and turned to come up the hill.
And Lord Montressor continued his course down the steep, until he was
lost to her sight.
Then her strength utterly gave way!
“It is over! it is over!” she cried, and sank swooning to the floor.
When she recovered her consciousness it was quite dark—recollection
slowly returned, bringing its accompaniment of anguish. She arose upon
her elbow, passed her hand before her face to put away the trailing
black tresses of her hair, and looked around.
The moonlight gleaming through the slats of the closed shutters was the
only object that attracted her attention. She went and opened them and
sank down on the floor with her head resting as before upon the
window-sill, gazing out at sea.
There, on the moonlit waters, like some fair white-winged bird, floated
the vessel that contained all she loved on earth. She could not choose
but kneel there with her breaking heart, praying for him, gazing after
him.
She was interrupted by a gentle rap at the door—not of the parlor, but
of the chamber. She arose and feebly crossed both rooms, and laid her
hand upon the latch just as the voice of Susan spoke softly—
“Are you awake, dear lady?”
For reply, she opened the door and admitted her attendant.
“Dear Madam, how long and soundly you must have slept! Here I have been
to the door three times since sunset, and found all quiet,” said the
girl, who had no suspicion that her mistress had lain an hour in a
swoon.
As Lady Montressor made no comment, Susan said—
“Miss Brande is in the hall waiting to bid you good-by, my lady, as she
returns on board of her vessel to-night.”
“Ask her to come in,” said Estelle, in a voice so hollow that Susan
started with the impression that it was the graveyard spectre that spoke
close to her ear.
Recovering her self-possession, she went out to obey, and soon returned,
bringing lights, and preceding Miss Brande. Susan set the lights down,
handed a chair to the visitor, and retired.
“You have seen him this evening, Miss Brande?”
“No, dear lady, I have not. He remained in the forest until sunset, when
he returned and went immediately on board of the ship. I have been on
the premises here all day, and so have not seen him.”
“I think we may be sure now that I am safe from discovery.”
“Yes, Madam, for he evinces no curiosity about my lady tenant, although,
having been engaged in shooting through her woods, he has very properly
sent her a fine bunch of game. Old Neptune brought it.”
As Barbara had only come to say “Good-bye,” and as she was in haste to
return to her vessel, she took leave of Lady Montressor, and with
sincere prayers for her consolation and happiness, prepared to depart.
She had not gone many steps from the room, however, before the plaintive
voice of the lady recalled her.
“Miss Brande, forgive me, but at what hour do you sail?”
“At sunrise, to-morrow morning, Madame.”
“Thank you. May Heaven send you a happy voyage.”
“And you—peace and consolation, lady.”
And so they parted.
That evening, Lady Montressor, scarcely having tasted her supper, soon
dismissed her attendant, and closed herself up in her two rooms. And
when the house was still, she went and sat at the window, looking out at
sea, and watching the white sails of the vessel that bore within its
bulwarks her beloved. Hour after hour she sat there, until the moon sank
below the horizon, leaving the earth and sea in utter darkness.
Then she arose and paced the floor of that desolate room, hour after
hour, until the dawn of morning faintly appeared in the east.
Then again she seated herself at the window, and with her head resting
heavily upon her hand, she watched until the brightening day once more,
for a few moments, gave the sails of the departing vessel to her longing
eyes.
And she watched that vessel,—treasuring every moment that she might yet
behold it—as we watch a beloved and dying face that we feel must soon
vanish from our sight forever.
She watched it until she saw the sails shaken out of their reefs, and
other sails hoisted, and all draw and fill with the wind as the Petrel
left her anchorage and glided gracefully over the waters in her course
down the Bay.
She watched it as the sails lessened in the distance; she watched it out
of sight—straining her eyes after it until the Petrel appeared no larger
than a snow-flake on the blue sea against the horizon, into which it
soon seemed to melt and disappear.
It was gone! _He_ was gone!
Yet still she did not change her attitude or withdraw her gaze; but
remained with her strained eyes fixed upon the spot under the horizon
where the sail had disappeared!
It was very late in the afternoon, and Susan had paid many visits to her
lady’s chamber door to listen if she could hear her stir, and had even
rapped once or twice to attract her notice; when at length growing
uneasy, she gently opened the door and looked in; seeing the bed
unoccupied she became alarmed, entered the room and passed on to the
parlor, where, at the front window, she saw her mistress sitting quite
still, leaning her forehead against the window pane, and apparently
gazing out upon the Bay.
“Why, dear Madam, how indiscreet! Have you been up all night?” inquired
Susan, anxiously approaching the lady.
But the stationary figure neither spoke nor moved.
“Lady! Lady Montressor!” exclaimed the girl, going closer to her side.
But no word or gesture responded to that call.
“She has fallen asleep sitting there—she will get cold; she must be
waked. Lady! Lady! dear Lady!” exclaimed Susan, taking the hand that
hung down by her side.
But that hand was a hand of ice.
“Good angels, how cold she is! Madam! dear Mistress! Oh Heavens! what
ails her?” cried the girl, putting her arms gently and respectfully
around the lady’s shoulders, and seeking to lift her head.
At that touch the sufferer murmured strangely, wildly, vaguely.
“What is the matter? Dear Lady, what is this?” said Susan in great
distress.
“Gone! gone! gone!” exclaimed Estelle in a hollow, echoing voice.
“Oh! you have been asleep—rouse yourself, dear lady! Wake up!”
“Gone! gone! gone!”
“Oh, Heaven! what ails her! What shall I do with her? Lady Montressor!
speak to me! look on me! it is I—your poor, faithful Susan! Speak to me,
please!”
“Gone! gone! gone!”
Once more Susan put her arms reverently around her mistress’s shoulders
and sought to lift her head.
And at that touch the lady turned toward her a death-like face, from
which every shade of color had faded, and vacant eyes whence the light
of intellect had gone out!
Yes! the heroic soul that had borne up so long, and bravely, and
patiently, under such tremendous afflictions, had succumbed at length;
the sorely over-tasked heart and brain had yielded; the light of reason
had fled.
Meanwhile Lord Montressor, on board the Petrel, pursued his voyage to
the West Indies. And, reader this was well—this was best!