For several virtues
Have I liked several women. Never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,
And put it to the foil. But you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature’s best.
SHAKSPEARE.
Have not all past human beings parted?
And must not all the present one day part?
It has been said that it was Lady Gayland’s intention to avoid,
as much as possible, the particular attentions of Castleton.
The difficulty of carrying this intention into effect very much
increased, as the society, in which they lived, itself diminished.
It is a hard task too, to have always to count the sentences you may
with discretion accord to one whose society you prefer; particularly
as there was nothing actually in Castleton’s deportment to put the
most prudent upon her guard. Since that eventful day at Somersby,
when circumstances had betrayed him into an unfortunate indiscretion,
his address to her had always been studiously unobjectionable. It was
only when, acting upon her present system, she made her attentions to
any one else more conspicuous, that his impatience prevented him from
altogether concealing his feelings: at other times, when enjoying her
society, he seemed to be perfectly convinced that she could never be
to him other than a chosen companion.
Lady Gayland was fully conscious of the danger of this position; she
wanted not the innuendoes of the world to enlighten her as to its
tendency; her own heart was to her the best warning that it was a
provisional state of things which could not always continue. Could
she have foreseen its natural termination, she would have been most
desirous to await that;--but when was it to end? The return of Lady
Castleton, with her partiality for herself, would only facilitate and
organise an intimacy. With this conviction upon her mind, after many
painful struggles, her resolution was taken; and when once decided,
the arrangements in furtherance of it were made immediately, and in
secret. She was most anxious to avoid, if possible, any thing in the
shape of remonstrance from Castleton; but, above all, a protracted
contest on the subject, which she felt must be peculiarly painful.
It was the afternoon of the same day on which Lucy embarked from
Morden Bay, that Castleton, upon calling at Lady Gayland’s lodgings,
was struck with the denuded and uninhabited appearance of the
apartment, from which all its comforts had been removed. He had
hardly time to make this observation, when a travelling carriage,
heavily laden, drove up to the door, and at the same moment, Lady
Gayland, equipped as for a journey, entered the room. Her countenance
was calm, but unusually pale; and a slight tremor betrayed itself
through the forced firmness of her voice, as she said, “Castleton,
you know I never had any opinion of a system of palliatives: a
disagreeable thing that must be done decidedly, may as well be
communicated directly. If you--if you--regard me, do not attempt to
dissuade me from what I would myself avoid, if possible. I am about
to leave Sandford--and--_I winter at Rome_.”
“At Rome!” repeated Castleton, starting back, and concentrating into
the tone in which he uttered those two words, the expression of
despair at extinguished happiness. “At Rome! No--it must not be.”
At that moment a servant came in to fetch Lady Gayland’s
writing-desk, which, alone, had not yet been consigned to the
carriage. It was one of those inopportune entrances, which it was
difficult to bear, but still more difficult to resist. The moments
occupied in enclosing the desk in its case seemed interminable: it
was impossible that one word could meanwhile be exchanged between
the parties. Castleton had turned his back at once, upon the man’s
entrance, and stood, without moving, with his face towards the
chimney-piece; and Lady Gayland watched, with intense anxiety, all
the varied workings of his expressive countenance, as portrayed in
the mirror before him. When at length the servant had again left
the room, Castleton turned slowly round, advanced towards Lady
Gayland, took her hand between his, and with effort gasped forth,
“Geraldine--you are right!”
This unexpectedly generous acquiescence in the propriety of her
determination, powerfully increased all her feelings in his favour,
and added therefore to the difficulty of concealing her own weakness.
Again, for some moments, they stood as silent as if an eye-witness
had been in the room: at last he continued--“’Tis, however, somewhat
sudden. I cannot yet quite forget what my prospects were the last
hour--what they are this. Mystery and concealment need no longer
be maintained, when all will so soon be over. Of course, I cannot
conceal from myself that _I_ am connected with this determination.”
“Castleton, I had hoped, by the course which I have taken, to have
been spared explanation, useless to you--injurious to myself:
but after the noble and disinterested manner in which you have
facilitated the execution of my project, by acknowledging its
propriety, I cannot refuse to answer your question, if you press for
reply.”
“I press for nothing that can be painful to yourself. I _can_ have no
claim on you.”
“You feel that it is not necessary,” added she, faintly smiling, “to
force me to a verbal confession that it was the influence which I
felt you _must_ have over my actions, if I stayed, which has induced
me to take this irrevocable step.”
“This candid avowal, at such a moment, only the more completely
exposes the folly of my former wilful blindness. But think not now
that I ever dared to shape my rash hopes into any other form than
the being allowed on sufferance the enjoyment of your society: I had
not the shadow of an excuse for further presumption. Had I first
known you bound in loathsome chains, I fear that a sense of moral
obligation might have in vain attempted to arrest the force of my
passion in its endeavours to break these chains asunder. But you are
still free--free as when I first loved you; and I am the cause of my
own bondage. That fatal mistake--I had had painful experience of your
sex--and by this I blindly judged a manner peculiar to yourself--I
thought myself again deceived: I felt that any thing like you, yet
not yourself, would be unendurable. I sought, therefore, in another
rank of life a perfect contrast. All that I could, in common reason,
have expected in such an experiment, I have obtained: and with it
every tie of honour obliges me to be satisfied--and so I will. Go,
dearest Lady Gayland, where prudence calls you. I have again deceived
myself in fancying that I could live with you as a friend. The
attempt has been useless. Go--you may still be happy in forgetting
him who has only himself to blame.”
“No; not entirely so. I feel that I likewise was formerly much to
blame; but my error was unintentional. I was always a strange,
unaccountable creature: I never could drill my deportment into
intelligible discipline; and, singular as it may seem, the same
heedless appearance was sometimes caused by directly opposite
feelings. It was, I believe, those very high spirits, produced by the
conviction of your attachment, which excited, at Rome, that levity
of which you complained: had I been more of a coquette at heart, I
should have been less a coquette in manner. Here, on the contrary,
where I have been really unhappy, as the sad certainty broke upon me
that I could not consider you only as a friend, though still hoping
that mine was a love as passionless as human heart can know, I have
endeavoured to lose for a moment that consciousness in the frivolous
society of others. Believe me, a gay tone often conceals more
anguish than it causes.”
“I believe all you say--I admire all you do--I despise myself--and I
submit.”
“The carriage is quite ready, my Lady,” said a servant opening the
door, and then closing it again.
“O not yet!” exclaimed Castleton, “I had so much more to say.”
“Is it, for either of our sakes, desirable to prolong these sad
moments?”
“No; and yet I would postpone, if it were even for an instant, the
dreary void in existence which will succeed your departure. Whilst
you are still here, I have not yet the actual consciousness that she,
who was but this morning the charm of every prospect, has for ever
faded from my sight. But this is wrong; your firmness deserves better
support from me. I feel the value, especially to you, of appearances
on this occasion. One moment more, and I will be ready.”
He took two or three hasty strides across the room--clenched his
hands violently--pressed his teeth against his closed lips--and then,
with forced composure, said, “Now I am ready to attend you to your
carriage.”
As they descended the first flight of stairs, Lady Gayland softly
murmured, “One word at parting: cherish your wife; she loves you, and
_you_ should at least make _her_ happy.”
Castleton pressed her arm against his heart, and nodded assent.
“Not quite ready, my Lady,” said the same servant, “the chaise seat
was forgot, in Mademoiselle’s room.”
As they had with much effort screwed their courage to the point,
this suspense was even more painful than their parting would have
been a few moments before; but there was no resource, and they
stood leaning against the wall at the head of the first flight
of steps. Availing himself of this opportunity, Castleton added,
“You will at least allow me to write to you; there are so many
subjects--indifferent subjects I mean--in the retired life that I
intend to lead, and I shall have no one near me with whom I can
communicate. To this, at least, there can be no objection.”
To this request Lady Gayland hesitated how to reply. “For the
present,” said she, “let us settle nothing but separation; it may be
a satisfaction to us hereafter that, at least for the time, we made
that complete.”
“Quite ready, my Lady,” was again announced, before Castleton could
further urge his request. As they descended the stairs they seemed
both nerved for the trial of the ultimate parting. Groups of idlers
on horseback, casual acquaintances returning from the parade, made
this exertion the more necessary. “An odious day,” exclaimed one.
“The most disagreeable that I ever knew,” added another;--and so they
passed on, without in the least suspecting that those whom they thus
concisely greeted, and in whom they remarked nothing particular, were
in the act of perfecting the greatest mutual sacrifice that the world
could require from either. Their hands had at length been severed,
the door was closed, and the carriage in motion, when Lady Gayland
covered her face, and sobbed aloud, exclaiming indistinctly; “The
blinds--the blinds--quick. Angélique, _les rideaux, tirez les donc_.”
“You are ill, my Lady; _will_ we stop?”
“Stop! No; faster--still faster:” and overwhelmed with long
suppressed emotion, she burst into an hysterical fit of tears.