Ethel Churchill/Chapter 108
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE ASSIGNATION.
God, in thy mercy, keep us with thy hand!
Dark are the thoughts that strive within the heart,
When evil passions rise like sudden storms,
Fearful and fierce! Let us not act those thoughts;
Leave not our course to our unguided will.
Left to ourselves, all crime is possible,
And those who seemed the most removed from guilt,
Have sunk the deepest!
Sir George bore the annoyances of the night as a very vain man does totally unaccustomed to mortification. He was frantic with passion; he longed to kill somebody, but he did not know who. He took a common resource in such cases—he stormed at his servants; but, on entering the house, consolation awaited him. A parcel was placed in his hands, which had been left with most particular directions that it should be given to him immediately. He was half-inclined, from pettish obstinacy not to open it; but curiosity pervaded: and curiosity, like virtue, was its own reward.
It contained a key, and a note from Lady Marchmont, entreating him to forgive what she called her petulance that evening at the fête; and bidding him come to tell her that she was still loved. He was to enter through the little garden gate, and, ascending by the balcony steps, would, in five moments, reach the dressing-room, where he would find her alone.
There was a postscript—"By the by, a secretary of yours has made a great merit of giving me the letters I wrote to you: of course he stole them: we must concert some means of securing his silence."
"So I owe her submission half to fear—a useful lesson as regards women in future. I believe there is nothing like making them afraid of you; but," continued he, his handsome face darkening with every evil passion, "it adds to my triumph to think that I owe it to the very means that fool took to prevent it! I will take care that he knows it."
Sir George could understand no other motive for Maynard's conduct than his liking Lady Marchmont himself—a higher or more generous cause never even suggested itself.
"I must attend to my toilet a little; but, no," added he, "the very carelessness will be a proof of haste; and, now I think of it, I am very late:" so saying, he threw his cloak round him, and hurried across the park.
Lady Marchmont had passed another hour of miserable suspense. The moonlight was waxing cold and faint, and the chill air of the morning began to rustle among the trees; and the mist, which rose from the dewy grass, spread like a thin veil, rendering all distant objects confused. A streak of wan and sickly light, began to glimmer in the east; and again Lady Marchmont clenched her hands together, and asked—"Will he come?"
The cold wind lifted her long hair from her neck; but she felt it not. Suddenly she started; she pressed her hands to her burning eye-lids to clear their sight: but—no; she was not deceived: a figure, as yet indistinct as a shadow, was hurrying across the park. The colour deepened on her cheek, the light flashed from her eyes; but neither colour nor light were such as are wont to welcome the expected lover's arrival.
"He must not find me waiting on the balcony," whispered she, with a mechanical consciousness of feminine pride; "yet, what does it matter?" added she, with a bitter laugh.
However, she again resumed her seat in the arm-chair, and busied herself about a lamp, over which some coffee was boiling. She looked very different now to what she had done while seated on that very chair when Maynard came.
She had taken off her velvet robe, and was carelessly wrapped in a white silk night-gown, fastened with violet ribands. It was one she had worn in half-mourning, and had all the coquettish elegance of demie parure. The serpent was unbound from her hair, which was partly gathered up with a violet band—part left loose on her shoulders, as if she had stopped in the middle of her graceful task. She was pale no longer, her cheek burned with the clear feverish red of the pomegranate, and gave that peculiar light to the eyes, which is only given by the contrast of the crimson. Deep as it was, it grew yet deeper; for Sir George Kingston entered the room.
"Thus, let me thank you! thus, pour out my happiness!" exclaimed he, throwing himself at her feet.
She averted her face, but that was only natural timidity.
"Ah!" cried she, suddenly, "your cloak is quite wet with morning dew: you are a laggard, Sir George!"
"I have not had your note half-an-hour," replied he: "I flew to you the moment I received it."
"I fancy," said she, with a smile, "that we are both a little tired: you must have a cup of coffee with me before we begin to talk."
Sir George saw that she was embarrassed, and secretly enjoyed it.
"You will not let me pour out the coffee," said she, withdrawing her hand; "there, tell me if my picture is like me."
He rose, and the instant his back turned, she emptied into his cup the contents of a little phial, that she took, with the rapidity of thought, from the folds of her dress.
"I cannot look at a picture," exclaimed he, "while I can gaze on the original."
"Well," replied she, "your coffee is now ready."
He took the cup and drank it down—glad of it; for having to play the part of an ardent lover, he felt more sleepy than was quite suiting to the character. The coffee revived him; and snatching Lady Marchmont's beautiful hand, he pressed it to his lips. "How can I ever," whispered he, drawing nearer toward her, "ever thank you enough?"
"I do not know," said Henrietta, starting from her seat, and drawing herself to her full height, "that you have much to thank me for; but, follow me softly."
She took the lamp, and led the way through a suite of apartments, till she stopped in a large bed-room, dimly lighted by a night-lamp, and the one she carried.
"This is the third time that I have been here to-night," muttered she; and, hastily withdrawing the heavy curtain, exclaimed—"Look there!"
Sir George did look, and saw the face of Lord Marchmont; and saw too that it was the face of a corpse.
"We cannot stay here," continued she, in the same hollow whisper, and led the way back again to the dressing-room.
Sir George followed her mechanically; one look at the bed of death was enough; the pale, rigid countenance, startled him like a spectre.
"I would not have come," was the first thought that rose in his mind, "if I had had the least idea of such a scene. How unlucky Lord Marchmont should have died to-night!"
The countess led the way through the noiseless rooms with a step so cautious, that it did not waken the slightest echo, and her companion was as careful as herself. They regained the apartment without interruption; and, after closing the door quietly, Lady Marchmont set the lamp down on the table. Its faint gleam, almost quenched by the daylight, fell upon her face, and her companion started at its strange and fearful expression!
"Lord Marchmont," said Henrietta, "overheard our conversation this evening. To-morrow he would have denounced and degraded me; to-night he has died, and by my hand!"
Sir George made an involuntary step nearer to the window—the selfish ever the predominant feeling.
"You cannot suppose," exclaimed he, "that I would marry his widow! his murderer!"
Henrietta gazed upon him, with the fire flashing from her large black eyes.
"And. what do you suppose I sent to you for?"
Sir George stood silent, and she rapidly continued:—
"I sent for you that I might know the sweetness of revenge; that I might tell you how I scorned, how I loathed you! Do you think that I am not perfectly aware of the mean treachery of your conduct?"
"Maynard is"—faltered Sir George Kingston.
"What you are not—a person in whom belief may be placed. Now I understand the contrast between yourself and your letters. But it is of no use talking now; the servants will soon be stirring, and it would be rather awkward to be found here."
"For you, perhaps, madam," sneered Sir George.
"Rather for yourself," replied she, with the greatest composure; "you might be implicated in the charge of murder."
Sir George hastily approached the balcony; and Lady Marchmont said, "while in her eye the gladiator broke," so fierce even was the expression of her beautiful face,—"I do not think that Sir George Kingston will boast to-morrow of his interview with me to-night"
He hurried down the steps, and a wild hysterical laugh rang after him. There was something in the sound that startled even the careless and hardened Sir George Kingston. Still, before he got half way across the park, vanity again floated on the surface.
"What a pity," muttered he, "that I shall not be able to tell to-night's tête-à-tête! She has taken good care to prevent it."
She had taken more care than he suspected. Even while he spoke a fiery pain darted, like a bird of prey, on his heart; he gasped for breath; and when the agony was over, felt utterly exhausted. He staggered for support against a tree near. By a strange coincidence, it was the very one against which Walter Maynard had leant not above an hour or so before. The blood was yet red on the grass; and Sir George Kingston felt a sickness seize upon him as he caught sight of it.
Again his whole frame was wrung with convulsive pain; this time the spasm was instantly followed by another. He strove to call for aid; and he heard his voice die away on the silent night. He was alone—helpless; a few acres of green grass made a solitude, vast as a desert, around him. Every moment he grew more incapable of moving; yet he knew he might cry aloud for assistance in vain. He gazed around—strange shapes seemed to flit by, then grow into gigantic shadows; a sound of rushing waters was in ears, and he gasped with a burning thirst.
Suddenly a terrible fear flashed across him, and as it flashed, he felt that it was the truth. The cup of coffee that he had drank at Lady Marchmont's, had she drugged that too? Lord Marchmont's white, rigid face seemed to be painted distinctly on the air; and then endowed with a strange consciousness, opened its dull eyes; and Sir George felt that his doom was sealed in that look. The suffering grew more acute; his knees failed under him, and he sank heavily on the ground.
Still, life was strong within him; he struggled with his agony; he thought if he could but reach home he might have aid, and live: but, even while he struggled, there was that within which told him his struggles were vain. He was growing delirious with the internal torture, with the intolerable burning thirst; yet his delirium turned upon real objects; the pleasures of existence crowded upon his imagination—he saw his youth, as it were, distinct before him; he thought of his wealth, it could not now buy him even a cup of cold water; then beautiful forms, but all with fiendish eyes, gathered round him: some offered him golden fruits; others, purple wine: he stretched his parched mouth towards them, and they melted into the wan air with a mocking laugh.
Consciousness returned again; he saw the first red of the morning beginning to colour the clouds; a sort of stupid wonder passed through him, that he had never thought them so lovely before. He strove to keep his heavy eyelids open, to fix them on the blue sky; he felt that if once they closed, never would they open again.
At that moment, a bird fluttered from the bough overhead, and sprang, with a song, into the air. A gleam of sunshine broke forth, as if to light its early path. Sir George moaned aloud in envy; he would have been thankful to be that poor bird. That song was the signal for a thousand others; every bough grew in a moment alive; the sunshine became more golden, and a rich purple flushed deepening every instant in the east.
Again a fierce spasm shook Sir George's now weakened frame; it forced from him a womanish shriek; he was glad to hear it: a wild hope came, that it might bring some chance wanderer to his help; and, in that hope, he filled the air with frantic cries.
He cried in vain; he was dying in the midst of that crowded city, helpless, and alone. Oh, for a human face to have bent over his own! He ceased his shrieks suddenly, he found that he exhausted his strength; the morning had now broken, and if he could but live a little longer, some one must pass; and, so strong was the craving for humanity, that it was as if, let any one come near, and he must be saved. But the cold dews rose heavily on his forehead, a feeling of suffocation was in his throat, while his eyes swam, and the objects near began to whirl round with frightful velocity.
He raised his hand to clear the mists from his sight, but his strength failed in the effort, and his hand dropped heavily to the ground with a noise that, to his own ear, sounded like thunder! Painfully, he forced his hot eyelids to unclose, and his distended orbs sought for some object whereon to fix; they met the patch of grass, yet red with the blood of Walter Maynard. It seemed to rise in judgment against him; he could not take his eyes away from the guilty colour which began to spread; it rose, colouring the heavens with its fearful hue, till the very azure was died with scarlet. Then it grew dark; a darkness filled with shadows—shadows from other years.
Every evil thought that had ever arisen within him, now assumed some palpable form. Pale faces looked upon him with sad reproaches; wasted hours, misused gifts, stood around like spectres. For the first time in his indulged and evil life, he thought of judgment and of an hereafter. He remembered his God, but only to fear him. He started! that awful terror mastered even the extremity of pain; the drops poured down his face; his eyes glared fearfully round, seeking shelter, and finding none. The effort was too much, he sank back with one last cry of despair, and in that despair he died!
The birds sang gayly overhead; the morning sun dried up even the tears that night had left on the leaves. The clouds first reddened, and then wandered, white and pure, over the sky; voices rose from the wilderness of streets around, and another day came, busy and anxious, to awakening humanity. The cheerfulness of the morning brought its own glad tone to the spirits of the early walkers in the park. The first that entered were going on their way with a song, when the singing voice suddenly changed to a cry of horror, for the dead lay before their feet. His eyes, wild and staring—there had been no friendly hand to close them; his features convulsed with fearful agony. Sir George Kingston was stretched a corpse! He—the rich, the luxurious, the flattered—had died by the common pathway like a dog!