Ethel Churchill/Chapter 100
CHAPTER XXIV.
A SCENE AT THE MASQUERADE.
I do not say, bequeath unto my soul
Thy memory, I rather ask forgetting;
Withdraw, I pray, from me thy strong control;
Though, that withdrawn, what has life worth regretting?
Alas! this is a miserable earth!
Too late, or else too soon, the heart-beat quickens:
Hope finds too late its light was nothing worth,
And round a dark and final vapour thickens.
The silken folds of the crimson curtain which hung over the window, and a stand of odoriferous plants, almost concealed the balcony where Henrietta and Sir George were standing. Behind them were the illuminated rooms, from whence came gleams of light as the curtains waved to and fro; and the sound of voices, lost in the music, swept but softened towards them.
Below was the garden, a scene of complete tranquillity; the trees were old and thickly grown, the lights from the windows seemed to play over their dense foliage, but not to penetrate it.
The air rose fresh and sweet, and Henrietta had taken off her mask. The face was pale as the moonlight which fell over it, and her large, sad eyes were raised towards Sir George, with an expression so hopeless, so deprecating, that even he shrank from meeting them.
"You know that I love you," said she, in a low, faint whisper,—"love you as those love who have but a single object on which the affections can fix. I love you miserably, desperately!"
"But you love your own pride better," exclaimed her companion.
"Pride!—ah, no!" returned Henrietta. "I have no pride but in you. I could be content to be a slave, a beggar, for your sake. All that I ever read of my sex's devotion seems possible—nay, natural, when I think of what I feel for you. I should hold my life as nothing could it purchase your happiness."
"And yet," interrupted Sir George, "you can calmly, coldly condemn me to the most insupportable misery."
"I am very wretched," muttered she, rather to herself than to him.
"Rather say capricious and inconstant," replied her companion.
"Alas!" replied she, "I deserve these reproaches for having ever listened to you. Sir George, I have done wrong, inexcusably wrong; but the hopeless, the dreary future that lies before me, might atone for my fault."
"And so you will," exclaimed he, "sacrifice me for Lord Marchmont, whom you both despise and hate?"
"I do despise, I do hate him!" returned Henrietta, bitterly; "but, not the less, I am his wife. Listen to me, Sir George. I cannot endure the humiliation of my own reproaches; to-morrow I will return your letters. I will, at least, try to avoid seeing you;—but, surely, that was a step."
"It was only the wind in the curtain," said Sir George, who, like herself, had started at some slight noise.
"Alas!" exclaimed she, "is not this very fear degrading? Why should I care that my words may be overheard? Why should I shrink from discovery?"
"Ah," exclaimed her companion, "if you loved me with but a shadow of the love that I bear towards you, you would not dread a little risk—it is but a little—for my sake."
"Ah," cried Henrietta, "do you think it is merely the consequence from which I shrink? Ah, if my own heart did but tell me that I was right, how little I should care for anything else!"
"I care for nothing but yourself," interrupted her companion.
"Have you no pity for the misery that you will inflict upon me?"
Henrietta's voice failed her, she could only wring her hands with a passionate gesture of entreaty. Sir George saw his advantage, and continued:—
"I know that it is selfish to urge my happiness; but, dearest! sweetest! it is so wholly in your hands. But, you are pale, my beloved; come in from the damp air."
"You shall find my chair," said Henrietta, faintly; for the emotion with which she had contended was becoming too much for her. "I must go home."
"You have scarcely been here half-an-hour; but," said he, making a merit of obedience, "I will not urge your stay, I see that you are not equal to it. If you did but know how I hang on your least look, you would not dream of depriving me even of but one of them."
The chair was soon found; and, as Sir George turned away, he drew a deep breath. "On my honour! a grand passion is very fatiguing. I have half a mind to take her at her word—have one last scene of repentance, be converted, and there let the matter end. But—no: an unfinished conquest is almost a defeat. I cannot allow remorse to master love—love of which I am the object: it is not being properly appreciated: I must throw in more despair. 'This do I, oh, Athenians! for your applause,'" exclaimed he, as he turned into his club to see if he could find one or two pleasant friends for supper.