Ethel Churchill/Chapter 105
CHAPTER XXIX.
MIDNIGHT.
Where is the heart that has not bowed
A slave, eternal Love, to thee?
Look on the cold, the gay, the proud,
And is there one among them free?
And what must love be in a heart
All passion's fiery depths concealing,
Which has in its minutest part
More than another's whole of feeling!
Henrietta pressed her temples on the cushion, but it did not still their tumultuous pain. The door closed after Walter Maynard, and it sank like a knell upon her ear. She listened to his receding footsteps, and when they died away, she still held her breath to listen; there was a deep silence, and she felt utterly alone in the world. Strange how vividly her youth seemed to rise before her! she sat again beside her uncle, while Waller Maynard read aloud his boyish translation of the Prometheus bound; her uncle's words rang in her ear.
"So does destiny bind us on the rock of life, so does the vulture, Sorrow, prey on the core of every human heart!" Then she joined the little group that had gathered beside the fountain—so gay, so hopeful; what had they not, all of them, suffered since! She had witnessed the silent wasting of the heart which had banished the rose and the smile from the sweet face of Ethel Churchill; she knew that Norbourne Courtenaye was suffering all the bitterness of unavailing regret; and had she not just looked on Walter Maynard—pale, emaciated—with death in his face!
Slowly her thoughts reverted to herself; the blood rushed to her brow. What would she be to-morrow? the mark for obloquy and ridicule! disgraced, and for what? to minister to the wretched vanity of one whom she loathed even more than she scorned. She sprang to her feet; the crimson flood went back upon her heart; a strange light flashed from her eyes; her white lips were firmly compressed; and she clasped her hands so tightly, that the blood slightly tinged the ends of her fingers.
If ever an evil spirit be allowed to enter our frail human tenement, such spirit would have seemed to enter into Henrietta Marchmont. A strange tranquillity passed over her; she rose from her seat, and wrote a note; there was a key, which she took from the table, enclosed in it. After carefully sealing the parcel, she rang; and when the servant came in, she said,—
"Let this parcel, late as it is, be taken immediately—I forgot it; and you may tell Madame Cecile, that I am so tired, I shall not wait for her: she may go to bed without disturbing me. Is Lord Marchmont come up from supper yet?"
"No, my lady. To-night, M. Chloe tries the new receipt for stewed mushrooms, that Sir Robert Walpole's cook gave him, and they are only this moment serving up, for my lord was home sooner than he was expected."
"And he can sit down quietly to decide on the merits of stewed mushrooms," muttered Lady Marchmont, as the servant closed the door, "while I—but no matter, I hope he will enjoy his supper!"
Her eyes flashed, and she laughed aloud; but she started herself at the strange, harsh sound of her own laugh.
"Ah, here it is!" exclaimed she, unfastening a small key, which hung to the chain that she always wore; she then opened a small casket that stood where few would have noticed it; but, nevertheless, fastened for security to its stand. From thence she took two small phials, each of a different shape, but each containing some clear liquid: one she hastily concealed in the folds of her dress; the other she kept in her hand: then, taking a lamp from the table, she left the room. Shading the light with the sleeve of her dress, she proceeded along the corridor, and, with a noiseless step, gained a large bed-room on the left. She listened for a moment, but all was quiet; and she glided in, pale and noiseless as a ghost.
It was Lord Marchmont's chamber, fitted up with all that luxury which marked how precious its master was in his own eyes at least. Within the purple hangings of the bed stood a table, where the night-lamp was already burning; and, also, a draught, carefully labelled.
Lord Marchmont was fond of small complaints, and his physician's ingenuity was often taxed to find a remedy where there was no disease.
Henrietta took the bottle, and swallowed part of the contents; and then filled it up from the phial she held in her hand—that hand never trembled. Again she withdrew, cautiously and quietly as she came; and returned to her own room undisturbed.
She had scarcely reached it before she heard, her husband pass by, on his way to bed. She sprang to the door, and her heart beat loudly: he might yet come in, and relent in her favour. Not so; the heavy step passed heavily onward; and again she sank amid the cushions of the chair. There she sat, wan as a statue, and motionless, save when a quick convulsive shudder, as if of pain, ran through her frame.
It was awful to watch the change one single evening had wrought in that beautiful face. The eyes were hollow; the features thin, as if suddenly contracted; and her brow had a slight frown, knit either with suffering, or rigid determination.
A clock, striking two in the distance, startled her; and, rising, she approached the window. The dew had risen heavily on the plants in the balcony; and the moonlight turned the park below into one sheet of tremulous silver. All was silent as the grave, excepting that hollow murmur, which never, even in its stillest hour, quite forsakes a great city. The trees stood dark, and not a leaf stirred on the heavy branches; but amidst them rose the stately abbey, the Gothic architecture gleaming, "like ebon and ivory," in the clear radiance of the moon. There was not a cloud on the deep blue sky: but the countess did not look forth to gaze on the eternal beauty of the night; she saw nothing but the little garden immediately below the window of her room; and she muttered, in a hoarse whisper—"Will he come?"