Ethel Churchill/Chapter 109
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.
Ah! sad it is to see the deck
Dismasted of some noble wreck;
And sad to see the marble stone
Defaced, and with gray moss o'ergrown;
And sad to see the broken lute
Forever to its music mute.
But what is lute, or fallen tower,
Or ship sunk in its proudest hour,
To awe and majesty combined
In their worst shape—the ruined mind?
The morning air waved to and fro the chintz curtains of a large and, for a London one, a very cheerful-looking room, whose windows opened to the Thames. It was high tide, and every wave seemed freighted with a separate sunbeam; the sails of the small boats, as they darted rapidly along, shone with the purest white; and those that rowed past, flung up a shower of glittering sparkles at every stroke of the oar. On the sill of each window were placed pots, full of roses; and their sweet breath floated into the room.
In a large arm-chair, so placed as to command every thing that went by, the view only broken by the waving leaves of the rose trees, sat Mrs. Churchill. On one side was an embroidery-frame, which, from the delicate finish of the wreath, indicated that younger eyes occasionally aided the old lady. On the other was a small table, with an exquisite breakfast-service of Dresden china, from which she was sipping her chocolate. Placed opposite, on a low seat, was her granddaughter, a huge book propped on her knee, from which she was reading aloud. Perhaps there was a charm in that sweet voice, which gave its own unconscious fascination to the long-drawn pages; but there was, also, the still stronger charm of habit.
Mrs. Churchill liked the interminable labyrinths of the Cyrus and the Cassandra, because she had liked them in the days of her girlhood. Youth identifies itself with the romance; it is the heroic knight, or the lovely lady, of which it reads; it lives amid those fine creations; its sweetest hours are given to dreams which soon
"Fade into the light of common day."
It would have seemed ludicrous to a common observer to mark the aged woman listening by the hour to these high-flown gallantries; but it was not them that she heard, it was the remembrances that they brought. The old live more with memory than the young. Every page in that ponderous tome had some association with life's brightest hours: she lived them over again, while the murmur of that fair girl's soft tones fell sweet upon her ear. Ethel's graceful figure, seated at her grandmother's feet, completed the picture; and any one who had looked casually into that cool and cheerful chamber, would have thought it a very shrine of household happiness. And Ethel, if not happy, was calm—almost content; every day brought its duties, sweetened by affection; and, in her grandmother's comfort she found her own.
Mrs. Churchill had given up urging Ethel into a round of gaiety, which suited neither her health nor her spirits. She could not but feel the tender care that watched her least look, yet was always as submissive as it was anxious. She had been a long time in discovering that Ethel was no longer a child; but she now softened down a thousand prejudices by daily counsel with one who was a gentle and intelligent companion. Ethel resolutely turned her thoughts from the past; and, if she could not look to the future, at least she forced them to occupy themselves with the present. The bitterness of a first great despair had passed; but the traces would linger, despite every effort. Her step was no longer buoyant, and her laugh was no longer heard rising suddenly, like the notes of a bird; she had a look of weariness when she tried any of her old amusements. Unless at her grandmother's request, she never went near the spinnet; she nursed no flowers for her own room; and when she read, it was slowly; she could not keep her attention to the page. You gazed on her, and saw
"'Twas a pale face that seemed undoubtedly
As if a blooming face it ought to be!"
But the bloom and the gaiety had gone together: there was sweetness and endurance; but they are sad, when the only expression worn by youth.
She was just pausing for breath after a longer speech, even than usual, of the heroine's, when the door opened, and Madame Cecile, Lady Marchmont's maid, rushed into the room!
"Oh, my lady!" exclaimed she: "for pity's sake come to her, Miss Churchill!" and, sinking into a chair, gave way to a violent burst of hysterics.
It was long before Ethel's soothing or questions could extract any thing like an answer, till Mrs. Churchill took the matter into her own hands, and tried the effect of a little judicious scolding. The effect was most salutary; and, amid starts and screams—for the poor girl was fairly frightened out of the small portion of sense that, at any time, belonged to her—they learned that Lord Marchmont had been found dead in his bed; and that Lady Marchmont was, with the shock, in a state of almost insanity!
"We can do nothing with her! she won't even let me put up her hair under a cap!" said Madame Cecile.
Ethel wrung her hands in dismay; but instantly recovering, exclaimed, "Oh, let me go to her at once! may I not, dear madam?"
Mrs. Churchill gave consent without hesitation; and a chair being sent for immediately, Ethel hurried as fast as she could to Marchmont House. All was in that confusion which follows any sudden calamity: the servants were hurrying in all directions, apparently for no other purpose than that of getting in each other's way. As she went up stairs, a succession of frightful screams made her hurry breathlessly to the room from whence they came. It was Lady Marchmont's dressing-room; and there she found her surrounded by physicians, two of whom held her, while the surgeon made a vain attempt to bleed her: it was impossible in her present state.
Ethel stood—pity, anxiety—alike merged in astonishment at the change which a single night had wrought. Henrietta's long hair flowed unbound, but it was white as the shoulders over which it swept. Age and youth seemed to have met together: there was the skin, fair and smooth, but the mouth was fallen, and the features thin and contracted. The large black eyes seemed to have gone back into the head, and a dark hollow circle was round them; while the change in the colour of the hair, once so glossily black, now turned to silver, gave her countenance something that seemed to Ethel almost supernatural. As soon as Henrietta saw her, with a sudden spring she released herself from restraint; and, flinging her arms round her friend, though it was obvious she did not know her, exclaimed,—
"Ah! you look gentle, I will go with you; save me from these horrible men, who want to drag me to prison!"
But while speaking, her hands relaxed their passionate clinging; the wild black eyes closed heavily, and she sank fainting on the floor!
"It is a merciful insensibility," said the eldest physician; "but, if she revive, I fear the awakening—it will be terrible!"
"I will watch by her," cried Ethel; and, for many, many long and dreadful nights did she watch by her bed-side: even to herself she would not guess what might be the import of those frightful ravings!
Fearful were the lessons that the young and gentle Ethel learnt in the house of mourning. She saw Lord Marchmont borne away to his grave, unfollowed by a single regret, and forgotten as soon as the coffin was closed. The selfish man left behind him neither sorrow nor affection; he was summoned away, and his place knew him no more. But the bed-side of Lady Marchmont had a darker lesson than the grave, the ravings of insanity revealed the fiery world of that beating and passionate heart. Ethel could only feel too fearful, too humbled, for judgment; but she wept, even while she prayed, beside her early friend.