Ethel Churchill/Chapter 75
CHAPTER XL.
THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD.
Pale Memory sits lone, brooding o'er the past,
That makes her misery. She looketh round,
And asks the wide world for forgetfulness:
She asks in vain; the shadow of past hours
Close palpable around her; shapes arise—
Shadows, yet seeming real; and sad thoughts,
That make a night of darkness and of dreams
Her empire is upon the dead and gone;
With that she mocks the present, and shuts out
The future, till the grave, which is her throne,
Has absolute dominion.
Some days elapsed before Lady Marchmont was able to leave her bed; not that she suffered under actual illness, but the passion of sorrow had completely exhausted a frame naturally fragile. But youth, health, and time, are strong to console, and the first bitterness of regret inevitably passes; but from that time Henrietta never recovered her former gaiety: a well of grief had opened in her heart; and nothing could stop the under-current of its deep, still waters. One idea was perpetually recurring, "There is no one to love me now!" and, in proportion to the want of affection, the craving for it became stronger. While Sir Jasper lived, there was one human being in whom she could repose unlimited confidence; one to whom, under any circumstances, she could turn for consolation; one to whom even a trifle, concerning herself, was the dearest thing on earth: now, there was no one whom she could truly say loved her. With all her advantages, with all her fascination and her loveliness, she was flattered, admired, and courted, but not loved. How unsatisfactory was the homage of the eye and the lip only!
It was while dwelling on these topics of sadness and irritation, that her eye fell upon Lord Marchmont's letter of invitation to Sir Jasper. It arrived but a few moments after his death, and had never been opened; she broke the seal, but had not patience to read it through, its cold commonplace civility fretted her very heart. Impatiently, she tore it into fragments, and flung it in the fire.
"And this is the man," exclaimed she, with a bitter laugh, "to whom I am united for my life; my inferior in every way—mean, shallow, heartless—I despise him too much for hatred!"
But, deep within her secret soul, Lady Marchmont felt she hated her husband; at that moment she would have been thankful to have given up the world, and spent the rest of her life in the gloomy seclusion of Meredith Place. She turned away from the future with a morbid feeling of discouragement: her first brilliant dream of the pleasures of the world had been broken; she had experienced their worthlessness, and their vanity; she felt that they were insufficient to fill up the void in her heart; they had nothing wherewith to satisfy the noblest and the best part of her nature; they contented neither her mind nor her heart. Lassitude and discontent were her predominant sensations: she had only one strong wish— never to see Lord Marchmont again! She shuddered whenever his image came across her; and this dislike was increased by his letters. After a little decent sorrow had been put forth for the late "severe affliction," joined with some weariful truisms about resignation to the will of Providence, the rest of the epistle was filled up with reproofs about her ladyship's extraordinary and improper conduct in setting off without his consent!
Again was the letter flung in the fire, and again absolute loathing towards the writer arose in Henrietta's mind. Days passed on, quiet, languid, and sad. Every day that the weather permitted, Lady Marchmont visited her uncle's grave: it had become the principal object of her existence; and the weather gloomy, cold, and rainy, though at the beginning of summer, harmonised well with her present frame of mind. She seemed to desire nothing beyond her present mode of life; and yet Henrietta was mistaken in supposing that she had now discovered the existence for which she was really best suited. Her keen feelings, and active fancy, would soon have needed employ: the imaginative temperament, above all others, requires society and excitement, else it preys too much on itself.
The truth was, that she had received a violent shock, and it would be long before either mind or body recovered their ordinary tone: but this mournful calm was soon disturbed by letters from Lord Marchmont, urging her return. Week after week she delayed it, till at last he formally announced his intention of coming to fetch her himself. Henrietta's grief was renewed in all its passionate violence; leaving her uncle's grave was leaving himself; and yet so subdued was her spirit, by its long indulgence of sorrow, that she could not find in herself even energy enough for resistance. The week that was yet to elapse, she spent in wandering through her uncle's favourite walks in hours of tearful vigil, beside his tomb, and in collecting together every trifle on which he had set a value. Again and again did she repeat her directions that every thing should be left in their old-accustomed places; the grim crocodile itself, that swung from the roof, acquired a value in her eyes.
The last evening arrived, and Henrietta returned from her prolonged visit to her uncle's grave. The misty moonlight that struggled through the black masses of gathering vapours, scarcely sufficed to guide her steps as she passed, languid and lingering, along the narrow path: she had passed through the churchyard the very evening before her former departure for London. How forcibly did the change that had taken place in herself, strike upon her now! Then she was somewhat sad; but it was a sadness soon to be flung aside. The future was before her brilliant, because unknown; she then believed its promises, for she had not proved them, there was so much to which she looked forward: now she looked forward to nothing, for nothing seemed worth having. Alas! the worst part of a heavy sorrow, is the despondency which it leaves behind!