Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (246 page)

Mary clasped her hands and waited. She did not know whether love or indignation would prevail. She saw that both feelings were at work. Her suspense was at and end: the thundercloud broke asunder in a burst of electric passion! He turned from his duchess and flung open the door. A voice rung along the halls of Angria House summoning Warner — a voice having the spirit of a trumpet, the depth of a drum in its tone — -

[Warner is duly rebuked in true imperial style, and dismissed.]

Warner, whose angelic philosophy had been little shaken by this appalling hurricane, would have stopped to give his grace a brief homily on the wickedness of indulging in violent passions; but a glance of entreaty from the duchess prevailed on him to withdraw in silence.

It was with a sensation of pleasurable terror that Mary found herself again alone with the duke. He had not yet spoken one harsh word to her. It was awful to be Zamorna’s sole companion in this hour of his ire but how much better than to be one hundred and twenty miles away from him. She was soon near enough. The duke, gazing at her pale and sweet loveliness till he felt there was nothing in the world he loved half so well — -conscious that her delicate attenuation was for his sake, appreciating too the idolatry that had brought her through such perils to see him at all hazards — threw himself impetuously beside her and soon made her tremble as much with the ardour of his caresses as she had done with the dread of his wrath.

‘I’ll seize the few hours of happiness you have thrown in my way, Mary,’ said he, as she clung to him and called him her adored glorious Adrian, ‘but these kisses and tears of thine, and this intoxicating beauty, shall not change my resolution. I will rend you, my lovely rose, entirely from me; I’ll plant you in your father’s garden again: I must do it, he compels me.’

‘I don’t care,’ said the duchess, swallowing the delicious draught of the moment, and turning from the dark future to the glorious present shrined in Zamorna. ‘But if you do divorce me, Zamorna, will you never, never take me back to you? Must I die inevitably before I am twenty?’ The duke looked at her in silence; he could not cut off hope.

‘The event has not taken place yet, Mary, and there lingers a possibility that it may be averted. But, love, should I take the crown off that sweet brow, the crown I placed over those silken curls on the day of our coronation, do not live hopeless. You may on some moonlight night hear Adrian’s whistle under your window when you least expect it. Then step out on to the parapet; I’ll lift you in my arms from thence to the terrace. From that time for ever, Mary, though Angria shall have no queen, a Percy shall have no daughter.’

‘Adrian,’ said the duchess, ‘how different you are, how very different when I get close to you. At a distance you appear quite unapproachable. I wish, I wish my father was as near to you now as I am — or at least almost as near; because I am your creeping plant, I twine about you like ivy, and he is a tree to grow side by side with you. If he were in this room I should be satisfied.’

What answer Zamorna made I know not, but he brought down the curtain.

[An interval ensues; Zamorna is ultimately victorious and the rebellion put down; he is reconciled with Northangerland, against the vigorous objections of his advisors, and Mary is saved from the death which could surely have followed a permanent separation from her ‘Adrian’. However, we next see Zamorna trying to extricate himself once again from his tenacious ‘creeping plant’. He has bid good-bye to his family and is about to set off for Angria.]

The barouche stood at the door, the groom and the valet were waiting, and the duke, with a clouded countenance, was proceeding to join them, when his wife came forwards.

‘You have forgotten me, Adrian — ‘ she said in a very quiet tone, but her eye meantime flashed expressively. He started, for in truth he had forgotten her.

‘Good-bye then, Mary,’ he said, giving her a hurried kiss and embrace. She detained his hand.

‘Pray, how long am I to stay here?’ she asked. ‘Why do you leave me at all? Why am I not to go with you?’ ‘It is such weather,’ he answered. ‘When this storm passes over I will send for you — -’

‘When will that be?’ pursued the duchess, following his steps as he strode into the hall.

‘Soon — soon my love — perhaps in a day or two — there now — don’t be unreasonable — of course you cannot go today — -’

‘I can and I will,’ answered the duchess quickly. ‘I
have had enough of Alnwick, you shall not leave me behind you.’

‘Go into the room, Mary. The door is open and the wind blows on you far too keenly. Don’t you see how it drifts the snow in — -’

“I will not go into the room. I’ll step into the carriage as I am. If you refuse to wait till I can prepare, perhaps you will be humane enough to let me have a share of your cloak — ‘ She shivered as she spoke. Her hair and her dress floated in the cold blast that blew in through the open entrance, strewing the hall with snow and dead leaves.

‘You might wait till it is milder. I don’t think it will do your grace any good to be out today — -’

‘But I must go, Mary — The Christmas recess is over and business presses.’

‘Then do take me; I am sure I can bear it.’

‘Out of the question. You may well clasp those small, silly hands — so thin I can almost see through them; and you may shake your curls over your face — to hide its paleness from me, I suppose. What is the matter? Crying? Good! What the devil am I do to with her? Go to your father, Mary. He has spoilt you.’ ‘Adrian, I cannot live at Alnwick without you,’ said the duchess earnestly, ‘It recalls too forcibly the very bitterest days of my life. I’ll not be separated from you again except by violence — -’

The task of persuasion was no very easy one, for his own false play, his alienations, and his unnumbered treacheries had filled her mind with hideous phantoms of jealousy, had weakened her nerves and made them a prey to a hundred vague apprehensions; fears that never wholly left her except when she was actually in his arms or at least in his immediate presence.

‘I tell you, Mary,’ he said, regarding her with a smile half expressive of fondness — half of vexation — ‘I tell you I will send for you in two or three days — . Probably I shall be a week in Angria, not more — -‘

‘A week! and your grace considers that but a short time? To me it will be most wearisome — ‘

‘The horses will be frozen if they stand much longer,’ returned the duke, not heeding her last remark. ‘Come, wipe your eyes and be a little philosopher for once. There, let me have one smile before I go. A week will be over directly — this is not like setting out for a campaign.’

‘Don’t forget to send for me in two days,’ pleaded the duchess as Zamorna released her from his arms.

‘No, no, I’ll send for you tomorrow — if the weather is settled enough. And,’ half mimicking her voice, ‘don’t be jealous of me, Mary — unless you’re afraid of the superior charms of Enara and Warner. Good-bye — ‘ He was gone. She hurried to the window; he passed it. In three minutes the barouche swept with muffled sound round the lawn, shot down the carriage road, and was quickly lost in the thickening whirl of the snow storm.

[Mina, in the meantime, waits patiently for Zamorna at Rivaulx. As it happens, Lord Hartford is desperately in love with Mina; outraged by Zamorna’s careless treatment of her, he decides to visit her and propose. He makes several attempts to broach the subject, but Mina pointedly avoids taking his meaning. Finally, however, his ardour becomes unmistakeable.]

Miss Laury agitatedly rose; she approached Hartford.

‘My lord, you have been very kind to me, and I feel very grateful for that kindness. Perhaps sometime I may be able to repay it — we know not how the
 
chances of fortune may turn; the weak have aided the strong. I will watch vigilantly for the slightest opportunity to serve you, but do not talk in this way. I scarcely know whither your words tend.’ Lord Hartford paused a moment before he replied. Gazing at her with bended brows and folded arms, he said,

‘Miss Laury, what do you think of me?’

‘That you are one of the noblest hearts in the world,’ she replied unhesitatingly. She was standing just before Hartford, looking up at him, her hair falling back from her brow, shading with exquisite curls her temples and her slender neck. Her small sweet features, with that high seriousness deepening their beauty, were lit up by eyes so large, so dark, so swimming, so full of pleading benignity: an expression of alarmed regard, as if she at once feared for, and pitied, the sinful abstraction of a great mind.

Hartford could not stand it. He could have borne female anger or terror, but the look of enthusiastic gratitude, softened by compassion, nearly unmanned him. He turned his head for a moment aside, but then passion prevailed. Her beauty when he looked again struck through him a maddening sensation, whetted to acute power by a feeling like despair.

‘You shall love me!’ he exclaimed desperately. ‘Do I not love you? Would I not die for you? Must I in return receive only the cold regard of friendship? I am no platonist, Miss Laury — I am not your friend. I am, hear me, madam, your declared lover. Nay, you shall not leave me, by heaven! I am stronger than you are — ‘ She had stepped a pace or two back, appalled by his vehemence. He thought she meant to withdraw; determined not to be so balked, he clasped her at once in both his arms and kissed her furiously rather than fondly. Miss Laury did not struggle.

‘Hartford,’ said she, steadying her voice, though it faltered in spite of her effort, ‘this must be our parting scene. I will never see you again if you do not restrain yourself.’ Hartford saw that she turned pale and he felt her tremble violently. His arms relaxed their hold. He allowed her to leave him. She sat down on a chair opposite and hurriedly wiped her brow, which was damp and marble-pale.

‘Now, Miss Laury,’ said his lordship, ‘no man in the world loves you as I do. Will you accept my title and my coronet? I fling them at your feet.’

‘My lord, do you know whose I am?’ she replied in a hollow, very suppressed tone. ‘Do you know with what a sound those proposals fall on my ear, how impious and blasphemous they seem to be? Do you at all conceive how utterly impossible it is that I should ever love you? I thought you a true-hearted faithful man; I find that you are a traitor.’

‘And do you despise me?’ asked Hartford.

‘No, my lord, I do not.’ She paused and looked down. The colour rose rapidly into her pale face; she sobbed, not in tears, but in the overmastering approach of an impulse born of a warm heart. Again she looked up. Her eyes had changed, their aspect burning with a wild bright inspiration.

‘Hartford,’ said she, ‘had I met you long since, before I left home and dishonoured my father, I would have loved you. O, my lord, you know not how truly. I would have married you and made it the glory of my life to cheer and brighten your hearth. But I cannot do so now — never.

‘I saw my present master when he had scarcely attained manhood. Do you think, Hartford, I will tell you what feelings I had for him? No tongue could express them: they were so fervid, so glowing in their colour, that they effaced everything else. I lost the power of properly appreciating the value of the world’s opinion, of discerning the difference between right and
wrong. I have never in my life contradicted Zamorna, never delayed obedience to his commands. I could not! He was sometimes more to me than a human being, he superseded all things: all affections, all interests, all fears or hopes or principles. Unconnected with him, my mind would be a blank — cold, dead, susceptible only of a sense of despair. How I should sicken if I were torn from him and thrown to you! Do not ask it — I would die first. No woman that ever loved my master could consent to leave him. There is nothing like him elsewhere. Hartford, if I were to be your wife, if Zamorna only looked at me, I should creep back like a slave to my former service. I should disgrace you as I have long since disgraced all my kindred. Think of that, my lord, and never say you love me again — -‘