“Were I assured of this—” cried Amabel.
“Rest assured of it,” returned the earl, passionately. “Oh, yield to impulses of natural affection, and do not suffer a cold and calculating creed to chill your better feelings. How many a warm and loving heart has been so frozen! Do not let yours be one of them. Be mine! be mine!”
Amabel looked at him earnestly for a moment; while he, assured that he had gained his point, could not conceal a slightly triumphant smile.
“Now, your answer!” he cried. “My life hangs upon it.”
“I am still unmoved,” she replied, coldly, and firmly.
“Ah!” exclaimed the earl with a terrible imprecation, and starting to his feet. “You refuse me. Be it so. But think not that you shall escape me. No, you are in my power, and I will use it. You shall be mine and without the priest’s interference. I will not degrade myself by an alliance with one so lowly born. The strongest love is nearest allied to hatred, and mine has become hatred — bitter hatred. You shall be mine, I tell you, and when I am indifferent to you, I will cast you off. Then, when you are neglected, despised, shunned, you will regret — deeply but unavailingly — your rejection of my proposals.”
“No, my lord, I shall never regret it,” replied Amabel, “and I cannot sufficiently rejoice that I did not yield to the momentary weakness that inclined me to accept them. I thank you for the insight you have afforded me into your character.”
“You have formed an erroneous opinion of me, Amabel,” cried the earl, seeing his error, and trying to correct it. “I am well nigh distracted by conflicting emotions. Oh, forgive my violence — forget it.”
“Readily,” she replied; “but think not I attach the least credit to your professions.”
“Away, then, with further disguise,” returned the earl, relapsing into his furious mood, “and recognise in me the person I am — or, rather the person you would have me be. You say you are immovable. So am I; nor will I further delay my purpose.”
Amabel, who had watched him uneasily during this speech, retreated a step, and taking a small dagger from a handkerchief in which she kept it concealed, placed its point against her breast.
“I well know whom I have to deal with, my lord,” she said, “and am, therefore, provided against the last extremity. Attempt to touch me, and I plunge this dagger into my heart.”
“Your sense of religion will not allow you to commit so desperate a deed,” replied the earl, derisively.
“My blood be upon your head, my lord,” she rejoined; “for it is your hand that strikes the blow, and not my own. My honour is dearer to me than life, and I will unhesitatingly sacrifice the one to preserve the other. I have no fear but that the action, wrongful though it be, will be forgiven me.”
“Hold!” exclaimed the earl, seeing from her determined look and manner that she would unquestionably execute her purpose. “I have no desire to drive you to destruction. Think over what I have said to you, and we will renew the subject tomorrow.”
“Renew it when you please, my lord, my answer will still be the same,” she replied. “I have but one refuge from you — the grave — and thither, if need be, I will fly.” And as she spoke, she moved slowly towards the adjoining chamber, the door of which she fastened after her.
“I thought I had some experience of her sex,” said Rochester to himself, “but I find I was mistaken. To-morrow’s mood, however, may be unlike to-day’s. At all events, I must take my measures differently.”
* * * * *
V.
THE MARRIAGE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
Unwilling to believe he had become an object of aversion to Amabel, Rochester renewed his solicitations on the following day, and calling into play his utmost fascination of manner, endeavoured to remove any ill impression produced by his previous violence. She was proof, however, against his arts; and though he never lost his mastery over himself, he had some difficulty in concealing his chagrin at the result of the interview. He now began to adopt a different course, and entering into long discussions with Amabel, strove by every effort of wit and ridicule, to shake and subvert her moral and religious principles. But here again he failed; and once more shifting his ground, affected to be convinced by her arguments. He entirely altered his demeanour, and though Amabel could not put much faith in the change, it was a subject of real rejoicing to her. Though scarcely conscious of it herself, he sensibly won upon her regards, and she passed many hours of each day in his society without finding it irksome. Seeing the advantage he had gained, and well aware that he should lose it by the slightest indiscretion, Rochester acted with the greatest caution. The more at ease she felt with him, the more deferential did he become; and before she was conscious of her danger, the poor girl was once more on the brink of the precipice.
It was about this time that Leonard Holt, as has been previously intimated, discovered her retreat, and contrived, by clambering up a pear-tree which was nailed against the wall of the house, to reach her chamber-window. Having received her assurance that she had resisted all Rochester’s importunities, the apprentice promised to return on the following night with means to affect her liberation, and departed. Fully persuaded that she could now repose confidence in the earl, Amabel acquainted him, the next morning, with Leonard’s visit, adding that he would now have an opportunity of proving the sincerity of his professions by delivering her up to her friends.
“Since you desire it,” replied the earl, who heard her with an unmoved countenance, though internally torn with passion, “I will convey you to your father myself. I had hoped,” he added with a sigh, “that we should never part again.”
“I fear I have been mistaken in you, my lord,” rejoined Amabel, half-repenting her frankness.
“Not so,” he replied. “I will do anything you require, except deliver you to this hateful apprentice. If it is your pleasure, I repeat, I will take you back to your father.”
“Promise me this, my lord, and I shall be quite easy,” cried Amabel, joyfully.
“I do promise it,” he returned. “But oh! why not stay with me, and complete the good work you have begun?”
Amabel averted her head, and Rochester sighing deeply, quitted the room. An attendant shortly afterwards came to inform her that the earl intended to start for London without delay, and begged her to prepare for the journey. In an hour’s time, a carriage drove to the door, and Rochester having placed her and Prudence in it, mounted his horse, and set forth. Late on the second day they arrived in London, and passing through the silent and deserted streets, the aspect of which struck terror into all the party, shaped their course towards the city. Presently they reached Ludgate, but instead of proceeding to Wood-street, the carriage turned off on the right, and traversing Thames-street, crossed London Bridge. Amabel could obtain no explanation of this change from Prudence; and her uneasiness was not diminished when the vehicle, which was driven down a narrow street on the left immediately after quitting the bridge, stopped at the entrance of a large court-yard. Rochester, who had already dismounted, assisted her to alight, and in answer to her hasty inquiries why he had brought her thither, told her he thought it better to defer taking her to her father till the morrow. Obliged to be content with this excuse, she was led into the house, severely reproaching herself for her indiscretion. Nothing, however, occurred to alarm her that night. The earl was even more deferential than before, and assuring her he would fulfil his promise in the morning, confided her to Prudence.
The house whither she had been brought was large and old-fashioned. The rooms had once been magnificently fitted up, but the hangings and furniture were much faded, and had a gloomy and neglected air. This was especially observable in the sleeping-chamber appointed for her reception. It was large and lofty, panelled with black and shining oak, with a highly-polished floor of the same material, and was filled with cumbrous chests and cabinets, and antique high-backed chairs. But the most noticeable object was a large state-bed, with a heavy square canopy, covered, wi
th the richest damask, woven with gold, and hung with curtains of the same stuff, though now decayed and tarnished. A chill crept over Amabel as she gazed around.
“I cannot help thinking,” she observed to Prudence, “that I shall breathe my last in this room, and in that bed.”
“I hope not, madam,” returned the attendant, unable to repress a shudder.
Nothing more was said, and Amabel retired to rest. But not being able to sleep, and having vainly tried to compose herself, she arose and opened the window. It was a serene and beautiful night, and she could see the smooth river sparkling in the starlight, and flowing at a hundred yards’ distance at the foot of the garden. Beyond, she could indistinctly perceive the outline of the mighty city, while nearer, on the left, lay the bridge. Solemnly across the water came the sound of innumerable bells, tolling for those who had died of the plague, and were now being borne to their last home. While listening to these sad sounds, another, but more doleful and appalling noise, caught her ears. It was the rumbling of cart-wheels in the adjoining street, accompanied by the ringing of a hand-bell, while a hoarse-voice cried, “Bring out your dead! bring out your dead!” On hearing this cry, she closed the window and retired. Morning broke before sleep visited her weary eyelids, and then, overcome by fatigue, she dropped into a slumber, from which she did not awake until the day was far advanced. She found Prudence sitting by her bedside, and alarmed by the expression of her countenance, anxiously inquired what was the matter?
“Alas! madam,” replied the attendant, “the earl has been taken suddenly ill. He set out for Wood-street the first thing this morning, and has seen your father, who refuses to receive you. On his return, he complained of a slight sickness, which has gradually increased in violence, and there can be little doubt it is the plague. Advice has been sent for. He prays you not to disturb yourself on his account, but to consider yourself sole mistress of this house, whatever may befall him.”
Amabel passed a miserably anxious day. A fresh interest had been awakened in her heart in behalf of the earl, and the precarious state in which she conceived him placed did not tend to diminish it. She made many inquiries after him, and learned that he was worse, while the fearful nature of the attack could not be questioned. On the following day Prudence reported that the distemper had made such rapid and terrible progress, that his recovery was considered almost hopeless.
“He raves continually of you, madam,” said the attendant, “and I have no doubt he will expire with your name on his lips.”
Amabel was moved to tears by the information, and withdrawing into a corner of the room, prayed fervently for the supposed sufferer. Prudence gazed at her earnestly and compassionately, and muttering something to herself, quitted the room. The next day was the critical one (so it was said) for the earl, and Amabel awaited, in tearful anxiety, the moment that was to decide his fate. It came, and he was pronounced out of danger. When the news was brought the anxious girl, she fainted.
A week passed, and the earl, continued to improve, and all danger of infection — if any such existed — being at an end, he sent a message to Amabel, beseeching her to grant him an interview in his own room. She willingly assented, and, following the attendant, found him stretched upon a couch. In spite of his paleness and apparent debility, however, his good looks were but little impaired, and his attire, though negligent, was studiously arranged for effect. On Amabel’s appearance he made an effort to rise, but she hastened to prevent him. After thanking her for her kind inquiries, he entered into a long conversation with her, in the course of which he displayed sentiments so exactly coinciding with her own, that the good opinion she had already begun to entertain for him was soon heightened into the liveliest interest. They parted, to meet again on the following day — and on the day following that. The bloom returned to the earl’s countenance, and he looked handsomer than ever. A week thus passed, and at the end of it, he said— “To-morrow I shall be well enough to venture forth again, and my first business shall be to proceed to your father, and see whether he is now able to receive you.”
“The plague has not yet abated, my lord,” she observed, blushingly.
“True,” he replied, looking passionately at her. “Oh, forgive me, Amabel,” he added, taking her hand, which she did not attempt to withdraw. “Forgive me, if I am wrong. But I now think your feelings are altered towards me, and that I may venture to hope you will be mine?”
Amabel’s bosom heaved with emotion. She tried to speak, but could not. Her head declined upon his shoulder, and her tears flowed fast. “I am answered,” he cried, scarcely able to contain his rapture, and straining her to his bosom.
“I know not whether I am doing rightly,” she murmured, gazing at him through her tears, “but I believe you mean me truly. God forgive you if you do not.”
“Have no more doubts,” cried the earl. “You have wrought an entire change in me. Our union shall not be delayed an hour. It shall take place in Saint Saviour’s to-night.”
“Not to-night,” cried Amabel, trembling at his eagerness— “to-morrow.”
“To-night, to-night!” reiterated the earl, victoriously. And he rushed out of the room.
Amabel was no sooner left to herself than she repented what she had done. “I fear I have made a false step,” she mused; “but it is now too late to retreat, and I will hope for the best. He cannot mean to deceive me.”
Her meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Prudence, who came towards her with a face full of glee. “My lord has informed me of the good news,” she said. “You are to be wedded to him to-day. I have expected it all along, but it is somewhat sudden at last. He is gone in search of the priest, and in the mean time has ordered me to attire you for the ceremony. I have several rich dresses for your ladyship — for so I must now call you — to choose from.”
“The simplest will suit me best,” replied Amabel, “and do not call me ladyship till I have a right to that title.”
“That will be so soon that I am sure there can be no harm in using it now,” returned Prudence. “But pray let me show you the dresses.”
Amabel suffered herself to be led into another room, where she saw several sumptuous female habiliments, and selecting the least showy of them, was soon arrayed in it by the officious attendant. More than two hours elapsed before Rochester returned, when he entered Amabel’s chamber, accompanied by Sir George Etherege and Pillichody. A feeling of misgiving crossed Amabel, as she beheld his companions.
“I have had some difficulty in finding a clergyman,” said the earl, “for the rector of Saint Saviour’s has fled from the plague. His curate, however, will officiate for him, and is now in the church.”
Amabel fixed a searching look upon him. “Why are these gentlemen here?” she asked.
“I have brought them with me,” rejoined Rochester, “because, as they were aware of the injury I once intended you, I wish them to be present at its reparation.”
“I am satisfied,” she replied.
Taking her hand, the earl then led her to a carriage, which conveyed them to Saint Saviour’s. Just as they alighted, the dead-cart passed, and several bodies were brought towards it. Eager to withdraw her attention from the spectacle, Rochester hurried her into the old and beautiful church. In another moment they were joined by Etherege and Pillichody, and they proceeded to the altar, where the priest, a young man, was standing. The ceremony was then performed, and the earl led his bride back to the carriage. On their return they had to undergo another ill-omened interruption. The dead-cart was stationed near the gateway, and some delay occurred before it could be moved forward.
Amabel, however, suffered no further misgiving to take possession of her. Deeming herself wedded to the earl, she put no constraint on her affection for him, and her happiness, though short-lived, was deep and full. A month passed away like a dream of delight. Nothing occurred in the slightest degree to mar her felicity. Rochester seemed only to live for her — to think only of her. At the end of this tim
e, some indifference began to manifest itself in his deportment to her, and he evinced a disposition to return to the court and to its pleasures.
“I thought you had for ever abandoned them, my dear lord,” said Amabel, reproachfully.
“For awhile I have,” he replied, carelessly.
“You must leave me, if you return to them,” she rejoined.
“If I must, I must,” said the earl.
“You cannot mean this, my lord,” she cried, bursting into tears. “You cannot be so changed.”
“I have never changed since you first knew me,” replied Rochester.
“Impossible!” she cried, in a tone of anguish; “you have not the faults — the vices, you once had.”
“I know not what you call faults and vices, madam,” replied the earl sharply, “but I have the same qualities as heretofore.
“Am I to understand, then,” cried Amabel, a fearful suspicion of the truth breaking upon her, “that you never sincerely repented your former actions?”
“You are to understand it,” replied Rochester.
“And you deceived me when you affirmed the contrary?”
“I deceived you,” he replied.
“I begin to suspect,” she cried, with a look of horror and doubt, “that the attack of the plague was feigned.”
“You are not far wide of the truth,” was the reply.
“And our marriage?” she cried— “our marriage? Was that feigned likewise?”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 271
