The dying man now made a last effort to speak, but could only give utterance to the sad word “Farewell!”
Sinking backwards, he then expired.
Aline looked the picture of anguish’ and despair, but did not faint.
Seeing what had happened, Georgette, who had remained at a little distance, now flew to the spot, and aided the surgeon to render assistance to the unhappy lady.
The Comte de Clairvaux likewise joined the little group round the body.
“Is my dear friend, Sir Thomas, really gone?” he inquired of the surgeon, in accents of deepest concern.
“Alas! Yes, Monsieur le Comte,” replied the other, in a low voice. “And I am very much afraid of the effect of the scene upon Madame. We must get her away from this place as quickly as we can.”
“’Tis a great pity she came here,” muttered the Count.
“’Twas her love for Sir Thomas that brought her,” said Georgette. “Pray don’t blame her, Monsieur le Comte?”
Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Aline seemed in some degree to recover her strength.
Bidding the surgeon and Georgette retire she knelt down and prayed fervently — most fervently — for the soul of him who had just departed.
Her prayer finished, she said in low earnest tones, “Hear me, gracious Heaven! I register a vow to retire altogether from the world, and devote the remainder of my life to acts of piety and devotion.”
She then kissed the dead man’s cheek, and bade him an eternal farewell.
The Count, who had waited for the fitting moment, now prayed her to let him take her to the carriage.
She thanked him, and was moving slowly away when Captain Darcy, who with Colonel Ratcliffe, had been watching the touching scene, approached, and said in accents of apparent deep sympathy, “Do not blame me too severely, Madame, but accept my solemn assurance that I did not mean to kill Sir Thomas.”
Aline regarded him scornfully and incredulously.
“Go back, and tell your cousin what you have done,” she said. “No doubt she will thank you.”
“You are mistaken, Madame,” replied Darcy. “Lady Starkey did not wish me to fight this duel, and would have prevented me, if she could. She will be greatly shocked at the result.”
“I refuse to believe it,” replied Aline, departing slowly with the Count.
They were followed closely by Georgette, who was ready to assist her mistress in case of necessity.
The poor lady made no reply to the words of consolation offered her by the Count, but thanked him earnestly as he placed her in the coupe; praying him to return to the ground, and see that all needful was done for his unfortunate friend.
“Doubt it not, Madame,” he replied. “I will bring him myself to the Villa Bellevue.”
He then hastened back.
Louis, who had been greatly shocked by the tidings of the tragic event, placed Georgette beside her unhappy mistress, mounted the box, and ordered the coachman to drive home.
CHAPTER VII.
HOW SIR THOMAS STARKSES LAST LETTER WAS DELIVERED.
THE pretty villa, usually so gay, seemed entirely changed, as its afflicted mistress drove up to the door.
During the drive back, she had neither spoken a word nor shed a tear, but her fixed expression of countenance greatly alarmed Georgette, who would far rather have seen her indulge in a passionate outburst of grief than continue in this state.
But if the exterior of the house looked gloomy in Aline’s eyes, the interior seemed far more so.
She entered the pleasant salon, where she was accustomed to sit with Sir Thomas, and where everything reminded her of him; and after taking a few steps within the room, stood still, looking the very picture of despair.
“Be comforted, dearest Madame! — pray be comforted!” said Georgette, who had followed her.
“Talk not to me of comfort, Georgette,” she exclaimed, in accents of bitterest distress. “I have lost him! He has gone from me for ever. Never again shall I behold him in the chair where he used to sit!” she added, springing towards it, “Never! never!”
Almost overcome herself, Georgette made another effort to console her mistress.
“Try not to think of him, Madame!” she cried, scarcely knowing what to say.
“Impossible!” exclaimed the other. “I shall never cease to think of him. I shall always look for him in this room.”
“Yes, I feel it will always be associated with him, Madame. But pray leave it now!”
Aline yielded to her attendant’s entreaties, and went upstairs.
Sinking down upon a couch, she remained almost in a state of insensibility till she was roused by sounds that she could not misunderstand.
Evidently the body of Sir Thomas was being carried to the adjoining chamber.
She rose, but did not go forth, dreading the effect of the painful spectacle upon her, when Georgette entered with a letter in her hand.
“The Comte de Clairvaux has brought you this letter, Madame,” said the attendant.
“It is from Sir Thomas!” cried Aline. “I saw him folding up the letter, but was not aware it was meant for me.”
“The Comte bade me say that he took it himself from his unfortunate friend’s breast,” said Georgette. “Madame will see it is stained with blood.”
“Sir Thomas’s life-blood,” cried Aline, scarcely daring to touch the missive.
At last she summoned up all her resolution and opened the letter.
“Shall I leave the room, Madame?” asked Georgette.
“No; remain with me,” rejoined her mistress.
For some moments her sight failed her, but at last she read as follows: —
“This letter is to bid you an eternal farewell, dearest Aline.
“Unless all is over with me, it will never be delivered to you. I have not much to say, but coming from me when I can no longer give utterance to thorn, you may value these professions of regard.
“I have loved you dearly, Aline, very dearly — with a strength of affection that I did not think I possessed. My sole regret is that we could not be united. This deprivation does not seem to have troubled you so much as it has troubled me. But I have felt it keenly, and never more keenly than at the present moment, when the thought of quitting you for ever forces itself upon me.
“I do not expect an impossibility. I do not ask you to be faithful to my memory. Act as your heart and feelings dictate. You will then act rightly.
“Never again, I am well assured, can you meet with love like mine — fervent, enduring, increasing.
“But you are sure to meet with another lover, who, if he should not have an idolatrous passion for you, like mine, may still be worthy of your regard.
“I would not have you quit the world, as you have sometimes declared you would — if I were gone. I would have you live as other women live.
“Think of me sometimes, dearest Aline. Think of the happy days we have passed together. But do not weep for me, or if you must weep, let your tears be dried quickly, and smiles return on that bright countenance, on which I have loved to gaze.
“FAREWELL! FOR EVER!”
When Aline had finished reading the letter, she dropped it, and her emotion was so great that Georgette fearing she might faint, advanced to support her, and at the same time picked up the letter, which she offered to her mistress.
“Keep it for me!” cried Aline. “It must have a place next my heart.”
“Will Madame enter the next chamber?” asked Georgette. “No one is there, except—”
“I understand,” replied Aline, shuddering. “Make sure he is alone, and I will go.”
Georgette disappeared, and presently returned, saying that Madame could indulge her sorrow unobserved.
On receiving this assurance, Aline went into the adjoining chamber, the door of which had been left open.
Stretched on the couch, she beheld the lifeless body of him she had loved so dearly.
The fine features of the dea
d man bore no traces of pain, but had a perfectly calm expression. He might have been asleep.
It must have been a delusion, but as Aline bent over him, she fancied he smiled.
“Look! look! Georgette!” she cried. “He smiles upon me, as he used to do in life. Look at him!”
Georgette obeyed, but could discern nothing but the moveless features of the dead.
“I think he is about to speak to me,” continued Aline, still gazing at him.
“Do not deceive yourself, Madame,” said her attendant. “You will never again hear the sound of his voice.”
“I am not sure,” replied the bewildered lady, with a look that alarmed Georgette. “Speak to me, dear Sir Thomas! — speak to me!”
She hung over his lips, as if in expectation of some response, but none came.
Georgette now became seriously alarmed, and regretted having brought her mistress into the chamber.
“Come with me, Madame!” she cried. “You must not stay longer here.”
But Aline refused to stir.
“You shall not bear me from my beloved,” she cried. “I will remain here.”
Georgette feared she might be obliged to use force, when the Comte de Clairvaux entered the chamber. Seeing at a glance how matters stood, he stepped up to the distracted lady, and said, “Allow me to take you hence, Madame.”
Strange to say, Aline made no resistance now, but took the arm he offered her, and accompanied him to the adjoining chamber.
Georgette followed them.
Placing her on a couch with the greatest attention, the count whispered to Georgette, as he quitted the room, “Her reason depends upon the care you take of her. Fortunately, M. Martin, the surgeon, is here. I will send him up to her at once.”
“Be sure I will watch her most attentively, Monsieur le Comte,” replied Georgette, sobbing. “She is as dear to me as my life.”
Presently, M. Martin appeared, and after a brief examination of the unhappy lady, directed Georgette to put her to bed without delay.
On quitting the room he found the Comte de Clairvaux on the staircase, who inquired most anxiously what he thought of the poor lady’s state.
“I cannot give a precise opinion as yet,” replied the surgeon. “But I very much fear she will lose her senses. That letter seems to have produced a terrible effect upon her.”
“You alarm me greatly,” cried the Count. “If your fears are unhappily realised, I shall always blame myself for giving her the letter.”
CHAPTER VIII.
BRERETON HALL.
LET US now repair to Brereton Hall, one of the many old timber-and-plaster mansions yet to be found in Cheshire and Lancashire.
This ancient house, with which many curious traditions were connected, and which had been successively inhabited by representatives of the Masseys, the Stanleys, and the Breretons, had been sadly neglected of late years, and though not positively in a ruinous state was the next thing to it.
More than half the rooms were stripped of their furniture and shut up, while those occupied by the present inmates had been partially dismantled.
Still, the great banquetting-hall was hung with tapestry — somewhat faded, it is true. Still, the latticed bay windows glowed with painted glass. Still, the magnificent oak staircase, of Elizabeth’s time, mounted from the entrance-hall to the upper chambers. Still, some exquisitely-carved oak furniture was left — together with a few old portraits of the Breretons; but the large library had been completely robbed of its treasures.
A general air of neglect pervaded the fine old place, and seemed to intimate very plainly that its occupants were too poor to keep it up.
The garden surrounding the ancient mansion seemed equally neglected.
Formerly it had boasted beautiful clipped alleys and trim walks, with a smooth and delightful bowling: green, but now the latter was seldom mown, and the alleys were no longer trim.
It seemed a pity that the old hall was not sold — And sold it would have been, but there happened to be a defect in the title.
Two days after the tragic event, just recorded, took place at Dieppe, a very fine-looking young man, and a middle-aged dame were seated at breakfast in the deep recess formed by one of the bay windows we have alluded to.
The lady’s features, which bore a strong family likeness to those of the ill-fated Sir Thomas Starkey, had a melancholy expression, and her sombre attire proclaimed her a widow.
She was, in fact, Mrs. Brereton, and the young man with her was her son Stanley. He was habited in a dark grey Tweed suit, which suited him exceedingly well.
Stanley Brereton, whose fortunes did not look very promising at home, had recently resolved to go out to Australia, in spite of the remonstrances of his mother, who could not bear to part with him; and they had been talking over the matter, as they usually did, at breakfast.
But on this occasion the young man declared that he had quite made up his mind — that no entreaties should move him — and that next day he meant to go up to London and take a passage to Melbourne in one of the royal mail steamships.
“Then you are quite determined to leave me, dearest boy?” said his mother, regarding him with tearful eyes.
“What good should I do by staying here?” he rejoined. “You ought to be glad to get rid of me.”
“Oh! don’t say that!” she exclaimed. “You are the sole comfort of my life.”
“Then come with me to Melbourne!” he cried. “You can go by the Orient Line — splendid steamships! Ha!”
“No! no! I should like to go with you, but I daren’t take such a long voyage. Besides, what should I do when I got to Melbourne?”
“Oh, we’ll find plenty to do, I can promise you. If not, we’ll go to the Bush.”
“Well, defer your design for a month, and meantime I’ll make a strong effort with your uncle, Sir Thomas.”
“It won’t answer, depend upon it. He’ll do nothing for us. By-the-bye, I had a strange dream about him last night. Shall I tell it you?”
“I don’t care for dreams in a general way. But perhaps this may interest me.”
“At all events it’s curious. I thought I saw my uncle lying on the ground in a dying state.”
“Dying! Oh, dear me!”
“Yes; he had been shot in a duel, as it seemed to me, for several persons were standing near him, and amongst them was a lady, who, I fancied, was the belle Aline, of whom we have heard so much.”
“That horrid creature seems always associated with Sir Thomas. Is your dream ended?”
“No. I thought Sir Thomas died of his wound.”
“Good gracious! I hope not,” exclaimed Mrs. Brereton. “I don’t like your dream at all, Stanley.”
“But surely you have no belief in it?”
“Not exactly belief — but it makes me feel extremely uneasy.”
“Then I’m sorry I related it to you. But here comes old Minshull with some letters. They’ll help to change the topic.”
As he spoke an old and very respectable manservant, habited in black, marched slowly towards them, and laid down a couple of letters on the table.
“What’s this?” exclaimed Stanley in amazement, taking up one of the letters, the cover of which was edged with black, and addressed to himself. “My uncle’s handwriting!”
“My letter is likewise from him,” said Mrs. Brereton. “I declare I’m afraid to open it.”
“Why afraid?” cried Stanley. “He couldn’t announce his own death?”
“I believe Sir Thomas is dead,” observed Minshull, who had lingered near the table, having evidently something to communicate. “Both you, sir, and my mistress will be shocked when I tell you I’ve just read in the Daily Telegraphy which I have in my pocket, that Sir Thomas was shot in a duel at Dieppe, on Tuesday last.”
“Are you sure, Minshull?” exclaimed Stanley, quite thunderstruck.
“You can read it yourself, sir,” replied the old man-servant, producing the paper.
“Yes, he
re it is!” cried Stanley. “FATAL DUEL AT DIEPPE. — On the day before yesterday, Sir Thomas Starkey, who has latterly been residing at Dieppe, was shot in a duel by Captain Darcy, of the Grenadier Guards, cousin to Lady Starkey. The unfortunate baronet died immediately. We have not learnt the cause of the quarrel.”
“Alas, my poor brother!” exclaimed Mrs. Brereton. “What a sad fate! This puts an end to all my hopes. But let me see what his letter says,” she added, tearing it open. “This appears to have been written on the very morning when the duel took place. And what do you think?” she added, suddenly changing her tone. “He has left me a thousand a year.”
“A thousand a year!” exclaimed Stanley, “That’s very handsome. I’m rejoiced to hear it, I wonder whether he has done anything for me,” he added, opening his own letter. “Hurrah!” he cried in an ecstacy of delight. “He has left me all the rest of his property. That must be two thousand a year at least. Something like an uncle, eh?”
“This is what he says: T have left a thousand a year to your mother, and I leave the remainder of my property to you.’”
“Astonishing!” exclaimed Mrs. Brereton.
Transported with delight, Stanley sprang from his chair, and danced about the room.
“No Australia now!” he exclaimed. “I’ll stop at home! I’ll repair and refurnish this dear old house! I’ll — I don’t know what I won’t do!”
Old Minshull, who had not quitted the room, looked almost as much delighted as his young master.
“I sincerely congratulate you, sir,” he said, in accents of heartfelt satisfaction; “and you too, Madame.”
“As the bearer of these good tidings, Minshull, you ought to be rewarded,” said Stanley. “When I receive my fortune, you shall have a hundred pounds,”
“And another hundred from me,” added Mrs. Brereton.
The old servant thanked them both warmly, and quitted the room.
“Oh! I’m so happy?” cried Mrs. Brereton,— “so very happy! and yet I ought not to say so,” she added, checking herself, “for is not our good fortune purchased by poor Sir Thomas’s death?”
“Quite true, my dear mother, quite true! And yet, it’s impossible to help rejoicing at such an unexpected piece of good luck. I’m afraid I’ve done my uncle great injustice. I thought rather badly of him — but he has turned out a trump. He must always have had a very kind feeling towards us, or he would never have acted thus.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 791
