CHAPTER X.
"If I should meet thee
After long years,
How shall I greet thee?"--BYRON.
IT was a smaller party than usual the next day, consisting only of Lord
Doningdale, his son George Herbert, Valerie and Ernest. They were
returning from the ruins, and the sun, now gradually approaching the
west, threw its slant rays over the gardens and houses of a small,
picturesque town, or, perhaps, rather village, on the high North Road.
It is one of the prettiest places in England, that town or village, and
boasts an excellent old-fashioned inn, with a large and quaint
pleasure-garden. It was through the long and straggling street that our
little party slowly rode, when the sky became suddenly overcast, and, a
few large hailstones falling, gave notice of an approaching storm.
"I told you we should not get safely through the day," said George
Herbert. "Now we are in for it."
"George, that is a vulgar expression," said Lord Doningdale, buttoning
up his coat. While he spoke, a vivid flash of lightning darted across
their very path, and the sky grew darker and darker.
"We may as well rest at the inn," said Maltravers: "the storm is coming
on apace, and Madame de Ventadour--"
"You are right," interrupted Lord Doningdale; and he put his horse into
a canter.
They were soon at the door of the old hotel. Bells rang dogs
barked--hostlers ran. A plain, dark, travelling post-chariot was before
the inn-door; and, roused perhaps by the noise below, a lady in the
"first-floor front, No. 2," came to the window. This lady owned the
travelling-carriage, and was at this time alone in that apartment. As
she looked carelessly at the party, her eyes rested on one form--she
turned pale, uttered a faint cry, and fell senseless on the floor.
Meanwhile, Lord Doningdale and his guests were shown into the room next
to that tenanted by the lady. Properly speaking, both the rooms made
one long apartment for balls and county meetings, and the division was
formed by a thin partition, removable at pleasure. The hail now came on
fast and heavy, the trees groaned, the thunder roared; and in the large,
dreary room there was a palpable and oppressive sense of coldness and
discomfort. Valerie shivered--a fire was lighted--and the Frenchwoman
drew near to it.
"You are wet, my dear lady," said Lord Doningdale. "You should take off
that close habit, and have it dried."
"Oh, no; what matters it?" said Valerie bitterly, and almost rudely.
"It matters everything," said Ernest; "pray be ruled."
"And do you care for me?" murmured Valerie.
"Can you ask that question?" replied Ernest, in the same tone, and with
affectionate and friendly warmth.
Meanwhile, the good old lord had summoned the chambermaid, and, with the
kindly imperiousness of a father, made Valerie quit the room. The three
gentlemen, left together, talked of the storm, wondered how long it
would last, and debated the propriety of sending to Doningdale for the
carriage. While they spoke, the hail suddenly ceased, though clouds in
the distant horizon were bearing heavily up to renew the charge. George
Herbert, who was the most impatient of mortals, especially of rainy
weather in a strange place, seized the occasion, and insisted on riding
to Doningdale, and sending back the carriage.
"Surely a groom would do as well, George," said the father.
"My dear father, no; I should envy the rogue too much. I am bored to
death here. Marie will be frightened about us. Brown Bess will take me
back in twenty minutes. I am a hardy fellow, you know. Good-bye."
Away darted the young sportsman, and in two minutes they saw him spur
gaily from the inn-door.
"It is very odd that /I/ should have such a son," said Lord Doningdale,
musingly,--"a son who cannot amuse himself indoors for two minutes
together. I took great pains with his education, too. Strange that
people should weary so much of themselves that they cannot brave the
prospect of a few minutes passed in reflection--that a shower and the
resources of their own thoughts are evils so galling--very strange
indeed. But it is a confounded climate this, certainly. I wonder when
it will clear up."
Thus muttering, Lord Doningdale walked, or rather marched, to and fro
the room, with his hands in his coat pockets, and his whip sticking
perpendicularly out of the right one. Just at this moment the waiter
came to announce that his lordship's groom was without, and desired much
to see him. Lord Doningdale had then the pleasure of learning that his
favourite grey hackney, which he had ridden, winter and summer, for
fifteen years, was taken with shivers, and, as the groom expressed it,
seemed to have "the colic in its bowels!"
Lord Doningdale turned pale, and hurried to the stables without saying a
word.
Maltravers, who, plunged in thought, had not overheard the low and brief
conference between master and groom, remained alone, seated by the fire,
his head buried in his bosom, and his arms folded.
Meanwhile, the lady, who occupied the adjoining chamber, had recovered
slowly from her swoon. She put both hands to her temples, as if trying
to recollect her thoughts. Hers was a fair, innocent, almost childish
face; and now, as a smile shot across it, there was something so sweet
and touching in the gladness it shed over that countenance, that you
could not have seen it without strong and almost painful interest. For
it was the gladness of a person who has known sorrow. Suddenly she
started up, and said: "No, then! I do not dream. He is come back--he
is here--all will be well again! Ha! it is his voice. Oh, bless him,
it is /his/ voice!" She paused, her finger on her lip, her face bent
down. A low and indistinct sound of voices reached her straining ear
through the thin door that divided her from Maltravers. She listened
intently, but she could not overhear the import. Her heart beat
violently. "He is not alone!" she murmured, mournfully. "I will wait
till the sound ceases, and then I will venture in!"
And what was the conversation carried on in that chamber? We must
return to Ernest. He was sitting in the same thoughtful posture when
Madame de Ventadour returned.
The Frenchwoman coloured when she found herself alone with Ernest, and
Ernest himself was not at his ease.
"Herbert has gone home to order the carriage, and Lord Doningdale has
disappeared, I scarce know whither. You do not, I trust, feel the worse
for the rain?"
"No," said Valerie.
"Shall you have any commands in London?" asked Maltravers; "I return to
town to-morrow."
"So soon!" and Valerie sighed. "Ah!" she added, after a pause, "we
shall not meet again for years, perhaps. Monsieur de Ventadour is to be
appointed ambassador to the Court and so--and so--. Well, it is no
matter. What has become of the friendship we once swore to each other?"
"It is here," said Maltravers, laying his hand on his heart. "Here, at
least, lies the half of that friendship which was my charge; and more
than friendship, Valerie de Ventadour--respect--admiration--gratitude.
At a time of life when passion and fancy, most strong, might have left
me an idle and worthless voluptuary, you convinced me that the world has
virtue, and that woman is too noble to be our toy--the idol of to-day,
the victim of to-morrow. Your influence, Valerie, left me a more
thoughtful man--I hope a better one."
"Oh!" said Madame de Ventadour, strongly affected; "I bless you for what
you tell me: you cannot know--you cannot guess how sweet it is to me.
Now I recognise you once more. What--what did my resolution cost me?
Now I am repaid!"
Ernest was moved by her emotion, and by his own remembrances; he took
her hand, and pressing it with frank and respectful tenderness--"I did
not think, Valerie," said he, "when I reviewed the past, I did not think
that you loved me--I was not vain enough for that; but, if so, how much
is your character raised in my eyes--how provident, how wise your
virtue! Happier and better for both, our present feelings, each to
each, than if we had indulged a brief and guilty dream of passion, at
war with all that leaves passion without remorse, and bliss without
alloy. Now--"
"Now," interrupted Valerie, quickly, and fixing on him her dark
eyes--"now you love me no longer! Yet it is better so. Well, I will go
back to my cold and cheerless state of life, and forget once more that
Heaven endowed me with a heart!"
"Ah, Valerie! esteemed, revered, still beloved, not indeed with the
fires of old, but with a deep, undying, and holy tenderness, speak not
thus to me. Let me not believe you unhappy; let me think that, wise,
sagacious, brilliant as you are, you have employed your gifts to
reconcile yourself to a common lot. Still let me look up to you when I
would despise the circles in which you live, and say: 'On that pedestal
an altar is yet placed, to which the heart may bring the offerings of
the soul.'"
"It is in vain--in vain that I struggle," said Valerie, half-choked with
emotion, and clasping her hands passionately. "Ernest, I love you
still--I am wretched to think you love me no more: I would give you
nothing--yet I exact all; my youth is going--my beauty dimmed--my very
intellect is dulled by the life I lead; and yet I ask from you that
which your young heart once felt for me. Despise me, Maltravers, I am
not what I seemed--I am a hypocrite--despise me."
"No," said Ernest, again possessing himself of her hand, and falling on
his knee by her side. "No, never-to-be-forgotten, ever-to-be-honoured
Valerie, hear me." As he spoke, he kissed the hand he held; with the
other, Valerie covered her face and wept bitterly, but in silence.
Ernest paused till the burst of her feelings had subsided, her hand
still in his--still warmed by his kisses--kisses as pure as cavalier
ever impressed on the hand of his queen.
At this time, the door communicating with the next room gently opened.
A fair form--a form fairer and younger than that of Valerie de
Ventadour--entered the apartment; the silence had deceived her--she
believed that Maltravers was alone. She had entered with her heart upon
her lips; love, sanguine, hopeful love, in every vein, in every
thought--she had entered dreaming that across that threshold life would
dawn upon her afresh--that all would be once more as it had been, when
the common air was rapture. Thus she entered; and now she stood
spell-bound, terror-stricken, pale as death--life turned to
stone--youth--hope--bliss were for ever over to her! Ernest kneeling to
another was all she saw! For this had she been faithful and true amidst
storm and desolation; for this had she hoped--dreamed--lived. They did
not note her; she was unseen--unheard. And Ernest, who would have gone
barefoot to the end of the earth to find her, was in the very room with
her, and knew it not!
"Call me again /beloved/!" said Valerie, very softly.
"Beloved Valerie, hear me."
These words were enough for the listener; she turned noiselessly away:
humble as that heart was, it was proud. The door closed on her--she had
obtained the wish of her whole being--Heaven had heard her prayer--she
had once more seen the lover of her youth; and thenceforth all was night
and darkness to her. What matter what became of her? One moment, what
an effect it produces upon years!--ONE MOMENT!--virtue, crime, glory,
shame, woe, rapture, rest upon moments! Death itself is but a moment,
yet Eternity is its successor!
"Hear me!" continued Ernest, unconscious of what had passed--" hear me;
let us be what human nature and worldly forms seldom allow those of
opposite sexes to be--friends to each other, and to virtue also--friends
through time and absence--friends through all the vicissitudes of
life--friends on whose affection shame and remorse never cast a
shade--friends who are to meet hereafter! Oh! there is no attachment so
true, no tie so holy, as that which is founded on the old chivalry of
loyalty and honour; and which is what love would be, if the heart and
the soul were unadulterated by clay."
There was in Ernest's countenance an expression so noble, in his voice a
tone so thrilling, that Valerie was brought back at once to the nature
which a momentary weakness had subdued. She looked at him with an
admiring and grateful gaze, and then said, in a calm but low voice,
"Ernest, I understand you; yes, your friendship is dearer to me than
love."
At this time they heard the voice of Lord Doningdale on the stairs.
Valerie turned away. Maltravers, as he rose, extended his hand; she
pressed it warmly, and the spell was broken, the temptation conquered,
the ordeal passed. While Lord Doningdale entered the room, the
carriage, with Herbert in it, drove to the door. In a few minutes the
little party were within the vehicle. As they drove away, the hostlers
were harnessing the horses to the dark green travelling-carriage. From
the window, a sad and straining eye gazed upon the gayer equipage of the
peer--that eye which Maltravers would have given his whole fortune to
meet again. But he did not look up; and Alice Darvil turned away, and
her fate was fixed!
