Part 14 (1/2)
”Dear mother,” he said very gently, ”it is my father whom you love in me and not myself; when I do not wear this pa.s.sing likeness of him, which at times only draws your heart to me, there remains nothing in myself to win your affections, and you do not love me.”
”It is true,” she answered calmly; ”living I loved him only--dead, it is his memory alone which I adore.”
”Then I think you cannot refuse the prayer I have to make to you this day,” said Hubert, not the least flush of indignation tinging his pale cheek at this unfeeling announcement; ”I think it cannot in truth be any pleasure to you to see in me the marred and hateful resemblance of that which was so beautiful, and so dear; better surely to feed on his image pure and unchanged in the depths of your heart, and never have it brought so painfully before you in my miserable person.” He paused a moment whilst she looked wondering at him, and then, suddenly, he exclaimed, with a pa.s.sionate burst of feeling, ”Mother, let me go--let me go--from this house, where my presence is abhorred by some and sought by none; nothing has kept me here but my fatal promise to you: I would I had died ere I made it; but it will cost you nothing to part from me, and you know not what it may cost me to stay here; it is cruel to keep me--let me go.”
”Let you go! Hubert think what you are saying, you would go to starve!”
”It matters not! better so than to live on here. Mother, you would have had no power to detain me in this place but for that rash promise; not even your wishes should have kept me. I beseech you release me from it.”
”Never!”
He almost writhed as she spoke, yet he went on--
”Do not keep me because you fancy I should starve; no man does who has energy and perseverance. I have a head and hands to labor with, and how far sweeter were the worst of toil than the bitter bread of charity.”
”But do you know,” said Lady Randolph almost fiercely, ”that I could not give you the means of buying that bread one day, I am so utterly in Sir Michael's power. He succeeded in laying hold of me because I was poverty-stricken beyond what flesh and blood could bear, and now by the same means he binds me down; he never has relaxed his hold; every thing is his; I could not command a s.h.i.+lling. These very baubles with which he loads me are not my own.” And she tore the bracelets from her arms and flung them down. ”He calls them family jewels on purpose to keep me to the veriest trifle in his power.
”Mother, mother,” exclaimed Hubert, ”do you think, though he placed the wealth of millions in your hands, that I would not rather perish than touch it; it is too much already that I have been so long indebted to him for the roof that shelters me; but I do not fear that I could gain enough for my own living, if only you will let me go from this Egyptian bondage.”
”Hubert, what is it that has excited you in this manner? I never saw you so unlike yourself; you are usually so calm and so enduring. Was it your unfortunate meeting with Sir Michael last night? Was he more than usually insulting?”
”No, it was not that,” said Hubert gently. ”I am so used to his bitter words that I could not feel more pained than I have ever been; but it matters not that you should be wearied with the detail of all the thoughts that have made me at this time so desirous to leave Randolph Abbey; dear mother, let it suffice you that I do implore you to release me from my promise.”
”Hubert, I tell you NO a thousand times. I will not see you starved to death for any Quixotic fancy; and, besides, do you think any power on this earth would induce me to gratify my worst enemy, my life-long enemy, whom chiefly I hate because he has the power to call me _wife_--that dear name I so loved to hear from the beloved lips that are choked up with dust? Do you think I would gratify him by giving him that which he has labored for, by the persecution of my own dearest husband, even to the death, and of myself to worse than death, a life with him?
Do you know that the one thing he has always desired has been to obtain possession of me without having you for ever before his eyes as the living monument of that buried love which was his torturer, and to which I am faithful still? And do you think that to brighten even your life, much less to peril it, I would grant him this his heart's desire, and put it out of my power to show him, in every caress I lavish upon you, my poor deformed son, how I adored your father?”
Hubert let her hand fall, and his features a.s.sumed an expression of severity.
”Mother, forgive me that as your son I venture to judge you; but this is unworthy, most unworthy.”
She seemed almost awed by his rebuke, but hastily throwing her arms round him, she said more gently:
”Hubert, forgive me; but I cannot--cannot part with you, the last shattered fragment of my ruined happiness. You do not know what it is to me to see you; to hear your voice coming to me like an echo from the grave, telling of departed love; to find in your eyes at times a glance as from the light of the past. It was such joy, such deep, deep joy when he lived, and my happiness was hid in his true heart, that often I think I never, never could have been so blest: and in truth that it is all a dream, too unutterably sweet to have been true; life seems to faint within me at that thought, for it is something to feel, barren and desolate as my existence is now, that I _have_ loved and been loved as once I was; and, Hubert, it is your presence alone that makes all this reality to me. His kiss has been upon your lips--his voice has called you his dear son. Ah! take not from me those last relics of him.”
She laid her head upon his breast in a pa.s.sion of weeping. He raised her tenderly, and said with a calm voice:
”Mother, it is not my vocation in this world to give pain to others for the sake of my own will or pleasure: take comfort, I will never more trouble you concerning this matter; I will not ask again to leave you.”
Silently she pressed her lips to his forehead, and then, as if ashamed that even her own son should have seen her so moved, she rose up without speaking and left the room.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] Continued from page 387.
From Bentley's Miscellany.
SEQUEL TO THE JEWISH HEROINE.
A magnificent saloon, dazzling with oriental splendor, and brilliant with Arabic decorations, was allotted to Sol's reception; and there she was immediately attended by six Moorish damsels, who came to receive her orders. Fatigued by the length of her journey, and covered with the dust of the road, she begged for water to refresh herself, and a room where she might repose. Scarcely were the words p.r.o.nounced when she beheld around her vessels of silver, brought to her by six other damsels, clothed in white, and offering her that for which she had asked with respect and humility. They brought her clothes of the finest cambric, fragrant essences of Arabia, and exquisitely-worked garments of divers colors, and of the highest value, all of which the humble Sol rejected, scarcely accepting from them even those things which were indispensable to her, and declining to change her dress. But one of the ladies of the court, seeing this, told her that she had received orders to clothe her according to the custom of the country, for which purpose she had collected together these garments for her choice. Sol, nevertheless, after expressing her grat.i.tude, endeavored to excuse herself, but the request was pressed upon her with so much urgency, that she found it impossible to decline; and, at length, among the many varieties of dress prepared for her express use, selected one of a black hue, bordered with white, as indicative of the sadness of her heart; when, after a place of rest had been pointed out to her, she was left alone.