Volume Ii Part 9 (1/2)
Then turn my hard captivity, Nor let me sue in vain, Whilst with unshaken constancy, I seek your feet again.
One smile of thine can cheer the heart, That only beats to be United, ne'er again to part-- My life! my soul!--from thee.
I sang my best, and was accounted by all the young men of my acquaintance, to have a fine manly voice. But I was not rewarded by a single word or encouraging smile.
Margaretta's head was bowed upon her hands, and tears were streaming fast through her slender fingers.
”Margaret, dearest Margaret!” for in speaking to her, I always dropped the Italianized termination of her name. ”Are you ill. Do speak to me.”
She still continued to weep.
”I wish I had not sung that foolish song.”
”It was only sung too well, Geoffrey.” And she slowly raised her head and put back the hair from her brow. ”Ah, what sad, what painful recollections does that song call up. But with these, you have nothing to do. I will not ask you how you became acquainted with that air; but I request as a great favour, that you will never sing or play it to me again.”
She relapsed into silence, which I longed to break but did not know how. At length she rose from the bank on which we had been seated, resumed her bonnet, and expressed a wish to return to the Hall.
”The night has closed in very fast,” said she, ”or is the gloom occasioned by the shadow of the trees?”
”It is only a few minutes past seven,” I replied, looking at my watch.
”The hay-makers have not yet left their work.” We had followed the course of the stream, on our homeward path, and now emerged into an open s.p.a.ce in the Park. The sudden twilight which had descended upon us was caused by a heavy pile of thunder clouds which hung frowning over the woods, and threatened to overtake us before we could reach the Hall.
”How still and deep the waters lie,” said Margaretta. ”There is not a breath of wind to ruffle them or stir the trees. The awful stillness which precedes a storm inspires me with more dread, than when it launches forth with all its terrific powers.”
”Hark! There's the first low peal of thunder, and the trees are all trembling and s.h.i.+vering in the electric blast which follows it. How sublimely beautiful, is this magnificent war of elements.”
”It is very true, dear cousin, but if you stand gazing at the clouds, we shall both get wet.”
”Geoffrey,” said Margaretta, laughing, ”there is nothing poetical about you.”
”I have been used to the commonest prose all my life, Madge. But here we are at the fis.h.i.+ng-house: we had better stow ourselves away with your father's nets and tackles until this heavy shower is over.”
No sooner said than done. We crossed a rustic bridge which spanned the stream, and ascending a flight of stone steps, reached a small rough-cast building, open in front, with a bench running round three sides of it, and a rude oak table in the middle, which was covered with fis.h.i.+ng-rods, nets, and other tackle belonging to the gentle craft.
From this picturesque shed Sir Alexander, in wet weather, could follow his favourite sport, as the river ran directly below, and it was considered the best spot for angling, the water expanding here into a deep still pool, much frequented by the finny tribes.
We were both soon seated in the ivy-covered porch, the honey-suckle hanging its perfumed ta.s.sels, dripping with the rain, above our heads, while the clematis and briar-rose gave out to the shower a double portion of delicate incense.
The scene was in unison with Margaretta's poetical temperament. She enjoyed it with her whole heart; her beautiful eyes brimful of love and adoration.
The landscape varied every moment. Now all was black and lowering; lightnings pierced with their arrowy tongues the heavy foliage of the frowning woods, and loud peals of thunder reverberated among the distant hills; and now a solitary sunbeam struggled through a rift in the heavy cloud, and lighted up the gloomy scene with a smile of celestial beauty.
Margaretta suddenly grasped my arm; I followed the direction of her eye, and beheld a tall female figure, dressed in deep mourning, pacing too and fro on the bridge we had just crossed. Her long hair, unconfined by cap or bandage, streamed in wild confusion round her wan and wasted features, and regardless of the pelting of the pitiless storm, she continued to hurry backwards and forwards, throwing her hands into the air, and striking her breast like one possessed.
”Who is she?” I whispered.
”The wreck of all that once was beautiful,” sighed Margaretta, ”It is Alice Mornington, the daughter of one of my father's tenants.”
”Alice Mornington! Good Heavens! is that poor mad woman Alice Mornington?”
Margaretta looked surprised.