Part 15 (1/2)
Bending toward Leicester, until from the low seat she sank unintentionally upon her knees, she prayed with pa.s.sionate fervour:
”But shall not your wife, my love, one day soon be surrounded with the honour which arises neither from the toils of the mechanic who decks her apartment, nor from the silks and jewels with which your generosity adorns her, but which is attached to her place among the matronage, as the avowed wife of England's n.o.blest earl? _'Tis not the dazzling splendour of your t.i.tle that I covet, but the richer, n.o.bler, dearer coronet of your beloved name, the precious privilege of fronting the world as your acknowledged wife_.”
Again, in answer to his flattering evasive sophistries, she asked in a voice whose marvellous modulations in the midst of intense feeling seemed to penetrate every nook of that vast building:
”But why can it not be? Why can it not immediately take place, this more perfect uninterrupted union, for which you say you wish, and which the laws of G.o.d and man alike command? _Think you my unshod feet would shrink from glowing ploughshares, if crossing them I found the sacred shelter of my husband's name? Ah, husband! dost blanch before the storm of condemnation, which has no terrors for a wife's brave heart? It would seem but scant and tardy justice to own thy wedded wife!_”
The earl had led her behind the scenes, and the minister had twice addressed him ere Mr. Laurance recovered himself sufficiently to perceive that his companions were smiling at his complete absorption.
”Why--Cuthbert--wake up. You look like some one walking open-eyed in sleep. Has Madame's beauty dazed you as utterly as poor Count T----?”
His wife pinched his arm, but without heeding her he looked quite past her into the laughing eyes of the minister, and asked:
”Do you know her? Is her husband living?”
”I shall call by appointment to-morrow, but this is the first time I have seen her. Of her history I know nothing, but rumour p.r.o.nounces her a widow.”
”Which generally means that these pretty actresses have drunken, worthless husbands, paid comfortable salaries to shut their eyes and keep out of the way,” added Mrs. Laurance, lengthening the range of her opera gla.s.s, and levelling it at a group where the s.h.i.+mmer of jewels attracted her attention.
How the words grated on her husband's ear, grown strangely sensitive within an hour?
Carelessly glancing over the sea of faces beneath and around him, the minister continued:
”English critics contend that Madame Orme's 'Amy Robsart' is so far from being Scott's ideal creation, that he would fail to recognize it were he alive; still where she alters the text, and intensifies the type, they admit that the dramatic effect is heightened. She appears to have concentrated all her talent upon the pa.s.sionate impersonation of one peculiar phrase of feminine suffering and endurance--that of the outraged and neglected wife; and her favourite _roles_ are 'Katherine' from Henry VIII., 'Hermione,' and 'Medea,' though she is said to excel in 'Deborah.' My brother who saw her last night as 'Medea' p.r.o.nounced her fully equal to Rachel, and said that in that scene where she attempted to remove her children from the side of the new wife, the despairing fury of her eyes literally raised the few thin hairs that still faithfully cling to the top of his head.
Ah--the parting with Leicester--how marvellously beautiful is she!”
Leaning against a dressing-table loaded with toilet trifles and _bijouterie_, Amy stood, arrayed in the costume which displayed to greatest advantage the perfect symmetry of form and the dazzling purity of her complexion.
The cymar of white silk bordered with swan's-down exposed the gleaming dimpled shoulders, and from beneath the pretty lace coif the unbound glory of her long hair swept around her like a cataract of gold, touching the hem of her silken gown, where, to complete the witchery, one slippered foot was visible. When her husband entered to bid her adieu, and the final pet.i.tion for public acknowledgment was once more sternly denied, the long-pent agony in the woman's heart burst all barriers, overflowed every dictate of wounded pride, and with an utter _abandon_ of genuine poignant grief, she gave way to a storm that shook her frame with convulsive sobs, and deluged her cheeks with tears. Despite her desperate efforts to maintain her self-control, the sight of her husband's magnetic handsome face, after thirteen weary years of waiting, unnerved, overwhelmed her.
There in the temple of Art, where critical eyes were bent searchingly upon her, Nature triumphantly a.s.serted itself, and she who wept pa.s.sionately from the bitter realisation of her own acc.u.mulated wrongs, was wildly applauded as the queen of actresses, who so successfully simulated imaginary woes.
By what infallible criterion shall criticdom decide the boundaries of the Actual and the Ideal? Who shall compute the expenditure of literal heartache that builds up the popularly successful Desdemonas, Camilles, and Marie Stuarts; the scalding tears that gradually crystallize into the cla.s.sic repose essential to the severe simplicity of the old Greek tragedies?
The curtain fell upon a bowed and sobbing woman, and the tempest of applause that shook the building was prolonged until after a time Amy Robsart, with tears still glistening on her cheeks, came forward to acknowledge the tribute, and her silken garments were pelted with bouquets. Among the number that embroidered the stage lay a pyramid of violets edged with rose geranium leaves, and raising it she bent her lovely head to the audience and kissed the violets, in memory (?) of her far-off child--whose withered floral tribute was more precious to the woman's heart than all the laudatry chaplets of the great city, which did homage to her genuine tears.
Some time elapsed while the play s.h.i.+fted to the court, recounting the feuds of Leicester and Suss.e.x, and when Amy Robsart appeared again it was in the stormy interview where Varney endeavours to enforce the earl's command that she shall journey to Kenilworth as Varney's wife.
The trembling submissiveness of earlier scenes was thrown away for ever, and, as if metamorphosed into a Fury, she rose, towered above him, every feature quivering with hatred, scorn, and defiance.
”Look at him, Janet! that I should go with him to Kenilworth, and before the Queen and n.o.bles, and in presence of my own wedded lord, that I should acknowledge him,--him there, that very cloak-brus.h.i.+ng, shoe-cleaning fellow,--him there, my lord's lackey, for my liege lord and husband! I would I were a man but for five minutes!--but go!
begone!”
She paused panting, then threw back her haughty head, rose on tiptoe, and, shaking her hand in prophetic wrath and deathless defiance, almost hissed into the box beneath which Varney stood:
”Go, tell thy master that when I, like him, can forget my plighted troth, _turn craven, bury honour, and forswear my marriage vows, then, oh then! I promise him, I will give him a rival, something worthy of the name!_”
Was the avenging lash of conscience uncoiled at last in Cuthbert Laurance's hardened soul that the blood so suddenly ebbed from his lips, and he drew his breath like one overshadowed by a vampire?
Only once had he caught the full gleam of her indignant eyes, but that long look had awakened torture's that would never entirely slumber again, until the solemn hush of the shroud and the cemetery was his portion. No suspicion of the truth crossed his mind, even for an instant,--for what resemblance could be traced between that regal woman, and the shy, awkward, dark-haired little rustic, who thirteen years before had frolicked like a spaniel about him,--loving but lowly?