Chapter XV

For several virtues
Have I liked several women. Never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,
And put it to the foil. But you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature’s best.
SHAKSPEARE.

Have not all past human beings parted?
And must not all the present one day part?

It has been said that it was Lady Gayland’s intention to avoid, as much as possible, the particular attentions of Castleton. The difficulty of carrying this intention into effect very much increased, as the society, in which they lived, itself diminished. It is a hard task too, to have always to count the sentences you may with discretion accord to one whose society you prefer; particularly as there was nothing actually in Castleton’s deportment to put the most prudent upon her guard. Since that eventful day at Somersby, when circumstances had betrayed him into an unfortunate indiscretion, his address to her had always been studiously unobjectionable. It was only when, acting upon her present system, she made her attentions to any one else more conspicuous, that his impatience prevented him from altogether concealing his feelings: at other times, when enjoying her society, he seemed to be perfectly convinced that she could never be to him other than a chosen companion.

Lady Gayland was fully conscious of the danger of this position; she wanted not the innuendoes of the world to enlighten her as to its tendency; her own heart was to her the best warning that it was a provisional state of things which could not always continue. Could she have foreseen its natural termination, she would have been most desirous to await that;--but when was it to end? The return of Lady Castleton, with her partiality for herself, would only facilitate and organise an intimacy. With this conviction upon her mind, after many painful struggles, her resolution was taken; and when once decided, the arrangements in furtherance of it were made immediately, and in secret. She was most anxious to avoid, if possible, any thing in the shape of remonstrance from Castleton; but, above all, a protracted contest on the subject, which she felt must be peculiarly painful.

It was the afternoon of the same day on which Lucy embarked from Morden Bay, that Castleton, upon calling at Lady Gayland’s lodgings, was struck with the denuded and uninhabited appearance of the apartment, from which all its comforts had been removed. He had hardly time to make this observation, when a travelling carriage, heavily laden, drove up to the door, and at the same moment, Lady Gayland, equipped as for a journey, entered the room. Her countenance was calm, but unusually pale; and a slight tremor betrayed itself through the forced firmness of her voice, as she said, “Castleton, you know I never had any opinion of a system of palliatives: a disagreeable thing that must be done decidedly, may as well be communicated directly. If you--if you--regard me, do not attempt to dissuade me from what I would myself avoid, if possible. I am about to leave Sandford--and--_I winter at Rome_.”

“At Rome!” repeated Castleton, starting back, and concentrating into the tone in which he uttered those two words, the expression of despair at extinguished happiness. “At Rome! No--it must not be.”

At that moment a servant came in to fetch Lady Gayland’s writing-desk, which, alone, had not yet been consigned to the carriage. It was one of those inopportune entrances, which it was difficult to bear, but still more difficult to resist. The moments occupied in enclosing the desk in its case seemed interminable: it was impossible that one word could meanwhile be exchanged between the parties. Castleton had turned his back at once, upon the man’s entrance, and stood, without moving, with his face towards the chimney-piece; and Lady Gayland watched, with intense anxiety, all the varied workings of his expressive countenance, as portrayed in the mirror before him. When at length the servant had again left the room, Castleton turned slowly round, advanced towards Lady Gayland, took her hand between his, and with effort gasped forth, “Geraldine--you are right!”

This unexpectedly generous acquiescence in the propriety of her determination, powerfully increased all her feelings in his favour, and added therefore to the difficulty of concealing her own weakness. Again, for some moments, they stood as silent as if an eye-witness had been in the room: at last he continued--“’Tis, however, somewhat sudden. I cannot yet quite forget what my prospects were the last hour--what they are this. Mystery and concealment need no longer be maintained, when all will so soon be over. Of course, I cannot conceal from myself that _I_ am connected with this determination.”

“Castleton, I had hoped, by the course which I have taken, to have been spared explanation, useless to you--injurious to myself: but after the noble and disinterested manner in which you have facilitated the execution of my project, by acknowledging its propriety, I cannot refuse to answer your question, if you press for reply.”

“I press for nothing that can be painful to yourself. I _can_ have no claim on you.”

“You feel that it is not necessary,” added she, faintly smiling, “to force me to a verbal confession that it was the influence which I felt you _must_ have over my actions, if I stayed, which has induced me to take this irrevocable step.”

“This candid avowal, at such a moment, only the more completely exposes the folly of my former wilful blindness. But think not now that I ever dared to shape my rash hopes into any other form than the being allowed on sufferance the enjoyment of your society: I had not the shadow of an excuse for further presumption. Had I first known you bound in loathsome chains, I fear that a sense of moral obligation might have in vain attempted to arrest the force of my passion in its endeavours to break these chains asunder. But you are still free--free as when I first loved you; and I am the cause of my own bondage. That fatal mistake--I had had painful experience of your sex--and by this I blindly judged a manner peculiar to yourself--I thought myself again deceived: I felt that any thing like you, yet not yourself, would be unendurable. I sought, therefore, in another rank of life a perfect contrast. All that I could, in common reason, have expected in such an experiment, I have obtained: and with it every tie of honour obliges me to be satisfied--and so I will. Go, dearest Lady Gayland, where prudence calls you. I have again deceived myself in fancying that I could live with you as a friend. The attempt has been useless. Go--you may still be happy in forgetting him who has only himself to blame.”

“No; not entirely so. I feel that I likewise was formerly much to blame; but my error was unintentional. I was always a strange, unaccountable creature: I never could drill my deportment into intelligible discipline; and, singular as it may seem, the same heedless appearance was sometimes caused by directly opposite feelings. It was, I believe, those very high spirits, produced by the conviction of your attachment, which excited, at Rome, that levity of which you complained: had I been more of a coquette at heart, I should have been less a coquette in manner. Here, on the contrary, where I have been really unhappy, as the sad certainty broke upon me that I could not consider you only as a friend, though still hoping that mine was a love as passionless as human heart can know, I have endeavoured to lose for a moment that consciousness in the frivolous society of others. Believe me, a gay tone often conceals more anguish than it causes.”

“I believe all you say--I admire all you do--I despise myself--and I submit.”

“The carriage is quite ready, my Lady,” said a servant opening the door, and then closing it again.

“O not yet!” exclaimed Castleton, “I had so much more to say.”

“Is it, for either of our sakes, desirable to prolong these sad moments?”

“No; and yet I would postpone, if it were even for an instant, the dreary void in existence which will succeed your departure. Whilst you are still here, I have not yet the actual consciousness that she, who was but this morning the charm of every prospect, has for ever faded from my sight. But this is wrong; your firmness deserves better support from me. I feel the value, especially to you, of appearances on this occasion. One moment more, and I will be ready.”

He took two or three hasty strides across the room--clenched his hands violently--pressed his teeth against his closed lips--and then, with forced composure, said, “Now I am ready to attend you to your carriage.”

As they descended the first flight of stairs, Lady Gayland softly murmured, “One word at parting: cherish your wife; she loves you, and _you_ should at least make _her_ happy.”

Castleton pressed her arm against his heart, and nodded assent.

“Not quite ready, my Lady,” said the same servant, “the chaise seat was forgot, in Mademoiselle’s room.”

As they had with much effort screwed their courage to the point, this suspense was even more painful than their parting would have been a few moments before; but there was no resource, and they stood leaning against the wall at the head of the first flight of steps. Availing himself of this opportunity, Castleton added, “You will at least allow me to write to you; there are so many subjects--indifferent subjects I mean--in the retired life that I intend to lead, and I shall have no one near me with whom I can communicate. To this, at least, there can be no objection.”

To this request Lady Gayland hesitated how to reply. “For the present,” said she, “let us settle nothing but separation; it may be a satisfaction to us hereafter that, at least for the time, we made that complete.”

“Quite ready, my Lady,” was again announced, before Castleton could further urge his request. As they descended the stairs they seemed both nerved for the trial of the ultimate parting. Groups of idlers on horseback, casual acquaintances returning from the parade, made this exertion the more necessary. “An odious day,” exclaimed one. “The most disagreeable that I ever knew,” added another;--and so they passed on, without in the least suspecting that those whom they thus concisely greeted, and in whom they remarked nothing particular, were in the act of perfecting the greatest mutual sacrifice that the world could require from either. Their hands had at length been severed, the door was closed, and the carriage in motion, when Lady Gayland covered her face, and sobbed aloud, exclaiming indistinctly; “The blinds--the blinds--quick. Angélique, _les rideaux, tirez les donc_.”

“You are ill, my Lady; _will_ we stop?”

“Stop! No; faster--still faster:” and overwhelmed with long suppressed emotion, she burst into an hysterical fit of tears.