The Lady's Book. December, 1838
Written for the Lady's Book.
THE YOUNG COUNTESS;
OR, A FOLLY AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
BY MISS M. MILES.
“MOTHER, I dare not tell him!”—And Amy
Bryant laid her head on her mother's bosom
and sobbed as if her heart were breaking.
“With all my love for Percy Roscoe, there is no
one who I fear so much—I dare not tell him.”
“Fear him, my child, then let your mother
entreat you in the strength of her affection, not
to harbor such a sentiment. Judge not hastily,
Amy, you are very young, and Mr. Roscoe's
grave manners may perhaps have caused
this feeling. He is certainly generous and
noble-minded.”
“But not the less strict in his ideas of propriety,
mother, and his words were stern and
cold when he extorted from me the promise of
giving up the society of Isabel Tracy—and can
I tell him that I have broken my word, that I
have passed hours, nay, days in her company?
“Yes, Amy, tell him the truth—believe me
it is best to deal openly with him. He will
not brook deceit in any form; but why did you
again extend an invitation to Lady Tracy to
visit us at this time of sickness and sorrow?
Even I, lenient as I am towards the follies of
the young, have opposed the intimacy. She
is a dangerous woman, with her insinuating
manners, and bewitching beauty.”
“I could not avoid it, mamma, without giving
the true reason, and I was afraid of her
ridicule; you know her wit, and satire, has
weapons that cut deep.”
“Ah! Amy, I fear this sensitiveness to the
shaft of ridicule will cause your path to be a
thorny one. It often leads you, my love, to
distrust your own resolves, even when they are
on the side of right; why, my child, care for
the laugh of the worldly minded? Is not the
approval of your conscience more to be desired
than their approbation? Act yourself in this
instance at least, Amy, and tell Mr. Roscoe the
truth. He will respect you the more for it.”
“But, dearest mamma, why cannot you? He
loves and respects you so, and you could soften
it, whilst I should only stand confused and
trembling.”
The sunset ray shone full upon Mrs. Bryant's
pale countenance as she reclined upon a
couch, supported by pillows; consumption was
fast doing its work of death, and her wan and
emaciated hand was laid solemnly upon her
daughter's fair head, as she replied:
“But would it restore Percy's confidence in
you, dearest; you know my days are numbered,
and he has asked from me the right of being
your protector when I am gone. Let my last
days be made happy by the knowledge that
there is no cloud over your love. This fear of
your noble hearted lover is unworthy of one
who owns the presence of a higher power. I
am feebler to day, and the time is at hand
when I must leave my only child with none in
the world to watch over her, but him to whom
she has given her young affections—let her not
deceive him.”
But ere Amy could reply, Roscoe had entered
the apartment, and was pressing the thin
hand of Mrs. Bryant in his, unable to speak
from his excess of emotion, whilst his other arm
encircled the drooping form of the half fainting
girl. He saw at a glance that there was a
great change in the invalid, and his voice faltered
with strong feeling as he said:
“Why, why dearest Mrs. Bryant did you not
write before? I would have come at any hour.”
“I knew it Percy,” answered she with a
faint smile, “but you had duties more imperative
elsewhere. But you will be with me to
the last, and”—but Amy raised her face with
such an expression of agony upon her features
that she stopped and sent her from the room
upon some trifling errand for herself, ere she
finished the sentence.
“And your father has promised to give you
the Percy estate. That, together with your
high talents, Percy, for you are acknowledged
to be one of the most rising lawyers of the day,
will ensure to you all the comforts of life, and
my poor girl will experience no change. She
can bring you nothing, but beauty and goodness;
for my annuity dies with me.”
“Whilst I live, she shall never know change;
and my kind father has been most liberal. But
not a word more, now; you are already exhausted,
and I hear Amy's step.”
“Amy, dear,” said her mother, “I am inclined
to sleep, and Martha shall sit by me
whilst you take a turn in the garden with Percy;
you are pale with watching and care.”
For a moment the fair girl hesitated, and the
crimson that stained her cheek almost mocked
the hue of the bright cloud that was floating
even then in the western sky; but her lover's
eye was full upon her face, and she dared not
refuse when he drew her hand within his own,
and said—“Come Amy, I have much to say to
you.”
They wandered forth, on that eve of beauty,
and she felt its sweet influences in her inmost
soul. Gradually the feverish excitement under
which she had been laboring became stilled,
and gently and tenderly did he prepare her for
the trial that so soon awaited her. Deeply
grateful for his kindness and sympathy, Amy
more than once opened her lips to tell him that
she had broken her word, but the thought of his
indignation was more than she coud bear at
such a time. “I cannot wound him now,” was
her thought, “to-morrow I well tell him all.”
There was a deeper change upon the face
of Mrs. Bryant when they again stood beside
her couch, and Amy entreated permission to
remain with her during the night, and the
mother could not deny her.
“Martha!” said Percy, as he closed Mrs.
Bryant's door for the night, and passed into the
kitchen where the old domestic and her husband,
the only two servants who had followed
Mrs. Bryant's variable fortunes, were sitting in
mournful silence—“Martha, will you put lights
for me in Miss Amy's little study? Mrs. Bryant
is very low to-night, and I will sit up there;
the nurse is with her, and your young mistress
will not leave her.”
The tears fell fast over the withered cheeks
of the old woman as she rose up to comply with
his request. Mrs. Bryant's husband had been
an officer, and these two faithful creatures had
been servants of her own father; but they
followed her whom they had seen grow up from
a blooming child, through all the trials and vicissitudes
to which she had been exposed; and
when she returned a widow and orphan to her
native land, upon a straitened income, remained
to share her fallen fortunes.
“Ah! master Percy, these are sad hours,”
said she, “it seems but yesterday since I saw
my poor mistress a bonny bride, and the gallant
captain, bless his memory, looking at her so
pridefully—and she is young yet to die;” and
her tears flowed faster. Percy, much affected,
turned away.
Night waned, but still the young girl kept
her lonely vigil by the sick bed. The nurse
was in a deep sleep, her services being dispensed
with, and she sat watching the laboured
breathing of her only parent. Ah! that lonely
watch by the deathbed of those we love—when
the deep stillness of night is around us—the
garnering up of every last word as they fall
faintly from the pallid lips, and of the smiles of
lingering love whose light will soon fade from
earth—
“Oh! not an hour like this
For bitterness, has life.”
Midnight came, and Mrs. Bryant unclosed
her eyes—Amy bent over her.
“My child!” and her voice was fearfully altered—“I
shall not see the light of another
glorious morning. I must see our good clergyman
once more. Let him and Percy both come,
for my hours are numbered.”
The nurse aroused from her slumbers, hurried
from the room, and Amy with a strength which
seemed as given in the hour of need, held a reviving
cordial to Mrs. Bryant's lip, and wiped
the damps from her brow. But a few moments
elapsed, ere Percy and the silvery-headed old
man, whose lessons had taught both mother and
daughter to look beyond this veil of woe, entered
the room. Percy folded his arms around
the waist of his beloved, who stood pale as marble,
but calmly, at the bedside; and the old
pastor kneeling down, prayed fervently for the
departing soul. An expression of peace and
serenity gave the features of Mrs. Bryant almost
a celestial beauty; with sudden strength
she raised her head from the pillows that supported
her.
“Come nearer, my children,” she whispered,
and clasped their hands together. “Here at
this solemn hour let me see my daughter united
to him who will cherish her when I am gone.”
Amy hid her face in the pillow—“Oh! mother,
dear mother, not now.”
“Yes, dearest, now, and I shall die happier—knowing
that one good and noble has her happiness
in keeping.” Exhausted she sunk back.
Percy raised the pale girl, and signed to Mr.
Danby; and amidst the convulsive sobbings of
deep grief, did Amy Bryant become the bride
of him whom she so reverenced and loved. The
rite was over, and she sunk on her knees beside
her mother, whose hand was raised in dying
blessings on her fair head, whilst her face
was touched with a mother's holy love. That
hand fell motionless, and Percy folded his bride
to his heart, and felt she was an orphan; with
none in the wide world but him to support and
cherish her.
There was the sound of many feet in the
quiet dwelling of the officer's widow, and more
than one mourning carriage was at the humble
door; for there were those amongst the good
and great who had both loved and esteemed
her, and who were now gathered to pay the
last sad tribute of respect to her remains.
The funeral train moved slowly on; and in
a pleasant sunny nook of the old church yard, a
spot chosen by herself, it stopped. The touching
service of the dead was read above her, and
“dust committed to dust.” Amy was in her
darkened chamber struggling with her passionate
grief; but Percy Roscoe bowed his head in
manly sorrow as the solemn words fell upon
his ear.
When he returned to the mournful dwelling,
he found Amy kneeling before a picture of her
mother, and weeping bitterly. He drew her
to his heart, and gently and seriously led her
thoughts to that world where we shall meet
the spirits of the “just made perfect.” Her
agitation became almost alarming, and bursting
from his arms she flung herself at his feet, exclaiming:
“Oh! Percy, I cannot deceive you. Even
my sainted mother seems to look down in reproach
upon me. I will not deceive you at this
solemn hour; I will take that mother's last
counsels. I have again seen lady Tracy; she
has been here. Oh! do not! do not utterly
forsake me,”—as he started back as if a serpent
had stung him—“I have none but you”—and
she clasped her hands wildly before him. For
one moment the high-minded Roscoe covered
his face. Disappointment, pity, and indignation
were struggling for mastery, mingled with that
sense of bitterness in being deceived in those
we love; but the solemn scenes of the last two
days had taught him true lessons of humbleness
and humility. He looked upon the bowed head
of the stricken one, thought of the holy vow by
the dying bed, and of his own deep love for her
from early youth. He raised her from her
fallen posture, and placing her beside him,
smoothed back the rich tresses which laid in
disorder upon her throbbing forehead, and impressed
a kiss upon it as he whispered:
“Poor child! far be it from me to add a pang
to your sufferings; they are punishment enough.
No, Amy, I will not cast you off—I will not
even require a promise, lest you feel tempted
to break it. Your blessed mother's last words
must ever be held too sacred for you again to
mingle in friendship with lady Tracy. I forgive
you, dearest—but oh! never let your husband
have the misery of finding his confidence
misplaced.”
“Bless you, dear Percy, for these kind words,
one look of harshness would have broken my
heart;” and her head sunk down upon his shoulder,
whilst tears, no longer those of bitterness,
but of chastened sorrow, fell from her eyes.
Percy Roscoe did well to dread Lady Tracy's
being the intimate of his affianced wife. She
was a woman of fashion, and it was known that
she played deeply, although over her vices
there was thrown the veil of refinement and
sensibility. She was but a few years older than
Amy, and in her earlier days the lady had become
passionately attached to Percy. He read her
character at a glance, and she saw in the scorn
with which he treated her that the mask of
gentleness had not concealed the harsher traits
that deformed her mind and character. Years
passed on, and to gratify her ambition and love
of riches she gave her hand to lord Tracy.
His mansion was near the humble dwelling of
Amy Bryant. She saw Percy's look of proud
triumph as he gazed upon the beautiful girl
who had given him her pure heart, and she
marked that fair being as her victim. But Amy
now felt, as she saw even her proud-souled
Roscoe, forgive and pity her, that henceforth
Isabel's arts would be of no avail.
But a single year had gone by, and Percy
Roscoe's destiny had known a change. From
being dependent upon his own talents and the
income arising from the small estate that was
his own in right of his mother, he had become
possessed, by the successive deaths of his father
and uncle, of the broad lands and the earldom of
Clevemont. But although his house was the
resort of the learned and good, of the high and
noble, and his beautiful wife the star of fashion,
there were those who loved him, that deemed
their Percy's smile was less joyous than of old,
and his brow more clouded than it was wont to
be before his marriage. If he was unhappy,
none knew it, and as he still looked with pride
and fondness upon the fair face of Amy even in
the festal hall, the world pronounced them a
most happy couple.
The young countess was alone in her dressing
room, when her attendant brought her a
note; she glanced at the superscription, and
her manner betrayed agitation as she perused
its contents.
“Who brought this note, Ellis?” and she
raised her eyes languidly from the paper.
“A person muffled in a large cloak, my lady;
she would come in, and says she will see you.”
A proud flush rose to the cheek of the lady.
“I may not deny her,” she murmured to herself;
“I have tempted fate and must abide by it.
Did lord Clevemont say he should not return
'till evening?” said she to the attendant.
“Yes, my lady. I told him that when you
came in from your drive with lady Glenrock,
you were so tired you had fallen asleep on the
couch, and he told me to say he should dine
out.”
Lady Clevemont sighed deeply. “Ellis! I
believe you are faithful. Go to the person who
waits below and conduct her here, and see that
I am not interrupted whilst she remains.”
The waiting-maid left the room, and soon returning,
ushered into the presence of the young
countess a female of surpassing beauty. Amy
rose up, and with mingled dignity and sadness
greeted her as soon as Ellis closed the door.
“What does the lady Tracy,” she asked,
“wish of the Countess of Clevemont, that she
so unceremoniously forces herself into her presence?”
“Countess of Clevemont!” reiterated the
other with a scornful curl of her proud lip—“Methinks
you have a bold bearing, lady, for
one whose destiny hangs on my slightest word.
What if I whispered to the haughty Percy that
his worshipped Amy had once both won and
lost at play?”
Lady Clevemont buried her face in her
trembling hands whilst she exclaimed—“But
once, Isabel—you know it was but once, and
then I was deceived; and have I had peace
since? Does not the thought of that hour
come to me in the festal hall? by my once happy
hearth? and at the dark midnight hour when
other eyes are closed in sleep? Does it not
dreg with bitterness my cup, till at times my
brain almost maddens? And did not you, you
Isabel Tracy, lead me to the brink of the precipice?
But I know you now, your mask is off.”
“But not the less are you in my power, fair
countess,” replied Isabel with a smile of hatred
and malice seldom seen on woman's face.
“Not the less in my power. You cower and
turn pale before your lord, I have read you
well—lady, you fear him; and ere you would
have him learn this secret you would lay down
your young life. Well! Amy!” and her voice
changed to one of insinuating softness—“you
take this too much to heart, I will not betray
you, but my losses are so heavy I dare not apply
to Lord Tracy; lend me the sum I required
in my note, and I will keep the secret for ever.”
Amy unclasped her hands from her convulsive
features—“Isabel Tracy, I have already
wronged the industrious poor to comply with
your exorbitant demands; and when I again
asked Clevemont for money but yesterday, his
answer was stern as he said, “Amy, my fortune
will not gratify boundless extravagance. I owe
now more than the sum I have by me.” No!
Isabel, I cannot give you this.”
“The countess of Clevemont will smile to-night
when she welcomes her lord after he has
seen Isabel Tracy”—and gathering her cloak
about her she turned to go. Her hand was
upon the knob of the door, when Amy springing
forward arrested her progress—“There,
lady Tracy,” and she flung down her purse at
her feet—“Take all I have, but keep this secret;
and now depart, with the malison of a
breaking heart upon your head.”
“Thank you, lady, for the kind wish,” and
with a scornful laugh she took it up and left
the apartment.
A half hour after, Ellis entered the dressing
room, and found her lady in a deep sleep.
“Surely my lady is in a strange way,” she
muttered, “to lay down with all this finery in
which I dressed her for lady Glenrock's dinner.”
Had she but looked beneath the pillow that supported
the flushed cheek, she would have seen
by the label'd phial there, why the slumber of
her mistress was so deep and quiet.
“Whither away, Clevemont!” and lord Glenrock
linked his arm in that of his old friend and
schoolmate—“Come, we dine, en famille to-day.
Go hence with me, Emily told me your
wife had promised her to steal this day from
her crowd of appointments, and pass it quietly
with her.”
“Indeed! well then, my dear Glenrock, I
will accept your invitation. Amy and I so seldom
now know what quiet is, that I almost
wish at times that title, fortune, and all this
splendour were bestowed on some one else, and
I again the plain Percy Roscoe, with my small
estate and my young bride; for I hardly recognise
her in the admired countess of Clevemont.
But I ought to be proud of her.” The sentence
ended with something very like a sigh.
“Percy,” said his friend, after a moment's
thoughtful pause, “I may incur your displeasure,
but both Emily and I have felt of late
that your young and beautiful wife was treading
on dangerous ground; Emily loves her sister-in-law,
and has tried to win her confidence
for your sake, but Amy is cold towards her,
which you know is wholly unlike the affectionate
kindness with which she treated all the
members of your family the first few months
of your marriage. I have read deeply the human
character, and am convinced that there is
something preying on her mind of which you
are ignorant. I think, Clevemont, that she fears
you.”
“Fears me!” exclaimed the astonished husband;
why, Glenrock, you certainly have
judged wrongly in this instance at least. Amy
cannot fear me, for I have given her no cause
for such a feeling—from my hands she has ever
received kindness and indulgence. Believe
me, my friend, that both you and Emily are
mistaken; let us drop this subject.”
Dinner had been announced and served, but
lady Clevemont did not make her appearance,
or send any apology, and Percy was beginning
to feel symptoms of alarm, when a message
came that visitors at home prevented her ladyship
from fulfilling her engagements with her
sister-in-law.”
“Since that is the case, Emily,” said Clevemont,
“why you must e'en go home with me
and help her to entertain them; and pulling the
bell he ordered the carriage.
They found Amy in the drawing room in the
most brilliant spirits. Never had she appeared
so beautiful, never so gay—
“She was like
A dream of poetry, that may not be
Written or told, exceeding beautiful!”
And her husband's eye followed her graceful
form with an expression of love and pride—not
so Glenrock and the watchful Emily. There
was something unnatural in this excess of
spirits, something unlike her sweet and almost
pensive manners since the death of her mother,
and they knew from the tone of her laughter
that there was no mirth in it.
“Remember, to-morrow night, dear lady
Clevemont,” said one of the ladies at parting.
“To-morrow night, Mrs. Devan,” interrupted
Percy, “what plot are you laying to entice my
little wife from home so soon again? These
late hours will destroy her bloom.”
“Did she ever look more beautiful, my lord?
'Tis my masquerade night, and have her company
I must—you may come too and play Argus;”
and with these words the lively lady
ran off.
“More money, Amy! why my dear girl you
must be jesting with me. But this week I
gave you bills to a large amount, surely you
have not spent them already; you are only
trying to see how far my indulgence will carry
me.”
“I am not used to jest upon such subjects,”
she answered, and for once in her life, in a
proud and resentful tone. “I have not always
had money at my command, and perhaps I am
not prudent enough for lord Clevemont's wife.”
Percy took her hand in his, and for one moment
gazed steadily in her face. Her glance
fell beneath that earnest gaze. “Amy, you are
strangely altered, but if money can give you
happiness you shall have it;” and putting a roll
of bills into her hand he hastily left the room.
She stood a moment motionless when he had
left her; then glancing at the paper she muttered,
“So! I am estranging all I love from
me.”
* * * * * * * * *
There was a pause in the dancing, and one
after another of the strange figures in the
lighted halls of Mrs. Devan were seen filing off
in the direction of the refreshment rooms. One
mask has singled out lord Clevemont. It was
one in the character of a sybil, and more than
once it crossed his path. At last put out of temper
at its pertinacity, he determined to accost it.
“What does the sybil wish of the Earl of
Clevemont that she so often crosses his path?”
Percy had taken off his mask for air.
“To ask him if happiness dwells in his
lordly home—but I read my answer on his
brow. But I will shadow forth to him a page
in the book of his blithesome wife's destiny.
The sparkle of the diamond lights her brow,
but in mockery of the aching heart.”
“And she will walk in silk attire
And siller have to spare,”
whilst the poor tradesman follows her carriage
with maledictions upon her head. You pour
the gold into her lap, and it buys her a respite
from disgrace. Percy Roscoe, I am a true
prophetess—your household gods are broken.”
And ere he collected himself to reply, she lifted
her mask, and discovering the features of lady
Tracy, was about to pass him, when he grasped
her arm firmly, and in a voice hoarse with conflicting
emotions, exclaimed—“Fiend! what
do you mean? Give me proof that your words
are true, for lady Clevemont would not bend to
associate with such as thou; answer me, Isabel
Tracy”—and he grasped her arm almost convulsively.
“Proof! lord Clevemont,” replied she with a
laugh of scorn. “Here I have proof, such as
you would give all your broad lands did not
exist. Ha! my lord, when you laid an interdict
upon the friendship of your wife for me—when
you held me up to her as one to be shunned—then,
even then did I vow a vow of revenge
against you. Read that packet, my lord”—and
she flung a sealed one towards him, “and see
there that your own fair Amy has like me lost
some of your goodly thousands at the card table”—and
snatching her arm away she darted
amidst the crowd, leaving him amazed and
stunned.
But he was soon aroused by the return of the
dancers, and with an effort that cost him a
more bitter pang than he had ever experienced,
he passed through the assembled crowds with
a jest for one, a smile for another, and gaining
the street door was in a moment in the open
air. It blew freshly upon his fevered brow,
and seemed to allay the burning thoughts within.
He sought his own mansion, and forbidding
the servants interrupting him, locked himself
up in the library.
But there was another listener to the conversation
of Percy with lady Tracy.—Amy, the ill-fated
Amy; and as her husband left the spot,
with one sharp cry she sunk insensible to the
floor. A multitude was in a moment around
her, and her mask taken off.
“Lady Clevemont fainted!” was echoed from
one to another, till the sound reached lady
Glenrock. In a moment she was by her side,
and she was borne into an inner room; but it
was long ere she opened her eyes, and when
she did, the expression was so cold and wandering
as to terrify her sister.
“Will some one call lady Clevemont's carriage,
where is my brother?” But lord Clevemont
had been gone some moments, and Amy
was conveyed to the carriage by Lord Glenrock,
who with his wife supported her in it.
“Is your master at home, Robert?” asked he
of the old man who was now butler to lord
Clevemont, and who with Martha hastened
into the hall at the first intimation of their
lady's illness.
“Yes, my lord, he came in a few minutes
ago, but forbid our disturbing him. But see,
my lady is reviving.”
With a powerful effort Amy roused herself,
and smiling faintly, said, in a low tone, “Do
not be alarmed, Emily, I am better now, and
will lie down in my dressing room.”
Lady Glenrock did not leave her 'till she
saw her in a seemingly quiet slumber, and
even then charged old Martha to remain by
her side, whilst she sought the earl. Something
was wrong she knew, for it was not like
her attentive and affectionate brother to leave
his wife alone in so public a place. She
knocked at the library door, but no answer was
returned. “Percy! dear Percy! I must see
you. Amy is ill.”
At that sound the earl opened the door, but
so deadly pale that she recoiled in alarm and
amazement.
“Percy! what has happened! Something
dreadful I know!” and she clasped his cold hand.
“Look here, Emily,” said he, in a tone
hoarse with emotion, and he drew her to the
table, upon which was scattered bills and papers.
“Look there, Emily, and read how my
trusting confidence has been abused;” and he
buried his face in his hands as he sunk upon a
seat.
Lady Glenrock, in terrified astonishment,
saw bills to a large amount against her sister-in-law,
unpaid; and notes from Isabel Tracy
demanding money as the price of her silence
respecting Amy's heavy loss to herself at play.
She looked upon her lofty, spirited, generous
brother, and thought of his tender love that had
sheltered Amy when she was a lone orphan in
the world, and of that young girl, too, with the
deepest compassion. She felt the fire was
quenched on the hearth-stone, the beautiful
links in the chain of domestic happiness broken
forever, and tears fell fast from her eyes. She
laid her hand upon her brother's burning forehead
as his head was bent down, and whispered
tenderly of consolation.
“She is very, very young yet, Percy—but
a child in the ways of the world.”
“But not the less able to discriminate between
right and wrong, truth and falsehood.
No, Emily, my idol is fallen, the fair temple
despoiled of its beauty. I cannot forgive. She
in whom I garnered up my heart, whose love
was to me as some sweet star smiling upon
my destiny, to deceive and distrust me! To
forget the solemn scenes by her mother's deathbed.
No! I cannot forgive. We must part.”
“Oh! do not say so, Percy. Cast her off,
and who in the wide world can she cling to?”
But ere she could finish the sentence Ellis
rushed into the room, with horror imprinted
upon every feature of his pale countenance.
“Oh! my lord, come quick, my lady has
swallowed poison!”
They waited to hear no more. Lord Clevemont
rushed to the hall—sent a servant for
the physician, and almost distracted, entered
the dressing-room. There was Amy, with the
diamond still sparkling upon her pallid brow,
and the festal robe around her, struggling in
the arms of her old attendant. The fatal phial
was by her side, and her cheek flushed to the
deepest crimson, mocked the red rose wreath
whose leaves were not yet withered in her
hair. She had sent old Martha away for one
moment, to get her something with which to
quench her feverish thirst, and in the interim
swallowed the laudanum. She shrieked violently
when she beheld her husband, but he
firmly supported her in his arms, till the physician
came. The most powerful antidotes
were administered, and owing to the timely
discovery of Ellis, with success, but Dr. Morris,
who was an old and confidential friend,
called Clevemont from the room.
“My lord, I am sorry to pain you, but I fear
the life of your lady hangs on a thread. Some
great shock has been sustained, and the powerful
remedies to which I have been obliged to
have recourse, have prostrated her strength.
Perfect quiet is necessary. I will myself remain
through the night, for I fear the result.”
Percy wrung the hand of the good old man,
with a heart too full for words, and again took
his station by her pillow. The pale and altered
girl was unconscious that they hovered round
her couch, and the doctor's fears were well
founded. Before morning she was raving in
delirium, and fever was racking her frame.
For days and weeks life did indeed hang on a
thread, and when she was able for the first
time to rise from her bed of sickness, none
would have recognised in the attenuated and
melancholy looking being before them, the
once admired and caressed lady Clevemont.
Not one word of explanation had passed between
herself and Percy, nor did she once
meet her husband's eye, but she saw the smile
had vanished from his lip, and that many lines
of painful thought marred the beauty of his
glorious brow. He was kind and gentle in his
manner, but the heart of woman felt that there
was a change. The charm was gone, and
steeped in tears of bitterness, did she deplore
her own folies.
She was now able to sit up all day, and one
morning when Lady Glenrock had left her
alone for a few moments, she was startled by
the entrance of her husband. She trembled
almost to fainting, but the earl kindly inquired
after her health, and seating himself by her,
said, in a serious and quiet tone:
“Lay aside fear, Amy. I came not to reproach
you, neither am I a stern and harsh
tyrant, that you should be afraid to meet my
eye. No! we have suffered too much, and
your punishment has been sufficient. I came
but to say that your debts are now all cancelled,
and such measures taken that Lady Tracy cannot,
by her malicious asseverations, injure your
good name. Take my forgiveness also. In
the first moment of wretchedness, I was tempted
to part from you forever, but your dying
mother's charge prevented me; and Amy, forget
not now that Being whose promises cheered
her last hours. Go to him in penitence, and pray
for strength to resist temptation in future.”
Months passed on, and again Lady Clevemont
was in the world's “crowded mart.”
The brilliancy of her beauty had become dim,
but there was an indescribable charm in her
low thrilling tones that touched the heart of
the hearer—they were so sadly plaintive. She
was not happy amidst her splendor. She missed
the fond smile that had once beamed upon her
even in the place “where dancers meet;” the
affection that had once anticipated every want.
Kind as was Percy, there was wanting the
charm of mutual confidence and love; and to
her heart's inmost recesses did she feel the
difference. Change was, indeed, on her spirit's
dream of happiness.
“What reason have you for refusing to visit
Lady Tracy?” one day asked Mrs. Devon.
“Poor soul, she is in poverty now, and in bad
health too. Do come with me, Lord Clevemont
will not know it.”
“Never!” replied Amy, “and, Mrs. Devon,
oblige me by avoiding the mention of her name
in my presence. It is painful to me.”
It was extremely cold, and the young countess
preferred the comfort of her own fire-side
to a dinner engagement with Mrs. Devon.
Lord Clevemont too was in the drawing room
previous to going out, and had taken up a book,
when a servant entered and presented his lady
with a note. She turned pale as she saw the
handwriting, and for a moment hesitated.
Percy was apparently absorbed in his book,
but he saw her change of colour. The footman
left the room, and without breaking the
seal, she stept lightly up to her husband:—
“I have a note from Lady Tracy, Lord
Clevemont,” (it was a long time since she had
called him Percy,) said she, in a voice she
vainly endeavoured to render steady, whilst
the colour deepened on her cheek, and her air
was less humble than it was wont to be of late,
“will you break the seal and peruse its contents?”
Her lord took it from her hand, with something
of coldness in his manner, and the tears
started into her eyes. Do I deserve this, was
her thought, as she felt that she could have
concealed the contents had she been so inclined.
Surely he might have seemed pleased that I
practised no deceit.
The earl folded it up after glancing over it,
and for a moment bent down his head in
thought. “Lady Tracy wishes to see you,
Amy. You can go if it is your wish.”
She felt wounded by his manner, and drawing
up her slight person, she haughtily replied,
“I have no wish to act directly contrary to
what I know would be Lord Clevemont's commands.”
“It is my wish now to have you visit your
once gay friend, but I shall accompany you.
Isabel Tracy can never injure you more. She
is on her deathbed!”
The countess drew back and shuddered. “I
cannot go!” was her involuntary exclamation.
“Yes, Lady Clevemont, that you MUST go is
NOW my COMMAND.”
“I will obey it then,” and a pang wrung her
heart when she thought how considerate Percy
once was, and how anxious to spare her feelings.
The carriage of Lord Clevemont stopped
before the door of a small dwelling in one of
the by-streets of the great metropolis, and he
handed Amy out, and was shown into a low
dark room, where, upon a dingy couch, and
supported by pillows, was the faded form of the
once brilliant Lady Tracy. Poverty and disease
were fast doing their work of death, and
at intervals a racking cough threatened existence
itself.
“Well, my lord,” said she, in a hollow tone,
as they approached her, “you are willing at
last for your young wife to come into the presence
of Isabel Tracy. 'Tis well! for she has
no longer reason to fear her. The serpent is
deprived of his sting;” and her wild laugh rung
fearfully on the ear of the trembling countess.
She knelt beside the couch, and essayed to
clasp the wan thin hand of Isabel. Her sweet
face wore an expression of angelic pity as she
murmured, “I forgive you, Isabel, from the bottom
of my soul, I forgive you.”
“Forgive me”—and her eye for a moment
softened—“Poor child, you have much to forgive,
for I have cast to the dust your golden
fabric of happiness; but at times, Amy, I have
sorrowed over your fate—no matter, it could
not serve you.” Then turning suddenly to
Percy she tauntingly exclaimed—“Ere I knew
the dark passions that have since stained my
soul with crime, I loved you, Earl of Clevemont,
whilst you were the poor Percy Roscoe. You
cast my love from you as a worthless thing,
and bowed to yon trembling girl. I saw she
feared you, and I saw you worshipped her as
pure and faultless. I vowed revenge, and,
Clevemont, I have had it. I strewed thorns in
your path of flowers. I have thrown a cloud
over the sunshine of your proud home, and broken
the silver link of confidence forever. And
now, neglected by my friends, deserted by the
man I never loved, and in poverty and death, I
tell you I do not repent.”
“Oh! Isabel Tracy, turn to Him, who will
pardon even at the last hour. He can soften
and support you even at this dread time. Oh
turn to him, Isabel.”
“It is too late, Amy, my doom is sealed, my
sands run low. I am sorry I have made your
misery, young girl, but glory in destroying his
happiness. I cannot conquer the evil passion
of my heart; take warning by me.” And her
gestures and words became so wild, they summoned
the nurse.
They remained some time longer, and endeavoured
to lead the poor sufferer's mind into
a better state, but she remained sullenly silent,
and with heavy hearts they left her dwelling.
That night Isabel Tracy died.
Amy was deeply affected by this event, but
Christmas was approaching, and they removed
to Clevemont castle to celebrate it, as all the
members of Percy's family assembled together
at that time. With a feeling of loneliness she
wandered through the lordly apartments of her
splendid home, and memory flew back to the
little cottage, and pleasant village where she
had first met her husband; but her guests
claimed her attention, and the kindness and caresses
of Emily won her from her melancholy.
Christmas day came, and the sounds of mirth
and festivity rung through the castle. The
song floated round, and the merry dancers were
leading many a gay measure.
“Come Amy, lead one dance with me,” said
lord Glenrock, “I shall believe you are studying
the stars if you linger so long beneath the
concealment of yon crimson drapery.”
“I never dance, now,” she answered.
“Not dance!” exclaimed a young lady near,
“why how whimsical—well, your lord does,
and is going to waltz with me.”
Amy sighed, and turned away.
The festival was over, one by one the guests
sought their carriages or rooms, and the countess
was alone in the ball room, with the flowers
yet breathing freshness around, and the
lamps burning brightly. She leaned her head
against the marble ornaments of the fireplace,
and the past came straining over her heart with
its sweet memories. On her dressing table
that day had glittered many a costly present,
but from her husband she had received no gift,
and tears fell fast and thick from her eyes.
She started from her despondent attitude in
amazement. Her husband's arm folded her to
his heart, and his voice in the kind tones of old
whispered—“Let there again be love and confidence
between us, dear Amy. I knew you
must be made to feel deeply the effect of your
want of confidence, and the follies it led you
into, that the impression might be lasting.
Your punishment is over; I know you have
resisted temptation. I have suffered more than
yourself in maintaining a cold manner, when I
longed to fold you to my heart in approval and
love. Let the past be forgotten—but why do
you weep?” “Dear Percy!” was all she could
say, as she laid her head on his shoulder, and
wept with almost childlike tears from happiness.
“You thought yourself forgotten to-day, but I
have a gift for you, dearest;” and as he bent
to her lips with the kiss of reconciliation, he
whispered—“One you will prize more than
pearl or gem—the restored affection and confidence
of your husband.”
