No. VII. On the Condition of my poor Feet VIII. On a remarkable Dog Class Criticism IX. On what People should have for Breakfast . 215 . 551 . 429 70 . 199 503 No. VI. Claudine Françoise (popularly called Marie) Mignot Grace for Meat Japanned Article, A JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY: Chapter XIV. Driven away XVIII. A Stolen Honeymoon XIX. Sounding the Depths. XXII. The Painting-room by the River XXIV. The Paragraph in the Newspaper TEMPLE BAR. APRIL 1863. John Marchmont's Legacy. BY THE AUTHOR OF "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," &c. &c. CHAPTER XIV. DRIVEN AWAY. ARY MARCHMONT and Edward Arundel were happy. They MARY were happy; and how should they guess at the tortures of that desperate woman, whose benighted soul was plunged in a black gulf of horror by reason of their innocent love? How should these two-very children in their ignorance of all stormy passions, all direful emotionsknow that in the darkened chamber where Olivia Marchmont lay, suffering under some vague illness, for which the Swampington doctor was fain to prescribe quinine, in utter unconsciousness as to the real nature of the disease which he was called upon to cure,-how should they know that in that gloomy chamber a wicked heart was abandoning itself to all the devils that had so long held patient watch for this day? Yes; the struggle was over. Olivia Marchmont flung aside the cross she had borne in dull, mechanical obedience, rather than in Christian love and truth. Better to have been sorrowful Magdalene, forgiven for her love and tears, than this cold, haughty, stainless woman, who had never been able to learn the sublime lessons which so many sinners have taken meekly to heart. The religion which was wanting in the vital principle of Christianity, the faith which showed itself only in dogged obedience, failed this woman in the hour of her agony. Her pride arose; the defiant spirit of the fallen angel asserted its gloomy grandeur. "What have I done that I should suffer like this?" she thought. "What am I that an empty-headed soldier should despise me, and that I should go mad because of his indifference? Is this the recompense for my long years of obedience? Is this the reward Heaven bestows upon me for my life of duty ?" She remembered the histories of other women,-women who had gone their own way and had been happy; and a darker question arose in her mind, almost the question which Job asked in his agony. "Is there neither truth nor justice in the dealings of God?" she thought. "Is it useless to be obedient and submissive, patient and untiring? Has all my life been a great mistake, which is to end in confusion and despair?" And then she pictured to herself the life that might have been hers if Edward Arundel had loved her. How good she would have been! The hardness of her iron nature would have been melted and subdued in the depth of her love and tenderness for him. She would have learned to be loving and tender to others. Her wealth of affection for him would have overflowed in gentleness and consideration for every creature in the universe. The lurking bitterness which had lain hidden in her heart ever since she had first loved Edward Arundel, and first discovered his indifference to her; and the poisonous envy of happier women, who had loved and were beloved,-would have been blotted away. Her whole nature would have undergone a wondrous transfiguration, purified and exalted by the strength of her affection. All this might have come to pass if he had loved her, if he had only loved her. But a pale-faced child had come between her and this redemption, and there was nothing left for her but despair. Nothing but despair? Yes; perhaps something further,―revenge. But this last idea took no tangible shape. She only knew that, in the black darkness of the gulf into which her soul had gone down, there was, far away somewhere, one ray of lurid light. She only knew this as yet, and that she hated Mary Marchmont with a mad and wicked hatred. If she could have thought meanly of Edward Arundel,—if she could have believed him to be actuated by mercenary motives in his choice of the orphan girl, she might have taken some comfort from the thought of his unworthiness, and of Mary's probable sorrow in the days to come. But she could not think this. Little as the young soldier had said in the summer twilight beside the river, there had been that in his tones and looks that had convinced the wretched watcher of his truth. Mary might have been deceived by the shallowest pretender; but Olivia's eyes devoured every glance; Olivia's greedy ears drank-in every tone; and she knew that Edward Arundel loved her stepdaughter. She knew this, and she hated Mary Marchmont. What had she done, this girl, who had never known what it was to fight a battle with her own rebellious heart? what had she done, that all this wealth of love and happiness should drop into her lap unsought,-comparatively unvalued, perhaps? John Marchmont's widow lay in her darkened chamber thinking over these things; no longer fighting the battle with her own heart, but utterly abandoning herself to her desperation,-reckless, hardened, impenitent. |