The Last Man
is,” said her friend; “you are over fatigued, pray hasten to rest.”
Perdita smiled faintly—her guest left her; the carriage rolling down
the street assured the final departure. Then, as if pursued by an
enemy, as if wings had been at her feet, she flew to her own apartment,
she dismissed her attendants, she locked the doors, she threw herself
wildly on the floor, she bit her lips even to blood to suppress her
shrieks, and lay long a prey to the vulture of despair, striving not to
think, while multitudinous ideas made a home of her heart; and ideas,
horrid as furies, cruel as vipers, and poured in with such swift
succession, that they seemed to jostle and wound each other, while they
worked her up to madness.
At length she rose, more composed, not less miserable. She stood before
a large mirror—she gazed on her reflected image; her light and graceful
dress, the jewels that studded her hair, and encircled her beauteous
arms and neck, her small feet shod in satin, her profuse and glossy
tresses, all were to her clouded brow and woe-begone countenance like a
gorgeous frame to a dark tempest-pourtraying picture. “Vase am I,” she
thought, “vase brimful of despair’s direst essence. Farewell, Perdita!
farewell, poor girl! never again will you see yourself thus; luxury and
wealth are no longer yours; in the excess of your poverty you may envy
the homeless beggar; most truly am I without a home! I live on a barren
desart, which, wide and interminable, brings forth neither fruit or
flower; in the midst is a solitary rock, to which thou, Perdita, art
chained, and thou seest the dreary level stretch far away.”
She threw open her window, which looked on the palace-garden. Light and
darkness were struggling together, and the orient was streaked by
roseate and golden rays. One star only trembled in the depth of the
kindling atmosphere. The morning air blowing freshly over the dewy
plants, rushed into the heated room. “All things go on,” thought
Perdita, “all things proceed, decay, and perish! When noontide has
passed, and the weary day has driven her team to their western stalls,
the fires of heaven rise from the East, moving in their accustomed
path, they ascend and descend the skiey hill. When their course is
fulfilled, the dial begins to cast westward an uncertain shadow; the
eye-lids of day are opened, and birds and flowers, the startled
vegetation, and fresh breeze awaken; the sun at length appears, and in
majestic procession climbs the capitol of heaven. All proceeds, changes
and dies, except the sense of misery in my bursting heart.
“Ay, all proceeds and changes: what wonder then, that love has journied
on to its setting, and that the lord of my life has changed? We call
the supernal lights fixed, yet they wander about yonder plain, and if I
look again where I looked an hour ago, the face of the eternal heavens
is altered. The silly moon and inconstant planets vary nightly their
erratic dance; the sun itself, sovereign of the sky, ever and anon
deserts his throne, and leaves his dominion to night and winter. Nature
grows old, and shakes in her decaying limbs,—creation has become
bankrupt! What wonder then, that eclipse and death have led to
destruction the light of thy life, O Perdita!”
CHAPTER IX.
Thus sad and disarranged were the thoughts of my poor sister, when she
became assured of the infidelity of Raymond. All her virtues and all
her defects tended to make the blow incurable. Her affection for me,
her brother, for Adrian and Idris, was subject as it were to the
reigning passion of her heart; even her maternal tenderness borrowed
half its force from the delight she had in tracing Raymond’s features
and expression in the infant’s countenance. She had been reserved and
even stern in childhood; but love had softened the asperities of her
character, and her union with Raymond had caused her talents and
affections to unfold themselves; the one betrayed, and the other lost,
she in some degree returned to her ancient disposition. The
concentrated pride of her nature, forgotten during her blissful dream,
awoke, and with its adder’s sting pierced her heart; her humility of
spirit augmented the power of the venom; she had been exalted in her
own estimation, while distinguished by his love: of what worth was she,
now that he thrust her from this preferment? She had been proud of
having won and preserved him—but another had won him from her, and her
exultation was as cold as a water quenched ember.
We, in our retirement, remained long in ignorance of her misfortune.
Soon after the festival she had sent for her child, and then she seemed
to have forgotten us. Adrian observed a change during a visit that he
afterward paid them; but he could not tell its extent, or divine the
cause. They still appeared in public together, and lived under the same
roof. Raymond was as usual courteous, though there was, on occasions,
an unbidden haughtiness, or painful abruptness in his manners, which
startled his gentle friend; his brow was not clouded but disdain sat on
his lips, and his voice was harsh. Perdita was all kindness and
attention to her lord; but she was silent, and beyond words sad. She
had grown thin and pale; and her eyes often filled with tears.
Sometimes she looked at Raymond, as if to say—That it should be so! At
others her countenance expressed—I will still do all I can to make you
happy. But Adrian read with uncertain aim the charactery of her face,
and might mistake.—Clara was always with her, and she seemed most at
ease, when, in an obscure corner, she could sit holding her child’s
hand, silent and lonely. Still Adrian was unable to guess the truth; he
entreated them to visit us at Windsor, and they promised to come during
the following month.
It was May before they arrived: the season had decked the forest trees
with leaves, and its paths with a thousand flowers. We had notice of
their intention the day before; and, early in the morning, Perdita
arrived with her daughter. Raymond would follow soon, she said; he had
been detained by business. According to Adrian’s account, I had
expected to find her sad; but, on the contrary, she appeared in the
highest spirits: true, she had grown thin, her eyes were somewhat
hollow, and her cheeks sunk, though tinged by a bright glow. She was
delighted to see us; caressed our children, praised their growth and
improvement; Clara also was pleased to meet again her young friend
Alfred; all kinds of childish games were entered into, in which Perdita
joined. She communicated her gaiety to us, and as we amused ourselves
on the Castle Terrace, it appeared that a happier, less care-worn party
could not have been assembled. “This is better, Mamma,” said Clara,
“than being in that dismal London, where you often cry, and never laugh
as you do now.”—“Silence, little foolish thing,” replied her mother,
“and remember any one that mentions London is sent to Coventry for an
hour.”
Soon after, Raymond arrived. He did not join as usual in the playful
spirit of the rest; but, entering into conversation with Adrian and
myself, by degrees we seceded from our companions, and Idris and
Perdita only remained with the children. Raymond talked of his new
buildings; of his plan for an establishment for the better education of
the poor; as usual Adrian and he entered into argument, and the time
slipped away unperceived.
We assembled again towards evening, and Perdita insisted on our having
recourse to music. She wanted, she said, to give us a specimen of her
new accomplishment; for since she had been in London, she had applied
herself to music, and sang, without much power, but with a great deal
of sweetness. We were not permitted by her to select any but
light-hearted melodies; and all the Operas of Mozart were called into
service, that we might choose the most exhilarating of his airs. Among
the other transcendant attributes of Mozart’s music, it possesses more
than any other that of appearing to come from the heart; you enter into
the passions expressed by him, and are transported with grief, joy,
anger, or confusion, as he, our soul’s master, chooses to inspire. For
some time, the spirit of hilarity was kept up; but, at length, Perdita
receded from the piano, for Raymond had joined in the trio of “_Taci
ingiusto core_,” in Don Giovanni, whose arch entreaty was softened by
him into tenderness, and thrilled her heart with memories of the
changed past; it was the same voice, the same tone, the self-same
sounds and words, which often before she had received, as the homage of
love to her—no longer was it that; and this concord of sound with its
dissonance of expression penetrated her with regret and despair. Soon
after Idris, who was at the harp, turned to that passionate and
sorrowful air in Figaro, “_Porgi, amor, qualche ristoro_,” in which the
deserted Countess laments the change of the faithless Almaviva. The
soul of tender sorrow is breathed forth in this strain; and the sweet
voice of Idris, sustained by the mournful chords of her instrument,
added to the expression of the words. During the pathetic appeal with
which it concludes, a stifled sob attracted our attention to Perdita,
the cessation of the music recalled her to herself, she hastened out of
the hall—I followed her. At first, she seemed to wish to shun me; and
then, yielding to my earnest questioning, she threw herself on my neck,
and wept aloud:—“Once more,” she cried, “once more on your friendly
breast, my beloved brother, can the lost Perdita pour forth her
sorrows. I had imposed a law of silence on myself; and for months I
have kept it. I do wrong in weeping now, and greater wrong in giving
words to my grief. I will not speak! Be it enough for you to know that
I am miserable—be it enough for you to know, that the painted veil of
life is rent, that I sit for ever shrouded in darkness and gloom, that
grief is my sister, everlasting lamentation my mate!”
I endeavoured to console her; I did not question her! but I caressed
her, assured her of my deepest affection and my intense interest in the
changes of her fortune:—“Dear words,” she cried, “expressions of love
come upon my ear, like the remembered sounds of forgotten music, that
had been dear to me. They are vain, I know; how very vain in their
attempt to soothe or comfort me. Dearest Lionel, you cannot guess what
I have suffered during these long months. I have read of mourners in
ancient days, who clothed themselves in sackcloth, scattered dust upon
their heads, ate their bread mingled with ashes, and took up their
abode on the bleak mountain tops, reproaching heaven and earth aloud
with their misfortunes. Why this is the very luxury of sorrow! thus one
might go on from day to day contriving new extravagances, revelling in
the paraphernalia of woe, wedded to all the appurtenances of despair.
Alas! I must for ever conceal the wretchedness that consumes me. I must
weave a veil of dazzling falsehood to hide my grief from vulgar eyes,
smoothe my brow, and paint my lips in deceitful smiles—even in solitude
I dare not think how lost I am, lest I become insane and rave.”
The tears and agitation of my poor sister had rendered her unfit to
return to the circle we had left—so I persuaded her to let me drive her
through the park; and, during the ride, I induced her to confide the
tale of her unhappiness to me, fancying that talking of it would
lighten the burthen, and certain that, if there were a remedy, it
should be found and secured to her.
Several weeks had elapsed since the festival of the anniversary, and
she had been unable to calm her mind, or to subdue her thoughts to any
regular train. Sometimes she reproached herself for taking too bitterly
to heart, that which many would esteem an imaginary evil; but this was