Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (264 page)

The man of bad propensities withdrew. William was left kneeling at his cribside, his face and hands pressed against the mattress. He had been severely flogged, and for a time felt sick, but he was not maimed or dangerously hurt – not corporeally maimed. How his heart fared is another question.

It might seem that the watchful care of God had temporarily been withdrawn from this orphan, as he shrank powerless to resist under a tyrannic hand – as he afterwards moaned alone, pale, faint, miserably though not passionately weeping, compelling himself, according to the bent of his idiosyncrasy, to a sort of heroic temperance of expression, even in extremity of grief. In man’s judgment it might be deemed that this child was forgotten where even the fledgling dropped from the nest is remembered. William himself feared as much. There was great darkness over his eyes, and a terrible ice chilled his hopes – his very hearing was suspended. He did not now catch an ascending step on the ladder, nor notice the door once more opening. It required the near glare of candle-light to snatch him even transiently from himself and his anguish.

The hand which brought the candle placed it on the narrow window-sill. Some one then approached Willie, sat down beside him on the edge of the crib; an arm passed round him, another arm drew him towards a warm shoulder, lips kissed his forehead, and eyes wept on his neck.

‘Poor boy! Poor wronged child!’

The voice uttering these words belonged to an age not many years beyond Willie’s own: the speaker seemed a girl of seventeen, blooming, and with features which, if they borrowed at this moment interest of pity, gave back in return beauty distinct, undoubted, undenied. Fine indeed were the eyes which dropped tears on Willie, and all lovely the arms, the hands, the lips by which he was protected and soothed.

‘I heard what has happened – heard it from my room below. I fear you are terribly hurt?’ said she.

‘I don’t care for the pain – my mind suffers the most,’ the boy declared with a groan. This sudden transfer from terror to tenderness relaxed for one instant the power of self-control.

‘Hush, my love, my child! Hush, Willie, forget him: he shall never hurt you more,’ said the young comforter, rocking the sufferer in her arms and cradling him on her breast.

Softened even while relieved, Willie wept fast and free and was soon easier. By gentle hands he was helped to bed, he was lovingly watched till he slept, he was kissed in his slumbers; and then the guardian withdrew, only to think of him through the night, to listen against molestation, and to be prepared at one menacing symptom to come out resolved to defend.

A tale by Lord Wellesley

PREFACE

I
 
have written this tale out of malignity for the injuries that have lately been offered to me. Many parts, especially the former, were composed under a mysterious influence that I cannot account for.

My reader will easily recognise the characters through the thin veil which I have thrown over them. I have considerably flattered Lady Zenobia Zelzia Ellrington. She is not nearly so handsome as I have represented her, and she strove far more vigorously to oust some one from another person’s good graces than I say. But her endeavours failed. Albion has hitherto stood firm. What he will do I cannot pretend to even guess; but I think that Marina’s incomparable superiority will prevail over her Frenchified rival, who, as all the world knows, is a miller, jockey, talker, bluestocking, charioteer, and beldam united in one….

The conclusion is wholly destitute of any foundation in truth, and I did it out of revenge. Albion and Marina are both alive and well for aught I know.

One thing, however, will certainly break my heart, and that is the admission of any scandal against Tree (the publisher); but I hope my readers will pardon me for it, as I promise to make amends with usury next time I write a book.

                                      
C. Wellesley

October 12th, 1830

I wrote this in four hours. C.B.

CHAPTER
 
I

Albion

There is a certain sweet little pastoral village in the south of England with which I am better acquainted than most men. The scenery around it possesses no distinguished characteristic of romantic grandeur or wildness that might figure to advantage in a novel, to which high title this brief narrative sets up no pretentions.

Neither rugged lofty rocks, nor mountains dimly huge, mark with frowns the undisturbed face of nature; but little peaceful valleys, low hills crowned with wood, murmuring cascades and streamlets, richly cultivated fields, farmhouses, cottages, and a wide river, form all the scenic features. And every hamlet has one or more great men.

This had one and he was ‘na-sheep-shanks’. Every ear in the world had heard of his fame, and every tongue could bear testimony to it. I shall name him the Duke of Strathelleraye, and by that name the village was likewise denominated.

For more than thirty miles around every inch of ground belonged to him and every man was his retainer.

The magnificent villa, or rather palace, of this noble, stood on an eminence, surrounded by a vast park and the embowering shade of an ancient wood, proudly seeming to claim the allegiance of all the countryside.

The mind, achievements, and character of its great possessor, must not, can not, be depicted by a pen so feeble as mine; for though I could call filial love and devoted admiration to my aid, yet both would be utterly ineffective.

Though the duke seldom himself came among his attached vassals, being detained elsewhere by important avocations, yet his lady the duchess resided in the castle constantly. Of her I can only say that she was like an earthly angel. Her mind was composed of charity, beneficence, gentleness, and sweetness. All, both old and young, loved her; and the blessings of those that were ready to perish came upon her evermore.

His Grace had also two sons, who often visited Strathelleraye.

Of the youngest, Lord Cornelius, everything is said when I inform the reader that he was seventeen years of age, grave, sententious, stoical, rather haughty
 
and sarcastic, of a fine countenance though somewhat swarthy; that he had long thick hair black as the hoody’s wing; and liked nothing so well as to sit in moody silence musing over the vanity of human affairs, or improving and expanding his mind by the abstruse study of the higher branches of mathematics, and that sublime science astronomy.

The eldest son, Albion, Marquis of Tagus, is the hero of my present tale. He had entered his nineteenth year; his stature was lofty; his form equal in the magnificence of its proportions to that of Apollo Belvedere. The bright wealth of curls of his rich brown hair waved over a forehead of the purest marble in the placidity of its unveined whiteness. His nose and mouth were cast in the most perfect mould. But saw I never anything to equal his eye! Oh! I could have stood riveted with the chains of admiration gazing for hours upon it! What clearness, depth, and lucid transparency in those large orbs of radiant brown! And the fascination of his smile was irresistible, though seldom did that sunshine of the mind break through the thoughtful and almost melancholy expression of his noble features. He was a soldier, captain in the Royal Regiment of Horse Guards, and all his attitudes and actions were full of martial grace. His mental faculties were in exact keeping with such an exterior, being of the highest order; and though not like his younger brother, wholly given up to study, yet he was well versed in the ancient languages, and deeply read in the Greek and Roman classics, in addition to the best works in the British, German, and Italian tongues.

Such was my hero. The only blot I was ever able to discover in his character was that of a slight fierceness or impetuosity of temper which sometimes carried him beyond bounds, though at the slightest look or word of command from his father he instantly bridled his passion and became perfectly calm.

No wonder the duke should be, as he was, proud of such a son.

CHAPTER
 
II

Marina

About two miles from the castle there stood a pretty house, entirely hid from view by a thick forest, in a glade of which it was situated.

Behind it was a smooth lawn fringed with odoriferous shrubs, and before it a tasteful flower garden.

This was the abode of Sir Alured Angus, a Scotchman, who was physician to His Grace, and though of gentlemanly manners and demeanour, yet harsh, stern, and somewhat querulous in countenance and disposition.

He was a widower, and had but one child, a daughter, whom I shall call Marina, which nearly resembles her true name.

No wild rose blooming in solitude, or bluebell peering from an old wall, ever equalled in loveliness this flower of the forest. The hue of her cheek would excel the most delicate tint of the former, even when its bud is just opening to the breath of summer, and the clear azure of her eyes would cause the latter to appear dull as a dusky hyacinth. Also, the silken tresses of her hazel hair straying in light ringlets down a neck and forehead of snow seemed more elegant than the young tendrils of a vine. Her dress was almost Quaker-like in its simplicity. Pure white or vernal green were the colours she constantly wore, without any jewels save one row of pearls round her neck. She never stirred beyond the precincts of the wooded and pleasant green lane which skirted a long cornfield near the house. There on warm summer evenings she would ramble and linger listening to the woodlark’s song, and occasionally join her own more harmonious voice to its delightful warblings.

When the gloomy days and nights of autumn and winter did not permit these walks she amused herself with drawings (for which she had an exact taste), playing on the harp, reading the best English, French, and Italian works (all of which languages she understood) in her father’s extensive library, and sometimes a little light needlework.

Thus in a state of almost perfect seclusion (for seldom had she even Sir Alured’s company, as he generally resided in London) she was quite happy, and reflected with innocent wonder on those who could find pleasure in the noisy delights of what is called ‘fashionable society’….

One day, as Lady Strathellerraye was walking in the wood she met Marina, and on learning who she was, being charmed with her beauty and sweet manners, invited her to go on the morrow to the castle. She did so, and there met the Marquis of Tagus. He was even more surprised and pleased with her than the duchess, and when she was gone he asked his mother many questions about her, all of which she answered to his satisfaction.

For some time afterwards he appeared listless and abstracted. The reader will readily perceive that he had, to use a cant phrase, ‘fallen in love’.

Lord Cornelius, his brother, warned him of the folly of doing so, but instead of listening to his sage admonitions he first strove to laugh, and then frowning at him commanded silence.

In a few days he paid a visit to Oakwood House (Sir Alured’s mansion), and after that became more gloomy than before.

His father observed this, and one day as they were sitting alone remarked it to Albion, adding that he was fully acquainted with the reason.

Albion reddened but made no answer.

  
‘I am not, my son’, continued the duke, ‘opposed to your wishes, though certainly there is a considerable difference of rank between yourself and Marina Angus, but that difference is compensated by the many admirable qualities she possesses’.

On hearing these words, Arthur – Albion I mean – started up, and throwing himself at his father’s feet, poured fourth his thanks in terms of glowing gratitude, while his fine features, flushed with excitation, spoke even more eloquently. tHan his eloquent words.

  
‘Rise, Albion!’, said the duke, ‘you are worthy of her and she of you; but both are yet too young. Some years must elapse before your union takes place; therefore exert your patience, my son’.

Albion’s joy was slightly damped by this news, but his thankfulness and filial obedience as well as love forced him to acquiesce, and immediately after he quitted the room and took his way to Oakwood House.

There he related the circumstances to Marina, who, though she blushed incredulously, yet in truth felt as much gladness and as great a relief from doubt almost amounting to despair as himself.