Ethel Churchill/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV.
THE CONSENT.
It is the past that maketh my despair;
The dark, the sad, the irrevocable past.
Alas! why should our lot in life be made,
Before we know that life? Experience comes,
But comes too late. If I could now recall
All that I now regret, how different
Would be my choice! at best a choice of ill;
But better than my miserable past.
Loathed, yet despised, why must I think of it?
The bitterness of death was upon the unfortunate young man: he stood gazing from the window, but seeing nothing. He felt stunned—mortification, sorrow, and anger, mingled together: the past was like a dream, and the future swam indistinctly before him. The first object that roused him was the sight of his mother, who still leaned against the wall for support, her stately figure bowed in an attitude of hopeless misery; and her pale hands hung down as if she had not the power to raise them even to dash away the few tears, the one or two drops, that overflowed her fixed and dilated eyes. Norbourne saw how worn and wan they were: he caught them in his; and, pressing them to his lips, exclaimed,—
"My poor mother! I ask not of the past; I know you have suffered—that you suffer far more than I do. To me you have ever been the kindest, the best, the dearest. Let my uncle do his worst, we will leave this together."
"You will marry Constance," exclaimed she, "and save us both from the misery of disclosure?"
Norbourne's brow darkened.
"It were dishonour in me to yield. I will not play the part of an impostor, whom my uncle must despise even while he screens. No; these estates are his right: let him take them; I will not buy them with his daughter's hand."
"Not for your own sake, but for mine," said Mrs. Courtenaye, "do I implore you to consent. My life and death are in your hands; for never would I survive the disgrace of a discovery."
"It is somewhat late to think of this," exclaimed Norbourne, bitterly. The word was repented as spoken: "My dearest mother, you urge me too far."
"Norbourne," said she earnestly, almost calmly, "listen to my story; and you will then find it is not even the harshest justice that you measure upon my ill-fated head."
She returned to her seat by the fire, and, pointing to a chair near, made one strong effort at self-control, and began as follows:
"I was but sixteen when I met your father; yet even then I had known sorrow. My parents had both died within my recollection, and left me to guardians, who, only intent on securing my fortune, used every means to induce me to follow a religious life. They forced me into a convent, whence your father rescued me: and that evening I was married to him—ay, married. A daughter of my noble house could not have stooped to a love unsanctified by duty. We were married according to the rites of my own faith,—a faith I still hold as sacred as it was once held in this recreant land.
"We had many dangers and difficulties to encounter; and it was months before we reached England in safety. Alas! you were born before that time: and, as I learned too late, our differing faiths made our marriage illegal. He was only my husband before his God and his honour. He should have thought of them before he disgraced the woman who never wronged him by a doubt, and the child whose very existence was his own. I learned the truth, but would never consent to a second marriage. It could not do you justice; and, for myself, I needed none. I stood acquitted by my own conscience. I had not transgressed the laws of God; and the laws of men, what were they?—founded on the party and the policy of the moment. None knew the secret but Mr. Courtenaye's brother, and till now he has held it inviolable. But I know Lord Norbourne well; he would sacrifice his life for the success of a favourite project. Tell me that you will marry Constance: save me from shame—from death!"
Norbourne stood silent and irresolute. Ethel and his mother rose confusedly together; but Mrs. Courtenaye could not bear the suspense. She sprang from her seat—she threw herself at her son's feet, and, resisting all his attempts to raise her, exclaimed, while she clasped his knees with passionate vehemence, "Never, never will I rise till you promise to save me from all I most loathe and fear! Must I be made a by-word and a scorn? The days of my youth and beauty to be remembered only to tell how fair I was as Courtenaye's mistress! To become the subject of the pity I have so despised! Norbourne, you are your father's representative; you owe me some atonement: at our hands I ask the name and fame which your father risked in his selfish passion. The God whose shrine I deserted for earthly affection is terribly avenged. My husband deceived—my son deserts me; but you cannot, Norbourne, abandon to shame the mother who watched your cradle. It is my life I ask—I will not survive the disgrace!"
"Mother," said Norbourne, in a hoarse whisper, "tell Lord Norbourne from me, I will marry his daughter."