Theresa Marchmont | Page 7

had he praised her in former times, for her composure of
mind in peril, and for her unfeminine superiority to all ideal terrors; and
she did not now dare provoke his surprise and contempt by a revocation
of her principles, or by a relation of the mysterious event which had

befallen her.
As soon as he left her, she descended into the court enclosed by the
quadrangle of the mansion; and as long as daylight lasted she continued
to walk there, in order to avoid the solitude of her own dreaded
apartment. As she traversed the pavement with hurried steps, she gazed
on the huge iron cross, and no longer regarded with indifference the
terrific legends attached to it. But at length the closing evening,
accompanied by tempestuous winds, compelled her to retire to the
house.
Once more she found herself installed for the evening in the abhorred
chamber. All was as before--her husband was seated opposite to her in
the same chair, by the same lamp-light--the ticking of the time-piece
was again painfully audible from the wearisome stillness of the
apartment; and her own trembling hands were again lingering over the
embroidery-frame from which she dared not lift her eyes. Her heart
beat painfully, her breath became oppressed, and she ventured to steal a
look at her husband, who to her surprise was regarding her with an air
of affectionate interest. Relieved for a moment, she returned to her
occupation; but her former terrors soon overcame her. She would have
given worlds to escape from that room, from that dwelling, and
wandered she cared not how, she knew not wither, so she might be
rescued from the sight of that awful figure, from the sound of that
dreaded voice.
The conflict in her mind became at length too strong for endurance; and
suddenly flinging down her work, she threw herself at her husband's
feet, and burying her face in his knees she sobbed aloud; "save me from
myself--save me, save me from her!" He raised her gently, and folded
her in his arms. "Save thee from whom, my beloved Helen?"
"Greville, believe me or not as thou wilt, but as the Almighty hears and
judges me, I have beheld the apparition of thy wife. I saw her freely,
distinctly, standing beside thee even where thou sittest; clearly visible
as the form of a living being; and she would have spoken, and
doubtless revealed some dreadful secret, had not the weakness of my
nature refused to support me. Oh! Greville, take me from this

room--take me from this house--I am not able to bear the horrible
imaginings which have filled my mind since that awful hour. My very
brain is maddened--oh! Greville, take me hence."
Even in the agony of her fear, Helen started with delighted surprise to
feel the tears of her husband falling on her hand. Yes! he,--the stern
Greville, the estranged husband, moved by the deep distress manifested
in the appearance of his wife, acknowledged his sympathy by the first
tears shed in her presence.
"This is a mere phantasm of the brain," said he at length, attempting to
regain his composure; "the coinage of a lively imagination which loves
to deceive itself by--but no," continued he, observing her incredulous
and agonized expression of countenance, "no, my Helen, I will not
longer rack thy generous mind by these sufferings, however bitter the
truth may be to utter or to hear. Helen! it was no vision--no idle
dream,--Helen, it was a living form, a breathing curse to thee and me!
Thou who hast accused me of insensibility to thy charms, and to thine
endearing affection, judge of the strength of my love by the labyrinth of
sin into which it hath betrayed me. Helen, my wife still lives, and I am
not thy lawful husband."
It was many hours before the unfortunate Lady Greville sufficiently
recovered her composure to understand and feel the full extent of the
fatal intelligence she had received, and the immediate bearing it must
have upon her happiness, her rights, and those of her child. As by
degrees the full measure of her misery unfolded to her comprehension,
she fell into no paroxysm of angry grief; she vented her despair in no
revilings against the guilty Greville. Sorrowfully indeed, but calmly,
she requested to be made acquainted with the whole extent of her
miserable destiny.
"Let me know the worst," said she, "I have been long, too long
deceived, and the only mercy you can now bestow upon me is an
unreserved and unqualified confidence."
But Lord Greville could not trust himself to make so painful a
communication in words, and after passing the night in writing, he

delivered to her the following relation:--
LORD GREVILLE'S HISTORY
"I need not dwell upon the occurrences of my childhood,