CHAPTER XV.
Shakspeare.
Lady Latimer and Helen had that morning, after breakfast, been talking over the future prospects of the latter.
“I only hope, my dear Helen,” said Lady Latimer, “that you may be as happy as you deserve to be. The doubts I have expressed as to some parts of Mr. Oakley’s character, have only been stated that you might early correct their evil tendency, not from any desire to take from the value of your very promising prospects; and now, having said thus much, for my letter-writing; for before post-time, I trust, one may announce it as certain.”
Soon after Lady Latimer had retired at one door, Lord Latimer came in at the other. Helen’s back was turned towards him, and he advanced hastily to her, evidently mistaking her for Lady Latimer; for, upon perceiving who it was, he shrunk back with an expression which did not escape her observation, and immediately conveyed a foreboding of some evil tidings to her.
“Where is he?—will he not come?” she abruptly enquired; though it was the first time that the subject of Oakley had escaped her lips to the ears of Lord Latimer.
In the course of a complicated intercourse with the world, Lord Latimer had, of course, often been placed in situations of embarrassment and difficulty, but he had never felt so unequal to any thing, as to the painful task of having to break to the interesting orphan-girl before him the sudden overthrow—the utter extinction—of all her fond hopes and brilliant expectations. He could only stammer out: “He is, I believe, in the house.”
“Where? Why not here?” she anxiously asked.
“He is hurt—rather—I fear; but, I trust, not very much.”
A servant came in, whose manner was evidently confused and disturbed, and before Lord Latimer could motion him to silence, he said: “The doctor, my lord, must see you again immediately.”
Lord Latimer could not but feel partially relieved by this momentary escape from his difficult duty. He said: “I will return immediately, Miss Mordaunt, and you shall know all—but compose yourself—I trust there is still hope,”—and he hastily left the room.
“Hope!” cried Helen, bewildered. “Good God! what has happened?”
The idea that first suggested itself was of a fall from his horse, or some other accident in coming down; forth at there should have been a quarrel—a duel—and yet that he should be there, was an idea that with no apparent probability could have presented itself. A few moments she waited Lord Latimer’s return in a state of trembling anxiety, when, no longer able to bear the agonizing suspense, she staggered to the stairs. At the head of the first flight there was a half-open door, through which, she fancied she heard Lord Latimer’s voice in low and earnest conversation. She succeeded in reaching that door. It opened into a dressing-room, but there was no longer any one in it. Opposite to that, through which she had entered, there was another door closed—they must have disappeared through that—and Oakley must be there. Endeavouring to compose her scattered spirits, she retired to the open window, gasping for breath, and overcome with apprehension. Whilst she remained here, half hid by the falling curtains, Lord Latimer and the surgeon came through from the inner room without seeing her.
“No hope, my lord, no hope!” said the medical man: “he may linger a few hours longer; but he is mortally wounded.”
“Poor Helen!” said Lord Latimer, and they passed on.
She made an attempt to stop them, and enquire further, but the words died away on her lips. She then determined to enter Oakley’s apartment, and with her own eyes learn the worst; a moment of irresolution and maiden modesty succeeded. “This is no time for such considerations,” thought she. Endeavouring to gather strength for this great effort, she leant, in passing, against the back of an arm-chair, when, with freezing horror, she perceived that one side of it was wet with blood. Revolting from thence, her eye wandered unconsciously to the table, where the pistols had been carelessly thrown, and the whole dreadful catastrophe rushed at once upon her mind.
When, by the exertion of the most extraordinary self-command, she had so far recovered as to attempt entering Oakley’s room, she beheld him stretched on the bed, his eyes half closed, his countenance, which was naturally pale, but little altered. She glided in so softly, that he was not at first conscious of her entrance. She dropped gently on her knees by the side of his bed, and taking his hand in hers, bathed it with her tears.
“Helen, sweet Helen!” murmured Oakley, and words of comfort were rising to his lips; but when he looked at the orphan-girl, and recollected that he was all in all to her, the half-formed phrase of consolation choked him, as he felt that such attempt would be a mockery to the desolation of her heart, and he could only feebly and indistinctly repeat: “Poor—poor Helen!”
He never spoke more: and when Lord Latimer, a few minutes afterwards, entered the apartment, having, in vain, sought Helen elsewhere, he found her senseless on the dead body of her lover; and when returning consciousness brought a knowledge of the events that had blasted her happiness for ever, the distraction that followed, rendered her recovery from that death-like swoon, a thing which it was doubtful whether her friends durst rejoice at.