XX. THE PARTING BETWEEN TERESA AND LORD COURLAND.
|Left alone, Lord Courland did not feel by any means satisfied with what he had done.
He was really in love with Mrs. Calverley, and now that he seemed likely to lose her, his passion revived in all its force. He had made certain of a large fortune, and vexation at his disappointment had carried him farther than he intended. It was disagreeable to lose so charming a place as Ouselcroft, and such a splendid income as he had been promised, but it was far more disagreeable to loose the object of his affections. Moreover, fifteen hundred a year, though it would not bear comparison with five thousand, was not to be despised. Altogether, he blamed himself for his precipitancy, and resolved, if possible, to set matters right.
With this determination, he was about to quit the cabinet, when Teresa made her appearance.
She looked exceedingly pale and ill, and, thinking he was the cause of her suffering, he felt inclined to throw himself at her feet, and entreat forgiveness.
But she checked him by her manner, which was totally changed, and almost freezingly cold.
“I have learnt your decision, my lord,” she said, in accents devoid of emotion, “and entirely approve of it. I would not have it otherwise.”
“But I was wrong, dearest Teresa!” he cried. “I retract all I have said, and pray you to forgive me! I will take you without fortune! I cannot live without you!”
A melancholy smile played upon her pallid features.
“Would I had known this before!” she said. “But it is now too late!”
“Why too late?” he exclaimed, despairingly. “I have told you I will take you as you are. Do as you please with your own. I will ask nothing!”
“Alas!” she exclaimed, sadly. “I repeat it is now too late. I cannot wed you!”
Lord Courland uttered a cry of anguish.
“Not wed me!” he ejaculated. “What hindrance is there to our union that did not exist before? Pardon me, sweet Teresa; I feel I have deeply offended you by my apparent selfishness, but I will try to make amends! I am sure you love me!”
“I do!” she replied, earnestly, and with a look of inexpressible tenderness. “You are the only person I have ever loved—not for your rank, but for yourself. Had I been fortunate enough to wed you, I should have been happy—happier than I deserve to be!”
“Not than you deserve to be, dearest Teresa!”
“Yes,” she replied, in accents of bitterest self-reproach. “I have no right to expect happiness!”
“What is the meaning of this?” he exclaimed, regarding her in astonishment.
“Do not question me,” she replied. “Some time or other you will understand me. I merely came to tell you it is best that we should part, and therefore I approve of your decision as conveyed to me by Mr. Carteret.”
“But I recall it,” he cried. “Think no more of it, sweetest Teresa.”
“Again I say it is too late,” she rejoined, in a sombre tone. “It is idle to prolong this discourse, which can lead to nothing. Farewell!”
“Do you, then, bid me depart?”
“I do not bid you; but we cannot meet again.”
“If so, it would be useless to stay. But you will think differently when you become calmer.”
“You mistake,” she said. “I was never calmer than now. Had I not felt so, I would not have seen you. But the parting moment is come. Again, farewell!”
And with a look that remained for ever graven on his memory, she disappeared.
Bewildered as if he had been in a troubled dream, Lord Courland remained for some time in the cabinet, seriously reproaching himself with having caused the mental malady with which he thought Teresa had become suddenly afflicted.
He then went down-stairs, intending to consult Lady Thicknesse, but found she had gone to Brackley Hall with Sir Bridgnorth Charlton, who had driven her thither in his phaeton.
However, as his lordship could not rest in his present anxious and excited state, he determined to follow her; and, explaining his difficulty to Scrope, though without entering into particulars, the latter offered to accompany him, and they went at once to the stables to procure horses.