And with the idea the picture of such a calamity arose before her so vividly and hideously distinct, that she thought for one brief moment of agony, "This is not a fancy, it is a presentiment; it is second sight; the thing will occur."
She imagined herself going to see her father as she had gone that morning. All would be the same: the low grey garden–wall of the Rectory; the ceaseless surging of the sea; the prim servant–maid; the familiar study, with its litter of books and papers; the smell of stale cigar–smoke; the chintz curtains flapping in the open window; the dry leaves fluttering in the garden without. There would be nothing changed except her father's face, which would be a little graver than usual. And then, after a little hesitation––after a brief preamble about the uncertainty of life, the necessity for looking always beyond this world, the horrors of war,––the dreadful words would be upon his lips, when she would read all the hideous truth in his face, and fall prone to the ground, before he could say, "Edward Arundel is dead!"
Yes; she felt all the anguish. It would be this––this sudden paralysis of black despair. She tested the strength of her endurance by this imaginary torture,––scarcely imaginary, surely, when it seemed so real,––and asked herself a strange question: "Am I strong enough to bear this, or would it be less terrible to go on, suffering for ever––for ever abased and humiliated by the degradation of my love for a man who does not care for me?"
So long as John Marchmont had lived, this woman would have been true to the terrible victory she had won upon the eve of her bridal. She would have been true to herself and to her marriage–vow; but her husband's death, in setting her free, had cast her back upon the madness of her youth. It was no longer a sin to think of Edward Arundel. Having once suffered this idea to arise in her mind, her idol grew too strong for her, and she thought of him by night and day.
Yes; she thought of him for ever and ever. The narrow life to which she doomed herself, the self–immolation which she called duty, left her a prey to this one thought. Her work was not enough for her. Her powerful mind wasted and shrivelled for want of worthy employment. It was like one vast roll of parchment whereon half the wisdom of the world might have been inscribed, but on which was only written over and over again, in maddening repetition, the name of Edward Arundel. If Olivia Marchmont could have gone to America, and entered herself amongst the feminine professors of law or medicine,––if she could have turned field–preacher, like simple Dinah Morris, or set up a printing–press in Bloomsbury, or even written a novel,––I think she might have been saved. The superabundant energy of her mind would have found a new object. As it was, she did none of these things. She had only dreamt one dream, and by force of perpetual repetition the dream had become a madness.
But the monotonous life was not to go on for ever. The dull, grey, leaden sky was to be illumined by sudden bursts of sunshine, and swept by black thunder–clouds, whose stormy violence was to shake the very universe for these two solitary women.
John Marchmont had been dead nearly three years. Mary's humble friend, the farmer's daughter, had married a young tradesman in the village of Kemberling, a mile and a half from the Towers. Mary was a woman now, and had seen the last of the Roman emperors and all the dry–as–dust studies of her early girlhood. She had nothing to do but accompany her stepmother hither and thither amongst the poor cottagers about Kemberling and two or three other small parishes within a drive of the Towers, "doing good," after Olivia's fashion, by line and rule. At home the young lady did what she pleased, sitting for hours together at her piano, or wading through gigantic achievements in the way of embroidery–work. She was even allowed to read novels now, but only such novels as were especially recommended to Olivia, who was one of the patronesses of a book–club at Swampington: novels in which young ladies fell in love with curates, and didn't marry them: novels in which everybody suffered all manner of misery, and rather liked it: novels in which, if the heroine did marry the man she loved––and this happy conclusion was the exception, and not the rule––the smallpox swept away her beauty, or a fatal accident deprived him of his legs, or eyes, or arms before the wedding–day.
The two women went to Kemberling Church together three times every Sunday. It was rather monotonous––the same church, the same rector and curate, the same clerk, the same congregation, the same old organ–tunes and droning voices of Lincolnshire charity–children, the same sermons very often. But Mary had grown accustomed to monotony. She had ceased to hope or care for anything since her father's death, and was very well contented to be let alone, and allowed to dawdle through a dreary life which was utterly without aim or purpose. She sat opposite her stepmother on one particular afternoon in the state–pew at Kemberling, which was lined with faded red baize, and raised a little above the pews of meaner worshippers; she was sitting with her listless hands lying in her lap, looking thoughtfully at her stepmother's stony face, and listening to the dull droning of the rector's voice above her head. It was a sunny afternoon in early June, and the church was bright with a warm yellow radiance; one of the old diamond–paned windows was open, and the tinkling of a sheep–bell far away in the distance, and the hum of bees in the churchyard, sounded pleasantly in the quiet of the hot atmosphere.
The young mistress of Marchmont Towers felt the drowsy influence of that tranquil summer weather creeping stealthily upon her. The heavy eyelids drooped over her soft brown eyes, those wistful eyes which had so long looked wearily out upon a world in which there seemed so little joy. The rector's sermon was a very long one this warm afternoon, and there was a low sound of snoring somewhere in one of the shadowy and sheltered pews beneath the galleries. Mary tried very hard to keep herself awake. Mrs. Marchmont had frowned darkly at her once or twice already, for to fall asleep in church was a dire iniquity in Olivia's rigid creed; but the drowsiness was not easily to be conquered, and the girl was sinking into a peaceful slumber in spite of her stepmother's menacing frowns, when the sound of a sharp footfall on one of the gravel pathways in the churchyard aroused her attention.
Heaven knows why she should have been awoke out of her sleep by the sound of that step. It was different, perhaps, to the footsteps of the Kemberling congregation. The brisk, sharp sound of the tread striking lightly but firmly on the gravel was not compatible with the shuffling gait of the tradespeople and farmers' men who formed the greater part of the worshippers at that quiet Lincolnshire church. Again, it would have been a monstrous sin in that tranquil place for any one member of the congregation to disturb the devotions of the rest by entering at such a time as this. It was a stranger, then, evidently. What did it matter? Miss Marchmont scarcely cared to lift her eyelids to see who or what the stranger was; but the intruder let in such a flood of June sunshine when he pushed open the ponderous oaken door under the church–porch, that she was dazzled by that sudden burst of light, and involuntarily opened her eyes.