‘The law shall decide.’
She sprang forward and drew the knife from Villiers’s breast. Frambant, however, forced it from her hand.
‘For love of the wife who died, who even now is pleading at God’s throne for me?’
Frambant’s fingers relaxed. ‘Hush!’ he said.
‘If I must die let it be at thy hands.’
‘As you will: here . . . write.’ He took a quill from the table and dipped it in the pool of stiffening blood.
Then he dictated, whilst she wrote in a firm hand.
‘I, Constantia, the Noble Courtesan, after slaying five men, meet with a just punishment. Seek not to know further.’
She pressed close to him, smiling very tenderly. Her eyes were full of passionate adoration. As he raised the knife to her breast she caught his disengaged hand between her own. . . .
Frambant wrapped her in the gauze. Then after pinning the paper at the head, and covering all with the gown of white satin that was braided with golden serpents, he carried her through the house and garden. Dayspring was near, the light appalling.
He reached the cypress sedan and laid his burden inside. The two blackamoors, who had gibbered sleepily the while, caught up the poles and bore the Noble Courtesan away.
The Writtings Of Althea Swarthmoor
A portrait of Althea Swarthmoor hangs in the library of the House with Eleven Staircases. She is depicted (by Kneller’s brush) as a tall, thin woman of about thirty, somewhat sallow in the matter of complexion, and with deerhound eyes. Her crisp black hair is drawn plainly from an admirably arched brow, and there is a perplexed look about her lips.
Doctor Marston’s miniature hangs beside—the presentment of a corpulent, thick-necked divine with a fair skin, pallid eyes, and a sensuous mouth. Herrickian curls lie flat on the temples. A suave grace is manifest in the dimpled chin and complacent cheeks.
The literary remains of Althea are coffined in sheepskin on the topmost shelf of the bookcase. The Swarthmoors have a strenuous objection to the opening of this volume, for the episode of their seven times great-aunt is supposed to reflect no honour on the family. However, a few specimens of her fantastic letters, culled at random, can harm neither them nor the reader.
Althea Swarthmoor to Dr. Marston.
The House with Eleven Staircases,
19th May 1709
Do not fear, good Doctor, that I shall ever lose the remembrance of those tender words you spoke in the maze t’other evening. It is not necessary to copy them down for me; for they seem part of some rich painting, whereof the hanging moon and the stars form the background—such a picture as shall ever remain before my view. Yet I thank you for your kind proffer, and, whilst I forbid you, entreat you to know that I am depriving myself of what would be a most valued souvenir. Commend me to madam your wife; and understand that I am most cordially your ever faithful friend to serve you.
Dr. Marston to Althea Swarthmoor[1]
Baltcomb in Lancashire,
20th May 1709.
Honoured Madam,—I was writing my discourse for the Sunday when the messenger brought your most gracious epistle. Truly a great happiness hath fallen to me! When I declared myself as one whom the power of your presence and the fascination of your glances conquered, I felt the same spirit as is described by the lover in the Canticles—Turn away thine eyes, for they have overcome me. In the pulpit I shall next hold forth on the Shulamite and her would-be spouse. A fig for those who fondly believe the Church is meant! ’Tis an idyllic cry of passion betwixt real man and real woman; the preparative for as rich a marriage song as the world ever imagined. Yet, madam, to you alone dare I acknowledge this idea. We are both freed (in mind) from the conventional; but the world is apt to be censorious with those who have strength to think apart from the multitude. Therefore my treatment of the old love-song must be in the usual veil of supposed prophecy. How rarely does it befall a man to have such a friend (if I dare think you my friend) as you! Let me see you soon: I have a thousand thoughts to elaborate—a thousand religious fears to overcome. My poor wife is at present sunning herself among the herbs; she is again threatened with a plethora.—I am, with the truest sense of gratitude and respect possible, your most humble, most obedient and most obliged servant.
Althea Swarthmoor to Dr. Marston.
The House with Eleven Staircases,
30th July 1709
Were it not that I had promised to write whene’er I had leisure, I might, perchance, choose rather to loiter about the pleasaunce with my brother’s children, and to sit by the water basins, watching the goldfish, and paddling my fingers. But the strange impatience that has held me of late forces me to take pen in hand, and to write the wild thoughts that flee through my brain. If only the sound of thy voice came, the midday heat would disappear and I should be refreshed as by fountains.
Tell me of Love, not in the few words that almost make me swoon with their power, but in one long, uninterrupted recital. Fear not the censure of other folk (for the speech shall sink secret into my bosom) but drag it out of thy very heart—one drop of blood for each word. Thy miniature lies on my table; alas! my Bible hath grown dusty with neglect. May we not meet to talk of Passion and of Death, and how they oft walk hand in hand together?—Your most loyal and ever devoted
Althea.
The Same to the Same.
5th August 1709.
A trifle I have written I enclose. One at dinner chid me for never having loved. The verses were born of fevered heat during a restless night. I have named them ‘The Secret Priestess of the Amorous Deities’
Nymphs and Shepherds forthwith sing
To Dan Cupid, Friend and King,
Gamester with our wavering hearts,
Giver both of joys and smarts:
Hail to Cupid! Hail!
Hail to Venus! Mother Queen,
Who, with eyes of glist’ning sheen,
Sports him on, our souls to cheat,
Laughs and sings at every feat:
Hail to Venus! Hail!
But the Love, which dwelt inside
My heart’s core, had leifer died,
Than be praised and sung aloud,
For ’twas secret, wild, and proud.
The Same to the Same.
September 20th, 1709.
That we should truly admire what you were good enough to praise gives me pure joy. In my girlhood I had dreams of helping another by throwing my whole life into his. Am I really of service to you? Assure me that you did not flatter. Doubting is delicious only when one is certain that the doubts must be resolved. Another walk in the coppice, now that the nights are so sweet and so misty. Another of those fatal, delicious hours, wherein Love comes at the flood. Dear Marston, best and noblest of friends, believe me ever to be your devoted and very attached servant.
A Manuscript of Althea Swarthmoor,
suggested by some dread.
(Written about January 1710.)
There is nothing in the world more sad than a Love that’s dying. Profoundest melancholy comes when the gaudily-hued leaves drop from the parent boughs in Autumn, and leave the trunk gaunt, bare, and unlovely. Those trees are beautifullest whose fruit hangs bright and cheering through the Winter, but alack! they are rare indeed.
How the groaning branches weep when they see their offspring, yellow, crimson, and death-colour, lying beneath them, or carried off, dancing blithely, by every little breeze, to shrivel and decay as Nature demands, on some alien soil! The fairest lineaments of Devotion depart thus from us, and though we grasp a withered tenderness with such a palsied hold as an age-worn oak clutches its leaves, the unwilling thing passes away, floats through the thin air, and leaves us tearful.
We force ourselves to exact those little attentions given by the beloved one, and take an unhealthy gratification in such, believing, or striving to believe, that there is no gold and nought but baser metal in the world. But this cannot last. The Passions of some are destined to die quickly. To warm a corse o
n the hearth brings back no life. Bury the dead deeply, water its grave with streaming eyes, and in spring-tide pluck a withered violet or some other sweet-scented blossom from the green sod. Whilst cherishing the token in thy bosom, laugh and be merry in the knowledge that there is no attendant Spirit from the pined creature hovering near.
First desire is ever immature, and worthless in comparison with that which comes in after-life. It is not true that the nature understood to be the largest is capable of the grandest thoughts, for often the most selfish soul is lifted to the highest ecstasy. The strength given by powerful Love is Divine;—the sun warms and ripens Life; Earth is no longer Earth. Existence is a glorious gift.
Love that’s true lasts for ever. Death cannot end it. My certain hope, nay belief, is that, whether the Afterwards be cast in a wondrous, lovely country or an arid desert, an arm will clasp my waist and feet pace beside mine, whose owner will share all my joy and all my pain.
Althea Swarthmore to Dr. Marston.
1st February 1710.
Day after day of wearisome snow! Interminable workings with my needle and discoursings on my sister’s spinet! No interview in private to make me forget the staleness of life. When you come here I must needs sit with hands folded, to listen to the mouldy apophthegms my brother repeats, and admire the quiet courtesy wherewith you reply. A woman must think of nought but her still-room, her table, and the fashions. Even as it is they look upon me as a hawk amongst sparrows.
Ah me, to live with a squire who knows nought but Bacon, and knows him, alas! insufficiently; and a lady whose highest inspiration is to work tent-stitch better than her neighbours at Thundercliffe! Lord, how the children are bred! Barbary, who is twenty, sits demure, and fancies she was brought out of a parsley-plot!
Send me those writings of yours, that speak so curiously of happiness. Also those volumes of Suckling and Rochester you mentioned. ‘Pigmalion’s Image’ I read with delight: it is a picture of such vivid, fruit-like loveliness as no modern poet could invent. Almost the reader believes in its truth—for me, my breath came quick and my cheeks grew hot as the Sculptor’s desire was granted. Is there no other poem told in so sweet fashion? Have you not quoted one ‘Hero and Leander’ by Kit Marlowe; the story of a lover who swam the sea? Pray, if thou canst procure it, do so, for I am enamoured of verse.
To-morrow night we go to the Assembly Ball. I have prepared a surprise for you. Such a gown as you swore would become me most has been devised, and you will see me in light green, with laces of dead-leaf colour. Let not scruples hinder your coming.
Lastly, for I was fain to finish with the taste of this, I am sending you a cravat, wrought by my own hands, of admirable point, of the kind Antonio Moro loved to paint. It has all been done in my chamber, and none knows of it save myself. Honour me by wearing it to-morrow, and understand me, as ever, your loving friend.
The Same to the Same.
24th June 1710.
Since your removal to Bath, life here has been trebly stagnant. I trust the waters are improving the health of madam your wife, to whom pray commend me.
My godmother, Lady Comber, is staying near you. She wrote the other day to bid me come over, but—I cannot. You would be less for me, I less to you in the midst of a crowd of intellectual and fashionable folk. So I must endure the sweltering summer at home, but truly beg for all possible alleviation of the dulness by what letters your kindness may prompt you to send. As you ask, I have writ no more poetry. In a sardonic mood, such as I suffer at present, I am inclined to think all my past work neither rhyme nor reason.
This day I have been over all the walks we affected plucking flowers for our favourite seat, and kissing the lavender tree that grows at the lake-vista. It was a solemn pleasure to revisit these places; a pleasure illumined with the glad certainty that ere long you will be my companion again. Write to me soon, and tell me a thousand things of yourself.
Have you met the great wits? Have you played and won, or—God forbid—lost? What said you in your sermon before the Prince? But above all, have you missed me?
Last night I could not sleep. The heat was great, my imagination tortured. Ever and anon I fancied you were near, so rising from my bed at last I sat looking down the terrace, each moment anticipating your approach. By some miracle you were to arrive and to tell me that the strength of my affection had drawn you.
Dawn tore the East to tatters, Phoebus shook himself and leaped out golden. One by one the birds awoke. Yet my dream did not die until Hieronimo (for so I have named the young peacock) shrieked harshly beneath my window. Only then did I understand that you were still at Bath; and with the knowledge of the eightscore miles of separating hill and plain came the bitterest of tears—those from a lonely woman’s eyes.
So, genius and divine, wipe out their remembrance with the tenderest, lovingest letter you ever wrote, and earn the everlasting gratitude of thy Bedeswoman,—Althea.
The Same to the Same.
Sept. 1st, 1710
Since you chide me for my melancholy, dear, good Marston, tell me how I may avoid it. Stay, do not write. Your protracted absence will soon be over—’tis but a week to your return; a week of leaden hours whose passing I shall count one by one, and enjoy them in the same way that we enjoy crab-apples before a feast. The rapture of seeing you again, of hearing your voice, ay, of breathing the same air, must come in one overpowering excess. Because you love me I am crowned amongst women! What glorious, mad words were those ending your last letter: ‘There may be no real happiness for us in this sphere, but in the next, whatever betide, all my joy shall be with you.’
O fools that we be, not to dare to pluck the good which lies in our power!
Forgive me now, for I am a coward and need assuring. Art thou sure that after death thou wilt be mine? Nay, I could not live here under suspicion of having yielded to the sweetest temptation. Rest content then, dear heart. There is a particular Paradise for those denied joy on earth. Addio, I have kissed the spot of my signature.
Fragment of a Didactic Sermon by the Estimable Dr. Marston.
Conquer then, I say, conquer the lusts of the flesh; trample them beneath the feet; crush them as men crush venomous reptiles. Live loftily and purely, admit no evil thought; do what good thou canst, and thou shalt inherit God’s Kingdom. To the righteous evil desires never come, and the most lovely career is that which like the sun swerves not in its path and sinks to rest amidst the peaks of the country of Beulah. The only perfect man is he whose life is calm and passionless, etc. etc.
Althea Swarthmoor to Dr. Marston.
15th November 1710.
It is harder than I dreamed to live without you, in the now uncertain hope of a meeting after this world. Yet when you ask me to meet you again in the fir-wood for a long and sweet discourse such as we were wont to have, I cannot but say nay; for my brother’s eyes have oft been set upon me lately, and he has questioned me in strange fashion concerning my abstraction and frequent absences. Dearest, I lied to him, and said, with all the blood of my body rushing to my heart, that I was much engaged in meditation and writing. I dare not meet you to-night, but if you rise betimes in the morning I will be in the Long Spinney. Till sunbreak then, yours,—Althea.
From the Same to the Same
16th November 1710
Let it be now, my lover, let us not wait until age or disease brings us together. To die in the full expectation of joy, without one thought of the gloomy past, with its lurid clouds and too-scorching light—to die in the strongest appreciation, uncaring for men’s calumny—is my hope and heart’s desire. And even if there be no future but eternal sleep, ’tis eternal sleep at thy side. What more can a tired, loving woman wish for than rest by the man she adores? But there is another country, of that I am assured. So we will brave it together, seize Death at the height of Life, and enter, with unwarped souls, a new existence.
I have been to gaze upon our old trysting places for the last time. Shall we be permitted to visit them when, existing fo
r each other, we pass hand in hand through the air?
At midnight Althea Swarthmoor will be counted amongst the Dead. She calls thee—she bids thee welcome.
Tradition is silent as to the precise manner of the lady’s end. Suffice it to say that she died violently at the appointed time. Dr. Marston survived her by forty years; becoming in turn Dean of Barnchester and Bishop of Norbarry. Besides twelve volumes of sermons, he wrote a ‘Dissertation on the Human Feelings,’ which is still notorious for its triteness.
[1] This letter is the only one preserved.
Roxana Runs Lunatick
Amongst the May poetry in the ninety-first volume of the British Review is the following composition by Lady Penwhile, whose Roxana had shaken the town for a whole season.
‘Placed in the hand of the Satyr who guards the puzzle-pegs at N—, with a tress of hair for Hyperion.’
If so be that Hyperion visit thy stately lawn on the anniversary of our parting, O Satyr, wilt thou tell him that R—— hath often sigh’d for him there, and that, tho’ she has worn green Hellebore, such as he gave her a year agone—when he vow’d an early return—her hopes grow ever fainter and fainter. Say to him that she is bound in golden chains, but that her heart sings when she thinks of him—(ay, her heart is ever singing)—whisper that she loves him more as every moment passes. And when thou hast done all this, bid Pan trill from his pipes, whilst thou chantest this ditty.
A Night on the Moor and Other Tales of Dread Page 13