A Group of Noble Dames
by Thomas Hardy · English · Gutenberg #3049 · 409,493 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A Group of Noble Dames
Author: Thomas Hardy
Release date: January 1, 2002 [eBook #3049]
Most recently updated: March 24, 2009
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3049
Credits: Transcribed from the 1920 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES ***
Transcribed from the 1920 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES
THAT IS TO SAY
THE FIRST COUNTESS OF WESSEX
BARBARA OF THE HOSE OF GREBE
THE MARCHIONESS OF STONEHENGE,
LADY MOTTIFONT SQUIRE PETRICK'S LADY
THE LADY ICENWAY ANNA, LADY BAXBY
THE LADY PENELOPE
THE DUCHESS OF HAMPTONSHIRE; AND
THE HONOURABLE LAURA
BY
THOMAS HARDY
'. . . Store of Ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence.'--L'ALLEGRO.
WITH A MAP OF WESSEX
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
1920
COPYRIGHT
_First Collected Edition_ 1891
_New Edition and reprints_ 1896-1900
_First published by Macmillan & Co._, _Crown_ 8vo, 1903
_Pocket Edition_ 1907 _Reprinted_ 1911, 1914, 1917, 1919, 1920
Contents:
Preface
Part I--Before Dinner
The First Countess of Wessex
Barbara of the House of Grebe
The Marchioness of Stonehenge
Lady Mottisfont
Part II--After Dinner
The Lady Icenway
Squire Petrick's Lady
Anna, Lady Baxby
The Lady Penelope
The Duchess Of Hamptonshire
The Honourable Laura
PREFACE
The pedigrees of our county families, arranged in diagrams on the pages
of county histories, mostly appear at first sight to be as barren of any
touch of nature as a table of logarithms. But given a clue--the faintest
tradition of what went on behind the scenes, and this dryness as of dust
may be transformed into a palpitating drama. More, the careful
comparison of dates alone--that of birth with marriage, of marriage with
death, of one marriage, birth, or death with a kindred marriage, birth,
or death--will often effect the same transformation, and anybody
practised in raising images from such genealogies finds himself
unconsciously filling into the framework the motives, passions, and
personal qualities which would appear to be the single explanation
possible of some extraordinary conjunction in times, events, and
personages that occasionally marks these reticent family records.
Out of such pedigrees and supplementary material most of the following
stories have arisen and taken shape.
I would make this preface an opportunity of expressing my sense of the
courtesy and kindness of several bright-eyed Noble Dames yet in the
flesh, who, since the first publication of these tales in periodicals,
six or seven years ago, have given me interesting comments and
conjectures on such of the narratives as they have recognized to be
connected with their own families, residences, or traditions; in which
they have shown a truly philosophic absence of prejudice in their regard
of those incidents whose relation has tended more distinctly to dramatize
than to eulogize their ancestors. The outlines they have also given of
other singular events in their family histories for use in a second
"Group of Noble Dames," will, I fear, never reach the printing-press
through me; but I shall store them up in memory of my informants' good
nature.
T. H.
_June_ 1896.
DAME THE FIRST--THE FIRST COUNTESS OF WESSEX
By the Local Historian
King's-Hintock Court (said the narrator, turning over his memoranda for
reference)--King's-Hintock Court is, as we know, one of the most imposing
of the mansions that overlook our beautiful Blackmoor or Blakemore Vale.
On the particular occasion of which I have to speak this building stood,
as it had often stood before, in the perfect silence of a calm clear
night, lighted only by the cold shine of the stars. The season was
winter, in days long ago, the last century having run but little more
than a third of its length. North, south, and west, not a casement was
unfastened, not a curtain undrawn; eastward, one window on the upper
floor was open, and a girl of twelve or thirteen was leaning over the
sill. That she had not taken up the position for purposes of observation
was apparent at a glance, for she kept her eyes covered with her hands.
The room occupied by the girl was an inner one of a suite, to be reached
only by passing through a large bedchamber adjoining. From this
apartment voices in altercation were audible, everything else in the
building being so still. It was to avoid listening to these voices that
the girl had left her little cot, thrown a cloak round her head and
shoulders, and stretched into the night air.
But she could not escape the conversation, try as she would. The words
reached her in all their painfulness, one sentence in masculine tones,
those of her father, being repeated many times.
'I tell 'ee there shall be no such betrothal! I tell 'ee there sha'n't!
A child like her!'
She knew the subject of dispute to be herself. A cool feminine voice,
her mother's, replied:
'Have done with you, and be wise. He is willing to wait a good five or
six years before the marriage takes place, and there's not a man in the
county to compare with him.'
'It shall not be! He is over thirty. It is wickedness.'
'He is just thirty, and the best and finest man alive--a perfect match
for her.'
'He is poor!'
'But his father and elder brothers are made much of at Court--none so
constantly at the palace as they; and with her fortune, who knows? He
may be able to get a barony.'
'I believe you are in love with en yourself!'
'How can you insult me so, Thomas! And is it not monstrous for you to
talk of my wickedness when you have a like scheme in your own head? You
know you have. Some bumpkin of your own choosing--some petty gentleman
who lives down at that outlandish place of yours, Falls-Park--one of your
pot-companions' sons--'
There was an outburst of imprecation on the part of her husband in lieu
of further argument. As soon as he could utter a connected sentence he
said: 'You crow and you domineer, mistress, because you are
heiress-general here. You are in your own house; you are on your own
land. But let me tell 'ee that if I did come here to you instead of
taking you to me, it was done at the dictates of convenience merely. H---!
I'm no beggar! Ha'n't I a place of my own? Ha'n't I an avenue as
long as thine? Ha'n't I beeches that will more than match thy oaks? I
should have lived in my own quiet house and land, contented, if you had
not called me off with your airs and graces. Faith, I'll go back there;
I'll not stay with thee longer! If it had not been for our Betty I
should have gone long ago!'
After this there were no more words; but presently, hearing the sound of
a door opening and shutting below, the girl again looked from the window.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel-walk, and a shape in a drab greatcoat,
easily distinguishable as her father, withdrew from the house. He moved
to the left, and she watched him diminish down the long east front till
he had turned the corner and vanished. He must have gone round to the
stables.
She closed the window and shrank into bed, where she cried herself to
sleep. This child, their only one, Betty, beloved ambitiously by her
mother, and with uncalculating passionateness by her father, was
frequently made wretched by such episodes as this; though she was too
young to care very deeply, for her own sake, whether her mother betrothed
her to the gentleman discussed or not.
The Squire had often gone out of the house in this manner, declaring that
he would never return, but he had always reappeared in the morning. The
present occasion, however, was different in the issue: next day she was
told that her father had ridden to his estate at Falls-Park early in the
morning on business with his agent, and might not come back for some
days.
* * * * *
Falls-Park was over twenty miles from King's-Hintock Court, and was
altogether a more modest centre-piece to a more modest possession than
the latter. But as Squire Dornell came in view of it that February
morning, he thought that he had been a fool ever to leave it, though it
was for the sake of the greatest heiress in Wessex. Its classic front,
of the period of the second Charles, derived from its regular features a
dignity which the great, battlemented, heterogeneous mansion of his wife
could not eclipse. Altogether he was sick at heart, and the gloom which
the densely-timbered park threw over the scene did not tend to remove the
depression of this rubicund man of eight-and-forty, who sat so heavily
upon his gelding. The child, his darling Betty: there lay the root of
his trouble. He was unhappy when near his wife, he was unhappy when away
from his little girl; and from this dilemma there was no practicable
escape. As a consequence he indulged rather freely in the pleasures of
the table, became what was called a three bottle man, and, in his wife's
estimation, less and less presentable to her polite friends from town.
He was received by the two or three old servants who were in charge of
the lonely place, where a few rooms only were kept habitable for his use
or that of his friends when hunting; and during the morning he was made
more comfortable by the arrival of his faithful servant Tupcombe from
King's-Hintock. But after a day or two spent here in solitude he began
to feel that he had made a mistake in coming. By leaving King's-Hintock
in his anger he had thrown away his best opportunity of counteracting his
wife's preposterous notion of promising his poor little Betty's hand to a
man she had hardly seen. To protect her from such a repugnant bargain he
should have remained on the spot. He felt it almost as a misfortune that
the child would inherit so much wealth. She would be a mark for all the
adventurers in the kingdom. Had she been only the heiress to his own
unassuming little place at Falls, how much better would have been her
chances of happiness!
His wife had divined truly when she insinuated that he himself had a
lover in view for this pet child. The son of a dear deceased friend of
his, who lived not two miles from where the Squire now was, a lad a
couple of years his daughter's senior, seemed in her father's opinion the
one person in the world likely to make her happy. But as to breathing
such a scheme to either of the young people with the indecent haste that
his wife had shown, he would not dream of it; years hence would be soon
enough for that. They had already seen each other, and the Squire
fancied that he noticed a tenderness on the youth's part which promised
well. He was strongly tempted to profit by his wife's example, and
forestall her match-making by throwing the two young people together
there at Falls. The girl, though marriageable in the views of those
days, was too young to be in love, but the lad was fifteen, and already
felt an interest in her.
Still better than keeping watch over her at King's Hintock, where she was
necessarily much under her mother's influence, would it be to get the
child to stay with him at Falls for a time, under his exclusive control.
But how accomplish this without using main force? The only possible
chance was that his wife might, for appearance' sake, as she had done
before, consent to Betty paying him a day's visit, when he might find
means of detaining her till Reynard, the suitor whom his wife favoured,
had gone abroad, which he was expected to do the following week. Squire
Dornell determined to return to King's-Hintock and attempt the
enterprise. If he were refused, it was almost in him to pick up Betty
bodily and carry her off.
The journey back, vague and Quixotic as were his intentions, was
performed with a far lighter heart than his setting forth. He would see
Betty, and talk to her, come what might of his plan.
So he rode along the dead level which stretches between the hills
skirting Falls-Park and those bounding the town of Ivell, trotted through
that borough, and out by the King's-Hintock highway, till, passing the
villages he entered the mile-long drive through the park to the Court.
The drive being open, without an avenue, the Squire could discern the
north front and door of the Court a long way off, and was himself visible
from the windows on that side; for which reason he hoped that Betty might
perceive him coming, as she sometimes did on his return from an outing,
and run to the door or wave her handkerchief.
But there was no sign. He inquired for his wife as soon as he set foot
to earth.
'Mistress is away. She was called to London, sir.'
'And Mistress Betty?' said the Squire blankly.
'Gone likewise, sir, for a little change. Mistress has left a letter for
you.'
The note explained nothing, merely stating that she had posted to London
on her own affairs, and had taken the child to give her a holiday. On
the fly-leaf were some words from Betty herself to the same effect,
evidently written in a state of high jubilation at the idea of her jaunt.
Squire Dornell murmured a few expletives, and submitted to his
disappointment. How long his wife meant to stay in town she did not say;
but on investigation he found that the carriage had been packed with
sufficient luggage for a sojourn of two or three weeks.
King's-Hintock Court was in consequence as gloomy as Falls-Park had been.
He had lost all zest for hunting of late, and had hardly attended a meet
that season. Dornell read and re-read Betty's scrawl, and hunted up some
other such notes of hers to look over, this seeming to be the only
pleasure there was left for him. That they were really in London he
learnt in a few days by another letter from Mrs. Dornell, in which she
explained that they hoped to be home in about a week, and that she had
had no idea he was coming back to King's-Hintock so soon, or she would
not have gone away without telling him.
Squire Dornell wondered if, in going or returning, it had been her plan
to call at the Reynards' place near Melchester, through which city their
journey lay. It was possible that she might do this in furtherance of
her project, and the sense that his own might become the losing game was
harassing.
He did not know how to dispose of himself, till it occurred to him that,
to get rid of his intolerable heaviness, he would invite some friends to
dinner and drown his cares in grog and wine. No sooner was the carouse
decided upon than he put it in hand; those invited being mostly
neighbouring landholders, all smaller men than himself, members of the
hunt; also the doctor from Evershead, and the like--some of them
rollicking blades whose presence his wife would not have countenanced had
she been at home. 'When the cat's away--!' said the Squire.
They arrived, and there were indications in their manner that they meant
to make a night of it. Baxby of Sherton Castle was late, and they waited
a quarter of an hour for him, he being one of the liveliest of Dornell's
friends; without whose presence no such dinner as this would be
considered complete, and, it may be added, with whose presence no dinner
which included both sexes could be conducted with strict propriety. He
had just returned from London, and the Squire was anxious to talk to
him--for no definite reason; but he had lately breathed the atmosphere in
which Betty was.
At length they heard Baxby driving up to the door, whereupon the host and
the rest of his guests crossed over to the dining-room. In a moment
Baxby came hastily in at their heels, apologizing for his lateness.
'I only came back last night, you know,' he said; 'and the truth o't is,
I had as much as I could carry.' He turned to the Squire. 'Well,
Dornell--so cunning Reynard has stolen your little ewe lamb? Ha, ha!'
'What?' said Squire Dornell vacantly, across the dining-table, round
which they were all standing, the cold March sunlight streaming in upon
his full-clean shaven face.
'Surely th'st know what all the town knows?--you've had a letter by this
time?--that Stephen Reynard has married your Betty? Yes, as I'm a living
man. It was a carefully-arranged thing: they parted at once, and are not
to meet for five or six years. But, Lord, you must know!'
A thud on the floor was the only reply of the Squire. They quickly
turned. He had fallen down like a log behind the table, and lay
motionless on the oak boards.
Those at hand hastily bent over him, and the whole group were in
confusion. They found him to be quite unconscious, though puffing and
panting like a blacksmith's bellows. His face was livid, his veins
swollen, and beads of perspiration stood upon his brow.
'What's happened to him?' said several.
'An apoplectic fit,' said the doctor from Evershead, gravely.
He was only called in at the Court for small ailments, as a rule, and
felt the importance of the situation. He lifted the Squire's head,
loosened his cravat and clothing, and rang for the servants, who took the
Squire upstairs.
There he lay as if in a drugged sleep. The surgeon drew a basin-full of
blood from him, but it was nearly six o'clock before he came to himself.
The dinner was completely disorganized, and some had gone home long ago;
but two or three remained.
'Bless my soul,' Baxby kept repeating, 'I didn't know things had come to
this pass between Dornell and his lady! I thought the feast he was
spreading to-day was in honour of the event, though privately kept for
the present! His little maid married without his knowledge!'
As soon as the Squire recovered consciousness he gasped: ''Tis abduction!
'Tis a capital felony! He can be hung! Where is Baxby? I am very well
now. What items have ye heard, Baxby?'
The bearer of the untoward news was extremely unwilling to agitate
Dornell further, and would say little more at first. But an hour after,
when the Squire had partially recovered and was sitting up, Baxby told as
much as he knew, the most important particular being that Betty's mother
was present at the marriage, and showed every mark of approval.
'Everything appeared to have been done so regularly that I, of course,
thought you knew all about it,' he said.
'I knew no more than the underground dead that such a step was in the
wind! A child not yet thirteen! How Sue hath outwitted me! Did Reynard
go up to Lon'on with 'em, d'ye know?'
'I can't say. All I know is that your lady and daughter were walking
along the street, with the footman behind 'em; that they entered a
jeweller's shop, where Reynard was standing; and that there, in the
presence o' the shopkeeper and your man, who was called in on purpose,
your Betty said to Reynard--so the story goes: 'pon my soul I don't vouch
for the truth of it--she said, "Will you marry me?" or, "I want to marry
you: will you have me--now or never?" she said.'
'What she said means nothing,' murmured the Squire, with wet eyes. 'Her
mother put the words into her mouth to avoid the serious consequences
that would attach to any suspicion of force. The words be not the
child's: she didn't dream of marriage--how should she, poor little maid!
Go on.'
'Well, be that as it will, they were all agreed apparently. They bought
the ring on the spot, and the marriage took place at the nearest church
within half-an-hour.'
* * * * *
A day or two later there came a letter from Mrs. Dornell to her husband,
written before she knew of his stroke. She related the circumstances of
the marriage in the gentlest manner, and gave cogent reasons and excuses
for consenting to the premature union, which was now an accomplished fact
indeed. She had no idea, till sudden pressure was put upon her, that the
contract was expected to be carried out so soon, but being taken half
unawares, she had consented, having learned that Stephen Reynard, now
their son-in-law, was becoming a great favourite at Court, and that he
would in all likelihood have a title granted him before long. No harm
could come to their dear daughter by this early marriage-contract, seeing
that her life would be continued under their own eyes, exactly as before,
for some years. In fine, she had felt that no other such fair
opportunity for a good marriage with a shrewd courtier and wise man of
the world, who was at the same time noted for his excellent personal
qualities, was within the range of probability, owing to the rusticated
lives they led at King's-Hintock. Hence she had yielded to Stephen's
solicitation, and hoped her husband would forgive her. She wrote, in
short, like a woman who, having had her way as to the deed, is prepared
to make any concession as to words and subsequent behaviour.
All this Dornell took at its true value, or rather, perhaps, at less than
its true value. As his life depended upon his not getting into a
passion, he controlled his perturbed emotions as well as he was able,
going about the house sadly and utterly unlike his former self. He took
every precaution to prevent his wife knowing of the incidents of his
sudden illness, from a sense of shame at having a heart so tender; a
ridiculous quality, no doubt, in her eyes, now that she had become so
imbued with town ideas. But rumours of his seizure somehow reached her,
and she let him know that she was about to return to nurse him. He
thereupon packed up and went off to his own place at Falls-Park.
Here he lived the life of a recluse for some time. He was still too
unwell to entertain company, or to ride to hounds or elsewhither; but
more than this, his aversion to the faces of strangers and acquaintances,
who knew by that time of the trick his wife had played him, operated to
hold him aloof.
Nothing could influence him to censure Betty for her share in the
exploit. He never once believed that she had acted voluntarily. Anxious
to know how she was getting on, he despatched the trusty servant Tupcombe
to Evershead village, close to King's-Hintock, timing his journey so that
he should reach the place under cover of dark. The emissary arrived
without notice, being out of livery, and took a seat in the
chimney-corner of the Sow-and-Acorn.
The conversation of the droppers-in was always of the nine days'
wonder--the recent marriage. The smoking listener learnt that Mrs.
Dornell and the girl had returned to King's-Hintock for a day or two,
that Reynard had set out for the Continent, and that Betty had since been
packed off to school. She did not realize her position as Reynard's
child-wife--so the story went--and though somewhat awe-stricken at first
by the ceremony, she had soon recovered her spirits on finding that her
freedom was in no way to be interfered with.
After that, formal messages began to pass between Dornell and his wife,
the latter being now as persistently conciliating as she was formerly
masterful. But her rustic, simple, blustering husband still held
personally aloof. Her wish to be reconciled--to win his forgiveness for
her stratagem--moreover, a genuine tenderness and desire to soothe his
sorrow, which welled up in her at times, brought her at last to his door
at Falls-Park one day.
They had not met since that night of altercation, before her departure
for London and his subsequent illness. She was shocked at the change in
him. His face had become expressionless, as blank as that of a puppet,
and what troubled her still more was that she found him living in one
room, and indulging freely in stimulants, in absolute disobedience to the
physician's order. The fact was obvious that he could no longer be
allowed to live thus uncouthly.
So she sympathized, and begged his pardon, and coaxed. But though after
this date there was no longer such a complete estrangement as before,
they only occasionally saw each other, Dornell for the most part making
Falls his headquarters still.
Three or four years passed thus. Then she came one day, with more
animation in her manner, and at once moved him by the simple statement
that Betty's schooling had ended; she had returned, and was grieved
because he was away. She had sent a message to him in these words: 'Ask
father to come home to his dear Betty.'
'Ah! Then she is very unhappy!' said Squire Dornell.
His wife was silent.
''Tis that accursed marriage!' continued the Squire.
Still his wife would not dispute with him. 'She is outside in the
carriage,' said Mrs. Dornell gently.
'What--Betty?'
'Yes.'
'Why didn't you tell me?' Dornell rushed out, and there was the girl
awaiting his forgiveness, for she supposed herself, no less than her
mother, to be under his displeasure.
Yes, Betty had left school, and had returned to King's-Hintock. She was
nearly seventeen, and had developed to quite a young woman. She looked
not less a member of the household for her early marriage-contract, which
she seemed, indeed, to have almost forgotten. It was like a dream to
her; that clear cold March day, the London church, with its gorgeous
pews, and green-baize linings, and the great organ in the west gallery--so
different from their own little church in the shrubbery of King's-Hintock
Court--the man of thirty, to whose face she had looked up with so much
awe, and with a sense that he was rather ugly and formidable; the man
whom, though they corresponded politely, she had never seen since; one to
whose existence she was now so indifferent that if informed of his death,
and that she would never see him more, she would merely have replied,
'Indeed!' Betty's passions as yet still slept.
'Hast heard from thy husband lately?' said Squire Dornell, when they were
indoors, with an ironical laugh of fondness which demanded no answer.
The girl winced, and he noticed that his wife looked appealingly at him.
As the conversation went on, and there were signs that Dornell would
express sentiments that might do harm to a position which they could not
alter, Mrs. Dornell suggested that Betty should leave the room till her
father and herself had finished their private conversation; and this
Betty obediently did.
Dornell renewed his animadversions freely. 'Did you see how the sound of
his name frightened her?' he presently added. 'If you didn't, I did.
Zounds! what a future is in store for that poor little unfortunate wench
o' mine! I tell 'ee, Sue, 'twas not a marriage at all, in morality, and
if I were a woman in such a position, I shouldn't feel it as one. She
might, without a sign of sin, love a man of her choice as well now as if
she were chained up to no other at all. There, that's my mind, and I
can't help it. Ah, Sue, my man was best! He'd ha' suited her.'
'I don't believe it,' she replied incredulously.
'You should see him; then you would. He's growing up a fine fellow, I
can tell 'ee.'
'Hush! not so loud!' she answered, rising from her seat and going to the
door of the next room, whither her daughter had betaken herself. To Mrs.
Dornell's alarm, there sat Betty in a reverie, her round eyes fixed on
vacancy, musing so deeply that she did not perceive her mother's
entrance. She had heard every word, and was digesting the new knowledge.
Her mother felt that Falls-Park was dangerous ground for a young girl of
the susceptible age, and in Betty's peculiar position, while Dornell
talked and reasoned thus. She called Betty to her, and they took leave.
The Squire would not clearly promise to return and make King's-Hintock
Court his permanent abode; but Betty's presence there, as at former
times, was sufficient to make him agree to pay them a visit soon.
All the way home Betty remained preoccupied and silent. It was too plain
to her anxious mother that Squire Dornell's free views had been a sort of
awakening to the girl.
The interval before Dornell redeemed his pledge to come and see them was
unexpectedly short. He arrived one morning about twelve o'clock, driving
his own pair of black-bays in the curricle-phaeton with yellow panels and
red wheels, just as he had used to do, and his faithful old Tupcombe on
horseback behind. A young man sat beside the Squire in the carriage, and
Mrs. Dornell's consternation could scarcely be concealed when, abruptly
entering with his companion, the Squire announced him as his friend
Phelipson of Elm-Cranlynch.
Dornell passed on to Betty in the background and tenderly kissed her.
'Sting your mother's conscience, my maid!' he whispered. 'Sting her
conscience by pretending you are struck with Phelipson, and would ha'
loved him, as your old father's choice, much more than him she has forced
upon 'ee.'
The simple-souled speaker fondly imagined that it as entirely in
obedience to this direction that Betty's eyes stole interested glances at
the frank and impulsive Phelipson that day at dinner, and he laughed
grimly within himself to see how this joke of his, as he imagined it to
be, was disturbing the peace of mind of the lady of the house. 'Now Sue
sees what a mistake she has made!' said he.
Mrs. Dornell was verily greatly alarmed, and as soon as she could speak a
word with him alone she upbraided him. 'You ought not to have brought
him here. Oh Thomas, how could you be so thoughtless! Lord, don't you
see, dear, that what is done cannot be undone, and how all this foolery
jeopardizes her happiness with her husband? Until you interfered, and
spoke in her hearing about this Phelipson, she was as patient and as
willing as a lamb, and looked forward to Mr. Reynard's return with real
pleasure. Since her visit to Falls-Park she has been monstrous close-
mouthed and busy with her own thoughts. What mischief will you do? How
will it end?'
'Own, then, that my man was best suited to her. I only brought him to
convince you.'
'Yes, yes; I do admit it. But oh! do take him back again at once! Don't
keep him here! I fear she is even attracted by him already.'
'Nonsense, Sue. 'Tis only a little trick to tease 'ee!'
Nevertheless her motherly eye was not so likely to be deceived as his,
and if Betty were really only playing at being love-struck that day, she
played at it with the perfection of a Rosalind, and would have deceived
the best professors into a belief that it was no counterfeit. The
Squire, having obtained his victory, was quite ready to take back the too
attractive youth, and early in the afternoon they set out on their return
journey.
A silent figure who rode behind them was as interested as Dornell in that
day's experiment. It was the staunch Tupcombe, who, with his eyes on the
Squire's and young Phelipson's backs, thought how well the latter would
have suited Betty, and how greatly the former had changed for the worse
during these last two or three years. He cursed his mistress as the
cause of the change.
After this memorable visit to prove his point, the lives of the Dornell
couple flowed on quietly enough for the space of a twelvemonth, the
Squire for the most part remaining at Falls, and Betty passing and
repassing between them now and then, once or twice alarming her mother by
not driving home from her father's house till midnight.
* * * * *
The repose of King's-Hintock was broken by the arrival of a special
messenger. Squire Dornell had had an access of gout so violent as to be
serious. He wished to see Betty again: why had she not come for so long?
Mrs. Dornell was extremely reluctant to take Betty in that direction too
frequently; but the girl was so anxious to go, her interests latterly
seeming to be so entirely bound up in Falls-Park and its neighbourhood,
that there was nothing to be done but to let her set out and accompany
her.
Squire Dornell had been impatiently awaiting her arrival. They found him
very ill and irritable. It had been his habit to take powerful medicines
to drive away his enemy, and they had failed in their effect on this
occasion.
The presence of his daughter, as usual, calmed him much, even while, as
usual too, it saddened him; for he could never forget that she had
disposed of herself for life in opposition to his wishes, though she had
secretly assured him that she would never have consented had she been as
old as she was now.
As on a former occasion, his wife wished to speak to him alone about the
girl's future, the time now drawing nigh at which Reynard was expected to
come and claim her. He would have done so already, but he had been put
off by the earnest request of the young woman herself, which accorded
with that of her parents, on the score of her youth. Reynard had
deferentially submitted to their wishes in this respect, the
understanding between them having been that he would not visit her before
she was eighteen, except by the mutual consent of all parties. But this
could not go on much longer, and there was no doubt, from the tenor of
his last letter, that he would soon take possession of her whether or no.
To be out of the sound of this delicate discussion Betty was accordingly
sent downstairs, and they soon saw her walking away into the shrubberies,
looking very pretty in her sweeping green gown, and flapping
broad-brimmed hat overhung with a feather.
On returning to the subject, Mrs. Dornell found her husband's reluctance
to reply in the affirmative to Reynard's letter to be as great as ever.
'She is three months short of eighteen!' he exclaimed. ''Tis too soon. I
won't hear of it! If I have to keep him off sword in hand, he shall not
have her yet.'
'But, my dear Thomas,' she expostulated, 'consider if anything should
happen to you or to me, how much better it would be that she should be
settled in her home with him!'
'I say it is too soon!' he argued, the veins of his forehead beginning to
swell. 'If he gets her this side o' Candlemas I'll challenge en--I'll
take my oath on't! I'll be back to King's-Hintock in two or three days,
and I'll not lose sight of her day or night!'
She feared to agitate him further, and gave way, assuring him, in
obedience to his demand, that if Reynard should write again before he got
back, to fix a time for joining Betty, she would put the letter in her
husband's hands, and he should do as he chose. This was all that
required discussion privately, and Mrs. Dornell went to call in Betty,
hoping that she had not heard her father's loud tones.
She had certainly not done so this time. Mrs. Dornell followed the path
along which she had seen Betty wandering, but went a considerable
distance without perceiving anything of her. The Squire's wife then
turned round to proceed to the other side of the house by a short cut
across the grass, when, to her surprise and consternation, she beheld the
object of her search sitting on the horizontal bough of a cedar, beside
her being a young man, whose arm was round her waist. He moved a little,
and she recognized him as young Phelipson.
Alas, then, she was right. The so-called counterfeit love was real. What
Mrs. Dornell called her husband at that moment, for his folly in
originally throwing the young people together, it is not necessary to
mention. She decided in a moment not to let the lovers know that she had
seen them. She accordingly retreated, reached the front of the house by
another route, and called at the top of her voice from a window, 'Betty!'
For the first time since her strategic marriage of the child, Susan
Dornell doubted the wisdom of that step.
Her husband had, as it were, been assisted by destiny to make his
objection, originally trivial, a valid one. She saw the outlines of
trouble in the future. Why had Dornell interfered? Why had he insisted
upon producing his man? This, then, accounted for Betty's pleading for
postponement whenever the subject of her husband's return was broached;
this accounted for her attachment to Falls-Park. Possibly this very
meeting that she had witnessed had been arranged by letter.
Perhaps the girl's thoughts would never have strayed for a moment if her
father had not filled her head with ideas of repugnance to her early
union, on the ground that she had been coerced into it before she knew
her own mind; and she might have rushed to meet her husband with open
arms on the appointed day.
Betty at length appeared in the distance in answer to the call, and came
up pale, but looking innocent of having seen a living soul. Mrs. Dornell
groaned in spirit at such duplicity in the child of her bosom. This was
the simple creature for whose development into womanhood they had all
been so tenderly waiting--a forward minx, old enough not only to have a
lover, but to conceal his existence as adroitly as any woman of the
world! Bitterly did the Squire's lady regret that Stephen Reynard had
not been allowed to come to claim her at the time he first proposed.
The two sat beside each other almost in silence on their journey back to
King's-Hintock. Such words as were spoken came mainly from Betty, and
their formality indicated how much her mind and heart were occupied with
other things.
Mrs. Dornell was far too astute a mother to openly attack Betty on the
matter. That would be only fanning flame. The indispensable course
seemed to her to be that of keeping the treacherous girl under lock and
key till her husband came to take her off her mother's hands. That he
would disregard Dornell's opposition, and come soon, was her devout wish.
It seemed, therefore, a fortunate coincidence that on her arrival at
King's-Hintock a letter from Reynard was put into Mrs. Dornell's hands.
It was addressed to both her and her husband, and courteously informed
them that the writer had landed at Bristol, and proposed to come on to
King's-Hintock in a few days, at last to meet and carry off his darling
Betty, if she and her parents saw no objection.
Betty had also received a letter of the same tenor. Her mother had only
to look at her face to see how the girl received the information. She
was as pale as a sheet.
'You must do your best to welcome him this time, my dear Betty,' her
mother said gently.
'But--but--I--'
'You are a woman now,' added her mother severely, 'and these
postponements must come to an end.'
'But my father--oh, I am sure he will not allow this! I am not ready. If
he could only wait a year longer--if he could only wait a few months
longer! Oh, I wish--I wish my dear father were here! I will send to him
instantly.' She broke off abruptly, and falling upon her mother's neck,
burst into tears, saying, 'O my mother, have mercy upon me--I do not love
this man, my husband!'
The agonized appeal went too straight to Mrs. Dornell's heart for her to
hear it unmoved. Yet, things having come to this pass, what could she
do? She was distracted, and for a moment was on Betty's side. Her
original thought had been to write an affirmative reply to Reynard, allow
him to come on to King's-Hintock, and keep her husband in ignorance of
the whole proceeding till he should arrive from Falls on some fine day
after his recovery, and find everything settled, and Reynard and Betty
living together in harmony. But the events of the day, and her
daughter's sudden outburst of feeling, had overthrown this intention.
Betty was sure to do as she had threatened, and communicate instantly
with her father, possibly attempt to fly to him. Moreover, Reynard's
letter was addressed to Mr. Dornell and herself conjointly, and she could
not in conscience keep it from her husband.
'I will send the letter on to your father instantly,' she replied
soothingly. 'He shall act entirely as he chooses, and you know that will
not be in opposition to your wishes. He would ruin you rather than
thwart you. I only hope he may be well enough to bear the agitation of
this news. Do you agree to this?'
Poor Betty agreed, on condition that she should actually witness the
despatch of the letter. Her mother had no objection to offer to this;
but as soon as the horseman had cantered down the drive toward the
highway, Mrs. Dornell's sympathy with Betty's recalcitration began to die
out. The girl's secret affection for young Phelipson could not possibly
be condoned. Betty might communicate with him, might even try to reach
him. Ruin lay that way. Stephen Reynard must be speedily installed in
his proper place by Betty's side.
She sat down and penned a private letter to Reynard, which threw light
upon her plan.
* * * * *
'It is Necessary that I should now tell you,' she said, 'what I have
never Mentioned before--indeed I may have signified the Contrary--that
her Father's Objection to your joining her has not as yet been overcome.
As I personally Wish to delay you no longer--am indeed as anxious for
your Arrival as you can be yourself, having the good of my Daughter at
Heart--no course is left open to me but to assist your Cause without my
Husband's Knowledge. He, I am sorry to say, is at present ill at Falls-
Park, but I felt it my Duty to forward him your Letter. He will
therefore be like to reply with a peremptory Command to you to go back
again, for some Months, whence you came, till the Time he originally
stipulated has expir'd. My Advice is, if you get such a Letter, to take
no Notice of it, but to come on hither as you had proposed, letting me
know the Day and Hour (after dark, if possible) at which we may expect
you. Dear Betty is with me, and I warrant ye that she shall be in the
House when you arrive.'
* * * * *
Mrs. Dornell, having sent away this epistle unsuspected of anybody, next
took steps to prevent her daughter leaving the Court, avoiding if
possible to excite the girl's suspicions that she was under restraint.
But, as if by divination, Betty had seemed to read the husband's approach
in the aspect of her mother's face.
'He is coming!' exclaimed the maiden.
'Not for a week,' her mother assured her.
'He is then--for certain?'
'Well, yes.'
Betty hastily retired to her room, and would not be seen.
To lock her up, and hand over the key to Reynard when he should appear in
the hall, was a plan charming in its simplicity, till her mother found,
on trying the door of the girl's chamber softly, that Betty had already
locked and bolted it on the inside, and had given directions to have her
meals served where she was, by leaving them on a dumb-waiter outside the
door.
Thereupon Mrs. Dornell noiselessly sat down in her boudoir, which, as
well as her bed-chamber, was a passage-room to the girl's apartment, and
she resolved not to vacate her post night or day till her daughter's
husband should appear, to which end she too arranged to breakfast, dine,
and sup on the spot. It was impossible now that Betty should escape
without her knowledge, even if she had wished, there being no other door
to the chamber, except one admitting to a small inner dressing-room
inaccessible by any second way.
But it was plain that the young girl had no thought of escape. Her ideas
ran rather in the direction of intrenchment: she was prepared to stand a
siege, but scorned flight. This, at any rate, rendered her secure. As
to how Reynard would contrive a meeting with her coy daughter while in
such a defensive humour, that, thought her mother, must be left to his
own ingenuity to discover.
Betty had looked so wild and pale at the announcement of her husband's
approaching visit, that Mrs. Dornell, somewhat uneasy, could not leave
her to herself. She peeped through the keyhole an hour later. Betty lay
on the sofa, staring listlessly at the ceiling.
'You are looking ill, child,' cried her mother. 'You've not taken the
air lately. Come with me for a drive.'
Betty made no objection. Soon they drove through the park towards the
village, the daughter still in the strained, strung-up silence that had
fallen upon her. They left the park to return by another route, and on
the open road passed a cottage.
Betty's eye fell upon the cottage-window. Within it she saw a young girl
about her own age, whom she knew by sight, sitting in a chair and propped
by a pillow. The girl's face was covered with scales, which glistened in
the sun. She was a convalescent from smallpox--a disease whose
prevalence at that period was a terror of which we at present can hardly
form a conception.
An idea suddenly energized Betty's apathetic features. She glanced at
her mother; Mrs. Dornell had been looking in the opposite direction.
Betty said that she wished to go back to the cottage for a moment to
speak to a girl in whom she took an interest. Mrs. Dornell appeared
suspicious, but observing that the cottage had no back-door, and that
Betty could not escape without being seen, she allowed the carriage to be
stopped. Betty ran back and entered the cottage, emerging again in about
a minute, and resuming her seat in the carriage. As they drove on she
fixed her eyes upon her mother and said, 'There, I have done it now!' Her
pale face was stormy, and her eyes full of waiting tears.
'What have you done?' said Mrs. Dornell.
'Nanny Priddle is sick of the smallpox, and I saw her at the window, and
I went in and kissed her, so that I might take it; and now I shall have
it, and he won't be able to come near me!'
'Wicked girl!' cries her mother. 'Oh, what am I to do! What--bring a
distemper on yourself, and usurp the sacred prerogative of God, because
you can't palate the man you've wedded!'
The alarmed woman gave orders to drive home as rapidly as possible, and
on arriving, Betty, who was by this time also somewhat frightened at her
own enormity, was put into a bath, and fumigated, and treated in every
way that could be thought of to ward off the dreadful malady that in a
rash moment she had tried to acquire.
There was now a double reason for isolating the rebellious daughter and
wife in her own chamber, and there she accordingly remained for the rest
of the day and the days that followed; till no ill results seemed likely
to arise from her wilfulness.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the first letter from Reynard, announcing to Mrs. Dornell and
her husband jointly that he was coming in a few days, had sped on its way
to Falls-Park. It was directed under cover to Tupcombe, the confidential
servant, with instructions not to put it into his master's hands till he
had been refreshed by a good long sleep. Tupcombe much regretted his
commission, letters sent in this way always disturbing the Squire; but
guessing that it would be infinitely worse in the end to withhold the
news than to reveal it, he chose his time, which was early the next
morning, and delivered the missive.
The utmost effect that Mrs. Dornell had anticipated from the message was
a peremptory order from her husband to Reynard to hold aloof a few months
longer. What the Squire really did was to declare that he would go
himself and confront Reynard at Bristol, and have it out with him there
by word of mouth.
'But, master,' said Tupcombe, 'you can't. You cannot get out of bed.'
'You leave the room, Tupcombe, and don't say "can't" before me! Have
Jerry saddled in an hour.'
The long-tried Tupcombe thought his employer demented, so utterly
helpless was his appearance just then, and he went out reluctantly. No
sooner was he gone than the Squire, with great difficulty, stretched
himself over to a cabinet by the bedside, unlocked it, and took out a
small bottle. It contained a gout specific, against whose use he had
been repeatedly warned by his regular physician, but whose warning he now
cast to the winds.
He took a double dose, and waited half an hour. It seemed to produce no
effect. He then poured out a treble dose, swallowed it, leant back upon
his pillow, and waited. The miracle he anticipated had been worked at
last. It seemed as though the second draught had not only operated with
its own strength, but had kindled into power the latent forces of the
first. He put away the bottle, and rang up Tupcombe.
Less than an hour later one of the housemaids, who of course was quite
aware that the Squire's illness was serious, was surprised to hear a bold
and decided step descending the stairs from the direction of Mr.
Dornell's room, accompanied by the humming of a tune. She knew that the
doctor had not paid a visit that morning, and that it was too heavy to be
the valet or any other man-servant. Looking up, she saw Squire Dornell
fully dressed, descending toward her in his drab caped riding-coat and
boots, with the swinging easy movement of his prime. Her face expressed
her amazement.
'What the devil beest looking at?' said the Squire. 'Did you never see a
man walk out of his house before, wench?'
Resuming his humming--which was of a defiant sort--he proceeded to the
library, rang the bell, asked if the horses were ready, and directed them
to be brought round. Ten minutes later he rode away in the direction of
Bristol, Tupcombe behind him, trembling at what these movements might
portend.
They rode on through the pleasant woodlands and the monotonous straight
lanes at an equal pace. The distance traversed might have been about
fifteen miles when Tupcombe could perceive that the Squire was getting
tired--as weary as he would have been after riding three times the
distance ten years before. However, they reached Bristol without any
mishap, and put up at the Squire's accustomed inn. Dornell almost
immediately proceeded on foot to the inn which Reynard had given as his
address, it being now about four o'clock.
Reynard had already dined--for people dined early then--and he was
staying indoors. He had already received Mrs. Dornell's reply to his
letter; but before acting upon her advice and starting for King's-Hintock
he made up his mind to wait another day, that Betty's father might at
least have time to write to him if so minded. The returned traveller
much desired to obtain the Squire's assent, as well as his wife's, to the
proposed visit to his bride, that nothing might seem harsh or forced in
his method of taking his position as one of the family. But though he
anticipated some sort of objection from his father-in-law, in consequence
of Mrs. Dornell's warning, he was surprised at the announcement of the
Squire in person.
Stephen Reynard formed the completest of possible contrasts to Dornell as
they stood confronting each other in the best parlour of the Bristol
tavern. The Squire, hot-tempered, gouty, impulsive, generous, reckless;
the younger man, pale, tall, sedate, self-possessed--a man of the world,
fully bearing out at least one couplet in his epitaph, still extant in
King's-Hintock church, which places in the inventory of his good
qualities
'Engaging Manners, cultivated Mind,
Adorn'd by Letters, and in Courts refin'd.'
He was at this time about five-and-thirty, though careful living and an
even, unemotional temperament caused him to look much younger than his
years.
Squire Dornell plunged into his errand without much ceremony or preface.
'I am your humble servant, sir,' he said. 'I have read your letter writ
to my wife and myself, and considered that the best way to answer it
would be to do so in person.'
'I am vastly honoured by your visit, sir,' said Mr. Stephen Reynard,
bowing.
'Well, what's done can't be undone,' said Dornell, 'though it was mighty
early, and was no doing of mine. She's your wife; and there's an end
on't. But in brief, sir, she's too young for you to claim yet; we
mustn't reckon by years; we must reckon by nature. She's still a girl;
'tis onpolite of 'ee to come yet; next year will be full soon enough for
you to take her to you.'
Now, courteous as Reynard could be, he was a little obstinate when his
resolution had once been formed. She had been promised him by her
eighteenth birthday at latest--sooner if she were in robust health. Her
mother had fixed the time on her own judgment, without a word of
interference on his part. He had been hanging about foreign courts till
he was weary. Betty was now as woman, if she would ever be one, and
there was not, in his mind, the shadow of an excuse for putting him off
longer. Therefore, fortified as he was by the support of her mother, he
blandly but firmly told the Squire that he had been willing to waive his
rights, out of deference to her parents, to any reasonable extent, but
must now, in justice to himself and her insist on maintaining them. He
therefore, since she had not come to meet him, should proceed to King's-
Hintock in a few days to fetch her.
This announcement, in spite of the urbanity with which it was delivered,
set Dornell in a passion.
'Oh dammy, sir; you talk about rights, you do, after stealing her away, a
mere child, against my will and knowledge! If we'd begged and prayed 'ee
to take her, you could say no more.'
'Upon my honour, your charge is quite baseless, sir,' said his son-in-
law. 'You must know by this time--or if you do not, it has been a
monstrous cruel injustice to me that I should have been allowed to remain
in your mind with such a stain upon my character--you must know that I
used no seductiveness or temptation of any kind. Her mother assented;
she assented. I took them at their word. That you was really opposed to
the marriage was not known to me till afterwards.'
Dornell professed to believe not a word of it. 'You sha'n't have her
till she's dree sixes full--no maid ought to be married till she's dree
sixes!--and my daughter sha'n't be treated out of nater!' So he stormed
on till Tupcombe, who had been alarmedly listening in the next room,
entered suddenly, declaring to Reynard that his master's life was in
danger if the interview were prolonged, he being subject to apoplectic
strokes at these crises. Reynard immediately said that he would be the
last to wish to injure Squire Dornell, and left the room, and as soon as
the Squire had recovered breath and equanimity, he went out of the inn,
leaning on the arm of Tupcombe.
Tupcombe was for sleeping in Bristol that night, but Dornell, whose
energy seemed as invincible as it was sudden, insisted upon mounting and
getting back as far as Falls-Park, to continue the journey to
King's-Hintock on the following day. At five they started, and took the
southern road toward the Mendip Hills. The evening was dry and windy,
and, excepting that the sun did not shine, strongly reminded Tupcombe of
the evening of that March month, nearly five years earlier, when news had
been brought to King's-Hintock Court of the child Betty's marriage in
London--news which had produced upon Dornell such a marked effect for the
worse ever since, and indirectly upon the household of which he was the
head. Before that time the winters were lively at Falls-Park, as well as
at King's-Hintock, although the Squire had ceased to make it his regular
residence. Hunting-guests and shooting-guests came and went, and open
house was kept. Tupcombe disliked the clever courtier who had put a stop
to this by taking away from the Squire the only treasure he valued.
It grew darker with their progress along the lanes, and Tupcombe
discovered from Mr. Dornell's manner of riding that his strength was
giving way; and spurring his own horse close alongside, he asked him how
he felt.
'Oh, bad; damn bad, Tupcombe! I can hardly keep my seat. I shall never
be any better, I fear! Have we passed Three-Man-Gibbet yet?'
'Not yet by a long ways, sir.'
'I wish we had. I can hardly hold on.' The Squire could not repress a
groan now and then, and Tupcombe knew he was in great pain. 'I wish I
was underground--that's the place for such fools as I! I'd gladly be
there if it were not for Mistress Betty. He's coming on to
King's-Hintock to-morrow--he won't put it off any longer; he'll set out
and reach there to-morrow night, without stopping at Falls; and he'll
take her unawares, and I want to be there before him.'
'I hope you may be well enough to do it, sir. But really--'
'I _must_, Tupcombe! You don't know what my trouble is; it is not so
much that she is married to this man without my agreeing--for, after all,
there's nothing to say against him, so far as I know; but that she don't
take to him at all, seems to fear him--in fact, cares nothing about him;
and if he comes forcing himself into the house upon her, why, 'twill be
rank cruelty. Would to the Lord something would happen to prevent him!'
How they reached home that night Tupcombe hardly knew. The Squire was in
such pain that he was obliged to recline upon his horse, and Tupcombe was
afraid every moment lest he would fall into the road. But they did reach
home at last, and Mr. Dornell was instantly assisted to bed.
* * * * *
Next morning it was obvious that he could not possibly go to
King's-Hintock for several days at least, and there on the bed he lay,
cursing his inability to proceed on an errand so personal and so delicate
that no emissary could perform it. What he wished to do was to ascertain
from Betty's own lips if her aversion to Reynard was so strong that his
presence would be positively distasteful to her. Were that the case, he
would have borne her away bodily on the saddle behind him.
But all that was hindered now, and he repeated a hundred times in
Tupcombe's hearing, and in that of the nurse and other servants, 'I wish
to God something would happen to him!'
This sentiment, reiterated by the Squire as he tossed in the agony
induced by the powerful drugs of the day before, entered sharply into the
soul of Tupcombe and of all who were attached to the house of Dornell, as
distinct from the house of his wife at King's-Hintock. Tupcombe, who was
an excitable man, was hardly less disquieted by the thought of Reynard's
return than the Squire himself was. As the week drew on, and the
afternoon advanced at which Reynard would in all probability be passing
near Falls on his way to the Court, the Squire's feelings became acuter,
and the responsive Tupcombe could hardly bear to come near him. Having
left him in the hands of the doctor, the former went out upon the lawn,
for he could hardly breathe in the contagion of excitement caught from
the employer who had virtually made him his confidant. He had lived with
the Dornells from his boyhood, had been born under the shadow of their
walls; his whole life was annexed and welded to the life of the family in
a degree which has no counterpart in these latter days.
He was summoned indoors, and learnt that it had been decided to send for
Mrs. Dornell: her husband was in great danger. There were two or three
who could have acted as messenger, but Dornell wished Tupcombe to go, the
reason showing itself when, Tupcombe being ready to start, Squire Dornell
summoned him to his chamber and leaned down so that he could whisper in
his ear:
'Put Peggy along smart, Tupcombe, and get there before him, you
know--before him. This is the day he fixed. He has not passed Falls
cross-roads yet. If you can do that you will be able to get Betty to
come--d'ye see?--after her mother has started; she'll have a reason for
not waiting for him. Bring her by the lower road--he'll go by the upper.
Your business is to make 'em miss each other--d'ye see?--but that's a
thing I couldn't write down.'
Five minutes after, Tupcombe was astride the horse and on his way--the
way he had followed so many times since his master, a florid young
countryman, had first gone wooing to King's-Hintock Court. As soon as he
had crossed the hills in the immediate neighbourhood of the manor, the
road lay over a plain, where it ran in long straight stretches for
several miles. In the best of times, when all had been gay in the united
houses, that part of the road had seemed tedious. It was gloomy in the
extreme now that he pursued it, at night and alone, on such an errand.
He rode and brooded. If the Squire were to die, he, Tupcombe, would be
alone in the world and friendless, for he was no favourite with Mrs.
Dornell; and to find himself baffled, after all, in what he had set his
mind on, would probably kill the Squire. Thinking thus, Tupcombe stopped
his horse every now and then, and listened for the coming husband. The
time was drawing on to the moment when Reynard might be expected to pass
along this very route. He had watched the road well during the
afternoon, and had inquired of the tavern-keepers as he came up to each,
and he was convinced that the premature descent of the stranger-husband
upon his young mistress had not been made by this highway as yet.
Besides the girl's mother, Tupcombe was the only member of the household
who suspected Betty's tender feelings towards young Phelipson, so
unhappily generated on her return from school; and he could therefore
imagine, even better than her fond father, what would be her emotions on
the sudden announcement of Reynard's advent that evening at
King's-Hintock Court.
So he rode and rode, desponding and hopeful by turns. He felt assured
that, unless in the unfortunate event of the almost immediate arrival of
her son-in law at his own heels, Mrs. Dornell would not be able to hinder
Betty's departure for her father's bedside.
It was about nine o'clock that, having put twenty miles of country behind
him, he turned in at the lodge-gate nearest to Ivell and King's-Hintock
village, and pursued the long north drive--itself much like a turnpike
road--which led thence through the park to the Court. Though there were
so many trees in King's-Hintock park, few bordered the carriage roadway;
he could see it stretching ahead in the pale night light like an unrolled
deal shaving. Presently the irregular frontage of the house came in
view, of great extent, but low, except where it rose into the outlines of
a broad square tower.
As Tupcombe approached he rode aside upon the grass, to make sure, if
possible, that he was the first comer, before letting his presence be
known. The Court was dark and sleepy, in no respect as if a bridegroom
were about to arrive.
While pausing he distinctly heard the tread of a horse upon the track
behind him, and for a moment despaired of arriving in time: here, surely,
was Reynard! Pulling up closer to the densest tree at hand he waited,
and found he had retreated nothing too soon, for the second rider avoided
the gravel also, and passed quite close to him. In the profile he
recognized young Phelipson.
Before Tupcombe could think what to do, Phelipson had gone on; but not to
the door of the house. Swerving to the left, he passed round to the east
angle, where, as Tupcombe knew, were situated Betty's apartments.
Dismounting, he left the horse tethered to a hanging bough, and walked on
to the house.
Suddenly his eye caught sight of an object which explained the position
immediately. It was a ladder stretching from beneath the trees, which
there came pretty close to the house, up to a first-floor window--one
which lighted Miss Betty's rooms. Yes, it was Betty's chamber; he knew
every room in the house well.
The young horseman who had passed him, having evidently left his steed
somewhere under the trees also, was perceptible at the top of the ladder,
immediately outside Betty's window. While Tupcombe watched, a cloaked
female figure stepped timidly over the sill, and the two cautiously
descended, one before the other, the young man's arms enclosing the young
woman between his grasp of the ladder, so that she could not fall. As
soon as they reached the bottom, young Phelipson quickly removed the
ladder and hid it under the bushes. The pair disappeared; till, in a few
minutes, Tupcombe could discern a horse emerging from a remoter part of
the umbrage. The horse carried double, the girl being on a pillion
behind her lover.
Tupcombe hardly knew what to do or think; yet, though this was not
exactly the kind of flight that had been intended, she had certainly
escaped. He went back to his own animal, and rode round to the servants'
door, where he delivered the letter for Mrs. Dornell. To leave a verbal
message for Betty was now impossible.
The Court servants desired him to stay over the night, but he would not
do so, desiring to get back to the Squire as soon as possible and tell
what he had seen. Whether he ought not to have intercepted the young
people, and carried off Betty himself to her father, he did not know.
However, it was too late to think of that now, and without wetting his
lips or swallowing a crumb, Tupcombe turned his back upon King's-Hintock
Court.
It was not till he had advanced a considerable distance on his way
homeward that, halting under the lantern of a roadside-inn while the
horse was watered, there came a traveller from the opposite direction in
a hired coach; the lantern lit the stranger's face as he passed along and
dropped into the shade. Tupcombe exulted for the moment, though he could
hardly have justified his exultation. The belated traveller was Reynard;
and another had stepped in before him.
You may now be willing to know of the fortunes of Miss Betty. Left much
to herself through the intervening days, she had ample time to brood over
her desperate attempt at the stratagem of infection--thwarted,
apparently, by her mother's promptitude. In what other way to gain time
she could not think. Thus drew on the day and the hour of the evening on
which her husband was expected to announce himself.
At some period after dark, when she could not tell, a tap at the window,
twice and thrice repeated, became audible. It caused her to start up,
for the only visitant in her mind was the one whose advances she had so
feared as to risk health and life to repel them. She crept to the
window, and heard a whisper without.
'It is I--Charley,' said the voice.
Betty's face fired with excitement. She had latterly begun to doubt her
admirer's staunchness, fancying his love to be going off in mere
attentions which neither committed him nor herself very deeply. She
opened the window, saying in a joyous whisper, 'Oh Charley; I thought you
had deserted me quite!'
He assured her he had not done that, and that he had a horse in waiting,
if she would ride off with him. 'You must come quickly,' he said; 'for
Reynard's on the way!'
To throw a cloak round herself was the work of a moment, and assuring
herself that her door was locked against a surprise, she climbed over the
window-sill and descended with him as we have seen.
Her mother meanwhile, having received Tupcombe's note, found the news of
her husband's illness so serious, as to displace her thoughts of the
coming son-in-law, and she hastened to tell her daughter of the Squire's
dangerous condition, thinking it might be desirable to take her to her
father's bedside. On trying the door of the girl's room, she found it
still locked. Mrs. Dornell called, but there was no answer. Full of
misgivings, she privately fetched the old house-steward and bade him
burst open the door--an order by no means easy to execute, the joinery of
the Court being massively constructed. However, the lock sprang open at
last, and she entered Betty's chamber only to find the window unfastened
and the bird flown.
For a moment Mrs. Dornell was staggered. Then it occurred to her that
Betty might have privately obtained from Tupcombe the news of her
father's serious illness, and, fearing she might be kept back to meet her
husband, have gone off with that obstinate and biassed servitor to Falls-
Park. The more she thought it over the more probable did the supposition
appear; and binding her own head-man to secrecy as to Betty's movements,
whether as she conjectured, or otherwise, Mrs. Dornell herself prepared
to set out.
She had no suspicion how seriously her husband's malady had been
aggravated by his ride to Bristol, and thought more of Betty's affairs
than of her own. That Betty's husband should arrive by some other road
to-night, and find neither wife nor mother-in-law to receive him, and no
explanation of their absence, was possible; but never forgetting chances,
Mrs. Dornell as she journeyed kept her eyes fixed upon the highway on the
off-side, where, before she had reached the town of Ivell, the hired
coach containing Stephen Reynard flashed into the lamplight of her own
carriage.
Mrs. Dornell's coachman pulled up, in obedience to a direction she had
given him at starting; the other coach was hailed, a few words passed,
and Reynard alighted and came to Mrs. Dornell's carriage-window.
'Come inside,' says she. 'I want to speak privately to you. Why are you
so late?'
'One hindrance and another,' says he. 'I meant to be at the Court by
eight at latest. My gratitude for your letter. I hope--'
'You must not try to see Betty yet,' said she. 'There be far other and
newer reasons against your seeing her now than there were when I wrote.'
The circumstances were such that Mrs. Dornell could not possibly conceal
them entirely; nothing short of knowing some of the facts would prevent
his blindly acting in a manner which might be fatal to the future.
Moreover, there are times when deeper intriguers than Mrs. Dornell feel
that they must let out a few truths, if only in self-indulgence. So she
told so much of recent surprises as that Betty's heart had been attracted
by another image than his, and that his insisting on visiting her now
might drive the girl to desperation. 'Betty has, in fact, rushed off to
her father to avoid you,' she said. 'But if you wait she will soon
forget this young man, and you will have nothing to fear.'
As a woman and a mother she could go no further, and Betty's desperate
attempt to infect herself the week before as a means of repelling him,
together with the alarming possibility that, after all, she had not gone
to her father but to her lover, was not revealed.
'Well,' sighed the diplomatist, in a tone unexpectedly quiet, 'such
things have been known before. After all, she may prefer me to him some
day, when she reflects how very differently I might have acted than I am
going to act towards her. But I'll say no more about that now. I can
have a bed at your house for to-night?'
'To-night, certainly. And you leave to-morrow morning early?' She spoke
anxiously, for on no account did she wish him to make further
discoveries. 'My husband is so seriously ill,' she continued, 'that my
absence and Betty's on your arrival is naturally accounted for.'
He promised to leave early, and to write to her soon. 'And when I think
the time is ripe,' he said, 'I'll write to her. I may have something to
tell her that will bring her to graciousness.'
It was about one o'clock in the morning when Mrs. Dornell reached Falls-
Park. A double blow awaited her there. Betty had not arrived; her
flight had been elsewhither; and her stricken mother divined with whom.
She ascended to the bedside of her husband, where to her concern she
found that the physician had given up all hope. The Squire was sinking,
and his extreme weakness had almost changed his character, except in the
particular that his old obstinacy sustained him in a refusal to see a
clergyman. He shed tears at the least word, and sobbed at the sight of
his wife. He asked for Betty, and it was with a heavy heart that Mrs.
Dornell told him that the girl had not accompanied her.
'He is not keeping her away?'
'No, no. He is going back--he is not coming to her for some time.'
'Then what is detaining her--cruel, neglectful maid!'
'No, no, Thomas; she is-- She could not come.'
'How's that?'
Somehow the solemnity of these last moments of his gave him inquisitorial
power, and the too cold wife could not conceal from him the flight which
had taken place from King's-Hintock that night.
To her amazement, the effect upon him was electrical.
'What--Betty--a trump after all? Hurrah! She's her father's own maid!
She's game! She knew he was her father's own choice! She vowed that my
man should win! Well done, Bet!--haw! haw! Hurrah!'
He had raised himself in bed by starts as he spoke, and now fell back
exhausted. He never uttered another word, and died before the dawn.
People said there had not been such an ungenteel death in a good county
family for years.
* * * * *
Now I will go back to the time of Betty's riding off on the pillion
behind her lover. They left the park by an obscure gate to the east, and
presently found themselves in the lonely and solitary length of the old
Roman road now called Long-Ash Lane.
By this time they were rather alarmed at their own performance, for they
were both young and inexperienced. Hence they proceeded almost in
silence till they came to a mean roadside inn which was not yet closed;
when Betty, who had held on to him with much misgiving all this while,
felt dreadfully unwell, and said she thought she would like to get down.
They accordingly dismounted from the jaded animal that had brought them,
and were shown into a small dark parlour, where they stood side by side
awkwardly, like the fugitives they were. A light was brought, and when
they were left alone Betty threw off the cloak which had enveloped her.
No sooner did young Phelipson see her face than he uttered an alarmed
exclamation.
'Why, Lord, Lord, you are sickening for the small-pox!' he cried.
'Oh--I forgot!' faltered Betty. And then she informed him that, on
hearing of her husband's approach the week before, in a desperate attempt
to keep him from her side, she had tried to imbibe the infection--an act
which till this moment she had supposed to have been ineffectual,
imagining her feverishness to be the result of her excitement.
The effect of this discovery upon young Phelipson was overwhelming.
Better-seasoned men than he would not have been proof against it, and he
was only a little over her own age. 'And you've been holding on to me!'
he said. 'And suppose you get worse, and we both have it, what shall we
do? Won't you be a fright in a month or two, poor, poor Betty!'
In his horror he attempted to laugh, but the laugh ended in a weakly
giggle. She was more woman than girl by this time, and realized his
feeling.
'What--in trying to keep off him, I keep off you?' she said miserably.
'Do you hate me because I am going to be ugly and ill?'
'Oh--no, no!' he said soothingly. 'But I--I am thinking if it is quite
right for us to do this. You see, dear Betty, if you was not married it
would be different. You are not in honour married to him we've often
said; still you are his by law, and you can't be mine whilst he's alive.
And with this terrible sickness coming on, perhaps you had better let me
take you back, and--climb in at the window again.'
'Is _this_ your love?' said Betty reproachfully. 'Oh, if you was
sickening for the plague itself, and going to be as ugly as the Ooser in
the church-vestry, I wouldn't--'
'No, no, you mistake, upon my soul!'
But Betty with a swollen heart had rewrapped herself and gone out of the
door. The horse was still standing there. She mounted by the help of
the upping-stock, and when he had followed her she said, 'Do not come
near me, Charley; but please lead the horse, so that if you've not caught
anything already you'll not catch it going back. After all, what keeps
off you may keep off him. Now onward.'
He did not resist her command, and back they went by the way they had
come, Betty shedding bitter tears at the retribution she had already
brought upon herself; for though she had reproached Phelipson, she was
staunch enough not to blame him in her secret heart for showing that his
love was only skin-deep. The horse was stopped in the plantation, and
they walked silently to the lawn, reaching the bushes wherein the ladder
still lay.
'Will you put it up for me?' she asked mournfully.
He re-erected the ladder without a word; but when she approached to
ascend he said, 'Good-bye, Betty!'
'Good-bye!' said she; and involuntarily turned her face towards his. He
hung back from imprinting the expected kiss: at which Betty started as if
she had received a poignant wound. She moved away so suddenly that he
hardly had time to follow her up the ladder to prevent her falling.
'Tell your mother to get the doctor at once!' he said anxiously.
She stepped in without looking behind; he descended, withdrew the ladder,
and went away.
Alone in her chamber, Betty flung herself upon her face on the bed, and
burst into shaking sobs. Yet she would not admit to herself that her
lover's conduct was unreasonable; only that her rash act of the previous
week had been wrong. No one had heard her enter, and she was too worn
out, in body and mind, to think or care about medical aid. In an hour or
so she felt yet more unwell, positively ill; and nobody coming to her at
the usual bedtime, she looked towards the door. Marks of the lock having
been forced were visible, and this made her chary of summoning a servant.
She opened the door cautiously and sallied forth downstairs.
In the dining-parlour, as it was called, the now sick and sorry Betty was
startled to see at that late hour not her mother, but a man sitting,
calmly finishing his supper. There was no servant in the room. He
turned, and she recognized her husband.
'Where's my mamma?' she demanded without preface.
'Gone to your father's. Is that--' He stopped, aghast.
'Yes, sir. This spotted object is your wife! I've done it because I
don't want you to come near me!'
He was sixteen years her senior; old enough to be compassionate. 'My
poor child, you must get to bed directly! Don't be afraid of me--I'll
carry you upstairs, and send for a doctor instantly.'
'Ah, you don't know what I am!' she cried. 'I had a lover once; but now
he's gone! 'Twasn't I who deserted him. He has deserted me; because I
am ill he wouldn't kiss me, though I wanted him to!'
'Wouldn't he? Then he was a very poor slack-twisted sort of fellow.
Betty, _I've_ never kissed you since you stood beside me as my little
wife, twelve years and a half old! May I kiss you now?'
Though Betty by no means desired his kisses, she had enough of the spirit
of Cunigonde in Schiller's ballad to test his daring. 'If you have
courage to venture, yes sir!' said she. 'But you may die for it, mind!'
He came up to her and imprinted a deliberate kiss full upon her mouth,
saying, 'May many others follow!'
She shook her head, and hastily withdrew, though secretly pleased at his
hardihood. The excitement had supported her for the few minutes she had
passed in his presence, and she could hardly drag herself back to her
room. Her husband summoned the servants, and, sending them to her
assistance, went off himself for a doctor.
The next morning Reynard waited at the Court till he had learnt from the
medical man that Betty's attack promised to be a very light one--or, as
it was expressed, 'very fine'; and in taking his leave sent up a note to
her:
'Now I must be Gone. I promised your Mother I would not see You yet, and
she may be anger'd if she finds me here. Promise to see me as Soon as
you are well?'
He was of all men then living one of the best able to cope with such an
untimely situation as this. A contriving, sagacious, gentle-mannered
man, a philosopher who saw that the only constant attribute of life is
change, he held that, as long as she lives, there is nothing finite in
the most impassioned attitude a woman may take up. In twelve months his
girl-wife's recent infatuation might be as distasteful to her mind as it
was now to his own. In a few years her very flesh would change--so said
the scientific;--her spirit, so much more ephemeral, was capable of
changing in one. Betty was his, and it became a mere question of means
how to effect that change.
During the day Mrs. Dornell, having closed her husband's eyes, returned
to the Court. She was truly relieved to find Betty there, even though on
a bed of sickness. The disease ran its course, and in due time Betty
became convalescent, without having suffered deeply for her rashness, one
little speck beneath her ear, and one beneath her chin, being all the
marks she retained.
The Squire's body was not brought back to King's-Hintock. Where he was
born, and where he had lived before wedding his Sue, there he had wished
to be buried. No sooner had she lost him than Mrs. Dornell, like certain
other wives, though she had never shown any great affection for him while
he lived, awoke suddenly to his many virtues, and zealously embraced his
opinion about delaying Betty's union with her husband, which she had
formerly combated strenuously. 'Poor man! how right he was, and how
wrong was I!' Eighteen was certainly the lowest age at which Mr. Reynard
should claim her child--nay, it was too low! Far too low!
So desirous was she of honouring her lamented husband's sentiments in
this respect, that she wrote to her son-in-law suggesting that, partly on
account of Betty's sorrow for her father's loss, and out of consideration
for his known wishes for delay, Betty should not be taken from her till
her nineteenth birthday.
However much or little Stephen Reynard might have been to blame in his
marriage, the patient man now almost deserved to be pitied. First
Betty's skittishness; now her mother's remorseful _volte-face_: it was
enough to exasperate anybody; and he wrote to the widow in a tone which
led to a little coolness between those hitherto firm friends. However,
knowing that he had a wife not to claim but to win, and that young
Phelipson had been packed off to sea by his parents, Stephen was
complaisant to a degree, returning to London, and holding quite aloof
from Betty and her mother, who remained for the present in the country.
In town he had a mild visitation of the distemper he had taken from
Betty, and in writing to her he took care not to dwell upon its mildness.
It was now that Betty began to pity him for what she had inflicted upon
him by the kiss, and her correspondence acquired a distinct flavour of
kindness thenceforward.
Owing to his rebuffs, Reynard had grown to be truly in love with Betty in
his mild, placid, durable way--in that way which perhaps, upon the whole,
tends most generally to the woman's comfort under the institution of
marriage, if not particularly to her ecstasy. Mrs. Dornell's
exaggeration of her husband's wish for delay in their living together was
inconvenient, but he would not openly infringe it. He wrote tenderly to
Betty, and soon announced that he had a little surprise in store for her.
The secret was that the King had been graciously pleased to inform him
privately, through a relation, that His Majesty was about to offer him a
Barony. Would she like the title to be Ivell? Moreover, he had reason
for knowing that in a few years the dignity would be raised to that of an
Earl, for which creation he thought the title of Wessex would be
eminently suitable, considering the position of much of their property.
As Lady Ivell, therefore, and future Countess of Wessex, he should beg
leave to offer her his heart a third time.
He did not add, as he might have added, how greatly the consideration of
the enormous estates at King's-Hintock and elsewhere which Betty would
inherit, and her children after her, had conduced to this desirable
honour.
Whether the impending titles had really any effect upon Betty's regard
for him I cannot state, for she was one of those close characters who
never let their minds be known upon anything. That such honour was
absolutely unexpected by her from such a quarter is, however, certain;
and she could not deny that Stephen had shown her kindness, forbearance,
even magnanimity; had forgiven her for an errant passion which he might
with some reason have denounced, notwithstanding her cruel position as a
child entrapped into marriage ere able to understand its bearings.
Her mother, in her grief and remorse for the loveless life she had led
with her rough, though open-hearted, husband, made now a creed of his
merest whim; and continued to insist that, out of respect to his known
desire, her son-in-law should not reside with Betty till the girl's
father had been dead a year at least, at which time the girl would still
be under nineteen. Letters must suffice for Stephen till then.
'It is rather long for him to wait,' Betty hesitatingly said one day.
'What!' said her mother. 'From _you_? not to respect your dear father--'
'Of course it is quite proper,' said Betty hastily. 'I don't gainsay it.
I was but thinking that--that--'
In the long slow months of the stipulated interval her mother tended and
trained Betty carefully for her duties. Fully awake now to the many
virtues of her dear departed one, she, among other acts of pious devotion
to his memory, rebuilt the church of King's-Hintock village, and
established valuable charities in all the villages of that name, as far
as to Little-Hintock, several miles eastward.
In superintending these works, particularly that of the church-building,
her daughter Betty was her constant companion, and the incidents of their
execution were doubtless not without a soothing effect upon the young
creature's heart. She had sprung from girl to woman by a sudden bound,
and few would have recognized in the thoughtful face of Betty now the
same person who, the year before, had seemed to have absolutely no idea
whatever of responsibility, moral or other. Time passed thus till the
Squire had been nearly a year in his vault; and Mrs. Dornell was duly
asked by letter by the patient Reynard if she were willing for him to
come soon. He did not wish to take Betty away if her mother's sense of
loneliness would be too great, but would willingly live at King's-Hintock
awhile with them.
Before the widow had replied to this communication, she one day happened
to observe Betty walking on the south terrace in the full sunlight,
without hat or mantle, and was struck by her child's figure. Mrs.
Dornell called her in, and said suddenly: 'Have you seen your husband
since the time of your poor father's death?'
'Well--yes, mamma,' says Betty, colouring.
'What--against my wishes and those of your dear father! I am shocked at
your disobedience!'
'But my father said eighteen, ma'am, and you made it much longer--'
'Why, of course--out of consideration for you! When have ye seen him?'
'Well,' stammered Betty, 'in the course of his letters to me he said that
I belonged to him, and if nobody knew that we met it would make no
difference. And that I need not hurt your feelings by telling you.'
'Well?'
'So I went to Casterbridge that time you went to London about five months
ago--'
'And met him there? When did you come back?'
'Dear mamma, it grew very late, and he said it was safer not to go back
till next day, as the roads were bad; and as you were away from home--'
'I don't want to hear any more! This is your respect for your father's
memory,' groaned the widow. 'When did you meet him again?'
'Oh--not for more than a fortnight.'
'A fortnight! How many times have ye seen him altogether?'
'I'm sure, mamma, I've not seen him altogether a dozen times.'
'A dozen! And eighteen and a half years old barely!'
'Twice we met by accident,' pleaded Betty. 'Once at Abbot's-Cernel, and
another time at the Red Lion, Melchester.'
'O thou deceitful girl!' cried Mrs. Dornell. 'An accident took you to
the Red Lion whilst I was staying at the White Hart! I remember--you
came in at twelve o'clock at night and said you'd been to see the
cathedral by the light o' the moon!'
'My ever-honoured mamma, so I had! I only went to the Red Lion with him
afterwards.'
'Oh Betty, Betty! That my child should have deceived me even in my
widowed days!'
'But, my dearest mamma, you made me marry him!' says Betty with spirit,
'and of course I've to obey him more than you now!'
Mrs. Dornell sighed. 'All I have to say is, that you'd better get your
husband to join you as soon as possible,' she remarked. 'To go on
playing the maiden like this--I'm ashamed to see you!'
She wrote instantly to Stephen Reynard: 'I wash my hands of the whole
matter as between you two; though I should advise you to _openly_ join
each other as soon as you can--if you wish to avoid scandal.'
He came, though not till the promised title had been granted, and he
could call Betty archly 'My Lady.'
People said in after years that she and her husband were very happy.
However that may be, they had a numerous family; and she became in due
course first Countess of Wessex, as he had foretold.
The little white frock in which she had been married to him at the tender
age of twelve was carefully preserved among the relics at King's-Hintock
Court, where it may still be seen by the curious--a yellowing, pathetic
testimony to the small count taken of the happiness of an innocent child
in the social strategy of those days, which might have led, but
providentially did not lead, to great unhappiness.
When the Earl died Betty wrote him an epitaph, in which she described him
as the best of husbands, fathers, and friends, and called herself his
disconsolate widow.
Such is woman; or rather (not to give offence by so sweeping an
assertion), such was Betty Dornell.
* * * * *
It was at a meeting of one of the Wessex Field and Antiquarian Clubs that
the foregoing story, partly told, partly read from a manuscript, was made
to do duty for the regulation papers on deformed butterflies, fossil ox-
horns, prehistoric dung-mixens, and such like, that usually occupied the
more serious attention of the members.
This Club was of an inclusive and intersocial character; to a degree,
indeed, remarkable for the part of England in which it had its
being--dear, delightful Wessex, whose statuesque dynasties are even now
only just beginning to feel the shaking of the new and strange spirit
without, like that which entered the lonely valley of Ezekiel's vision
and made the dry bones move: where the honest squires, tradesmen,
parsons, clerks, and people still praise the Lord with one voice for His
best of all possible worlds.
The present meeting, which was to extend over two days, had opened its
proceedings at the museum of the town whose buildings and environs were
to be visited by the members. Lunch had ended, and the afternoon
excursion had been about to be undertaken, when the rain came down in an
obstinate spatter, which revealed no sign of cessation. As the members
waited they grew chilly, although it was only autumn, and a fire was
lighted, which threw a cheerful shine upon the varnished skulls, urns,
penates, tesserae, costumes, coats of mail, weapons, and missals,
animated the fossilized ichthyosaurus and iguanodon; while the dead eyes
of the stuffed birds--those never-absent familiars in such collections,
though murdered to extinction out of doors--flashed as they had flashed
to the rising sun above the neighbouring moors on the fatal morning when
the trigger was pulled which ended their little flight. It was then that
the historian produced his manuscript, which he had prepared, he said,
with a view to publication. His delivery of the story having concluded
as aforesaid, the speaker expressed his hope that the constraint of the
weather, and the paucity of more scientific papers, would excuse any
inappropriateness in his subject.
Several members observed that a storm-bound club could not presume to be
selective, and they were all very much obliged to him for such a curious
chapter from the domestic histories of the county.
The President looked gloomily from the window at the descending rain, and
broke a short silence by saying that though the Club had met, there
seemed little probability of its being able to visit the objects of
interest set down among the _agenda_.
The Treasurer observed that they had at least a roof over their heads;
and they had also a second day before them.
A sentimental member, leaning back in his chair, declared that he was in
no hurry to go out, and that nothing would please him so much as another
county story, with or without manuscript.
The Colonel added that the subject should be a lady, like the former, to
which a gentleman known as the Spark said 'Hear, hear!'
Though these had spoken in jest, a rural dean who was present observed
blandly that there was no lack of materials. Many, indeed, were the
legends and traditions of gentle and noble dames, renowned in times past
in that part of England, whose actions and passions were now, but for
men's memories, buried under the brief inscription on a tomb or an entry
of dates in a dry pedigree.
Another member, an old surgeon, a somewhat grim though sociable
personage, was quite of the speaker's opinion, and felt quite sure that
the memory of the reverend gentleman must abound with such curious tales
of fair dames, of their loves and hates, their joys and their
misfortunes, their beauty and their fate.
The parson, a trifle confused, retorted that their friend the surgeon,
the son of a surgeon, seemed to him, as a man who had seen much and heard
more during the long course of his own and his father's practice, the
member of all others most likely to be acquainted with such lore.
The bookworm, the Colonel, the historian, the Vice-president, the
churchwarden, the two curates, the gentleman-tradesman, the sentimental
member, the crimson maltster, the quiet gentleman, the man of family, the
Spark, and several others, quite agreed, and begged that he would recall
something of the kind. The old surgeon said that, though a meeting of
the Mid-Wessex Field and Antiquarian Club was the last place at which he
should have expected to be called upon in this way, he had no objection;
and the parson said he would come next. The surgeon then reflected, and
decided to relate the history of a lady named Barbara, who lived towards
the end of the last century, apologizing for his tale as being perhaps a
little too professional. The crimson maltster winked to the Spark at
hearing the nature of the apology, and the surgeon began.
DAME THE SECOND--BARBARA OF THE HOUSE OF GREBE
By the Old Surgeon
It was apparently an idea, rather than a passion, that inspired Lord
Uplandtowers' resolve to win her. Nobody ever knew when he formed it, or
whence he got his assurance of success in the face of her manifest
dislike of him. Possibly not until after that first important act of her
life which I shall presently mention. His matured and cynical doggedness
at the age of nineteen, when impulse mostly rules calculation, was
remarkable, and might have owed its existence as much to his succession
to the earldom and its accompanying local honours in childhood, as to the
family character; an elevation which jerked him into maturity, so to
speak, without his having known adolescence. He had only reached his
twelfth year when his father, the fourth Earl, died, after a course of
the Bath waters.
Nevertheless, the family character had a great deal to do with it.
Determination was hereditary in the bearers of that escutcheon; sometimes
for good, sometimes for evil.
The seats of the two families were about ten miles apart, the way between
them lying along the now old, then new, turnpike-road connecting
Havenpool and Warborne with the city of Melchester: a road which, though
only a branch from what was known as the Great Western Highway, is
probably, even at present, as it has been for the last hundred years, one
of the finest examples of a macadamized turnpike-track that can be found
in England.
The mansion of the Earl, as well as that of his neighbour, Barbara's
father, stood back about a mile from the highway, with which each was
connected by an ordinary drive and lodge. It was along this particular
highway that the young Earl drove on a certain evening at Christmastide
some twenty years before the end of the last century, to attend a ball at
Chene Manor, the home of Barbara, and her parents Sir John and Lady
Grebe. Sir John's was a baronetcy created a few years before the
breaking out of the Civil War, and his lands were even more extensive
than those of Lord Uplandtowers himself; comprising this Manor of Chene,
another on the coast near, half the Hundred of Cockdene, and
well-enclosed lands in several other parishes, notably Warborne and those
contiguous. At this time Barbara was barely seventeen, and the ball is
the first occasion on which we have any tradition of Lord Uplandtowers
attempting tender relations with her; it was early enough, God knows.
An intimate friend--one of the Drenkhards--is said to have dined with him
that day, and Lord Uplandtowers had, for a wonder, communicated to his
guest the secret design of his heart.
'You'll never get her--sure; you'll never get her!' this friend had said
at parting. 'She's not drawn to your lordship by love: and as for
thought of a good match, why, there's no more calculation in her than in
a bird.'
'We'll see,' said Lord Uplandtowers impassively.
He no doubt thought of his friend's forecast as he travelled along the
highway in his chariot; but the sculptural repose of his profile against
the vanishing daylight on his right hand would have shown his friend that
the Earl's equanimity was undisturbed. He reached the solitary wayside
tavern called Lornton Inn--the rendezvous of many a daring poacher for
operations in the adjoining forest; and he might have observed, if he had
taken the trouble, a strange post-chaise standing in the halting-space
before the inn. He duly sped past it, and half-an-hour after through the
little town of Warborne. Onward, a mile farther, was the house of his
entertainer.
At this date it was an imposing edifice--or, rather, congeries of
edifices--as extensive as the residence of the Earl himself; though far
less regular. One wing showed extreme antiquity, having huge chimneys,
whose substructures projected from the external walls like towers; and a
kitchen of vast dimensions, in which (it was said) breakfasts had been
cooked for John of Gaunt. Whilst he was yet in the forecourt he could
hear the rhythm of French horns and clarionets, the favourite instruments
of those days at such entertainments.
Entering the long parlour, in which the dance had just been opened by
Lady Grebe with a minuet--it being now seven o'clock, according to the
tradition--he was received with a welcome befitting his rank, and looked
round for Barbara. She was not dancing, and seemed to be
preoccupied--almost, indeed, as though she had been waiting for him.
Barbara at this time was a good and pretty girl, who never spoke ill of
any one, and hated other pretty women the very least possible. She did
not refuse him for the country-dance which followed, and soon after was
his partner in a second.
The evening wore on, and the horns and clarionets tootled merrily.
Barbara evinced towards her lover neither distinct preference nor
aversion; but old eyes would have seen that she pondered something.
However, after supper she pleaded a headache, and disappeared. To pass
the time of her absence, Lord Uplandtowers went into a little room
adjoining the long gallery, where some elderly ones were sitting by the
fire--for he had a phlegmatic dislike of dancing for its own sake,--and,
lifting the window-curtains, he looked out of the window into the park
and wood, dark now as a cavern. Some of the guests appeared to be
leaving even so soon as this, two lights showing themselves as turning
away from the door and sinking to nothing in the distance.
His hostess put her head into the room to look for partners for the
ladies, and Lord Uplandtowers came out. Lady Grebe informed him that
Barbara had not returned to the ball-room: she had gone to bed in sheer
necessity.
'She has been so excited over the ball all day,' her mother continued,
'that I feared she would be worn out early . . . But sure, Lord
Uplandtowers, you won't be leaving yet?'
He said that it was near twelve o'clock, and that some had already left.
'I protest nobody has gone yet,' said Lady Grebe.
To humour her he stayed till midnight, and then set out. He had made no
progress in his suit; but he had assured himself that Barbara gave no
other guest the preference, and nearly everybody in the neighbourhood was
there.
''Tis only a matter of time,' said the calm young philosopher.
The next morning he lay till near ten o'clock, and he had only just come
out upon the head of the staircase when he heard hoofs upon the gravel
without; in a few moments the door had been opened, and Sir John Grebe
met him in the hall, as he set foot on the lowest stair.
'My lord--where's Barbara--my daughter?'
Even the Earl of Uplandtowers could not repress amazement. 'What's the
matter, my dear Sir John,' says he.
The news was startling, indeed. From the Baronet's disjointed
explanation Lord Uplandtowers gathered that after his own and the other
guests' departure Sir John and Lady Grebe had gone to rest without seeing
any more of Barbara; it being understood by them that she had retired to
bed when she sent word to say that she could not join the dancers again.
Before then she had told her maid that she would dispense with her
services for this night; and there was evidence to show that the young
lady had never lain down at all, the bed remaining unpressed.
Circumstances seemed to prove that the deceitful girl had feigned
indisposition to get an excuse for leaving the ball-room, and that she
had left the house within ten minutes, presumably during the first dance
after supper.
'I saw her go,' said Lord Uplandtowers.
'The devil you did!' says Sir John.
'Yes.' And he mentioned the retreating carriage-lights, and how he was
assured by Lady Grebe that no guest had departed.
'Surely that was it!' said the father. 'But she's not gone alone, d'ye
know!'
'Ah--who is the young man?'
'I can on'y guess. My worst fear is my most likely guess. I'll say no
more. I thought--yet I would not believe--it possible that you was the
sinner. Would that you had been! But 'tis t'other, 'tis t'other, by G---!
I must e'en up, and after 'em!'
'Whom do you suspect?'
Sir John would not give a name, and, stultified rather than agitated,
Lord Uplandtowers accompanied him back to Chene. He again asked upon
whom were the Baronet's suspicions directed; and the impulsive Sir John
was no match for the insistence of Uplandtowers.
He said at length, 'I fear 'tis Edmond Willowes.'
'Who's he?'
'A young fellow of Shottsford-Forum--a widow-woman's son,' the other told
him, and explained that Willowes's father, or grandfather, was the last
of the old glass-painters in that place, where (as you may know) the art
lingered on when it had died out in every other part of England.
'By G--- that's bad--mighty bad!' said Lord Uplandtowers, throwing
himself back in the chaise in frigid despair.
They despatched emissaries in all directions; one by the Melchester Road,
another by Shottsford-Forum, another coastwards.
But the lovers had a ten-hours' start; and it was apparent that sound
judgment had been exercised in choosing as their time of flight the
particular night when the movements of a strange carriage would not be
noticed, either in the park or on the neighbouring highway, owing to the
general press of vehicles. The chaise which had been seen waiting at
Lornton Inn was, no doubt, the one they had escaped in; and the pair of
heads which had planned so cleverly thus far had probably contrived
marriage ere now.
The fears of her parents were realized. A letter sent by special
messenger from Barbara, on the evening of that day, briefly informed them
that her lover and herself were on the way to London, and before this
communication reached her home they would be united as husband and wife.
She had taken this extreme step because she loved her dear Edmond as she
could love no other man, and because she had seen closing round her the
doom of marriage with Lord Uplandtowers, unless she put that threatened
fate out of possibility by doing as she had done. She had well
considered the step beforehand, and was prepared to live like any other
country-townsman's wife if her father repudiated her for her action.
'D--- her!' said Lord Uplandtowers, as he drove homeward that night. 'D---
her for a fool!'--which shows the kind of love he bore her.
Well; Sir John had already started in pursuit of them as a matter of
duty, driving like a wild man to Melchester, and thence by the direct
highway to the capital. But he soon saw that he was acting to no
purpose; and by and by, discovering that the marriage had actually taken
place, he forebore all attempts to unearth them in the City, and returned
and sat down with his lady to digest the event as best they could.
To proceed against this Willowes for the abduction of our heiress was,
possibly, in their power; yet, when they considered the now unalterable
facts, they refrained from violent retribution. Some six weeks passed,
during which time Barbara's parents, though they keenly felt her loss,
held no communication with the truant, either for reproach or
condonation. They continued to think of the disgrace she had brought
upon herself; for, though the young man was an honest fellow, and the son
of an honest father, the latter had died so early, and his widow had had
such struggles to maintain herself; that the son was very imperfectly
educated. Moreover, his blood was, as far as they knew, of no
distinction whatever, whilst hers, through her mother, was compounded of
the best juices of ancient baronial distillation, containing tinctures of
Maundeville, and Mohun, and Syward, and Peverell, and Culliford, and
Talbot, and Plantagenet, and York, and Lancaster, and God knows what
besides, which it was a thousand pities to throw away.
The father and mother sat by the fireplace that was spanned by the four-
centred arch bearing the family shields on its haunches, and groaned
aloud--the lady more than Sir John.
'To think this should have come upon us in our old age!' said he.
'Speak for yourself!' she snapped through her sobs. 'I am only one-and-
forty! . . . Why didn't ye ride faster and overtake 'em!'
In the meantime the young married lovers, caring no more about their
blood than about ditch-water, were intensely happy--happy, that is, in
the descending scale which, as we all know, Heaven in its wisdom has
ordained for such rash cases; that is to say, the first week they were in
the seventh heaven, the second in the sixth, the third week temperate,
the fourth reflective, and so on; a lover's heart after possession being
comparable to the earth in its geologic stages, as described to us
sometimes by our worthy President; first a hot coal, then a warm one,
then a cooling cinder, then chilly--the simile shall be pursued no
further. The long and the short of it was that one day a letter, sealed
with their daughter's own little seal, came into Sir John and Lady
Grebe's hands; and, on opening it, they found it to contain an appeal
from the young couple to Sir John to forgive them for what they had done,
and they would fall on their naked knees and be most dutiful children for
evermore.
Then Sir John and his lady sat down again by the fireplace with the four-
centred arch, and consulted, and re-read the letter. Sir John Grebe, if
the truth must be told, loved his daughter's happiness far more, poor
man, than he loved his name and lineage; he recalled to his mind all her
little ways, gave vent to a sigh; and, by this time acclimatized to the
idea of the marriage, said that what was done could not be undone, and
that he supposed they must not be too harsh with her. Perhaps Barbara
and her husband were in actual need; and how could they let their only
child starve?
A slight consolation had come to them in an unexpected manner. They had
been credibly informed that an ancestor of plebeian Willowes was once
honoured with intermarriage with a scion of the aristocracy who had gone
to the dogs. In short, such is the foolishness of distinguished parents,
and sometimes of others also, that they wrote that very day to the
address Barbara had given them, informing her that she might return home
and bring her husband with her; they would not object to see him, would
not reproach her, and would endeavour to welcome both, and to discuss
with them what could best be arranged for their future.
In three or four days a rather shabby post-chaise drew up at the door of
Chene Manor-house, at sound of which the tender-hearted baronet and his
wife ran out as if to welcome a prince and princess of the blood. They
were overjoyed to see their spoilt child return safe and sound--though
she was only Mrs. Willowes, wife of Edmond Willowes of nowhere. Barbara
burst into penitential tears, and both husband and wife were contrite
enough, as well they might be, considering that they had not a guinea to
call their own.
When the four had calmed themselves, and not a word of chiding had been
uttered to the pair, they discussed the position soberly, young Willowes
sitting in the background with great modesty till invited forward by Lady
Grebe in no frigid tone.
'How handsome he is!' she said to herself. 'I don't wonder at Barbara's
craze for him.'
He was, indeed, one of the handsomest men who ever set his lips on a
maid's. A blue coat, murrey waistcoat, and breeches of drab set off a
figure that could scarcely be surpassed. He had large dark eyes, anxious
now, as they glanced from Barbara to her parents and tenderly back again
to her; observing whom, even now in her trepidation, one could see why
the _sang froid_ of Lord Uplandtowers had been raised to more than
lukewarmness. Her fair young face (according to the tale handed down by
old women) looked out from under a gray conical hat, trimmed with white
ostrich-feathers, and her little toes peeped from a buff petticoat worn
under a puce gown. Her features were not regular: they were almost
infantine, as you may see from miniatures in possession of the family,
her mouth showing much sensitiveness, and one could be sure that her
faults would not lie on the side of bad temper unless for urgent reasons.
Well, they discussed their state as became them, and the desire of the
young couple to gain the goodwill of those upon whom they were literally
dependent for everything induced them to agree to any temporizing measure
that was not too irksome. Therefore, having been nearly two months
united, they did not oppose Sir John's proposal that he should furnish
Edmond Willowes with funds sufficient for him to travel a year on the
Continent in the company of a tutor, the young man undertaking to lend
himself with the utmost diligence to the tutor's instructions, till he
became polished outwardly and inwardly to the degree required in the
husband of such a lady as Barbara. He was to apply himself to the study
of languages, manners, history, society, ruins, and everything else that
came under his eyes, till he should return to take his place without
blushing by Barbara's side.
'And by that time,' said worthy Sir John, 'I'll get my little place out
at Yewsholt ready for you and Barbara to occupy on your return. The
house is small and out of the way; but it will do for a young couple for
a while.'
'If 'twere no bigger than a summer-house it would do!' says Barbara.
'If 'twere no bigger than a sedan-chair!' says Willowes. 'And the more
lonely the better.'
'We can put up with the loneliness,' said Barbara, with less zest. 'Some
friends will come, no doubt.'
All this being laid down, a travelled tutor was called in--a man of many
gifts and great experience,--and on a fine morning away tutor and pupil
went. A great reason urged against Barbara accompanying her youthful
husband was that his attentions to her would naturally be such as to
prevent his zealously applying every hour of his time to learning and
seeing--an argument of wise prescience, and unanswerable. Regular days
for letter-writing were fixed, Barbara and her Edmond exchanged their
last kisses at the door, and the chaise swept under the archway into the
drive.
He wrote to her from Le Havre, as soon as he reached that port, which was
not for seven days, on account of adverse winds; he wrote from Rouen, and
from Paris; described to her his sight of the King and Court at
Versailles, and the wonderful marble-work and mirrors in that palace;
wrote next from Lyons; then, after a comparatively long interval, from
Turin, narrating his fearful adventures in crossing Mont Cenis on mules,
and how he was overtaken with a terrific snowstorm, which had well-nigh
been the end of him, and his tutor, and his guides. Then he wrote
glowingly of Italy; and Barbara could see the development of her
husband's mind reflected in his letters month by month; and she much
admired the forethought of her father in suggesting this education for
Edmond. Yet she sighed sometimes--her husband being no longer in
evidence to fortify her in her choice of him--and timidly dreaded what
mortifications might be in store for her by reason of this _mesalliance_.
She went out very little; for on the one or two occasions on which she
had shown herself to former friends she noticed a distinct difference in
their manner, as though they should say, 'Ah, my happy swain's wife;
you're caught!'
Edmond's letters were as affectionate as ever; even more affectionate,
after a while, than hers were to him. Barbara observed this growing
coolness in herself; and like a good and honest lady was horrified and
grieved, since her only wish was to act faithfully and uprightly. It
troubled her so much that she prayed for a warmer heart, and at last
wrote to her husband to beg him, now that he was in the land of Art, to
send her his portrait, ever so small, that she might look at it all day
and every day, and never for a moment forget his features.
Willowes was nothing loth, and replied that he would do more than she
wished: he had made friends with a sculptor in Pisa, who was much
interested in him and his history; and he had commissioned this artist to
make a bust of himself in marble, which when finished he would send her.
What Barbara had wanted was something immediate; but she expressed no
objection to the delay; and in his next communication Edmund told her
that the sculptor, of his own choice, had decided to increase the bust to
a full-length statue, so anxious was he to get a specimen of his skill
introduced to the notice of the English aristocracy. It was progressing
well, and rapidly.
Meanwhile, Barbara's attention began to be occupied at home with Yewsholt
Lodge, the house that her kind-hearted father was preparing for her
residence when her husband returned. It was a small place on the plan of
a large one--a cottage built in the form of a mansion, having a central
hall with a wooden gallery running round it, and rooms no bigger than
closets to follow this introduction. It stood on a slope so solitary,
and surrounded by trees so dense, that the birds who inhabited the boughs
sang at strange hours, as if they hardly could distinguish night from
day.
During the progress of repairs at this bower Barbara frequently visited
it. Though so secluded by the dense growth, it was near the high road,
and one day while looking over the fence she saw Lord Uplandtowers riding
past. He saluted her courteously, yet with mechanical stiffness, and did
not halt. Barbara went home, and continued to pray that she might never
cease to love her husband. After that she sickened, and did not come out
of doors again for a long time.
The year of education had extended to fourteen months, and the house was
in order for Edmond's return to take up his abode there with Barbara,
when, instead of the accustomed letter for her, came one to Sir John
Grebe in the handwriting of the said tutor, informing him of a terrible
catastrophe that had occurred to them at Venice. Mr Willowes and himself
had attended the theatre one night during the Carnival of the preceding
week, to witness the Italian comedy, when, owing to the carelessness of
one of the candle-snuffers, the theatre had caught fire, and been burnt
to the ground. Few persons had lost their lives, owing to the superhuman
exertions of some of the audience in getting out the senseless sufferers;
and, among them all, he who had risked his own life the most heroically
was Mr. Willowes. In re-entering for the fifth time to save his fellow-
creatures some fiery beams had fallen upon him, and he had been given up
for lost. He was, however, by the blessing of Providence, recovered,
with the life still in him, though he was fearfully burnt; and by almost
a miracle he seemed likely to survive, his constitution being wondrously
sound. He was, of course, unable to write, but he was receiving the
attention of several skilful surgeons. Further report would be made by
the next mail or by private hand.
The tutor said nothing in detail of poor Willowes's sufferings, but as
soon as the news was broken to Barbara she realized how intense they must
have been, and her immediate instinct was to rush to his side, though, on
consideration, the journey seemed impossible to her. Her health was by
no means what it had been, and to post across Europe at that season of
the year, or to traverse the Bay of Biscay in a sailing-craft, was an
undertaking that would hardly be justified by the result. But she was
anxious to go till, on reading to the end of the letter, her husband's
tutor was found to hint very strongly against such a step if it should be
contemplated, this being also the opinion of the surgeons. And though
Willowes's comrade refrained from giving his reasons, they disclosed
themselves plainly enough in the sequel.
The truth was that the worst of the wounds resulting from the fire had
occurred to his head and face--that handsome face which had won her heart
from her,--and both the tutor and the surgeons knew that for a sensitive
young woman to see him before his wounds had healed would cause more
misery to her by the shock than happiness to him by her ministrations.
Lady Grebe blurted out what Sir John and Barbara had thought, but had had
too much delicacy to express.
'Sure, 'tis mighty hard for you, poor Barbara, that the one little gift
he had to justify your rash choice of him--his wonderful good
looks--should be taken away like this, to leave 'ee no excuse at all for
your conduct in the world's eyes . . . Well, I wish you'd married
t'other--that do I!' And the lady sighed.
'He'll soon get right again,' said her father soothingly.
Such remarks as the above were not often made; but they were frequent
enough to cause Barbara an uneasy sense of self-stultification. She
determined to hear them no longer; and the house at Yewsholt being ready
and furnished, she withdrew thither with her maids, where for the first
time she could feel mistress of a home that would be hers and her
husband's exclusively, when he came.
After long weeks Willowes had recovered sufficiently to be able to write
himself; and slowly and tenderly he enlightened her upon the full extent
of his injuries. It was a mercy, he said, that he had not lost his sight
entirely; but he was thankful to say that he still retained full vision
in one eye, though the other was dark for ever. The sparing manner in
which he meted out particulars of his condition told Barbara how
appalling had been his experience. He was grateful for her assurance
that nothing could change her; but feared she did not fully realize that
he was so sadly disfigured as to make it doubtful if she would recognize
him. However, in spite of all, his heart was as true to her as it ever
had been.
Barbara saw from his anxiety how much lay behind. She replied that she
submitted to the decrees of Fate, and would welcome him in any shape as
soon as he could come. She told him of the pretty retreat in which she
had taken up her abode, pending their joint occupation of it, and did not
reveal how much she had sighed over the information that all his good
looks were gone. Still less did she say that she felt a certain
strangeness in awaiting him, the weeks they had lived together having
been so short by comparison with the length of his absence.
Slowly drew on the time when Willowes found himself well enough to come
home. He landed at Southampton, and posted thence towards Yewsholt.
Barbara arranged to go out to meet him as far as Lornton Inn--the spot
between the Forest and the Chase at which he had waited for night on the
evening of their elopement. Thither she drove at the appointed hour in a
little pony-chaise, presented her by her father on her birthday for her
especial use in her new house; which vehicle she sent back on arriving at
the inn, the plan agreed upon being that she should perform the return
journey with her husband in his hired coach.
There was not much accommodation for a lady at this wayside tavern; but,
as it was a fine evening in early summer, she did not mind--walking about
outside, and straining her eyes along the highway for the expected one.
But each cloud of dust that enlarged in the distance and drew near was
found to disclose a conveyance other than his post-chaise. Barbara
remained till the appointment was two hours passed, and then began to
fear that owing to some adverse wind in the Channel he was not coming
that night.
While waiting she was conscious of a curious trepidation that was not
entirely solicitude, and did not amount to dread; her tense state of
incertitude bordered both on disappointment and on relief. She had lived
six or seven weeks with an imperfectly educated yet handsome husband whom
now she had not seen for seventeen months, and who was so changed
physically by an accident that she was assured she would hardly know him.
Can we wonder at her compound state of mind?
But her immediate difficulty was to get away from Lornton Inn, for her
situation was becoming embarrassing. Like too many of Barbara's actions,
this drive had been undertaken without much reflection. Expecting to
wait no more than a few minutes for her husband in his post-chaise, and
to enter it with him, she had not hesitated to isolate herself by sending
back her own little vehicle. She now found that, being so well known in
this neighbourhood, her excursion to meet her long-absent husband was
exciting great interest. She was conscious that more eyes were watching
her from the inn-windows than met her own gaze. Barbara had decided to
get home by hiring whatever kind of conveyance the tavern afforded, when,
straining her eyes for the last time over the now darkening highway, she
perceived yet another dust-cloud drawing near. She paused; a chariot
ascended to the inn, and would have passed had not its occupant caught
sight of her standing expectantly. The horses were checked on the
instant.
'You here--and alone, my dear Mrs. Willowes?' said Lord Uplandtowers,
whose carriage it was.
She explained what had brought her into this lonely situation; and, as he
was going in the direction of her own home, she accepted his offer of a
seat beside him. Their conversation was embarrassed and fragmentary at
first; but when they had driven a mile or two she was surprised to find
herself talking earnestly and warmly to him: her impulsiveness was in
truth but the natural consequence of her late existence--a somewhat
desolate one by reason of the strange marriage she had made; and there is
no more indiscreet mood than that of a woman surprised into talk who has
long been imposing upon herself a policy of reserve. Therefore her
ingenuous heart rose with a bound into her throat when, in response to
his leading questions, or rather hints, she allowed her troubles to leak
out of her. Lord Uplandtowers took her quite to her own door, although
he had driven three miles out of his way to do so; and in handing her
down she heard from him a whisper of stern reproach: 'It need not have
been thus if you had listened to me!'
She made no reply, and went indoors. There, as the evening wore away,
she regretted more and more that she had been so friendly with Lord
Uplandtowers. But he had launched himself upon her so unexpectedly: if
she had only foreseen the meeting with him, what a careful line of
conduct she would have marked out! Barbara broke into a perspiration of
disquiet when she thought of her unreserve, and, in self-chastisement,
resolved to sit up till midnight on the bare chance of Edmond's return;
directing that supper should be laid for him, improbable as his arrival
till the morrow was.
The hours went past, and there was dead silence in and round about
Yewsholt Lodge, except for the soughing of the trees; till, when it was
near upon midnight, she heard the noise of hoofs and wheels approaching
the door. Knowing that it could only be her husband, Barbara instantly
went into the hall to meet him. Yet she stood there not without a
sensation of faintness, so many were the changes since their parting!
And, owing to her casual encounter with Lord Uplandtowers, his voice and
image still remained with her, excluding Edmond, her husband, from the
inner circle of her impressions.
But she went to the door, and the next moment a figure stepped inside, of
which she knew the outline, but little besides. Her husband was attired
in a flapping black cloak and slouched hat, appearing altogether as a
foreigner, and not as the young English burgess who had left her side.
When he came forward into the light of the lamp, she perceived with
surprise, and almost with fright, that he wore a mask. At first she had
not noticed this--there being nothing in its colour which would lead a
casual observer to think he was looking on anything but a real
countenance.
He must have seen her start of dismay at the unexpectedness of his
appearance, for he said hastily: 'I did not mean to come in to you like
this--I thought you would have been in bed. How good you are, dear
Barbara!' He put his arm round her, but he did not attempt to kiss her.
'O Edmond--it _is_ you?--it must be?' she said, with clasped hands, for
though his figure and movement were almost enough to prove it, and the
tones were not unlike the old tones, the enunciation was so altered as to
seem that of a stranger.
'I am covered like this to hide myself from the curious eyes of the inn-
servants and others,' he said, in a low voice. 'I will send back the
carriage and join you in a moment.'
'You are quite alone?'
'Quite. My companion stopped at Southampton.'
The wheels of the post-chaise rolled away as she entered the dining-room,
where the supper was spread; and presently he rejoined her there. He had
removed his cloak and hat, but the mask was still retained; and she could
now see that it was of special make, of some flexible material like silk,
coloured so as to represent flesh; it joined naturally to the front hair,
and was otherwise cleverly executed.
'Barbara--you look ill,' he said, removing his glove, and taking her
hand.
'Yes--I have been ill,' said she.
'Is this pretty little house ours?'
'O--yes.' She was hardly conscious of her words, for the hand he had
ungloved in order to take hers was contorted, and had one or two of its
fingers missing; while through the mask she discerned the twinkle of one
eye only.
'I would give anything to kiss you, dearest, now, at this moment!' he
continued, with mournful passionateness. 'But I cannot--in this guise.
The servants are abed, I suppose?'
'Yes,' said she. 'But I can call them? You will have some supper?'
He said he would have some, but that it was not necessary to call anybody
at that hour. Thereupon they approached the table, and sat down, facing
each other.
Despite Barbara's scared state of mind, it was forced upon her notice
that her husband trembled, as if he feared the impression he was
producing, or was about to produce, as much as, or more than, she. He
drew nearer, and took her hand again.
'I had this mask made at Venice,' he began, in evident embarrassment. 'My
darling Barbara--my dearest wife--do you think you--will mind when I take
it off? You will not dislike me--will you?'
'O Edmond, of course I shall not mind,' said she. 'What has happened to
you is our misfortune; but I am prepared for it.'
'Are you sure you are prepared?'
'O yes! You are my husband.'
'You really feel quite confident that nothing external can affect you?'
he said again, in a voice rendered uncertain by his agitation.
'I think I am--quite,' she answered faintly.
He bent his head. 'I hope, I hope you are,' he whispered.
In the pause which followed, the ticking of the clock in the hall seemed
to grow loud; and he turned a little aside to remove the mask. She
breathlessly awaited the operation, which was one of some tediousness,
watching him one moment, averting her face the next; and when it was done
she shut her eyes at the hideous spectacle that was revealed. A quick
spasm of horror had passed through her; but though she quailed she forced
herself to regard him anew, repressing the cry that would naturally have
escaped from her ashy lips. Unable to look at him longer, Barbara sank
down on the floor beside her chair, covering her eyes.
'You cannot look at me!' he groaned in a hopeless way. 'I am too
terrible an object even for you to bear! I knew it; yet I hoped against
it. Oh, this is a bitter fate--curse the skill of those Venetian
surgeons who saved me alive! . . . Look up, Barbara,' he continued
beseechingly; 'view me completely; say you loathe me, if you do loathe
me, and settle the case between us for ever!'
His unhappy wife pulled herself together for a desperate strain. He was
her Edmond; he had done her no wrong; he had suffered. A momentary
devotion to him helped her, and lifting her eyes as bidden she regarded
this human remnant, this _ecorche_, a second time. But the sight was too
much. She again involuntarily looked aside and shuddered.
'Do you think you can get used to this?' he said. 'Yes or no! Can you
bear such a thing of the charnel-house near you? Judge for yourself;
Barbara. Your Adonis, your matchless man, has come to this!'
The poor lady stood beside him motionless, save for the restlessness of
her eyes. All her natural sentiments of affection and pity were driven
clean out of her by a sort of panic; she had just the same sense of
dismay and fearfulness that she would have had in the presence of an
apparition. She could nohow fancy this to be her chosen one--the man she
had loved; he was metamorphosed to a specimen of another species. 'I do
not loathe you,' she said with trembling. 'But I am so horrified--so
overcome! Let me recover myself. Will you sup now? And while you do so
may I go to my room to--regain my old feeling for you? I will try, if I
may leave you awhile? Yes, I will try!'
Without waiting for an answer from him, and keeping her gaze carefully
averted, the frightened woman crept to the door and out of the room. She
heard him sit down to the table, as if to begin supper though, Heaven
knows, his appetite was slight enough after a reception which had
confirmed his worst surmises. When Barbara had ascended the stairs and
arrived in her chamber she sank down, and buried her face in the coverlet
of the bed.
Thus she remained for some time. The bed-chamber was over the dining-
room, and presently as she knelt Barbara heard Willowes thrust back his
chair, and rise to go into the hall. In five minutes that figure would
probably come up the stairs and confront her again; it,--this new and
terrible form, that was not her husband's. In the loneliness of this
night, with neither maid nor friend beside her, she lost all
self-control, and at the first sound of his footstep on the stairs,
without so much as flinging a cloak round her, she flew from the room,
ran along the gallery to the back staircase, which she descended, and,
unlocking the back door, let herself out. She scarcely was aware what
she had done till she found herself in the greenhouse, crouching on a
flower-stand.
Here she remained, her great timid eyes strained through the glass upon
the garden without, and her skirts gathered up, in fear of the field-mice
which sometimes came there. Every moment she dreaded to hear footsteps
which she ought by law to have longed for, and a voice that should have
been as music to her soul. But Edmond Willowes came not that way. The
nights were getting short at this season, and soon the dawn appeared, and
the first rays of the sun. By daylight she had less fear than in the
dark. She thought she could meet him, and accustom herself to the
spectacle.
So the much-tried young woman unfastened the door of the hot-house, and
went back by the way she had emerged a few hours ago. Her poor husband
was probably in bed and asleep, his journey having been long; and she
made as little noise as possible in her entry. The house was just as she
had left it, and she looked about in the hall for his cloak and hat, but
she could not see them; nor did she perceive the small trunk which had
been all that he brought with him, his heavier baggage having been left
at Southampton for the road-waggon. She summoned courage to mount the
stairs; the bedroom-door was open as she had left it. She fearfully
peeped round; the bed had not been pressed. Perhaps he had lain down on
the dining-room sofa. She descended and entered; he was not there. On
the table beside his unsoiled plate lay a note, hastily written on the
leaf of a pocket-book. It was something like this:
'MY EVER-BELOVED WIFE--The effect that my forbidding appearance has
produced upon you was one which I foresaw as quite possible. I hoped
against it, but foolishly so. I was aware that no _human_ love could
survive such a catastrophe. I confess I thought yours _divine_; but,
after so long an absence, there could not be left sufficient warmth to
overcome the too natural first aversion. It was an experiment, and it
has failed. I do not blame you; perhaps, even, it is better so. Good-
bye. I leave England for one year. You will see me again at the
expiration of that time, if I live. Then I will ascertain your true
feeling; and, if it be against me, go away for ever. E. W.'
On recovering from her surprise, Barbara's remorse was such that she felt
herself absolutely unforgiveable. She should have regarded him as an
afflicted being, and not have been this slave to mere eyesight, like a
child. To follow him and entreat him to return was her first thought.
But on making inquiries she found that nobody had seen him: he had
silently disappeared.
More than this, to undo the scene of last night was impossible. Her
terror had been too plain, and he was a man unlikely to be coaxed back by
her efforts to do her duty. She went and confessed to her parents all
that had occurred; which, indeed, soon became known to more persons than
those of her own family.
The year passed, and he did not return; and it was doubted if he were
alive. Barbara's contrition for her unconquerable repugnance was now
such that she longed to build a church-aisle, or erect a monument, and
devote herself to deeds of charity for the remainder of her days. To
that end she made inquiry of the excellent parson under whom she sat on
Sundays, at a vertical distance of twenty feet. But he could only adjust
his wig and tap his snuff-box; for such was the lukewarm state of
religion in those days, that not an aisle, steeple, porch, east window,
Ten-Commandment board, lion-and-unicorn, or brass candlestick, was
required anywhere at all in the neighbourhood as a votive offering from a
distracted soul--the last century contrasting greatly in this respect
with the happy times in which we live, when urgent appeals for
contributions to such objects pour in by every morning's post, and nearly
all churches have been made to look like new pennies. As the poor lady
could not ease her conscience this way, she determined at least to be
charitable, and soon had the satisfaction of finding her porch thronged
every morning by the raggedest, idlest, most drunken, hypocritical, and
worthless tramps in Christendom.
But human hearts are as prone to change as the leaves of the creeper on
the wall, and in the course of time, hearing nothing of her husband,
Barbara could sit unmoved whilst her mother and friends said in her
hearing, 'Well, what has happened is for the best.' She began to think
so herself; for even now she could not summon up that lopped and
mutilated form without a shiver, though whenever her mind flew back to
her early wedded days, and the man who had stood beside her then, a
thrill of tenderness moved her, which if quickened by his living presence
might have become strong. She was young and inexperienced, and had
hardly on his late return grown out of the capricious fancies of
girlhood.
But he did not come again, and when she thought of his word that he would
return once more, if living, and how unlikely he was to break his word,
she gave him up for dead. So did her parents; so also did another
person--that man of silence, of irresistible incisiveness, of still
countenance, who was as awake as seven sentinels when he seemed to be as
sound asleep as the figures on his family monument. Lord Uplandtowers,
though not yet thirty, had chuckled like a caustic fogey of threescore
when he heard of Barbara's terror and flight at her husband's return, and
of the latter's prompt departure. He felt pretty sure, however, that
Willowes, despite his hurt feelings, would have reappeared to claim his
bright-eyed property if he had been alive at the end of the twelve
months.
As there was no husband to live with her, Barbara had relinquished the
house prepared for them by her father, and taken up her abode anew at
Chene Manor, as in the days of her girlhood. By degrees the episode with
Edmond Willowes seemed but a fevered dream, and as the months grew to
years Lord Uplandtowers' friendship with the people at Chene--which had
somewhat cooled after Barbara's elopement--revived considerably, and he
again became a frequent visitor there. He could not make the most
trivial alteration or improvement at Knollingwood Hall, where he lived,
without riding off to consult with his friend Sir John at Chene; and thus
putting himself frequently under her eyes, Barbara grew accustomed to
him, and talked to him as freely as to a brother. She even began to look
up to him as a person of authority, judgment, and prudence; and though
his severity on the bench towards poachers, smugglers, and
turnip-stealers was matter of common notoriety, she trusted that much of
what was said might be misrepresentation.
Thus they lived on till her husband's absence had stretched to years, and
there could be no longer any doubt of his death. A passionless manner of
renewing his addresses seemed no longer out of place in Lord
Uplandtowers. Barbara did not love him, but hers was essentially one of
those sweet-pea or with-wind natures which require a twig of stouter
fibre than its own to hang upon and bloom. Now, too, she was older, and
admitted to herself that a man whose ancestor had run scores of Saracens
through and through in fighting for the site of the Holy Sepulchre was a
more desirable husband, socially considered, than one who could only
claim with certainty to know that his father and grandfather were
respectable burgesses.
Sir John took occasion to inform her that she might legally consider
herself a widow; and, in brief; Lord Uplandtowers carried his point with
her, and she married him, though he could never get her to own that she
loved him as she had loved Willowes. In my childhood I knew an old lady
whose mother saw the wedding, and she said that when Lord and Lady
Uplandtowers drove away from her father's house in the evening it was in
a coach-and-four, and that my lady was dressed in green and silver, and
wore the gayest hat and feather that ever were seen; though whether it
was that the green did not suit her complexion, or otherwise, the
Countess looked pale, and the reverse of blooming. After their marriage
her husband took her to London, and she saw the gaieties of a season
there; then they returned to Knollingwood Hall, and thus a year passed
away.
Before their marriage her husband had seemed to care but little about her
inability to love him passionately. 'Only let me win you,' he had said,
'and I will submit to all that.' But now her lack of warmth seemed to
irritate him, and he conducted himself towards her with a resentfulness
which led to her passing many hours with him in painful silence. The
heir-presumptive to the title was a remote relative, whom Lord
Uplandtowers did not exclude from the dislike he entertained towards many
persons and things besides, and he had set his mind upon a lineal
successor. He blamed her much that there was no promise of this, and
asked her what she was good for.
On a particular day in her gloomy life a letter, addressed to her as Mrs.
Willowes, reached Lady Uplandtowers from an unexpected quarter. A
sculptor in Pisa, knowing nothing of her second marriage, informed her
that the long-delayed life-size statue of Mr. Willowes, which, when her
husband left that city, he had been directed to retain till it was sent
for, was still in his studio. As his commission had not wholly been
paid, and the statue was taking up room he could ill spare, he should be
glad to have the debt cleared off, and directions where to forward the
figure. Arriving at a time when the Countess was beginning to have
little secrets (of a harmless kind, it is true) from her husband, by
reason of their growing estrangement, she replied to this letter without
saying a word to Lord Uplandtowers, sending off the balance that was
owing to the sculptor, and telling him to despatch the statue to her
without delay.
It was some weeks before it arrived at Knollingwood Hall, and, by a
singular coincidence, during the interval she received the first
absolutely conclusive tidings of her Edmond's death. It had taken place
years before, in a foreign land, about six months after their parting,
and had been induced by the sufferings he had already undergone, coupled
with much depression of spirit, which had caused him to succumb to a
slight ailment. The news was sent her in a brief and formal letter from
some relative of Willowes's in another part of England.
Her grief took the form of passionate pity for his misfortunes, and of
reproach to herself for never having been able to conquer her aversion to
his latter image by recollection of what Nature had originally made him.
The sad spectacle that had gone from earth had never been her Edmond at
all to her. O that she could have met him as he was at first! Thus
Barbara thought. It was only a few days later that a waggon with two
horses, containing an immense packing-case, was seen at breakfast-time
both by Barbara and her husband to drive round to the back of the house,
and by-and-by they were informed that a case labelled 'Sculpture' had
arrived for her ladyship.
'What can that be?' said Lord Uplandtowers.
'It is the statue of poor Edmond, which belongs to me, but has never been
sent till now,' she answered.
'Where are you going to put it?' asked he.
'I have not decided,' said the Countess. 'Anywhere, so that it will not
annoy you.'
'Oh, it won't annoy me,' says he.
When it had been unpacked in a back room of the house, they went to
examine it. The statue was a full-length figure, in the purest Carrara
marble, representing Edmond Willowes in all his original beauty, as he
had stood at parting from her when about to set out on his travels; a
specimen of manhood almost perfect in every line and contour. The work
had been carried out with absolute fidelity.
'Phoebus-Apollo, sure,' said the Earl of Uplandtowers, who had never seen
Willowes, real or represented, till now.
Barbara did not hear him. She was standing in a sort of trance before
the first husband, as if she had no consciousness of the other husband at
her side. The mutilated features of Willowes had disappeared from her
mind's eye; this perfect being was really the man she had loved, and not
that later pitiable figure; in whom love and truth should have seen this
image always, but had not done so.
It was not till Lord Uplandtowers said roughly, 'Are you going to stay
here all the morning worshipping him?' that she roused herself.
Her husband had not till now the least suspicion that Edmond Willowes
originally looked thus, and he thought how deep would have been his
jealousy years ago if Willowes had been known to him. Returning to the
Hall in the afternoon he found his wife in the gallery, whither the
statue had been brought.
She was lost in reverie before it, just as in the morning.
'What are you doing?' he asked.
She started and turned. 'I am looking at my husb--- my statue, to see if
it is well done,' she stammered. 'Why should I not?'
'There's no reason why,' he said. 'What are you going to do with the
monstrous thing? It can't stand here for ever.'
'I don't wish it,' she said. 'I'll find a place.'
In her boudoir there was a deep recess, and while the Earl was absent
from home for a few days in the following week, she hired joiners from
the village, who under her directions enclosed the recess with a panelled
door. Into the tabernacle thus formed she had the statue placed,
fastening the door with a lock, the key of which she kept in her pocket.
When her husband returned he missed the statue from the gallery, and,
concluding that it had been put away out of deference to his feelings,
made no remark. Yet at moments he noticed something on his lady's face
which he had never noticed there before. He could not construe it; it
was a sort of silent ecstasy, a reserved beatification. What had become
of the statue he could not divine, and growing more and more curious,
looked about here and there for it till, thinking of her private room, he
went towards that spot. After knocking he heard the shutting of a door,
and the click of a key; but when he entered his wife was sitting at work,
on what was in those days called knotting. Lord Uplandtowers' eye fell
upon the newly-painted door where the recess had formerly been.
'You have been carpentering in my absence then, Barbara,' he said
carelessly.
'Yes, Uplandtowers.'
'Why did you go putting up such a tasteless enclosure as that--spoiling
the handsome arch of the alcove?'
'I wanted more closet-room; and I thought that as this was my own
apartment--'
'Of course,' he returned. Lord Uplandtowers knew now where the statue of
young Willowes was.
One night, or rather in the smallest hours of the morning, he missed the
Countess from his side. Not being a man of nervous imaginings he fell
asleep again before he had much considered the matter, and the next
morning had forgotten the incident. But a few nights later the same
circumstances occurred. This time he fully roused himself; but before he
had moved to search for her, she entered the chamber in her
dressing-gown, carrying a candle, which she extinguished as she
approached, deeming him asleep. He could discover from her breathing
that she was strangely moved; but not on this occasion either did he
reveal that he had seen her. Presently, when she had lain down,
affecting to wake, he asked her some trivial questions. 'Yes, _Edmond_,'
she replied absently.
Lord Uplandtowers became convinced that she was in the habit of leaving
the chamber in this queer way more frequently than he had observed, and
he determined to watch. The next midnight he feigned deep sleep, and
shortly after perceived her stealthily rise and let herself out of the
room in the dark. He slipped on some clothing and followed. At the
farther end of the corridor, where the clash of flint and steel would be
out of the hearing of one in the bed-chamber, she struck a light. He
stepped aside into an empty room till she had lit a taper and had passed
on to her boudoir. In a minute or two he followed. Arrived at the door
of the boudoir, he beheld the door of the private recess open, and
Barbara within it, standing with her arms clasped tightly round the neck
of her Edmond, and her mouth on his. The shawl which she had thrown
round her nightclothes had slipped from her shoulders, and her long white
robe and pale face lent her the blanched appearance of a second statue
embracing the first. Between her kisses, she apostrophized it in a low
murmur of infantine tenderness:
'My only love--how could I be so cruel to you, my perfect one--so good
and true--I am ever faithful to you, despite my seeming infidelity! I
always think of you--dream of you--during the long hours of the day, and
in the night-watches! O Edmond, I am always yours!' Such words as
these, intermingled with sobs, and streaming tears, and dishevelled hair,
testified to an intensity of feeling in his wife which Lord Uplandtowers
had not dreamed of her possessing.
'Ha, ha!' says he to himself. 'This is where we evaporate--this is where
my hopes of a successor in the title dissolve--ha, ha! This must be seen
to, verily!'
Lord Uplandtowers was a subtle man when once he set himself to strategy;
though in the present instance he never thought of the simple stratagem
of constant tenderness. Nor did he enter the room and surprise his wife
as a blunderer would have done, but went back to his chamber as silently
as he had left it. When the Countess returned thither, shaken by spent
sobs and sighs, he appeared to be soundly sleeping as usual. The next
day he began his countermoves by making inquiries as to the whereabouts
of the tutor who had travelled with his wife's first husband; this
gentleman, he found, was now master of a grammar-school at no great
distance from Knollingwood. At the first convenient moment Lord
Uplandtowers went thither and obtained an interview with the said
gentleman. The schoolmaster was much gratified by a visit from such an
influential neighbour, and was ready to communicate anything that his
lordship desired to know.
After some general conversation on the school and its progress, the
visitor observed that he believed the schoolmaster had once travelled a
good deal with the unfortunate Mr. Willowes, and had been with him on the
occasion of his accident. He, Lord Uplandtowers, was interested in
knowing what had really happened at that time, and had often thought of
inquiring. And then the Earl not only heard by word of mouth as much as
he wished to know, but, their chat becoming more intimate, the
schoolmaster drew upon paper a sketch of the disfigured head, explaining
with bated breath various details in the representation.
'It was very strange and terrible!' said Lord Uplandtowers, taking the
sketch in his hand. 'Neither nose nor ears!'
A poor man in the town nearest to Knollingwood Hall, who combined the art
of sign-painting with ingenious mechanical occupations, was sent for by
Lord Uplandtowers to come to the Hall on a day in that week when the
Countess had gone on a short visit to her parents. His employer made the
man understand that the business in which his assistance was demanded was
to be considered private, and money insured the observance of this
request. The lock of the cupboard was picked, and the ingenious mechanic
and painter, assisted by the schoolmaster's sketch, which Lord
Uplandtowers had put in his pocket, set to work upon the god-like
countenance of the statue under my lord's direction. What the fire had
maimed in the original the chisel maimed in the copy. It was a fiendish
disfigurement, ruthlessly carried out, and was rendered still more
shocking by being tinted to the hues of life, as life had been after the
wreck.
Six hours after, when the workman was gone, Lord Uplandtowers looked upon
the result, and smiled grimly, and said:
'A statue should represent a man as he appeared in life, and that's as he
appeared. Ha! ha! But 'tis done to good purpose, and not idly.'
He locked the door of the closet with a skeleton key, and went his way to
fetch the Countess home.
That night she slept, but he kept awake. According to the tale, she
murmured soft words in her dream; and he knew that the tender converse of
her imaginings was held with one whom he had supplanted but in name. At
the end of her dream the Countess of Uplandtowers awoke and arose, and
then the enactment of former nights was repeated. Her husband remained
still and listened. Two strokes sounded from the clock in the pediment
without, when, leaving the chamber-door ajar, she passed along the
corridor to the other end, where, as usual, she obtained a light. So
deep was the silence that he could even from his bed hear her softly
blowing the tinder to a glow after striking the steel. She moved on into
the boudoir, and he heard, or fancied he heard, the turning of the key in
the closet-door. The next moment there came from that direction a loud
and prolonged shriek, which resounded to the farthest corners of the
house. It was repeated, and there was the noise of a heavy fall.
Lord Uplandtowers sprang out of bed. He hastened along the dark corridor
to the door of the boudoir, which stood ajar, and, by the light of the
candle within, saw his poor young Countess lying in a heap in her
nightdress on the floor of the closet. When he reached her side he found
that she had fainted, much to the relief of his fears that matters were
worse. He quickly shut up and locked in the hated image which had done
the mischief; and lifted his wife in his arms, where in a few instants
she opened her eyes. Pressing her face to his without saying a word, he
carried her back to her room, endeavouring as he went to disperse her
terrors by a laugh in her ear, oddly compounded of causticity,
predilection, and brutality.
'Ho--ho--ho!' says he. 'Frightened, dear one, hey? What a baby 'tis!
Only a joke, sure, Barbara--a splendid joke! But a baby should not go to
closets at midnight to look for the ghost of the dear departed! If it do
it must expect to be terrified at his aspect--ho--ho--ho!'
When she was in her bed-chamber, and had quite come to herself; though
her nerves were still much shaken, he spoke to her more sternly. 'Now,
my lady, answer me: do you love him--eh?'
'No--no!' she faltered, shuddering, with her expanded eyes fixed on her
husband. 'He is too terrible--no, no!'
'You are sure?'
'Quite sure!' replied the poor broken-spirited Countess. But her natural
elasticity asserted itself. Next morning he again inquired of her: 'Do
you love him now?'
She quailed under his gaze, but did not reply.
'That means that you do still, by G---!' he continued.
'It means that I will not tell an untruth, and do not wish to incense my
lord,' she answered, with dignity.
'Then suppose we go and have another look at him?' As he spoke, he
suddenly took her by the wrist, and turned as if to lead her towards the
ghastly closet.
'No--no! Oh--no!' she cried, and her desperate wriggle out of his hand
revealed that the fright of the night had left more impression upon her
delicate soul than superficially appeared.
'Another dose or two, and she will be cured,' he said to himself.
It was now so generally known that the Earl and Countess were not in
accord, that he took no great trouble to disguise his deeds in relation
to this matter. During the day he ordered four men with ropes and
rollers to attend him in the boudoir. When they arrived, the closet was
open, and the upper part of the statue tied up in canvas. He had it
taken to the sleeping-chamber. What followed is more or less matter of
conjecture. The story, as told to me, goes on to say that, when Lady
Uplandtowers retired with him that night, she saw near the foot of the
heavy oak four-poster, a tall dark wardrobe, which had not stood there
before; but she did not ask what its presence meant.
'I have had a little whim,' he explained when they were in the dark.
'Have you?' says she.
'To erect a little shrine, as it may be called.'
'A little shrine?'
'Yes; to one whom we both equally adore--eh? I'll show you what it
contains.'
He pulled a cord which hung covered by the bed-curtains, and the doors of
the wardrobe slowly opened, disclosing that the shelves within had been
removed throughout, and the interior adapted to receive the ghastly
figure, which stood there as it had stood in the boudoir, but with a wax-
candle burning on each side of it to throw the cropped and distorted
features into relief. She clutched him, uttered a low scream, and buried
her head in the bedclothes. 'Oh, take it away--please take it away!' she
implored.
'All in good time namely, when you love me best,' he returned calmly.
'You don't quite yet--eh?'
'I don't know--I think--O Uplandtowers, have mercy--I cannot bear it--O,
in pity, take it away!'
'Nonsense; one gets accustomed to anything. Take another gaze.'
In short, he allowed the doors to remain unclosed at the foot of the bed,
and the wax-tapers burning; and such was the strange fascination of the
grisly exhibition that a morbid curiosity took possession of the Countess
as she lay, and, at his repeated request, she did again look out from the
coverlet, shuddered, hid her eyes, and looked again, all the while
begging him to take it away, or it would drive her out of her senses. But
he would not do so as yet, and the wardrobe was not locked till dawn.
The scene was repeated the next night. Firm in enforcing his ferocious
correctives, he continued the treatment till the nerves of the poor lady
were quivering in agony under the virtuous tortures inflicted by her
lord, to bring her truant heart back to faithfulness.
The third night, when the scene had opened as usual, and she lay staring
with immense wild eyes at the horrid fascination, on a sudden she gave an
unnatural laugh; she laughed more and more, staring at the image, till
she literally shrieked with laughter: then there was silence, and he
found her to have become insensible. He thought she had fainted, but
soon saw that the event was worse: she was in an epileptic fit. He
started up, dismayed by the sense that, like many other subtle
personages, he had been too exacting for his own interests. Such love as
he was capable of, though rather a selfish gloating than a cherishing
solicitude, was fanned into life on the instant. He closed the wardrobe
with the pulley, clasped her in his arms, took her gently to the window,
and did all he could to restore her.
It was a long time before the Countess came to herself, and when she did
so, a considerable change seemed to have taken place in her emotions. She
flung her arms around him, and with gasps of fear abjectly kissed him
many times, at last bursting into tears. She had never wept in this
scene before.
'You'll take it away, dearest--you will!' she begged plaintively.
'If you love me.'
'I do--oh, I do!'
'And hate him, and his memory?'
'Yes--yes!'
'Thoroughly?'
'I cannot endure recollection of him!' cried the poor Countess slavishly.
'It fills me with shame--how could I ever be so depraved! I'll never
behave badly again, Uplandtowers; and you will never put the hated statue
again before my eyes?'
He felt that he could promise with perfect safety. 'Never,' said he.
'And then I'll love you,' she returned eagerly, as if dreading lest the
scourge should be applied anew. 'And I'll never, never dream of thinking
a single thought that seems like faithlessness to my marriage vow.'
The strange thing now was that this fictitious love wrung from her by
terror took on, through mere habit of enactment, a certain quality of
reality. A servile mood of attachment to the Earl became distinctly
visible in her contemporaneously with an actual dislike for her late
husband's memory. The mood of attachment grew and continued when the
statue was removed. A permanent revulsion was operant in her, which
intensified as time wore on. How fright could have effected such a
change of idiosyncrasy learned physicians alone can say; but I believe
such cases of reactionary instinct are not unknown.
The upshot was that the cure became so permanent as to be itself a new
disease. She clung to him so tightly, that she would not willingly be
out of his sight for a moment. She would have no sitting-room apart from
his, though she could not help starting when he entered suddenly to her.
Her eyes were well-nigh always fixed upon him. If he drove out, she
wished to go with him; his slightest civilities to other women made her
frantically jealous; till at length her very fidelity became a burden to
him, absorbing his time, and curtailing his liberty, and causing him to
curse and swear. If he ever spoke sharply to her now, she did not
revenge herself by flying off to a mental world of her own; all that
affection for another, which had provided her with a resource, was now a
cold black cinder.
From that time the life of this scared and enervated lady--whose
existence might have been developed to so much higher purpose but for the
ignoble ambition of her parents and the conventions of the time--was one
of obsequious amativeness towards a perverse and cruel man. Little
personal events came to her in quick succession--half a dozen, eight,
nine, ten such events,--in brief; she bore him no less than eleven
children in the eight following years, but half of them came prematurely
into the world, or died a few days old; only one, a girl, attained to
maturity; she in after years became the wife of the Honourable Mr.
Beltonleigh, who was created Lord D'Almaine, as may be remembered.
There was no living son and heir. At length, completely worn out in mind
and body, Lady Uplandtowers was taken abroad by her husband, to try the
effect of a more genial climate upon her wasted frame. But nothing
availed to strengthen her, and she died at Florence, a few months after
her arrival in Italy.
Contrary to expectation, the Earl of Uplandtowers did not marry again.
Such affection as existed in him--strange, hard, brutal as it was--seemed
untransferable, and the title, as is known, passed at his death to his
nephew. Perhaps it may not be so generally known that, during the
enlargement of the Hall for the sixth Earl, while digging in the grounds
for the new foundations, the broken fragments of a marble statue were
unearthed. They were submitted to various antiquaries, who said that, so
far as the damaged pieces would allow them to form an opinion, the statue
seemed to be that of a mutilated Roman satyr; or if not, an allegorical
figure of Death. Only one or two old inhabitants guessed whose statue
those fragments had composed.
I should have added that, shortly after the death of the Countess, an
excellent sermon was preached by the Dean of Melchester, the subject of
which, though names were not mentioned, was unquestionably suggested by
the aforesaid events. He dwelt upon the folly of indulgence in sensuous
love for a handsome form merely; and showed that the only rational and
virtuous growths of that affection were those based upon intrinsic worth.
In the case of the tender but somewhat shallow lady whose life I have
related, there is no doubt that an infatuation for the person of young
Willowes was the chief feeling that induced her to marry him; which was
the more deplorable in that his beauty, by all tradition, was the least
of his recommendations, every report bearing out the inference that he
must have been a man of steadfast nature, bright intelligence, and
promising life.
* * * * *
The company thanked the old surgeon for his story, which the rural dean
declared to be a far more striking one than anything he could hope to
tell. An elderly member of the Club, who was mostly called the Bookworm,
said that a woman's natural instinct of fidelity would, indeed, send back
her heart to a man after his death in a truly wonderful manner
sometimes--if anything occurred to put before her forcibly the original
affection between them, and his original aspect in her eyes,--whatever
his inferiority may have been, social or otherwise; and then a general
conversation ensued upon the power that a woman has of seeing the actual
in the representation, the reality in the dream--a power which (according
to the sentimental member) men have no faculty of equalling.
The rural dean thought that such cases as that related by the surgeon
were rather an illustration of passion electrified back to life than of a
latent, true affection. The story had suggested that he should try to
recount to them one which he had used to hear in his youth, and which
afforded an instance of the latter and better kind of feeling, his
heroine being also a lady who had married beneath her, though he feared
his narrative would be of a much slighter kind than the surgeon's. The
Club begged him to proceed, and the parson began.
DAME THE THIRD--THE MARCHIONESS OF STONEHENGE
By the Rural Dean
I would have you know, then, that a great many years ago there lived in a
classical mansion with which I used to be familiar, standing not a
hundred miles from the city of Melchester, a lady whose personal charms
were so rare and unparalleled that she was courted, flattered, and spoilt
by almost all the young noblemen and gentlemen in that part of Wessex.
For a time these attentions pleased her well. But as, in the words of
good Robert South (whose sermons might be read much more than they are),
the most passionate lover of sport, if tied to follow his hawks and
hounds every day of his life, would find the pursuit the greatest torment
and calamity, and would fly to the mines and galleys for his recreation,
so did this lofty and beautiful lady after a while become satiated with
the constant iteration of what she had in its novelty enjoyed; and by an
almost natural revulsion turned her regards absolutely netherward,
socially speaking. She perversely and passionately centred her affection
on quite a plain-looking young man of humble birth and no position at
all; though it is true that he was gentle and delicate in nature, of good
address, and guileless heart. In short, he was the parish-clerk's son,
acting as assistant to the land-steward of her father, the Earl of Avon,
with the hope of becoming some day a land-steward himself. It should be
said that perhaps the Lady Caroline (as she was called) was a little
stimulated in this passion by the discovery that a young girl of the
village already loved the young man fondly, and that he had paid some
attentions to her, though merely of a casual and good-natured kind.
Since his occupation brought him frequently to the manor-house and its
environs, Lady Caroline could make ample opportunities of seeing and
speaking to him. She had, in Chaucer's phrase, 'all the craft of fine
loving' at her fingers' ends, and the young man, being of a
readily-kindling heart, was quick to notice the tenderness in her eyes
and voice. He could not at first believe in his good fortune, having no
understanding of her weariness of more artificial men; but a time comes
when the stupidest sees in an eye the glance of his other half; and it
came to him, who was quite the reverse of dull. As he gained confidence
accidental encounters led to encounters by design; till at length when
they were alone together there was no reserve on the matter. They
whispered tender words as other lovers do, and were as devoted a pair as
ever was seen. But not a ray or symptom of this attachment was allowed
to show itself to the outer world.
Now, as she became less and less scrupulous towards him under the
influence of her affection, and he became more and more reverential under
the influence of his, and they looked the situation in the face together,
their condition seemed intolerable in its hopelessness. That she could
ever ask to be allowed to marry him, or could hold her tongue and quietly
renounce him, was equally beyond conception. They resolved upon a third
course, possessing neither of the disadvantages of these two: to wed
secretly, and live on in outward appearance the same as before. In this
they differed from the lovers of my friend's story.
Not a soul in the parental mansion guessed, when Lady Caroline came
coolly into the hall one day after a visit to her aunt, that, during that
visit, her lover and herself had found an opportunity of uniting
themselves till death should part them. Yet such was the fact; the young
woman who rode fine horses, and drove in pony-chaises, and was saluted
deferentially by every one, and the young man who trudged about, and
directed the tree-felling, and the laying out of fish-ponds in the park,
were husband and wife.
As they had planned, so they acted to the letter for the space of a month
and more, clandestinely meeting when and where they best could do so;
both being supremely happy and content. To be sure, towards the latter
part of that month, when the first wild warmth of her love had gone off,
the Lady Caroline sometimes wondered within herself how she, who might
have chosen a peer of the realm, baronet, knight; or, if serious-minded,
a bishop or judge of the more gallant sort who prefer young wives, could
have brought herself to do a thing so rash as to make this marriage;
particularly when, in their private meetings, she perceived that though
her young husband was full of ideas, and fairly well read, they had not a
single social experience in common. It was his custom to visit her after
nightfall, in her own house, when he could find no opportunity for an
interview elsewhere; and to further this course she would contrive to
leave unfastened a window on the ground-floor overlooking the lawn, by
entering which a back stair-case was accessible; so that he could climb
up to her apartments, and gain audience of his lady when the house was
still.
One dark midnight, when he had not been able to see her during the day,
he made use of this secret method, as he had done many times before; and
when they had remained in company about an hour he declared that it was
time for him to descend.
He would have stayed longer, but that the interview had been a somewhat
painful one. What she had said to him that night had much excited and
angered him, for it had revealed a change in her; cold reason had come to
his lofty wife; she was beginning to have more anxiety about her own
position and prospects than ardour for him. Whether from the agitation
of this perception or not, he was seized with a spasm; he gasped, rose,
and in moving towards the window for air he uttered in a short thick
whisper, 'Oh, my heart!'
With his hand upon his chest he sank down to the floor before he had gone
another step. By the time that she had relighted the candle, which had
been extinguished in case any eye in the opposite grounds should witness
his egress, she found that his poor heart had ceased to beat; and there
rushed upon her mind what his cottage-friends had once told her, that he
was liable to attacks of heart-disease, one of which, the doctor had
informed them, might some day carry him off.
Accustomed as she was to doctoring the other parishioners, nothing that
she could effect upon him in that kind made any difference whatever; and
his stillness, and the increasing coldness of his feet and hands,
disclosed too surely to the affrighted young woman that her husband was
dead indeed. For more than an hour, however, she did not abandon her
efforts to restore him; when she fully realized the fact that he was a
corpse she bent over his body, distracted and bewildered as to what step
she next should take.
Her first feelings had undoubtedly been those of passionate grief at the
loss of him; her second thoughts were concern at her own position as the
daughter of an earl. 'Oh, why, why, my unfortunate husband, did you die
in my chamber at this hour!' she said piteously to the corpse. 'Why not
have died in your own cottage if you would die! Then nobody would ever
have known of our imprudent union, and no syllable would have been
breathed of how I mismated myself for love of you!'
The clock in the courtyard striking the hour of one aroused Lady Caroline
from the stupor into which she had fallen, and she stood up, and went
towards the door. To awaken and tell her mother seemed her only way out
of this terrible situation; yet when she put her hand on the key to
unlock it she withdrew herself again. It would be impossible to call
even her mother's assistance without risking a revelation to all the
world through the servants; while if she could remove the body unassisted
to a distance she might avert suspicion of their union even now. This
thought of immunity from the social consequences of her rash act, of
renewed freedom, was indubitably a relief to her, for, as has been said,
the constraint and riskiness of her position had begun to tell upon the
Lady Caroline's nerves.
She braced herself for the effort, and hastily dressed herself; and then
dressed him. Tying his dead hands together with a handkerchief; she laid
his arms round her shoulders, and bore him to the landing and down the
narrow stairs. Reaching the bottom by the window, she let his body slide
slowly over the sill till it lay on the ground without. She then climbed
over the window-sill herself, and, leaving the sash open, dragged him on
to the lawn with a rustle not louder than the rustle of a broom. There
she took a securer hold, and plunged with him under the trees.
Away from the precincts of the house she could apply herself more
vigorously to her task, which was a heavy one enough for her, robust as
she was; and the exertion and fright she had already undergone began to
tell upon her by the time she reached the corner of a beech-plantation
which intervened between the manor-house and the village. Here she was
so nearly exhausted that she feared she might have to leave him on the
spot. But she plodded on after a while, and keeping upon the grass at
every opportunity she stood at last opposite the poor young man's garden-
gate, where he lived with his father, the parish-clerk. How she
accomplished the end of her task Lady Caroline never quite knew; but, to
avoid leaving traces in the road, she carried him bodily across the
gravel, and laid him down at the door. Perfectly aware of his ways of
coming and going, she searched behind the shutter for the cottage door-
key, which she placed in his cold hand. Then she kissed his face for the
last time, and with silent little sobs bade him farewell.
Lady Caroline retraced her steps, and reached the mansion without
hindrance; and to her great relief found the window open just as she had
left it. When she had climbed in she listened attentively, fastened the
window behind her, and ascending the stairs noiselessly to her room, set
everything in order, and returned to bed.
The next morning it was speedily echoed around that the amiable and
gentle young villager had been found dead outside his father's door,
which he had apparently been in the act of unlocking when he fell. The
circumstances were sufficiently exceptional to justify an inquest, at
which syncope from heart-disease was ascertained to be beyond doubt the
explanation of his death, and no more was said about the matter then.
But, after the funeral, it was rumoured that some man who had been
returning late from a distant horse-fair had seen in the gloom of night a
person, apparently a woman, dragging a heavy body of some sort towards
the cottage-gate, which, by the light of after events, would seem to have
been the corpse of the young fellow. His clothes were thereupon examined
more particularly than at first, with the result that marks of friction
were visible upon them here and there, precisely resembling such as would
be left by dragging on the ground.
Our beautiful and ingenious Lady Caroline was now in great consternation;
and began to think that, after all, it might have been better to honestly
confess the truth. But having reached this stage without discovery or
suspicion, she determined to make another effort towards concealment; and
a bright idea struck her as a means of securing it. I think I mentioned
that, before she cast eyes on the unfortunate steward's clerk, he had
been the beloved of a certain village damsel, the woodman's daughter, his
neighbour, to whom he had paid some attentions; and possibly he was
beloved of her still. At any rate, the Lady Caroline's influence on the
estates of her father being considerable, she resolved to seek an
interview with the young girl in furtherance of her plan to save her
reputation, about which she was now exceedingly anxious; for by this
time, the fit being over, she began to be ashamed of her mad passion for
her late husband, and almost wished she had never seen him.
In the course of her parish-visiting she lighted on the young girl
without much difficulty, and found her looking pale and sad, and wearing
a simple black gown, which she had put on out of respect for the young
man's memory, whom she had tenderly loved, though he had not loved her.
'Ah, you have lost your lover, Milly,' said Lady Caroline.
The young woman could not repress her tears. 'My lady, he was not quite
my lover,' she said. 'But I was his--and now he is dead I don't care to
live any more!'
'Can you keep a secret about him?' asks the lady; 'one in which his
honour is involved--which is known to me alone, but should be known to
you?'
The girl readily promised, and, indeed, could be safely trusted on such a
subject, so deep was her affection for the youth she mourned.
'Then meet me at his grave to-night, half-an-hour after sunset, and I
will tell it to you,' says the other.
In the dusk of that spring evening the two shadowy figures of the young
women converged upon the assistant-steward's newly-turfed mound; and at
that solemn place and hour, the one of birth and beauty unfolded her
tale: how she had loved him and married him secretly; how he had died in
her chamber; and how, to keep her secret, she had dragged him to his own
door.
'Married him, my lady!' said the rustic maiden, starting back.
'I have said so,' replied Lady Caroline. 'But it was a mad thing, and a
mistaken course. He ought to have married you. You, Milly, were
peculiarly his. But you lost him.'
'Yes,' said the poor girl; 'and for that they laughed at me. "Ha--ha,
you mid love him, Milly," they said; "but he will not love you!"'
'Victory over such unkind jeerers would be sweet,' said Lady Caroline.
'You lost him in life; but you may have him in death _as if_ you had had
him in life; and so turn the tables upon them.'
'How?' said the breathless girl.
The young lady then unfolded her plan, which was that Milly should go
forward and declare that the young man had contracted a secret marriage
(as he truly had done); that it was with her, Milly, his sweetheart; that
he had been visiting her in her cottage on the evening of his death;
when, on finding he was a corpse, she had carried him to his house to
prevent discovery by her parents, and that she had meant to keep the
whole matter a secret till the rumours afloat had forced it from her.
'And how shall I prove this?' said the woodman's daughter, amazed at the
boldness of the proposal.
'Quite sufficiently. You can say, if necessary, that you were married to
him at the church of St. Michael, in Bath City, in my name, as the first
that occurred to you, to escape detection. That was where he married me.
I will support you in this.'
'Oh--I don't quite like--'
'If you will do so,' said the lady peremptorily, 'I will always be your
father's friend and yours; if not, it will be otherwise. And I will give
you my wedding-ring, which you shall wear as yours.'
'Have you worn it, my lady?'
'Only at night.'
There was not much choice in the matter, and Milly consented. Then this
noble lady took from her bosom the ring she had never been able openly to
exhibit, and, grasping the young girl's hand, slipped it upon her finger
as she stood upon her lover's grave.
Milly shivered, and bowed her head, saying, 'I feel as if I had become a
corpse's bride!'
But from that moment the maiden was heart and soul in the substitution. A
blissful repose came over her spirit. It seemed to her that she had
secured in death him whom in life she had vainly idolized; and she was
almost content. After that the lady handed over to the young man's new
wife all the little mementoes and trinkets he had given herself; even to
a locket containing his hair.
The next day the girl made her so-called confession, which the simple
mourning she had already worn, without stating for whom, seemed to bear
out; and soon the story of the little romance spread through the village
and country-side, almost as far as Melchester. It was a curious
psychological fact that, having once made the avowal, Milly seemed
possessed with a spirit of ecstasy at her position. With the liberal sum
of money supplied to her by Lady Caroline she now purchased the garb of a
widow, and duly appeared at church in her weeds, her simple face looking
so sweet against its margin of crape that she was almost envied her state
by the other village-girls of her age. And when a woman's sorrow for her
beloved can maim her young life so obviously as it had done Milly's there
was, in truth, little subterfuge in the case. Her explanation tallied so
well with the details of her lover's latter movements--those strange
absences and sudden returnings, which had occasionally puzzled his
friends--that nobody supposed for a moment that the second actor in these
secret nuptials was other than she. The actual and whole truth would
indeed have seemed a preposterous assertion beside this plausible one, by
reason of the lofty demeanour of the Lady Caroline and the unassuming
habits of the late villager. There being no inheritance in question, not
a soul took the trouble to go to the city church, forty miles off, and
search the registers for marriage signatures bearing out so humble a
romance.
In a short time Milly caused a decent tombstone to be erected over her
nominal husband's grave, whereon appeared the statement that it was
placed there by his heartbroken widow, which, considering that the
payment for it came from Lady Caroline and the grief from Milly, was as
truthful as such inscriptions usually are, and only required pluralizing
to render it yet more nearly so.
The impressionable and complaisant Milly, in her character of widow, took
delight in going to his grave every day, and indulging in sorrow which
was a positive luxury to her. She placed fresh flowers on his grave, and
so keen was her emotional imaginativeness that she almost believed
herself to have been his wife indeed as she walked to and fro in her garb
of woe. One afternoon, Milly being busily engaged in this labour of love
at the grave, Lady Caroline passed outside the churchyard wall with some
of her visiting friends, who, seeing Milly there, watched her actions
with interest, remarked upon the pathos of the scene, and upon the
intense affection the young man must have felt for such a tender creature
as Milly. A strange light, as of pain, shot from the Lady Caroline's
eye, as if for the first time she begrudged to the young girl the
position she had been at such pains to transfer to her; it showed that a
slumbering affection for her husband still had life in Lady Caroline,
obscured and stifled as it was by social considerations.
An end was put to this smooth arrangement by the sudden appearance in the
churchyard one day of the Lady Caroline, when Milly had come there on her
usual errand of laying flowers. Lady Caroline had been anxiously
awaiting her behind the chancel, and her countenance was pale and
agitated.
'Milly!' she said, 'come here! I don't know how to say to you what I am
going to say. I am half dead!'
'I am sorry for your ladyship,' says Milly, wondering.
'Give me that ring!' says the lady, snatching at the girl's left hand.
Milly drew it quickly away.
'I tell you give it to me!' repeated Caroline, almost fiercely. 'Oh--but
you don't know why? I am in a grief and a trouble I did not expect!' And
Lady Caroline whispered a few words to the girl.
'O my lady!' said the thunderstruck Milly. 'What _will_ you do?'
'You must say that your statement was a wicked lie, an invention, a
scandal, a deadly sin--that I told you to make it to screen me! That it
was I whom he married at Bath. In short, we must tell the truth, or I am
ruined--body, mind, and reputation--for ever!'
But there is a limit to the flexibility of gentle-souled women. Milly by
this time had so grown to the idea of being one flesh with this young
man, of having the right to bear his name as she bore it; had so
thoroughly come to regard him as her husband, to dream of him as her
husband, to speak of him as her husband, that she could not relinquish
him at a moment's peremptory notice.
'No, no,' she said desperately, 'I cannot, I will not give him up! Your
ladyship took him away from me alive, and gave him back to me only when
he was dead. Now I will keep him! I am truly his widow. More truly
than you, my lady! for I love him and mourn for him, and call myself by
his dear name, and your ladyship does neither!'
'I _do_ love him!' cries Lady Caroline with flashing eyes, 'and I cling
to him, and won't let him go to such as you! How can I, when he is the
father of this poor babe that's coming to me? I must have him back
again! Milly, Milly, can't you pity and understand me, perverse girl
that you are, and the miserable plight that I am in? Oh, this
precipitancy--it is the ruin of women! Why did I not consider, and wait!
Come, give me back all that I have given you, and assure me you will
support me in confessing the truth!'
'Never, never!' persisted Milly, with woe-begone passionateness. 'Look
at this headstone! Look at my gown and bonnet of crape--this ring:
listen to the name they call me by! My character is worth as much to me
as yours is to you! After declaring my Love mine, myself his, taking his
name, making his death my own particular sorrow, how can I say it was not
so? No such dishonour for me! I will outswear you, my lady; and I shall
be believed. My story is so much the more likely that yours will be
thought false. But, O please, my lady, do not drive me to this! In pity
let me keep him!'
The poor nominal widow exhibited such anguish at a proposal which would
have been truly a bitter humiliation to her, that Lady Caroline was
warmed to pity in spite of her own condition.
'Yes, I see your position,' she answered. 'But think of mine! What can
I do? Without your support it would seem an invention to save me from
disgrace; even if I produced the register, the love of scandal in the
world is such that the multitude would slur over the fact, say it was a
fabrication, and believe your story. I do not know who were the
witnesses, or anything!'
In a few minutes these two poor young women felt, as so many in a strait
have felt before, that union was their greatest strength, even now; and
they consulted calmly together. The result of their deliberations was
that Milly went home as usual, and Lady Caroline also, the latter
confessing that very night to the Countess her mother of the marriage,
and to nobody else in the world. And, some time after, Lady Caroline and
her mother went away to London, where a little while later still they
were joined by Milly, who was supposed to have left the village to
proceed to a watering-place in the North for the benefit of her health,
at the expense of the ladies of the Manor, who had been much interested
in her state of lonely and defenceless widowhood.
Early the next year the widow Milly came home with an infant in her arms,
the family at the Manor House having meanwhile gone abroad. They did not
return from their tour till the autumn ensuing, by which time Milly and
the child had again departed from the cottage of her father the woodman,
Milly having attained to the dignity of dwelling in a cottage of her own,
many miles to the eastward of her native village; a comfortable little
allowance had moreover been settled on her and the child for life,
through the instrumentality of Lady Caroline and her mother.
Two or three years passed away, and the Lady Caroline married a
nobleman--the Marquis of Stonehenge--considerably her senior, who had
wooed her long and phlegmatically. He was not rich, but she led a placid
life with him for many years, though there was no child of the marriage.
Meanwhile Milly's boy, as the youngster was called, and as Milly herself
considered him, grew up, and throve wonderfully, and loved her as she
deserved to be loved for her devotion to him, in whom she every day
traced more distinctly the lineaments of the man who had won her girlish
heart, and kept it even in the tomb.
She educated him as well as she could with the limited means at her
disposal, for the allowance had never been increased, Lady Caroline, or
the Marchioness of Stonehenge as she now was, seeming by degrees to care
little what had become of them. Milly became extremely ambitious on the
boy's account; she pinched herself almost of necessaries to send him to
the Grammar School in the town to which they retired, and at twenty he
enlisted in a cavalry regiment, joining it with a deliberate intent of
making the Army his profession, and not in a freak of idleness. His
exceptional attainments, his manly bearing, his steady conduct, speedily
won him promotion, which was furthered by the serious war in which this
country was at that time engaged. On his return to England after the
peace he had risen to the rank of riding-master, and was soon after
advanced another stage, and made quartermaster, though still a young man.
His mother--his corporeal mother, that is, the Marchioness of
Stonehenge--heard tidings of this unaided progress; it reawakened her
maternal instincts, and filled her with pride. She became keenly
interested in her successful soldier-son; and as she grew older much
wished to see him again, particularly when, the Marquis dying, she was
left a solitary and childless widow. Whether or not she would have gone
to him of her own impulse I cannot say; but one day, when she was driving
in an open carriage in the outskirts of a neighbouring town, the troops
lying at the barracks hard by passed her in marching order. She eyed
them narrowly, and in the finest of the horsemen recognized her son from
his likeness to her first husband.
This sight of him doubly intensified the motherly emotions which had lain
dormant in her for so many years, and she wildly asked herself how she
could so have neglected him? Had she possessed the true courage of
affection she would have owned to her first marriage, and have reared him
as her son! What would it have mattered if she had never obtained this
precious coronet of pearls and gold leaves, by comparison with the gain
of having the love and protection of such a noble and worthy son? These
and other sad reflections cut the gloomy and solitary lady to the heart;
and she repented of her pride in disclaiming her first husband more
bitterly than she had ever repented of her infatuation in marrying him.
Her yearning was so strong, that at length it seemed to her that she
could not live without announcing herself to him as his mother. Come
what might, she would do it: late as it was, she would have him away from
that woman whom she began to hate with the fierceness of a deserted
heart, for having taken her place as the mother of her only child. She
felt confidently enough that her son would only too gladly exchange a
cottage-mother for one who was a peeress of the realm. Being now, in her
widowhood, free to come and go as she chose, without question from
anybody, Lady Stonehenge started next day for the little town where Milly
yet lived, still in her robes of sable for the lost lover of her youth.
'He is _my_ son,' said the Marchioness, as soon as she was alone in the
cottage with Milly. 'You must give him back to me, now that I am in a
position in which I can defy the world's opinion. I suppose he comes to
see you continually?'
'Every month since he returned from the war, my lady. And sometimes he
stays two or three days, and takes me about seeing sights everywhere!'
She spoke with quiet triumph.
'Well, you will have to give him up,' said the Marchioness calmly. 'It
shall not be the worse for you--you may see him when you choose. I am
going to avow my first marriage, and have him with me.'
'You forget that there are two to be reckoned with, my lady. Not only
me, but himself.'
'That can be arranged. You don't suppose that he wouldn't--' But not
wishing to insult Milly by comparing their positions, she said, 'He is my
own flesh and blood, not yours.'
'Flesh and blood's nothing!' said Milly, flashing with as much scorn as a
cottager could show to a peeress, which, in this case, was not so little
as may be supposed. 'But I will agree to put it to him, and let him
settle it for himself.'
'That's all I require,' said Lady Stonehenge. 'You must ask him to come,
and I will meet him here.'
The soldier was written to, and the meeting took place. He was not so
much astonished at the disclosure of his parentage as Lady Stonehenge had
been led to expect, having known for years that there was a little
mystery about his birth. His manner towards the Marchioness, though
respectful, was less warm than she could have hoped. The alternatives as
to his choice of a mother were put before him. His answer amazed and
stupefied her.
'No, my lady,' he said. 'Thank you much, but I prefer to let things be
as they have been. My father's name is mine in any case. You see, my
lady, you cared little for me when I was weak and helpless; why should I
come to you now I am strong? She, dear devoted soul [pointing to Milly],
tended me from my birth, watched over me, nursed me when I was ill, and
deprived herself of many a little comfort to push me on. I cannot love
another mother as I love her. She _is_ my mother, and I will always be
her son!' As he spoke he put his manly arm round Milly's neck, and
kissed her with the tenderest affection.
The agony of the poor Marchioness was pitiable. 'You kill me!' she said,
between her shaking sobs. 'Cannot you--love--me--too?'
'No, my lady. If I must say it, you were ashamed of my poor father, who
was a sincere and honest man; therefore, I am ashamed of you.'
Nothing would move him; and the suffering woman at last gasped,
'Cannot--oh, cannot you give one kiss to me--as you did to her? It is
not much--it is all I ask--all!'
'Certainly,' he replied.
He kissed her coldly, and the painful scene came to an end. That day was
the beginning of death to the unfortunate Marchioness of Stonehenge. It
was in the perverseness of her human heart that his denial of her should
add fuel to the fire of her craving for his love. How long afterwards
she lived I do not know with any exactness, but it was no great length of
time. That anguish that is sharper than a serpent's tooth wore her out
soon. Utterly reckless of the world, its ways, and its opinions, she
allowed her story to become known; and when the welcome end supervened
(which, I grieve to say, she refused to lighten by the consolations of
religion), a broken heart was the truest phrase in which to sum up its
cause.
* * * * *
The rural dean having concluded, some observations upon his tale were
made in due course. The sentimental member said that Lady Caroline's
history afforded a sad instance of how an honest human affection will
become shamefaced and mean under the frost of class-division and social
prejudices. She probably deserved some pity; though her offspring,
before he grew up to man's estate, had deserved more. There was no
pathos like the pathos of childhood, when a child found itself in a world
where it was not wanted, and could not understand the reason why. A tale
by the speaker, further illustrating the same subject, though with
different results from the last, naturally followed.
DAME THE FOURTH--LADY MOTTISFONT
By the Sentimental Member
Of all the romantic towns in Wessex, Wintoncester is probably the most
convenient for meditative people to live in; since there you have a
cathedral with a nave so long that it affords space in which to walk and
summon your remoter moods without continually turning on your heel, or
seeming to do more than take an afternoon stroll under cover from the
rain or sun. In an uninterrupted course of nearly three hundred steps
eastward, and again nearly three hundred steps westward amid those
magnificent tombs, you can, for instance, compare in the most leisurely
way the dry dustiness which ultimately pervades the persons of kings and
bishops with the damper dustiness that is usually the final shape of
commoners, curates, and others who take their last rest out of doors.
Then, if you are in love, you can, by sauntering in the chapels and
behind the episcopal chantries with the bright-eyed one, so steep and
mellow your ecstasy in the solemnities around, that it will assume a
rarer and finer tincture, even more grateful to the understanding, if not
to the senses, than that form of the emotion which arises from such
companionship in spots where all is life, and growth, and fecundity.
It was in this solemn place, whither they had withdrawn from the sight of
relatives on one cold day in March, that Sir Ashley Mottisfont asked in
marriage, as his second wife, Philippa, the gentle daughter of plain
Squire Okehall. Her life had been an obscure one thus far; while Sir
Ashley, though not a rich man, had a certain distinction about him; so
that everybody thought what a convenient, elevating, and, in a word,
blessed match it would be for such a supernumerary as she. Nobody
thought so more than the amiable girl herself. She had been smitten with
such affection for him that, when she walked the cathedral aisles at his
side on the before-mentioned day, she did not know that her feet touched
hard pavement; it seemed to her rather that she was floating in space.
Philippa was an ecstatic, heart-thumping maiden, and could not understand
how she had deserved to have sent to her such an illustrious lover, such
a travelled personage, such a handsome man.
When he put the question, it was in no clumsy language, such as the
ordinary bucolic county landlords were wont to use on like quivering
occasions, but as elegantly as if he had been taught it in Enfield's
_Speaker_. Yet he hesitated a little--for he had something to add.
'My pretty Philippa,' he said (she was not very pretty by the way), 'I
have, you must know, a little girl dependent upon me: a little waif I
found one day in a patch of wild oats [such was this worthy baronet's
humour] when I was riding home: a little nameless creature, whom I wish
to take care of till she is old enough to take care of herself; and to
educate in a plain way. She is only fifteen months old, and is at
present in the hands of a kind villager's wife in my parish. Will you
object to give some attention to the little thing in her helplessness?'
It need hardly be said that our innocent young lady, loving him so deeply
and joyfully as she did, replied that she would do all she could for the
nameless child; and, shortly afterwards, the pair were married in the
same cathedral that had echoed the whispers of his declaration, the
officiating minister being the Bishop himself; a venerable and
experienced man, so well accomplished in uniting people who had a mind
for that sort of experiment, that the couple, with some sense of
surprise, found themselves one while they were still vaguely gaz
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