VII
THE WINDS OF AUTUMN
Lady Lansdowne looked pensively at the tapering sandal which she heldforward to catch the heat. "Time passes so very, very quickly," shesaid with a sigh.
"With some," Sir Robert answered. "With others," he bowed, "it standsstill."
His gallantry did not deceive her. She knew it for the salute whichduellists exchange before the fray, and she saw that if she would doanything she must place herself within his guard. She looked at himwith sudden frankness. "I want you to bear with me for a few minutes,Sir Robert," she said in a tone of appeal. "I want you to rememberthat we were once friends, and, for the sake of old days, to believethat I am here to play a friend's part. You won't answer me? Verywell. I do not ask you to answer me." She pointed to the space abovethe mantel. "The portrait which used to hang there?" she said. "Whereis it? What have you done with it? But there, I said I would not ask,and I am asking!"
"And I will answer!" he replied. This was the last, the very lastthing for which he had looked; but he would show her that he was notto be overridden. "I will tell you," he repeated. "Lady Lansdowne, Ihave destroyed it."
"I do not blame you," she rejoined. "It was yours to do with as youwould. But the original--no, Sir Robert," she said, staying himintrepidly--she had taken the water now, and must swim--"you shall notfrighten me! She was, she is your wife. But not yours, not yourproperty to do with as you will, in the sense in which thatpicture--but there, I am blaming where I should entreat. I----"
He stayed her by a peremptory gesture. "Are you here--from her?" heasked huskily.
"I am not."
"She knows?"
"No, Sir Robert, she does not."
"Then why,"--there was pain, real pain mingled with the indignation inhis tone--"why, in God's name, Madam, have you come?"
She looked at him with pitying eyes. "Because," she said, "so manyyears have passed, and if I do not say a word now I shall never sayit. And because--there is still time, but no more than time."
He looked at her fixedly. "You have another reason," he said. "What isit?"
"I saw her yesterday. I was in Chippenham when the Bristol coachpassed, and I saw her face for an instant at the window."
He breathed more quickly; it was evident that the news touched himhome. But he would not blench nor lower his eyes. "Well?" he said.
"I saw her for a few seconds only, and she did not see me. And ofcourse--I did not speak to her. But I knew her face, though she waschanged."
"And because"--his voice was harsh--"you saw her for a few minutes ata window, you come to me?"
"No, but because her face called up the old times. And because we areall growing older. And because she was--not guilty."
He started. This was getting within his guard with a vengeance. "Notguilty?" he cried in a tone of extreme anger. And he rose. But as shedid not move he sat down again.
"No," she replied firmly. "She was not guilty."
His face was deeply red. For a moment he looked at her as if he wouldnot answer her, or, if he answered, would bid her leave his house.Then, "If she had been," he said grimly, "guilty, Madam, in the sensein which you use the word, guilty of the worst, she had ceased to bemy wife these fifteen years, she had ceased to bear my name, ceased tobe the curse of my life!"
"Oh, no, no!"
"It is yes, yes!" And his face was dark. "But as it was, she wasguilty enough! For years"--he spoke more rapidly as his passiongrew--"she made her name a byword and dragged mine in the dirt. Shemade me a laughing-stock and herself a scandal. She disobeyed me--butwhat was her whole life with me, Lady Lansdowne, but one longdisobedience? When she published that light, that foolish book, anddedicated it to--to that person--a book which no modest wife shouldhave written, was not her main motive to harass and degrade me? Me,her husband? While we were together was not her conduct from the firstone long defiance, one long harassment of me? Did a day pass in whichshe did not humiliate me by a hundred tricks, belittle me by a hundredslights, ape me before those whom she should not have stooped to know,invite in a thousand ways the applause of the fops she drew round her?And when"--he rose, and paced the room--"when, tried beyond patienceby what I heard, I sent to her at Florence and bade her return to me,and cease to make herself a scandal with that person, or my houseshould no longer be her home, she disobeyed me flagrantly, wilfully,and at a price she knew! She went out of her way to follow him toRome, she flaunted herself in his company, ay, and flaunted herself insuch guise as no Englishwoman had been known to wear before! And afterthat--after that----"
He stopped, proud as he was, mastered by his feelings; she had gotwithin his guard indeed. For a while he could not go on. And she,picturing the old days which his passionate words brought back, dayswhen her children had been infants, saw, as it had been yesterday, theyoung bride, beautiful as a rosebud and wild and skittish as an Irishcolt--and the husband staid, dignified, middle-aged, as little insympathy with his captive's random acts and flighty words as if he hadspoken another tongue.
Thus yoked, and resisting the lightest rein, the young wife had shownherself capable of an infinity of folly. Egged on by the plaudits of acircle of admirers, she had now made her husband ridiculous bychildish familiarities: and again, when he found fault with these, byairs of public offence, which covered him with derision. But beauty'ssins are soon forgiven; and fretting and fuming, and leading awretched life, he had yet borne with her, until something which shechose to call a passion took possession of her. "The Giaour" and "TheCorsair" were all the rage that year; and with the publicity withwhich she did everything she flung herself at the head of her soul'saffinity; a famous person, half poet, half dandy, who was staying atBowood.
The world which knew her decided that the affair was more worthy oflaughter than of censure, and laughed immoderately. But to thehusband--the humour of husbands is undeveloped--it was terrible. Shewrote verses to the gentleman, and he to her; and she published, withingenuous pride, the one and the other. Possibly this or the laughterdetermined the admirer. He fled, playing the innocent AEneas; and herlamentations, crystallising in the shape of a silly romance which madeshop-girls weep and great ladies laugh, caused a separation betweenthe husband and wife. Before this had lasted many months the illnessof their only child brought them together again; and when, a littlelater, the doctors advised a southern climate, Sir Robert reluctantlyentrusted the girl to her. She went abroad with the child, and theparents never met again.
Lady Lansdowne, recalling the story, could have laughed with her mindand wept with her heart; scenes so absurd under the leafy shades ofBowood or Lacock jostled the tragedy; and the ludicrous--with thehusband an unwilling actor in it--so completely relieved the pathetic!But her bent towards laughter was short. Sir Robert, unable to bearher eyes, had turned away; and she must say something.
"Think," she said gently, "how young she was!"
"I have thought of it a thousand times!" he retorted. "Do yousuppose," turning on her with harshness, "that there is a day on whichI do not think of it!"
"So young!"
"She had been three years a mother!"
"For the dead child's sake, then," she pleaded with him, "if not forhers."
"Lady Lansdowne!" There were both anger and pain in his voice as hehalted and stood before her. "Why do you come to me? Why do youtrouble me? Why? Is it because you feel yourself--responsible? Becauseyou know, because you feel, that but for you my home had not been leftto me desolate? Nor a foolish life been ruined?"
"God forbid!" she said solemnly. And in her turn she rose inagitation; moved for once out of the gracious ease and self-possessionof her life, so that in the contrast there was something unexpectedand touching. "God forbid!" she repeated. "But because I feel that Imight have done more. Because I feel that a word from me might havechecked her, and it was not spoken. True, I was young, and it mighthave made things worse--I do not know. But when I saw her face at thewindow yesterday--a
nd she was changed, Sir Robert--I felt that I mighthave been in her place, and she in mine!" Her voice trembled. "I mighthave been lonely, childless, growing old; and alone! Or again, if Ihad done something, if I had spoken as I would have another speak,were the case my girl's, she might have been as I am! Now," she addedtremulously, "you know why I came. Why I plead for her! In our worldwe grow hard, very hard; but there are things which touch us still,and her face touched me yesterday--I remembered what she was." Shepaused a moment, and then, "After long years," she continued softly,"it cannot be hard to forgive; and there is still time. She didnothing that need close your door, and what she did is forgotten.Grant that she was foolish, grant that she was wild, indiscreet, whatyou will--she is alone now, alone and growing old, Sir Robert, and ifnot for her sake, for the sake of your dead child----"
He stopped her by a peremptory gesture, but for the moment he seemedunable to speak. At length, "You touch the wrong chord," he saidhoarsely. "It is for the sake of my dead child I shall never, neverforgive her! She knew that I loved it. She knew that it was all to me.It grew worse! Did she tell me? It was in danger; did she warn me? No!But when I heard of her disobedience, of her folly, of things whichmade her a byword, and I bade her return, or my house should no longerbe her home, then, then she flung the news of the child's death at me,and rejoiced that she had it to fling. Had I gone out then and foundher in the midst of her wicked gaiety, God knows what I should havedone! I did try to go. But the Hundred Days had begun, I had toreturn. Had I gone, and learned that in her mad infatuation she hadneglected the child, left it to servants, let it fade, I think--Ithink, Madam, I should have killed her!"
Lady Lansdowne raised her hands. "Hush! Hush!" she said.
"I loved the child. Therefore she was glad when it died, glad that shehad the power to wound me. Its death was no more to her than a weaponwith which to punish me! There was a tone in her letter--I have itstill--which betrayed that. And, therefore--therefore, for the child'ssake, I will never forgive her!"
"I am sorry," she murmured in a voice which acknowledged defeat. "I amvery sorry."
He stood for a moment gazing at the blank space above the fireplace;his head sunk, his shoulders brought forward. He looked years olderthan the man who had walked under the elms. At length he made aneffort to speak in his usual tone. "Yes," he said, "it is a sorrybusiness."
"And I," she said slowly, "can do nothing."
"Nothing," he replied. "Time will cure this, and all things."
"You are sure that there is no mistake?" she pleaded. "That you arenot judging her harshly?"
"There is no mistake."
Then she saw the hopelessness of argument and held out her hand.
"Forgive me," she said simply. "I have given you pain, and fornothing. But the old days were so strong upon me--after I sawher--that I could not but come. Think of me at least as a friend, andforgive me."
He bowed low over her hand, but he gave her no assurance. And seeingthat he was mastering his agitation, and fearing that if he hadleisure to think he might resent her interference, she wasted no timein adieux. She glanced round the well-remembered hall--the hall oncesmart, now shabby--in which she had seen the flighty girl play many amad prank. Then she turned sorrowfully to the door, more thansuspecting that she would never pass through it again.
He had rung the bell, and Mapp, the butler, and the two men were inattendance. But he handed her to the carriage himself, and placed herin it with old-fashioned courtesy, and with the same scrupulousobservance stood bareheaded until it moved away. None the less, hisface by its set expression betrayed the nature of the interview; andthe carriage had scarcely swept clear of the grounds and entered thepark when Lady Louisa turned to her mother.
"Was he very angry?" she asked, eager to be instructed in themysteries of that life which she was entering.
Lady Lansdowne essayed to snub her. "My dear," she said, "it is not afit subject for you."
"Still, mother dear, you might tell me. You told me something, and itis not fair to turn yourself into Mrs. Fairchild in a moment. Besides,while you were with him I came on a passage so beautiful, and so pat,it almost made me cry."
"My dear, don't say 'pat,' say 'apposite.'"
"Then apposite, mother," Lady Louisa answered. "Do you read it. Thereit is."
Lady Lansdowne sniffed, but suffered the book to be put into her hand.Lady Louisa pointed with enthusiasm to a line. "Is it a case likethat, mother?" she asked eagerly.
_But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining. They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs which had been rent asunder. A dreary sea now flows between, But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been_.
The mother handed the book back to the daughter without looking ather. "No," she said; "I don't think it is a case like that."
But a moment later she wiped her eyes furtively, and then she told herdaughter more, it is to be feared, than Mrs. Fairchild would haveapproved.
* * * * *
Sir Robert, when they were gone, went heavily to the library, apanelled room looking to the back, in which it was his custom to sit.For many years he had passed some hours of every day, when he was athome, in that room; and until now it had never occurred to his mindthat it was dull or shabby. But it was old Mapp's habit to lower theblinds for his master's after-luncheon nap, and they were still down;and the half light which filtered in was like the sheet which ratheraccentuates than hides the sharp features of the dead. The fadedengravings and the calf-bound books which masked the walls, theescritoire, handsome and massive, but stained with ink and strewn withdog's eared accounts, the leathern-covered chair long worn out ofshape by his weight, the table beside it with yesterday's "Standard,"two or three volumes of the "Anti-Jacobin," and the "Quarterly," amonth old and dusty--all to his opened eyes wore a changed aspect.They spoke of the slow decay of years, unchecked by a woman's eye, awoman's hand. They told of the slow degradation of his lonely life.They indicated a like change in himself.
He stood a few moments on the hearth, looking about him with ashocked, pained face. The months and the years had passed irrevocably,while he sat in that chair, poring in a kind of lethargy over thosebooks, working industriously at those accounts. Asked, he had answeredthat he was growing old, and grown old. But he had never for a momentcomprehended, as he comprehended now, that he was old. He had nevermeasured the difference between this and that; between those daystroubled by a hundred annoyances, vexations, cares, when in spite ofall he had lived, and these days of sullen stagnancy and merevegetation.
He found the room, he found the reflection, intolerable. And he wentout, took with an unsteady hand his garden hat and returned to thatbroad walk under the elms beside the pool which was his favouritelounge. Perhaps he fancied that the wonted scene would deaden the painof memory and restore him to his wonted placidity. But his thoughtshad been too violently broken. His hands shook, hid lip trembled withthe tearless passion of later life. And when his agitation began todie down and something like calmness supervened, this did but enablehim to feel more keenly the pangs, not of remorse, but of regret; ofbitter, unavailing regret for all the things of which the woman whohad lain on his bosom had robbed his life.
Stapylton stood in a side valley projected among the low green hillswhich fringe the vale of the Wiltshire Avon. From where he stood allwithin sight, the gentle downs above the house, the arable land whichfringed them, the rich pastures below--all, mill and smithy and inn,snug farm and thatched cottage, called him lord. Nay, from the southend of the pool, where a wicket gave entrance to the park--whence alsoa side view of the treble front of the house could be obtained--thespire of Chippinge church was visible, rising from its ridge in theAvon alley; and to the base of that spire all was his, all had beenhis father's and his grandfather's. But not an acre,
not a rood, wouldbe his child's.
This was no new thought. It was a thought that had saddened him onmany and many a summer evening when the shadow of the elms lay faracross the sward, and the silence of the stately house, the palewater, the far-stretching farms whispered of the passing of thegenerations, of the passage of time, of the inevitable end. Where hewalked his father had walked; and soon he would go whither his fatherhad gone. And the heir would walk where he walked, listen to the sametwilight carollings, hear the first hoot of the distant owl.
_Cedes coemptis saltibus, el domo Villaque, flavus quam Tiberis lavit, Cedes, et exstructis in altum Divitiis potietur heres_.
But no heir of his blood. No son of his. No man of the Vermuyden name.And for that he had to thank her.
It was this which to-day gave the old thought new poignancy. For thathe had to thank her. Truly, in the words wrung from him by thebitterness of his feelings, she had left his house unto him desolate.If even the little girl had lived, the child would have succeeded; andthat had been something, that had been much. But the child was dead;and in his heart he laid her death at his wife's door. And a stranger,or one in essentials a stranger, the descendant by a second marriageof his grandmother, Katherine Beckford, was the heir.
Presently the young man would succeed and the old chattels would beswept away to cottage or lumber-room. The old horses would be shot,the old dogs would be hanged, the old servants discharged, perhaps thevery trees under which he walked and which he loved would be cut down.The house, the stables, the kennels, all but the cellars would berefurnished; and in the bustle and glitter of the new _regime_, begunin the sunshine, the twilight of his own latter days would beforgotten in a month.
_We die and are forgotten, 'tis Heaven's decree, And thus the lot of others will be the lot of me!_
Sunday by Sunday he had read those lines on the grave of a kinsman, aman whom he had known. He had often repeated them, he could as soonforget them as his prayers. To-day the old memories and the old times,which Lady Lansdowne had made to rise from the dead, gave them a newmeaning and a new bitterness.
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