“You have said more than once, I don’t say to-day, that you were sure — that you knew as well as I did there was nothing in that woman’s story.”
“Isn’t that some one coming?” said Harry, turning his head toward the door.
“No, no one,” said Charles after a moment’s silence. “But you did say so, Harry — you know you did.”
“Well, if I did I did, that’s all, but I don’t remember,” said Harry, “and I’m sure you make a mistake.”
“A mistake — what do you mean?” asked Charles.
“I mean marriage or no marriage, I never meant to say as you suppose — I know nothing about it, whatever I may think,” said Harry, sturdily.
“You know everything that I know, I’ve told you everything,” answered Charles Fairfield.
“And what o’ that? How can you or me tell whether it makes a marriage or not, and I won’t be quoted by you or anyone else, as having made such a mouth of myself as to lay down the law in a case that might puzzle a judge,” said Harry, darkening.
“You believe the facts I’ve told you, I fancy,” said Charles sternly.
“You meant truth, I’m sure o’ that, and beyond that I believe nothing but what I have said myself, and more I won’t say for the king,” said Harry, putting his hands in his pockets, and looking sulkily at Charles, with his mouth a little open.
Charles looked awfully angry.
“You know very well, Harry, you have fifty times told me there was nothing in it, and you have even said that the person herself thinks so too,” he said at last, restraining himself.
“That I never said, by —— ,” said Harry, coolly, who was now standing with his back against the window-shutters, and his hands in his pockets. As he so spoke he crossed one sinewy leg over the other, and continued to direct from the corner of his eye a sullen gaze upon his brother.
With the same oath that brother told him he lied.
Here followed a pause, as when a train is fired and men are doubtful whether the mine will spring. The leaves rustled and the flies hummed happily outside as if those seconds were charged with nothing, and the big feeble bee, who had spent the morning in walking up a pane of glass and slipping down again, continued his stumbling exercise as if there was nothing else worth attending to for a mile round Carwell Grange.
Harry had set both heels on the ground at this talismanic word; one hand clenched had come from his pocket to his thigh, and from his eyes “leaped” the old Fairfield fury.
It was merely, as Harry would have said, the turn of a shilling, whether a Fairfield battle, short, sharp, and decisive, had not tried the issue at that instant.
“I don’t vally a hot word spoke in haste; it’s ill raising hands between brothers — let it pass. I’m about the last friend ye’ve left just now, and I don’t see why ye should seek to put a quarrel on me. It’s little to me, you know — no thanks, loss o’ time, and like to be more kicks than ha’pence.”
Harry spoke these words after a considerable pause.
“I was wrong, Harry, I mean, to use such a word, and I beg your pardon,” said Charles, extending his hand to his brother, who took his fingers and dropped them with a rather short and cold shake.
“Ye shouldn’t talk that way to a fellow that’s taken some trouble about ye, and ye know I’m short tempered — we all are, and ’tisn’t the way to handle me,” said Harry.
“I was wrong, I know I was, and I’m sorry — I can’t say more,” answered Charles. “But there it is! If there’s trouble about this little child that’s coming, what am I to do? Wouldn’t it be better for me to be in Wyvern churchyard?”
Harry lowered his eyes with his mouth still open, to the threadbare carpet. His hands were again both reposing quietly in his pockets.
After a silence he said —
“If you had told me anything about what was in your head concerning Alice Maybell, I’d a told you my mind quite straight; and if you ask it now, I can only tell you one thing, and that is, I think you’re married to t’other woman — I hate her like poison, but that’s nothing to do wi’ it, and I’d a been for making a clear breast of it, and telling Ally everything, and let her judge for herself. But you wouldn’t look before you, and you’re got into a nice pound, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not a bit afraid about it,” said Charles, very pale. “Only for the world, I would not have her frightened and vexed just now — and, Harry, there’s nothing like speaking out, as you say, and I can’t help thinking that your opinion [and at another time, perhaps, he would have added, your memory] is biased by the estate.”
Charles spoke bitterly or petulantly, which you will. But Harry seemed to have made up his mind to take this matter coolly, and so he did.
“Upon my soul I wouldn’t wonder,” he said, with a kind of laugh. “Though if it does I give you my oath I am not aware of it. But take it so if you like; it’s only saying a fellow loves his shirt very well, but his skin better, and I suppose so we do, you and me, both of us; only this I’ll say, ‘twill be all straight and above board ‘twixt you and me, and I’ll do the best I can for ye — you don’t doubt that?”
“No, Harry, you’ll not deceive me.”
“No, of course; and as I say, I think that brute — the Hoxton one — she’s took a notion in her head — — “
“To give me trouble?”
“A notion,” continued Harry, “that there’s another woman in the case; and, if you ask me, I think she’ll not rest quiet for long. She says she’s your wife; and one way or another she’ll pitch into any girl that says the same for herself. She’s like a mad horse, you know, when she’s riled; and she’d kick through a wall and knock herself to pieces to get at you. I wish she was sunk in the sea.”
“Tell me, what do you think she is going to do?” asked Charles, uneasily.
“Upon my soul, I can’t guess; but ‘twouldn’t hurt you, I think, if you kept fifty pounds or so in your pocket to give her the slip, if she should begin manoeuvring with any sort o’ dodges that looked serious; and if I hear any more I’ll let you know; and I’ve staid here longer than I meant; and I ha’n’t seen Ally; but you’ll make my compliments, and tell her I was too hurried; and my nag’s had his feed by this time; and I’ve staid too long.”
“Well, Harry, thank you very much. It’s a mere form asking you to remain longer; there’s nothing to offer you worth staying for; and this is such a place, and I so heartbroken — and — we part good friends — don’t we?”
“The best,” said Harry, carelessly. “Have you a cigar or two? Thanks; you may as well make it three — thank ye — jolly good ‘uns. I’ve a smart ride before me; but I think I’ll make something of it, rayther. My hands are pretty full always. I’d give ye more time if they wasn’t; but keep your powder dry, and a sharp look out, and so will I, and gi’ my love to Ally, and tell her to keep up her heart, and all will go right, I dare say.”
By this time they had threaded the passage, and were in the stableyard again; and mounting his horse, Harry turned, and with a wag of his head and a farewell grin, rode slowly over the pavement, and disappeared through the gate.
Charles was glad that he had gone without seeing Alice. She would certainly have perceived that something was wrong. He thought for a moment of going to the garden to look for her, but the same consideration prevented his doing so, and he took his fishing-rod instead, and went off the other way, to look for a trout in the brook that flows through Carwell Glen.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE TROUT.
Down the glen, all the way to the ruined windmill, sauntered Charles Fairfield, before he put his rod together and adjusted his casting line. Very nervous he was, almost miserable. But he was not a man instinctively to strike out a course on an emergency, or to reduce his resolves promptly to action; neither was he able yet to think very clearly on his situation. Somehow his brother Harry was constantly before him in a new and dismal light. Had there not peeped out to-day, instead of the boo
t of that horsey, jolly fellow, the tip of a cloven hoof that cannot be mistaken? Oh, Harry, brother! Was he meditating treason and going to take arms in the cause of the murderer of his peace? He was so cunning and so energetic, that Charles stood in awe of him, and thought if his sword were pointed at his breast, that he might as well surrender and think no more of safety. Harry had been too much in his confidence, and had been too often in conference with that evil person whom he called “the old soger,” to be otherwise than formidable as an enemy. An enemy he trusted he never would see him. An unscrupulous one in his position could work fearful mischief to him by a little colouring and perversion of things that had occurred. He would not assume such a transformation possible.
But always stood before him Harry in his altered mien and estranged looks, as he had seen him, sullen and threatening, that day.
What would he not have given to be sure that the wicked person whom he now dreaded more than he feared all other powers, had formed no actual design against him? If she had, what was the agency that had kindled her evil passions and excited her activity? He could not fancy Harry such a monster.
What were her plans? Did she mean legal proceedings? He would have given a good deal for light, no matter what it may disclose, anything but suspense, and the phantasmal horrors with which imagination peoples darkness.
Never did harassed brain so need the febrifuge, of the angler’s solace, and quickly his cares and agitations subsided in that serene absorption.
One thing only occurred for a moment to divert his attention from his tranquillising occupation. Standing on a flat stone near midway in the stream, he was throwing his flies over a nook where he had seen a trout rise, when he heard the ring of carriage wheels on the road that passes round the base of the old windmill, and pierces the dense wood that darkened the glen of Carwell.
Raising his eyes he did see a carriage following that unfrequented track. A thin screen of scattered trees prevented his seeing this carriage very distinctly. But the road is so little a thoroughfare that except an occasional cart, few wheeled vehicles ever traversed it. A little anxiously he watched this carriage till it disappeared totally in the wood. He felt uncomfortably that its destination was Carwell Grange, and at that point conjecture failed him.
This little incident was, I think, the only one that for a moment disturbed the serene abstraction of his trout-fishing.
And now the sun beginning to approach the distant hills warned him that it was time to return. So listlessly he walked homeward, and as he ascended the narrow and melancholy track that threads the glen of Carwell, his evil companions, the fears and cares that tortured him, returned.
Near Carwell Grange the road makes a short but steep ascent, and a slight opening in the trees displays on the eminence a little platform on the verge of the declivity, from which a romantic view down the glen and over a portion of the lower side unfolds itself.
Here for a time he paused, looking westward on the sky already glowing in the saddened splendours of sunset. From this miserable rumination he carried away one resolution, hard and clear. It was painful to come to it — but the torture of concealment was more dreadful. He had made up his mind to tell Alice exactly how the facts were. One ingredient, and he fancied just then, the worst in his cup of madness, was the torture of secrecy, and the vigilance and the uncertainties of concealment. Poor little Alice, he felt, ought to know. It was her right. And the attempt longer to conceal it would make her much more miserable, for he could not disguise his sufferings, and she would observe them, and be abandoned to the solitary anguish of suspense.
As he entered the Grange he was reminded of the carriage which he had observed turning up the narrow Carwell road, by actually seeing it standing at the summit of the short and steep ascent to the Grange.
Coming suddenly upon this object, with its natty well-appointed air, contrasting with the old-world neglect and homeliness of all that surrounded, he stopped short with an odd Robinson Crusoe shyness and surveyed the intruding vehicle.
This survey told him nothing. He turned sharply into the back entrance of the Grange, disturbed, and a good deal vexed.
It could not be an invasion of the enemy. Carriage, harness, and servants were much too smart for that. But if the neighbours had found them out, and that this was the beginning of a series of visits, could anything in a small way be more annoying, and even dangerous? Here was a very necessary privacy violated, with what ulterior consequences who could calculate.
This was certainly Alice’s doing. Women are such headstrong, silly creatures!
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE VISITOR.
The carriage which Charles Fairfield had seen rounding the picturesque ruin of Gryce’s Mill, was that of Lady Wyndale. Mrs. Tarnley opened the door to her summons, and acting on her general instructions said “not at home.”
But good Lady Wyndale was not so to be put off. She had old Mildred to the side of the carriage.
“I know my niece will be glad to see me,” she said. “I’m Lady Wyndale, and you are to take this card in, and tell my niece, Mrs. Fairfield, I have come to see her.”
Mrs. Tarnley looked with a dubious scrutiny at Lady Wyndale, for she had no idea that Alice could have an aunt with a title and a carriage. On the whole, however, she thought it best to take the card in, and almost immediately it was answered by Alice, who ran out to meet her aunt and throw her arms about her neck, and led her into Carwell Grange.
“Oh! darling, darling! I’m so delighted to see you! It was so good of you to come. But how did you find me out?” said Alice, kissing her again and again.
“There’s no use, you see, in being secret with me. I made out where you were, though you meant to keep me quite in the dark, and I really don’t think I ought to have come near you, and I am very much affronted,” said kind old Lady Wyndale, a little high.
“But auntie, darling, didn’t you get my letter, telling you that we were married?” pleaded Alice.
“Yes, and that you had left Wyvern; but you took good care not to tell me where you were going, and in fact if it had not been for the good housekeeper at Wyvern, to whom I wrote, I suppose I should have lived and died within fifteen miles of you, thinking all the time that you had gone to France.”
“We were thinking of that, I told you,” pleaded Alice, eagerly.
“Well, here you have been for three months, and I’ve been living within a two hours’ drive of you, and dreading all the time that you were four hundred miles away. I have never once seen your face. I don’t think that was goodnatured.”
“Oh, dear aunt, forgive me,” entreated Alice. “You will when you know all. If you knew how miserable I have often been, thinking how ungrateful and odious I must have appeared, how meanly reserved and basely suspicious, all the time longing for nothing on earth so much as a sight of your beloved face, and a good talk over everything with you, my best and truest friend.”
“There, kiss me, child; I’m not angry, only sorry, darling, that I should have lost so much of your society, which I might have enjoyed often very much,” said the placable old lady.
“But, darling aunt, I must tell you how it was — you must hear me. You know how I idolize you, and you can’t know, but you may imagine, what, in this solitary place, and with cares and fears so often troubling me, your kind and delightful society would have been to me; but my husband made it a point, that just for the present I should divulge our retreat to no one on earth. I pleaded for you, and in fact there is not another person living to whom I should have dreamed of disclosing it; but the idea made him so miserable and he urged it with so much entreaty and earnestness that I could not without a quarrel have told you, and he promised that my silence should be enforced only for a very short time.”
“Dear me! I’m so sorry,” said Lady Wyndale, very much concerned. “It must be that the poor man is very much dipped and is literally hiding himself here. You poor little thing! Is he in debt?”
“I am afraid he is.
I can’t tell you how miserable it sometimes makes me; not that he allows me ever to feel it, except in these precautions, for we are, though in a very homely way, perfectly comfortable — you would not believe how comfortable — but we really are,” said poor, loyal little Alice, making the best of their frugal and self-denying life.
“Your room is very snug. I like an oldfashioned room,” said the goodnatured old lady, looking round; “and you make it so pretty with your flowers. Is there any ornament like them? And you have such an exquisite way of arranging them. It is an art; no one can do it like you. You know I always got you to undertake ours at Oulton, and you remember Tremaine standing beside you, trying, as he said, to learn the art, though I fancy he was studying something prettier.”
Alice laughed; Lord Tremaine was a distant figure now, and this little triumph a dream of the past. But is not the spirit of woman conquest? Is not homage the air in which she lives and blooms? So Alice’s dark, soft eyes dropped for a moment sidelong with something like the faintest blush, and a little dimpling smile.
“But all that’s over, you know,” said Lady Wyndale; “you would insist on putting a very effectual extinguisher upon it, so there’s an end of my matchmaking, and I hope you may be very happy your own way, and I’m sure you will, and you know any little money trouble can’t last long; for old Mr. Fairfield you know can’t possibly live very long, and then I’m told Wyvern must be his; and the Fairfields were always thought to have some four or five thousand a year, and although the estate, they say, owes something, yet a prudent little woman like you, will get all that to rights in time.”
“You are always so kind and cheery, you darling,” said Alice, looking fondly and smiling in her face, as she placed a hand on each shoulder. “It is delightful seeing you at last. But you are tired, ain’t you? You must take something.”
“Thanks, dear. I’ll have a little tea — nothing else. I lunched before we set out.”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 492