Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “He is a wretch, and I should like to shoot him,” said Rorie vindictively. “Dear little Vixen — yes, I must call you by the old pet name — to think that you should be miserable, you whom I remember so bright and happy, you who were born for happiness! But you are not always wretched, dear,” he said, leaning over to speak to her in closer, more confidential tones, as if the sleepy birds and the whispering forest leaves could hear and betray him. “You were happy — we were happy — this morning.”

  He had laid his hand on hers. That useful Blue Peter needed no guidance. They were just leaving the road, and entering a long glade that led through a newly-opened fir plantation, a straight ride of a mile and a half or so. The young moon was gleaming cool and clear above the feathering points of the firs.

  “Yes,” she answered recklessly, involuntarily, with a stifled sob, “I am always happy with you. You are all that remains to me of my old life.”

  “My dearest, my loveliest, then be happy for ever!” he cried, winding his arm round her slim waist, and leaning over her till his head almost rested on her shoulder. Their horses were close together, walking at a foot-pace, Blue Peter in nowise disconcerted by this extraordinary behaviour of his rider.

  “My love, if you can be happy at so small a price, be happy always!” said Rorie, his lips close to the girl’s pale cheek, his arm feeling every beat of the passionate heart. “I will break the toils that bind me. I will be yours, and yours only. I have never truly loved anyone but you, and I have loved you all my life — I never knew how dearly till of late. No, dearest love, never did I know how utterly I loved you till these last summer days which we have lived together, alone and supremely happy, in the forest that is our native land. My Violet, I will break with Mabel to-morrow. She and I were never made for one other. You and I were. Yes, love, yes: we have grown up together side by side, like the primroses and violets in the woods. It is my second nature to love you. Why should we be parted? Why should I go on acting a dismal farce, pretending love to Mabel, pretending a friendship to you — alike false to both? There is no reason, Violet, none — except — —”

  “Except your promise to your dying mother,” said Violet, escaping from his arm, and looking at him steadily, bravely, through the dim light. “You shall not break that for my sake — you ought not, were I ten times a better woman than I am. No, Rorie, you are to do your duty, and keep your word. You are to marry Lady Mabel, and be happy ever after, like the prince in a fairy tale. Depend upon it, happiness always comes in the long run to the man who does his duty.”

  “I don’t believe it,” cried Roderick passionately; “I have seen men who have done right ail through life — men who have sacrificed feeling to honour, and been miserable. Why should I imitate them? I love you. I loved you always; but my mother worried and teased me, vaunting Mabel’s perfections, trying to lessen you in my esteem. And then, when she was dying, and it seemed a hard thing to oppose her wishes, or to refuse her anything, were it even the happiness of my life, I was weak, and let myself be persuaded, and sold myself into bondage. But it is not too late, Violet. I will write Mabel an honest letter to-morrow, and tell her the truth for the first time in my life.”

  “You will do nothing of the kind!” cried Violet resolutely. “What, do you think I have no pride — no sense of honour? Do you think I would let it be said of me, that I, knowing you to be engaged to your cousin, set myself to lure you away from her; that we rode together, and were seen together, happy in each other’s company, and as careless of slander as if we had been brother and sister; and that the end of all was that you broke your faith to your promised wife in order to marry me? No, Rorie, that shall never be said. If I could stoop so low I should be worthy of the worst word my mother’s husband could say of me.”

  “What does it matter what people say — your mother’s husband above all? Malice can always find something evil to say of us, let us shape our lives how we may. What really matters is that we should be happy: and I can be happy with no one but you, Violet. I know that now. I will never marry Mabel Ashbourne.”

  “And you will never marry me,” answered Vixen, giving Arion a light touch of her whip which sent him flying along the shadowy ride.

  Blue Peter followed as swiftly. Rorie was by Violet’s side again in a minute, with his hand grasping hers.

  “You mean that you don’t love me?” he exclaimed angrily. “Why could you not have said so at the first; why have you let me live in a fool’s paradise?”

  “The paradise was of your own making,” she answered. “I love you a little for the past, because my father loved you — because you are all that remains to me of my happy childhood. Yes, if it were not for you, I might look back and think those dear old days were only a dream. But I hear your voice, I look at you, and know that you are real, and that I once was very happy. Yes, Rorie, I do love you — love you — yes, with all my heart, dearer, better than I have ever loved anyone upon this earth, since my father was laid in the ground. Yes, dear.” Their horses were walking slowly now; and her hand was locked in his as they rode side by side. “Yes, dear, I love you too well, and you and I must part. I had schooled myself to believe that I loved you only as I might have loved a brother; that you could be Lady Mabel’s husband and my true friend. But that was a delusion — that can never be. You and I must part, Rorie. This night-ride in the Forest must be our last. Never any more, by sun or moon, must you and I ride together. It is all over, Rorie, the old childish friendship. I mean to do my duty, and you must do yours.”

  “I will never marry a woman I do not love.”

  “You will keep your promise to your mother; you will act as a man of honour should. Think, Rorie, what a shameful thing it would be to do, to break off an engagement which has been so long publicly known, to wound and grieve your good aunt and uncle.”

  “They have been very kind to me,” sighed Rorie. “It would hurt me to give them pain.”

  His conscience told him she was right, but he was angry with her for being so much wiser than himself.

  Then, in a moment, love — that had slumbered long, idly happy in the company of the beloved, and had suddenly awakened to know that this summer-day idlesse meant a passion stronger than death — love got the better of conscience, and he cried vehemently:

  “What need I care for the Duke and Duchess! They can have their choice of husbands for their daughter; an heiress like Mabel has only to smile, and a man is at her feet. Why should I sacrifice myself, love, truth, all that makes life worth having? Do you think I would do it for the sake of Ashbourne, and the honour of being a duke’s son-in-law?”

  “No, Rorie, but for the sake of your promise. And now look, there is Lyndhurst steeple above the woods. I am near home, and we must say good-night.”

  “Not till you are at your own gate.”

  “No one must see you. I want to ride in quietly by the stables. Don’t think I am ashamed of my errand to-night. I am not; but I want to save my mother trouble, and if Captain Winstanley and I were to discuss the matter there would be a disturbance.”

  Roderick Vawdrey seized Arion by the bridle.

  “I shall not let you go so easily,” he said resolutely. “Vixen, I have loved you ever since I can remember you. Will you be my wife?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you say that you loved me?”

  “Because I cannot tell a lie. Yes, I love you, Rorie; but I love your honour, and my own, better than the chance of a happiness that might fade and wither before we could grasp it. I know that your mother had a very poor opinion of me while she was alive; I should like her to know, if the dead know anything, that she was mistaken, and that I am not quite unworthy of her respect. You will marry Lady Mabel Ashbourne, Rorie: and ten years hence, when we are sober middle-aged people, we shall be firm friends once again, and you will thank and praise me for having counselled you to cleave to the right. Let go the bridle, Rorie, there’s no time to lose. There’s a glorious gallop from Queen’s Bower t
o the Christchurch Road.”

  It was a long grassy ride, safe only for those who knew the country well, for it was bordered on each side by treacherous bogs. Violet knew every inch of the way. Arion scented his stable afar off, and went like the wind; Blue Peter stretched his muscular limbs in pursuit. It was a wild ride along the grassy track, beside watery marshes and reedy pools that gleamed in the dim light of a new moon. The distant woods showed black against the sky. There was no light to mark a human habitation within ken. There was nothing but night and loneliness and the solemn beauty of an unpeopled waste. A forest pony stood here and there — pastern-deep in the sedges — and gazed at those two wild riders, grave and gay, like a ghost. A silvery snake glided across the track; a water-rat plunged, with a heavy splash, into a black pool as the horses galloped by. It was a glorious ride. Miserable as both riders were, they could not but enjoy that wild rush through the sweet soft air, under the silent stars.

  Vixen gave a long sigh presently, when they pulled up their horses on the hard road.

  “I think I am ‘fey’ now,” she said. “I wonder what is going to happen to me?”

  “Whatever misfortunes come to you henceforth will be your own fault,” protested Rorie savagely. “You won’t be happy, or make me so.”

  “Don’t be angry with me, Rorie,” she answered quite meekly. “I would rather be miserable in my own way than happy in yours.”

  Arion, having galloped for his own pleasure, would now have liked to crawl. He was beginning to feel the effects of unusual toil, and hung his head despondently; but Vixen urged him into a sharp trot, feeling that matters were growing desperate.

  Ten minutes later they were at the lodge leading to the stables. The gate was locked, the cottage wrapped in darkness.

  “I must go in by the carriage-drive,” said Vixen. “It’s rather a bore, as I am pretty sure to meet Captain Winstanley. But it can’t be helped.”

  “Let me go in with you.”

  “No, Rorie; that would do no good. If he insulted me before you, his insolence would pain me.”

  “And I believe I should pain him,” said Rorie. “I should give him the sweetest horsewhipping he ever had in his life.”

  “That is to say you would bring disgrace upon me, and make my mother miserable. That’s a man’s idea of kindness. No, Rorie, we part here. Good-night, and — good-bye.”

  “Fiddlesticks!” cried Rorie. “I shall wait for you all to-morrow morning at the kennels.”

  Vixen had ridden past the open gate. The lodge-keeper stood at his door waiting for her. Roderick respected her wishes and stayed outside.

  “Good-night,” she cried again, looking back at him; “Bates shall come to you to-morrow morning.”

  The hall-door was wide open, and Captain Winstanley stood on the threshold, waiting for his stepdaughter. One of the underlings from the stable was ready to take her horse. She dismounted unaided, flung the reins to the groom, and walked up to the Captain with her firmest step. When she was in the hall he shut the door, and bolted and locked it with a somewhat ostentatious care. She seemed to breathe less freely when that great door had shut out the cool night. She felt as if she were in a jail.

  “I should like half-a-dozen words with you in the drawing-room before you go upstairs,” Captain Winstanley said stiffly.

  “A hundred, if you choose,” answered Vixen, with supreme coolness.

  She was utterly fearless. What risks or hazards had life that she need dread? She hoped nothing — feared nothing. She had just made the greatest sacrifice that fate could require of her: she had rejected the man she fondly loved. What were the slings and arrows of her stepfather’s petty malice compared with such a wrench as that?

  She followed Captain Winstanley to the drawing-room. Here there was more air; one long window was open, and the lace curtains were faintly stirred by the night winds. A large moderator lamp burned upon Mrs. Winstanley’s favourite table — her books and basket of crewels were there, but the lady of the house had retired.

  “My mother has gone to bed, I suppose?” inquired Vixen.

  “She has gone to her room, but I fear she is too much agitated to get any rest. I would not allow her to wait here any longer for you.”

  “Is it so very late?” asked Vixen, with the most innocent air.

  Her heart was beating violently, and her temper was not at its best. She stood looking at the Captain, with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes, and her whip tightly clenched.

  She was thinking of that speech of Rorie’s about the “sweetest horsewhipping.” She wondered whether Captain Winstanley had ever been horsewhipped; whether that kind of chastisement was numbered in the sum of his experiences. She opined not. The Captain was too astute a man to bring himself in the way of such punishment. He would do things that deserved horsewhipping, and get off scot free.

  “It is a quarter-past eleven. I don’t know whether you think that a respectable hour for a young lady’s evening ride. May I ask the motive of this nocturnal expedition?”

  “Certainly. You deprived Bates of a comfortable place — he has only been in the situation forty years — and I went to get him another. I am happy to say that I succeeded.”

  “And pray who is the chivalrous employer willing to receive my dismissed servant without a character?”

  “A very old friend of my father’s — Mr. Vawdrey.”

  “I thought as much,” retorted the Captain. “And it is to Mr. Vawdrey you have been, late at night, unattended?”

  “It is your fault that I went unattended. You have taken upon yourself to dismiss my groom — the man who broke my first pony, the man my father gave me for an attendant and protector, just as he gave me my horse. You will take upon yourself to sell my horse next, I suppose?”

  “I shall take a great deal more upon myself, before you and I have done with each other, Miss Tempest,” answered the Captain, pale with passion.

  Never had Vixen seen him so strongly moved. The purple veins stood out darkly upon his pale forehead, his eyes had a haggard look; he was like a man consumed inwardly by some evil passion that was stronger than himself, like a man possessed by devils. Vixen looked at him with wonder. They stood facing each other, with the lamplit table between them, the light shining on both their faces.

  “Why do you look at me with that provoking smile?” he asked. “Do you want to exasperate me? You must know that I hate you.”

  “I do,” answered Vixen; “but God only knows why you should do so.”

  “Do you know no reason?”

  “No.”

  “Can’t you guess one?”

  “No; unless it is because my father’s fortune will belong to me by-and-by, if I live to be five-and-twenty, and your position here will be lessened.”

  “That is not the reason; no, I am not so base as that. That its not why I hate you, Violet. If you had been some dumpy, homely, country lass, with thick features and a clumsy figure, you and I might have got on decently enough. I would have made you obey me; but I would have been kind to you. But you are something very different. You are the girl I would have perilled my soul to win — the girl who rejected me with careless scorn. Have you forgotten that night in the Pavilion Garden at Brighton? I have not. I never look up at the stars without remembering it; and I can never forgive you while that memory lives in my mind. If you had been my wife, Violet, I would have been your slave. You forced me to make myself your stepfather; and I will be master instead of slave. I will make your life bitter to you if you thwart me. I will put a stop to your running after another woman’s sweetheart. I will come between you and your lover, Roderick Vawdrey. Your secret meetings, your clandestine love-making, shall be stopped. Such conduct as you have been carrying on of late is a shame and disgrace to your sex.”

  “How dare you say that?” cried Vixen, beside herself with anger.

  She grasped the lamp with both her hands, as if she would have hurled it at her foe. It was a large moon-shaped globe upon a bronze pede
stal — a fearful thing to fling at one’s adversary. A great wave of blood surged up into the girl’s brain. What she was going to do she knew not; but her whole being was convulsed by the passion of that moment. The room reeled before her eyes, the heavy pedestal swayed in her hands, and then she saw the big moonlike globe roll on to the carpet, and after it, and darting beyond it, a stream of liquid fire that ran, and ran, quicker than thought, towards the open window.

  Before she could speak or move, the flame had run up the lace curtain, like a living thing, swift as the flight of a bird or the gliding motion of a lizard. The wide casement was wreathed with light. They two — Vixen and her foe — seemed to be standing in an atmosphere of fire.

  Captain Winstanley was confounded by the suddenness of the catastrophe. While he stood dumb, bewildered, Vixen sprang through the narrow space between the flaming curtains, as if she had plunged into a gulf of fire. He heard her strong clear voice calling to the stablemen and gardeners. It rang like a clarion in the still summer night.

  There was not a moment lost. The stablemen rushed with pails of water, and directly after them the Scotch gardener with his garden-engine, which held several gallons. His hose did some damage to the drawing-room carpet and upholstery, but the strong jet of water speedily quenched the flames. In ten minutes the window stood blank, and black, and bare, with Vixen standing on the lawn outside, contemplating the damage she had done.

  Mrs. Winstanley rushed in at the drawing-room door, ghostlike, in her white peignoir, pale and scared.

  “Oh, Conrad, what has happened?” she cried distractedly, just able to distinguish her husband’s figure standing in the midst of the disordered room.

  “Your beautiful daughter has been trying to set the house on fire,” he answered. “That is all.”

  CHAPTER XVI.

  “That must end at once.”

  A quarter of an hour later, when all the confusion was over, Violet was kneeling by her mother’s chair, trying to restore tranquillity to Mrs. Winstanley’s fluttered spirits. Mother and daughter were alone together in the elder lady’s dressing-room, the disconsolate Pamela sitting, like Niobe, amidst her scattered fineries, her pomade-pots and powder-boxes, fan-cases and jewel-caskets, and all the arsenal of waning beauty.