Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  Not a word was spoken on either side as they rode out at the gate and through the village of St. Nicholas, beautiful in the moonlight. Such low crumbling walls and deeply sloping roofs of cottages squatting in a tangle of garden and orchard; such curious outlines of old brick gables in the better class houses of miller, butcher, and general dealer; orchards and gardens and farm buildings, with every variety of thatch and eaves, huddled together in picturesque confusion; large spaces everywhere — pond, and village green, and common, and copse beyond; a peaceful, prosperous settlement, which had passed unharmed through the ordeal of the civil war, safe in its rural seclusion. Not a word was spoken even when the village was left behind, and they were riding on a lonely road, in so brilliant a moonlight that Angela could see every line in her companion’s brooding face.

  Why was he so gloomy and so unkind, in an hour when his sympathy should naturally have been given to her? Was he consumed with sorrow for his wife’s indisposition, and did anxiety make him silent; or was he angry with himself for not being as deeply distressed as a husband ought to be at a wife’s peril? She knew too well how he and Hyacinth had been growing further apart day by day, till the only link between husband and wife seemed to be a decent courtesy and subservience to the world’s opinion.

  She recalled that other occasion when they two had made a solitary journey together, and in as gloomy a silence — that night of the great fire, when he had flung off his doublet and taken the sculls out of her hands, and rowed steadily and fast, with his eyes downcast, leaving her to steer the boat as she would, or trusting to the lateness of the hour for a clear course. He had seemed to hate her that night just as he seemed to hate her now, as they rode mile after mile side by side, the groom following near, now at a fast trot, now galloping along a stretch of waste grass that bordered the highway, now breathing their horses in a walk.

  In one of those intervals he asked her if she were tired.

  “No, no. I have no power to feel anything but anxiety. If you would only be kinder and tell me more about my sister! I fear you consider her in danger.”

  “Yes, she is in danger. There is no doubt of that.”

  “O God! she looked so ill when I saw her last, and she talked so wildly. I feared she was in a bad way. How soon shall we be at Chilton, my lord?”

  “My lord! Why do you ‘my lord’ me?”

  “I can find no other name. We seem to be strangers to-night; but, indeed, names and ceremonies matter nothing when the mind is in trouble. How soon shall we reach the Abbey, Fareham?”

  “In an hour, at latest, Angela.”

  His voice trembled as he spoke her name, and all of force and passion that could be breathed into a single word was in his utterance. She flushed at the sound, and looked at him with a sudden fear; but his countenance might have been wrought-iron, so cold and passionless and cruelly resolute looked that rough-hewn face in the moonlight.

  “I have a fresh horse waiting for you at Thame,” he said. “I will not have you wearied by riding a tired horse. We are within five minutes of the inn. Will you rest there for half an hour, and take some refreshment?”

  “Rest, when my sister may be dying! Not a moment more than is needed to change horses.”

  “I have brought Queen Bess, another of your favourites. ’Twas she who taught you to ride. She will know your voice, and your light hand upon her bridle.”

  They found the Inn wrapped in slumber, like every house or cottage they had passed; but a lantern shone within an open door in the quadrangle round which house and stables were built. One of the Fareham grooms was there, with an ostler to wait upon him, and three horses were brought out of their stable, ready saddled, as the travellers rode under the archway into the yard.

  The mare was excited at finding herself on the road in the clear cool night, with the moonlight in her eyes, and was gayer than Fareham liked to see her under so precious a load; but Angela was no longer the novice by whose side he had ridden nearly two years before. She handled Queen Bess firmly, and soon settled her into a sharp trot, and kept her at it for nearly three miles. The hour Fareham had spoken of was not exceeded by many minutes when Chilton Abbey came in sight, the grey stone walls pale in the moonlight. All things — the long park wall, the pillared gates, the open spaces of the park, the depth of shadow where the old oaks and beeches spread wide and dark, had a look of unreality which contrasted curiously with the scene as she had last beheld it in all its daylight verdure and homeliness.

  She dropped lightly from her horse, so soon as they drew rein at an angle of the long irregular house, where there was a door, half hidden under ivy, by which Lord Fareham went in and out much oftener than by the principal entrance. It opened into a passage that led straight to the library, where there was a lamp burning to-night. Angela saw the light in the window as they rode past.

  He opened the door, which had been left on the latch, and nodded a dismissal to the groom, who went off to the stables, leading their horses. All was dark in the passage — dark and strangely silent; but this wing was remote from the chief apartments and from the servants’ offices.

  “Will you take me to my sister at once?” Angela asked, stopping on the threshold of the library, when Fareham had opened the door.

  A lamp upon the tall mantelpiece feebly lighted the long low room, gloomy with the darkness of old oak wainscot and a heavily timbered ceiling. There were two flasks of wine upon a silver salver, and provisions for a supper, and a fire was burning on the hearth.

  “You had better warm yourself after your night ride, and eat and drink something before you see her.”

  “No, no. What, after riding as fast as our horses could carry us! I must go to her this moment. Can you find me a candle?” — looking about her hurriedly as she spoke. “But, indeed, it is no matter; I know my way to her room in the dark, and there will be light enough from the great window.”

  “Stop!” he cried, seizing her arm as she was leaving the room; “stop!” dragging her back and shutting the door violently. “Your sister is not there.”

  “Great God! what do you mean? You told me your wife was here — ill — dying perhaps.”

  “I told you a lie, sweetheart; but desperate men will do desperate things.”

  “Where is my sister? Is she dead?”

  “Not unless the Nemesis that waits on woman’s folly has been swifter of foot than common. I have no wife, Angela; and you have no sister that you will ever care to own. My Lady Fareham has crossed the narrow sea with her lover, Henri de Malfort — her paramour always — though I once thought him yours, and tried to kill him for your sake.”

  “A runaway wife! Hyacinth! Great God!” She clasped her hands before her face in an agony of shame and despair, falling upon her knees in sudden self-abasement, her head drooping until her brow almost touched the ground. And then, after but a few minutes of this deep humiliation, she started to her feet with a cry of anger. “Liar! villain! despicable, devilish villain! This is a lie, like the other — a wicked lie! Your wife — your wife a wanton? My sister? My life upon it, she is in London — in your house, busy preparing for my marriage. Unlock that door, my lord; let me go this instant — back to my father. Oh, that I could be so mad as to leave his protection at your bidding! Open the door, sir, I command you!”

  She seemed to gain in height, and to be taller than he had thought her — he who had so watched her, and whose memory held every line of that slender, graceful figure. She stood straight as an arrow, looking at him with set lips and flaming eyes, too angry to be afraid, trembling, but with indignation, not fear of him.

  “Nay, child,” he said gravely, “I have got you, and I mean to keep you. But you have trusted yourself to my hospitality, and you are safe in my house as in a sanctuary. I may be a villain, but I am not a ruffian. If I have brought you here by a trick, you are as much mistress of your life and fate under this roof as you ever were in your father’s house.”

  “I have but one thing to say, sir. Let me
out of this hateful house.”

  “What then? Would you walk back to the Manor Moat, through the night — alone?”

  “I would crawl there on my hands and knees if I could not walk; anything to get away from you. Oh, the baseness of it! To vilify my sister — for your own base purposes. Intolerable villain!”

  “Mistress, we will soon put an end to that charge. Lies there have been, but that is none. ’Tis you are the slanderer there.”

  He took a letter from the pocket of his doublet, and handed it to her. Then he took the lamp from the mantelshelf and held it while she read.

  Alas, it was her sister’s hand. She knew those hurried characters too well. The letter was blotted with ink and smeared as with tears. Angela’s tears began to rain upon the page as she read: —

  “I have tried to be a good woman and a true wife to you, tried hard for these many years, knowing all the time that you had left off loving me, and but for the shame of it would have cared little, though I had as many lovers as a maid of honour. You made life harder for me in this year last past by your passion for my sister, which mystery of yours, silent and secret as you were, these eyes must have been blind not to discover.

  “And while you were cold in manner and cruel of speech — slighting me ever — there was one who loved and praised me, one whose value I knew not till he left this country, and I found myself desolate without him.

  “He has come back. He, too, has found that I was the other half of his mind; and that he could taste no pleasure in life unshared by me. He has come to claim one who ever loved him, and denied him only for virtue’s sake. Virtue! Poor fool that I was to count that a woman’s noblest quality! Why, of all attributes, it is that the world least values. Virtue! when the starched Due de Montausier fawns upon Louise de la Vallière, when Barbara Palmer is de facto Queen of England. Virtue!

  “Farewell! Forget me, Fareham, as I shall try to forget you. I shall be in Paris perhaps before you receive this letter. My house in the Rue de Touraine is ready for me. I shall dishonour you by no open scandal. The man I love will but rank as the friend I most value, and my other friends will ask no questions so long as you are silent, and do not seek to disgrace me. Indeed, it were an ill thing to pursue me with your anger; the more so as I am weak and ailing, and may not live long to enjoy my happiness. You have given me so little that you should in common justice spare me your hate.

  “I leave you your children, whom you have affected to love better than I; and who have shown so little consideration for me that I shall not miss them.”

  * * * * *

  “What think you of that, Angela, for the letter of a she-cynic?”

  “It is blotted with her tears. She wrote in sorrow, despairing of your love.”

  “She managed to exist for a round dozen years without my love — or doubting it — so long as she had her cavalière servante. It was only when he deserted her that she found life a burden. And now she has crossed the Rubicon. She belongs to her age — the age of Kings’ mistresses and light women. And she will be happy, I dare swear, as they are. It is not an age of tears. And when the fair Louise ran away to her Convent the other day, in a passion of penitence, be sure she only went on purpose to be brought back again. But now, sweet, say have I lied to you about the lady who was once my wife?” he asked, pointing to the letter in her hand.

  “And who is my sister to the end of time; my sister in Eternity: in Purgatory or in Paradise. I cannot cast her off, though you may. I will set out for Paris to-morrow, and bring her home, if I can, to the Manor. She need trouble you no more. My husband and I can shelter and pity her.”

  “Your husband!”

  “He will be my husband a fortnight hence.”

  “Never! Never, while I live to fling my body between you at the altar. His blood or mine should choke your marriage vows. Angela, Angela, be reasonable. I have brought you out of that trap. I have cut the net in which they had caught you. My love, you are free, and I am free, and you belong to me. You never loved Denzil Warner, never would love him, were you to live with him a quarter of a century. He is ice, and you are fire. Dearest, you belong to me. He who made us both created us to be happy together. There are strings in our hearts that harmonize as concords in music do. We are miserable apart, both of us. We waste, and fade, and torture ourselves in absence; but only to breathe the same air, to sit, silent, in the same room, is to be happy.”

  “Let me go!” she cried, looking at him with wild eyes, leaning against the locked door, her hands clutching at the latch, seeming neither to hear nor heed his impassioned address, though every word had sunk deep enough to remain in her memory for ever. “Let me go! You are a dishonourable villain! I came to London alone to your deserted house. I was not afraid of death or the plague then. I am not afraid of you now. Open this door, and let me go, never to see your wicked face again!”

  “Angela, canst thou so play fast and loose with happiness? Look at me,” kneeling at her feet, trying to take her hands from their hold on the latch. “Our fate is in our power to-night. The day is near dawning, and at the stroke of five my coach will be at the door to take us to Bristol, where the ship lies that shall carry us to New England — to a new world, and liberty; and to the sweet simple life that will please my dear love better than all the garish pleasures of a licentious court. Ah, dearest, I know thy mind and heart as well as I know my own. I know I can make thee happy in that fair new world, where we shall begin life again, free from all old burdens; and where, if thou wilt, my motherless children can join us, and make one loving household. My Henriette adores you; and it were Christian charity to rescue her and her brother from Charles Stuart’s England, and to bring them up to an honest life in a country where men are free to worship God as He moves them. Love, you cannot deny me. So sweet a life waits for us; and you have but to lay that dear hand in mine and give consent.”

  “Oh, God!” she murmured. “I thought this man held me in honour and esteem.”

  “Do I not honour you? Ah, love, what can a man do more than offer his life to her he loves — —”

  “And if he is another woman’s husband?”

  “That tie is broken.”

  “I deny it. But if it were, you have been my sister’s husband, and you could be nothing to me but my brother. You have made sisterly affection impossible, and so, my lord, we must be strangers; and, as you are a gentleman, I bid you open this door, and let me make my way to some more peaceful shelter than your house.”

  “Angela!”

  He tried to draw her to his breast; but she held him off with outstretched arm, and even in the tumult of his passion the knowledge of her helplessness and his natural shame at his own treachery kept him in check.

  “Angela, call me villain if you will, but give me a fair hearing. Dearest, the joy or sorrow of two lives lies in your choice to-night. If you will trust me, and go with me, I swear I will make you happy. If you are stubborn to refuse — well, sweetheart, you will but send a man to the devil who is not wholly bad, and who, with you for his guardian angel, might find the way to heaven.”

  “And begin the journey by a sin these lips dare not name. Oh, Fareham,” she said, growing suddenly calm and grave, and with something of that tender maternal manner with which she had soothed and controlled him while he had but half his wits, and when she feared he might be lying on his death-bed, “I would rather believe you a madman than a villain; and, indeed, all that you have done to-night is the work of a madman, who follows his own wild fancy without power to reason on what he does. Surely, sir, you know me too well to believe that I would let love — were it the blindest, most absorbing passion woman ever felt — lead me into sin so base as that you would urge. The vilest wanton at Whitehall would shrink from stealing a sister’s husband.”

  “There would be no theft. Your sister flings me to you as a dog drops the bone he has picked dry. She had me when I was young, and a soldier — with some reflected glory about me from the hero I followed — and rich
and happy. She leaves me old and haggard, without aim or hope, save to win her I worship. Shall I tell you when I began to love you, my angel?”

  “No, no; I will listen to no more raving. Thank God, there is the daylight!” as the cold wan dawn flickered across the room. “Will you let me beat my hands against this door till they bleed?”

  “Thou shalt not harm the loveliest hands on earth,” seizing them both in his own. “Ah, sweet, I began to love thee before ever I rose from that bed of horror where I had been left to perish. I loved thee in my unreason, and my love strengthened with each hour of returning sense. Our journey, I so weak, and sick, and helpless — was a ride through Paradise. I would have had it last a year; would have suffered sickness and pain, aching limbs and parched lips, only to feel the light touch of this dear hand upon my brow ‘twixt sleep and waking; only to look up as I awoke, and see those sweet eyes looking down at me. Ah, dearest, my heart arose from among the dead, and came out of the tomb of all human affections to greet thee. Till I knew you I knew not the meaning of love. And if you are stubborn, and will not come with me to that new world, where we may be so happy, why, then I must go down to my grave a despairing wretch that never knew a woman’s love.”