CHAPTER XXV.
HIGH STAKES.
Angela had eaten her lonely supper, and was sitting at her embroidery framebetween nine and ten, while the sounds of bolts and bars in the hall andcorridors, and old Reuben's voice hectoring the maids, told her that theservants were closing the house before going to bed. Reuben would be comingto her presently, no doubt, to remind her of the lateness of the hour,wanting to carry her candle to her chamber, and as it were to see hersafely disposed of before he went to his garret. She meant, on thisoccasion, to resist his friendly tyranny, having so little inclination forsleep, and hoping to find peace of mind and distraction in this elaborateembroidery of gold thread and many-coloured silks, which was destined toadorn her father's person, on the facings of a new-fashioned doublet.
Suddenly, as she bent over the candle to scrutinize the shading of hersilks, the hollow sound of hoofs broke upon the silence, and in a minuteafterwards a bell rang loudly.
Who could it be at such an hour? Her father, no doubt; no one else. He hadhurried his business through, and returned a day earlier than he had hoped.Or could it be that he had fallen sick in London, and Denzil had come totell her ill news? Or was it a messenger from her sister? She had time tocontemplate several evil contingencies while she stood in the hall watchingReuben withdraw various bolts and bars.
The door swung back at last, and she saw a man in high-riding boots andslouched hat standing on the threshold, while in the moonlight behind himshe could distinguish a mounted groom holding the bridle of a led horse, aswell as the horse from which the visitor had just dismounted.
The face that looked at her from the doorway was the face which had hauntedher with cruel persistency through that long day, chaining her thoughts toearth.
Fareham stood looking at her for a few moments, deadly pale, while shewas collecting her senses, trying to understand this most unlooked-forpresence. Why was he here? Ah, no doubt, a messenger of evil.
"Oh, sir, my sister is ill!" she cried; "I read sorrow in yourface--seriously ill--dangerously? Speak, my lord, for pity's sake!"
"Yes, she is ill."
"Not dead?"
"No, no."
"But very ill? Oh, I feared, I feared when I saw her that there wassomething amiss. Has she sent you to fetch me?"
"Yes; you are wanted."
"Reuben, I must set out this instant. Order the coach to be got ready. AndBetty must go with me."
"You will need no coach, Angela. Nor is there time to spare for any suchcreeping conveyance. I have brought Zephyr. You remember how you loved him.He is swift, and gentle as the wind after which we named him; sure of foot,easy to ride. The roads are good after yesterday's rain, and the moon willlast us most of our way. We shall be at Chilton in two hours. Put on yourcoat and hat. Indeed, there is no time to be lost."
"Do you mean that she may die before I can reach her?"
"I know not," stamping his foot impatiently. "Fate holds the keys. But youhad best waste no time on questions."
His manner was one of command, and he seemed to apprehend no possibilityof hesitation on her part. Reuben ran to his pantry, and came back with atankard of wine, which he offered to the visitor with tremulous respect,almost ready to kneel.
"Our best Burgundy, my lord. Your lordship must be dry after your longride; and if your lordship would care to sup, there is good picking on lastMonday's chine, and a capon from madam's supper scarce touched with thecarving-knife."
"Nothing, I thank you, friend. There is no time for gluttony."
Reuben, pressing the tankard upon him, he drank some wine with an automaticair, and still stood with his eyes fixed on Angela's pallid countenance,waiting her decision.
"Are you coming?" he asked.
"Does she want me? Has she asked for me? Oh, for God's sake, my lord, tellme more! Is she dangerously ill? Have the doctors given her over?"
"No. But she is in a bad way. And you--you--you--are wanted. Will you come?Ay or no?"
"Yes. It is my duty to go to her. But when my father and Denzil come backto-morrow, Reuben must be able to tell them why I went; and the natureof my sister's illness. Were it not so serious that there is no time forhesitation, it would ill become me to leave this house in my father'sabsence."
He gave his head a curious jerk at Denzil's name, as if he had been stung.
"Yes, I will explain; I can make all clear to this gentleman here while youput on your cloak. Bring the black to the door," he called to his man.
"Will not your lordship bait your horses before you start?" Reuben askeddeferentially.
"No time, fellow. There is no time. How often must I tell you so?" retortedFareham.
Reuben's village breeding had given him an exaggerated respect foraristocracy. He had grown up in the midst of small country gentlemen,rural squires, among whom the man with three thousand a year in land was amagnate, and there had never been more than one nobleman resident within aday's ride of the Manor Moat. To Reuben, therefore, a peer was like a god;and he would have no more questioned Lord Fareham's will than a disciple ofHobbes would have imputed injustice to Kings.
Angela returned in a few minutes, having changed her silken gown for a neatcloth riding-skirt and close-fitting hood. She carried nothing with her,being assured that her sister's wardrobe would be at her disposal, andhaving no mind to spend a minute more in preparation than was absolutelynecessary. Brief as her toilet was, she had time to consider Lord Fareham'scountenance and manner, the cold distance of his address, and to scornherself for having thought of him in her reveries that day as loving heralways and till death. It was far better so. The abyss that parted themcould not yawn too wide. She put a stern restraint upon herself, so thatthere should be nothing hysterical in her manner, lest her fears about hersister's health should be mistaken for agitation at his presence. She stoodbeside the horse, straight and firm, with her hand on the pommel, andsprang lightly into the saddle as Fareham's strong arm lifted her. Yetshe could but notice that his hand shook as he gave her the bridle, andarranged the cloth petticoat over her foot.
Not a word was spoken on either side as they rode out at the gate andthrough the village of St. Nicholas, beautiful in the moonlight. Such lowcrumbling walls and deeply sloping roofs of cottages squatting in a tangleof garden and orchard; such curious outlines of old brick gables in thebetter class houses of miller, butcher, and general dealer; orchards andgardens and farm buildings, with every variety of thatch and eaves, huddledtogether in picturesque confusion; large spaces everywhere--pond, andvillage green, and common, and copse beyond; a peaceful, prosperoussettlement, which had passed unharmed through the ordeal of the civil war,safe in its rural seclusion. Not a word was spoken even when the villagewas left behind, and they were riding on a lonely road, in so brillianta moonlight that Angela could see every line in her companion's broodingface.
Why was he so gloomy and so unkind, in an hour when his sympathy shouldnaturally have been given to her? Was he consumed with sorrow for hiswife's indisposition, and did anxiety make him silent; or was he angry withhimself for not being as deeply distressed as a husband ought to be ata wife's peril? She knew too well how he and Hyacinth had been growingfurther apart day by day, till the only link between husband and wifeseemed to be a decent courtesy and subservience to the world's opinion.
She recalled that other occasion when they two had made a solitary journeytogether, and in as gloomy a silence--that night of the great fire, when hehad flung off his doublet and taken the sculls out of her hands, and rowedsteadily and fast, with his eyes downcast, leaving her to steer the boat asshe would, or trusting to the lateness of the hour for a clear course. Hehad seemed to hate her that night just as he seemed to hate her now, asthey rode mile after mile side by side, the groom following near, now at afast trot, now galloping along a stretch of waste grass that bordered thehighway, 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 an
ything but anxiety. If you would onlybe kinder and tell me more about my sister! I fear you consider her indanger."
"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. Ifeared 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 soonshall 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 thatcould be breathed into a single word was in his utterance. She flushed atthe sound, and looked at him with a sudden fear; but his countenance mighthave been wrought-iron, so cold and passionless and cruelly resolute lookedthat rough-hewn face in the moonlight.
"I have a fresh horse waiting for you at Thame," he said. "I will not haveyou 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 tochange horses."
"I have brought Queen Bess, another of your favourites. 'Twas she whotaught you to ride. She will know your voice, and your light hand upon herbridle."
They found the Inn wrapped in slumber, like every house or cottage they hadpassed; but a lantern shone within an open door in the quadrangle roundwhich 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 theirstable, ready saddled, as the travellers rode under the archway into theyard.
The mare was excited at finding herself on the road in the clear coolnight, with the moonlight in her eyes, and was gayer than Fareham liked tosee her under so precious a load; but Angela was no longer the novice bywhose side he had ridden nearly two years before. She handled Queen Bessfirmly, and soon settled her into a sharp trot, and kept her at it fornearly three miles. The hour Fareham had spoken of was not exceeded by manyminutes when Chilton Abbey came in sight, the grey stone walls pale in themoonlight. All things--the long park wall, the pillared gates, the openspaces of the park, the depth of shadow where the old oaks and beechesspread wide and dark, had a look of unreality which contrasted curiouslywith the scene as she had last beheld it in all its daylight verdure andhomeliness.
She dropped lightly from her horse, so soon as they drew rein at an angleof 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 principalentrance. It opened into a passage that led straight to the library, wherethere was a lamp burning to-night. Angela saw the light in the window asthey rode past.
He opened the door, which had been left on the latch, and nodded adismissal 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 wasremote from the chief apartments and from the servants' offices.
"Will you take me to my sister at once?" Angela asked, stopping on thethreshold of the library, when Fareham had opened the door.
A lamp upon the tall mantelpiece feebly lighted the long low room, gloomywith the darkness of old oak wainscot and a heavily timbered ceiling. Therewere 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 drinksomething before you see her."
"No, no. What, after riding as fast as our horses could carry us! I must goto her this moment. Can you find me a candle?"--looking about her hurriedlyas she spoke. "But, indeed, it is no matter; I know my way to her room inthe 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 notthere."
"Great God! what do you mean? You told me your wife was here--ill--dyingperhaps."
"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 offoot than common. I have no wife, Angela; and you have no sister that youwill ever care to own. My Lady Fareham has crossed the narrow sea with herlover, Henri de Malfort--her paramour always--though I once thought himyours, and tried to kill him for your sake."
"A runaway wife! Hyacinth! Great God!" She clasped her hands before herface in an agony of shame and despair, falling upon her knees in suddenself-abasement, her head drooping until her brow almost touched the ground.And then, after but a few minutes of this deep humiliation, she started toher 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 preparingfor my marriage. Unlock that door, my lord; let me go this instant--back tomy father. Oh, that I could be so mad as to leave his protection at yourbidding! Open the door, sir, I command you!"
She seemed to gain in height, and to be taller than he had thought her--hewho had so watched her, and whose memory held every line of that slender,graceful figure. She stood straight as an arrow, looking at him withset lips and flaming eyes, too angry to be afraid, trembling, but withindignation, not fear of him.
"Nay, child," he said gravely, "I have got you, and I mean to keep you. Butyou have trusted yourself to my hospitality, and you are safe in my houseas in a sanctuary. I may be a villain, but I am not a ruffian. If I havebrought you here by a trick, you are as much mistress of your life and fateunder 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 thenight--alone?"
"I would crawl there on my hands and knees if I could not walk; anything toget away from you. Oh, the baseness of it! To vilify my sister--for yourown 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. Thenhe 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 tearsbegan to rain upon the page as she read:--
"I have tried to be a good woman and a true wife to you, tried hard forthese 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 manylovers as a maid of honour. You made life harder for me in this year lastpast by your passion for my sister, which mystery of yours, silent andsecret as you were, these eyes must have been blind not to discover.
"And while you were cold in manner and cruel of speech--slighting meever--there was one who loved and praised me, one whose value I knew nottill 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 hismind; and that he could taste no pleasure in life unshared by me. He hascome to claim one who ever loved him, and denied him only for virtue'ssake. 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 thestarched Due de Montausier fawns upon Louise de la Valliere, when BarbaraPalmer is de facto Queen of England. Virtue!
"Farewell! Forget me, Fareham, as I shall try to forget you. I shall bein Paris perhaps before you receive this letter. My house in the Rue deTouraine is ready for me. I shall dishonour you by no open scandal. The manI love will but rank as the friend I most value, and my other friends willask no questions so long as you are silent, and do not seek to disgrace me.Indeed, it were an ill thing to pursue me wi
th your anger; the more so as Iam weak and ailing, and may not live long to enjoy my happiness. You havegiven 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 missthem."
* * * * *
"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 yourlove."
"She managed to exist for a round dozen years without my love--or doubtingit--so long as she had her _cavaliere servante_. It was only when hedeserted her that she found life a burden. And now she has crossed theRubicon. She belongs to her age--the age of Kings' mistresses and lightwomen. And she will be happy, I dare swear, as they are. It is not an ageof 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 broughtback again. But now, sweet, say have I lied to you about the lady who wasonce 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: inPurgatory or in Paradise. I cannot cast her off, though you may. I will setout for Paris to-morrow, and bring her home, if I can, to the Manor. Sheneed 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, bereasonable. I have brought you out of that trap. I have cut the net inwhich they had caught you. My love, you are free, and I am free, and youbelong to me. You never loved Denzil Warner, never would love him, wereyou 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 happytogether. There are strings in our hearts that harmonize as concords inmusic do. We are miserable apart, both of us. We waste, and fade, andtorture 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 thelocked door, her hands clutching at the latch, seeming neither to hear norheed his impassioned address, though every word had sunk deep enough toremain 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 orthe 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 thelatch. "Our fate is in our power to-night. The day is near dawning, andat 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, andliberty; and to the sweet simple life that will please my dear love betterthan all the garish pleasures of a licentious court. Ah, dearest, I knowthy mind and heart as well as I know my own. I know I can make thee happyin that fair new world, where we shall begin life again, free from all oldburdens; and where, if thou wilt, my motherless children can join us, andmake one loving household. My Henriette adores you; and it were Christiancharity to rescue her and her brother from Charles Stuart's England, and tobring them up to an honest life in a country where men are free to worshipGod as He moves them. Love, you cannot deny me. So sweet a life waits forus; 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 lifeto 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 youcould be nothing to me but my brother. You have made sisterly affectionimpossible, and so, my lord, we must be strangers; and, as you are agentleman, I bid you open this door, and let me make my way to some morepeaceful shelter than your house."
"Angela!"
He tried to draw her to his breast; but she held him off with outstretchedarm, and even in the tumult of his passion the knowledge of herhelplessness 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 willtrust me, and go with me, I swear I will make you happy. If you arestubborn to refuse--well, sweetheart, you will but send a man to the devilwho is not wholly bad, and who, with you for his guardian angel, might findthe way to heaven."
"And begin the journey by a sin these lips dare not name. Oh, Fareham," shesaid, growing suddenly calm and grave, and with something of that tendermaternal manner with which she had soothed and controlled him while he hadbut 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 thatyou have done to-night is the work of a madman, who follows his own wildfancy without power to reason on what he does. Surely, sir, you know me toowell to believe that I would let love--were it the blindest, most absorbingpassion 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'shusband."
"There would be no theft. Your sister flings me to you as a dog drops thebone he has picked dry. She had me when I was young, and a soldier--withsome 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 Iworship. 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 thedaylight!" as the cold wan dawn flickered across the room. "Will you let mebeat my hands against this door till they bleed?"
"Thou shalt not harm the loveliest hands on earth," seizing them both inhis own. "Ah, sweet, I began to love thee before ever I rose from that bedof horror where I had been left to perish. I loved thee in my unreason, andmy love strengthened with each hour of returning sense. Our journey, I soweak, and sick, and helpless--was a ride through Paradise. I would have hadit last a year; would have suffered sickness and pain, aching limbs andparched 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 sweeteyes 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 knewyou I knew not the meaning of love. And if you are stubborn, and will notcome with me to that new world, where we may be so happy, why, then I mustgo down to my grave a despairing wretch that never knew a woman's love."
"My sister--your wife?"
"Never loved me. Her heart--that which she calls heart--was ever Malfort'sand not mine. She gave me to know as much by a hundred signs and tokenswhich read plain enough now, looking back, but which I scarce heeded at thetime. I believed her chaste, and she was civil, and I was satisfied. I tellyou, Angela, this heart never beat for woman till I knew you. Ah, love, benot stone! Make not our affinity an obstacle. The Roman Church will evergrant dispensation for a union of affinities where there is cause forindulgence. The Church would have had Philip married to his wife's sisterElizabeth."
"The Church holds the bond of marriage indissoluble," Angela answered. "Youare married to my sister; and while she lives you can have no other wife."
Her brow was stern, her courage unfaltering; but physical force was failingher. She leant against the door for support, and she no longer struggledto withdraw her hands from that strong grasp which held them. She foughtagainst the faintness that was stealing over her senses; but her heavyeyelids were beginning to droop, and there was a sound like rushing waterin her ears.
"Angela--Angela," pleaded the tender voice, "do you forget that afternoonat the play, and how you wept over Bellario's fidel
ity--the fond girl-pagewho followed him she loved; risked name and virtue; counted not thecost, in that large simplicity of love which gives all it has to give,unquestioning? Remember Bellario."
"Bellario had no thought that was not virtue's," she answered faintly; andhe took that fainter tone for a yielding will.
"She would not have left Philaster if he had been alone in the wilderness,miserable for want of her love."
Her white lips moved dumbly, her eyelids sank, and her head fell backupon his shoulder, as he started up from his knees to support her sinkingfigure. She was in his arms, unconscious--the image of death.
He kissed her on the brow.
"My soul, I will owe nothing to thy helplessness," he whispered. "Thy freewill shall decide whether I live or die."
Another sound had mingled with the rushing waters as her senses lefther--the sound of knocking at a distant door. It grew louder and loudermomently, indicating a passionate impatience in those who knocked. Thesound came from the principal door, and there was a long corridor betweenthat door and Fareham's room.
He stood listening, undecided; and then he laid the unconscious form gentlyon the thick Persian carpet--knowing that for recovery the fainting girlcould not lie too low. He cast one agitated glance at the white facelooking up at the ceiling, and then went quickly to the hall.
As he came near, the knocking began again, with greater vehemence, and avoice, which he knew for Sir John's, called--
"Open the door, in the King's name, or we will break it open!"
There was a pause; those without evidently waiting for the result of thatlast and loudest summons.
Fareham heard the hoofs of restless horses trampling the gravel drive, thejingle of bit and chain, and the click of steel scabbards.
Sir John had not come alone.
"So soon; so devilish soon!" muttered Fareham. And then, as the knockingwas renewed, he turned and left the hall without a word of answer to thoseoutside, and hastened back to the room where he had left Angela. His browwas fixed in a resolute frown, every nerve was braced. He had made up hismind what to do. He had the house to himself, and was thus master of thesituation, so long as he could keep his pursuers on the outside. The upperservants--half a dozen coach-loads--had been packed off to London, underconvoy of Manningtree and Mrs. Hubbock. The under servants--rank andfile--from housemaids to turnspits, slept in a huge barrack adjoining thestables, built in Elizabeth's reign to accommodate the lower grade of anobleman's household. These would not come into the house to light firesand sweep rooms till six o'clock at the earliest; and it was not yet four.Lord Fareham, therefore, had to fear no interruption from his own people.
There was broad daylight in the house now; yet he looked about for acandle; found one on a side-table, in a tall silver candlestick, andstopped to light it, before he raised the lifeless figure from the floorand lifted it into the easiest position for carrying, the head lying on hisshoulder. Then, holding the slender waist firmly, circled by his left arm,he took the candlestick in his right hand, and went out of the room withhis burden, along a passage leading to a seldom-used staircase, which heascended, carrying that tall, slim form as if it had been a feather-weight,up flight after flight, to the muniment room in the roof. From that pointhis journey, and the management of that unconscious form, and to disposesafely of the lighted candle, became more difficult, and occupied aconsiderable time; during which interval the impatience of an enragedfather and a betrothed husband, outside the hall door, increased with everyminute of delay, and one of their mounted followers, of whom they hadseveral, was despatched to ride at a hand-gallop to the village ofChilton, and rouse the Constable, while another was sent to Oxford for aMagistrate's warrant to arrest Lord Fareham on the charge of abduction. Andmeanwhile the battering upon thick oaken panels with stout riding-whips,and heavy sword-hilts, and the calling upon those within, were repeatedwith unabated vehemence, while a couple of horsemen rode round the house toexamine other inlets, and do picket duty.
The Constable and his underling were on the ground before that stubborncitadel answered the reiterated summons; but at last there came the soundof bolts withdrawn. An iron bar dropped from its socket with a clang thatechoed long and loud in the empty hall, the door opened, and Farehamappeared on the threshold, corpse-like in the cold raw daylight, facing hisbesiegers with a determined insolence.
"Thou most infernal villain!" cried Sir John, rushing into the hall,followed closely by Denzil and one of the men, "what have you done with mydaughter?"
"Which daughter does your honour seek? If it be she whom you gave me for awife, she has broken the bond, and is across the sea with her paramour?"
"You lie--reprobate! Your wife had doubtless business relating to herFrench estate, which called her to Paris. My daughters are honest women,unless by your villainy, one, who should have been sacred, as your sisterby affinity, should bear a blighted name. Give me back my daughter,villain--the girl you lured from her home by the foulest deceit!"
"You cannot see the lady to-day, gentlemen; even though you threaten mewith your weapons," pointing with a sardonic smile to their drawn swords,"and out-number me with your followers. The lady is gone. I am alone in thehouse to submit to any affront your superior force may put upon me."
"Our superiority can at least search your house," said Denzil. "Sir John,you had best take one way and I another. I doubt I know every room andpassage in the Abbey."
"And your yeoman's manners offer a handsome return for the hospitalitywhich made you acquainted with my house," said Fareham, with a contemptuouslaugh.
He followed Denzil, leaving Sir John to grope alone. The house had beendeserted but for a few days, yet the corridors and rooms had the heavyatmosphere of places long shut from sunshine and summer breezes; whilethe chilling hour, the grey ghostly light, added something phantasmal andunnatural to the scene.
Denzil entered room after room--below stairs and above--explored thepicture-gallery, the bed-chambers, the long low ball-room in the roof,built in Elizabeth's reign, when a wing had been added to the Abbey, and oflate used only for lumber. Fareham followed him close, stalking behind himin sullen silence, with an unalterable gloom upon his face which betrayedno sudden apprehensions, no triumph or defeat. He followed like doom, stoodquietly on one side as Denzil opened a door; waited on the thresholdwhile the searcher made his inspection, always with the same iron visage,offering no opposition to the entrance of this or that chamber; onlyfollowing and watching, silent, intent, sphinx-like; till at last, fairlyworn out by blank disappointment, Denzil turned upon him in a sudden fury.
"What have you done with her?" he cried, desperately. "I will stake my lifeshe has not left this house, and by Him who made us you shall not leave itliving unless I find her."
He glanced downward at the naked sword he had carried throughout hissearch. Fareham's was in the scabbard, and he answered that glance with aninsulting smile.
"You think I have murdered her, perhaps," he said. "Well, I would rathersee her dead than yours. So far I am in capacity a murderer."
They met Sir John in Lady Fareham's drawing-room, when Denzil had gone overthe whole house, trusting nothing to the father's scrutiny.
"He has stabbed her and dropped her murdered body down a well," cried theKnight, half distraught. "He cannot have spirited her away otherwise. Lookat him, Denzil; look at that haggard wretch I have called my son. He hasthe assassin's aspect."
Something--it might be the room in which they were standing--brought backto Angela's betrothed the memory of that Christmas night when aunt andniece had been missing, and when he, Denzil, had burst into this room,where Fareham was seated at chess; who, at the first mention of Angela'sname, started up, white with horror, to join in the search. It was he whofound her then; it was he who had hidden her now; and in the same remoteand secret spot.
"Fool that I was not to remember sooner!" cried Denzil. "I know where tofind her. Follow me, Sir John. Andrew"--calling to the servant who waitedin the hall--"follow u
s close."
He rushed along a passage, ran upstairs faster than old age, were it everso eager, could follow. But Fareham was nearly as fast--nearly, but notquite, able to overtake him; for he was older, heavier, and more broken bythe fever of that night's work than his colder-tempered rival.
Denzil was some paces in advance when he reached the muniment room. Hefound the opening in the wainscot, and the steep stair built into thechimney. Half way to the bottom there was a gap--an integral part of theplan--and a drop of six feet; so that a stranger in hurried pursuit wouldbe likely to come to grief at this point, and make time for his quarry toescape by the door that opened on the garden. Memory, or wits sharpened byanxiety, enabled Denzil to avoid this trap; and he was at the door of thePriest's Hole before Fareham began the descent.
Yes, she was there, kneeling in a corner, a candle burning dimly on a stoneshelf above her head. She was in the attitude of prayer, her head bent, herface hidden, when the door opened, and she looked up and saw her betrothedhusband.
"Denzil! How did you find me here?"
"I should be a poor slave if I had not found you, remembering the past.Great God, how pale you are! Come, love, you are safe. Your father is here.Angela, thou that art so soon to be my wife--face to face--here--before weleave this accursed pit--tell me that you did not go with that villain,except for the sake of your sick sister--that you were the victim of aheartless lie--not a party to a trick invented to blind your father andme!"
"I doubt I have not all my senses yet," she said, putting her hand to herhead. "I was told my sister wanted me, and I came. Where is Lord Fareham?"
The terror in her countenance as she asked that question froze Denzil.Ah, he had known it all along! That was the man she loved. Was she hisvictim--and a willing victim? He felt as if a great gulf had opened betweenhim and his betrothed, and that all his hopes had withered.
Fareham was at his elbow in the next moment. "Well, you have found her,"he said; "but you shall not have her, save by force of arms. She is in mycustody, and I will keep her; or die for her if I am outnumbered!"
"Execrable wretch! would you attempt to detain her by violence? Come,madam," said Denzil, turning coldly to Angela, "there is a door on thosestairs which will let you out into the air.
"The door will not open at your bidding!" Fareham said fiercely.
He snatched Angela up in his arms before the other could prevent him, andcarried her triumphantly to the first landing-place, which was considerablybelow that treacherous gap between stair and stair. He had the key of thegarden door in his pocket, unlocked it, and was in the open air with hisburden before Denzil could overtake him.
He found himself caught in a trap. He had his coach-and-six and armedpostillions waiting close by, and thought he had but to leap into it withhis prey and spirit her off towards Bristol; but between the coach and thedoor one of Sir John's pickets was standing, who the moment the door openedwhistled his loudest, and brought Constable and man and another armedservant running helter-skelter round an angle of the house, and so crossingthe very path to the coach.
"Fire upon him if he tries to pass you!" cried Denzil.
"What! And shoot the lady you have professed to love!" exclaimed Fareham,drawing himself up, and standing firm as a rock, with Angela motionless inhis arms.
He dropped her to her feet, but held her against his left shoulder with aniron hold, while he drew his sword and made a rush for the coach. Denzilsprang into his path, sword in hand, and their blades crossed with a shrillclash and rattle of steel. They fought like demons, Fareham holding Angelabehind him, sheltering her with his body, and swaying from side to side inhis sword-play with a demoniac swiftness and suppleness, his thick darkbrows knitted over eyes that flamed with a fiercer fire than flashed fromsteel meeting steel. A shriek of horror from Angela marked the climax, asDenzil fell with Fareham's sword between his ribs. There had been little ofdilettante science, or graceful play of wrist in this encounter. The menhad rushed at each other savagely, like beasts in a circus, and whateverof science had guided Fareham's more practised hand had been employedautomatically. The spirit of the combatants was wild and fierce as the ragethat moves rival stags fighting for a mate, with bent heads and trampinghoofs, and clash of locked antlers reverberating through the foreststillness.
Fareham had no time to exult over his prostrate foe; Sir John and hisservants, Constable and underlings, surrounded him, and he was handcuffedand hauled off to the coach that was to have carried him to a sinner'sparadise, before any one had looked to Denzil's wound, or discoveredwhether that violent thrust below the right lung had been fatal. Angelasank swooning in her father's arms.
London Pride, Or, When the World Was Younger Page 25