Elizabeth's Pretenders/Part 1/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI.
Elizabeth's dream of happiness was short-lived. For many a long day she was not to feel again the perfect security of that first starlit hour, when she promised to be Rupert Wybrowe's wife. Before she went to bed that night her uncle had shaken her by both hands warmly, and kissed her on the forehead. Her aunt had overwhelmed her with caresses, and little shattered peals of laughter. Wybrowe had received his congratulations calmly, as he did everything; but there was a gleam of triumph in his eye. On the whole, he played his part well; he did not overact the rapturous lover. The silent lofty man did not "protest too much" in the home circle. And his betrothed listened, and was satisfied.
Nevertheless, she passed an almost sleepless night, and her nerves the next day were abnormally sensitive and watchful. Now and again Rupert disappointed her. That he was undemonstrative by nature, she knew; but she looked for a readier response, a quicker apprehension of her meaning or wishes, above all, an impatient desire for uninterrupted tête-à-têtes, which he did not evince. He was more charming than ever, in some respects; in lighter spirits, and telling his lion-hunting adventures with such verve! His grand courtesy never swerved; increased intimacy did not cause it to deflect by a hair's breadth. He looked handsome and happy. Yes, he certainly looked happy, Elizabeth said to herself twenty times a day. And if his temperament was so different from hers, ought she to complain? Was it not better that the waves of her passionate nature should break against a cold, strong rock, than meet a counter-current of equal force, with no sustaining power?
She tried to argue with herself thus; but as the days went by, her doubts, her sense of something wanting to perfect happiness in her relations to the man whose wife she had promised to be, increased. She blamed herself for this at times. But then, again, there were times when she felt more than misgiving—a sick apprehension that both of them had been under a delusion. Was her feeling for this man really love? He had thrown a glamour over her, which she had found impossible to resist, when he had persuaded her of the sincerity of his devotion. But had he not deceived himself? She watched more keenly than ever every casual glance, every intonation of his voice. And once she intercepted a look between her aunt and him which startled her. What did it mean? It was gone in a moment, and she never saw it repeated. Yet it left an uncomfortable impression.
On the third morning after Elizabeth's engagement. Uncle William had announced that business would call him to Birmingham the following day, and had added that if Bessie would consent to the marriage taking place at once, he would go on to London, and interview Twisden, the family solicitor, with respect to the settlements. It is needless to say that Mrs. Shaw had suggested this proposal. Rupert had twice approached the subject with Elizabeth, urging his impatience to be made a happy man, and each time had been put off with the declaration that she did not wish to be married while still in deep mourning. She now told her uncle more emphatically that she would not be married till the autumn. He need not go to London; there was plenty of time to see Mr. Twisden later in the summer. This announcement was received with great dissatisfaction by Wybrowe, and with scarcely controlled annoyance by Mrs. Shaw. It was tempered, indeed, when Elizabeth added that she did not see why Mr. Twisden should not come to Farley for a night, instead of her uncle journeying to London. The business might be very quickly concluded. She wished to settle half her fortune on her husband. There was a dead silence. Uncle William coughed, indeed; but he said nothing. This was so much beyond what the bridegroom-elect had dared expect, that it almost outweighed the annoyance, and possible danger, of the delay. Could he temporize yet further with his creditors? And, if driven to extremity, could he ask her to pay his debts before marriage, without imperilling his position?
After murmuring his desire to leave Elizabeth entirely free to settle her money as she thought fit, he rose and left the room; but not before Polly, from the window, called out with asperity, "Keep stirring!"
Mrs. Shaw and Elizabeth both laughed. Then there was a pause. Uncle William cleared his throat.
"With respect, you know, Bessie, to what you said just now about your fortune, I couldn't, as your guardian and trustee, consent to that. When you come of age you'll have uncontrolled power over certain property—which ain't in the trust-fund. That you can do what you like with, but not now. Even if I have the power to do it, I know Twisden would advise me not."
Mrs. Shaw observed that solicitors were only consulted, she supposed, as to the legality of certain acts, not as to their advisability.
To which her husband responded, "Well, Bessie will be of age, any way, in little more than a couple of years, and then my responsibility ends, and she can do as she pleases about the money that ain't in trust. As to the rest, well—we'll see———"
"Uncle," struck in Elizabeth, wishing to change the current of the conversation," how many days shall you be in Birmingham?"
"I'm afraid I shall be kept three, at least. So I'm not sorry, Bessie, to be spared going to London, for we begin to make our hay o' Monday, and I should like to be home for that, ye see."
"Of course, uncle; it's much better you should."
"And then I wouldn't like to be away too long while Wybrowe is here. Molly says he won't mind being left here with you"—he looked mighty sly, and chuckled, as he said this—"else I wouldn't have asked him to stay on. It don't seem very civil to run away from a guest, and I wouldn't do it if I wasn't obliged—but———"
"My dear Bill! don't distress yourself about the colonel. I assure you he will do very well without you. Elizabeth and I will look after him, and see that he has your best cigars, and the '64 claret, and all the rest of the things that make a man contented. So don't bother about him, you dear old man!"
Mrs. Shaw laughed merrily as she said this, and still more so when Polly from her perch called out, "Don't put in too much sugar!" and put her head knowingly on one side.
"Oh, you wicked Polly! to cry out that I put in too much sugar!"—and Mrs. Shaw scratched the bird's head with her small white fingers. "And how rude of you to tell the colonel to 'keep stirring'! I wish you had been better brought up, Polly. But, for all that, you are a great dear—you are! you are!"
And Mrs. Shaw stooped and kissed the bird's grey poll before she whisked out of the room.
The remainder of that day Elizabeth passed in the unsatisfied condition of mind I have already indicated. If she could only feel sure that he really loved her—that this was more than a passing "fancy" on the part of this magnificent spoiled child—what a devoted wife she could be! He had faults, of course—perhaps very grave faults; but so long as they did not touch her, what did she care? Such is the supreme egoism of love, or what passes for love, which is so often justly punished. That one half of her—the less worthy half—was at times subjugated by this man, there is no doubt. But her strong passionate nature was not without restraint. Education of the higher sort had done much to elevate and to balance her character during the past two years. She was still impulsive; she would always be so; acting with rapidity where doubt did not enter into her decisions. But here doubt had entered. Both needed longer probation. She therefore resisted the attempt to hurry on the one irrevocable act, which both might ultimately deplore. She saw how eager he was that a definite time for the marriage should be fixed. She saw that her aunt, and consequently her uncle, would urge on her a speedy decision in the matter. But no—she would not be driven. And so nothing further was said upon the subject that day or the next.
In the morning Uncle William departed, with injunctions on Mrs. Shaw's part to write to her daily, and to be sure and wire if he found he could return sooner than he expected. The parrot from the open drawing-room window invited him to "keep stirring," which excited his mistress's mirth as much as if she had never heard that culinary injunction from the bird's mouth before. Elizabeth kissed her uncle and bade him good-bye, with a strange foreboding, which she remembered long afterwards.
It was the first very hot day that summer, and the three who were left at Farley spent it entirely out-of-doors, lying on rugs and cushions under the beech trees in the morning, and strolling down to the river later, where Wybrowe fished, while the ladies made tea upon the bank. It was not the sort of day that spurs talk; even Mrs. Shaw was somnolent, and the fisherman naturally flogged the stream in silence. Elizabeth did not feel drowsy, but she was glad of the perfect stillness, as they lay under the slanting shadows of the trees at sundown. How pretty her aunt looked in her white dress, leaning, half asleep, with her back against the green bank, the open volume of "Mensonges" on her lap! If anything could have kept her wide awake, no doubt that would; but the long silken lashes closed over the china-blue eyes from time to time, the lids fluttered, the eyes opened only to close again, the book dropped from her hand—she was asleep. Elizabeth arose, and went down to the water's edge, close to Rupert.
"How patient you are!" she said. Then added, with a smile, "I should not have expected it of you."
"They are beginning to bite. I have had two nibbles."
"And you have been here more than two hours! That would never satisfy me."
"I am afraid you are hard to satisfy. As long as the fish rise, a fisherman never despairs. He may have the wrong fly, but he knows there's something ready to be caught."
"I think I am more like the fish than the fisherman. It is all a question of the fly with me. You used the right one, I suppose—only———"
"Hush! I've got a bite," he whispered. "Speak low, or you'll frighten him away. By Jove! I've hooked him; and he must weigh five pound if he weighs an ounce. He is going to give me some play. Look out! He's tugging at me like grim death. Stand a little back."
And Rupert was so absorbed in the difficult operation of landing his fish, that he thought no more of Elizabeth for the moment. She walked away, up the bank and out of sight, into the wood. She should have watched to see how the fish dragged its skilful captor many yards down the stream, until, exhausted with its struggle, it gave up the fight, and Rupert landed it on the bank, just opposite to where Mrs. Shaw lay. But the girl was hurt—unjustifiably so, perhaps. She had wished to say something to him, and he had stopped her. He had actually stopped her, when she was about to say something which he ought to have been keen to hear. He had stopped her, in order to secure a fish!
Her cheek burned as her feet trod the soft green sward, in the twilight of the trees. Surely this man could not really love her? Every true lover hung upon his mistress's words. Was it ever told of one yet that he preferred landing a fish to listening when his betrothed was about to unburthen her heart—to speak openly to him of all her perplexities? But she would do so to-morrow. Yes, she was resolved that she would speak very openly to him to-morrow. Perhaps they had both been mistaken. If so, it was far better that the engagement should be at an end.
At this point in her reflections she turned, and retraced her steps over the velvet moss. The trees hid her until she was close upon them—her aunt wide awake now, and looking up laughing, he standing over her, a smile of perplexity on his handsome face as he stroked his fair moustache.
"What shall I do? Shall I go after her?" were the words she heard.
"Of course, mon cher," replied Mrs. Shaw. "Go at once. She requires as much play as that fish; and if you don't look out, you won't land her as cleverly."
No assiduity on his part during the remainder of that evening could wipe away the effect of those few words overheard. He might make himself charming, as he alone knew how, when he chose; but had he not been told that she was difficult to land? They were in league against her. And one part of the truth slowly, reluctantly, dawned on her mind. It must be for her money that he sought her. It was a horrible suspicion, and doubly so when associated with the idea of her aunt's co-operation. She had never thoroughly responded to Mrs. Shaw's affection, but she had never questioned it. Her aunt's kindness had been invariable. What could be her motive for encouraging, if not instigating, this marriage? Was it the ambition to be allied to a man highly connected, and prominent in the world of fashion? It was sickening. Her aunt was so shallow, so frivolous, that she could not be expected to take other than a superficial view of marriage. But that she should allude to it, in this case, as the prospect of Elizabeth's being "landed," rankled in the girl's breast. She would certainly speak very openly to-morrow morning, not only to Rupert, but to Mrs. Shaw. She would not be "landed." The hook which had been adroitly slipped into her foolish heart should be extracted. If she did not actually break off the engagement, she would at least insist on a much longer term of probation than she had contemplated.
They sat out in the verandah, he and she, in the hot darkness—there were no stars visible to-night, and the air was heavy with thunder—while Mrs. Shaw played waltzes in the drawing-room, which, borne through the open window, were a pleasant accompaniment to his persuasive monologue. She said but little; she listened. He abstained from overt love-making; instinct told him that she was not in the mood to imbibe the poison. But he must exert himself to entertain her; and he did. They could not see each other's faces; the burning end of his cigar, as he moved it to and fro, in the intervals of speech, was the only light that played upon the silhouette of his head, lying back in the wicker chair.
How often, afterwards, the picture, the very tones of the man whom she saw that night, "as in a glass, darkly," returned to her! She remembered the spell of his voice, struggling to reassert its ascendency over her half-awakened consciousness; she heard the sentimental, sensual swing of that Viennese waltz, delicately touched, in the distance. And then at last the piano was shut, and Mrs. Shaw rang the bell, after which she came out into the verandah.
"I think it is time, Bessie, that we went to bed. We will leave the colonel to his cigars and his B. and S. I wish I could sit up half the night, but I can't. I am quite prostrate with the heat—ain't you?"
Elizabeth remembered also, afterwards, how her aunt had kissed her, when they bade each other good night in the corridor which divided their rooms; and how, when she returned the salutation, she had said—
"I must have a long talk with you, aunty, to-morrow."
And then they parted.
Elizabeth's room felt stifling as she entered it, although the window leading on to the balcony stood wide open. The faint odour of a cigar rose from the verandah below. She never kept her little maid up; she was independent of all services, and began slowly to undress herself. The hands, now and again, fell listless, and once she rested her burning head between them, for some minutes, on the dressing-table. Then she heard a little movement in the verandah below—a door being closed and bolted; after which all was silence. She generally read before going to bed, but not to-night. She was restless and feverish, and walked up and down her room for some time. After that, throwing her white peignoir round her, she stepped out upon the balcony. The night was so black that even the outline of the elms against the sky was indistinguishable. It was scarcely cooler here than in her bedroom, but she could breathe better. There was space and utter darkness, and a silence broken only by the rumble of a storm far away among the hills. She felt disinclined to go to bed. Her mind was on the full stretch; incapable of oblivion. Atmospheric influences, no doubt, tended to aggravate her condition. Her heart was sore troubled, her thoughts tossed to and fro on a sea of perplexity.
Once a dog barked in the stable-yard, and once she heard the cry of the night-jay. There was no other sound but the distant roll of thunder at long intervals. The house had been still certainly for more than an hour, when a faint glimmer of light, streaming through the open window of the corridor next to her own, attracted her attention. By shifting her position a yard or two on the balcony where she stood, and leaning forward, she could look down the whole length of the broad passage, which ran, as I have said, from one end of the house to the other. A figure was gliding towards her—a figure she recognized at once—clad in a dressing-gown, and in his hand a lighted taper. His neck was bare; the collar of his silk shirt thrown back, his naked feet thrust into soft slippers that fell noiseless on the carpet as he stole along.
Elizabeth's heart beat violently. He was still some distance from the window, and she was prepared to return precipitately, thinking he was coming on to the balcony, when he stopped at a door on the opposite side of the passage, and opening it softly, entered.
It was the door of Mrs. Shaw's bedroom.
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How long Elizabeth remained there, she never knew. She was conscious, after a time, of staggering back into her room, half-stunned, and of flinging herself upon her bed. She could not be said to feel anything. The unutterable horror of what had thus accidentally come to her knowledge seemed to have turned her to stone. An abyss of depravity, such as she had never dreamt of, yawned at her feet. The cruelty, the hypocrisy, the conspiracy, of the guilty couple—she understood it all, as her mind slowly regained its equilibrium. She had been their dupe. As to the man, no words were strong enough to tell his baseness—his vile, sordid treachery. And she, who said she stood in the light of a mother towards Elizabeth—her depravity was, if possible, worse. Instead of a protectress, she had done her best to sacrifice the girl committed to her charge. In order to enrich her lover, and to keep him near her, Mrs. Shaw had plotted this devilish scheme. Her niece's life would be ruined—but what of that?
And Uncle William,—poor, kind, deluded Uncle William! The tears, for the first time, welled into her eyes as she thought of him—so good and so deceived. She was powerless to help him. She could help herself, but him she could not help. She knew that from the first. Of course, nothing should induce her to remain here. She would flee to the uttermost parts of the earth, from this sink of iniquity, but she could not take him with her. She sat up; she tried to arrange her thoughts, her plan of action. And as her self-possession returned, the scheme by which she might escape undetected, and without fear of being followed, slowly formed and perfected itself.
The dawn had broken, and the stable clock struck four soon afterwards. The storm had swept away; in the east the pale gold sky was untroubled with clouds; the birds were twittering to each other in the thick-leaved boughs; a cock crowed from the poultry-yard. Elizabeth was completely dressed; she had been arranging some papers, and securing the few jewels which had been her mother's, about her person. She now looked at the time-table of trains. The first to London passed at eight, and it was half an hour's drive to the station. She had three hours before her. The post arrived at Farley very early, and as Elizabeth often rode soon after six on these summer mornings, she sometimes unlocked the bag herself. She determined that, in order to give a colour to her action, an imaginary letter should cause her to order the dog-cart, which was to take her and her maid to the station. The maid would, indeed, be worse than useless in the life she had resolved on pursuing; but, for the moment, it was important to avoid the appearance of flight, and the maid could be discharged in London. By this means she would be halfway there before Mrs. Shaw, who never breakfasted till ten, came downstairs. The letter which Elizabeth now sat down to write was to be placed upon the breakfast-table. It ran as follows:—
In the same cover was another letter, unsealed, addressed to William Shaw.
"My dear Uncle" (it began),
"I am, as you know, a hot-headed girl, and I am also very obstinate. I have broken my engagement. The breach between Colonel Wybrowe and me is irreparable. I will never willingly see him again. I know now that he only wanted to marry me for my money. Nothing that you or any one else can say would persuade me to the contrary. And, as I desire to avoid all discussion—in fact, never to hear the subject named again—I have, after a violent quarrel with my aunt, resolved to quit your roof, and lead an independent life. I am afraid you will think me not only headstrong, but ungrateful. I assure you I am not. And do not be the least uneasy about me. I have my own very definite views about life—the life that it will best suit me to lead—a life in which there is no love-making, nor false protestations of devotion. Mr. Twisden will know where I am, but he will be under a solemn promise not to give my address to any one, and I entreat you to abstain from any attempt to follow me. It would be quite useless. My life will be a very retired one for some years, and for that I have, as you know, ample means at my command. You and Mr. Twisden will continue to manage my affairs.
"Believe me, my dear uncle, in spite of my seeming heartlessness in leaving Farley without other farewell than this,
Before sealing the large envelope which contained these letters, the girl got up and unlocked the door of the studio, which opened into her bedroom. The early morning light fell on the portrait of Rupert Wybrowe, as it stood near the window. For a few seconds she remained irresolute on the threshold; then, taking a penknife from her pocket, she walked deliberately up to the picture and cut it into shreds. She looked round to see if there was anything she should take with her, but deciding that the fewer impediments she had on her journey the better, she left the room, so full of painful memories to her now, and locking it once more, dropped the small key into the envelope addressed to Mrs. Shaw.
She called her maid in the adjoining room a little before six o'clock. The girl was surprised to see her mistress already dressed, and when she entered, to find Elizabeth sorting the clothes she meant to take from those that were to be left behind.
"Go down and see if the post-bag is come, Jane. I am expecting a letter which may oblige me to go to London by the early train."
Oddly enough, there was a letter. Elizabeth had so few correspondents, that she opened this with surprise; yet more so when she found that it might (by a strained interpretation) be called the very summons her imagination had devised. Mr. Joshua Twisden wrote, in consequence of her uncle's letter, received the previous day, to express his regret that he would be quite unable to go down to Farley, or, indeed, to leave London for many weeks, being confined to the house by a bad fall, which necessitated complete rest. He could, indeed, send his nephew, Mr. George Daintree, to take Miss Shaw's instructions; but he should much prefer seeing her himself, as one of her trustees, and her late father's intimate friend, before any marriage settlements were drawn up. If, therefore, Miss Shaw could make it convenient to come to London any day, and would wire to him, he would keep the hour she appointed free.
"Tell my groom to have the dog-cart ready at half-past seven; then choose a couple of boxes—whatever will go best on the cart—and my travelling-bag, and have them brought here."
Being in mourning, she had few dresses to choose from, and as she desired to be burthened with as little as possible, she took no evening frocks, which she knew would be superfluous. A certain grey embroidered gown would have been light and useful in this summer dust, but she would not even touch it. She shut the wardrobe on it sharply, and left lying in the open drawer a string of small pearls which her aunt had given her last Christmas.
A few souvenirs of her happy school-days, one or two favourite books, a sketch of her old home, some studies of her horse Bruno, and of her dogs,—she threw them into the boxes, which were plentifully large for her needs. The maid, seeing that her mistress left more than half her clothes behind, was satisfied to take for herself only what she would require for a few days.
Elizabeth gulped down the coffee and rolls they brought her. She had one more thing to do—the only thing that cost her a pang. She descended the stair with a firm tread, and passed the open drawing-room, where the maids were sweeping, and where Coco from his cage was calling out, "Drat that girl!" The bird was connected with her, Elizabeth shuddered, as she said to herself she could never tolerate a parrot again. She passed by, and out of the hall door, and on to the stable-yard. There was nothing in the house that she ever wished to see again; she could not leave Farley without bidding her old horse farewell. She went into his stall, and laid her cheek against his soft nose, and stroked his silken crest.
"How much better are the beasts of the field than men!" she murmured. "Treachery and falsehood are unknown to them."
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A few minutes later the dog-cart was flying through the lanes. It bore the embittered girl away from the house which had sheltered her since her father's death, nine months before. And she left it with loathing.