CHAPTER III.
Thus far, I have written in sore haste, to tell, as plainly and asbriefly as possible, that which has darkened all my life. Though itnever leaves my waking thoughts, to dwell upon it before others is agonyto me. Henceforth my tale will flow perhaps more easily, until I fallagain into a grief almost as dark, and am struck by storms of passionwhich childhood's stature does not reach.
When the shock of the household, and the wonder of the county, and thehopes of constables (raised by a thousand pounds' reward) had subsidedgradually, my mother continued to live in the old mansion, perhapsbecause none of her friends came forward to remove her. Under myfather's will she was the sole executrix; but all the estates (includinghouse and park) were left to my father's nearest relative, as trusteefor myself, with a large annuity to my mother charged upon them. Therewere many other provisions and powers in the will, which are of noconsequence to my story. The chief estate was large and rich, extendingthree or four miles from the house, which stood in a beautiful part ofGloucestershire. The entire rental was about 12,000*l.* a year. Myfather (whose name was Henry Valentine Vaughan), being a very active manin the prime of life, had employed no steward, but managed everythinghimself. The park, and two or three hundred acres round it, had alwaysbeen kept in hand; the rest was let to thriving tenants, who loved (asthey expressed it) "every hair on the head of a Vaughan." There wasalso a small farm near the sea, in a lonely part of Devonshire; but thiswas my mother's, having been left to her by her father, a clergyman inthat neighbourhood.
My father's nearest relative was his half-brother, Edgar Vaughan, whohad been educated for the Bar, and at one time seemed likely to becomeeminent; then suddenly he gave up his practice, and resided (or ratherroved) abroad, during several years. Sinister rumours about him reachedour neighbourhood, not long before my father's death. To these,however, the latter paid no attention, but always treated his brotherEdgar with much cordiality and affection. But all admitted that EdgarVaughan had far outrun his income as a younger son, which amounted toabout 600*l.* a year. Of course, therefore, my father had often helpedhim.
On the third day after that night, my guardian came to Vaughan Park. Hewas said to have hurried from London, upon learning there what hadhappened.
The servants and others had vainly and foolishly tried to keep from methe nature of my loss. Soon I found out all they knew, and when thefirst tit and horror left me, I passed my whole time, light or dark, inroving from passage to passage, from room to room, from closet tocloset, searching every chink and cranny for the murderer of my father.Though heretofore a timid child, while so engaged I knew not such athing as fear; but peered, and groped, and listened, feeling every inchof wall and wainscot, crawling lest I should alarm my prey, spyingthrough the slit of every door, and shaking every empty garment.Certain boards there were near the east window which sounded hollow; atthese I scooped until I broke my nails. In vain nurse Maples locked mein her room, held me at her side, or even bound me to the bed. Myravings forced her soon to yield, and I would not allow her, or any oneelse, to follow me. The Gloucester physician said that since thedisease of my mind had taken that shape, it would be more dangerous tothwart than to indulge it.
It was the evening of the third day, and weary with but never _of_ mysearch, I was groping down the great oak-staircase in the dusk, handafter hand, and foot by foot, when suddenly the main door-bell rang.The snow was falling heavily, and had deadened the sound of wheels. Atonce I slid (as my father had taught me to do) down the broadbalustrade, ran across the entrance-hall, and with my whole strengthdrew back the bolt of the lock. There I stood in the porch,unfrightened, but with a new kind of excitement on me. A tall dark mancame up the steps, and shook the snow from his boots. The carriage-lampshone in my face. I would not let him cross the threshold, but stoodthere and confronted him. He pretended to take me for some servant'schild, and handed me a parcel covered with snow. I flung it down, andsaid, looking him full in the face, "I am Clara Vaughan, and you are theman who killed my father." "Carry her in, John," he said to theservant--"carry her in, or the poor little thing will die. What eyes!"and he used some foreign oath--"what wonderful eyes she has!"
That burst of passion was the last conscious act of the young andover-laboured brain. For three months I wandered outside the gates ofsorrow. My guardian, as they told me, was most attentive throughout thewhole course of the fever, and even in the press of business visited methree times every day. Meanwhile, my mother was slowly shaking off thestupor which lay upon her, and the new fear of losing me came throughthat thick heaviness, like the wind through a fog. Doubtless it helpedto restore her senses, and awoke her to the work of life. Then, as timewent on, her former beauty and gentleness came back, and her reason too,as regarded other subjects. But as to that which all so longed to know,not a spark of evidence could be had from her. The faintest allusion tothat crime, the name of her loved husband, the mere word "murder"uttered in her presence--and the consciousness would leave her eyes,like a loan withdrawn. Upright she sat and rigid as when she was foundthat night, with the lines of her face as calm and cold as moonlight.Only two means there were by which her senses could be restored: one waslow sweet music, the other profound sleep. She was never thrown intothis cataleptic state by her own thoughts or words, nor even by those ofothers when in strict sequence upon her own. But any attempt to leadher to that one subject, no matter how craftily veiled, was sure to endin this. The skilful physician, who had known her many years, judged,after special study of this disease, in which he felt deep interest,that it was always present in her brain, but waited for external aid tomaster her. I need not say that she was now unfit for any stranger'sconverse, and even her most careful friends must touch sometimes themotive string.
As I recovered slowly from long illness, the loss of my best friend andthe search for my worst enemy revived and reigned within me. Sometimesmy guardian would deign to reason with me upon what he called "mymonomania." When he did so, I would fix my eyes upon him, but nevertried to answer. Now and then, those eyes seemed to cause him someuneasiness; at other times he would laugh and compare them pleasantly tothe blue fire-damp in a coal-mine. His dislike of their scrutiny waswell known to me, and incited me the more to urge it. But in spite ofall, he was ever kind and gentle to me, and even tried some grimlyplayful overtures to my love, which fled from him with loathing, albeita slow conviction formed that I had wronged him by suspicion.
Edgar Malins Vaughan, then about thirty-seven years old, was (I suppose)a very handsome man, and perhaps of a more striking presence than mydearest father. His face, when he was pleased, reminded me strongly ofthe glance and smile I had lost, but never could it convey that softsweet look, which still came through the clouds to me, now and then indreams. The outlines of my guardian's face were keener too andstronger, and his complexion far more swarthy. His eyes were of a hardsteel-blue, and never seemed to change. A slight lameness, perceptibleonly at times, did not impair his activity, but served him as a pretextfor declining all field-sports, for which (unlike my father) he had noreal taste.
His enjoyments, if he had any--and I suppose all men have some--seemedto consist in the management of the estate (which he took entirely uponhimself), in satiric literature and the news of the day, or in lonelyrides and sails upon the lake. It was hinted too, by Thomas Kenwood,who disliked and feared him strangely, that he drank spirits or foreigncordials in his own room, late at night. There was nothing to confirmthis charge; he was always up betimes, his hand was never tremulous, nordid his colour change.
Clara Vaughan, Volume 1 (of 3) Page 3
