Upon the Egyptian darkness of Edward Arundel’s life this girl arose as a star, and by–and–by all the horizon brightened under her influence. The soldier had been very little in the society of women. His mother, his sister Letitia, his cousin Olivia, and John Marchmont’s gentle daughter were the only women whom he had ever known in the familiar freedom of domestic intercourse; and he trusted himself in the presence of this beautiful and noble–minded girl in utter ignorance of any danger to his own peace of mind. He suffered himself to be happy at Lawford Grange; and in those quiet hours which he spent there he put away his old life, and forgot the stern purpose that alone held him a prisoner in England.
But when he went back to his lonely dwelling–place, he reproached himself bitterly for that which he considered a treason against his love.
“What right have I to be happy amongst these people?” he thought; “what right have I to take life easily, even for an hour, while my darling lies in her unhallowed grave, and the man who drove her to her death remains unpunished? I will never go to Lawford Grange again.”
It seemed, however, as if everybody, except Belinda, was in a plot against this idle soldier; for sometimes Letitia coaxed him to ride back with her after one of her visits to Kemberling Retreat, and very often the Major himself insisted, in a hearty military fashion, upon the young man’s taking the empty seat in his dog–cart, to be driven over to the Grange. Edward Arundel had never once mentioned Mary’s name to any member of this hospitable and friendly family. They were very good to him, and were prepared, he knew, to sympathise with him; but he could not bring himself to talk of his lost wife. The thought of that rash and desperate act which had ended her short life was too cruel to him. He would not speak of her, because he would have had to plead excuses for that one guilty act; and her image to him was so stainless and pure, that he could not bear to plead for her as for a sinner who had need of men’s pity, rather than a claim to their reverence.
“Her life had been so sinless,” he cried sometimes; “and to think that it should have ended in sin! If I could forgive Paul Marchmont for all the rest––if I could forgive him for my loss of her, I would never forgive him for that.”
The young widower kept silence, therefore, upon the subject which occupied so large a share of his thoughts, which was every day and every night the theme of his most earnest prayers; and Mary’s name was never spoken in his presence at Lawford Grange.
But in Edward Arundel’s absence the two girls sometimes talked of the sad story.
“Do you really think, Letitia, that your brother’s wife committed suicide?” Belinda asked her friend.
“Oh, as for that, there can’t be any doubt about it, dear,” answered Miss Arundel, who was of a lively, not to say a flippant, disposition, and had no very great reverence for solemn things; “the poor dear creature drowned herself. I think she must have been a little wrong in her head. I don’t say so to Edward, you know; at least, I did say so once when he was at Dangerfield, and he flew into an awful passion, and called me hard–hearted and cruel, and all sorts of shocking things; so, of course, I have never said so since. But really, the poor dear thing’s goings–on were so eccentric: first she ran away from her stepmother and went and hid herself in a horrid lodging; and then she married Edward at a nasty church in Lambeth, without so much as a wedding–dress, or a creature to give her away, or a cake, or cards, or anything Christian–like; and then she ran away again; and as her father had been a super––what’s its name?––a man who carries banners in pantomimes, and all that––I dare say she’d seen Mr. Macready as Hamlet, and had Ophelia’s death in her head when she ran down to the river–side and drowned herself. I’m sure it’s a very sad story; and, of course, I’m awfully sorry for Edward.”
The young lady said no more than this; but Belinda brooded over the story of that early marriage,––the stolen honeymoon, the sudden parting. How dearly they must have loved each other, the young bride and bridegroom, absorbed in their own happiness, and forgetful of all the outer world! She pictured Edward Arundel’s face as it must have been before care and sorrow had blotted out the brightest attribute of his beauty. She thought of him, and pitied him, with such tender sympathy, that by–and–by the thought of this young man’s sorrow seemed to shut almost every idea out of her mind. She went about all her duties still, cheerfully and pleasantly, as it was her nature to do everything; but the zest with which she had performed every loving office––every act of sweet benevolence, seemed lost to her now.
Remember that she was a simple country damsel, leading a quiet life, whose peaceful course was almost as calm and eventless as the existence of a cloister; a life so quiet that a decently–written romance from the Swampington book–club was a thing to be looked forward to with impatience, to read with breathless excitement, and to brood upon afterwards for months. Was it strange, then, that this romance in real life––this sweet story of love and devotion, with its sad climax,––this story, the scene of which lay within a few miles of her home, the hero of which was her father’s constant guest,––was it strange that this story, whose saddest charm was its truth, should make a strong impression upon the mind of an innocent and unworldly woman, and that day by day and hour by hour she should, all unconsciously to herself, feel a stronger interest in the hero of the tale?
She was interested in him. Alas! the truth must be set down, even if it has to be in the plain old commonplace words. She fell in love with him. But love in this innocent and womanly nature was so different a sentiment to that which had raged in Olivia’s stormy breast, that even she who felt it was unconscious of its gradual birth. It was not “an Adam at its birth,” by–the–by. It did not leap, Minerva–like, from the brain; for I believe that love is born of the brain oftener than of the heart, being a strange compound of ideality, benevolence, and veneration. It came rather like the gradual dawning of a summer’s day,––first a little patch of light far away in the east, very faint and feeble; then a slow widening of the rosy brightness; and at last a great blaze of splendour over all the width of the vast heavens. And then Miss Lawford grew more reserved in her intercourse with her friend’s brother. Her frank good–nature gave place to a timid, shrinking bashfulness, that made her ten times more fascinating than she had been before. She was so very young, and had mixed so little with the world, that she had yet to learn the comedy of life. She had yet to learn to smile when she was sorry, or to look sorrowful when she was pleased, as prudence might dictate––to blush at will, or to grow pale when it was politic to sport the lily tint. She was a natural, artless, spontaneous creature; and she was utterly powerless to conceal her emotions, or to pretend a sentiment she did not feel. She blushed rosy red when Edward Arundel spoke to her suddenly. She betrayed herself by a hundred signs; mutely confessing her love almost as artlessly as Mary had revealed her affection a twelvemonth before. But if Edward saw this, he gave no sign of having made the discovery. His voice, perhaps, grew a little lower and softer in its tone when he spoke to Belinda; but there was a sad cadence in that low voice, which was too mournful for the accent of a lover. Sometimes, when his eyes rested for a moment on the girl’s blushing face, a shadow would darken his own, and a faint quiver of emotion stir his lower lip; but it is impossible to say what this emotion may have been. Belinda hoped nothing, expected nothing. I repeat, that she was unconscious of the nature of her own feeling; and she had never for a moment thought of Edward otherwise than as a man who would go to his grave faithful to that sad love–story which had blighted the promise of his youth. She never thought of him otherwise than as Mary’s constant mourner; she never hoped that time would alter his feelings or wear out his constancy; yet she loved him, notwithstanding.
All through July and August the young man visited at the Grange, and at the beginning of September Letitia Arundel went back to Dangerfield. But even then Edward was still a frequent guest at Major Lawford’s; for his enthusiasm upon all military matters had made him a favourite
with the old officer. But towards the end of September Mr. Arundel’s visits suddenly were restricted to an occasional call upon the Major; he left off dining at the Grange; his evening rambles in the gardens with Mrs. Lawford and her blooming daughters––Belinda had no less than four blue–eyed sisters, all more or less resembling herself––ceased altogether, to the wonderment of every one in the old–fashioned country–house.
Edward Arundel shut out the new light which had dawned upon his life, and withdrew into the darkness. He went back to the stagnant monotony, the hopeless despondency, the bitter regret of his old existence.
“While my sister was at the Grange, I had an excuse for going there,” he said to himself sternly. “I have no excuse now.”
But the old monotonous life was somehow or other a great deal more difficult to bear than it had been before. Nothing seemed to interest the young man now. Even the records of Indian victories were “flat, stale, and unprofitable.” He wondered as he remembered with what eager impatience he had once pined for the coming of the newspapers, with what frantic haste he had devoured every syllable of the Indian news. All his old feelings seemed to have gone away, leaving nothing in his mind but a blank waste, a weary sickness of life and all belonging to it. Leaving nothing else––positively nothing? “No!” he answered, in reply to these mute questionings of his own spirit,––”no,” he repeated doggedly, “nothing.”
It was strange to find what a blank was left in his life by reason of his abandonment of the Grange. It seemed as if he had suddenly retired from an existence full of pleasure and delight into the gloomy solitude of La Trappe. And yet what was it that he had lost, after all? A quiet dinner at a country–house, and an evening spent half in the leafy silence of an old–fashioned garden, half in a pleasant drawing–room amongst a group of well–bred girls, and only enlivened by simple English ballads, or pensive melodies by Mendelssohn. It was not much to forego, surely. And yet Edward Arundel felt, in sacrificing these new acquaintances at the Grange to the stern purpose of his life, almost as if he had resigned a second captaincy for Mary’s sake.
CHAPTER XIV. THE CHILD’S VOICE IN THE PAVILION BY THE WATER.
The year wore slowly on. Letitia Arundel wrote very long letters to her friend and confidante, Belinda Lawford, and in each letter demanded particular intelligence of her brother’s doings. Had he been to the Grange? how had he looked? what had he talked about? &c., &c. But to these questions Miss Lawford could only return one monotonous reply: Mr. Arundel had not been to the Grange; or Mr. Arundel had called on papa one morning, but had only stayed a quarter of an hour, and had not been seen by any female member of the family.
The year wore slowly on. Edward endured his self–appointed solitude, and waited, waited, with a vengeful hatred for ever brooding in his breast, for the day of retribution. The year wore on, and the anniversary of the day upon which Mary ran away from the Towers, the 17th of October, came at last.
Paul Marchmont had declared his intention of taking possession of the Towers upon the day following this. The twelvemonth’s probation which he had imposed upon himself had expired; every voice was loud in praise of his conscientious and honourable conduct. He had grown very popular during his residence at Kemberling. Tenant farmers looked forward to halcyon days under his dominion; to leases renewed on favourable terms; to repairs liberally executed; to everything that is delightful between landlord and tenant. Edward Arundel heard all this through his faithful servitor, Mr. Morrison, and chafed bitterly at the news. This traitor was to be happy and prosperous, and to have the good word of honest men; while Mary lay in her unhallowed grave, and people shrugged their shoulders, half compassionately, half contemptuously, as they spoke of the mad heiress who had committed suicide.
Mr. Morrison brought his master tidings of all Paul Marchmont’s doings about this time. He was to take possession of the Towers on the 19th. He had already made several alterations in the arrangement of the different rooms. He had ordered new furniture from Swampington,––another man would have ordered it from London; but Mr. Marchmont was bent upon being popular, and did not despise even the good opinion of a local tradesman,––and by several other acts, insignificant enough in themselves, had asserted his ownership of the mansion which had been the airy castle of Mary Marchmont’s day–dreams ten years before.
The coming–in of the new master of Marchmont Towers was to be, take it altogether, a very grand affair. The Chorley–Castle foxhounds were to meet at eleven o’clock, upon the great grass–flat, or lawn, as it was popularly called, before the western front. The county gentry from far and near had been invited to a hunting breakfast. Open house was to be kept all day for rich and poor. Every male inhabitant of the district who could muster anything in the way of a mount was likely to join the friendly gathering. Poor Reynard is decidedly England’s most powerful leveller. All differences of rank and station, all distinctions which Mammon raises in every other quarter, melt away before the friendly contact of the hunting–field. The man who rides best is the best man; and the young butcher who makes light of sunk fences, and skims, bird–like, over bullfinches and timber, may hold his own with the dandy heir to half the country–side. The cook at Marchmont Towers had enough to do to prepare for this great day. It was the first meet of the season, and in itself a solemn festival. Paul Marchmont knew this; and though the Cockney artist of Fitzroy Square knew about as much of fox–hunting as he did of the source of the Nile, he seized upon the opportunity of making himself popular, and determined to give such a hunting–breakfast as had never been given within the walls of Marchmont Towers since the time of a certain rackety Hugh Marchmont, who had drunk himself to death early in the reign of George III. He spent the morning of the 17th in the steward’s room, looking through the cellar–book with the old butler, selecting the wines that were to be drunk the following day, and planning the arrangements for the mass of visitors, who were to be entertained in the great stone entrance–hall, in the kitchens, in the housekeeper’s room, in the servants’ hall, in almost every chamber that afforded accommodation for a guest.
“You will take care that people get placed according to their rank,” Paul said to the grey–haired servant. “You know everybody about here, I dare say, and will be able to manage so that we may give no offence.”
The gentry were to breakfast in the long dining–room and in the western drawing–room. Sparkling hocks and Burgundies, fragrant Moselles, champagnes of choicest brand and rarest bouquet, were to flow like water for the benefit of the country gentlemen who should come to do honour to Paul Marchmont’s installation. Great cases of comestibles had been sent by rail from Fortnum and Mason’s; and the science of the cook at the Towers had been taxed to the utmost, in the struggles which she made to prove herself equal to the occasion. Twenty–one casks of ale, every cask containing twenty–one gallons, had been brewed long ago, at the birth of Arthur Marchmont, and had been laid in the cellar ever since, waiting for the majority of the young heir who was never to come of age. This very ale, with a certain sense of triumph, Paul Marchmont ordered to be brought forth for the refreshment of the commoners.
“Poor young Arthur!” he thought, after he had given this order. “I saw him once when he was a pretty boy with fair ringlets, dressed in a suit of black velvet. His father brought him to my studio one day, when he came to patronise me and buy a picture of me,––out of sheer charity, of course, for he cared as much for pictures as I care for foxhounds. I was a poor relation then, and never thought to see the inside of Marchmont Towers. It was a lucky September morning that swept that bright–faced boy out of my pathway, and left only sickly John Marchmont and his daughter between me and fortune.”
Yes; Mr. Paul Marchmont’s year of probation was past. He had asserted himself to Messrs. Paulette, Paulette, and Mathewson, and before the face of all Lincolnshire, in the character of an honourable and high–minded man; slow to seize upon the fortune that had fallen to him, conscientious, punctilious, generous
, and unselfish. He had done all this; and now the trial was over, and the day of triumph had come.
There has been a race of villains of late years very popular with the novel–writer and the dramatist, but not, I think, quite indigenous to this honest British soil; a race of pale–faced, dark–eyed, and all–accomplished scoundrels, whose chiefest attribute is imperturbability. The imperturbable villain has been guilty of every iniquity in the black catalogue of crimes; but he has never been guilty of an emotion. He wins a million of money at trente et quarante, to the terror and astonishment of all Homburg; and by not so much as one twinkle of his eye or one quiver of his lip does that imperturbable creature betray a sentiment of satisfaction. Ruin or glory, shame or triumph, defeat, disgrace, or death,––all are alike to the callous ruffian of the Anglo–Gallic novel. He smiles, and murders while he smiles, and smiles while he murders. He kills his adversary, unfairly, in a duel, and wipes his sword on a cambric handkerchief; and withal he is so elegant, so fascinating, and so handsome, that the young hero of the novel has a very poor chance against him; and the reader can scarcely help being sorry when retribution comes with the last chapter, and some crushing catastrophe annihilates the well–bred scoundrel.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 209
