Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “Well, as the horse was not specified in your father’s will, and as all his horses and carriages were left to your mother, I think there cannot be any doubt that Arion is my wife’s property.”

  “Why not say your property? Why give unnatural prominence to a cipher? Do you think I hold my poor mother to blame for any wrong that is done to me, or to others, in this house? No, Captain Winstanley, I have no resentment against my mother. She is a blameless nullity, dressed in the latest fashion.”

  “Go and pack your boxes!” cried the Captain angrily. “Do you want to raise the devil that was raised last night? Do you want another conflagration? It might be a worse one this time. I have had a night of fever and unrest.”

  “Am I to blame for that?’

  “Yes — you beautiful fury. It was your image kept me awake. I shall sleep sounder when you are out of this house.”

  “I shall be ready to start at ten o’clock,” said Vixen, in a business-like tone which curiously contrasted this sudden gust of passion on the part of her foe, and humiliated him to the dust. He loathed himself for having let her see her power to hurt him.

  She left him, and went straight upstairs to her room, and gave Phoebe directions about the packing of her portmanteaux, with no more outward semblance of emotion than she might have shown had she been starting on a round of pleasant visits under the happiest circumstances. The faithful Phoebe began to cry when she heard that Miss Tempest was going away for a long time, and that she was not to go with her; and poor Vixen had to console her maid instead of brooding upon her own griefs.

  “Never mind, Phoebe,” she said; “it is as hard for me to lose you as it is for you to lose me. I shall never forget what a devoted little thing you have been, and all the muddy habits you have brushed without a murmur. A few years hence I shall be my own mistress, and have plenty of money, and then, wherever I may be, you shall come to me. If you are married you shall be my housekeeper, and your husband shall be my butler, and your children shall run wild about the place, and be made as much of as the litter of young foxes Bates reared in a corner of the stable-yard, when Mr. Vawdrey was at Eton.”

  “Oh, miss, I don’t want no husband nor no children, I only want you for my missus. And when you come of age, will you live here, miss?”

  “No, Phoebe. The Abbey House will belong to mamma all her life. Poor mamma! may it be long before the dear old house comes to me. But when I am of age, and my own mistress I shall find a place somewhere in the Forest, you may be sure of that, Phoebe.”

  Phoebe dried her honest tears, and made haste with the packing, believing that Miss Tempest was leaving home for her own pleasure, and that she, Phoebe, was the only victim of adverse fate.

  The day wore on quickly, though it was laden with sorrow. Vixen had a great deal to do in her den; papers to look over, old letters, pen-and-ink sketches, and scribblings of all kinds to destroy, books and photographs to pack. There were certain things she could not leave behind her. Then there was a melancholy hour to spend in the stable, feeding, caressing, and weeping over Arion, who snorted his tenderest snorts, and licked her hands with abject devotion — almost as if he knew they were going to part, Vixen thought.

  Last of all came the parting with her mother. Vixen had postponed this with an aching dread of a scene, in which she might perchance lose her temper, and be betrayed into bitter utterances that she would afterwards repent with useless tears. She had spoken the truth to her stepfather when she told him that she held her mother blameless; yet the fact that she had but the smallest share in that mother’s heart was cruelly patent to her.

  It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon when Pauline came to Violet’s room with a message from Mrs. Winstanley. She had been very ill all the morning, Pauline informed Miss Tempest, suffering severely from nervous headache, and obliged to lie in a darkened room. Even now she was barely equal to seeing anyone.

  “Then she had better not see me,” said Vixen icily; “I can write her a little note to say good-bye. Perhaps it would be just as well. Tell mamma that I will write, Pauline.”

  Pauline departed with this message, and returned in five minutes with a distressed visage.

  “Oh, miss!” she exclaimed, “your message quite upset your poor mamma. She said, ‘How could she?’ and began to get almost hysterical. And those hysterical fits end in such fearful headaches.”

  “I will come at once,” said Vixen.

  Mrs. Winstanley was lying on a sofa near an open window, the Spanish blinds lowered to exclude the afternoon sunshine, the perfume of the gardens floating in upon the soft summer air. A tiny teapot and cup and saucer on a Japanese tray showed that the invalid had been luxuriating in her favourite stimulant. There were vases of flowers about the room, and an all-pervading perfume and coolness — a charm half sensuous, half aesthetic.

  “Violet, how could you send me such a message?” remonstrated the invalid fretfully.

  “Dear mamma, I did not want to trouble you. I know how you shrink from all painful things; and you and I could hardly part without pain, as we are parting to-day. Would it not have been better to avoid any farewell?”

  “If you had any natural affection, you would never have suggested such a thing.”

  “Then perhaps I have never had any natural affection,” answered Vixen, with subdued bitterness; “or only so small a stock that it ran out early in my life, and left me cold and hard and unloving. I am sorry we are parting like this, mamma. I am still more sorry that you could not spare me a little of the regard which you have bestowed so lavishly upon a stranger.”

  “Violet, how can you?” sobbed her mother. “To accuse me of withholding my affection from you, when I have taken such pains with you from your very cradle! I am sure your frocks, from the day you were short-coated, were my constant care; and when you grew a big, lanky girl, who would have looked odious in commonplace clothes, it was my delight to invent picturesque and becoming costumes for you. I have spent hours poring over books of prints, studying Vandyke and Sir Peter Lely, and I have let you wear some of my most valuable lace; and as for indulgence of your whims! Pray when have I ever thwarted you in anything?”

  “Forgive me, mamma!” cried Vixen penitently. She divined dimly — even in the midst of that flood of bitter feeling in which her young soul was overwhelmed — that Mrs. Winstanley had been a good mother, according to her lights. The tree had borne such fruit as was natural to its kind. “Pray forgive me! You have been good and kind and indulgent, and we should have gone on happily together to the end of the chapter, if fate had been kinder.”

  “It’s no use your talking of fate in that way, Violet,” retorted her mother captiously. “I know you mean Conrad.”

  “Perhaps I do, mamma; but don’t let us talk of him any more. We should never agree about him. You and he can be quite happy when I am gone. Poor, dear, trusting, innocent-minded mamma!” cried Vixen, kneeling by her mother’s chair, and putting her arms round her ever so tenderly. “May your path of life be smooth and strewn with flowers when I am gone. If Captain Winstanley does not always treat you kindly, he will be a greater scoundrel than I think him. But he has always been kind to you, has he not, mamma? You are not hiding any sorrow of yours from me?’ asked Vixen, fixing her great brown eyes on her mother’s face with earnest inquiry. She had assumed the maternal part. She seemed an anxious mother questioning her daughter.

  “Kind to me,” echoed Mrs. Winstanley. “He has been all goodness. We have never had a difference of opinion since we were married.”

  “No, mamma, because you always defer to his opinion.”

  “Is not that my duty, when I know how clever and far-seeing he is?”

  “Frankly, dear mother, are you as happy with this new husband of yours — so wise and far-seeing, and determined to have his own way in everything — as you were with my dear, indulgent, easy-tempered father?”

  Pamela Winstanley burst into a passion of tears.

  “How can you be so cruel?�
�� she exclaimed. “Who can give back the past, or the freshness and brightness of one’s youth? Of course I was happier with your dear father than I can ever be again. It is not in nature that it should be otherwise. How could you be so heartless as to ask me such a question?”

  She dried her tears slowly, and was not easily comforted. It seemed as if that speech of Violet’s had touched a spring that opened a fountain of grief.

  “This means that mamma is not happy with her second husband, in spite of her praises of him,” thought Vixen.

  She remained kneeling by her mother’s side comforting her as best she could, until Mrs. Winstanley had recovered from the wound her daughter’s heedless words had inflicted, and then Violet began to say good-bye.

  “You will write to me sometimes, won’t you, mamma, and tell me how the dear old place is going on, and about the old people who die — dear familiar white heads that I shall never see again — and the young people who get married, and the babies that are born? You will write often, won’t you, mamma?”

  “Yes, dear, as often as my strength will allow.”

  “You might even get Pauline to write to me sometimes, to tell me how you are and what you are doing; that would be better than nothing.”

  “Pauline shall write when I am not equal to holding a pen,” sighed Mrs. Winstanley.

  “And, dear mamma, if you can prevent it, don’t let any more of the old servants be sent away. If they drop off one by one home will seem like a strange place at last. Remember how they loved my dear father, how attached and faithful they have been to us. They are like our own flesh and blood.”

  “I should never willingly part with servants who know my ways, Violet. But as to Bates’s dismissal — there are some things I had rather not discuss with you — I am sure that Conrad acted for the best, and from the highest motives.”

  “Do you know anything about this place to which I am going, mamma?” asked Vixen, letting her mother’s last speech pass without comment; “or the lady who is to be my duenna?”

  “Your future has been fully discussed between Conrad and me, Violet. He tells me that the old Jersey manor house — Les Tourelles it is called — is a delightful place, one of the oldest seats in Jersey, and Miss Skipwith, to whom it belongs, is a well-informed conscientious old lady, very religious, I believe, so you will have to guard against your sad habit of speaking lightly about sacred things, my dear Violet.”

  “Do you intend me to live there for ever, mamma?”

  “For ever! What a foolish question. In six years you will be of age, and your own mistress.”

  “Six years — six years in a Jersey manor house — with a pious old lady. Don’t you think that would seem very much like for ever, mamma?” asked Vixen gravely.

  “My dear Violet, neither Conrad nor I want to banish you from your natural home. We only want you to learn wisdom. When Mr. Vawdrey is married, and when you have learnt to think more kindly of my dear husband — —”

  “That last change will never happen to me, mamma. I should have to die and be born again first, and, even then, I think my dislike of Captain Winstanley is so strong that purgatorial fires would hardly burn it out. No, mamma, we had better say good-bye without any forecast of the future. Let us forget all that is sad in our parting, and think we are only going to part for a little while.”

  Many a time in after days did Violet Tempest remember those last serious words of hers. The rest of her conversation with her mother was about trifles, the trunks and bonnet-boxes she was to carry with her — the dresses she was to wear in her exile.

  “Of course in a retired old house in Jersey, with an elderly maiden lady, you will not see much society,” said Mrs. Winstanley; “but Miss Skipwith must know people — no doubt the best people in the island — and I should not like you to be shabby. Are you really positive that you have dresses enough to carry you over next winter?”

  This last question was asked with deepest solemnity.

  “More than enough, mamma.”

  “And do you think your last winter’s jacket will do?”

  “Excellently.”

  “I’m very glad of that,” said her mother, with a sigh of relief, “for I have an awful bill of Theodore’s hanging over my head. I have been paying her sums on account ever since your poor papa’s death; and you know that is never quite satisfactory. All that one has paid hardly seems to make any difference in the amount due at the end.”

  “Don’t worry yourself about your bill, mamma. Let it stand over till I come of age, and then I can help you to pay it.”

  “You are very generous, dear; but Theodore would not wait so long, even for me. Be sure you take plenty of wraps for the steamer. Summer nights are often chilly.”

  Vixen thought of last night, and the long straight ride through the pine wood, the soft scented air, the young moon shining down at her, and Rorie by her side. Ah, when should she ever know such a summer night as that again?

  “Sit down in this low chair by me, and have a cup of tea, dear,” said Mrs. Winstanley, growing more affectionate as the hour of parting drew nearer. “Let us have kettledrum together for the last time, till you come back to us.”

  “For the last time, mamma!” echoed Violet sadly.

  She could not imagine any possible phase of circumstances that would favour her return. Could she come back to see Roderick Vawdrey happy with his wife? Assuredly not. Could she school herself to endure life under the roof that sheltered Conrad Winstanley? A thousand times no. Coming home was something to be dreamt about when she lay asleep in a distant land; but it was a dream that never could be realised. She must make herself a new life, somehow, among new people. The old life died to-day.

  She sat and sipped her tea, and listened while her mother talked cheerfully of the future, and even pretended to agree; but her heart was heavy as lead.

  An hour was dawdled away thus, and then, when Mrs. Winstanley began to think about dressing for dinner, Vixen went off to finish her packing. She excused herself from going down to dinner on the plea or having so much to do.

  “You could send me up something, please, mamma,” she said. “I am sure you and Captain Winstanley will dine more pleasantly without me. I shall see you for a minute in the hall, before I start.”

  “You must do as you please, dear,” replied her mother. “I hardly feel equal to going down to dinner myself; but it would not be fair to let Conrad eat a second meal in solitude, especially when we are to be parted for two or three days and he is going across the sea. I shall not have a minute’s rest to-night, thinking of you both.”

  “Sleep happily, dear mother, and leave us to Providence. The voyage cannot be perilous in such weather as this,” said Vixen, with assumed cheerfulness.

  Two hours later the carriage was at the door, and Violet Tempest was ready to start. Her trunks were on the roof of the brougham, her dressing-bag, and travelling-desk, and wraps were stowed away inside; Argus was by her side, his collar provided with a leather strap, by which she could hold him when necessary. Captain Winstanley was smoking a cigar on the porch.

  Mrs. Winstanley came weeping out of the drawing-room, and hugged her daughter silently. Violet returned the embrace, but said not a word till just at the last.

  “Dear mother,” she whispered earnestly, “never be unhappy about me. Let me bear the blame of all that has gone amiss between us.”

  “You had better be quick, Miss Tempest, if you want to be in time for the boat,” said the Captain from the porch.

  “I am quite ready,” answered Vixen calmly.

  Phoebe was at the carriage-door, tearful, and in everybody’s way, but pretending to help. Argus was sent up to the box, where he sat beside the coachman with much gravity of demeanour, having first assured himself that his mistress was inside the carriage. Mrs. Winstanley stood in the porch, kissing her hand; and so the strong big horses bore the carriage away, through the dark shrubberies, between banks of shadowy foliage, out into the forest-road, which was
full of ghosts at this late hour, and would have struck terror to the hearts of any horses unaccustomed to its sylvan mysteries.

  They drove through Lyndhurst, where the twinkling little lights in the shop-windows were being extinguished by envious shutters, and where the shop-keepers paused in their work of extinction to stare amazedly at the passing carriage; not that a carriage was a strange apparition in Lyndhurst, but because the inhabitants had so little to do except stare.

  Anon they came to Bolton’s Bench, beneath a cluster of pine-trees on a hilly bit of common, and then the long straight road to Southampton lay before them in the faint moonshine, with boggy levels, black furze-bushes, and a background of wood on either side. Violet sat looking steadily out of the window, watching every bit of the road. How could she tell when she would see it again — or if ever, save in sad regretful dreams?

  They mounted the hill, from whose crest Vixen took one last backwards look at the wide wild land that lay behind them — a look of ineffable love and longing. And then she threw herself back in the carriage, and gave herself up to gloomy thought. There was nothing more that she cared to see. They had entered the tame dull world of civilisation. They drove through the village of Eling, where lights burned dimly here and there in upper windows; they crossed the slow meandering river at Redbridge. Already the low line of lights in Southampton city began to shine faintly in the distance. Violet shut her eyes and let the landscape go by. Suburban villas, suburban gardens on a straight road beside a broad river with very little water in it. There was nothing here to regret.

  It was past eleven when they drove under the old bar, and through the high street of Southampton. The town seemed strange to Vixen at this unusual hour. The church clocks were striking the quarter. Down by the docks everything had a gray and misty look, sky and water indistinguishable. There lay the Jersey boat, snorting and puffing, amidst the dim grayness. Captain Winstanley conducted his charge to the ladies’ cabin, with no more words than were positively necessary. They had not spoken once during the drive from the Abbey House to Southampton.