Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “I think you had better stay down here till the vessel has started, at any rate,” said the Captain, “there will be so much bustle and confusion on deck. I’ll take care of your dog.”

  “Thanks,” answered Vixen meekly. “Yes, I’ll stay here — you need not trouble yourself about me.”

  “Shall I send you something? A cup of tea, the wing of a chicken, a little wine and water?”

  “No, thanks, I don’t care about anything.”

  The Captain withdrew after this to look after the luggage, and to secure his own berth. The stewardess received Violet as if she had known her all her life, showed her the couch allotted to her, and to secure which the Captain had telegraphed that morning from Lyndhurst.

  “It was lucky your good gentleman took the precaution to telegraph, mum,” said the cordial stewardess; “the boats are always crowded at this time of the year, and the Fanny is such a favourite.”

  The cabin was wide and lofty and airy, quite an exceptional thing in ladies’ cabins; but presently there came a troop of stout matrons with their olive-branches, all cross and sleepy, and dazed at finding themselves in a strange place at an unearthly hour. There was the usual sprinkling of babies, and most of the babies cried. One baby was afflicted with unmistakable whooping cough, and was a source of terror to the mothers of all the other babies. There was a general opening of hand-bags and distribution of buns, biscuits, and sweeties for the comfort and solace of this small fry. Milk was imbibed noisily out of mysterious bottles, some of them provided with gutta-percha tubes, which made the process of refreshment look like laying on gas. Vixen turned her back upon the turmoil, and listened to the sad sea waves plashing lazily against the side of the boat.

  She wondered what Rorie was doing at this midnight hour? Did he know yet that she was gone — vanished out of his life for ever? No; he could hardly have heard of her departure yet awhile, swiftly as all tidings travelled in that rustic world of the Forest. Had he made up his mind to keep faith with Lady Mabel? Had he forgiven Vixen for refusing to abet him in treachery against his affianced?

  “Poor Rorie,” sighed the girl; “I think we might have been happy together.”

  And then she remembered the days of old, when Mr. Vawdrey was free, and when it had never dawned upon his slow intelligence that his old playfellow, Violet Tempest, was the one woman in all this wide world who had the power to make his life happy.

  “I think he thought lightly of me because of all our foolishness when he was a boy,” mused Vixen. “I seemed to him less than other women — because of those old sweet memories — instead of more.”

  It was a dreary voyage for Violet Tempest — a kind of maritime purgatory. The monotonous thud of the engine, the tramping of feet overhead, the creaking and groaning of the vessel, the squalling babies, the fussy mothers, the dreadful people who could not travel from Southampton to Jersey on a calm summer night without exhibiting all the horrors of seasickness. Vixen thought of the sufferings of poor black human creatures in the middle passage, of the ghastly terrors of a mutiny, of a ship on fire, of the Ancient Mariner on his slimy sea, when

  The very deep did rot; O Christ,

  That ever this should be;

  Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs

  Upon the slimy sea!

  She wondered in her weary soul whether these horrors, which literature had made familiar to her, were much worse than the smart white and gold cabin of the good ship Fanny, filled to overflowing with the contents of half-a-dozen nurseries.

  Towards daybreak there came a lull. The crossest of the babies had exhausted its capacity for making its fellow-creatures miserable. The sea-sick mothers and nurses had left off groaning, and starting convulsively from their pillows, with wild shrieks for the stewardess, and had sunk into troubled slumbers. Vixen turned her back upon the dreadful scene — dimly lighted by flickering oil-lamps, like those that burn before saintly shrines in an old French cathedral — and shut her eyes and tried to lose herself in the tangled wilderness of sleep. But to-night that blessed refuge of the unhappy was closed against her. The calm angel of sleep would have nothing to do with a soul so troubled. She could only lie staring at the port-hole, which stared back at her like a giant’s dark angry eye, and waiting for morning.

  Morning came at last, with the skirmishing toilets of the children, fearful struggles for brushes and combs, towel fights, perpetual clamour for missing pieces of soap, a great deal of talk about strings and buttons, and a chorus of crying babies. Then stole through the stuffy atmosphere savoury odours of breakfast, the fumes of coffee, fried bacon, grilled fish. Sloppy looking cups of tea were administered to the sufferers of last night. The yellow sunshine filled the cabin. Vixen made a hasty toilet, and hurried up to the deck. Here all was glorious. A vast world of sunlit water. No sign yet of rock-bound island above the white-crested waves. The steamer might have been in the midst of the Atlantic. Captain Winstanley was on the bridge, smoking his morning cigar. He gave Violet a cool nod, which she returned as coolly. She found a quiet corner where she could sit and watch the waves slowly rising and falling, the white foam-crests slowly gathering, the light spray dashing against the side of the boat, the cataract of white roaring water leaping from the swift paddle-wheel and melting into a long track of foam. By-and-by they came to Guernsey, which looked grim and military, and not particularly inviting, even in the morning sunlight. That picturesque island hides her beauties from those who only behold her from the sea. Here there was an exodus of passengers, and of luggage, and an invasion of natives with baskets of fruit. Vixen bought some grapes and peaches of a female native in a cap, whose patois was the funniest perversion of French and English imaginable. And then a bell rang clamorously, and there was a general stampede, and the gangway was pulled up and the vessel was steaming gaily towards Jersey; while Vixen sat eating grapes and looking dreamily skyward, and wondering whether her mother was sleeping peacefully under the dear old Abbey House roof, undisturbed by any pang of remorse for having parted with an only child so lightly.

  An hour or so and Jersey was in sight, all rocky peaks and promontories. Anon the steamer swept round a sudden curve, and lo, Vixen beheld a bristling range of fortifications, a rather untidy harbour, and the usual accompaniments of a landing-place, the midsummer sun shining vividly upon the all pervading whiteness.

  “Is this the bay that some people have compared to Naples?” Violet asked her conductor, with a contemptuous curl of her mobile lip, as she and Captain Winstanley took their seats in a roomy old fly, upon which the luggage was being piled in the usual mountainous and insecure-looking style.

  “You have not seen it yet from the Neapolitan point of view,” said the Captain. “This quay is not the prettiest bit of Jersey.”

  “I am glad of that, very glad,” answered Vixen acidly; “for if it were, the Jersey notion of the beautiful would be my idea of ugliness. Oh what an utterly too horrid street!” she cried, as the fly drove through the squalid approach to the town, past dirty gutter-bred children, and women with babies, who looked to the last degree Irish, and the dead high wall of the fortifications. “Does your aunt live hereabouts, par exemple, Captain Winstanley?”

  “My aunt lives six good miles from here, Miss Tempest, in one of the loveliest spots in the island, amidst scenery that is almost as fine as the Pyrenees.”

  “I have heard people say that of anything respectable in the shape of a hill,” answered Vixen, with a dubious air.

  She was in a humour to take objection to everything, and had a flippant air curiously at variance with the dull aching of her heart. She was determined to take the situation lightly. Not for worlds would she have let Captain Winstanley see her wounds, or guess how deep they were. She set her face steadily towards the hills in which her place of exile was hidden, and bore herself bravely. Conrad Winstanley gave her many a furtive glance as he sat opposite her in the fly, while they drove slowly up the steep green country lanes, leaving the white town in the valley
below them.

  “The place is not so bad, after all,” said Vixen, looking back at the conglomeration of white walls and slate roofs, of docks and shipping, and barracks, on the edge of a world of blue water, “not nearly so odious as it looked when we landed. But it is a little disappointing at best, like all places that people praise ridiculously. I had pictured Jersey as a tropical island, with cactuses and Cape jasmine growing in the hedges, orchards of peaches and apricots, and melons running wild.”

  “To my mind the island is a pocket edition of Devonshire with a dash of Brittany,” answered the Captain. “There’s a fig-tree for you!” he cried, pointing to a great spreading mass of five-fingered leaves lolloping over a pink plastered garden-wall — an old untidy tree that had swallowed up the whole extent of a cottager’s garden. “You don’t see anything like that in the Forest.”

  “No,” answered Vixen, tightening her lips; “we have only oaks and beeches that have been growing since the Heptarchy.”

  And now they entered a long lane, where the interlaced tree-tops made an arcade of foliage — a lane whose beauty even Vixen could not gainsay. Ah, there were the Hampshire ferns on the steep green banks! She gave a little choking sob at sight of them, as if they had been living things. Hart’s-tongue, and lady-fern, and the whole family of osmundas. Yes; they were all there. It was like home — with a difference.

  Here and there they passed a modern villa, in its park-like grounds, and the Captain, who evidently wished to be pleasant, tried to expound to Violet the conditions of Jersey leases, and the difficulties which attend the purchase of land or tenements in that feudal settlement. But Vixen did not even endeavour to understand him. She listened with an air of polite vacancy which was not encouraging.

  They passed various humbler homesteads, painted a lively pink, or a refreshing lavender, with gardens where the fuchsias were trees covered with crimson bloom, and where gigantic hydrangeas bloomed in palest pink and brightest azure in wildest abundance. Here Vixen beheld for the first time those preposterous cabbages from whose hyper-natural growth the islanders seem to derive a loftier pride than from any other productions of the island, not excepting its grapes and its lobsters.

  “I don’t suppose you ever saw cabbages growing six feet high before,” said the Captain.

  “No,” answered Vixen; “they are too preposterous to be met with in a civilised country. Poor Charles the Second! I don’t wonder that he was wild and riotous when he came to be king.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he had spent several months of exile among his loyal subjects in Jersey. A man who had been buried alive in such a fragmentary bit of the world must have required some compensation in after life.”

  They had mounted a long hill which seemed the pinnacle of the island, and from whose fertile summit the view was full of beauty — a green undulating garden-world, ringed with yellow sands and bright blue sea; and now they began to descend gently by a winding lane where again the topmost elm-branches were interwoven, and where the glowing June day was softened to a tender twilight. A curve in the lane brought them suddenly to an old gateway, with a crumbling stone bench in a nook beside it — a bench where the wayfarer used to sit and wait for alms, when the site of Les Tourelles was occupied by a monastery.

  The old manor house rose up behind the dilapidated wall — a goodly old house as to size and form — overlooking a noble sweep of hillside and valley; a house with a gallery on the roof for purposes of observation, but with as dreary and abandoned a look about its blank curtainless windows as if mansion and estate had been in Chancery for the last half-century.

  “A fine old place, is it not?” asked the Captain, while a cracked bell was jingling in remote distance, amidst the drowsy summer stillness, without eliciting so much as the bark of a house-dog.

  “It looks very big,” Violet answered dubiously, “and very empty.”

  “My aunt has no relatives residing with her.”

  “If she had started in life with a large family of brothers and sisters, I should think they would all be dead by this time,” said the girl, with a stifled yawn that was half a sigh.

  “How do you mean?”

  “They would have died of the stillness and solitude and all-pervading desolation of Les Tourelles.”

  “Strange houses are apt to look desolate.”

  “Yes. Particularly when the windows have neither blinds nor curtains, and the walls have not been painted for a century.”

  After this conversation flagged. The jingling bell was once more set going in the unknown distance; Vixen sat looking sleepily at the arched roof of foliage chequered with blue sky. Argus lolled against the carriage-door with his tongue out.

  They waited five minutes or so, languidly expectant. Vixen began to wonder whether the gates would ever open — whether there were really any living human creatures in that blank dead-looking house — whether they would not have to give up all idea of entering, and drive back to the harbour, and return to Hampshire by the way they had come.

  While she sat idly wondering thus, with the sleepy buzz of summer insects and melodious twittering of birds soothing her senses like a lullaby, the old gate groaned upon its rusty hinges, and a middle-aged woman in a black gown and a white cap appeared — a female who recognised Captain Winstanley with a curtsey, and came out to receive the smaller packages from the flyman.

  “Antony will take the portmanteaux,” she said; “the boat must have come in earlier than usual. We did not expect you so soon.”

  “This is one of Miss Skipwith’s servants,” thought Vixen; “rather a vinegary personage. I hope the other maids are nicer.”

  The person spoken of as Antony now appeared, and began to hale about Violet’s portmanteaux. He was a middle-aged man, with a bald head and a melancholy aspect. His raiment was shabby; his costume something between that of a lawyer’s clerk and an agricultural labourer. Argus saluted this individual with a suppressed growl.

  “Sh!” cried the female vindictively, flapping her apron at the dog, “whose dog is this, sir? He doesn’t belong to you, surely?”

  “He belongs to Miss Tempest. You must find a corner for him somewhere in the outbuildings, Hannah,” said the Captain. “The dog is harmless enough, and friendly enough when he is used to people.”

  “That won’t be much good if he bites us before he gets used to us, and we die of hydrophobia in the meantime,” retorted Hannah; “I believe he has taken a dislike to Antony already.”

  “Argus won’t bite anyone,” said Vixen, laying her hand upon the dog’s collar, “I’ll answer for his good conduct. Please try and find him a nice snug nest somewhere — if I mustn’t have him in the house.”

  “In the house!” cried Hannah. “Miss Skipwith would faint at the mention of such a thing. I don’t know how she’ll ever put up with a huge beast like that anywhere about the place. He must be kept as much out of her sight as possible.”

  “I’m sorry Argus isn’t welcome,” said Vixen proudly.

  She was thinking that her own welcome at Les Tourelles could hardly be more cordial than that accorded to Argus. She had left home because nobody wanted her there. How could she expect that anyone wanted her here, where she was a stranger, preceded, perhaps, by the reputation of her vices? The woman in the rusty mourning-gown, the man in the shabby raiment and clod-hopper boots, gave her no smile of greeting. Over this new home of hers there hung an unspeakable melancholy. Her heart sank as she crossed the threshold.

  Oh, what a neglected, poverty-stricken air the garden had, after the gardens Violet Tempest had been accustomed to look upon! Ragged trees, rank grass, empty flower-beds, weeds in abundance. A narrow paved colonnade ran along one side of the house. They went by this paved way to a dingy little door — not the hall-door, that was never opened — and entered the house by a lobby, which opened into a small parlour, dark and shabby, with one window looking into a court-yard. There were a good many books upon the green baize table-cover; pious books mo
stly, Vixen saw, with a strange revulsion of feeling; as if that were the culmination of her misery. There was an old-fashioned work-table, with a faded red silk well, beside the open window. A spectacle-case on the work-table, and an armchair before it, indicated that the room had been lately occupied. It was altogether one of the shabbiest rooms Vixen had ever seen — the furniture belonging to the most odious period of cabinet-making, the carpet unutterably dingy, the walls mildewed and mouldy, the sole decorations some pale engravings of naval battles, which might be the victories or defeats of any maritime hero, from Drake to Nelson.

  “Come and see the house,” said the Captain, reading the disgust in his stepdaughter’s pale face.

  He opened a door leading into the hall, a large and lofty apartment, with a fine old staircase ascending to a square gallery. The heavy oak balusters had been painted white, so had the panelling in the hall. Time had converted both to a dusky gray. Some rusty odds and ends of armour, and a few dingy family portraits decorated the walls; but of furniture there was not a vestige.

  Opening out of the hall there was a large long room with four windows looking into a small wilderness that had once been a garden, and commanding a fine view of land and sea. This the Captain called the drawing-room. It was sparsely furnished with a spindle-legged table, half-a-dozen armchairs covered with faded tapestry, an antique walnut-wood cabinet, another of ebony, a small oasis of carpet in the middle of the bare oak floor.

  “This and the parlour you have seen are all the sitting-rooms my aunt occupies,” said Captain Winstanley; “the rest of the rooms on this floor are empty, or only used for storehouses. It is a fine old house. I believe the finest in the island.”

  “Is there a history hanging to it?” asked Vixen, looking drearily round the spacious desolate chamber. “Has it been used as a prison, or a madhouse, or what? I never saw a house that filled me with such nameless horrors.”